Castle Kingside

Spooked by the shouting of men and shovels swinging across the royal stables, Dorothy cowered in the corner of her stall.

“You’re a mighty, mighty warhorse,” Saphiria said as if speaking to a baby. “A little remodeling can’t frighten you.”

Though her nostrils remained flared, Dorothy edged closer.

“Come, my love.”

Gray winter light streamed through window grills and gleamed from the courser’s lustrous white coat as she pranced closer.

“Good girl.” Saphiria ran her fingers through a silken mane and gripped the reins with a hand that held so many that they coiled around each other like thick leather yarns.

Dorothy joined a herd of over four dozen horses, most belonging to visiting knights and nobles. How odd for mounts to make for better company than their riders. Quiet and graceful, they flocked behind Saphiria, cautiously eying the holy soldiers that dug the stable floors around them.

The Hospitallers had already excavated the beaten earth from most stalls, paving the walls and floors of the resulting pits with clay. Some were layering their interiors with soil and wood ashes.

Similar scenes painted the city streets. From the annexed stables of inns bordering the market square to swine barns on Malten’s eastern outskirts, Dimitry’s men toiled, replacing the dirt upon which livestock lived with ditches of dirt and rotting vegetation. The serf he had sent to manage the operation—Jesco was his name—stuttered that the goal was to collect waste. Animals would soil the ground, and once the filth had accumulated, Dimitry would mold it into weapons more powerful than the sticky bombs that had obliterated the heathens on the Night of Repentance.

Saphiria did not know how such a feat was possible, even for him, but she knew better than to doubt Dimitry. She had even guided the serf and his charges to the castle so that they may restructure the royal stables and kennel. However, animals were not the only ones subject to his ambitions.

Between the city walls and the northern shit brook, sorceresses enchanted iron bins with the purple glow of witheria while soldiers filled them with the waste Dimitry had accumulated via portable latrines. And within the city, a caravan of handcarts topped to the brim with smoked and salted fish navigated the streets, the foreman inviting the needy and wealthy alike to help themselves in exchange for a simple favor. Even here, in the castle district, one could hear the clamor of civilians, shouting to buy seafood that would keep through the rapidly cooling winter months for the meager price of their bedpans’ contents.

Saphiria guessed that an undertaking so massive did not serve merely to produce weapons. Dimitry had a second motive: to undo the slanderous rumors those gangsters had spread. The echoes of their gossip remained despite her imprisoning them days ago, but even the muttered whimpers of disbelief would soon falter. His charitable gifting of preservable fish—a commodity only the rich could afford—not only signaled the coming of the prosperity he had promised, but more crucially, proved that the Hospitallers had successfully reclaimed the coast. No longer could the common man cast doubt on the apostle’s authority at the mention of a volatile enchantment.

Infuriatingly, noblemen were not as wise. Saphiria listened to Mother’s guests spew fearful murmurs of Dimitry’s corruption since Tylo Sauer and the other southern vassals had arrived. Animals were her sole reprieve from the stupidity.

Horses trailing behind her, Saphiria strolled behind the stables. She approached a trimmed mahogany fence and tapped her knuckle on the door. “We are leaving.”

A poodle’s fluffy head popped out from the window of an ornate kennel, more luxurious than a merchant’s home and stilted a man’s height above the ground. Barking followed. Paws thundered down wooden stairs.

As they arrived, Saphiria scratched seven furry chins in turn. Three belonged to the hunting hounds she had rescued. The orphanage grew irresponsibly overcrowded, and until Dimitry reliably secured the coast, she housed the pups here. “On me.”

Vacating the playing field around and beneath the kennel for the Hospitallers to remodel, Saphiria guided her adorable posse to the castle courtyard.

There they watched her—two of the many southern nobles that had swarmed the halls of her home. A youthful baroness who wore a brown coat fashioned from the fur of a hundred defenseless minks quickly hid her puzzlement at the oncoming animal horde and knelt. Accompanying her was an earl, nineteen at most, who Saphiria had heard distinguished himself in the Gestalt Wars at the age of ten. Machias de Jäger. A target to watch with caution. Both he and the baroness accompanied Tylo Sauer here as he awaited an audience with the apostle.

For two days, Mother had appeased the marquis and his loyalists with song and dance and the senseless hunting of game. She was treating them to a feast even now, hoping they would leave once they realized the guest they hoped to threaten would never come.

If the Hospitallers had not come, Saphiria would have attended this event as well. It was without a doubt that Tylo had organized the slanderous campaign against Dimitry and the dastardly attempts on his life on the Night of Repentance. By listening in at every chance, she hoped to prove Tylo’s guilt. Often arose the urge to poison his lunchtime wine, or slit his throat as he slept upon his guest room bed, but Saphiria resisted. The assassination of a marquis would split the kingdom into warring factions. Malten would not survive. Attaining irrefutable evidence of his crimes and presenting it to a packed court would accomplish far more and without the bloodshed.

The proof should come soon. If not from the careless remarks of nobles, then from the gossipers and gangsters Saphiria had captured. Forty occupied a single dungeon cell. While their confessions did not implicate Tylo directly, citing a wealthy courier as their benefactor instead, Mira and Leandra were studying the strange spell canisters and magic they used to elicit despair in taverns and inns around Malten. Hopefully, a clue would arise that confirmed Tylo’s involvement.

“Your Highness.”

Heads turned.

A yellow-robed court sorceress trekked across a garden wilted by cold and knelt at Saphiria’s feet. “Let us speak in private.”

“About?”

“That,” Leandra whispered. “We’ve uncovered a matter of interest.”

At last. The proof had come. With swift steps, Saphiria strode towards the dungeon. “Come.”

“Your Highness?”

“Do not dawdle.”

“Please, honor me with a glance.”

“Why must you delay with—“ Saphiria’s words cut short when she glanced over her shoulder.

Fifty horses trailed behind her with unassuming eyes while slobbering tongues hung from the mouths of hounds, each wagging their tail as if anticipating a hunt. She forgot she still held the reins.

Leandra struggled in vain to suppress a widening grin. “May I recommend leaving the animals with the stable master before we go, Your Highness?”

At the deepest end of the castle dungeon, past winding corridors of raw and jagged granite, one cell stood larger than the rest. Ice water dripped from chinks in the ceiling and plinked into a puddle of runoff at the center of twenty-five shackled prisoners—the gangsters that had sold poisoned meat pies and propagated ill rumors. On the eve of their capture, they shouted slurs and banged against interlaced bars whose iron gave way to rust, anything to taunt their jailers, but after Saphiria had finished interrogating them, they quaked at the prospect of earning her ire. However, as she surveyed them now, not one so much as acknowledged her presence.

A man sat against the wall, his shoulders slumped and gaze distant. Nearby was the once confident leader of the pie peddlers. Chin tucked into her chest, she rocked, whispering the same four words: “Rest by her side. Rest by her side. Rest by her side.”

“Why have they lost their minds?” Saphiria asked of the three ladies accompanying her.

A kneeling sorceress, no older than seventeen, flinched at the question. Though a stranger at a glance, her unkempt brown hair and half-closed orange eyes struck familiar despite a featureless red robe. She was Emilia—a capable inscriber and the Vogel who had proved her sharpened wit on Dimitry’s test.

Mira Bright, a graceful guildmistress and Saphiria’s childhood mentor, raised her head. “Morosia, Your Royal Highness.”

Morosia. It was the spell the gossipers claimed to have used to foster distrust amongst the populace. Neither Mira nor Leandra had heard of morosia before the criminals’ capture, and that was what concerned Saphiria most. Only through a wealthy and powerful benefactor could thugs access magic unknown to some of Malten’s wisest sorceresses. “Did you uncover its effect as I asked?”

“We believe so,” Leandra said.

“Give me the details.”

“A lecture without a demonstration is just wind in your ears,” Mira repeated a mantra Saphiria had often heard during her studies. The giantess took sweeping strides across the chamber and stopped at a chair stacked ten high with odd, crudely inscribed canisters. “I trust you are wearing your reflectia undergarments, Your Highness?”

“I may not have been a committed pupil, but after all those horrific tales of doom and assassination that you’ve carved into my heart as a child, I cannot bring myself to neglect your most vital instruction even if I tried.”

A half-suppressed snicker escaped Mira. “Your return is proof that my efforts were not in vain. Now step back, please, until your spine presses into the most distant corner. Even a thousand precautions are not enough for me to risk harming you with hastily researched magic.”

Saphiria complied.

Emilia and Leandra did as well.

Mira’s long fingers gripped the central handle of a circular canister, and as if their malaise had been lifted, the thugs snapped to attention. They had little time to utter desperate pleas for forgiveness before Mira absorbed a lustrous green vol pellet into her palm and chanted the spell. “Morosia.”

A man who jerked forward in protest fell forward as if the spell had severed the sinews of his limbs. His arms hung lifelessly at his sides, and his head drooped, blank eyes watching mud water soak into the fabric of his pants. Nearby, a woman carved her thigh with a sharp stone, and across from her, a hairy beast of a man sobbed whimpers.

Emilia turned away. The thick melancholy seemed to grip even those the magic did not reach.

“This… this torture,” Saphiria growled. “Is this what these pests have afflicted upon my subjects?”

“Not exactly.” Leandra approached the cell and slammed her boot into the iron bars. “Unlike them, Lady Mira is a sorceress with peerless control over her circuits. A plebeian would need to consume at least ten times as much vol to achieve the same effect. Overload would cripple them before then.”

“But even a tenth is plenty,” Mira said. “We’ve tested lesser quantities at first, and that was enough for some of our subjects to develop trauma no less severe than a footman who saw his comrades die in battle. However, even more peculiar than the spell is the canister itself.”

Emilia picked up one of the many iron devices. Her trembling finger traced the blue circuits on the outer rim. “Normally, seals are inscribed to focus the entire spell on the target we aim at. These aren’t. They hit everyone around the wielder. And the wielder herself.”

Mira massaged the bones of her wrist with a guilt-ridden hand. “Forgive me, my darling.”

“What happened?” Saphiria asked.

“I was careless. I gave Emilia the task of conducting a preliminary inspection on the canister, but I did not foresee that it might harm her.”

“It’s my fault, my lady. I should’ve been wearing my work robes.”

“You were affected?” Saphiria asked. “Are you well?”

Emilia fell to her knees and lowered her head. “Don’t worry about me, Your Royal Highness. I am no one.”

“No one?” Unsure if the fiery blood rushing into her head sourced from fury or pity, Saphiria stepped forward. How could someone hurt themselves in service to her and then act as if their life carried no value? “Stand.”

She froze.

Staring into her eyes, Saphiria took Emilia’s bony arm and hoisted her to her feet. “I said stand!”

“Yes, Your Royal Highness!”

“Do you like cake?”

“I… I don’t understand.”

“You don’t understand cake?”

“No, I understand cake…”

“Then answer my question. Do you like cake?”

“Y-yes.”

“Good,” Saphiria said. “The Vogels have served my family for generations, and your father was a trusted adviser of mine. It would be remiss of me to repay Sir Adal’s loyalty with negligence. I will call upon you to dine on cake with me.”

Emilia stumbled. “Me?”

“Who else? Are you declining?”

“N-no.”

“Then it is settled.”

Like a rabbit standing on her hind legs, Emilia scrunched the elbows of her curled arms into her scrawny chest and retreated. “I’m sorry, Your Highness. I need a moment. Just a moment.”

Leandra leaned in to whisper. There was amusement in her tone. “Dabbling in making friends, My Liege?”

“I wish to teach her not to devalue herself. A free woman is given the scarce blessing of choice, so she must use it to carry herself with pride and respect. Now, let’s speak on more important matters. There is little time for prattle while gangsters roam my streets with unprecedented voltech armaments.”

Mira lowered her head. “I pray you can instill confidence in the girl, Your Royal Highness. She deserves it more than most. And it is worrying indeed. How can the rabble afford vol and acquire technology?”

Her grin gone without a trace, Leandra met Saphiria’s gaze. No doubt the same culprit had crossed both of their minds: nobles. Wealthy and connected, arming an army of gangsters is an afterthought for them. As the marquis that defended Malten’s southern border, Tylo could purchase foreign and secretive armaments without even Mother’s knowledge.

Saphiria did not voice her suspicions. For a princess to accuse a marquis of treason would invite chaos. Instead, she would search for like-minded allies. “Mira, your thoughts?”

“Considering recent events, whenever new spells are mentioned, my first guess is always the archbishop, but I doubt Dimitry would seek to sully his own reputation.”

“Then who?”

Mira paused, and a dreadful lull swept in to fill the silence. “The Church.”

“The Church?” Saphiria uttered.

“Who else but they have the means and incentive to ostracize Dimitry? My acquaintances in Feyt and Ontaria have already started sending me inquiries into the thaumaturgical foundations of his miracles, and if letters from the southern kingdoms are reaching me, then the plague curing blankets must have traveled as far as the legislators of the Sundock Confederacy. Every day the apostle lives, his influence grows, and the blight on the grand pontiff’s authority thickens. That was why I’ve assigned my sorceresses to help him reclaim the coast despite protests from your loudest vassals, Your Highness. The unidentified magics we have seen today are further proof of their involvement.”

Leandra massaged the wrinkled corners of her amethyst eyes, and dread clawed at Saphiria’s gut. Though she scrambled to refute Mira’s argument, she couldn’t. The logic was sound.

The skittish rabbit returned, baited by the carrot of stimulating conversation. “If I may say something as well…”

“Speak freely,” Saphiria said. “And don’t slump forward. Straighten your spine when you talk to me.”

Emilia retracted her shoulders with strained effort, yet somehow remained hunched. “About these canisters—I also think the Church made them. Seals only become active when the inscription ink is attuned to a spell by an inscriber, and we can only do that when we know the calling sign. Grandpa told me that the Church keeps the calling signs of many spells, many I’ve never even heard of, hidden inside a vault in Olsten. Morosia is probably one of those secret spells.”

“Ignacius said that?” Saphiria asked.

“Yes.”

Leandra’s eyes narrowed. “I recall your grandfather. He used to be archbishop Fronika’s channeling mule, right?”

Emilia hesitated before nodding.

“How do we know he is not responsible? These thugs were too coordinated. Whoever led them must be nearby. With the closest Church outpost being fifty tours away and no priestesses or Zeran knights remaining in Malten since they left, who else but he—“

“Perish the thought.”

“Your Highness, if the Church is really—“

“Both Dimitry and I would be dead if not for Ignacius. Besides, he has embarked on a northern voyage and lacks the connections and resources to conduct schemes on a scale so massive.”

“Thank you,” Emilia whispered.

Mira lowered a hand whose fingers twitchingly stroked her chin. “I must admit, Lady Leandra’s concerns have merit. If these canisters are truly the work of the Church, someone must have distributed them on their behalf. There is a traitor in our midst.”

The blood in Saphiria’s body drained to her feet, leaving her body a cold, fearful husk. The traitor could have been only one. He conferred with Mother even now. Could the Church’s influence have been why Tylo antagonized Dimitry? What was he planning? She pivoted on her heel and set off, hoping to thwart the marquis’s plans before they could take root.

With the skirt of her yellow dress fluttering across the narrow surface of a blue carpet, Saphiria strode down a marble passageway. Maids and soldiers knelt as she passed.

“Your Royal Highness,” said a royal knight whose steel pauldrons gleamed blue in the glass-screened light of illumina.

“Your Highness,” mumbled the visiting sorceress beside him.

Greetings sounded until Saphiria reached the oak double doors leading to the banquet hall. Two servants pushed them open, and the mixed aroma of sharp and tangy spices rushed to meet her nostrils. Four tables topped with honeyed meats, stewed fish, and silver cups came into view.

One by one, boisterous diners, drunk on wine and luxury, caught sight of Saphiria—the princess that had abandoned them earlier that day to assist the troops of the apostle many of them had disparaged. Their shouting lowered to scattered utterances.

Mother sat at the furthest end of the longest table. Watching her daughter with piercing crimson eyes, she bit into the lean leg of a roasted pheasant. Across from her was a lord whose decorated uniform hid the scarred musculature of a dozen battles. Tylo Sauer. He stared at Saphiria as if to pry from her an excuse for her absence.

The focused attention was problematic; Saphiria needed to speak to Mother in private. She had already sent in Leandra to retrieve her, but the maneuver had failed. Only a discourteous host would leave their guests.

However, just as an assassin planned two deaths for each mark, Saphiria was never without recourse. “Go.”

From behind her stepped in the town band—eight waites wielding the loudest instruments in Malten: drums, shawms, and a hurdy-gurdy whose shrill strings could drown out the most urgent of conversations. They took a frontal platform as their stage. A spirited waltz echoed across a high, patterned ceiling.

As if to take the cue, Mother stood up to dance, and the southern nobles followed. It did not take long for grimaces to loosen into smiles. People stumbled under the weight of their wine, drunken laughter roared, and all was forgiven.

Saphiria danced as well. She would have been suspicious not to. Which host invited others to festivities without partaking herself? However, as soon as Mother ways parted with her partner, Saphiria did, too. They united under the crux of a marble arch.

“We must talk,” Saphiria said.

“Indeed we must.” Initiating a stately dance intended for discussion, Mother squeezed Saphiria’s wrist. “Do you realize what you have done?”

“It is a mere distraction.”

“Not this. Calling upon the band was clever, you are truly my child. I mean Dimitry. I learned that you sent a courier to his outpost. You’re the reason he has neglected to attend today, are you not?”

"There are more important matters to discuss.” Saphiria took a fierce step forward. “Tylo is—“

“I know. Leandra told me. You think Tylo, the man who has faithfully served Ferdinand and I since before you or your brothers were born, is working with the Church to discredit the archbishop. You are mad.”

“He and his loyalists neglected to attend Dimitry’s divination ceremony.”

“At that time, the Night of Repentance had just passed. The duty of a vassal is to manage their territory, not partake in every pleasantry. That is true now more than ever before.”

“Then how do you explain his hatred for Dimitry and Zera’s Thunder?”

“You gleaned so much from a man you’ve hardly met?” Mother loosened her grip on Saphiria’s wrist. “I know you care for the surgeon and he cares for you, but there is a reason. The Church took everything from Tylo. His children have perished in the Gestalt Wars, and the resulting grief has left his wife catatonic. How do you think he felt seeing Dimitry’s holy magic? It’s a misunderstanding.”

“A misunderstanding?” Saphiria shouted to be heard past a crescendo of woodwinds. “He armed gangsters with secretive magic and hired mercenary sorceresses to assault the cathedral on the Night of Repentance. He is the enemy!”

“No, he became the enemy. I aimed to let them speak and settle their differences, but you ruined it. You’ve convinced Dimitry to avoid Tylo, and now Tylo stews in his rage, angry that he is ignored.”

“Why should I have compassion for a fiend?”

“You still don’t understand, Saphiria. As royalty, you and I have one duty more important than the rest: nurturing the peerage. Vassals are the sword by which we defend the kingdom, the hand by which we guide the peasants, and the eyes by which we spy on our enemies. Without them, we are little more than wenches in gold-threaded garments. If Tylo is as damnable as you claim, stooping low enough to become the Church’s proxy, that means we are failing. We must turn him to our side.”

“The nobility is a hierarchy of stumbling blocks. We must prune them so that those who are capable can labor without worry.”

“It is a lesson you may not like, but it is one you must learn. Three days prior, Dimitry sent me a request. He wants to erect structures and assemble non-magic rifles, and while I intend to send him the necessary craftsmen, he also called upon my vassals that had promised to provide supplies for the heathen barrier. But they are hesitating. Not because they stopped supporting the apostle, but because the kingdom isn’t united in heart and mind. You and I must build a landscape where they can cooperate with Dimitry without the fear of reprisal.”

“There’s no time for petty politics,” Saphiria said. “If they are too cowardly to show support for the one man toiling endlessly on Malten’s behalf, I’ll transfer the supplies for them, and if anyone stands in my way, I’ll crush them.”

Mother tossed aside Saphiria’s arms. “Stubborn and impulsive, just like your father.”

The music petered out. A lutist froze mid-strum, Tylo’s meaty palm gripping his instrument’s neck. The marquis approached.

Though the sight of the traitorous man begged Saphiria to draw her dagger, she held her temper. Not here. Not now.

Tylo towered two heads above Mother, looking down at her without lowering his chin. “Your Majesty, I’ve waited since yesterday’s hunt to meet him. He should have been here by now.”

“Saphiria has just informed me that there has been another delay.”

“I saw his peasants outside. They’re delivering fish and collecting refuse.”

“The apostle has many duties to attend to. You know he is not a politician; his absence is not a premeditated affront.”

“Recall him now.”

Fury ignited within Mother’s crimson eyes. “You forget your place, Tylo. My archbishop is not a dog for you to whistle up on a whim, and neither am I. You’ve had your chance to meet him last week. You declined my invitation. Do not expect an apology.”

Tense silence gripped the banquet hall. The gazes of nobles wavered between the queen and an influential vassal as if choosing who to support.

For once, Saphiria sided with her mother.

Tylo knelt. “Your Majesty, I say this for the last time: we cannot place our faith in a man who takes a cripple and a commoner sorceress to lead his army of serfs.”

“That much coming from you? You have promised me an army that could secure the northwestern border, and one year later, I still have yet to see it.”

“It is almost ready.”

“When it is ready, we will talk.”

“I am not arming peasants and passing them off as a military force, Your Majesty. They are skilled cavalry, footmen, archers. Men and women who can handle heathens and bandits alike.” Tylo pressed a clenched fist to the marble floor. “But even they won’t be enough if we continue to house the false apostle.”

“Are you suggesting we exile the man who cured our plague?” Saphiria asked through grinding teeth.

“Your Royal Highness, before last month, we were unfortunate to see a carapaced devil once a Night of Repentance. With his arrival, we’ve had four. The coming full moon will be no better. Plagues are tragic, but the surgeon will doom us all. He calls the corruption.”

A lie. Saphiria had traveled with Dimitry for longer than a month, and in that time, heathens had attacked only once. He didn’t call the corruption. Another was to blame. Perhaps the same person who had gifted secretive magic to thugs.

“The raids have been worsening since before the empire was formed,” Mother said. “Volmer’s recent collapse has only compounded their numbers.”

“I speak of a thrice-fold increase. First the Church, and now a cursed apostle. How many times must we make the same mistake? We cannot rely on faith to save our kingdom. We must do it ourselves.”

“It is not faith that fights for us, but the people.”

“And if those people rise against us under the influence of corrupted magic?”

“Then we will handle it.”

Tylo rose to his feet. “Yes, we will.” He stormed out of the banquet hall, and most of the southern nobles followed him.