Last Life

Book 4: Chapter 7

“WOAH, THAT KNUT TOOK ENOUGHBEATING for two men,” Jean-Louis laughed and took a gulp from his goblet. “As far as I know, he wasn’t the one to call your Chickadee a pony.”

Baron de Levy kept tactfully silent on whether the lanky northerner had called me a “jester.”

“You’re right,” I nodded.

“Oh!” the prince’s perfumer’s brows shot up and his smile grew broader. “So you made a mistake on purpose? Now I see your whole dastardly plan. Giving Knut a public spanking for words he never spoke was a way to sow a seed of discord in the ranks of your ill-wishers. You are a fearsome man, monsieur.”

“Oh come now, monsieur,” I chuckled and shook my head. “What dastardly plan? It was just… a little prank.”

After I said that, Sigurd sat down next to me and, measuredly taking in all the grub on the table, just gave an indefinite snort.

For the record, the part of the table Jean-Louis and I had been placed at was much cleaner and had empty benches. That was probably because it had more fruits and vegetables, and less meat dishes, which the feasters preferred.

I meanwhile, on the contrary, was happy to add a bit of plant-based variety to my diet. Jean-Louis, judging on the contents of his plate, held the same opinion. Sigurd meanwhile was a true son of the north. He didn’t even seem to see the fruits and vegetables.

After what I said, Baron de Levy laughed and, with a tell-tale crunch, bit into a little cucumber the size of a pinky finger.

“By the way,” I said to him and pointed at all the fruit and vegetable dishes. “I’ve been meaning to ask… Where’d they get all this treasure? It’s fresh like it came straight from the fields.”

“Oh!” Baron de Levy exclaimed. “You couldn’t have chosen better words. Just imagine! This ‘treasure’ as you put it is grown right here in the palace. In the personal orangeries of Princess Astrid, which are looked after by a group of specially selected gifted people. Her collection numbers over one hundred varieties of plants from around the world.”

“Curious past-time for a northern princess,” I said in surprise.

“I should note that I, like all members of my embassy, was pleasantly surprised and charmed by Her Highness’ manners and education.”

Jean-Louis fell silent for a moment and looked around pointedly at the throne room, which had been methodically turned into a pigsty.

“Especially compared to all this.”

I nodded in agreement, encouraging him to continue.

“Even His Highness Prince Louis, whose melancholy state is well known to you, had his heart melt a bit in conversation with Princess Astrid.”

“What about her?” I asked.

“Her Highness seems smitten with our prince,” Baron de Levy said with a satisfied smile, lowering his voice. “What’s more, she’s in love with Vestonia. Our culture, our art, our music. She can’t wait to visit Herouxville and see it all with her own eyes.”

“And meanwhile, she’s a very powerful gifted woman,” I added. “If everything comes together right, our king might have grandchildren with the magical gift.”

“I am once again witness to the wisdom and foresight of our king!” I heard unfeigned triumph in Jean-Louis’ voice.

And of course… Baron de Levy was a loyal supporter of Prince Louis. If everything came together as planned, and Carl III’s youngest son’s children were gifted — it would significantly reinforce the position of the green party. Essentially, Prince Louis’ supporters would do whatever they could to secure the alliance with Vintervald.

“I agree completely, my friend,” I nodded. “The embassy, which seemed like an exile to this harsh land, proved to be a well-thought-out move by His Majesty. Let’s all drink to the health of our king!”

We raised our goblets, then drained them. And just then, one after the other, a new cast of characters started filing into the room. Based on their fine clothing and many companions, these were the konung’s most honored guests.

Casting a glance at the diverse procession, Jean-Louis immediately confirmed my guesses.

“The council of five jarls is all here,” he commented softly, coming closer to me.

Seeing by my eloquent gaze that I needed more information, Baron de Levy started giving me a quick rundown of each person.

“Jarl Gunnar Fiercebear,” he nodded quickly at a muscular old man who really did look like a bear standing on hind legs.

“I may be wrong, but he seems to look like Bjørn Sharptooth,” I shared.

“You’re very observant, monsieur,” Jean-Louis replied. “Jarl Gunnar and Konung Bjørn are brothers. Sharptooth is a few years older.”

And both were powerful gifted men. But I didn’t say that out loud.

“Jarl Torstein,” the baron quietly introduced me to a broad-shouldered pipsqueak with a thick, black beard walking quickly. “Popularly known as Stonehands. They say he’s one of the best hand-to-hand fighters in Northland. He can take down an adult aurochs with a single punch.”

“If of course he can reach its head,” I heard Sigurd say.

My bodyguard, unlike the baron, was speaking at full volume. Based on the wry look in his eye, he must have known this Torstein.

Jean-Louis shot the stryker an unhappy look and gave a slight wince. I decided not to straighten Sigurd out. First of all, he hadn’t really said anything. And second, I found the situation amusing. Because I had seen the pipsqueak jarl notice Sigurd but pretend not to recognize him. He even quickened his pace while walking past our table. His retinue followed after, diligently ignoring the former frost knight.

“Know him?” I asked Sigurd briefly.

“Once upon a time…” he responded with a shrug.

“Your bodyguard’s lack of restraint might cause problems,” Jean-Louis said.

“Your Worship,” Sigurd glanced at the baron, then pointed at the palace walls. “You are now in a huge stone chamber, surrounded by Northland’s most dangerous hunters. Problems could arise at any moment.”

After that, Sigurd turned away and again concentrated on a big, huge piece of meat lying on his plate. Nearly whispering, he muttered something to himself, but I could hear.

“I’m surprised all these spiders haven’t eaten each other up yet.”

Meanwhile, Jean-Louis, no longer paying attention to my bodyguard, continued bringing me up to speed. I of course knew something about the local political situation, but Baron de Levy was better informed.

The goings on in Northland could be summed up in one word — chaos. Not like what was happening on the Foggy Isles, of course, where everyone was fighting everyone, but something similar was starting to take shape here.

Essentially, this part of the continent now had three large centers of power. The first was the so-called alliance of five jarls, which was engaged in an open and unrelenting, bloody war with the second biggest player — Konung Harold Graywolf, who had made an agreement with the priests of Hoar the Wicked.

And that agreement was essentially what kicked it all off. At the very least, that was how the five rebel jarls who were Konung Harold’s vassals explained their disobedience. Graywolf plotted to change the pantheon. He had already started actively worshipping Hoar the Wicked.

For a long time, his vassals pretended not to notice their suzerain’s religious quirks, continuing to worship the Forefather, but the konung was pressured by the priests of the Frost Temple to take it further. He got it in his head to start forcing all his subjects to believe in that vile deity just like him. Many obeyed, except the most influential jarls. And that was how this war started, which I was now dreaming of in short episodes. My mystery benefactor must have been trying to show me something. I wished I knew what…

And finally, the third center of power — Vintervald, under the rule of Konung Bjørn Sharptooth, and which had taken a neutral stance.

Because beyond the big players, there were also various minor jarls and chiefs, who were also quarreling amongst themselves.

Based on everything I’d heard recently, I concluded that the Great Trial, or rather the ceasefire announced for the duration of the festivities, was supposed to be a sort of first step toward a future peace treaty.

Bjørn Sharptooth wanted to play peacemaker. Although, looking a bit ahead, I could confidently say that he was planning to unite the whole north under his banner. At first, he would bring peace to the north, which had been mired in bloody war. Then, they would start viewing him as a sort of arbiter capable of wisely settling any dispute. And with that authority, he could lay claim to the crown of the whole north.

And now we were in the first stage. The two opposing camps had been pretty whipped by their battles and may have made concessions to one another. But nobody wanted to take the first step. They needed a powerful, and respected intermediary, which was to be played by the Konung of Vintervald.

Meanwhile, Jean-Louis continued at half voice:

“And that’s Sigurd Bloodsword — elder brother of Queen Margaret. The black-haired woman next to him is Helga the Valiant.”

False Thais, majestically proceeding to her table, was trying very hard to pretend not to notice me.

I just chuckled and looked at her father, who she didn’t much resemble. She must have taken after her mother. Though she did get her father’s eyes.

Sigurd Bloodsword looked positively herculean. Tall and broad-shouldered — he was a great boulder of a man. His thick, black beard was carefully plaited into thin braids capped by golden cylinders with runic writing, lending him a severe, majestic quality. His eyes glimmered sternly beneath thick brows, bearing witness to unshakeable determination.

I suddenly distantly considered the vicissitudes of reincarnation. I wondered what False Thais’ mother looked like. Did she look like the mother of my adoptive sister, who died while performing a circus trick? They had to look somewhat alike, right? However, my Thais’ father looked nothing like Jarl Sigurd.

I considered it and immediately saw my bodyguard looking tense. The stryker froze and stopped eating. I followed his gaze. Hm… I see… New characters had entered the hall.

With a heavy, measured gait, a tall gaunt beardless man proceeded to his table surrounded by three identical beardless priests of the Frost Temple.

All three wore austere gray robes with hoods, concealing cold, unwelcoming faces. When they entered the hall, it felt colder. The voices of the feasters fell silent. Everyone looked at them cautiously and with disdain.

“King Harold Graywolf is today bringing his priest friends to the feast for the first time,” Jean-Louis came quietly.

One of the priests suddenly stopped and turned to face us. He spotted Sigurd. A moment later, the priest came racing our direction.

I heard Jean-Louis utter a curse word under his breath.

Stopping a step from our table but on the opposite end, the priest bored into my bodyguard with a silent stare. Sigurd meanwhile thrust his chin stubbornly forward and calmly watched the old man’s every move.

The priest was short and narrow shouldered. I’d put him at fifty. With pale almost transparent skin. His eyes were deeply set, which lent a penetrating, cold air to his gaze. His face didn’t have a single hair on it, while his thin lips were frozen in a grimace of disgust. Sigurd then responded with an identical look.

I must note that, despite all his external fragility, the priest was behaving confidently in the presence of the dangerous stryker. The long fingers of his right hand clenched a necklace around his thin neck with a symbol of the Frost Temple.

The priest was gifted. I could sense emanations of his aura. Honestly though, I didn’t risk switching to true vision. Yet again, one of the old man’s brothers easily sensed my scanning.

While Sigurd and the priest silently played the staring game, I looked at the medallion on the strange cultist’s sunken chest.

The Frost Temple medallion was a thin, wrought silver pendant shaped like three bolts of intersecting lightning.

At the point where the bolts met, a piece of ice was set. Clearly some kind of brut. I listened to the power that emanated from it.

The ice stone was framed with thin silver branches like frozen ice nodes, which gave the medallion a deep air of cold and wintry elements.

“Vile heretic!” the priest came in a creaking voice. “How dare you come here! Before the eyes of the Most High? You desecrate this place with your presence. Your soul is cursed, and you are destined for eternal torment in the cold embrace of the demons of the deep!”

Sigurd wanted to respond, probably with something very harsh, but I gave him a hard kick under the table. The big man shuddered and looked at me anxiously. Then the look in his eyes sobered and he quietly breathed out.

“Your Reverence!” I drew the priest’s attention. “My name is Chevalier Maximillian Renard.”

He turned his colorless eyes on me. The old man was clearly surprised and discouraged by my interference.

Not letting him find his bearings, I continued with a broad, open smile:

“The thing is that Sigurd Hansen is currently in my employ. And if you have any complaints, you should direct them to me. That would be more proper, don’t you find?”

“Monsieur Renard…” the priest replied with a creaking voice. The old man hit me with a favorable look. “The man you hired is a heretic and a traitor. This feast is no place for him. You should order him to leave at once.”

“But Your Reverence, whatever for?” I feigned astonishment and slight confusion. “So, you’re saying I am dealing with a criminal? But I was assured his name was clear!”

“Trust me, kid, Eimund Larsson always tells the truth!” the priest said, nodding importantly and casting triumphant looks at Sigurd, who was sitting calmly all that time. “Those who assured you otherwise are lying! Would you allow me to ask who it might have been?”

Setting my hand beneath the mercenary guild medallion hanging on Sigurd’s neck but which had gone behind a flap of his cloak, I said:

“Look here, Your Reverence, are you familiar with this?”

I could tell based on the priest’s surprised gaze that he was.

“I think so, but…”

“Over there, past the konung’s table, if I’m not mistaken, you will find Herman von Salm, Grandmaster of the Blades of Dusk, the mercenary guild I hired him from. The contract stated in black and white that the Blades of Dusk assured me that Sigurd Hansen was no criminal and was not wanted by Vintervald law enforcement.”

“But monsieur…” the priest slowly started to back off. He must have already been aware of where this was leading.

I then continued to press, gradually raising my voice:

“The issue is, Your Reverence, that I as a noble man of noble heart, never would have allowed myself contact with some crook or, even worse, murderer. That is precisely why I turned to the esteemed mercenary guild. It would be wrong for me to sully the honor of my house, which trusted me to accompany His Highness Prince Louis to Vintervald. And that is why I will go directly to His Eminence von Salm to tell him that our agreement is null and void. And that he tricked me when he said Sigurd was clear before Vintervald law. You have my gratitude, Your Reverence, for opening my eyes! I am forever in your debt.”

I pretended to want to run directly toward the konung’s table, but Eimund Larsson shuddered and took a step back. His already pale face now looked like a plaster mask.

I meanwhile became even more convinced of the dusksworn guild’s extreme power. Even the priests of Hoar the Wicked were afraid to tangle with them.

“No need to do that just now, monsieur,” the priest said, trying to hide his worry. “You needn’t tarnish the festivities with unnecessary trouble.”

“But, Your Reverence, you just…” I started, but the priest had already turned and, not listening to me, fairly quickly raced back toward the table where his brethren were seated.

I sat back down on the bench while Jean-Louis and Sigurd smiled. A minute later, we were joined by Olivier de Belmont, Prince Louis’ chamberlain.

“Monsieur Renard! His Highness requests that you join him.”