Captain Anita sat across the desk from him, back straight, half an inch from the backrest. They were in his study, and the silence had already stretched uncomfortably long; his deep frown not helping the situation. Stephan’s jaw ached from clenching. He wanted to scream at everyone until his throat tore.
“How did the meeting with Her Majesty go?” she asked to break the ice.
Stephan dragged a hand down his face.
“I can’t believe these people,” he let out a frustrated breath. “She wasted an hour of my time to tell me she would scratch my back if I scratched hers. And she didn’t even have the decency to say it plainly.”
Captain Anita’s lips pressed into a thin line. She looked as though she had a thought to share and plenty of reasons not to.
“Sir,” she finally framed her thoughts properly, “as someone who has been through extensive training to become a Courtier, I can tell you that plain speech is for markets and taverns. Politics doesn’t understand straightforwardness. Even if you spoke honestly and openly, the other side would bash their head against the tree for days, trying to grasp what it was you didn’t say, and what it was that you implied, but they had missed.”
Stephan stared at her desperately. “Am I insane, or are they?”
“Neither, Sir. You just view things differently and will never be able to agree. And right now, you are making a mistake.”
A cold prickle crept down his spine. “What mistake?”
“You’re trusting me.” Her gaze never wavered, but something softer flickered beneath it. Pity. An experienced politician felt sorry for the lost child. “That is a serious gamble. Lord Harrington trusted himself, his wife, and his sons.”
She paused. “And it still got him killed.”
“I have to trust someone,” his voice rose, and he barely held back a yell. “I’ll go insane if I don’t.”
Captain Anita hesitated. “Lord Silas may be a safe pick, Sir. His faith means his goals should align with yours—”
“Anita,” he leaned forward, palms flat against the desk. “I need you. Please. You have been kind to me; I know you are a good person—”
“Anita Bellas, Sir,” she whispered. “Note the surname.”
“Are you a Bellas or a Knight first?” Stephan lost control of himself and shouted. Red flooded his face, and he lowered his voice. “I know you have lost people you cared about here. People you loved. Is playing these stupid games still more important than making sure others don’t suffer the way you suffered? When will it become obvious? When the fae come, drenched in the blood of your loved ones? When your home burns?”
His pulse hammered in his ears. The price of failure was clear in his eyes.
“Please,” He stared at her desperately, “tell me you’re not like that. You’ve seen that warlock. There could be hundreds of them, thousands, just waiting for us to finish slaughtering each other so they could raise the corpses and exterminate the survivors.”
How are they so blind? Stephan couldn’t wrap his head around it. Was the marshal the only one who understood? How did he handle them?
“How did Lord Harrington keep them all in line?” he asked, hoping he would hear something useful.
“He didn’t, Sir,” Anita’s gaze dropped towards the desk, avoiding his. “Lady Anne played them, set them up against each other and kept them too busy to focus on him. That’s what a good Courtier does, and she was the best one I’ve ever seen.”
A faint edge entered her voice. “I wish you luck finding a person like that, who will be soft to your hard. Someone who can look a noble lady in the eye while drinking tea and brag that her husband can pinpoint dangerous positions on a battlefield. That he can keep valuable heirs safe while they gather military merit nobody can dispute.”
Stephan shook his head. The idea exhausted him. “I don’t want that. I just need to know what’s going on.”
He rubbed his temples. “Captain Ernest seems like an opportunist. His eyes sparkled when he mentioned he could read my reports and then forward the important ones. I can’t imagine a man being happy about reading reports if he doesn’t plan to swindle me somehow.”
Stacks of damned scrolls. He’d seen them, and his head spun just thinking of them. I have better things to do. While we have the time, I want to read books and learn and grow stronger, not read pages after pages of reports.
Captain Anita had the decency to shift in her seat. “Lord Harrington spent at least two hours every day reading reports. More during more turbulent times, but just daily business means scout reports, ledgers, recruits’ progress, crimes and justice in the city, petitions, and countless other matters, even if Lady Anne handled most of them.”
Stephan felt like sobbing. “Anita, what he could read in an hour, I’ll take at least three. You’re a Knight, you know my most important task right now is to grow. Could you please find it in your heart to help me without being a Bellas? I’ll go down on my knees right now if that’s what you want. I’m begging you.”
“Don’t do that, Sir.” She rose from her seat, and to his shock, went on one knee before him. “I vow, as a Knight, that I will help you to the best of my ability. While I can’t promise it entirely, I will do my best to disregard the interests of my family when considering the questions of the kingdom and Cliffport.”
Stephan felt as though she had knocked a rock off his shoulders. He got what he had wanted. He stood and went over to her, then offered her his hand.
“Please rise, Captain Anita, and thank you. I want to do everything in my power to help our people, but I can’t do it alone.”
Flooded with relief, he realized something, but it was neither the time nor the place to entertain the thought.
“Do you think your training to become a Courtier will help you with administrative tasks?”
She gave him a flat look as she rose. “Sir—”
A soft chime interrupted her, signaling someone approaching the door. Stephan looked at the spy-mirror and saw a servant climbing the stairs. He nodded, and Dorian knocked.
“An hour ‘till the funeral, Sir, you need to prepare.”
Captain Anita turned to leave, but stopped, her hand on the doorknob.
“Do you have grieving clothes, Sir?”
Grieving clothes? Stephan didn’t know such a thing existed. Back in Brighthollow, you mourned in whatever you owned. They buried you in it, too.
“No?”
“I’ll tell Dorian to find you something.” With that, she left.
Stephan sat in his chair, watching the three of them depart.
The silence returned, and Stephan could consider his thought.
Why don’t I just kill myself and start over? I don’t want to run a city. I certainly don’t want to be involved in a war where humans fight humans. So, why stay here?
Lacy. The first answer that came to mind was Lacy. If I die, if I start over, more people at home will forget me. And I only have sixteen attempts to do things right.
His stomach twisted.
What if the skill triggers when I die of old age, satisfied with what I have achieved?
The thought terrified him, and it was a driving force telling him to kill himself quickly all sixteen times so he could lead a real life. Experience as much as he could.
What if I have children and then go back in time? Will they just disappear?
His breathing quickened, the horror of it pressing on him again, making his skin crawl.
No children until my last life. I shouldn’t get too close to anyone either. Losing Lacy once hurts more than enough for all lifetimes.
He leaned back, tipping his chair onto two legs, staring at the plain ceiling.
Can you hear me? he thought at the beams. Why did you make the class like this? Why did you make people like this? I agreed to protect them from dragons and fiends and fae, not other humans.
Stephan frowned. Back when he had taken the mantle of the Paladin, the ones doing wicked deeds weren’t fiends nor dragons. Humans were the ones who perpetrated all the evils he had seen in his vision.
Was that a hint?
No answer came regardless of how hard he glared at the mute, aged wood.
They aren’t carved. Unlike the artwork in his bedroom, the study had a bare, utilitarian air to it. He looked around and sighed.
“Hope forbid someone enjoyed themselves here,” he muttered before looking up again. “Do you hear me if I speak my thoughts aloud?”
No visions came, no voices echoed in his ear. Stephan frowned again.
“War is obviously paying attention. He blessed my mace, and if you gave me this class, that means you are listening too. Why don’t you answer?”
Silence.
Stephan wanted to keep arguing with the ceiling, but the chime rang. Dorian was coming back with a folded bundle of white fabric in his hands.
“Sir, I have your clothes ready.”
The man had somehow dug up the clothes in less than twenty minutes. Stephan wondered where and how before calling him in.
“Why are they all white?” He asked when the old butler laid them down on a chair. Won’t they get dirty easily?
“Some people wear black, some white. One Knight came dressed in red when his friend died, years ago. I think he was declaring a desire for revenge, but I rarely speak with Knights, Sir.”
Stephan thought about it; none of the colors seemed like what he would associate with death. Perhaps brown, since people were buried in the ground, but like Dorian just said, it wasn’t his place to comment.
“Could you help me get dressed, please?”
“Certainly, Sir.”
Stephan didn’t want anyone laughing at him, nor did he wish to spend an hour wrestling with his own wardrobe.
Stephan stood still while Dorian worked, the fabric cool against his skin. He didn’t want to wrestle with odd buttons and ties. He wanted to look proper.
In less than an hour, he was supposed to stand before a city that expected him to know what he was doing.