LCoT chapter 43

As they prepared, Marcus had given the wands to the different members of his house. He did not hesitate to tell them what the different rings did, and they were quick to trust him and thank him.

And Clara.

Clara was both excited and anxious for the event after the rider had personally delivered the letter to their compound. Arlath had not wasted time inviting her.

Then there was the half-aasimar, half-Goliath. She was an older woman and the head maid of Lord Arlath.

“You. Come, we will need your help in the kitchen,” she had said.

“Me? In the kitchen? I am the head of House Morkan.”

And when they were getting ready for the feast, Arlath had instructed that half-Goliath woman to dress her like a proper lady.

“You must not speak to the lords, look not at their eyes. Speak only when spoken to. And do not offend them.”

“Well, I don’t plan on offending them, but sooner or later they will find offence in the way I look,” Clara said.

“Girl, you’re a half-blood. Head of a house or not, you must forget your arrogant dreams. Serving the lords is the only way you can have purpose.”

Clara could swear that the older half-Goliath woman had something against her.

By the time she was done, she was dressed in a dark grey gown with a similarly coloured mantle or cloak fastened around her shoulders. The others were dressed similarly as well, but in simple linen shirts and coats. Marcus wore dark pants and, for some reason, had put on a hard brown leather vest over the long sleeves of the grey shirt.

“Right, are we ready?” she asked.

The Baron’s hall was like a small castle Marcus would find in the few English documentaries he had come across. At least it was large, but other than that, compared to walking on tiled floors, the stone was uneven. The place was lit by flaming torches and lanterns that made the entire castle smell of lantern oil.

Marcus promised himself to get a heated hearth one of these days and shivered as he remembered the cold water he had used to wash himself for this event. He would have the craftsman make him a spring bed.

“A spring bed… what was a spring anyway?” he shrugged mentally and proceeded down the castle hall with the others.

Arlath, Lord of Driftspire and Wielder of the Scarlets, was still trying to recruit him. He had treated Clara fairly, and Marcus hoped he was not planning to make their new noble house a branch house to his. Marcus would refuse that—he would have to tell Clara to refuse.

He walked behind Clara and Arlath, and behind the two, following along like him, Clara had brought along Geneve and Gabe. Arlath had come with his four aides, all of whom were unhappy with the favour he was showing Clara, which in turn had them treating Marcus, Gabe, Ivor, and Geneve favourably as well.

If it hadn’t been for the aasimar Tulrun, who disappeared away from the group with a face of disgust after they had arrived, Marcus would have never thought of it. Vega, Liala, and Dea had at least been cordial with them, although they did everything not to speak to the half-blood children. Surely they thought that after Arlath was done with his fascination, he would leave them behind and they would not have anyone to protect them.

Dea, for her part, had to report what Arlath had done to her father. To think he would let a half-blood handle his sword—the boy needed to be captured and explain why he had been allowed to touch the sword and what it had felt like. For now, he was Arlath's curiosity, but after he was done with him, Dea would capture the boy.

Tulrun, on the other hand, could no longer stay in the presence of those tainted children. As soon as he had the chance, the aasimar noble went to report back to the other nobles.

Arlath had thought he would impress the boy and win him over to his side, make him one of his aides, but the boy had not been willing to give him face. And what of Kazalath’s order? He could send the Goliath a letter saying that he had run into the butcher and that the church had to be involved. That way he would be left with an excuse to do as he wanted.

As for Marcus—the boy he saw so much potential in—Arlath thought he would have been impressed by the Baron’s hall, but he wasn’t. Arlath wanted to tell the boy that if he joined him, he would be living in a castle much better than this. But looking at the boy, and using his enhanced hearing and smell, the boy was too calm. He did not smell of sweat, not like those others in his group.

“Your champion seems too calm,” Arlath said, leaning downward to let Clara hear him.

“Ahh, yes! Marcus,” the Goliath lord pointed. “He’s calm and relaxed for someone who’s never been in a king’s castle.”

“I doubt he’s never been in a castle,” she said, and before she could let her nerves take hold, she shut her mouth and nodded.

Arlath, always observant, did not miss catching the slip in the girl’s words. It raised more questions.

“Do not worry about him. I will teach him to show courtesy and appreciation to the Lord Baron’s magnificent castle.”

“I don’t mind it. There are more grand castles in the higher walls,” he said, waving his hand and continuing his walk forward.

After so many battles and countless hours mastering bloodline magic, his enhanced senses spoke to him more and more. When he stepped into the arena and heard a man’s heartbeat and smelt the sweat on his body, he could tell what type of fight it would be. When someone lied to him, he was quick to notice the hitch in their heartbeat. When a merchant was cutting a deal, his eyes noticed the small details an ordinary person could not see.

And with all that collected experience, he could tell that the Baron’s castle was nothing new to the boy. In fact, the boy felt disgusted by the place. This realization brought back a truth he was just not willing to admit. He knew some families did their training in the dark. He shook his head and waved the thought away. He could sense the bloodline aether around the boy, and there was no way they would throw him away.

He focused on the doors leading to the chamber in front of him and put on a stride matching his station. As much as he hated these games of cloak and dagger, he had to show he was not afraid, if only to make the other nobles second-guess sending assassins after him.

As Marcus, Clara, Gabe, Geneve, and Ivor started making their way inside the hall, one of the castle guards stopped them.

“Where do you think you’re going? Servants are down that way, to the kitchen and stables,” he gestured back down the way they had come.

The other guard made to stop Marcus by grabbing his elbow. Marcus stopped and turned to the man, pulling his arm free and squaring up to the guard on the other side of the door.

“Get your hands off me,” Marcus nudged the guard in the chest.

“We are guests of the Baron.”

“You! You’re half-bloods. All hired servants are to go that way.”

“We are not hired servants,” Ivor tried to say.

“Touch me again and you will regret it.” There was no mercy to be shown to men like this, Marcus thought. Certainly not from him.

“We are a high house of mountains,” Clara said, her hand going into her cloak where she kept the Wand of Fire Darts Marcus had given her.

Before the situation could get out of hand, one of Arlath’s aides, who had gone ahead, turned back and hurried to the entrance.

“They are with Lord Arlath. Girl, show the guard the seal,” Dea said, and watched as the white-haired girl pulled the seal out of her cloak and pushed it right in the guard’s face.

“Next time, show us the seal first instead of just marching in like you own the place.”

“Next time touch me, and I will break your hand,” Marcus responded, and pushed his way past the guard.

When they entered the large hall after causing such a commotion at the entrance, all eyes were trained on them in their grey-out colours. All the nobles in the hall turned their heads. Those who had thought they were just another house with a seal now took them in for a second time as the group walked in.

——

When they made their way into the hall, all nobles and members of the high houses fell silent. It started slowly, with every noble paying little passing attention to those coming in. All they had to look for were the house’s colours, and most ignored the few who wore grey. These were clearly men and women who had earned their seals from the church or had been given support from a few wealthy families.

The grey meant that they were unproven, new to the game of crowns, and had not yet chosen house colours similar to those of the noble house they would ally with. These new high houses, as they were called, were a passing thought to many nobles. After all, many of them would not earn enough draft marks to present their worth to the church and would be stripped of the title by the very church that granted it. There was a trial period of sorts for the lords and ladies of houses wearing grey.

So, for most of the established noble houses, knight houses, merchant houses, and ruling houses, it came as a surprise to find a group of half-bloods dressed in the greys of a high house walking into the hall.

As Marcus and the others entered, the room went silent. The conversations slowly died down, eyes following the group of five half-bloods. Marcus could swear that all of them had stopped to gape at them. He could feel how quiet the room had become, the echo of his leather boots striking the stone floor.

And when they sat down, it didn’t take long for him to recognize there was a seating order in the hall.

Arlath watched as the short-haired girl bravely and brazenly walked over to his side and sat her group at one of the lower tables. Being the highest-ranked Goliath in the feast, he was given a raised seat mimicking a throne, positioned between the pillars of the hall on the right side. Opposite, on the left, the Aasimar sat in their blues, a noblewoman of House de Colarad seated as their highest nobility.

She looked at Arlath, clearly hoping he would object to the seating Clara and her house had taken. A moment later, when he did no such thing, her eyes narrowed and her jeweled hand went to her chin as she leaned over her throne to whisper with Tulrun.

Evidently, after the young Aasimar had ridden in the carriage with them, he had left immediately after reaching the baron’s castle. Arlath knew he was a spy for the Aasimar lords, but the fact they were being so obvious about it was another matter. He watched Tulrun stand by Saraphine’s side and speak with her. The Aasimar’s golden eyes shifted from the boy’s group back to him and his sword.

At that moment, he wondered if Dea, the human noble of her court, had already reported his interactions with the half-blood group to the human nobility. Speaking of which, he turned, and his eyes met those of young Lord Deimos. The young lord nodded in deference, and Arlath nodded back from the central seating of the humans. It seemed that the human in her court had not yet reported.

He paused in that thought as he realized that seated at the central raised platform of the human side was the Lady from Ironfax. Surely, Dea would have reported to her. Arlath shook his head. If they had a problem with him letting the boy touch the sword, he didn’t care. The blade was his, and if they wanted to fight him for it, they could try.

Shortly after the silence and various reactions from the nobles, all conversations seemed to return to their noble ebb and flow, though there was an underlying current of tension.

“Lord Niazath wishes to speak,” Liala said.

“I will speak to him,” Arlath gestured. She stepped back, allowing the Goliath lord to step forward.

“Should I begin with the obvious, or why I came here?”

“Please, speak your mind.”

“Is it wise to so openly show your support for the tainted half-bloods?”

“You’re a lord. Why should a new house in grey bother you?”

“It’s not me, my lord. The other lords around will think you sentimental.”

“Sentimental, perhaps. Weak?” He chuckled. “I have faced stronger men than you, and not once have they ever called me weak.”

Realizing his choice of words was wrong and fearing reprisal, the lord was quick to correct himself and bowed.

Back on the low floor, where the wooden platforms stood, Marcus, Clara, and Ivor sat at wooden tables and benches. At least, if there was anything to be glad for other than the cold showers, the food served smelled pleasant enough. There was even a slab of meat that tasted like chicken. Marcus did not shy away from serving himself a healthy portion and eating it like a lowborn folk. He missed the looks of disgust the nobles gave him.

“Thank you,” he said when his mug was filled. When he looked up, his eyes met those of a half-Goliath with mismatched eyes similar to his own. The tall girl’s eyes widened, then, seeing the grey clothes of a noble house, she quickly looked down at her feet and walked away.

As the servant left their table, another group approached. If Marcus had been paying attention to his surroundings and the looks the nobles were giving him, he would have noticed the sneers on their faces.

What he did not expect was the young Goliath spitting in his food. Marcus froze.

Marcus looked up at the Goliath man. “You shouldn’t be here, seated among us.”

“And where should we be?” Clara asked, rising to her feet along with Marcus and Gabe.

“What do you think you are doing, seated at one of these tables? Your kind is tainted. You make a mockery of the three great races. It would be better if you were serfs.”

So, it was a matter of pride to these people. The problem was, he was arguing with the white-haired leader of their group, and Clara was as proud as they came. She would not back down.

Again, the room went silent. The nobles who had been in mild conversations turned to whispered exchanges, barely heard. They all wanted to see how Clara and her group would react.

“We have a seal from the church and an invite from Lord Arlath. Show him,” Gabe said.

At the mention of the church, murmurs rose among the nobles.

“A seal from the church?”

“How were they allowed?”

“Favour, did they buy?”

As this happened, Marcus watched the Aasimar noble narrow her eyes at him as Tulrun, Arlath’s aide, whispered to her.

“You don’t have to,” Marcus said. “If he wishes to displease the Marquis, let him. I wonder how he will take it if you attacked his guests.”

All in the hall turned to see what Arlath, wielder of the Red Blade, would do. Arlath met the other Goliath’s eyes, and with a simple gesture of his free hand, waved him back. The Goliath looked at Marcus, then back at Arlath.

“How exciting. But perhaps I have a better way to secure your interest in me. I have brought a grimoire of the fourth order. It can hold up to seven spells. With it, your wealth and power would grow.”

It was easy for him to understand: the more grimoires a noble family had, the more powerful they were. If they had a book that could store high-tier spells, even better, Marcus thought.

It went back to the point he had studied in his lessons with Ivor. It wasn’t all about the affinity you had; it was about the number of spells you had and what they did.

“What’s it made of?” one of the drunken nobles asked.

“Its cover is made from a Remorhaz, a giant centipede, and I am sure any house will be pleased to have it in their collection.”

Marcus wanted it. Sure, he had the serpent grimoire, but if he was to put it kindly, its previous owner didn’t know how to care for the book. Besides, the book was a second-tier grimoire.

“Now that our stomachs are filled, will there be any challengers for the right to the book?” Saraphina asked.

All the nobles knew that this was the way House de Colarad made its wealth. How they did it, he didn’t know, but the offer was enticing to most of them—especially the nobles.

So it came as a surprise when the first person who stood up was one of the half-bloods who had somehow gotten the church to grant them a house seal. As if that wasn’t enough to wrinkle their noses, Arlath—one of the strongest men in Taelaris—was showing them his interest. If the nobles could have sworn, they would have, but no, they simply had to keep their decorum.

Marcus rose to his feet and walked over to the Aasimar noblewoman and asked,

“What do I have to do to get my hands on that grimoire?”

If she could have done it instinctively, Geneve would have fainted right there and then. Clara was furious and scared for Marcus at the same time, and Gabe and Zek both tensed. The nobles seated at the tables in the hall all fell silent, and those courageous enough even chuckled loudly.

“The arrogance.”

“Such disrespect.”

“I wonder what she will do.”

“Probably execute him.”

“If one of their kind spoke to me like that, they’d—”

And so the murmurs went.

Saraphine de Colarad, member of one of the three ruling houses of the Aasimar, second heir of House de Colarad, and second only to the king and her brother, stood in shock and amusement. Shock at the stupidity and arrogance of the boy, and amusement at the damn courage of the boy.

Did he know that she had the knowledge of runes—the knowledge to craft a spell in an instant that could kill him?

Didn’t he know that she had access to all the most perfected spell forms, that she could simply recall a spell and be rid of him as easily as swatting a fly?

Her eyebrow twitched. The boy had not shown her any respect in his approach. He had not waited for her to finish speaking, had not bowed, nor spoken with the decorum the other nobles would have shown to someone of her station.

If she killed him here and now, not even the most devout of the church’s clerics would have seen her at fault. But she wouldn’t. She didn’t.

Arlath was interested in the boy, and she needed to know why. And if what Tulrun, the Aasimar noble boy in her service, was telling her was the truth, she also needed to know why the Goliath lord had let the boy hold his sword—in fact, hadn’t they been looking for the caster of old magic?

She looked at the boy for what seemed like a long time, then she looked up at Arlath, whose eyes met hers.

She cleared her throat and kept talking.

“Those competing for this grimoire will have to pay the challenger’s cost.”

She looked him up and down, and as if she had finished taking his measure, she continued,

“A hundred marks for each contest,” she said. Unsurprisingly, some of the human and Goliath nobles scoffed.

The draft marks were a way to determine each house’s contribution in defending the cities from the monsters. During the tides, the marks were given out based on merit—based on what was done by the warrior, and how important it was to the sacred duty of protecting the mountain cities. They were marks given for holding the line in the Ashfields, for contributing and sending soldiers to fight, and for carrying out certain tasks that all aided the cities.

And with enough of them, the church, by the agreement of the last three races, would distribute rewards in accordance with the draft marks returned to them.

In Arlath’s case, he was one of the strongest and only behind the three lords who held the title of Archduke. On the battlefield he could hold the line with his aides alone or kill an Apex monster. In return for completing the church’s bounties, he would receive enough credits to gain the twenty-year life elixir that would extend his life by twenty more years, which cost him over five hundred marks. Or he would ask for tax concessions costing him two hundred, as he always had, allowing his city to thrive without the need for merchants.

So when you looked at it that way, asking for marks meant the nobles were striving to gain access to the ten sacred rewards the church offered. The price the Aasimar noble was placing on the book could only be paid by families with great power.

Saraphine knew that the boy and whatever house he belonged to could not match her price. But again, she looked up and noticed Arlath nod.

“Let him take the challenge,” Arlath said before gesturing for Liala, his Goliath aide, to escort Ivor, the boy’s teacher, to his raised seating.

Saraphine was surprised and even more intrigued by the boy now that Arlath had paid her cost.

She turned to the rest of the crowd.

“Are there any more challengers?”

“You can’t expect us to fight a half-blood.”

“Yes, we all know how weak—”

“So am I to give out the grimoire because… are you all afraid of him?” she paused, as if looking for the word.

Saraphine was furious, but on the outside she was calm and controlled, as a diplomat should be. She had made a mistake and set the price slightly high, but even then there were nobles here who had spent their lives fighting in the Ashfields and could have paid the marks. No, the problem was the abomination standing in front of them. The other nobles were too proud to fight against a half-blood.

And Arlath—

She just knew Arlath would press her to give up the empty grimoire.

“I will fight him,” a human noble said, then looked up to where the human high nobility was seated.

The young Lord Deimos looked in Arlath’s direction and watched the Goliath nod. He too nodded and waved his hand forward, letting the human noble take his place.

If she could have, she would have rolled her eyes—a sentiment she could see the Lady Ironfax, the boy’s diplomatic aide, shared.

It was no secret that Arlath was a warrior of warriors, admired by every young man who wanted to be half as strong. And the tales the bards told did nothing but embellish his strength and feats even more.

At least the boy would lose, and she would have to go into further negotiations with the human lord.

Marcus stood and watched the man approach him. He was taller than him by a head and built like a man who ate well and trained better.

The only question on Marcus’s mind was whether he could win.