The Queen’s eyes went wide.
For a heartbeat, her composure cracked. Her gaze flicked, not to Stephan, but to the barred door behind him, as if measuring the distance.
“I see,” Marshal Harrington nodded, his calm tone laden with deliberate sharpness, like a blade laid gently against the neck. “I apologize for making an inappropriate comment, Your Majesty. In the future, please consider human avarice. Having my son as the King while I pull the strings and prepare the country for him is something quite in line with my Class, if not my character.”
“I didn’t have a choice,” she tried not to, but still squeezed the words out between her teeth.
Marshal Harrington pretended he hadn’t heard them and folded his hands before himself.
“Now that we have established there are things you do not want, Your Majesty, what is it that you do?”
The woman glared at him for another second, then composed herself. “I wish to stabilize the kingdom, secure our borders, crush all insurgence and rebellion, and, once everything is in order, avenge my brother and parents.”
Her mood steadied as she spoke, each goal laid down like a foundation stone for the tower of her future.
Stephan nodded in approval, all of those were worthy goals, save for the last one. There was nothing to gain from vengeance. It wouldn’t rebuild cities, nor resurrect the dead. It would only open more graves. But reaching that step sounded like the work of years or possibly decades, depending on how fragmented the kingdom grew.
“Well,” Lord Marshal chuckled, “if that’s the case, we’ve got our hands full.”
He leaned back for the first time since entering the room. The chair creaked softly beneath him.
“First, we need to prepare for a siege. I was afraid we would face attacks from warlocks, fiends, and undead. Thankfully, human armies are much easier to deal with.”
“Why would they attack us?” Stephan asked. “Won’t they come to negotiate?”
Lord Marshal shook his head, and even the Queen gave him an odd look.
“No, Sir, they will not.” The marshal rubbed his face, finally showing signs of fatigue. He had spent days working and nights teaching Stephan, and with the mask off, it showed. “After hounding Her Majesty, killing her guards, and sending bandits to attack my men, we are beyond the realm of peaceful reconciliation. Even if Her Majesty is willing to pardon the count’s betrayal, which would be a bad political move and set a dangerous precedent, he would not believe her. I—”
A sharp bang rattled the door.
“Harold!” A woman’s voice, shrill and furious, called out. “Open the door, Harold! We need to talk! You’ve been avoiding me for days!”
The marshal’s face twitched, barely. It was the first crack Stephan had seen from the man perfectly in control of everything. Marshal Harrington sighed and stood, bowing with an apologetic look while the woman kept screaming at the door.
“I beg your pardon.”
He crossed the room and unbarred the door, opening it a palm’s width.
“Not now, Anne. I’m busy,” he said in a calm, collected tone.
“You’re always busy!” she screamed. “Did you tell that to Bernard? I’m busy, go die!”
The words physically hurt Stephan.
Marshal Harrington’s whole body tensed; just for a fraction of a second, but Stephan saw it clearly. The failing father and husband pressed by the Strategist.
“Please escort her to her room,” he said calmly to the guards beyond. “Have Healer Randal check on her. Gawain and Robert shall guard her door.”
“Yes, Sir. Please come with us, Madam.”
“Don’t ignore me! Don’t you dare ignore me, Harold! Let go! Unhand me, you bitch!” her screams faded and became nearly inaudible after the marshal secured the door once more.
The bar slid back into place with a heavy thud as if locking away trouble.
When Harrington returned to the table, his expression was composed once more, but a faint shadow lingered around his eyes.
“Pardon the interruption, my wife has been… having difficulties as of late.” He frowned.
Stephan said nothing.
Grief wore many shapes, wrath not the least of them.
“Right,” the marshal resumed. “I was about to say that we will almost certainly face a siege. While I have a lot of political clout, I have few allies and next to no friends amongst nearby nobles. The fae lands have been fairly peaceful for decades, and the value of the Marshal of the East has probably grown fuzzy in the minds of my neighbors, save for the high taxes I levy to maintain the army we have here.”
He looked at Stephan. It was the same one he gave him when they played The Art of War, and the Paladin analyzed their situation aloud.
“The count can promise them to abolish or reduce the tax once he becomes the King in return for their support.” The marshal nodded approvingly, and Stephan continued. “But I don’t understand why he would do that. He’s already a count; he rules a large and prosperous county in the heart of the kingdom, why would he want to become the King?”
The Queen’s mouth opened slightly, as if stunned by the simplicity of the question.
“Please don’t look at him like that, Your Majesty. He is the Paladin, and he has been one for less than two months. It’s natural he doesn’t understand the greed of high nobility or perhaps humans in general.”
Marshal Harrington’s voice showed not a hint of it, but Stephan was under the impression the man was patronizing him. Heat crept up his neck, and he failed in his attempt to stop the blush.
The Queen’s ajar mouth closed, and the marshal continued. “Even if we ignore the wealth, land, and power one gains along with the crown, there’s the class itself. The count is either a Knight or a Courtier. Both are fine classes. My wife is an excellent diplomat and a high level Courtier, but the King is a unique class. And while it’s inferior to the Paladin, it’s on par with the Strategist and the rest of the Royal Knights.”
“Wouldn’t the loss of levels hurt him more?”
“When you evolve a class, you keep some levels and attributes. But you are correct, he would lose most of them and all skills. He would still gain the rightful claim to the throne, and the higher quality class pays off in the long run.”
Power.
It always circled back to power.
The conversation with the princess continued for more than an hour as Lord Marshal made suggestions regarding how to reach out to sympathetic nobles and Count Highglen’s enemies.
“Your greatest asset is your hand in marriage,” he had repeated twice, and Stephan only half-listened to them.
His mind had drifted.
He considered the implications of various actions. The Queen entering Highglen would spark a civil war. But what if she never entered it, would the untempted count be a loyal subject? The impending conflict, all the deaths that would follow, none of it would happen. He needed a map to see exactly where Highglen was; otherwise, there was no way to tell how long it would take to reach from Brighthollow.
Would that mean abandoning Bernard? Is saving one good man worth the war that follows?
Just the thought of leaving such a brave, loyal man hurt Stephan. Captain Anita said Bernard could survive a month, I’ll need to discuss it again with Lord Silas.
The talks with the Queen ended, and Marshal Harrington promised his full support, as well as a formal state dinner that evening, once everyone rested a bit from the day’s excitement.
“I will see you then,” the Queen dismissed them, and they left her behind the barred door.
“Would you like to see my library, Sir?” Lord Marshal asked as they climbed the stairs.
“Yes, but later. First, I wish to discuss certain matters with Lord Silas.”
The marshal simply nodded, and the two of them parted ways once they had reached the ground floor.
Stephan headed for the temple, the Knights and soldiers saluting him. The sudden change rubbed him the wrong way. His elevated status made him feel uncomfortable, rather than good.
I won’t sacrifice others to hide my identity ever again. I won’t let others lie in my stead either. While he wouldn’t deceive anyone, he had decided to keep his identity secret until he had the power to resist those who might come after him. Or at least as long as my circumstances allow it.
The chapel smelled of incense and old stone. Colored light filtered through narrow windows, painting muted blues and reds across the floor.
An attendant approached him, greeting him politely.
“May I help you?” There was no recognition, nor admiration in the woman’s eyes; she took him for just another recruit or minor noble.
“I need to speak with Lord Silas. I missed our lesson.”
“We’ve had a busy morning. Lord Silas is resting in his quarters. You can ask the servants to take you there.”
Stephan thanked her, then went back to the keep, and five minutes later he was knocking on the door.
“Who is it?”
“It’s me, Stephan Cobblerson, Sir.”
“Come in, come in.”
Unlike the marshal, Lord Silas didn’t keep his door barred at all times, and Stephan entered with a nervous smile.
The Priest’s chamber was small and lined with two dozen books. Lord Silas sat in a high-backed chair, his thin frame almost swallowed by it. His skin seemed translucent in the light, veins faint beneath it.
“Sir, did you find out anything about that memory loss issue we discussed?”
Silas shook his head slowly.
“While I have searched, my answer is the same as the day before yesterday. I haven’t found any records of magic or curses that can erase only one person from someone’s memories. There are spells that remove minutes, hours, or even days of memory, but they remove everything. Something as specific as you’re saying sounds like a level ten spell, or perhaps something beyond that.”
Stephan sighed. Short of divine intervention, there didn’t seem to be any way of helping Lacy.
“Would the Saintess be able to help?”
Lord Silas considered it, then shook his head again, the thin gray hair swaying.
“I can’t say,” he said. “While the Saintess has the strongest healing and curse-breaking power of all classes, I’ve never heard of her performing such a feat, nor is there any written record, at least not in the books I have read.”
Stephan deflated. He had kept his expectations low, but finding nothing still hurt.
“Thank you for trying. Do you mind if I ask you about Bernard? Could you describe his symptoms to me? How long do you think he would have lasted had he not met such an ugly end?”
Lord Silas closed his eyes.
“Hard to say. His natural healing turned against him; his body tore itself apart from the inside instead of healing and regenerating itself. Each time he rested, he grew closer to death from exhaustion.”
“How long could he have lasted had events played out differently?”
Lord Silas shrugged apologetically, forced to answer when he would have preferred to stay quiet. “Two weeks, perhaps five, before succumbing to the illness.”
Stephan nodded. On one hand, a good man died in agony, on the other, the kingdom burned. Both felt so heavy.