Chapter Text
Merric stared at the convulsing winds in his hand. If he tried, he could instead imagine a man’s limbs desperately thrashing there. ‘Twas a valiant fight for them, to fight against the fierce winds that slavered at the idea of tearing them from their hosts. But Merric knew it would be a futile one. Such was the power of even a single mage.
When Merric was undergoing his tutelage in Khadein, he understood not why they were so feared. Their stature was slight, their weapons no more dangerous than arrows. Archers hardly held the continent in a tyrant’s grasp.
An arrow was just as sharp on the range as the battlefield. Other weapons could be blunt or sharp, nothing more. A magnitude separated a tome’s intents. In the case of the wind, on the sides of that gulf were a simple unsteadying and a feeling no doubt akin to being tied to opposite retreating horses.
In Aurelis, in the absence of other mages, Merric was this seismic tyrant, his bellowing will looming large in the ears and eyes of all who dared oppose him. His crown of pointed jade rested heavily upon his head, threatening to slip over his eyes and blind him. It hung like the deadly pendulum, threatening to rip from him his humanity should he not slip his bonds.
But how could he be free in the midst of a war? He had friends, he had country. His family’s fates were unknown, silent since Altea’s fall, but their hopeful mirages drew him forward like a thirsting man to an oasis. And he had the power to protect them all. All these things bound him to the war, to the killing.
Tears began to well at the bases of Merric’s eyes, and he swiped the gathering storm from his hand onto the dummy before him.
Merric’s heavy breaths grew the gale that eventually tore through the straw, one that ripped his eyes’ water from his face, one that would do its utmost to dry him. His eyes knew not whether to revel or weep in vain at the carnage inflicted upon the straw man.
The sounds of tearing cloth were drowned by wind, but it could not cloak Merric’s eyes from staring as a human facsimile was ripped to tatters. This. This is my work, what I author.
After what seemed an eternity, the wind dispelled, leaving its caster crying and struggling to breathe. He half-sat, half-fell to the ground, his lungs robbing his muscles of their needs.
“Merric? You all right?” Merric recognized Norne’s dissonant tones without having to turn his head. He also heard the clanking of armour, which suggested to him that Draug accompanied her.
Merric did not nod. He did not shake his head. He did nothing until Norne touched his shoulder. “I said, you all right, Merric? Should I call a cleric?”
Merric started upon being touched. He turned to look at Norne before shaking his head. “No, thank you. I will be fine.”
Draug crossed his arms. “I have doubts to lay on that claim. We heard your scream.”
“Scream? What scream?” Merric puzzled over Draug’s assertion for a moment. He had heard no scream; to his knowledge no noise had come from his mouth.
“The scream of agony that came from your mouth about thirty seconds ago. Had I not seen you right here, I would have thought you were being stabbed to death, and poorly at that.” Part of Merric wished that to be the case, but it was not, and he reported as much. Draug crossed his arms and stared at Merric’s near-prone form. “If you insist.” He turned and began to walk away, but Norne stayed with a signal to her lover.
Norne sat next to Merric and asked him, “It’s about the tome, isn’t it?” Merric might have displayed his surprise at Norne’s guess more vividly had he breath to do it. Instead, he simply nodded. “Yeah, I saw that thing in the battle and it was nasty. Say what you will about arrows, at least they can only kill one thing at a time.” Even a weak spell, meanwhile, could wreak havoc on multiple.
“Yes. Yes, I suppose Excalibur was ‘nasty’, if you should phrase it as such.”
Norne tipped her head. “How else would I say it?”
“Never mind. You are correct to observe Excalibur’s might. Its… oh so terrifying might.”
“Wish I could tell you it gets easier, but… nope. I guess we have it better than Draug and his like; all that carnage is happening well away from our eyes.”
“Worry not for my eyes, but my ears.”
Norne left her hand on Merric’s shoulder for some time as the still night passed them by. Merric’s breath returned, but his sense of time did not. At some point, Norne left him. At some other point, Marth sat down beside him, explaining his summons to the sparring grounds by Malledus. His friend’s touch lit a torch inside his misty head, and a lucid Merric turned to stare the prince in the eyes. His twin sapphires gleamed with concern.
“Please, Merric. Who haunts you tonight? Take faith in Elice’s survival, if you must. According to Jagen, women make attractive hostages.”
Merric ruefully chuckled. “I will not deny that Elice is attractive.” The mention of Marth’s sister and the woman he had one day hoped to marry chilled the breeze over Merric’s heart. “But no, I mourn her not.” He began absentmindedly swiping the sand with a finger. “The mind’s facsimiles make poor ghosts.” After all, it had been close to six years since he had last seen Elice. Yes, it had been foolish for a mere child to dream of such grand things as a royal marriage, but with only ten years having passed him at that time, he could hardly control it. Ten-year-old boys always carried reaches past their grasps. Was he one of them?
He had retreated to Khadein, and stayed there as his dear homeland fell to the Imperial Alliance. ‘Twas all he could do to negotiate his way to the front in two years, and by happenstance at that. Wendell, the clever wizen, had arranged a supply delivery to Aurelis under the cover of his transport, an opportunity which his student had eagerly seized.
A wounded Marth flinched. “Elice is far more than a facsimile to me, Merric. She and Mother live on in my mind, clear as day.” A day long past.
“Four years’ difference does that to one.” Merric sighed hard enough to devastate his fragile lungs’ progress. He clutched his hand to his chest, attempting to pound the air back into it.
“No,” Merric rasped, “Elice haunts me not. I like to think she is content, through whatever bars her from me.” He tilted his head to the open roof, to the tranquil night sky. “It is the restless dead lying beneath the dirt of Aurelis Keep that haunt me now. I know not their names. I suspect none of us did. But these ghosts had names. They were more than their nation, more than their soldiery. Many of them had sisters and mothers, to whom our alignments are inverse. What think these forever woken of them? Can they see them, know them, from a far land?” Merric blocked his view with his hand. “’Twas this hand that gulfed them apart.”
It took Marth some time to respond with a rueful sigh. “Such is the sacrifice of war; unknown blood on a known altar. We know our cause, but we know not those who die for it. In a just world, a warmonger would be a grave insult for a king.” Marth’s next words blocked his throat, bringing forth a strangled cry. “A world where Father still lived. A world where the fates of Mother and Elice need not intrude on my dreams. A world where you could have your fabled wedding.”
Tears smeared Merric’s vision and reply. “In the fables, wedding-made families are rarely stillborn.” A pause. “Alas, I am no Anri; that much is clear. You know his tale more than I, Marth; did his companions bathe in the glory that sloughed from his back?”
“You are more than a simple companion, Merric. Your glory is your own, not to be harvested by your lord. Till your own fief, split the ground on the lines your morals draw.” I already straddle a split; which side is my hoe to tame?
* * * * * *
Cherche swung down at bladelike speed before digging her talons into Pales’ stone courtyard. Her rider grudgingly took in her surroundings.
A courthouse gleamed green behind her; from paint or old copper Minerva could not tell. Aqueducts ran alongside the palace, which itself was exquisitely sculpted from blue and white. Passive colours for a passive nation. Fitting. As Minerva dismounted, she withdrew a halter and body-length rope coiled in her saddlebag before hooking one end to Cherche’s neck. She tossed the other end to a startled stableboy, counselling him, “Tie her before she starts haunting the horses.” He hurried off to find a nearby pillar while Minerva stroked Cherche’s snout.
Shade flew over Minerva’s face. She looked up to see wyverns blotting out the sun and smiled. The might of Macedon had truly arrived, and Archanea would tremble beneath its weight.
Minerva’s gauntlet thudded against Pales’ front doors. As much as she would have liked to burst into the palace, Minerva would have to be invited into the palace, not that it would pose much of a problem. She could still leverage her force to sit at any negotiating table she liked. Although hopefully courtesy would suffice for her; woman or not, she was a princess of a principally allied nation.
And indeed, a page soon opened the door. He peeked his head out and bit his lip to stifle his question. Minerva raised an eyebrow before smirking and introducing herself. “Macedon’s Princess Minerva. Its representative has arrived.”
“Y-Yes, of course. C-Come right this way, ma’am.” The servant sounded an inch away from wetting himself as he beckoned Minerva come with him.
Pales was unfortunately far drabber on the inside than the outside. Its halls stank of grey and brown, enough to drown in. A far cry from the red brick and ornately dyed stone her homeland had accustomed her to, but she could tread water.
An important-looking old man accosted Minerva in one of Pales’ twisting hallways. He wore a red ermine cape over a full set of black mail armour that clashed with his white hair and whiter skin. His smile was knowing, and Minerva would rather not be known, so this twisted her lips into a scowl.
“Kannival du Ceres, Duke of Ceres.” Kannival reached out a gauntleted hand, one which Minerva reluctantly shook. “The Honourable King Ludovic II has appointed me Guardian of the Crown.” The Sable’s former position. A shame he fell for its charms.
“Charmed, Kannival.” The wizened man rose an eyebrow as Minerva tightly grasped his hand. “As I am sure you know, I am Princess Minerva of Macedon. King Michalis sent me to throttle the Aurelian Rebellion before it could stand.”
Kannival chuckled. “I believe Archanea has the matter well in hand to punish one of its rebelling duchies, especially with Grust’s help, but reinforcements are no doubt appreciated.”
“Pray, Duke, were those your forces that let Aurelis slip from their fingers in the first place?”
“Hardly. Some lesser lord led those pigs to the slaughter.” Kannival turned with a flourish. “Come, Minerva. Our legs can match our mouths, I am sure.” He beckoned her with a hand, and she followed.
“Caldas should hold the Aurelians at Lefcandith.” Why should I trust Archanean Dukes? “And past that, Archanea streams with armies. Deil, Menedy, Adria, and of course the armies which we have brought. And that counts not the merchants in Knorda and Warren, whose trustworthiness matches their surplus at any given time.”
Macedon had long since established a sound distrust of merchants. Minerva wondered aloud, “Why do they then persist in their power?”
“Would you rather have them openly rebelling or only possibly so? Their force also matches their surplus.”
“So strike when both are low. Your future brightens and your present is barely tarnished.”
“Hm. A viable idea.” Kannival had just begun to stroke his chin when he spotted someone from the corner of his eye. “Ah, Duke Lang. Your arrival was timely.”
From the shadows came a man in black. His head shone in the faint light, and when his face came into view, Minerva instantly took a dislike to it. He emanated a foul aura, an aura of disease and treachery.
“Was it?” Lang’s eyes acknowledged Minerva’s presence. “Who is your female companion, Duke Kannival?” Minerva’s teeth clashed and her fingers sliced into her palm.
Kannival smirked and looked to Minerva, whose mouth was preoccupied seething. “My name, Lang, is Minerva. Princess of Macedon, should it defy your withering memory.” Lang crossed his arms and rolled his eyes.
“I am Lang, Duke of Adria and Protector of the Archanean Throne. Treat me as you would a King, miss.” King Michalis, perhaps.
“You forget yourself,” Minerva nearly snarled, “Duke. Iote’s blood runs in my veins, delivers his divine mandate unto me. What have you, but an empty palace? His predecessor,” Minerva jerked her head in Kannival’s direction, “carried the blood you so desperately ape off like a mountain man, and your dignified countenance proved false. You live up to your title in a frighteningly literal way, so long as you have never sat on your precious ward. I am not sure which half of you would disgrace its presence more.”
Lang opened his mouth, no doubt to spout more drivel for Minerva to carve through, but Kannival stopped him with a raise of his hand. “Peace, squabblers. Our causes are one. Please refer to Princess Minerva as such, Lang. And Princess, please expel your civilities and intake your hostilities, or your visit here will be rather fruitless, I am afraid.” A cut tree never blooms, I suppose.
Lang crossed his arms and huffed. “As you will. Princess. What bring you other than blessings?”
“Two thousand troops, half of them wyverns. If it please you, know that over six of their hundreds are women.”
Lang scoffed and rolled his eyes. “With your generous contribution, I suppose the front can finally turn. The men will no doubt be pleased to see the women coming their way.”
Kannival pivoted to catch Minerva with his eye and asked, “Have you any thoughts on where these troops should go?” Thankfully, Minerva’s wits caught her tongue before it could loose itself. There should only be a single front… Oh. I see. The thought of Kannival taking her advice brought a smile to her face.
“I believe my troops combined with Caldas should be enough to smash the Aurelians, which leaves your Grustians free to anchor our loose ships.”
“That is an excellent idea, Princess.”
“And as for the Adrian troops…” Minerva shot Lang a sly look. “Why, I doubt their services will be necessary. Perhaps they can spend time with their families, sleep soundly knowing their nation has been secured. Surely a preferable scenario to risking one’s life on the front, no?”
Lang’s fist and teeth tightened in sync. “I am no weakling, Princess. Adria has far more than two thousand men at its disposal, should you seek to challenge.”
“I was not intending to challenge, no.” Minerva could not elaborate before a Grustian page called down the hall, “General! Another delegation has arrived, from Khadein this time!”
“Well,” Kannival remarked, “I suppose these halls are more of a staging ground for a summit than expected this day.” He ordered the servant, “Admit them, and inform them I will be with them shortly.”
* * * * * *
Khadein’s delegate was yet another old man, with blue robes and a shrivelled smile. He introduced himself as Wendell, a Magus of Khadein. Minerva reminded herself that Khadein was supposedly ruled by consensus over decree, merit over bloodline. Michalis aptly demonstrates your ideal.
He began, “I have spent much time in Pales, and yet I cannot stop myself from wondering further at its glory upon every visit.” Insipid flattery. “My path has led me through this beautiful nation, and I would be doing it a great disservice if I abstained from its capital in my travels.”
Minerva raised an eyebrow, and trading glances with Kannival and Lang, she identified with them a kinship of suspicion. It was Lang who first asked, “What is this path exactly, Magus? What purpose sends you through my nation?”
“Trade, of course.” Wendell clasped his hands and good-naturedly chuckled. Minerva was almost deceived by the man most like a grandfather she had met that day. “We are a merchant republic, after all. Gold and goods are to us what blood and steel are to you.” True enough.
At the same time, given the previous topic of conversation, Wendell’s reminder of mercantile kinship did little to offset any lingering suspicions of his intentions. If anything, it stirred the bubbling cauldron of suspicion that Kannival’s warning had lit under Minerva.
“Ah, yes.” Wendell picked up his dropped topic with an expert’s deft touch. “We have, of course, brought gifts.” He withdrew from his robes a small but seemingly heavy bag. “To whom it may concern.”
Lang stepped forward. “Thank you for your gift, Magus.” He took the sack before either of his fellow nobles could contemplate doing so and opened it promptly. “Dates.”
“Yes, of course.” Wendell’s smile was unflinching. “Khadein’s bounty. We concluded that gold would hardly be appropriate to show our goodwill; does a shepherd cherish wool?” Lang’s scowl greeted him, as did Minerva’s chuckle.
“I have heard the majesties of dates. You should try some, Duke Lang.”
“Of course.” Lang hesitantly split a date in two with his teeth. He did not remark on the taste.
“Your dates are certainly quite interesting, Magus, but we are more concerned with a different set. They remain in your hands.”
“Ah yes, of course. I plan to visit Knorda first, which should be done within a fortnight. Another week for Warren. With any luck, trade shall proceed smoothly, and we shall be off.” I suppose we know where to aim our restraining bolts. We shall anchor all down as one.
“May we inspect the goods you plan to do so with?”
“Be our guest. On my honour, you shall find nothing illicit.”
* * * * * *
A burst of fiery cheers exploded across the dining hall of Aurelis Keep when the cooks brought the food in. It made sense enough, Hardin reckoned. A vast majority of the men had eaten nothing so elaborate for at best months and at worst years or their entire lifetime.
Roast turkeys stuffed with fried and buttered mushrooms, ornately dressed salads, a rich wolfmeat stew spiced with salt and saffron, fresh-baked bread with butter, and to top, pies filled with candied apples and strawberries. ‘Twas truly a king’s feast. Which, Hardin supposed, would be accurate for the Kings of Aurelis, no matter how one sliced the matter.
Of the kings, all ate with gusto. Orlean was pouring generously from a wine bottle outmatching his brother’s age. Fawkes spooned out stew to rows of Aurelians, irritating a row of serving girls. Willow swayed in her chair, Wolf’s arm around her. Breadcrumbs and butter hung from her lips.
Hardin, meanwhile, sat at his brother’s right, with Marth in turn at his right, and Caeda one seat beyond him. The prince ate carefully, keeping crumbs from his thick mustache. His temper was still despite the waves that being in the feast ought to cause; ‘twas a natural choice, he did not scorn revelry. It would be ridiculous to do so. These men’s valour had bought them the world in revelry.
“Marth,” Hardin asked his fellow prince, “how find you an Aurelian feast? I know not your experience with revelry of this sort.”
“Worry not, I have revelled plenty.” Hardin’s ears instantly detected a slant in Marth’s voice. “I was raised as royal as you; I know of revelry.” Hardin sighed. Youngsters ought not to imbibe, but I suppose such is the price of independence. I am no father.
Caeda laid a hand on Marth’s shoulder. “Please respect the host, dear. I am sure his question was innocent.” She, contrasted with her fiancé, muscled through her flushed cheeks. “Is there something special to Aurelian revelry? Is there some difference of civilization between this and our upbringings?”
Hardin shook his head. “Never mind. We are effective feasters, nothing more. It comes with the land’s bounty.”
“Much land, at that. And I suppose it to be a bountiful land, through Khadeinian proximity if nothing else. I was raised on the sea’s spoils, which tire in the face of culinary stagnation. And Altea, of course, is in position for precious little variety.” Interesting.
Hardin pushed his large spoon into his stew and gulped from it. “Ah, Khadein’s mercy.”
Marth grumbled something about elusive spices, and Hardin’s mustache stifled a chuckle. Not a moment after said laugh, however, guilt intruded upon his whimsy. ‘Twas his luxury to not just feast, but do so at home. ‘Twas his luxury to possess a home in the first place. Such was a luxury that Marth lacked, having his home sullied by the draconic menace of the west.
And further along the path of regret, telling Marth to make Aurelis his home was a futile pleasantry, for the lot of them would be setting forth from the keep the next day. Although the force marching through Lefcandith and into the rest of Hardin’s homeland would meet only two thirds of the prince’s desire thanks to Willow’s obstinacy, the two months spent scouring the land for the willing had yielded almost nine thousand soldiers, mostly men, which Hardin hoped would prove sufficient. It was rather small for an invasion force, matching only one of Orlean’s four fellow Archanean dukes in sum. Were Aurelis better off, it would be a shamefully small number. However, given the current state, even well after its plundering, Hardin had little choice but to be satisfied with the men it could yield.
“Regardless, Prince, feel free to wile away as much time as the sky’s celestial duo will afford you. Your grand crusade has banked you it.”
“Of course.” Marth waved his hand dismissively. “We lanced the disease plaguing the land, and now we reap the rewards of a locust-free crop. Only fitting.” Hardin wondered if it was the drink sending his storyful courtesy to Marth’s heart. While he owed the Altean prince much gratitude, the Aurelian senior would have little option but to assume the head of the push for liberty. Even a dukedom of Archanea bore far more respect than the far land of Altea. A decade of youth between them only intensified the span. Marth’s innocence had broken before his voice.
Caeda contributed, “Your contributions weigh as strongly. You upkept the bulwark against the imperial blade, and ‘tis your troops we sally forth with, by and large.”
Hardin found himself unable to accept the praise. “My charge failed, Lady Caeda. I wrenched my life from the reaper’s fingers through their cracks. I bear our victory banner, nothing more.”
“’Twas your forces that nourished the killing fields the keep beholds, no?”
“’Twas the native Aurelians, not mine.” Hardin then wondered if he should account for the reluctance of either Aurelian king to contribute to his doomed charge. If they had assisted him in his efforts to destroy the enemy siege, the glory might have been his to carry.
Alas, those were not fruitful thoughts. Even as resentment against Willow bubbled like wine in Hardin’s brain, he knew his thoughts had more significant places to aim towards. Unity, for example. Even his rattled brain knew his interests were in unity, and he ought to steer his mental carriage towards that destination.
* * * * * *
Willow swayed in her son’s grip as he led her from the hall. Wolf whistled to two unfortunate guards, who immediately understood his purpose. They each slung their arms under one of the King’s, letting Wolf lead them through the windy halls of Aurelis Keep.
Willow grumbled through her paces, cursing Hardin and his name with the vilest oaths Aurelis could muster. Wolf could hardly begrudge her such, especially in her inebriation.
Wolf pondered the amount of credence he should give his mother’s ramblings, especially given his intimate position at Hardin’s right arm. He could not help but let whispered guilt encroach upon him and his trapped state.
On one side stood his prince, the man he was to march for, dedicate his life to. On the other stood not just his mother, but his family in sum. He had sworn an oath for his nation, but that oath bothered not to clarify of which nation it spoke.
“Let me go, brutes. Carry off the king of proud Aurelis at your own risk, fools! You know not the nation you carry off!” Wolf sighed.
“Mother, calm yourself. You are going to bed.”
“Bed! There is no time to sleep, son! This very moment, the Archaneans are plotting to carry off our men into the jaws of their infernal mountains! We must strike before they do!” Yes, I suppose they are. We, that being.
Willow’s supporters both looked to Wolf, their eyes unleashing the scornful words their mouths could not. The king’s spawn sighed. How was he going to placate wine’s ghosts?
“You have already done it, Mother. Your men will not be fed into any beast any time soon, thanks to your will.”
“Did I? Did I do that?” Willow shook her head. “Perhaps I did. This wine vaporizes in my skull.” Lucid enough to recognize the air on which her consciousness stands, at least. Negotiable.
“The pain will retreat in the morning, Mother. I promise.” The impromptu party was approaching a spare bedchamber, a resting chamber for the wayward king. After she was soundly asleep, Wolf could rejoin the celebrations, drown his guilt in wine.
“Hardly. The pain will stand on its feet and weather the sun’s storm. Even as the wine burns away under its assault, the blood of Aurelis shall take its place. No morning will take away the doom of our countrymen in the thousands. In fact, the morning shall only hasten said doom. How am I to look forward to the morning when it is that morning that I fear so much?” Wolf had no answer to this other than to push open the bedchamber’s door.
Wolf shooed off the guards, “Dispose of yourselves. We are close enough to slumber for this to become a family matter.” They promptly did so, their eyes glad for their relief.
Willow turned before her chamber. “Stay with me, my pup. Even as half our nation of hunters offers themselves as prey, please tell me you will stay.” Wolf’s blood froze.
Wolf’s tongue laid heavy in his mouth, knowing not whether to speak truly. Per the truth, he was indeed departing for Archanea upon his eye taking in the morning’s glow. ‘Twas simply a matter of him wishing to admit that to his despondent mother. She will find out tonight or tomorrow. Ought I to face her drunken or sober wrath?
Willow denied her son the chance to choose. She pounced on his silence, “You will not, will you?! You plan to follow that prancing prince into the abyss!” Wolf gazed at the carpet, for he felt no shame towards it.
“Wolf!” Willow cuffed her son over the head, although the wine had dulled her hand. “Look at me and address me; you take leave of your blood to fertilize Archanea with it, will you not?!”
Wolf mumbled out a confirmation. “Louder!” Wolf obliged.
“Of course. The price I pay for my stony will. Even my son abandons me in my time of greatest resistance.” Willow stormed into the chamber and attempted to slam the door behind her, only stopped when Wolf intervened, pinning his arm against the thick oaken slab.
“Mother!” Willow turned around. “Know that I make not this decision flightily or faithlessly. I owe the prince my life, and this war effort serves us besides.” Willow scoffed and poured herself another glass of wine from a jug in the chamber. “Dislike it as you will, compared to the Imperials, Archanea is the blunt end of a spiked wall.”
Willow started chugging from her chalice before gagging and pulling it away. The trails the wine made down her jaw were bloody twins. “Empires crash into each other, no reason for an Aurelian to involve themselves.” Were those tears welling along the rims of Willow’s eyes? “No Aurelian, and no son of mine.” She drank again. “Dispose of yourself, guard. I can put myself to bed.” The ice in Wolf’s blood started melting in an instant, and he blinked out the results.
Without a word, Wolf let the door act upon itself. He stood still as death while his brain accepted the partition his mother had just summoned into itself.
After a few minutes, a scream of agony came from the chamber, followed by loud crashes and the sounds of wood splintering. Wolf could not have brought himself to interfere.