RE: Monarch

Chapter 224: Fracture XXIX

Nothing makes sense.

We’d gone our separate ways quickly the previous night. Annette retired to her rooms for the evening, while Maya tended Daloch. I’d come along, intent on speaking with him as soon as possible, but he was barely coherent, and after a few questions answered with gibberish, I was chased out.

I hadn’t slept well, the source of my unrest the same thoughts and burgeoning questions that persisted into the early morning. Finally, I surrendered and headed out to the yard.

I swung a little too hard, sending the practice dummy’s head flying into the dew-glistening grass. In a few hours, once the sun started to rise, the practice grounds would be overrun with soldiers looking to test their fellows and reinforce their training, some of whom were from my own regiment. But for now, it was a bastion of tranquility and entirely abandoned, save a single servant who observed from a high window, sipping from a simple cup—probably tea.

“Early riser?” I called out to him.

“Late sleeper.” He raised his cup. “The lavender helps. Been a godsend for the graveyard shift.”

“Right.” A sunken face with empty eyes floated before me, taunting me even as I struggled to banish it. I’d had similar experiences towards the beginning of my second life. Thoth’s violent conquest and faces of the trail of dead that followed in her wake had haunted me for some time. Comparatively, it’d been easier to shake. There was a part of me that knew, distressing as it all was to witness first-hand, that it hadn’t really happened. Or at least, hadn’t happened yet.

My mother, both my sisters, and my father, along with countless civilians and nobles slaughtered in the collateral all got a second chance.

And Lillian… didn’t.

The rage boiled up, and before I could stop myself, I was swinging the practice sword at the dummy again, aiming at its middle, intending—irrationally—to cleave it in two. Of course, the blade broke, snapping at impact, sending the pointed end spinning off towards the small storage hut.

“Yes, take it out on the dummy and pretend you’re achieving something.” I rolled my eyes, tossing the remaining hilt in a pile with the other two practice blades I’d broken. The whole point in coming out here so early was to clear my head, consider the events of the previous day and the King’s bizarre about-face. Had this been my first life I would have sought my mother’s council. But from our previous conversation, I knew exactly what she’d say.

“Fighting ghosts?” A gruff voice asked, as I felt the tranquility of the practice grounds slipping away from me. Judging from the weapon-length leather bundle Uncle Luther held under his shoulder, it wouldn’t return.

“Trying. Shouldn’t you be sneaking out of some noble lady’s bedroom at this hour?” I joked, perusing a rack of practice swords, testing them one after another, finding them all wanting.

“More baseless accusations from my pious nephew.” Luther clutched his chest, scandalized.

“Are they?” I gave the sword a spin. “Baseless, I mean.”

“Not really.” Luther shrugged. He dropped the bundle on the ground and unrolled it, revealing contents that shimmered dark bronze. “Sneaking around was the way I lived for a long time. Thought I was being discreet, but eventually, some runt called me out.”

Oh.

“Oh.” I said aloud, feeling awkward.

“Gave me less shit than I deserved. Far less. But the fact alone that he was not only aware, but seemed to regard it as common knowledge, was… sobering.” Luther frowned. “And when he disappeared with nothing more than a word of warning, convinced—no, confident—I couldn’t protect him, that was a wake-up call too.”

“I—I didn’t mean to abandon you.” I tried, feeling yet another layer of guilt settle on my shoulders.

“No, no. You were right to run.” Luther shook his head. “Doesn’t matter how young she looked. She was a force of nature. What she did to the horses alone—well. It will remain firmly lodged in my mind long after I leave this plane, same as most of the men who immediately lost their nerve and fled. Your warning probably saved my life. Without it, I would have dug in my heels to cover the retreat and died for nothing.”

I nodded, watching quietly as he retrieved a bronze-bladed longsword from the pack and gave it a test swing. It was a little large for someone of my stature, but it suited someone Luther’s size perfectly.

“Back home, I found—perhaps because of the attack—your insights stuck with me. So I stopped hunting skirts. Dedicated myself to my training and my nagging wife. And you know what I found?” Luther grinned.

“What?”

“They stop nagging when you actually listen.” Luther sheathed the longsword and withdrew a second blade from the bundle, also dark bronze, smaller than the first.

A lower voice spoke from deeper in the courtyard. “The lesson is simple. There is no reason to seek pussy when the pussy was within you all along.”

I put a hand on my face. “Good morning, father.”

Gil strode passed me towards Uncle Luther, stretching his shoulder. “The aching in my extremities says otherwise.”

“What do you say, my king?” Uncle Luther stared at my father in challenge. “A quick go before we put the boy through his paces?”

Gil shook his head. “I did not come here for pussy.”

“Harsh.”

Questionable as it was, the cadence and lightheartedness of the exchange could only be one thing. Banter. And apparently they’d been sparring? When the hell had that ever happened?

I addressed the more pressing issue. The boy-through-his-paces part. “Father, you realize I have to lead my regiment today?”

“Yes.”

“And if I’m grievously injured, that will likely delay our plans?”

“Yes.” Gil reached down into his brother’s bundle of weapons and withdrew a large, dark bronze sword.

I stopped, finally placing the metal. Realistically, I should have noticed sooner, but the idea of members of the royal family so much as touching metal preferred by non-humans was difficult to imagine. “Is that… xescalt?”

“My preferences regarding practice weapons is common knowledge. They have not changed. A wooden blade falls short in countless areas. Blunted metal is better, but it does not take much use to damage them, altering their weight minutely. And training with a poorly weighted weapon—practice or not—is worse than swinging an arm about and pretending the weapon is there.” He held the massive sword up, looking down the blade. “There is no alternative for live steel. However, as I was so recently reminded, live steel kills children. Our guest has spoken of the strength of this metal, and Thaddeus has corroborated her words. From all accounts… it will suffice.”

The mere mention of Thaddeus set my teeth on edge. At first his absence had been fine. Welcome, even. Only now, I hadn’t seen him a single time since we’d returned to the capital, despite several missives, multiple attempts to visit, and an entire day I’d spent camped outside his door, waiting for a single glimpse of his billowing cloak. If I hadn’t known about his ties to the group of mages who presumably created the loop, I would have ignored it. But the constant and intentional avoidance by someone who most definitely knew enough to piece together my abilities was disturbingly reminiscent of Ephira.

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And the mistakes I’d made during the enclave loops were not mistakes I intended to repeat.

“How pragmatic. I’d also like to speak with Thaddeus. Yet everywhere I look, Thaddeus is not.”

“He is a difficult man to find when he does not wish to be found.” The King nodded.

“True enough.” With how amenable the king had been as of late, I considered asking him to arrange a meeting. Then thought better of it. Thaddeus was one of the few people in Whitefall who operated completely free of oversight. Not that the king hadn’t tried. He’d told me once that the harder he pressed Thaddeus, the poorer the results. And those results were apparently worth enough to keep him around despite that. “Any… ideas on how I might find him anyway?”

“How does a woodsman find the bandit tracking him through the brush?”

“He doubles back.” I answered automatically.

“Exactly.”

The implications of the hypothetical hit me a second later.

Bastard’s either having me followed, or keeping tabs on me himself. Nothing new, but gods he’s being thorough about it this time.

It went a long way to explaining why we never seemed to stumble into each other’s path. I was reminded again of Ephira. The sooner I hounded the spymaster down, the better.

Uncle Luther tossed me the smaller blade, and I contorted to catch it by the hilt. Like the others, it was freshly forged with a blunted edge.

/////

The training session was strange. I’d expected little. A short bout that turned into a struggle for my life once the king lost his temper. But so far, that hadn’t happened. If anything, it was methodical. Luther and Gil tag-teamed, one attacking while the other lingered to the side, correcting form and bellowing instructions. I’d created a solid foundation from Cephur’s teaching, built on it with the aid of many infernals—Erdos and Bellarex being the most notable—and come into my own during my exile in the sanctum. There was no question I was stronger than I was, stronger than I’d ever been. But the sanctum had few long mirrors or reflective surfaces. I wasn’t able to check my form for extended periods of time, and despite the exponential growth, the lapse of formal instruction created cracks in my foundation.

“No.” Gil kicked my boot, just as I was about to strike at Luther. Gil being Gil, it carried enough force to knock me clear off my feet, the sky spinning before me. I cast a small aegis beneath my plummeting back, catching myself and rolling off the platform, landing solid.

“Why?” I asked, bewildered.

“Your feet betray you. A monster might not notice, but a man worth his salt sure as hells will.”

I corrected my footing, mentally comparing it to the way I stood before. He was right. I was telegraphing, moving before I needed to for the sake of fluidity.

Another strike. Another stop.

This time he raised my sword arm. “Channeling your frustrations into combat is only useful if you control it. Keep it here.” He tapped my chest. “Not here.” He tapped my arm. “A child could have seen that swing coming. Swap.”

As before, Gil attacked without warning. A broad, brutal swap capable of cleaving a man in two. I ducked beneath it easily and looked up in time to notice a glint in his eye. Like the blade was made of nothing, he halted it mid-swing—directly over my head—gripped the righted blade and slammed it down.

The only reason I managed to evade at all was because I’d seen this exact maneuver before. I threw myself to the side, gripping another anchored aegis with my free-hand for leverage and landing upright, smacking the king’s heel with my sword.

“Petty.” He grumbled.

“The acrobatics are fine during a bout, when you’re unarmored and unencumbered.” Luther cautioned, pacing a bit behind me. “But even if you can manage to achieve them in the equivalent of half-plate, it will tire you quickly.”

“Uh—”

“That’s not what he’s doing, imbecile.” The flat of the King’s sword smacked Luther’s head.

“Ow—and really, my king? The spinning jumps aren’t acrobatics?”

“No. It looks flashier than it is.” The king demonstrated, placing his hand flat on the air. “He is creating anchor points with air mana. With enough impetus he merely needs to support his weight for a short time, moving in a specific direction. Pair that in combination with the unnatural strength of his free arm, and I imagine he could do it almost indefinitely.”

“I didn’t know.” Luther tapped his chin.

“Because he hides it.” Gil looked at me. “Those who do not catch on will underestimate you, which I suspect is the point. But you should be careful of those who do.”

Right. It was most dangerous versus another spellsword. Anyone with air, water, and especially wind had potentially nasty counters for anchored movement. Void, however, could kill me outright. If I reached out for an anchor, leveraging my entire weight on a single point only to find it gone?

Disturbing to think about.

I’d received a similar warning from Master Saladius, a reclusive infernal whose air element mastery was the stuff of legends. But the creatures in the deeper layers of the sanctum were both swift and brutal, and I’d begun to overly rely on the method, regardless.

Gil stepped away, looking me over. “You have grown accustomed to fighting enemies beneath you. A pitfall that occurs for all skilled swordsmen, eventually. This, however, has been productive. I am pleased. Assuming you agree to continue these sessions every morning, I will grant you support for your operation today in a form of your choosing.”

Somehow, I kept my expression neutral. I’d assumed this would be a onetime thing and done my level best to wring every drop of value I could glean from it. He would slow some with age—that was inevitable for anyone—but Gil was still one of, if not the best fighter on the continent. The only reasons I hadn’t asked for his guidance sooner was the expectation he’d find it beneath him, and even if he didn’t, the risk that he might lose his temper and force a reset. Oddly, he seemed to be under the impression I didn’t want to learn from him.

“Can Sera attend as well?” I tried.

Luther’s cringe mirrored how I felt, as King Gil watched me impassively.

“Are you asking on her behalf, or yours?” Gil asked.

“Both.” I stated honestly. Sera could learn much from the King that would benefit her growth as a warrior, and her growth would only strengthen my regiment so long as she served as a banner-lieutenant. I was about to explain as much when he answered.

“Fine.”

Luther had a sudden fit of coughing. Behind him, soldiers began to arrive at the training yard, many doing a double-take as they spotted the three of us. Unaware, Gil stared at me expectantly. “And the support?”

I thought about it, the question more complicated than it appeared initially. Sera wouldn’t want father’s troops anywhere near the real conflict. For differing reasons, neither did I. My regiment was well-disciplined, but from what little I observed, they were still treated as outsiders by the greater army. They needed this win, and they needed it to be mostly independent from outside aid. Not to mention the natural loss of organization and efficiency when units that seldomly worked together were required to. Pair that with the tightness and poor-lighting of the sewers, friendly fire was almost inevitable.

“The only issue I foresee is one of manpower.” My brow furrowed. “We don’t know what, exactly, we’re going to find or how difficult the battle will be. My first instinct is to bring my entire regiment to bear as directly as possible, but if we do that, the escape routes are many. We risk flushing the creature, or creatures, out into the open and making things worse.”

King Gil grinned savagely. “So you need hands to hold the boiler closed while you cook them alive. I like it. How many points of retreat?”

I winced, remembering the many tiny flags marking avenues the sewer could be accessed dotted across Kilvius’s map. “Around thirty.”

“That’s a lot of troops, boy.”

“I know. Even partial coverage—”

“I did not say it was too many.” Gil held out a hand to stop me. “Just that the favor is out of scope and requires recompense.”

Alright, he was willing to consider it. Better than it could have gone. I braced myself and asked. “What sort of recompense?”

“Perhaps… a celebratory meal tonight, after your victory.”

I blinked. “Like, a feast?”

He waved that idea away. “Smaller. I’ll handle your mother, but I’d like you to ensure your sisters are in attendance. Bring the infernal. Leave the cat and dog.”

Simple as it was, the mental dots were so far apart it was difficult to connect them. “You want to have a family dinner, with no one else in attendance.”

“Yes.” Gil gave the still gaping Luther a withering stare. “I’m sure you’ll be able to make it?”

“Uh... certainly. Nothing pressing in my schedule.” Luther rubbed the back of his head.

“Ugh.”

“I’ll take it. We have a deal.” I answered, after the shock had worn off. The queen being there was a minor discomfort given how we’d left things, but if Gil was going to keep bargaining with offerings I already hoped for, I was going to make out like a bandit.

All we had to do was to make it through the sewers.