Chapter 13

“You’re attending the banquet this very evening?”

Mailot paused amid his frantic sorting of the accumulated correspondence. Clearing the backlog left by Lucien’s sudden seclusion had consumed the entire day in a whirlwind of disorder, giving the attendant scarcely a moment to breathe before the sun began sinking below the horizon.

Lucien answered with a slight nod.

He wore a plain, unadorned shirt beneath a short cotehardie of dark-blue velvet, both cinched at the waist with a black leather belt. Stripped of his usual aristocratic finery, his sole ornament was the stag-horn crest engraved into the belt’s metal clasp.

“It’s becoming rather difficult to put this off any longer, isn’t it?”

“That’s true, but…”

Another attendant draped a matching dark-blue cloak over Lucien’s shoulders. Gold-thread thorns embroidered along its edges lent it an air of elegance without tipping into ostentation. As the servant linked the stag-horn collar pins with a delicate chain, Lucien fastened his scabbard to his belt and turned toward Mailot for inspection.

“Do I look sick?”

All enthusiasm drained from Mailot’s voice. “You look remarkably healthy, Your Highness.”

Lucien let out a quiet chuckle. “Really? That’s a problem.”

Despite his prolonged seclusion, his tone betrayed not the slightest concern.

The isolation had been necessary to contain the consequences of the magical potion incident, a truth he could hardly announce throughout the castle. His position within Osterbrache’s royal stronghold, a place notorious for its virulent aversion to magic, was far too precarious to permit such carelessness.

Had he been back in his home territory of Carlot, he might have handled the situation differently. Here, however, admitting to any entanglement with magic would have amounted to political suicide.

He had therefore settled on the excuse of a lingering illness, a flimsy fabrication no one with half a mind would truly believe. Although the sloppiness of the ruse wreaked havoc on Mailot’s meticulous temperament, Lucien remained wholly untroubled. Who in this nest of vipers genuinely cared about truth or falsehood? There were only words that needed to be spoken and words better left unsaid.

Besides, considering the sheer peculiarity of what he had experienced over the past ten days, could it truly be called a lie?

Whatever strange substance he had swallowed had not merely neutralized any potential poison. It had elevated his physical condition to its absolute peak. His body felt dangerously light and responsive, as though every muscle demanded constant restraint. Even while holding himself back, he had still produced rather excessive results during the hunting party.

He had fully anticipated the venom Bastian would spew, driven as always by the moronic bastard’s festering inferiority complex. Lucien’s plan had been simple: smile pleasantly, offer a suitably deceitful response, and privately dismiss the man as a loudmouthed pig.

I was merely lucky. I still have a long way to go before I can compare myself to you, Elder Brother.

That was what he had intended to say.

Performances of that sort usually came to him as naturally as breathing. Yet when the insults meant to remain safely locked inside his skull slipped from his tongue of their own accord, Mailot and Gosrick had not been the only ones left stunned.

It had been one of the most bewildering moments of Lucien’s life, his tongue moving entirely independent of his will. Once the initial shock had faded, however, the lingering absurdity of it had not felt particularly unpleasant. Even stabbing the back of the attendant’s hand with a fork had not been a conscious decision.

The instant the tines pierced flesh, dark amusement had surged through him.

I should have done that sooner. Why did I tolerate it for so long?

He had regained only a fraction of his composure after impulsively fleeing the scene, and even now, it had yet to return in full.

What is happening to me? This is going to be troublesome.

And yet, beneath those concerns, another thought persisted.

Who cares? It’s fun.

The three sentiments churned together in such chaotic disorder that rational judgment became nearly impossible. His state of mind was, to put it mildly, unstable.

That counts as being sick, doesn’t it?

“And Bastian?” Lucien asked, breaking the silence.

“I managed to smooth things over by offering compensation far beyond the medical expenses for that useless attendant,” Mailot replied. “But Bastian has remained strangely quiet. There has been no reaction from him since that day.”

That did not make sense.

Bastian was not the sort of man to swallow an insult in silence. Nor was he foolish enough to believe Lucien’s fabricated excuse that a snakebite during the hunt had left him delirious with fever.

“Money is useful after all.”

“If it happens a second time, even Carlot’s treasury will feel the strain.”

Mailot’s deepening frown drew another laugh from Lucien, who could not fathom why the man made such a fuss over a paltry sum.

“At any rate, Bastian appears to be lying low for a reason. I suspect he has something prepared.” Mailot studied his lord with care. “Do you truly believe he was behind the incident?”

They had yet to identify the mastermind.

Between cleaning up the various messes Lucien had caused and ensuring his physical recovery, there had been no time for a proper investigation. With each passing day, the trail grew colder. Evidence scattered, witnesses vanished, and loose ends were quietly severed.

“Hmm. Probably,” Lucien answered, though the words carried little conviction.

Only a handful of people possessed both the motive and the resources to target him. Arabella, one plausible suspect, was currently away from the castle. As for the other…

“The moment Bastian arranged such a mediocre hunting party at such an unusual time, it became obvious he was plotting something.”

Physical absence did not prevent someone from acting through proxies, of course, but drugs were Bastian’s favored method. Given their recent and increasingly vicious clashes over the Ordus tax collections, blaming his brother seemed perfectly logical.

“Then… the mage as well,” Mailot ventured, carefully gauging the atmosphere in the room.

Lucien’s finely shaped brows twitched. “Ah.”

A mage. Right. There was that, too.

The mere thought sent a prickling numbness creeping along the back of his neck, a lingering phantom of the irritation that had plagued him for ten days. Lucien despised mages. He and that arrogant breed had been fundamentally incompatible from the beginning. Fortunately, their numbers had dwindled throughout these lands, leaving the few survivors to huddle together in reclusive isolation.

Their power, however, remained undeniably formidable. No, merely calling it formidable was insultingly inadequate.

Their magic was…

“If Bastian has acquired a mage, then this is not a threat we can afford to dismiss.” Mailot selected each word with deliberate care, interrupting Lucien’s thoughts.

Lucien silently agreed.

A mage’s power was far too vast to be allowed free rein within human society. Their very existence threatened to unravel the balance of the world.

Perhaps that explained their dwindling numbers at the dawn of humanity’s age. The virulent aversion to magic that permeated Izeland, and Osterbrache in particular, likely arose less from hatred than from deep-rooted awe. If it were nothing more than contempt, why had every successive king of Izeland kept a mage at his side?

“What was the saying?” Lucien’s voice dropped into a cold, measured register. “‘Get your hands on a mage, and you’re two steps closer to the throne’?”

The rumor drifted endlessly through the royal castle, as weightless and pervasive as morning mist. Over the years, however, it had hardened into an article of faith among those who carried the king’s blood. Secure a genuine mage, and the crown was all but yours.

“And yet, after going to such extraordinary lengths to obtain one, he abandons the mage outside the castle?” Lucien’s brow furrowed as a derisive scoff escaped him.

“There are many eyes inside the castle, Your Highness,” Mailot countered. Conviction was conspicuously absent from his voice, but playing the devil’s advocate was part of his duty. “Perhaps Bastian believed it safer to conceal his asset elsewhere.”

“Bastian was born in the very heart of Osterbrache. Do you honestly believe he couldn’t find a single lightless corner within these enormous walls in which to sequester a mage?”

As the son of the king’s lawful first queen, born after his father’s ascension, Bastian practically held Osterbrache in the palm of his hand. The idea that he would deliberately leave such a critical piece outside his own fortress defied logic, regardless of the need for secrecy.

“If that bastard had truly secured a mage, he wouldn’t waste his time arranging pathetic hunting parties.”

Nor would he have settled for slipping Lucien such a crude potion.

Bastian was not a man who recklessly tested the waters. If he possessed decisive power, he would use it immediately. While the poisoning had undoubtedly originated with his brother, had the introduction of magical power truly been part of Bastian’s design? Did he even know what Lucien had swallowed?

“What is that mage doing now?”

Though the abrupt change in direction came without warning, Mailot had an answer prepared. “According to the report we received two hours ago, there have been no suspicious movements. He apparently spent the entire day performing manual labor, carrying things back and forth between the barn and the house while cleaning.”

Lucien’s brow twitched again.

Manual labor?

It was profoundly unlike a mage.

The memory of a filthy, bedraggled figure surfaced in his mind, though Lucien had deliberately avoided examining the man too closely.

He had not looked like a mage, either.

Practitioners of magic were notoriously precious about themselves and obsessively fastidious to a fault. Lucien possessed his own mild aversion to filth, but that lot existed on an entirely different plane of vanity.

“Then…”

He allowed the word to trail away as faint discomfort shadowed his expression. Whatever the truth about that strange magic-user might be, another matter demanded his immediate attention.

Lucien glanced toward the western window and found the sky stained a violent, bruised red. The sun was sinking swiftly between the two tallest peaks of the rugged Mardothe mountain range, as though the jagged teeth of stone were swallowing it whole. Once the descent began, darkness always swept across the mountains with startling speed.

He tore his gaze away.

“Who will be attending the banquet?”

“Bastian will be there, naturally.” Mailot began ticking off the names of the king’s surviving children. “Irena and Sorellin are also expected. Heroden’s fever has returned. The physician has reportedly visited the northern tower five times today alone, so he will most likely be absent. As for Arabella… she remains away from the castle.”

Pressing a hand to his forehead, Lucien pictured their familiar and utterly tiresome faces. A dull headache had been throbbing behind his eyes for the better part of an hour, but there was no time left to waste. He rubbed absently at his brow bone and strode toward the door.

“I’m taking Felon. You will stay here and maintain contact with Eydric.”

Leaving Eydric stranded in that godforsaken countryside unsettled him, but for the moment, it was necessary.

“That mage…”

He had intended to order Mailot to maintain strict surveillance.

The instant Lucien’s fingers brushed the brass door handle, however, he froze.

Sensing the sudden change in the room’s atmosphere, Mailot narrowed his eyes. “Your Highness?”

Lucien did not answer. Blue veins bulged violently along the back of his hand as he crushed his palm against his brow, nearly obscuring his eyes.

“Are you all right?” Mailot fumbled with the papers before him as he scrambled to his feet.

When Lucien finally spoke, his voice emerged low and ragged, like iron dragged across stone.

“…Bring him.”

“Pardon?”

“The mage.”

Lucien’s voice cracked through the quiet room like a whip.

“Bring him here. Now!”

Outside the western window, the last sliver of the blood-red sun vanished behind the Mardothe peaks, plunging the royal stronghold into darkness.

***