Last Life

Herouxville

The Royal Palace

“YOUR MAJESTY,” Helga bowed in the Vestonian manner before Carl III, whom the common people knew as the Conqueror.

The King of the largest state on the continent was sitting in a relaxed posture atop his throne. His eyes narrowed slightly as he examined the northerner in front of him.

The man’s inquisitive gaze made Helga tense up involuntarily. She knew perfectly well that Carl wasn’t gifted, but that didn’t change the fact that the Conqueror King was one of the most dangerous and powerful people in all Mainland.

The tension was further increased by the presence in the throne room of several dozen combat mages from His Majesty’s personal guard. The so-called King’s Shadows.

The head of this secretive unit, Marcel de Gaben, was standing several steps away from the throne. His icy stare made it clear to the northerner that any sudden moves on her part would serve as the signal for an attack. In that event, Helga had no doubt whatsoever that she would lose the fight that followed. The King’s ever-present jester, however, was nowhere to be seen. Presumably, she thought, the little freak is off spinning his intrigues in some other place today.

“Good day, Mademoiselle,” said the King in a commanding, yet still friendly tone. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet the renowned warrior of the north, Helga the Valiant. Word of your deeds and exploits has reached my Kingdom.”

Helga’s right eyebrow twitched slightly. The Vestonian ruler’s tone surprised her. He was obviously being honest with her. The young woman raised her head to meet the King’s gaze. Carl was looking straight at her, without so much as a shadow of sarcasm or mirth in his eyes. “I thank you, Your Majesty,” she replied with another bow. “Such praise is even more pleasant to hear when it comes from a ruler who won himself the sobriquet of Conqueror at such an early age.”

Helga looked up to find that the King was smiling at her. Despite the fact that Helga (very much unlike the Vestonian courtiers) spoke in short, staccato phrases, Carl III had obviously been quite pleased by her words.

Quite unexpectedly, Helga found herself thinking that a ruler like this could easily win the hearts and minds of her people. Sitting on his gemstone-encrusted, gold-inlaid throne, Carl looked very much like a mature tiger, always ready to attack at any moment. It was surprising to think that, at least according to rumor, he had recently been lying on his deathbed. The man Helga saw in front of her that day was totally healthy and full of strength.

She also realized that as long as such a King remained on the throne, Astrid would never become Queen of Vestonia.

“Mademoiselle,” said Carl, running a hand down his well-trimmed beard. “In addition to your martial glory, I hear you’re one of the most skilled healers in all Northland. Is it true that you were trained by the great Healer Mage Ulf Silverhair?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” replied Helga. “It is. My mentor was none other than my great-grandfather, Ulf Silverhair.”

The King’s eyes widened slightly. He cast an unintentional sidelong glance at the healers standing next to him.

“I didn’t know that he was your great-grandfather.”

“I’m not surprised,” nodded Helga. “Very few people know about our familial connection. Back when he was a boy, my great-grandfather was an acolyte in the Temple of the Forefather. And later, after renouncing the things of this world, he assumed the priestly robe.”

“Curious,” said Carl, fidgeting with his chin. “And is it true that your great-grandfather possessed a special technique that allowed him to sense a person’s aura?”

As soon as Kiko had mentioned that Carl wanted to consult Helga in her capacity as a healer, she knew pretty much exactly what sort of exam he’d probably ask for. Someone who was gifted — someone who could stop a person’s heart with one quick impulse, or turn their brain into a bloody slurry — would never, ever be allowed to actually touch the King. Looking at his aura, on the other hand? That was another matter entirely.

The technique was rare, but it wasn’t a secret. Helga knew of three other healers who could do it. It was generally thought that a healer couldn’t actually affect their patient via this aura. They could only use it to sense electrical currents.

Helga chuckled to herself in her mind. She could only imagine what they’d have said if they’d known that her late great-grandfather had been an exception to that rule. Once, when a certain patient was past the point where magic could help him anymore, she had seen him put the man out of his suffering without laying a finger on him.

Even after all the years that had gone by, that memory always sent an inexplicable worry through Helga’s mind. Just before dying, her great-grandfather had told her that the technique of aura interaction had been used by ancient sorcerers for some sort of ritual. True, Helga had no idea what sort of ritual it could possibly have been. At the time, the dying old man’s whispers had seemed more like senile ramblings than anything resembling the truth.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Helga nodded. “He passed this knowledge down to me.”

“Excellent,” the King smiled. “In other words, you don’t actually need to touch a person to assess their condition?”

“Exactly right, Your Majesty,” Helga shrugged, before adding: “Admittedly, the result will be less precise than an exam involving physical touch. I have a long way to go before I’ll be able to match my great-grandfather’s prowess.”

“I see,” nodded Carl. “All the same... I don’t suppose you’d indulge my curiosity and demonstrate the technique?”

“It would be my pleasure, Your Majesty,” replied Helga with another bow, before asking a question whose answer she already knew: “On whom?”

“On me,” the King replied with a wide smile. He waved his hand.

At this signal, the small number of nobles in the hall turned and left. The King’s bodyguards remained, along with two healers.

“What will you need for this demonstration?” Carl asked.

“I’ll need to be closer to you, Your Majesty,” replied Helga, noticing out of the corner of her eye that the King’s Shadows tensed up when she said this. “Three steps away will be sufficient.”

“I think that should be fine,” chuckled the King, before turning to Marcel de Gaben with a demanding look in his eyes.

“Please begin, Mademoiselle,” said Carl after a short pause.

Helga stepped closer to the throne. She slowly closed her eyes and took a deep breath. For a moment, the pounding of her own heart drowned out everything around her: the rustling, tense steps of Marcel de Gaben and his warriors, the whispers of the healers, and the King’s calm, unhurried breathing.

Helga hadn’t practiced this technique for a long time, and she knew she would need to remain in a state of semi-detached oblivion for longer than normal.

Okay, she thought. Breathe in... Breathe out... Focus on the energy currents, just like great-grandfather taught you. For Helga’s first lessons in the technique, the old man had brought her to a smith’s oven. The aura of fire, after all, was easier to sense than anything else.

And suddenly, there it was: the familiar shiver that always accompanied the start of the immersion. It was like somebody running a soft hand across her skin. A warm wave pulsed out into her body. This was how Helga picked up the sensation of her own aura, which then merged with the King’s energy space.

Almost immediately, a barely-perceptible bitter taste appeared on her tongue. The stronger her connection to the King’s aura became, the more powerful and disgusting the flavor became. Within a second, the bitterness gave way to rot.

Oh, Most Luminous Mother, she thought to herself! Everything inside her went cold, as though death itself had opened its door. Helga was familiar with this sort of magic already. It was the mark of Darkness — the remnants of a deadly power. It was thanks to this power that the Frost Knights and their priests had managed to turn the tide of battle at the Temple of Hoar the Wicked. This meant that the rumors about Carl’s wound were true.

Helga took another deep breath, trying to focus on other aspects of the aura. When she did, she immediately felt the familiar vibrations of scarlet healing mana. They were brushing gently against the King, like currents of warm air.

Right on the heels of the scarlet mana, Helga could immediately sense emanations of natural emerald mana — the same thing that perfumers used to create their scents. As she sensed the soft, harmonious interaction of these two forces, Helga unwittingly lost track of time.

She realized that there was some other sort of magic holding the scarlet and emerald magics together, and as she did so she sensed a faint emanation from this new type of magic. It was majestic and ancient, as though it had been woven from the warmth of the sun itself. This power wrapped itself around the emerald and scarlet streams, fusing them into a single whole.

The emanation of this particular type of magic sent goosebumps down Helga’s spine. It felt like some unseen hand had reached right through her own aura. This scared her at first, but when she checked in more closely with her own sensations, she realized that this mysterious power wasn’t a hostile one. On the contrary, it was something that Helga had been seeking for quite a long time...

After suppressing the trembling in her body and regaining her composure (albeit only with some difficulty), the young woman turned back to the task at hand and continued her careful examination of the King’s aura.

The mysterious, ancient power was keeping the Death Magic in Carl’s body firmly in place, preventing it from spreading. It had even patched up a number of breaches in his body and aura. But this effect was clearly a temporary solution.

It looked like the mage who had shared this mysterious power with the King hadn’t known how to bring the process to its logical conclusion — as though he didn’t actually know how to remove black mana from the wound entirely.

The realization hit her like an avalanche. Helga actually staggered ever so slightly. There was no mage involved at all. Most likely, the King had somehow managed to acquire some sort of extremely powerful (and equally ancient) elixir, whose effects Helga was “observing” for herself.

In other words, then, while the King obviously appeared to be on the mend, he remained at death’s door, entirely dependent on his supply of potions.

When Helga opened her eyes, she found the same tense atmosphere permeating the air around her. The King’s Shadows were ready to throw themselves at her at the first signal, and both his healers were staring intently at the expression on her face.

Gods, she thought! These two have no idea what’s going on with the King’s healing process, or where it could potentially end.

After scooping a small clot of red mana out of a big brut in a pendant on her chest, Helga sent it coursing through her energy system. She felt the usual wave of calming warmth, and let out a sigh of relief.

She looked up and saw that Carl was staring at her intently, so she began to speak in a firm, steady voice:

“I’m finished, Your Majesty.”

“And what’s your verdict, Mademoiselle?” The King smiled and leaned in slightly closer.

For the briefest of moments, a flash of worry and anxiety slipped through his mask of imperturbability. It seemed that the opinion of yet another healer was of far more concern to Carl than he was willing to let on.

“Your healers have done excellent work,” Helga replied. She tried to make sure that not a single muscle on her face twitched as she spoke. “The treatment is progressing quite quickly. Your aura is in perfect condition.”

As Helga spoke, Carl’s pale face turned a mild shade of pink, and his mouth spread into a smile of satisfaction.

“How much do I owe you for your work here, Mademoiselle?”

“You’ve already rewarded me, Your Majesty,” replied Helga with a bow. “You’ve honored me greatly with your invitation to the holidays that will soon take place in the capital.”

“Oh, no!” Carl shook his head, still smiling. “That will never do. Your modesty does you credit, Mademoiselle, but I simply must find a way to thank you.”

“Whatever pleases His Majesty is more than acceptable to me,” replied Helga without raising her eyes.

“Very well then, Mademoiselle. You may take your leave,” replied Carl with a gentle wave of his hand. He had noticed a small, hunched figure squeezing into the room through the slightly-open door. “I will think about how best to reward you. I hope to see you again at the palace tomorrow.”

As soon as the door closed behind the northerner, Carl dismissed his healers with a wave of his hand and turned to address Kiko, who had already made his way over to the throne: The most update n0vels are published on novel⟡fire.net

“Quite an interesting character, Helga the Valiant. If Sharptooth’s girl is surrounded by people like this warrior, I’d say my Louis is in very good hands indeed. I want Louis and his young wife to come to Herouxville after the wedding. I’m sure a breath of northern air will do this court some good.”

“I worry that Astrid may bring a full-on northern hurricane with her,” grumbled Kiko.

“Out with it,” said Carl. He knew his jester well, and had recognized his foul mood immediately.

“Bad news, Your Majesty,” said Kiko as he lowered himself onto one knee and bent his head forward. “Trustworthy sources tell us that Conrad V’s last surviving daughter is hiding somewhere in Herouxville. Worst of all, Otto already knows about this.”

A deathly silence fell across the hall. Kiko knew that whenever this happened — whenever his words were met with silence instead of an outburst of rage — his King wasn’t just angry. He was incandescent.

“How long has she been here, and who’s involved in this?” The King’s tone was murderously cold.

Kiko covered his eyes with his hand. He had never been so close to death before. He could feel the silent approach of the King’s Shadows on his very skin. The burning, hate-filled glare of Marcel de Gaben was about to bore a hole right through his head.

“According to my information, Princess Sophia is living under the name of Verena Marchand in the castle of the Margrave de Valier, who brought her back with him from Vintervald immediately after the Great Trial,” said Kiko. “The girl was recognized at one of the Duchess du Bellay’s balls by old Count de Rondi, who was once ambassador to Astland. That’s also where her identity became known to the Count de Gramont, who then informed the Duke de Bauffremont of everything. It was he who passed the information to Otto.”

The King slowly rose from his throne, walked down the steps leading out into the hall, and approached the jester, who was still on one knee.

“Look at me.” The soulless sound of the King’s voice sent a shudder down Kiko’s spine.

He raised his head, and their eyes met. Carl was about to give the order for his arrest. Kiko would have sworn it. A storm was raging in the Vestonian ruler’s eyes.

“We’ll deal with these conspirators later,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “Your top priority is to get that girl into my castle.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” said Kiko with a bow of his head.

“Gaben — keep an eye on it!” Carl snapped as he turned and stormed briskly toward the exit.

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Kiko could hear a very clear note of malevolent satisfaction and joy in the guard captain’s voice.

* * *

Herouxville

The old Merchants’ District

A week had passed since I had arrived in the old merchants’ district and given Lucas such a shock. He was a pretty sharp guy, so he understood everything immediately after our conversation and swore to keep quiet.

I introduced him to the Brisot family as one of my old comrades-in-arms. My companions were nervous at first, but after we got them settled in a remodeled two-story house at the edge of the district (which had its own inner courtyard, stables, and — most importantly — newly-installed pipe for fresh water), their attitude toward Lucas changed quite a bit.

Actually, I had set aside several such rebuilt and/or remodeled houses in the district as part of various projects. They were normally empty, but we kept them ready for temporary guests at all times. Specifically, they were for just such emergencies as the one I found myself in that night.

From the outside, they were simple, nondescript buildings that didn’t really stand out from the general mass of structures in any particular way. Inside, however, they were furnished with comfortable bathrooms and toilets, along with relatively-inexpensive but sturdy furniture. In addition, each of these houses had underground passages leading out beyond the perimeter of the district.

Heh... You should have seen the stunned looks on my companions’ faces when we arrived. They were especially awestruck by the bathroom and toilet. Lucas, who took them on a tour of the house, responded to their amazement with little more than the occasional serious nod and a comment that this “little house” was nothing in comparison to his own hotel, which had rooms that were literally fit for a King. He also said (periodically casting me a glance as he did so) that both the hotel and the entire district in which it was located were special pet projects of the Margrave de Valier.

When Lucas left, I gathered the entire Brisot family in the main hall and gave them a list of detailed instructions, including (but definitely not limited to) the following: a reminder of how important it was to keep one’s mouth shut; a temporary ban on anybody leaving the district for any reason, at least until the hubbub surrounding the troupe finally died down; and a number of specific pointers on other important topics.

Alas... My hopes weren’t destined to be realized. The hubbub didn’t die down — in fact, it started picking up speed. Literally within the space of two days, I heard “The Fox and the Rat with the Painted Tail” echoing out of every tavern and eatery I passed. And while all the earlier songs about me had basically been written and produced collectively by the citizens themselves, this particular song was widely known to have been composed by Maître Brisot’s troupe. It turned out that our two lovers of truth and reason hadn’t quite told us all the details of what happened in the Square.

When the truth came out, Bridget and Étienne came in for a new round of scolding from the elder members of the family. One look at their faces, however, made it pretty clear that they were proud of what they had done, and that they obviously didn’t regret it in the least.

In order to help the furor around the Brisot troupe die down a little bit, I decided to direct people’s attention to other events. As such, it wasn’t long before the truth leaked out about what had happened to the so-called Baron, head of one of the capital’s largest bands of criminals: the first-born had dealt with the issue pretty quickly, and Ignia and Vayra’s younger relatives had burned all the group’s haunts and portside warehouses to the ground. Moreover, they had done it all in such a way that the fire didn’t spread to the Lower City; it only burned up a certain specific number of buildings.

And the fire didn’t just devour the structures, either — it also burned up the group’s treasury. At least that’s what the surviving members of the Baron’s inner circle thought (the Baron himself had died in the fire). In reality, Kervan managed to sneak in and quietly steal the treasury just before the fayrets attacked.

Long story short (and exactly as we had planned), the Baron’s organization took some very serious losses and turned into an easy target for other criminal bands. By the end of the week, the Lower City had transformed into a full-on battleground, in which several criminal groups were fighting among themselves.

The heads of these bands tried to get together and hammer out a truce, in order to divide up the late Baron’s territory without too much bloodshed, but this effort came to nought. The house where they were gathered suddenly burst into flame and burned to the ground in the space of a single hour. This, of course, only provoked a fresh round of street fighting between the remaining bandit leaders.

In the end, Maître Brisot and his troupe quickly became yesterday’s news. More than that, I managed to kill several birds with one stone in the chaos that followed: I redirected the attention of the city authorities toward the fighting in the streets, and also wiped out a number of criminals who had been working with my enemies.

It turned out that the conflict in the Lower City spread to some other merchants’ districts as well. By some “crazy accident,” for example, seventeen ships and four warehouses, belonging to highly-esteemed merchant and member of the Golden Hundred Pascal Legrand and three of his partners, burned up in the general conflagration. Sadly, ships and warehouses alike had been stuffed to the brim with expensive goods bound for Astland at the time of the fire. Witnesses said that upon hearing the news, Pascal Legrand claimed to have fallen ill, and locked himself away in his mansion. They said that creditors were already beating down paths to his door.

When it came to the hijinks that their young folk were committing under my direction, the elder first-born basically looked the other way. Especially since they were busy enough anyway. After I told the council of elders about my adventures in Bergonia and the Shadow, they asked for some time to consider the issue before giving me a final answer to my question. When they announced the meeting of a grand council of first-born, by the way, they also declared that this council would take place in my district.

A few days after the call went out, the oldest first-born in the area started to drift into the capital from nearby cities and settlements: these were the patriarchs and matriarchs of their respective societies.

In response to my question about when, specifically, I could expect them to meet with me, they simply told me that I’d have to wait. And it was on one of those days, when I received yet another reminder that a grand council could be a very slow-moving affair indeed, that I received a message from the matagot on Potters’ Alley.

The head of the local spellsword clan, the old badger Basil Bleroux, had finally gotten in touch, and he was prepared to meet with me.