Vol 7, Chapter 13

◆ Renvel, Ancestral Castle, Second Duke's POV. ◆

The Second Duke turned a small metal figurine of an old man thoughtfully in his hand. On closer inspection, one could see not only that the figure was the Third Duke, but also the place where he once stood.

On the faded map there was only one spot where the original colors remained: Lotingham.

"Judging by that sour face, you finally tried the wine from your great-grandfather's cellar? I told you it should've been drunk at our wedding. Now it's turned to vinegar…"

Even his wife's voice couldn't pull him out of his trance. On the contrary, the Duke's mind clung to the image. The death of the eldest von Klaus truly had become vinegar.

"Don't ignore me, or I'll smash this bottle over your head," the Duchess threatened, forcing the Archmage back to the present. He did not want to be struck by his wife.

"I keep wondering why they killed him now of all times. As if giving us a chance… or more likely provoking us," he said slowly, placing the figurine on a stack of dispatches. Very grim dispatches.

Since the failed march on the Capital, their house had been plagued with setbacks, all bearing the clear mark of the crown. Shipments of cores disrupted, mercenaries bought out, new bans on artifacts, inspections multiplied, loyal vassals summoned to audiences with the king—and afterward, their loyalty was never quite the same. Threats, bribes, blackmail, promises. The new king was openly undermining the Second Duchy, step by step. The failure had made House Steiger appear weak. And weakness was not forgiven.

Now, dangled before their noses like a carrot, was a chance to show strength. Compromised vassals could be thrown into the first ranks to die, new territories would shore up loyalty among the rest, and people would forget the march on the Capital. Even the King himself goaded him, declaring recently at court that the Second Duchess Ariel had every right to contend for the Third Duke's title along with the other claimants. He was practically gifting them the title. Without the king's support, the Marquises could not stand against him, even united.

Too good to be true. Which meant a trap. The question was only how far the king would go to support Marquis Henri, and how ready the Steiger troops were to face the crown.

Lost in thought, he did not at first notice the wine bottle flying at his head. Green glass glinted in the lamplight. No time to think what had enraged his wife so, Thorne jerked his head aside, letting the projectile whistle past his cheek.

The bottle exploded beside his temple. Glass shards bit into his cheek, sheared off part of his ear, scored across his skull, slicing the skin. 
Stop.
Wait. That couldn't be just shards, and why had the bottle shattered at all? The spilled vinegar burned his wounds, breaking his focus. The Duke fell from his chair but quickly rose. His wife was already there, sword in hand.

She raised it. A strike!

The blade swept toward his unprotected side, the one cloaked in the chandelier's shadow.

The shadow thickened. From the darkness emerged the obsidian tip of a dagger, black as night. The assassin's blade darted for his side—but the sword had already begun its swing.

Steel struck, shattering the brittle dagger and knocking it from unseen hands. A broken shard still tore his doublet and cut his side, but the wound was far lighter than it could have been.

"The killer hides in the shadows," the Duchess shouted. "Back to back!"

The Archmage pressed against his wife, sword drawn, clutching his bleeding side with one hand. Blood stained her hunting outfit—she'd be annoyed about that later. The cursed vinegar seared his wounds with unbearable pain.

"Sorry about the bottle," the Duchess glanced sideways. "It was closest."

"Forget it. GUARDS!"

But the door did not open. Betrayal, or…

"They're dead. I smell their blood."

"Damnation."

His wife stepped forward so their joined shadow stretched before her. Now the assassin would have to strike through her, and in her reflexes she had full confidence. But the Archmage was not idle either. The sword in his hand unraveled into hundreds of steel needles, whirling a deadly dance around them. Should anything appear in the shadow, it would be turned into riddled flesh in an instant.

For almost a minute nothing happened, save the drip of the Duke's blood onto the floor. The iron stench of it mingled with the sharp reek of vinegar that stung their eyes.

"Did he leave?" he asked through clenched teeth. The vinegar had soaked his doublet and reached the wound.

His wife shut her eyes, lip bitten until it bled.

Suddenly she spun and hurled her sword into the wall. The Archmage instantly accelerated it with magic. He didn't know why, but trusted her completely.

The stone wall shook, fragments exploding into the room. The sword strike hit like a ballista shot. Deep cracks spread from the blade, buried to the hilt in stone.

"Let's go. Now he's gone," Ariel said.

The needles fell to the floor with a metallic clatter. The warrior woman slammed her shoulder into the door, splintering the wood so that it hung limply from its hinges.

Inwardly regretting what must have been the five-hundredth door broken during their marriage, the Archmage followed her out.

His house slippers instantly soaked in the pool of blood that had gathered beneath the guards' bodies.

They had been killed simultaneously, each struck through the eye sockets with something sharp, piercing the brain. Thorn instinctively pressed his hand to the wound on his head. If not for the bottle, the dagger would have struck his temple. And yet people said he had married poorly, hah!

"Looks like we rattled him quite well," she remarked, pointing to the blade jutting from the wall. Even though it lay in shadow, it was plain to see blood dripping from its edge.

Thorn stepped closer to where the assassin had stood and picked up a shard of green glass from the floor.

"Tell me, didn't that shattered obsidian dagger look familiar to you?" he asked, licking the bloodied shard. Vinegar. Alas, the wine had indeed been kept too long…

"You mean to say the same one who killed the Third Duke just tried to kill us?"

"Me, not us," the Duke corrected. "It seems to me the king wasn't speaking idly when he said that you, specifically, had the right to contest for the title. Not I."

"Hm…" The Duchess approached the blade and grasped it by the edge. Very slowly it began to shift shape, easing itself out of the wall.

"Need help?"

Instead of replying, she clenched the blade in her fist and yanked. With a grating screech, the sword tore free, dragging stone chips with it. The weapon was ruined, its guard completely crushed. Snorting, she tossed it to a servant who had rushed in at the noise.

"The craftsmen will deal with it. Better tell me what we're going to do. You're the head."

"We need to send the servants to scour every shadow in the castle. If we find traces of blood, we'll know how far the assassin can move through the darkness. We must also summon the architects and redesign the castle's lighting."

"Splendid. I never liked those chandeliers anyway… But I meant what we're going to do about the Third Duchy."

"Do we have a choice?" the Duke replied with a smile. "I need to die."

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◆ Castle of the Third Duchy, Marquise von Klaus's POV. ◆
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​"Marquise Jeannette von Klaus and…" The master of ceremonies hesitated, then added in a lower voice, "Her husband."

The pair took their seats at the great U-shaped table. The former Count used the moment to glance around. At the head sat Marquis Henri, a tall, stately man with a full beard. His branch had been allied with the Third Prince from the beginning, and now that Dastan was king, their star had risen. They were without question the strongest power in these lands. This was thanks in no small part to the potential military backing of the new king, for in any conflict the hesitant always tried to side with the likely victor. Thus, Henri enjoyed wide support even within his own family.

Opposite him sat the sunburnt and dour Marquis Étienne with his small family. He himself was of little interest; the true power was the one absent, pulling strings from the shadows behind him. The Second Duke.

The only thing troubling the former Count was the sheer number of barons and knights at this so-called family dinner. The size of the table and hall softened the impression somewhat, but still… too many. He began counting the blond heads. Thirty-five with Henri, ten with Étienne, and four with them. An ill omen. Even if they were all relatives, it was suspicious to drag knights along to a family supper!

Fortunately, his gray hair kept him from standing out like a black crow among white swans.

"Jeannette, would you care to explain why you dragged your lowborn husband to dinner?" Henri asked.

The former Count himself would have liked to know. He had barely exchanged a few words with her, and even then, the delighted Marquise had only asked how many men he had brought with him. He was, of course, glad she seemed not to be thinking of divorce, but…

"Be so kind as to use my title, brother," the woman replied firmly, ignoring her husband lost in thought.  Alas, his face showed no sign that he even noticed the small nuance: that they had asked her about his affairs, not him.

The game had begun.

"I could, but then it would be unclear which of us you're addressing, Jeannette." Henri spread his hands with a smile.

So, he was deflecting her appeal to titles. He didn't want to speak as an equal. Instead, he tried to construct a hierarchy of family, pretending formalities did not matter.

"I see only one Marquis here. Let's not pretend that brother Etienne is an independent figure," she countered with authority.

In truth, it was a subtle deceit. She, not Etienne, was the weakest of them all, but by pointing out his dependence she placed him below herself. In the very nature of aristocrats lay the drive to command others, and therefore contempt for those who were commanded.

Of course, it was manipulation. It didn't matter whose—power was power. And she had little of it.

"It is not good to speak so of our brother. We cannot condemn him. All of us are forced to bow to the stronger; that is how the world works," Henri said, his tone pointed.

He had always been a skilled demagogue. On the surface, he cast himself as the caring brother; in truth, he had issued a veiled threat. His meaning was clear: I am stronger. Submit.

"Submission is the essence of our political system. Without the ability to come to terms, the country would descend into chaos and ruin. But I fear this time our brother has put his head into the manticore's jaws, taking its promise not to bite down."

Henri stroked his beard. Outwardly they seemed to be discussing only Etienne's deal with House Steiger, but it was more than that. The Marquise had signaled she was willing to compromise, yet demanded stronger guarantees than the Steiger's had given Etienne. For trusting the Second Duke was as foolish as trusting a mindless manticore's word.

"Members of our family may make mistakes, but that is why we are family: to come to each other's aid. As head, I cannot stand aside. I am ready to send my son or daughter into battle; they will save his life, even if a pair of ears remain in the manticore's maw!"

The Marquise lifted her glass and took a sip. She too needed a pause, to interpret his words properly. Aid. Son or daughter… Did he mean marriage between branches? How deep did the double meaning go? Perhaps he was addressing Etienne all along?

For the first time, Etienne spoke up. His voice was high, the very opposite of Henri's baritone.

"Don't make me laugh, Marquis. Without royal hunters, no one can defeat such a manticore—it would devour you all."

Brother and sister both grimaced. Too blunt. Vulgar. No wonder Etienne was the most pitiful among them—who spoke so directly?

"Hm. We have strayed from the point. I was asking about the presence of this… lowborn townsman here," Henri returned to the topic.

He was not merely insulting him, as though forgetting that while the Count had lost his title, he had not been expelled from his house. It was rather a sign that the Condor line meant nothing to him. His message to her: you have no allies. It did not matter that this was false. Words were woven not to reflect reality but to mark one's stance. Only whose stance prevailed mattered.

"That is no secret," she replied, inwardly pleased that her husband kept silent and did not ruin her hand. "A representative of House Condor, sent by order of its head, has come here to contract healers."

"Healer… s?" Henri asked pointedly.
"Yes, Marquis von Klaus. I intend to recruit every one I can," answered the former Count, while the Marquise stole a quick smile at him.

The right move. Now her brother was forced to consider whether he had underestimated House Condor. Contracts on such a scale meant immense investments, and money was a great power of its own. He would be forced to reassess her strength.

"Bring in the aperitif," Henri ordered, seizing a pause for thought.

Servants carried in the drinks, and a spicy, herbal aroma spread through the hall. Peering into the proffered goblet, she realized—it was not merely a pause, it was an attack. Each guest had been offered a draught infused with steppe mandrake. An outrageously expensive tonic, it gently invigorated those who drank it. Few Counts could afford such a luxury, yet Henri was offering it even to the knights at his side. In short, he was signaling that wealth meant nothing to him.

What next? Her instincts warned that her brother would strike at that weakness. Would he buy up the healers, so that the Condors would be left with none?

"You know, sister, what an interesting coincidence," Henri remarked with irony. "The Duke's assassin was a healer, and our guest seeks to spirit away healers to the far north… as if to hide them."

Yes, he was attacking—but not as she had anticipated. Worse. He was beginning to smear the Condors with the Duke's murder.

The woman traced her ring over the rim of the goblet, and when the artifact revealed no trace of poison, she took a sip. She had to find a way to steer the conversation back into her lane. And yet… suspicion crept in that there might be little point. The very fact that he kept pressing the attack meant he had little real interest in compromise.

"Tch! Are you implying something, Marquis?" Karl interjected. He too had taken the insinuation… and it was hard not to.

"Oh, heavens no. Of course it's just coincidence. After all, your House lies so far to the north… Naturally, you couldn't possibly know what happens here, since you have neither spies nor interests in this region." Henri's mockery was elegant.

He was drawing a line between ducal houses and ordinary aristocrats, who held power only within their own domains. Karl faltered, uncertain how to respond. He could not refute it without seeming complicit, but he could not agree either, for that would be a public declaration that the Condors had no intention of involving themselves in Klaus affairs.

"Our Houses are bound by marriage, and though our lands are distant, we share interests with the Klaus family," the former Count reminded them, earning a respectful look from his wife.

Despite his years of seclusion, he had retained some skill in negotiation.

"Of course, we are all one great family. So many different branches are tied to us… By the way, I don't see Erin. Is she well?" the Marquis played the doting uncle.

"She met with her friends who arrived together with my husband. They hadn't seen each other in a long time, and she asked me to offer her deepest apologies for missing this dinner," the Marquise lied with practiced ease.

They must not know what the Countess was really doing at this very moment.

"Yes, my niece has grown so much… and still hasn't found herself a good match."

There it was.

"Do you have someone in mind?" the Marquise asked, setting her empty goblet on the table.

"I always have someone in mind. My fourth son, alas, has yet to find a wife. Perhaps they would make a fine pair?" Henri smiled broadly.

The Marquise tapped her nail against the goblet, making it ring melodiously. Harsh terms. He was demanding a far closer marriage than custom allowed, ensuring absolute subjugation of their branch. Still, it was worth testing the waters.

"There are so many eager to wed my daughter… It would be a waste to bury such gold in a close-blood tie. My son, too, has yet to find a wife; perhaps…"

"Alas, impossible." Henri spread his hands.

He did not want to settle for the Marquise's son. He wanted everything.

"Very well. But as far as I know, your fourth son has no lands. Where would he live?"

"I think we can resolve that together. You will give half your lands to the newlyweds, and I will give the other half." The Marquis laughed.

It was an ultimatum. Half her lands and her daughter—that was what Henri demanded as ransom. For the land he claimed he would "give" would remain in his hands.

The only question was whether she was prepared to accept such terms…

The Marquise sighed. A foolish question. Whether she was willing or not, her headstrong daughter would refuse anyway. Time, then, to set the plan in motion.

"It's gotten stuffy in here. Please, open a window," she asked, carefully breaking her voice. Let them think she had yielded, ready to compromise.

A servant was already moving toward the window when suddenly the doors of the hall swung open.

"Urgent report! There has been a successful attempt on the Second Duke's life. He has perished from the same dagger that slew the Third Duke!"

Panic erupted in the dining hall.