Sylvester followed the Duke into the highly decorated solar, filled with wealth. Diamonds, gold, pearls, rubies, and other rare items.
But none were interested in that as the Duke invited Sylvester to sit on the sofa instead of the visitor’s seat beside the table. Including the Duke’s Prima, Jeremiah Freeman, there were three of them.
Though Sylvester glanced at Jeremiah and felt conflicted. The man had brown skin, and at the moment, Sylvester’s trust in anyone from Masan Empire was at an all-time low. He didn’t want another moment like the Jartel County.
His gaze of doubt didn’t go unnoticed, and the Duke responded. “Don’t mind Freeman, Lord Bard. He’s the most trusted man I’ve known.”
Sylvester didn’t budge. “Count Jartel said the same when I first met him, but most often, those you consider the closest end up hurting you the most. No offence to you, Lord Prima; I am just being careful because what I am about to discuss with the Duke has implications that can ruin us if prematurely revealed outside.”
Perhaps the man sensed seriousness, so he stood up and decided to leave. “Your grace, Lord Bard is right. I shall wait outside if you need anything.”
Soon, the door closed, and Sylvester glanced at the smiling Duke. He could see why there was such happiness in the Duke. After all, his father, the king, had finally done something that could cost him the throne. And as he was the Crown Prince, he was to become the new king by default.
“It seems every prince has his day.” Sylvester cryptically said.
The Duke chuckled and poured a glass of water for Sylvester. “Hah, I presume we’re all dogs then. But I’m certain with every Prince’s rise, a few next to him also share that. So what brings you to my little county, Lord Bard?”
‘This bastard, he wants to play riddles with me?’
Sylvester didn’t become direct either. “The realm is thrust into turmoil, leaving us men to toil. The looming war will not be kind to many souls, I’m afraid. Can’t we—civilised men—sit and discuss peace?”
The Duke stood up to take out a bottle of wine from an elegant glass cabinet and returned to his seat to pour. “Peace? You’re talking to the most peace-loving man right now. Why else do you think my Duchy, even without massive trade as the south, flourishes? Peasants, artisans and nobles love me—so does my wife, which I believe is an achievement higher than any. But I’m afraid I’m but a little prince not very loved by his father.”
“Crown Prince.” Sylvester corrected.
The Duke shrugged. “Makes no difference, I’m afraid. The man in the River Castle would rather make a newborn with high talent a king than me—a thirty-three-year-old Master Wizard and Golden Knight.”
Sylvester took out a small black coin with Inquisitor High Lord’s insignia of a red triangular visor with two eyes on it, revealing that his words were Inquisitor High Lord’s words.
Sure enough, reacting to it, the Duke straightened his back.
Sylvester started. “I’m sure some hearts change with time—or after the heart’s time has passed. After all, in a horse race, if the first rank falls, the second becomes the first.”
“The top-ranked horse sits in a well-protected stable, surrounded by mighty stallions as protectors. How will he fall?” The Duke blurted.
Bam!
Clank!
All of a sudden, Sylvester dropped his glass of water in an overly exaggerated manner. It was made of glass, so it shattered into pieces. “Oh, forgive me, your grace, it was an ‘accident’. Perhaps the glass was too weak or too old for it to shatter on a ‘well-protected’ carpeted floor.”
The Duke had a big grin on his face. “It’s alright. I will take care of the broken glass later, Lord Bard.”
Sylvester then shifted the conversation. “How is your younger sibling, your grace?”
“Which one? I have three hundred and two brothers, and one hundred sisters.”
“…”
‘Holy Solis, is the King Riveria a human or a breeding pig?’ Sylvester exclaimed internally.
“I was talking about the Duke of Southern Duchy, your grace. He’s the third in line, I believe.” He clarified.
The Duke dreamily looked at the ceiling and spoke. “Ah, my little brother Tommy. Both of us are the first two sons of the king, born from the same mother. Sadly, when our father became obsessed with gaining a powerful heir and became a manwhore, mother stabbed her own throat in the Throne room in front of the masses. We were there, merely ten and five years old—watched her body quiver as she choked in a pool of blood. Lord Bard, guess what the king said at that moment once our mother’s heart stopped.”
Sylvester knew it was something messed up as he smelled rage and extreme hatred from the Duke. “Did he apologise? Or perhaps shout something?”
“Hahaha…” Duke Conrad laughed menacingly; a hint of sadness was there too. “No, that bastard said, ‘Good riddance, now I can get married again. Prima, arrange for me the strongest women in the realm to select from. I shall not marry them, but they may join my harem as a concubine.’ And then he left the throneroom, not sparing a glance at me, Tommy or our mother.”
Sylvester was taken aback. It was a bit too hardcore in his eyes. He couldn’t understand why the king had such an obsession because, as far as he knew, Riveria was the wealthiest kingdom in East Sol due to the two Duchies—ruled by the two Duke brothers.
The Duke continued as he downed another glass of wine. “I and Tommy, we were bullied, beaten, mistreated and vilified by our new step-mothers, a new one every few weeks. Let me show you something.”
The man stood up, tipsy from the wine clearly, and took off his tunic. He then turned around and showed his back riddled with scars of blade wounds. There were more than one could count, and they seemed stretched out.
“Tommy and I survived more than a hundred assassination attempts. Of course, the assassins were hired by our ‘mothers’. Tommy even lost an eye because of one such accident—I tried shielding him from the knife-wielding mob, but one hit his eye. So, simple to say, we two brothers cherish each other enough to give our lives for one another. So if this horse wins the race, he will dance in cheers—for we both hate the current top horse.”
“What about the rest of the siblings?” Sylvester asked.
“It’s a race. One must do whatever he can to win it—even if some blood is spilt. When do you think this race will end?”
Sylvester stood up as he had already conveyed what he wanted. “We shall meet again then… a week from now perhaps. I will write to you. I’d suggest you polish your hooves until then.”
The Duke also stood up and walked with Silvester all the way to the castle’s gates. Then, he shook Sylvester’s hand. “It was a pleasure to see you again, Lord Bard.”
“Likewise, your grace. I shall take my leave then.” Sylvester got on his horse and moved out to find Lady Aurora and Isabella at the arena.
Soon, he found the two of them watching a fight in the arena from the front seats, cheering for the armoured slave fighting mightily. He recognised the man instantly.
“Ah, you’re watching Kaecilius Silvanus. The poor man has one tragic story.” He muttered as he took a seat beside them.
Soon, the battle ended with Kaecilius stomping on his opponent’s neck. The crowd erupted in loud cheers, and some threw flowers into the arena. Kaecilius was the fan favourite, after all.
As Kaecilius bowed to the public, he noticed Sylvester in the front seats where the nobles and the important people sat. His body froze for a second, followed by a deep bow of his head as if showing respect and giving his thanks.
Lady Aurora noticed it. “He’s thanking you?”
Sylvester shrugged and stood up to leave. “I once helped him get his children into the monastery school. He used to be a trader once—before the tragedy struck. He made a deal with the Duke that he must stay at the top of the Arena for ten years to earn freedom for his family. It’s been five years.”
Isabella felt sad and asked. “Can’t we help him? He looks so sad.”
“Of course, he’s sad. The man fights for his life and freedom every single day. Though the burden must have decreased a little since I got his kids some quality education. Anyway, move your legs. We must return immediately.” He dragged them to the carriage and soon started the journey back.
‘I wonder what deal Lord Inquisitor made.’
…
River City, the seat of King Riveria.
Inquisitor High Lord was someone that no one could deny a meeting, especially when the man came to meet on his own.
Without wasting a moment, the palace guards and servants went into a frenzy, trying to accommodate him. But the dangerous man draped in red didn’t wish to spend a moment in waste. He asked for an audience with the king and received it.
Inside the personal royal chambers of the king, Inquisitor High Lord arrived. The chamber had all its walls covered with a thin layer of gold plating with various engravings and runes. The table was made of ivory, as were the chairs, and behind the table sat the withering king with a hunched back.
“May the holy light enlighten us, King Riveria.”
The king looked up with bored eyes. His face had grown more wrinkles than the hair on his head. His eyes appeared lifeless already, with no real drive behind them.
“What is it, Lord Inquisitor? Has my declaration of war scared the Holy Land so much that they sent you to negotiate?” The king spoke in a dull threatening tone.
Red eyes behind the visor shined as the big man walked forward and took a seat. “The Holy Land is scared for the continued existence of the Riveria family—for you have invited upon yourself a calamity.”
Thud!
King Riveria slammed his fist on the table weakly. “You come into my house and threaten me? I don’t see how that’s sensical.”
A dangerous aura spread from the Inquisitor High Lord. “I can’t see how declaring war on another Kingdom that is equally if not more powerful than you is sensical. So I suggest you open your eyes, king of the river—or you might see this kingdom, before you, wither.”
Eyes shook for a few seconds as the king shifted in his seat uncomfortably. Nobody likes being stared down by the Inquisitor High Lord. The man was too famous for being ruthless when it came to heathens.
“My precious daughter was murdered by those who sit in the backyards of the Holy Land. I want justice, and I will have it no matter what.”
Inquisitor High Lord nodded. “I do not deny the folly against you. But there is no evidence it was the Gracia family that did it. Still, for peace, any price is acceptable. So speak your mind, for as long as it’s reasonable, it will be feasible. But remember, I know the history of your actions, so do not test my patience—or I shall leave no room for any repentance.”
Sweat slid down the king’s forehead as he knew his unholy deeds. “I… I want his head. The head of Duke Daemon. One week… if it does not appear on this table by then, the war will continue.”
Thud!
Inquisitor High Lord stood up and slammed his staff to the floor, shaking the entire room. The red eyes behind his visor met the king’s for a few seconds, sending chills down the weak man’s spine.
“So be it!”
________________________
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