Last Life

Book 6: Chapter 2

“MIND YOU,” CHUCKLED THE KING. “Let them sing. Especially since the glory is well deserved.”

Judging by the mirthful expression on his face, Carl was favorably disposed toward the idea of me becoming more famous by the day. Actually, my aunt had predicted that he would react this way. When she found out about my invitation to the palace, she rushed over to my castle immediately and spent the entire day giving me meticulous instructions regarding the upcoming ritual.

Valerie had already told me that as a young woman, my aunt had had a little affair with the young Prince Carl. So the Duchess du Bellay had a lot to say about the King’s personality, habits, and preferences.

For example, Carl respected and appreciated military prowess. He always encouraged courageous fighters and brought them closer into his orbit. The Duke de Clairmont, by the way, was an example of just such a person.

The Duchess du Bellay assured me that if it hadn’t been for the sins of Max’s father, Carl would have brought me into his inner circle long before. And my aunt was certain that the King was going to try to leave me with a favorable impression. The recent defection of a quintet of strykers on the frontier was a sore spot for Carl, and like any King he blamed everyone except himself. Although something was telling me that Zoë de Namur and her warriors had defected to the Wild Duke precisely because of a difference of opinion with Carl III.

But now he had an avant in front of him — one who was loyal, and trying as hard to rectify his traitor father’s mistakes. What else could explain the young bastard’s zeal on the frontier and in the North?

And my aunt had also warned me that the ritual would most likely be performed in an abbreviated, accelerated manner. Even when he was healthy, Carl wasn’t a big fan of long, drawn-out ceremonies, and his wounding only made that tendency more pronounced.

And basically, that was exactly what happened. Without rising from my knee, I swore all the required oaths. Then I folded my hands into a sort of praying gesture and extended them forward, still pressed together, until they were between the King’s palms. This action symbolized my loyalty and my submission to my lord. The King, in turn, tapped the top of my head with the tip of his sword as a sign that he accepted the oath of his new vassal.

After that, Carl handed me a pennant made of thick, dark-blue fabric with my new coat of arms emblazoned on it in silver thread. At a nod from the King, the herald who had brought me the banner quickly explained the significance of the objects embroidered on it.

The central element of the sigil was a massive mountain, surrounded by clouds (or possibly fog) which symbolized Shadow Pass. This, of course, reflected the actual geographical location of the margraviate.

The colors of the sigil — deep blue and silver — symbolized the secrecy and magical aura of the Shadow. The dark blue symbolized the Shadow itself, the silver elements symbolized the light piercing through its darkness.

Behind that, there was a sword stuck into the ground, which symbolized the determination of the margraviate to protect its borders from any and all threats. The sigil was framed by oak branches — a symbol of strength and endurance, and also of the nobility and dignity of the House de Valier. Beneath the sigil was a motto: “Endurance and Loyalty.”

It all sounded very grandiose and majestic, but I later discovered that in reality, the Margraviate de Valier had been playing by its own rules for centuries by that point, and served as something of a waystation for all sorts of wanderers and smugglers. A pretty normal state of affairs for a border province.

By the way — the previous margrave had died almost a hundred years before, and hadn’t left any heirs. He wasn’t a noble by birth; rather, he received the march as a gift for loyal service to one of the ancestors of the current King.

For a lot of people, such a “gift” from the King might be perceived as akin to a punishment or banishment, but not for me. I saw this as a real opportunity to get stronger. Actually, a margravate was precisely the appropriate foundation on which to build a duchy. If the margrave somehow managed to survive long enough to do that...

After observing all the formalities, the participants and witnesses to the ceremony were invited into the dining hall for a short feast. And I have to note that the only people who seemed pleased to see me at the feast were the King himself and his jester. The others kept shooting disdainful, malicious glances at me, thinking I wouldn’t notice. And the head of the Amber Guild wasn’t really bothering to conceal his feelings about an upstart like me at all.

Judging by the large quantity of magical amulets and artifacts hanging from his neck, arms, and clothes, and also the deep gray-brown color of his energy system, Gilbert de Ambrelle was an artifactor, and an avant-level one at that. His guild was considered the most powerful in Vestonia. This was the guild that bought up all the magical items from the various fortresses along the frontier. I wouldn’t be surprised if the puffed-up bastard had already complained about me to the King. Most likely, he was hoping to attach one of his minions to me, to take control of the traffic in magical artifacts that came through Shadow Pass.

Due to the King’s illness, the feast was a short one, and when all the other guests were leaving the dining hall, Kiko gave me a signal to wait for a moment. It was time for the serious conversations to begin. Prior to that moment, Carl had behaved with perfect neutrality toward me and his other guests.

After a few minutes, I was invited into a small office, whose walls were hung with various hunting trophies, weapons, and paintings of hunts and battles.

Carl was sitting by the fireplace, in a big, comfortable armchair, watching me attentively as I walked in. As usual, the jester was sitting at his feet like a faithful dog. He shot me a playful wink. It was incredibly hot and stuffy in the room, but the King was still wrapped tightly in his fur cloak. And also, it was the middle of spring outside — not exactly freezing.

“Sit,” commanded Carl as he nodded toward a chair standing opposite his armchair.

I quickly thanked him and sat down, whereupon the King grunted:

“You’ve made yourself an enemy of the head of the Amber Guild with your recklessness. You couldn’t come up with a slightly more courteous reply?”

I glanced at Kiko, who was still smiling. The jester replied with a barely perceptible nod.

Carl noticed this little pantomime and waved his hand dismissively:

“You may speak freely.”

“Your Majesty, a polite response is appropriate for a polite inquiry. The esteemed Gilbert de Ambrelle, it seems, is either unfamiliar with that simple rule, or he’s forgotten it in his advanced age. But the answer he received was in the same spirit as his initial inquiry. If he’s of a mind to teach me some manners, he should know that I remain at his service at any time.”

Carl smiled and exchanged a glance with Kiko.

“Such insolence.” Then the King turned back to me and asked: “And in what way did the other guilds fail to satisfy you? You are, no doubt, aware of my edict? Just as I’m aware of the fact that you turned down everyone else in addition to the “Ambers.”“

“Actually, there were only five or six invitations, despite there being several dozen magical guilds in Vestonia. I’m merely waiting for more favorable offers.”

“You’ve wormed your way out of that one, too, then,” Carl laughed.

My aunt had warned me that the King’s mood was subject to abrupt swings. Sometimes several times in the course of an evening. So I was trying to be as tactful as possible, ready at any moment for an outburst of royal fury or something equally distressing.

“So what are your REAL reasons?” Carl asked, his tone suddenly serious and laced with a note of steel. “And don’t you dare try to lie to your sovereign.”

“It’s quite simple,” I shrugged. “I wish to be dependent exclusively on yourself, Your Majesty, and the grand masters of these guilds are all greedy for personal power. Sooner or later, their interests will conflict with your own. I have no intention of tolerating such a state of affairs, since I’ve sworn fealty to you before all others. There would undoubtedly be a conflict. So in order to avoid any such future conflict with these masters, I prefer not to join their guilds. Especially since they’ve played no part whatsoever in my magical development.”

“Why did your father conceal your gift?” Carl asked bluntly as he drilled into me with his steely gaze.

I was prepared for questions like this, though, so I replied quite calmly:

“He didn’t. Because he never knew about my gift. Nor, for that matter, did I. It appeared on the day I awoke after my duel with Vincent de Lamar.”

The King and his jester exchanged another knowing glance. It seemed like this theory had already entered into their discussions. And there was no doubt that they had been observing me for a long time by that point.

“And after that you rose to the rank of avant, in one year?” Carl snickered. “How is that possible? Other strykers spend years honing their skills without ever coming close to results like that.”

“One of my acquaintances told me that the Power is like a trusty blade — it needs constant tempering and honing.”

“Wise words,” croaked the King with a nod of approval. “Today’s generation of strykers is turning into a bunch of debutantes, devoting itself more and more to balls and receptions. And it isn’t surprising that some of them go on to betray their sovereign, despite his having showered them with gifts and caring for them as if they were his own children.”

I assumed he was referring to Zoë de Namur and her five warriors. As Carl spoke, he stared straight into my eyes with his icy, calculating gaze. But I withstood the pressure quietly.

“I hope you won’t make a similar mistake?” He asked.

I stood up from my chair and bent down on one knee.

“I will do everything in my power to rectify the mistakes of my father, Your Majesty.”

“Commendable zeal,” said the King, his voice already warmer. “Rise.”

When I stood up, Carl quickly looked me up and down and said:

“Your mission is extremely important. You’ll need to prepare well. Therefore, I’m giving you some extra time. You’ll join the Duke de Clairmont in Bresmont. It’s a small town on the border with Bergonia. That’s where my armies are assembling.”

Carl glanced at Kiko. He jumped up to his feet, and then (like some kind of traveling magician) he whipped out a leather document case from behind his back and handed it to the King. He, in turn, handed it to me.

“Here’s my written order commanding you to take control of the Margraviate de Valier. That’s your top priority. You’ll be subordinate to me and me alone. Leave the war to my marshals. The Duke de Clairmont has already been informed. These papers are to shut the mouths of any ill-wishers. After all, you seem to be acquiring them with enviable efficiency. Besides that, there are also official passes for you and your people. If you have anything to say, say it now.”

“Your Majesty,” I began. “I want to warn you that there are people in my unit whom it would be best to keep out of the capital.”

“Who?” Carl’s eyes narrowed, although I got the distinct impression that he already knew everything.

“The “Savage Hearts”...”

The King coughed and shot a sarcastic glance at Kiko.

“What about the capital’s guilds?” He asked.

“They turned me down,” I replied.

“As I said — a bunch of debutantes!” A malicious glimmer passed across the King’s eyes.

Then he turned back to me, and in a vicious hiss he said:

“I don’t give a shit who you hire. Hire a bunch of demons, for all I care. But make damn sure you carry out my order!”

* * *

A suburb of Herouxville

The castle known as “The Gray Tower”

For several months already, Viscount André de Châtillon had been “staying” at “The Gray Tower,” a place where nobles who broke the law were kept in confinement while they awaited the King’s judgment.

From the very moment he lost Prince Heinrich’s favor, all of his friends and allies abandoned him. The viscount spent a long time trying to restore his position, even following his prince to war in the hopes of rectifying the situation. But his efforts were all in vain: he gave a good account of himself in the war, but his prince acted as though he hadn’t noticed. His return home only brought new woes to his doorstep.

With every passing day, the viscount was sliding ever deeper into a morass of drunkenness, new debts, and chaotic duels in which he subconsciously hoped for a permanent solution to his humiliation and despair. His most recent duel had seen him run a sword through his former commander, and that was the last straw: the viscount was arrested and sent to the “Gray Tower,” where he was awaiting his fate, abandoned by everyone he once held dear. The only person who hadn’t abandoned him was his old servant, poor Charles, faithful to the end. That end, however, had come for Charles a few months previously.

After months of isolation inside the “Gray Tower’s” walls, the Viscount André de Châtillon was just a shadow of his former self. Rejected by his friends and forgotten by society, he was sinking deeper and deeper into depression every day. His days were filled with gloomy contemplations of his past and a feeling of utter hopelessness for the future.

André wasn’t even looking for salvation or forgiveness anymore. In the depths of his soul, he was actually longing for death, albeit not of the kind that his current circumstances had in store for him. As a marvelous soldier and swordsman, he had always dreamed of dying in battle, of a death worthy of a warrior, not some disgraceful execution on a scaffold. The only thing still visible in his once-lively eyes was the dim shadow of pain and disappointment.

Shut away in his cell, André often dreamed of the clashes he had fought in — of the flash of blades and the roar of battle. These memories were the only things left to him from his former life, a life full of purpose and goals. Now, in the cold walls of the prison, he faced the greatest trial he had ever faced — a fight against his own soul, torn apart by the constant anticipation and loneliness.

On one of these gray, gloomy days, which all felt endlessly long and identical to André, the door to his cell opened, and in walked Armand de Valmont, the commandant of the castle.

“Viscount,” he said as he lifted an oil lamp above his head to illuminate the room. “You’re still alive?”

“Alas, Monsieur,” replied André as he stood up from his shabby, mildewy wooden bed.

“My cousin is coming to the capital today,” said the commandant. “And I thought of you.”

The Viscount listened as the commandant told of a new war, of new prices for wine and bread, and then as Armand de Valmont suggested that André should write to the King to ask for a pardon. Naturally, de Valmont would have to be paid for the paper, ink, and for his and his cousin’s labor.

It was a possibility, but André knew very well that his chances of a pardon were very slim indeed. He had lost favor and influence long ago, and even if the King actually received his request and read it, his fate was probably sealed anyway.

After thinking for a moment, the viscount took out his last thaler (which he’d been saving for a rainy day and guarding with his life) and handed it to the commandant. In exchange, he received a quill and some paper. But instead of asking for a pardon, he wrote a different type of petition — a very unusual request. He asked to be sent to war as part of the so-called “Legion of Last Chances,” whose ranks were filled with common criminals. Ending up in this unit was considered a disgrace for any nobleman. It was a place where any battle might be your last, where death was never far away from any soldier. But for André, it was a chance to die with dignity, like a soldier. And he couldn’t have cared less about anyone’s prejudices.

The fiery spark, which had disappeared so long before, was back in his eyes. After writing the final words, he handed his petition to the commandant. His fate was in the hands of the King, and even though the outcome was still uncertain, for the first time in a long time André felt like he had actually taken control of his own fate again.

Several weeks later, when the Viscount de Châtillon had already lost hope of receiving an affirmative reply and more or less made peace with his unavoidable fate, the doors to his cell suddenly burst open. A broad-shouldered, bald mountain of a man stood on the threshold, his face riven by a deep scar.

André recognized him immediately, and for the first time in months a happy smirk crossed his face. This was Gaston Laforte, one of the captains of the Legion of Last Chances. His cohort was the subject of a whole host horrifying rumors. The most brutal, heartless murderers were always sent to him.

“When I found out who petitioned to join our ranks instead of heading off for a nice quiet death on the scaffold, I couldn’t believe my ears!” Laforte’s voice was a rolling grumble, like the growling of a wolf. “The Viscount de Châtillon himself! After finishing off that scumbag de Monterre, the laughingstock of his entire unit!”

Laforte took a step forward; no longer smiling, he asked:

“You understand, Viscount, that your decision will have consequences? You’ll be a pariah to your people for the rest of your life.”

“I don’t care,” replied de Châtillon. Grinning, he asked: “I trust the notorious Captain Laforte has brought something to wet our whistles?”