"What misfortune had taken this... baron, so early in the voyage? I’d reckon he was already sick when he left Castor. A foolish decision. The sea’s no friend to the frail," the Marquis remarked with confidence, as though he had already solved the puzzle before us.
In hindsight, his words made the baron’s death even more tragic. The man had set out with dreams of crossing the world, yet he hadn’t even gotten far. He was buried in the soil of the same continent where he was born.
Clifford, sensing Elena wasn’t eager to answer, stepped in. "Mana exhaustion, Lord Boarsmouth. In a battle he led in Lacquer, he... fatally overspent his mana."
The Marquis’ face darkened. "Lacquer?"
"Yes," Clifford replied. Even he sounded surprised at the name he picked up. "We made a stopover in the town about a week ago. Prince Basil requested our aid to exterminate a roving band of orcs that had been raiding several nearby villages. The baron offered to lead it."
Lord Boarsmouth had been intimidating enough since the moment he entered the hall, but something in the air changed at that name. It felt suddenly as if we had said something that might offend him.
"And what do you think of this prince?" His voice was low, stern, his fingers idly tracing the scar along his cheek.
I understood Clifford’s hesitation. This was the kind of question that could get you killed if you answered wrong. A careless word about royalty in front of a lord was like tossing a lit torch into dry straw.
Edmund, however, wasn’t so cautious. His temper got the better of him. "We did not part amicably, my lord. He blamed the baron for the casualties among the Minotian force that marched with us. Casualties that were unavoidable when you fight orcs."
Elena, perhaps emboldened by Edmund’s bluntness, chirped in right after. "Prince Basil is an unreasonable and ungrateful person."
Clifford and I exchanged a nervous glance, both of us swallowing hard. I’d lived at the mercy of others long enough to know the danger of speaking too freely. Insulting the prince of a kingdom in front of a marquis rarely ended well.
So when Lord Boarsmouth suddenly erupted in laughter—loud, boisterous, like a man who had just heard a jester fart—I nearly jumped.
"You describe him well, girl!" The Marquis slapped his knee hard enough to echo in the chamber. The guards around us joined in the laughter, some clapping along, and for a moment we were left completely confused.
"And I very much enjoyed sinking my blade into the heart of his older brother—the pretender king of Thornston!" The Marquis stood, unsheathed a dagger, and stabbed the air as if skewering the ghost of the man himself.
The hall exploded with cheers. Soldiers roared and laughed. It felt less like the hall of a lord and more like the rowdy barracks of a victorious army.
"Thornston?" The word slipped out of my mouth before I realized it. All eyes turned toward me, and I had no choice but to continue. "Isn’t that where their younger brother is? Prince Basil said it was under siege and would fall soon."
Laughter roared again, louder than before. The Marquis himself looked almost breathless with amusement, leaning on the edge of his chair as if I’d delivered the best punchline of his life.
"Of course! You met him a week ago, didn’t you? He wouldn’t have known..." The Marquis raised a hand, and the hall fell silent at once.
"He wouldn’t have known how my army marched out of Boarsmouth, broke the siege at Thornston, slew their so-called king, and wrought such slaughter that they begged for terms." His voice rose with each word, his grin widening. "How I crowned a new king, and carved out a new kingdom!"
He lifted the dagger high, his speech ending in a crescendo.
We stood frozen. The rebellion that Prince Basil had dismissed as good as dead had not only survived—it had triumphed. And the man in front of us was the one who had made it possible.
Boarsmouth chuckled at our stunned silence. "That’s right, pups. You are not in South Minot anymore. This here is West Minot, ruled by Prince—no, by King Andre."
That made three Minot kingdoms. It sounded like a lot on parchment, though from what I’d heard the territory was vast, much of it wild and unclaimed. Still, I found myself quietly pleased. I disliked Basil, and the thought of him grieving both his brother’s death and the loss of half his kingdom felt like divine justice.
"Now that I think of it," the Marquis continued, lowering himself back into his seat as the room settled, "it is good you four wandered here. A new kingdom has need of people, and noblemen to rule them. I would know what you were back in Castor, so I might know how to treat you here."
His eyes settled on Elena. "The girl I know is a baron’s daughter. But the three of you—are you knights or squires in his service?"
We glanced at each other. It was a reasonable assumption: three young men serving the baron, now pledging loyalty to his daughter after his death. Edmund fit the role neatly. I didn’t, but I wasn’t about to correct the Marquis. A convenient lie was better than a complicated truth.
But Clifford was another matter. He was a bastard, yes, but still the son of a viscount, and with magic that could one day outshine Baron Greylock’s. Calling him a mere squire would be an insult, and one difficult to hide.
Clifford froze. He looked at me, panic in his eyes. A claim to noble blood required proof—patents, charters—and as a bastard, he had none.
The Marquis’ eyebrows rose at his silence. The pause stretched long enough to sting.
"My lord," I said quickly, "Master Clifford is a son of a viscount."
"Ah! To no one’s surprise," the Marquis replied, clapping his fingers. "He has carried himself like the leader of your pack. A son of a Castorian lord in a foreign land. I hope you brought patents or a charter with you."
Clifford cleared his throat, his lips pale, sweat beading his temple.
"I believe," I cut in again, "it would be more... entertaining, if he proved his pedigree with magic, my lord."
The Marquis beamed. "Good thinking, boy! Patents can be forged, but no commoner can wield true magic."
He raised a finger. "But his claim is not simply to nobility—it is to lordly blood. Any squire can manage a trick or two. Let us have something worth the name."
He scratched at his ear with an idle finger, blew on it, then continued. "How about a duel with my knights? Isn’t it said that a good mage requires a dozen knights to bring him down?"
I had never heard such a saying. Lordly mages certainly held advantage over knights, but it varied wildly. A powerful mage could burn through a company without being touched, while an inexperienced one might fall to a single skilled knight. And given that these men had just crushed the South Minotian army, I doubted Boarsmouth’s knights were mere fodder. A dozen was no small number.
Clifford, however, only grinned. He looked at me first, then back at the Marquis. "A dozen it is then, my lord."
"Ha! Hubris!" the Marquis barked, delighted. "I like you." Latest content published on novel•fire.net