Last Life

NIGHT HAD WRAPPED THE QUAY in thick, foggy gloom, with only the occasional streetlight to illuminate the way down to the water. It was around three in the morning; I was hidden behind a big stack of old barrels, watching a cargo being loaded.

My people had come down to this quay on a small caravan of wagons — all the servants from the Fox Den, along with their families, with Bertrand and Jacques at their head. With them had come all my household’s armed retainers. They were hauling big chests and boxes, chatting in hushed tones all the while. I could barely see their faces in the darkness, but I still knew exactly who each figure was.

The night air was filled with the sounds of boards knocking against stone ramps, and short, hushed orders from Captain Druton. He was standing on the deck of one of the four ships moored at this particular quay, each of which was anchored securely to two or more of the wooden piles along the quay’s edge. My small fleet was preparing for yet another rescue operation.

Just to play it safe, I was keeping myself hidden in the shadows, so that nobody (other than the first-born, of course) would know that I was there. Several moments before — just before I had slipped behind the barrels — a short figure with pointed ears had flitted past me.

It was one of our matagot allies, on whose territory the loading was actually occurring. He greeted me with a quick nod, letting me know that everything was going well. I heard the soft rustle of cat feet running across the ship’s bridge, albeit only once: the matagots were running across the decks of all the ships in the port, making sure nobody was watching us.

It was obvious that my people were tired. They had been busy with final preparations since the early morning. Generally, they had only taken the most valuable items out of the mansion. First and foremost, of course, this meant the contents of the secret basement, as well as my wine cellar.

Bertrand was squeezing the inventory list in his hands. He was holding his head high, trying to look bold and energetic, although I knew perfectly well just how worried he must have been. Jacques was doing a good job cheering up the servants, having hoisted two heavy baskets of kitchenware up onto his shoulders. Something clanked suspiciously inside them, and within a second, Agnes appeared next to Jacques and whispered something quickly and quietly into his ear.

Next to Bertrand stood my butler, Marc Ducos, who had his own list in his hands. It seemed that the two men had learned to work together quite well in my absence.

I also noticed Kevin, who had grown considerably. His face was shining in anticipation of adventures to come. I wasn’t going to force Kevin to work as Maître Beron’s assistant for the rest of his life. I had other plans for the boy. Besides, judging by his energy system, it was already time for him to undergo initiation. Alain was a different story, however — I had decided that I had no choice but to send him back to his father’s house. He would be relatively safe with his aunt. Life in the Fox Den had made quite an impression on him. His education had been in the hands of the best teachers in Herouxville.

I was also happy to hear that not a single one of my servants had opted to remain behind in the capital. The spies in their ranks had been weeded out long before. So the group that remained was loyal, close, and motivated, ready for the long journey and a new life in a new place. There would be plenty of work in my new home for them and their families. Knowing Marc Ducos’ thoroughness and perfectionism, however, I felt completely certain that things would soon be perfectly in order.

Everyone was working together like a well-oiled machine: some were unfurling canvas sails above the decks, some strapping chests and boxes to various parts of the ships. Captain Druton was standing next to the gangway, giving concise orders as people passed. Next to him stood a soldier with my sigil on his chest, who was holding a torch aloft in his hands.

I sighed quietly. It had happened after all. We’d been forced to abandon the Fox Den.

As soon as Lucas had brought the news about Verena two days before, Dodger’s brain kicked into action (just as it always did in stressful situations). The first thing I did was send the nisse straight to the castle. I charged her with telling Jacques and Bertrand that it was time for the evacuation, which we had planned in detail for just such an emergency prior to my departure for the war.

Plans are all well and good, but one can never plan for every single thing that ends up happening. My aunt’s enterprising matchmaking work, and Princess Sophia’s own carelessness, were proof enough of that.

Max’s aunt, by the way, had refused to allow Valerie to return to the Fox Den after Kiko took Verena away from her palace on the night of the ball. The Duchess du Bellay was a battle-hardened veteran of courtly intrigue, and she knew immediately which way the wind was blowing. I knew that she had probably told Valerie to lay low in the palace and avoid making any appearance outside its grounds.

Despite the fact that externally, I appeared to be in total control of my emotions, I felt like there was a firestorm raging inside me. First and foremost, I was angry at myself. I should never have delayed Verena’s evacuation. I should have sent her straight to my Margraviate. I had gotten too distracted with my search for information about the aurings, and allowed myself to drop the ball when it came to the events that were transpiring inside my very own house.

All that remained was to find out who had betrayed her. The old Count, who had recognized her at the ball, or somebody else...

Lucas had told me everything he knew about the affair, and when he finished I had to think long and hard. I considered it unlikely that Carl would allow harm to come to Verena — at least for the time being. Otherwise, why would he have engineered the unmasking to take place at the Duchess’ ball, where practically the whole world of capital-city high society was present? I mean, even Prince Heinrich had been there (and if Lucas’ information was accurate, he had really taken a shine to Princess Sophia).

What Carl actually had in mind, though... Well, it was hard to say. As soon as news of Conrad V’s daughter made its way around the continent, Vestonia would become a magnet for all surviving partisans of the former King of Astland. And Verena would undoubtedly become something of a living banner for the struggle against the usurper.

Why would Carl be interested in that, if he and Otto were allies? It might be quite simple: the alliance with Astland’s current King might be no more than a temporary measure. The Duke de Clairmont had told me that both Carl and Otto nursed Imperial ambitions. Each man hated the other, but circumstances had basically forced them to conclude an alliance. Both Astland and Vestonia had been in the throes of serious internal problems at the time. Sooner or later, however, the rotting abscess of mutual dislike in the alliance was bound to burst open.

On that note, actually, I was a little bit surprised that Otto hadn’t taken advantage of Duke de Clairmont’s devastating defeat to launch an attack on Vestonia. Could it really have been that news of my victories had moved him to choose indirect influence in Vestonian affairs (via the Duke de Bauffremont) instead?

Whatever the case — and as strange as it may sound — Princess Sophia would be relatively safe under Carl’s protection. Otto’s killers would have a hard time gaining access to her. Carl’s hunting “lodge” was protected by his Shadows, as well as a brigade of elite Royal Guards. It was virtually impregnable. Even for me.

The fact that Verena was being held in this specific castle, by the way, had been reported to me by some of the first-born who had joined my colors. The Dendros had informed me of the council’s decision as soon as it was over. The patriarchs and matriarchs had refused to accept the ancient power from me, but they had agreed to allow members of their clans to do so.

I wouldn’t say it was a flood of first-born that followed, exactly, but there were still plenty of them who wanted to undergo the transformation ritual. Again, it was mostly the young ones. And that was something, at least. I’ll admit it: the council’s decision to stand aloof from the conflict with the Hrimthurs came as a disappointment to me. But I would have to work with what I had.

Before leaving, the Dendros returned all my copied notes from the temple and the hidden basement. The elders had taken a look at these as well. None of them could translate the language of the aurings, unfortunately, but the Dendros pointed out one very interesting detail in one of the scrolls.

It was a drawing that, in my opinion, might have been a representation of some sort of mysterious ritual. The biggest symbols on the drawing were placed at odd intervals and spread unevenly across the whole page. One was in the top left corner, another in the bottom right, a third a little to the side of the center, and so on. There were nine of them altogether. The symbols also differed from one another in terms of size.

After turning over the scroll and spreading it out on the table in front of him, the Dendros started running his long, dry finger from one symbol to another (I was watching carefully the entire time). He seemed to be trying to connect them all with a single, invisible line.

Once finished, he looked up at me and asked:

“Did you see that? What does that look like?”

I rubbed my forehead as I started playing and re-playing his tracing of the line between the symbols, and eventually it hit me.

“I see you understand what I’m getting at,” the Dendros noted in his characteristic low, rumbling voice.

“This isn’t a ritual at all...” I mouthed silently to myself. “These are the borders of the Shadow of Strix.”

“And the symbols?” A little hint of mirth was shining in the Dendros’ eyes.

I quickly ran my eyes across the page and found one of the medium-sized symbols. If I’d had a map of Mainland handy, and laid it down on top of the diagram, that symbol would have been right in the area of Shadow Pass.

“These are the places of power,” I said in astonishment. I could feel a chill run down my spine.

At first, I thought it might just be a coincidence, but another of the symbols (slightly smaller this time) was right in the area where the Lao tribe’s forest homeland was located. This was enough to convince me: the first-born was right.

That meant I not only had a map of the places of power, but also that I suddenly knew the meaning of at least two of the symbols on that map — specifically, the one for amber bruts and the one for emerald bruts. Each of these symbols, by the way, appeared in one additional spot on the map; both were in the upper area of the continent. There was a massive emerald crystal in the north, and an amber one in the northeast.

Basically, judging by the number of notes made in tiny handwriting next to each symbol on the map, I was holding a key to the exact location of every place of power on the continent. It was also interesting to note that they were all located almost literally astride the Barrier. The Shadow of Strix was like the hide of a big animal, staked to the ground along its edges.

Goosebumps rippled out across my body when I thought about what would have happened if Lord Khaldrekar had ever found the secret treasury in that temple. He could have amassed an incredible amount of power! And that wasn’t the only threat, either — if the dark forces had started upsetting all the places of power at once, like the Elder Hrimthur had done near Shadow Pass, it would have set off a devastating series of flows and earthquakes all along the edge of the Shadow.

I looked up from the scroll and showed the Dendros the piece of paper with the map fragment that I had found in the secret basement of the Fox Den. There was a symbol on this one as well, but this map was obviously depicting something different, and its symbol didn’t look like the ones on the first map. The elder first-born just shook his head in silence, before bidding me farewell and walking out of the basement.

Closing my eyes, I ran my hand across my belt, where I had stored the piece of paper with the map on it. If any of the powers-that-be ever found out about this incredible treasure, they’d launch a hunt for me the likes of which this world had never seen.

As I sat there thinking, the loading process finished, and the ships slipped silently off their moorings. One by one, they turned and headed east. I felt a gust of damp wind from the direction of the river. The dark silhouettes of the ships slowly disappeared from view, and I let out a big sigh of relief.

“So? What now?” I heard the nisse’s lively voice echo out of the darkness.

“Time to think about how to save the girl,” I said, before asking: “By the way — are we ready to greet our guests?”

A cunning smile spread across Itta’s face:

“And how!”

* * *

Wolfsburg. Capital of Astland

The Granite Palace, residence of King Otto II

Otto II leaned back on his pillow, enjoying the heat that was emanating from his fireplace. Tongues of flame were dancing deep within the hearth, and the air was full of a spicy smell that was curling up in thin streaks from a copper smokecatcher. There was still a faint scent of perfume on his body, left after a recent visit by yet another favorite — a platinum-blonde Countess, this time, who had left the room just a minute before, shaking her hips seductively as she slipped out of the King’s apartments through a secret hallway.

The night wind could be heard rustling the leaves outside. The Granite Palace was almost entirely submerged in sleep.

The low light from the fireplace threw the tense features of Otto’s face into sharp relief as he reclined on his bed: the heavy gaze, the clenched jaw, and the deep, vertical wrinkle running across his forehead.

Just then, the door swung silently open, and a familiar figure appeared into the darkness: a tall, gaunt man with carefully-combed gray hair, an equally well-kept mustache, and narrow, cunning eyes. His clothing was simple, at least by the standards of the court, but the chain of the Chief Minister hung from his neck, complete with a small heraldic badge of the Kingdom of Astland. This man was the only person who could visit the King, day or night, without first requesting and receiving permission.

The King didn’t even turn to face him; he just glanced to the side, and muttered a quiet greeting:

“Wilhelm.”

The Chief Minister, Wilhelm von Lander, bent his head in a short bow as he made his way slowly across the Royal Bedchamber and stopped near the bed, making sure to leave a respectful distance between himself and his monarch. For a moment, his eyes met those of the King, and a brief flash of emotion passed across his face — a mixture of apology and anxiety.

“Please pardon the late visit, Your Majesty,” he said in a quiet voice that somehow still sounded utterly confident. “The news is coming in rather sporadically, I’m afraid. I had to personally verify the information I received from our agents this time. Important news from Vestonia and Atalia.”

“Speak,” the King muttered glumly. He sat up and swung his feet down from the bed onto the soft carpet at his feet.

The Chief Minister cleared his throat and shot a quick look at the smoldering fireplace:

“Carl’s made his move. He’s officially announced that he has the daughter of Conrad V under his protection. It’s been reported that the news came to light at a large gathering of nobles, at which Prince Heinrich himself was present. Carl made it clear to all that he had no idea that such a guest was present in his capital. Rumors began spreading immediately, of course, and now the entire nobility of Vestonia is in a ferment.”

A vicious light passed across Otto’s eyes. He bit down on his lip, then broke into a sinister smile:

“Finally! I was starting to worry that he’d start hemming and hawing, showering us with letters and apologies. And the bastard, who was hiding the Princess in his castle? I assume he’s persona non grata?”

“At the moment, it appears that no mention has been made of the Margrave de Valier’s involvement.” The rightful source is NoveI★Fire.net

“Ha!” Otto laughed. “Carl’s taking his time, then. He’s going to wait to see what that pathetic remnant under von Mansfeld and his lackeys is going to do.”

“Exactly so, Your Majesty,” replied the Chief Minister with a bow of his head. “In their version of the story, the bastard is a savior. Accusing him too hastily could provoke dissatisfaction among the partisans of Conrad’s daughter.”

“What news from Atalia?” The King changed the subject.

“Young King Adrian thirsts for revenge. The Golden Lion is preparing his legions. The Scarlets are actively assisting him in his efforts. As are we, via our Atalian bankers.”

“When will they be ready to move into Bergonia?” The King asked.

“According to my information, it will be at least another year,” replied the Chief Minister.

“Too long,” the King frowned.

“That will be more than enough time for us to finish all our preparations,” said Wilhelm.

The King’s eyes narrowed, and he snickered in response:

“You’re not going to try to talk me out of it, then?”

“No, Your Majesty,” the Chief Minister shook his head. “But if you’ll allow me one piece of advice... It’d be best to wait and attack at the same time as the Atalians. That would force Carl to fight on two fronts. Even if he manages to assemble his legions by then, there’s no way he’ll also be able to iron out the necessary logistics to keep them armed and supplied. Although admittedly, he’ll probably have Mansfeld and the other conspirators on his side.”

“So be it,” replied Otto with a bloodthirsty smile. “The more of those roaches we can gather into one place, the easier it’ll be to crush them with a single swat. Which will mean fewer of them to chase around the continent afterward.”

“Correct as always, Your Majesty.”

Otto ran his fingers down his neck, then slowly stood up from his bed, threw on his robe, and strode over to the fireplace. The shadow of his broad-shouldered figure spread across the patterned carpet beneath his feet.

He thrust his chin into the air:

“It’s decided, then. We will attack at the same time as the Atalians. You’re right. It’s better that way. Besides, the Golden Lion will probably want to settle the score with the bastard, who I’m sure won’t give up without a fight. Let them tear each others’ throats out. By the time the Atalian army crosses the border into Vestonia, I’ll already be in Herouxville.”

“Are you sure that the Margrave de Valier will lose this time?”

“Absolutely,” said Otto dismissively. “I know Ricardo. He’s probably drawn all the right conclusions from his previous defeats. The bastard is doomed.”

With that, Otto dismissed the Chief Minister with a gesture, and Wilhelm retreated silently in the direction from which he had come. The logs in the fireplace crackled, disrupting the otherwise-total silence. From somewhere far outside the palace walls came the clatter of hooves from a night patrol. The dim reflection of a single torch appeared in the hallway outside.

The King folded his hands behind his back and strode over to the window, from which he could see a nighttime panorama of Wolfsburg stretching into the distance below. The streets looked abandoned and dead in the light of the few scattered streetlights. The Granite Palace loomed above the capital like some massive predator, ready at any moment to pounce upon its prey.

Otto heard something rustle behind his back.

“Report,” he said, without turning around.

“Our people are already en route.” The voice belonged to Baron de Flavy.

“Who’s leading the unit?” Otto inquired.

“Captain Knut Hansen,” replied the Baron.

The King smiled, then nodded with approval.

“Quite symbolic. The girl will die at the hands of the same man who killed her brother.”