Last Life

Herouxville

Prince Philippe’s palace

A LUXURIANT HALL with relief-paneled walls and tall ceilings, all emblazoned with the seals of the Royal House, shone that evening in the light of hundreds of candles. All the capital’s nobility, along with some of the visiting foreign nobles, had gathered at the personal invitation of Prince Philippe.

Or at least that’s how it appeared on paper. Everyone understood that the real mastermind behind the reception was actually the woman who would soon wed the King’s eldest son; the latter, after all, had never been a fan of participating (still less of hosting) high-society events like this. He would have wanted to be as far away from it all as possible, surrounded by his beloved pets.

Gemstones glittered on noble necklaces; gentlemen in expensive robes exchanged quiet pleasantries with one another; a string orchestra kept up an unassuming, leisurely, and yet somehow also quite lively melody. Prince Philippe himself was dressed in a brand-new outfit of the finest velvet, sitting on a slightly-elevated throne and staring out at the proceedings with a bored expression on his face.

Blanca de Gondy, whose beauty never failed to attract general attention at such events, was standing near her fiancé, replying to bows from the awestruck gentlemen who were still filing into the room. Her father, the Duke de Gondy, was talking to a group of elderly noblemen, and occasionally looking back at his daughter with glances of approval. The events that had recently transpired around the Astlandic Princess had provided a significant boost to the Duke of the South, who was virtually the absolute ruler of Aquintaine. This reception was essentially a victory celebration: the Duke de Gondy was celebrating his defeat of his longtime opponent, the Duke de Bauffremont.

From time to time, Prince Philippe’s eyes would come to rest on his fiancée’s elegant figure, and a little spark would lighten up his languid countenance. It turned out that Blanca had more than one facet to her personality. They hadn’t gotten along particularly well at first, but eventually the Marchioness de Gondy had succeeded in attracting the Prince’s attention.

Philippe, who loved his pets with all his heart, was deeply disappointed — devastated, even — by Blanca’s initial reaction to them. After a few months, however, the young woman had begun to show a whole new side. Sure, she hadn’t turned into an animal lover overnight. Philippe would have seen through any such falsehood immediately.

It just so happened that eventually, when Blanca de Gondy and Philippe were alone, she confided to him that she was intensely afraid of animals, and asked the Prince’s help in overcoming that fear..

From that moment on, the two of them began to spend a great deal of time at the menagerie, where (timidly at first, but with gathering confidence as time went on) Philippe would regale the Marchioness for hours on end with information about one or another of his precious creatures. For her part, she became the Prince’s guide into the world of courtly life, which he had never understood, and of which he had always been quite fearful in the past. As if sensing her fiancé’s attention, Blanca turned around. She noticed the sour, pleading look on his face and replied with an encouraging smile. The look in her eyes told him to hang on just a little bit longer.

Philippe felt a pleasant warmth spread out across his body. Blanca had become more than just a friend for him. She had won his heart completely. Once in a while, when he thought about the Astlandic woman to whom his uncle had tried to betroth him, Philippe would thank the gods for sending Blanca into his life. Compared to his love for the Marchioness de Gondy, all his previous affections and attachments were nothing but pitiful shadows and vague recollections.

The guests near the main entrance into the hall suddenly grew livelier, and Philippe turned to see what the commotion was. As he did so, the Duke de Bauffremont made his entrance. His appearance caused a ripple of quiet whispers to surge out across the hall.

After the frightening events that had transpired during and after the attempted assassination of the Astlandic Princess and her Marshal (both of which had ended in failure), the Duke’s position in society had taken a grievous hit.

The martial atmosphere at court, and in the capital at large, had only intensified. Every time Philippe heard such conversations, he couldn’t help but shudder inside. His first experience at war had very nearly ended in personal catastrophe. Sure, they had made him out to be a hero in the end, but the Prince himself knew perfectly well what his true role in that war had been.

He often thought about those days, and whenever he did it filled him with shame. Perhaps it was these feelings that had motivated him to adopt a distinctly unfriendly attitude toward his liberator, the Margrave de Valier. Others might say whatever they liked about the man, but Philippe would never forget the respect with which the Golden Lion and his suite of Atalian nobles had spoken of Maximillian de Valier. At times like that, the shy, ever-fearful Philippe wished from the bottom of his soul that he could be the sort of man the Margrave was.

And now, once again, the call to arms was ringing through the air...

Philippe had heard in passing that his father had summoned Otto II’s diplomats to court and publicly berated them. More than that, any nobles associated with the current King of Astland were forbidden from visiting the Royal Palace, at least while the investigation into the assassination attempt was still ongoing. Rumor had it that some of the Duchess von Dissen’s ladies-in-waiting had been part of the attempts on the lives of Princess Sophia and Marshal von Mansfeld. Supposedly, the women had been strykers. The Duchess herself was forbidden to leave the capital until every detail of the affair had been investigated.

The only thing that was known so far, however, was the fact that the two attempts had been thwarted — one by the courageous and professional actions of His Majesty’s Shadows, the other by the strykers around Marshal von Mansfeld.

Long story short, everyone at court knew that the Duke de Bauffremont had a lot of influence to regain, and that he would set about doing so with a minimum of delay. He arrived in an elegant courtly robe with his family crest embroidered on its lapel, the glittering hilt of a sword gleaming at his belt. Casting a proud, arrogant look around the hall, the Duke strode confidently over to where Philippe was sitting, seemingly indifferent to the mocking glares of de Gondy and his associates.

“Your Highness.” The Duke de Bauffremont greeted the Prince with a bow. “I thank you for the honor of having been invited to this evening’s reception. Please, allow me to bear witness to the eternal affection I bear toward you by presenting you with a gift. I hope you will find it to your liking.”

The music stopped. The guests fell into a guarded silence as they waited for the curious spectacle to continue. Meanwhile, two servants were bringing a small cage out from behind Bauffremont’s back. It was covered by a length of red silk, and a muffled growling sound could be heard from inside.

Philippe frowned to himself. He didn’t like it when his uncle addressed him with such formality. Also, the Prince didn’t see Paul, overseer of his menagerie, anywhere in his uncle’s entourage. Like Philippe, Paul was a fervent lover of animals, and preferred to spend all his time with them whenever he could. The elderly overseer had long been Philippe’s only real friend.

The Prince leaned forward; a friendly smile danced on his face. He was genuinely happy to see his uncle, who, it seemed, had once again managed to find a surprise for the nephew he so adored.

“How wonderful to see you, uncle!”

A triumphant smile spread across the Duke’s face.

“But where’s Paul?” Philippe inquired.

“Oh, my boy... You know how the old fellow is,” said the Duke, switching into an informal tone. He raised his voice a little bit, as if to remind those present that despite whatever misfortunes he might have suffered, the future King of Vestonia and the Duke de Bauffremont were family. “Overindulgence in wine once again, I imagine. But never fear — I’ve already sent people to look into the matter. I suspect they’ll prescribe him a few lashes.”

“Oh, uncle!” Philippe burst out. “Please, have pity on him. For my sake.”

“Nothing to fear, my boy. A few lashes will do the layabout some good,” replied the Duke dismissively. “Mind you, if you’d prefer, I could see to it that he gets away with a dip in a cold pond this time.”

Philippe nodded.

“Thank you, uncle. What have you brought me this time? I’m dying to see!”

“It’s a beast that I daresay hasn’t been seen in our lands for centuries,” said the Duke with a wave of his hand. The servants lifted the silk that covered the silver cage.

Inside, lying on a bed of brightly-colored fabric, was a tiny creature with thick, fluffy fur. It shone a soft gold in the candlelight, and had dark spots along its sides. Its eyes looked like pieces of molten amber; its ears stuck out to the side, making it look even cuter than it otherwise would have. The little beast seemed to have recoiled ever so slightly from the candlelight.

“Oh, Luminous Mother,” one of the courtly ladies remarked quietly, “How cute!”

Seeing the excited look on Prince Philippe’s face, the noblemen and women around him began whispering among themselves. The Prince himself had already jumped up out of his chair:

“And what’s this marvelous creature called?”

“It’s so rare that it doesn’t even have a name,” replied Bauffremont with a smile. To his great satisfaction, he saw that the Prince’s eyes were filling with wonder and excitement. “You will be the first person to give this creature a name. Here are several hints that may inspire you. It’s said that this creature brings luck to whichever person becomes its first and only master. The little beast will only ever recognize one master, and it’ll follow that master for its whole life.”

Philippe’s hands were shaking slightly. Everything else in his world had just shifted onto the back burner.

“Is it tamed?”

“No,” the Duke shook his head. “Therein lies the secret. As soon as the first human takes this creature up into their hands, it will recognize that person as its one and only master. But fear not, Your Highness: the beast is kind to others as well, once it’s taken a liking to them.” Bauffremont turned to his servants and ordered them to open the door of the cage.

With a quiet clank, the little door opened just a crack. The animal inside was still feeling cautious, and it didn’t seem to be in any hurry to take its first step. Then, however, it noted Philippe’s outstretched hand, whereupon it flicked its ears to the sides a few times and jumped gracefully up out of its cage, landing right on the open palm of the heir to the Vestonian throne.

“Loo-ook...” Philippe laughed as he felt the warm little furball on his hand. “He chose me.”

“You possess a truly special ability, Your Highness,” noted the Duke de Gondy as he looked on from behind his daughter’s shoulder.

All the nobles leaned forward. Blanca couldn’t resist; she stepped in closer to get a better look at the “cute little beast.” Philippe bent his head affectionately in Blanca’s direction as he brought the little animal in closer:

“I’m sure, Mademoiselle, that the two of you will be good friends. You simply must help me give this marvelous little creature a name.”

In all the excitement, nobody seemed to notice how strangely the creature’s paws were tensing up as it pressed itself against the Prince. Philippe’s eyes suddenly widened. He let out a short, sharp scream and staggered back a step or two:

“Ugh...”

The little animal jerked its fluffy tail through the air and scratched the Prince across the neck. Then, with surprising speed and agility, it jumped down onto the floor and raced off through the open door that led out into the garden.

“Your Highness?!” Blanca suddenly saw a strange mark on Philippe’s skin — a small cut, with a blotch around it that was quickly growing larger and darker.

The Prince staggered; his fingers began to claw at the collar of his robe:

“It hurts...”

His heart was beating furiously; he took a single, hesitant step, and then his legs fell out from under him. The hall erupted. Several men raced forward to support the Prince as he collapsed to the floor.

“Your Highness!” Blanca shouted.

“Call a healer!” Someone else screamed.

The skin around the scratch had turned a deep bluish-black color, as though something was burning it from the inside. The Prince’s eyes lost focus; his breathing became ragged. With evident difficulty, he raised an arm into the air. He seemed to be trying to grab it with his hands. Blanca de Gondy rushed to his side and held him beneath one arm. The Duke de Gondy was frozen in shock where he stood.

A wave of panic swept through the hall. People began to crowd around the Prince, but his personal healer (who had quickly been found among the guests) nevertheless managed to push his way through to his patient. Watching in horror as a pale foam began to mass on Philippe’s lips, he laid a hand onto the wound.

“Poison!” He groaned. He moved his hands down to Philippe’s chest and wrists in a vain effort to check the young man’s pulse. “Very powerful poison!”

Prince Philippe could only croak as he tried to speak. His lips twitched — and then he stopped moving. His eyes began to glass over.

“No!” A cry of pain and disappointment rang through the hall.

The Duke de Bauffremont had fallen to his knees in front of the Prince’s lifeless body. His face had turned deathly pale. The features of his face looked sharper, and his bloodless lips were quivering. He grabbed his nephew’s body by the shoulders and started shaking it.

“You can’t just die like this!” The Duke shouted. “Get up! Get up!”

Finally, he raised his head and looked around at the stunned faces of the nobles around him. He could see his own death sentence in every pair of eyes...

* * *

Northland

Somewhere near the Frost Temple

Princess Astrid’s enormous campaign tent towered above the rows of other tents in her camp like a watchtower above a plain. The night air was permeated with the smell of newly-sprouted grass and recent rain: two days ago, the skies had poured down a freezing torrent onto the ground, leaving the horses to turn the ground into a heavy, sticky mess. Now, however, the camp was enveloped in a black, starless gloom, and the wind had died down almost entirely. The only sign of its presence was an occasional flutter from one of the banners.

The gloomy darkness was broken, however, by two bright-orange lights coming from the camp’s ovens. Next to one of them stood a crowd of four strykers from the Princess’ personal guard, who were warming their hands over the fire and chatting quietly about something.

Princess Astrid herself was sitting in her armchair, deep inside the tent, with her back to a rack that held her famous twin swords of Shadow steel.

A thin log crackled in a portable hearth at her feet, giving off a faint smell of burning pine. The noise of the military camp outside the tent’s walls was constant: clanging kettles, occasional calls from the sentries along the perimeter, distant neighing from the horses.

Her brother’s army was preparing for the decisive battle with the Order of the Frozen Spear. Astrid was going to finish the job her father had failed to complete: she was going to destroy the horrible demon-worshippers once and for all.

It seemed that even the Order’s priests recognized the miserable odds they faced. Why else would their High Priest have asked to negotiate with the Princess? As an aside, they had turned out to be quite well-informed regarding her role and influence within the state. The force may have been under the command of Konung Ulf Wolfheart, but she was the one who commanded the Konung himself. And her brother obeyed her without question.

At first, Astrid was planning to refuse the Priest’s request; it could easily have been a trap. After thinking for a little while, however, she came to the conclusion that her death wouldn’t prevent the battle anyway. On the contrary — it would fill every soldier in her brother’s army with righteous anger and a desire to avenge the death of the Princess, who was beloved by all northerners.

It turned out that the priests wanted to offer Astrid a deal. And in preparing for the meeting, she decided that she would hear what they had to say with an open mind. The main condition was that the High Priest should come alone to meet the Princess in her tent. He would be allowed two personal servants, but that would be all. And to general surprise, the Frost Knights had agreed.

Time passed slowly, as it often does before a storm. From time to time, the whispering wind outside the tent would die down, then pick up snippets of conversation from outside. Suddenly, the tent flaps — heavy folds of layered oilcloth — slid aside. A combat mage strode in and greeted the Princess with a nod. The negotiator had arrived.

The Princess decided that only those combat mages who could be counted on to maintain their calm would be allowed to attend the meeting. Werewolves and other true gifted tended to hate the priests, and might well upend a calm conversation.

Astrid replied:

“Remain outside, and make sure we aren’t disturbed.”

The stryker nodded. A moment later, a dark figure appeared in the entryway. The Princess’ eyes widened as she caught sight of him.

Instead of the gray-bearded, gray-cloaked old man she had expected, she found herself staring at a gaunt young man in a dark, high-collared cloak. He glanced around at those present with a calm, almost bored expression before finally turning to face a breathless Astrid. The silence seemed to grow denser, as if the tension were thickening the air itself.

The guest’s cloak stretched almost to the ground. There was a strange brooch made of tarnished silver glinting dully on his chest. An invisible, but extremely palpable power was radiating from his body. It made the strykers tense, like animals who’ve just spotted a predator.

“You’re not the High Priest,” said Astrid as she tried to keep her voice steady. She was ready to draw her swords at any moment.

“I decided that the old fool would only make things more difficult,” the guest shrugged. The air in the tent grew darker.

So, thought Astrid as she summoned a clot of lilac mana from a brut... It’s a trap after all. Just a waste of my time.

No sooner did she think this than the stranger waved his hand through the air, sending a surge of powerful, unfamiliar energy coursing down her body and paralyzing her energy system. The strykers in the tent lost consciousness and collapsed to the ground. The Princess watched as the stranger stepped slowly and inexorably closer, but she couldn’t say a word.

When their eyes met, however, Astrid realized who was standing before her. Each of the guest’s eyes was a different color. He was studying her face intently. The young woman felt like a little butterfly, who was about to be run through with a pin and placed onto an exhibition board. Horror tried to wrap its icy tentacles around her heart, but Astrid chased it away. She might die, but she wouldn’t die afraid!

“You try to resist fear, even when you feel the breath of death,” the demon chuckled. “I like it. You’d have made an excellent candidate. But that’s not why I came...”

The demon took a step back and slowly began walking around the unconscious strykers on the ground. He continued:

“I’m going to give you back your voice, but I want to warn you right now: nobody will come to your calls. I’ve cast a hem of oblivion across this tent. No one will hear you if you scream.”

Astrid suddenly felt the invisible vicegrips release her throat. Without paying any heed to what the demon had said, she screamed out the names of the bodyguards who were stationed outside. Nothing happened. Only then did it occur to her that all the other sounds from outside had disappeared as well.

“I told you,” the demon shrugged.

“I had to try,” she replied in the same defiant tone.

“I understand,” he said. “Now. Shall we talk?”

“You didn’t kill me, which means you must need something from me,” she replied. “What does a demon need from a mere mortal like me? If you think I can stop this army from destroying that temple of yours — if you think I can even convince them to leave a single stone atop another — then you’re wasting your time. My soldiers want vengeance. Just like I do. The priests launched a cowardly attack on my father and brother. You — “

“I care nothing for the temple, or what your people or you might want,” the demon interrupted her. He still sounded totally calm. “And since you mention it... It wasn’t we who betrayed your father. It was he who betrayed us. We had a bargain, and we kept our end faithfully, but Sharptooth broke his word.”

Astrid frowned.

“I see,” her guest chuckled. “You’ve been told differently. I understand.”

“You’re lying!” Astrid hissed through her teeth. She tried to wrench herself free, but couldn’t move an inch.

“You ask me what I need?” The demon sounded genuinely surprised at the question. He bent down above one of the strykers and picked a medallion with a lilac brut up off the man’s chest.

The brut turned to dust in the blink of an eye.

“Insipid,” said the demon with a derisive frown as he flicked the brut dust from his fingers.

He raised his head to look at Astrid, who was still staring at him in awe, and said:

“We needed Sharptooth alive and well. More than that, we spent a great deal of time and resources ensuring that your father would become the most powerful ruler in Northland. And I have to say, it worked out quite well for him. But your greed... For some reason, Sharptooth got it into his head that his meteoric rise could continue without our support. He decided to betray us. And you know how that ended.”

“Let’s assume you’re telling the truth,” Astrid began. “Why, in that case, didn’t you talk to him first? You’ve just proven to me that you have no trouble forcing people to listen, or to persuade them when they do.”

These words made the demon’s face look like he’d just bitten into an underripe plum.

“You’re asking exactly the right questions, girl. Yet more proof that I wasn’t mistaken in you.”

The demon bent his head to the side, as though he were thinking about how to answer.

“Let’s just say this,” he continued, shaking his head. “I was busier with more important matters at the time. It was one of my sisters who handled the negotiations with your father. And she... Well, to put it mildly, she’s not quite as rational as I am. The situation got out of control, and now you and I have been left to pick up the pieces.”

“You and I?” Astrid’s eyebrows rose.

“Yes. You and I,” the demon shrugged. “Why not? You thirst for power, and I want these lands to be at peace. I suggest we join forces.”

“I...” Astrid was about to begin, but the demon stopped her, raising the index finger of his right hand into the air.

“Before you continue,” he said, “there’s something I’d like to clarify. When I spoke about your desires, I didn’t mean power over the north. You basically have that already. I’m not blind. I see why you need that southern Prince. You’ve taken aim at the Vestonian crown. Am I right?”

Astrid opened her mouth, but didn’t respond.

“I can see that I am.” For the first time, the demon smiled, revealing a row of sharp teeth that turned Astrid’s insides to ice. “I can tell by the look on your face. This trophy has been eluding you for many years now. Has it not? It’s the right choice, by the way. The largest and wealthiest country on the continent. I suspect that many other people have their sights set on it as well. Especially since Carl’s wounding. That required no small effort on our part. Such a shame that we didn’t manage to finish him. The chaos in his Kingdom would have started much sooner.”

Astrid twitched. Something had suddenly dawned on her.

“My father...” She mouthed silently.

“No,” the demon shook his head. “Unlike you, Sharptooth didn’t think strategically. The crossbow shot that wounded Carl was fired for Atalia, first and foremost. By the way — you stand a better chance of sitting the Vestonian throne than you ever have before.”

“What do you mean?” Astrid leaned forward, and suddenly realized that her body was obeying her commands once again. But she was no longer in any hurry to attack the demon. He had caught her interest.

“It’s a shame we didn’t turn our attention to you several years ago,” he sighed. “We wouldn’t have to waste valuable time right now.” Read complete version only at NoveI[F]ire.net

He clapped his hands together softly, and a few seconds later one of the tent flaps slid to the side. A stryker from Astrid’s personal guard appeared in the doorway. His eyes were spinning around crazily in their sockets, but he was silently obeying someone else’s will, like a living marionette.

“Bring them in,” the demon commanded, whereupon the stryker turned and left.

A few minutes later, he was back, leading two bound men who were both quaking in terror.

The demon dismissed the stryker with a nonchalant wave of his hand, then nodded at the prisoners, who were down on their knees in front of Astrid. Their presence filled the air with a distinct odor of feces, urine, and blood.

The Princess was spellbound as she watched it all unfold. Her heart froze as she realized just how powerful this creature’s mysterious magic really was. And she was surprised that, for some reason, she was still alive.

“These two,” the demon began, “are hired killers, who’ve come here from Vestonia to collect your fiancée’s head.”

Astrid jumped up from her chair. A wave of fear coursed across her body.

“Louis...”

“He’s alive and well,” the demon assured her. “In fact, he has no idea that his life was recently hanging by a thread. I had a little chat with them, and they told me that your groom-to-be was luckier than his elder brother. Prince Philippe is probably already dead. Everything points to someone in Herouxville taking active measures to put Prince Heinrich on the throne.”

Astrid shuddered; her eyes widened. Her nostrils flared viciously, like a predator picking up the smell of freshly-killed prey. She glanced at the demon and replied in a firm tone of voice:

“What do you want?”

“First, I want you to stop this pointless war between us,” said the demon.

“That won’t be easy,” replied Astrid.

“Take the Frost Temple,” the demon replied calmly. “Let your warriors loot it. And I’ll also give you the leaders of all the clans who betrayed your father. Our agreement with them also stipulated that some of their relatives should become priests. You can take them as well. What do you think — will that look like a victory for you?”

For the first time, a smile began to appear on Astrid’s lips. The demon had offered her more than she had expected.

“And what then?” She asked.

“Then, if we become friends, I’ll help you become Queen of Vestonia,” replied Keyvan with his predatory smile.

* * *

Somewhere in the outskirts of Herouxville

I stood in the shade of the trees at the edge of a short stretch of forest, keeping watch over the courtyard of a small (yet surprisingly defensible) house. The little forest dwelling was the secret residence of a clan of spellswords. The forest around it was full of all sorts of magical surprises: signals, snares, booby traps, etc. Getting around them hadn’t presented me with too much trouble.

I took a deep breath of the fresh forest air and closed my eyes. After the capital, which had essentially turned into a raging cauldron, this place seemed almost otherworldly, like something out of a fairy tale.

The attempt on Verena and Marshal von Mansfeld’s lives, the sudden death of Prince Philippe, Carl III’s furious speech blaming the death of his eldest son on Otto II, followed by the declaration of war on Astland... It had all mixed together into one big, stinky morass, which the common people (as always) would have to sort out.

Otto II’s diplomats had been shown the door, as had any Astlandic nobles deemed to have “connections to the usurper.” The Duke de Bauffremont, who had unwittingly managed to pass the poisonous beast to his nephew, had supposedly been sent to one of the King’s suburban palaces. He was still there, awaiting the King’s judgement.

The “red” party ceased to exist after the death of its symbol and raison d’etre. The attention of all the influential nobles in the capital shifted to Prince Heinrich.

This whole affair, by the way, actually came in quite handy for me. It handily distracted the attention of capital-city society from anything connected with my name. My first-born spies reported that my aunt, the Duchess du Bellay, had already been on pretty good terms with Prince Heinrich anyway, and as such she had quickly reoriented herself and started making appearances with Max’s sisters at some notable receptions.

As for Count de Gramont, however, things were going... Well, to put it mildly, they weren’t going as well as they could have been. His disgraceful flight from the Fox Den seemed to have branded him permanently with the mark of dishonor. That situation had only been made worse by Yveline’s elopement with some landless Baron.

Pascal Legrand was practically ruined, and certainly bedridden. At least for the time being, Count de Gramont was unlikely to find a single palace that would open its door for him. Duke de Bauffremont had fallen catastrophically out of favor. Maybe, I thought, there’s actually something real in this Predestination that the first-born are so fond of talking about?

Whatever the case, I had no intention of stopping anytime soon. The writings of the aurings remained undeciphered. All my attempts to translate them had only given rise to more questions. And time was slipping away like sand through my fingers. The fact that one of the Hrimthurs had made an appearance at the Fox Den was proof of that. The dark forces were testing my defenses. But this time, at least, they had found those defenses too strong for them.

After my battle with Fria, I had made some important conclusions and used golden mana to perfect my guardian snake. I had also given him some reinforcements in the form of two of the chimeras whose claws and fangs we had brought back from Shadow Pass.

The rest of the ingredients for the summons had come from Madleyn, who had started confidently amassing power among the capital’s covens. Her reputation was growing more fearsome by the day. Especially after her duel with Camille, who had been considered the most powerful witch in Herouxville. Madleyn had taken her out so easily that it made the city’s other mothers rethink some of their stances. Long story short, the city would soon see the rise of a Mother Superior. Or at least that was how things were shaping up.

The dark agent’s attack on my lair had ended pretty predictably. She had been forced to retreat. Judging by her tracks, she had returned to the north. By the time I found out about the attack, it was too late for me to chase her down. And sending first-born after her would have been far too risky. The Hrimthur could have devoured them without missing a beat.

Nevertheless, this little victory ended up bringing some very positive results for me. News that a Hrimthur had run off with her tail between her legs spread quickly throughout the capital and its environs, before continuing on (as far as I could tell) to spread all across Mainland.

Before that, the first-born had always accepted my stories about fighting the Hrimthurs, but usually with a healthy degree of skepticism. Now, however, they could see my power for themselves. And I hadn’t even participated in the battle personally at all.

More and more first-born started expressing a desire to undergo the transformation ritual. Many of them were prepared to join me in my Margraviate. Which was good news, especially because Susanna Marino (who was still supplying Lucas with information) soon informed us that the Golden Lion and King Adrian had sealed a new agreement with the Scarlets, and were hurrying to amass new legions to get revenge for their defeats in the Bergonian War. It didn’t take a genius to figure out whose lands the Atalian Army would visit first. I would have to get back to my Margraviate and start preparing for an Atalian invasion.

But I still had so much unfinished business in the capital...

With a heavy sigh, I took a step forward. I walked out of the shadows of the trees and slowly started making my way toward the house. I was walking in the open, making it clear that I was relaxed.

They spotted me quickly. A real furor ensued in the courtyard. Three young spellswords were staring at me in confusion. They didn’t seem to understand how I could have passed unharmed through their belt of obstacles.

One of the boys had called out when he saw me coming, and Basil rushed out of the house to answer. As he appeared, one of the golden bruts on my chest started vibrating excitedly. I had secretly been hoping that my first impression had been a mistake, or just a coincidence, but the way the crystal vibrated when Basil came into view made it abundantly clear that the brut had chosen a master for itself.

The badger stared at me. His eyes narrowed angrily.

“So. You found me,” he sighed as I approached the rune-filled hedge around his house. There was no need for a sentry with defenses like that.

“You led me here yourself,” I shrugged. “That very same day.”

The badger grumbled something to himself under his breath (it was clearly directed at the first-born), then raised his voice as he replied:

“You need not have bothered. I’ve already said my piece where you’re concerned. If this world is fated to perish, then that’s just what Predestination has in store for it.”

The younger spellswords turned to stare at me. I replied with a friendly nod, then drew a deep breath of air in through my lungs. Youth, I thought. They’ve only recently touched their gifts for the first time. Two cats and a wolf.

“I’ve heard about Predestination many times before,” I chuckled. “The elder first-born swear by it. The spirits of the aurings I met in the Reverse talked about it as well.”

The badger’s eyebrows rose at the mention of the Reverse.

“Whether they’re right or not, I don’t really care,” I said. “Here and now! That motto is much closer to my heart.”

“What do you want?” Basil asked, sounding tired. “If you think I’m going to agree to join you in your craziness, all for some crumb of power from the ancient magic, you can turn around and leave right now.”

“No, badger. It seems Predestination, which you so enjoy talking about, has prepared something of a different path for you.”

Beneath the old spellsword’s guarded, searching gaze, I took a crystal out of the pocket on my belt. Its golden facets gleamed in the midday sun.

The old man’s hands began to shake. His pale face grew tense. Wonder and disbelief were shining in his eyes.

“It picked you itself,” I said. “Take it, auring.”

End of Book Nine