Last Life

Book 7: Chapter 20

ONCE AGAIN, THE VALLEY where we were encamped was covered by a thick blanket of rain clouds. It had been raining non-stop for three days already. Despite the bad weather, however, people were actually happy about the enforced delay — it meant time for rest and relaxation after a hard-fought battle.

Besides that, it gave our wagoneers plenty of time to unpack the trophies from the Atalian wagon train, which Viscount de Châtillon and his men had taken whole and unpilfered.

Besides provisions, weapons, armor, and other valuables, the enemy wagon train also contained no fewer than FOUR separate treasuries.

The first and largest belonged to the Duke di Spinola. The second, slightly smaller one belonged to Prince Adrian. The third, to the Atalian legion. And the fourth and smallest treasury was that of the Rivlian mercenary unit.

Gold and silver coins, precious stones, jewelry, several small cases packed with bruts of various colors, armor and weapons that were inlaid with gold and silver and encrusted with gemstones, saddles and bridles of similar quality, magical elixirs — by local standards, it was an absolutely enormous haul.

We could have split it all up then and there, dividing the spoils up as was customary, and every man in the army would have returned home with a substantial fortune. And that’s without even considering the valuable prisoners, who I was planning to ransom for considerable sums.

I mean, Prince Adrian and Duke di Spinola alone would be worth a literal fortune. I had already discussed this with the latter prisoner, of course, but I was planning to drive a very hard bargain for the former. And I knew there would be just as much negotiation among the various parties on the Atalian side as there would be between Atalian and Vestonian. The heir to the throne was the most valuable trophy imaginable.

In fact, under different circumstances — namely, if the Atalian King had been a powerful, independent figure — the fact of the Prince’s capture, ipso facto, would have led to a peace treaty (and not one likely to be very favorable for the Atalians). But Alfonso V was a mere puppet, whose strings were firmly in the hands of the Order’s priests. And for them, it would probably be more advantageous if the Prince were to die in Vestonian captivity. The same was true where the Golden Lion was concerned.

After my little chat with Adrian, I came to the conclusion that Marshal di Lorenzo was playing a game of his own. Which wasn’t really surprising. He was in complete control of the Atalian legions. And they were much more devoted to him personally than they were to the King.

Basically, it looked like the best possible offer for the Atalian heir would probably come from Carl III; with the Prince in his power, he could potentially make some very interesting and complicated moves.

It was for this reason that all my strykers, including Sigurd and Aelira, were keeping watch over the valuable prisoner day and night. The Prince, by the way, was the only captive whom I intended to keep with me going forward. The rest of the prisoners would be sent to the Citadel, escorted by 200 Mertonians and a hundred mountain men whose loyalty I could trust.

Marshal de Clairmont and the rest of the Vestonian nobles we had freed were also sent back to the Citadel. One of our healers would accompany the Duke, with instructions to keep feeding the Marshal my modified elixirs. Or, as I called them, my “latest-generation” elixirs.

After devouring the black parasite, my golden parasite was full for almost two days. While it was busy with my reservoir, I had the opportunity to requisition several sizable masses of golden energy. More than that, it barely hurt at all when I did so.

I used a small amount of the invaluable mana on experimenting with my webs and healing the most critical patients in the infirmary, then put the rest of the energy into modified magical potions.

The results exceeded all my expectations. The elixirs became 30% more effective. And that was after just a very small addition of golden mana. Marshal de Clairmont, for example, who I had treated with “golden” healing potions, regained his senses within 48 hours (to the indescribable joy of Count de Leval).

At first, the Duke didn’t recognize anyone, nor did he have any idea where he was. He slept almost constantly. That said, he was clearly getting better. Under the effects of my webs and potions, his energy system gradually began to heal, and the process grew faster and faster with every passing day.

As he watched his old comrade start eating again (before long, he was wolfing down everything that we set in front of him), Guilleme de Leval couldn’t help but feel overjoyed. After all, he had already mentally prepared himself for the Duke’s death...

In light of that, perhaps it goes without saying that, on the day that Count de Leval walked into the Duke de Clairmont’s tent and saw his old friend not only alive, but already on the road to a speedy recovery, I acquired another devoted friend and ally. And of course, I had also saved his son’s life.

Nevertheless, there’s always a fly in the ointment somewhere... This time, it was the golden parasite. After devouring the death energy and using it to increase the volume of my reservoir, the beast started to demand more mana than before. In fact, keeping it sated now required almost twice as many bruts as it had before. To add insult to injury, the gluttonous beast didn’t even seem particularly pleased with the expensive food I was providing. At those moments, I couldn’t help remembering those black bruts... To be fair, though, I always chased such thoughts out of my head immediately. The memory of my failed experiment — the one that had almost killed me — was still far too fresh at the time.

Just to calm myself down a little bit, I actually tried touching one of the black crystals at one point, but the golden parasite’s reaction to that attempt was... Well, it was negative, to say the least. A wave of hatred washed over me, along with a deep, inexplicable fear — and, at the same time, a feeling of burning impatience.

All these feelings were distinctly two-sided. Like two inveterate opponents, the two hostile energies seemed to be waiting for an opportunity to attack each other; each was just waiting for the other to show a sign of weakness. The golden one had made one thing very clear: only when it was much, much stronger than its opponent would it be willing to lunge into battle against the black parasite. And actually, that state of affairs suited me perfectly well...

By midday on the fourth day the rain let up a little bit, and the camp began to stir. Several people were already predicting that the sun would come out within two days and allow us to continue on our way. I decided not to disappoint them, but Vaira had said that the rainy weather would continue for at least a week, possibly more. The efirel was never wrong about things like this.

In any other situation, I’d have said that the downpour was a huge inconvenience, but after taking the Atalians’ wagon train we all had plenty of provisions to go round.

At the very least, we weren’t going to run out of food. Besides, in addition to the small villages on our route, we would reach the city of Conterne within about ten days. This was the third-largest city in Bergonia, and I was planning to conquer it and use its resources to replenish our supplies.

That day, my plan was to make the rounds in the hospital. I checked the most serious cases first, without paying any mind to titles or pedigrees. At one point, one of the Marquis de Gondy’s noblemen tried to criticize me for this. Something about him having to wait with a dislocated arm while I treated some commoner. He didn’t seem to care that the man had a deep gouge in his flesh and a shattered bone underneath it. Nobles first, then commoners.

For my part, I gently explained to the insolent Viscount that I wasn’t his personal healer, and that I intended to treat only those whose injuries actually required my intervention. In addition, I advised him not to distract me with nonsense anymore — actually, I told him he’d do best to keep out of my sight entirely, unless he wanted me to treat his dislocation by amputating the entire arm.

At first, I had tried at least to pay lip service to the rules of polite society as best I could when I was around the nobles in the Marquis’ entourage. Eventually, though, I just didn’t have time to engage in meaningless niceties with idiots like that Viscount anymore.

That said, there were plenty of nobles who simply waited patiently for their turn to come. The Marshal de Clairmont, for example.

I arrived that day to find him waiting for me outside his tent, reclined in an armchair with a big shade over it. Wrapped up in a bearskin cloak, looking as thin and pale as he did, at a distance the Duke reminded me of a gigantic newborn.

The decisive, firm look in his eyes suggested that our impending conversation had been brewing in his mind for quite a long time...

* * *

Bergonia

Near the banks of the Miroir River

The Margrave de Valier’s field camp

Édouard de Clairmont stared out at the drizzling rain, deep in thought. From time to time, he would take a deep breath in and pay special attention to the peculiar cocktail of smells and sounds that accompanied any army camp.

Earlier that day, he had asked Guilleme to move him out into the fresh air. His old friend, who had never once left his side (and who had basically saved his life), objected to this request at first, but eventually went ahead and did as he had been asked.

With every passing day, Édouard’s thoughts were becoming clearer and clearer, and the initial joy at having been saved quickly began to give way to a morose appreciation of the reality on the ground.

Who would he be when he finally returned to the capital? A pathetic loser, who had missed a betrayal unfolding right under his nose and lost an entire army as a consequence. The King would never forgive him such a resounding defeat. Édouard knew Carl too well to deceive himself about that... Best case scenario, the Duke would face a disgraceful retirement and exile from court. Worst case scenario... Well, Édouard was still recovering, so he was trying his best not to think about anything too horrible. Not for the time being, at least, when he was still so full of joy at his seemingly-miraculous recovery.

Maybe, he thought, retirement would actually be a chance to relax. For once, he might actually be able to take care of matters in his duchy, instead of hanging around in some far-distant land on the orders of his King. First and foremost, there was the question of his heir...

Thinking of poor Jean, the Duke let out a heavy sigh. He was in for a very difficult conversation with his sister...

Eventually, Édouard was torn out of his musings by the arrival of the Margrave de Valier. Guilleme had told him that it was the de Gramont bastard who had prevented him from falling into the Abyss.

First, there were the potions that Guilleme had been spoon-feeding Édouard; then, there was the treatment that totally eradicated the black miasma within his body. And now there were these miraculous golden elixirs. So, he thought... Who are you really, Max Renard? How is there so much power in you?

Basically, the boy was around the same age as his late nephew. Renard had come south with a small unit of mercenaries. And now he was in command of an entire army, which was continually expanding in size and had yet to suffer a single defeat.

Édouard had already heard Guilleme wax lyrical about the battles the bastard had won. Who knows, thought the Duke... Maybe they were all witnessing the rise of a great new commander, whose name would one day be mentioned in the same breath as legends like Carl XIII the Devastator and Robert II the Wise.

“How are you feeling, Your Grace?” The Margrave de Valier asked politely as he approached the Duke’s armchair.

“For a man who had already said his goodbyes to this world, I feel surprisingly lively,” replied Édouard. “And for that, I’d like to thank you once again, Monsieur.”

“I have no doubt you’d have done the same if our circumstances had been reversed,” Renard replied modestly. “Besides, I can tell you without exaggeration that the Count de Leval is your real savior.”

“But those potions he got from you...”

“He could have gotten potions from anyone, Your Grace,” Renard shook his head. “What matters is who he chose to use them on.”

“Commendable modesty,” the Duke nodded. He approved of Renard’s answer. “A virtue which is sadly lacking among your peers.”

“Thank you,” the Margrave nodded; then he asked: “Would you allow me to examine you?”

Édouard agreed. Renard laid his right hand on the Duke’s shoulder and closed his eyes. A little while later, he opened his eyes again and looked up at Édouard’s face.

“The sickness is receding,” he said. “If you keep following my recommendations, you’ll be on your feet within a month.”

“A stryker...” The Duke murmured quietly to himself as he stared into the strange young man’s eyes. “Healer... True gifted... Who are you, Monsieur?”

Édouard already had a guess as to who Renard might be. It was enough to put together all the various pieces that he had heard about the boy...

“I’m a spellsword,” the Margrave replied calmly as he sat down on the neighboring armchair and stretched out his legs with evident enjoyment.

“And judging by the marks on your soldiers’ armor, your nature is that of a fox?” Édouard asked.

“Oh!” Renard sounded surprised, although it seemed feigned to Édouard. “Have you had dealings with one of us before?”

“There were spellswords among my ancestors,” replied Édouard. “Also Foxes...”

He said this lightly, as though it were a well-known fact from his past. Something as normal as a wedding or the birth of a child. However, Édouard had always kept this little part of his biography a closely-guarded secret. Being a descendant of the true gifted wasn’t a popular thing at court, especially in recent years.

Like the gift of the witch, the gift of the spellsword would always choose its own master. Neither Édouard’s father, nor he himself, nor his son Gauthier had been gifted. Therefore, the Duke saw nothing to be gained from spreading word about the peculiarities in his ancestry. True, he had informed Carl about it. And when he did, it seemed to him like the King had already known about his best friend’s secret.

Similarly, Renard didn’t seem at all surprised by the revelation.

“I suppose that’s probably where the name of my castle comes from,” said Renard, in a tone somewhere between an assertion and a question. “The castle you sold to my father?”

“That’s right,” nodded Édouard, who had to try hard not to reveal his distaste at the mention of de Gramont. “So one of your ancestors on your mother’s side must have been a spellsword, then? Because I’ve never heard anything about such ancestry among the de Gramonts.”

“Probably,” Renard shrugged. “Not that anyone’s ever told me anything about it. You may not know this, but I’ve been disowned by both sides of my family. Mind you, that’s not such an unusual fate for a bastard.”

Édouard realized that something unusual was going on. This strange, almost shockingly frank conversation... The calm, almost bored way that Renard had reacted to his revelation... It was like they were talking about some distant, far-removed people, rather than his own immediate relatives. He didn’t seem to care about his relatives at all — either the Counts or the merchants.

Further, the Duke could sense that the nature of their future relationship would probably depend on the outcome of this conversation. Not the relationship between their houses — the personal relationship between Édouard de Clairmont and Maximillian de Valier. Whether they would be enemies, friends, or simply allies was a question that would be decided then and there, sitting in those armchairs under the sound of rain drumming on the canopy above them.

The young man was a lot more perceptive than Édouard had first thought.

“The de Gramonts are my enemies,” said Édouard in a quiet but firm tone. “Your father was complicit in the death of my son.”

“I offer you my condolences,” said Renard. “Sons should never pass away before their fathers. As for the de Gramonts... My father and brothers have already paid the price for their crime. And as far as I’m aware, my aunt and uncle took the King’s side in the whole affair. Which was your side, too... That just leaves me. But my innocence in the plot against His Majesty is well attested in the interrogation papers in the secret chancery.”

“You’re still your father’s son,” replied Édouard.

“The Viscount d’Angland, who’s being held by the Atalians, is also his father’s son,” shrugged Renard. “Does that make him complicit in the fact that the Count d’Angland, his father, betrayed his King, as well as you and your men, in order to save his own son?”

Édouard was taken aback, but his surprise soon gave way to a frown.

“How do you know about that?”

“I’ve been talking to Prince Adrian quite a bit lately,” answered Renard.

“That doesn’t matter,” Édouard shook his head. “The King will never forgive the family for his betrayal.”

“But the Viscount d’Angland didn’t betray anybody,” Renard replied calmly. “And neither did I. We’re both being held hostage for the deeds of our fathers. Sure, I must admit that that’s just about the only similarity between the Viscount and me. We’re quite different in everything else.”

Édouard noticed the soft smile on the young man’s face. For some reason, it reminded him of his late daughter. Christine had always smiled like that whenever she remembered something funny from the past.

“If the Viscount is innocent, the King will be inclined toward mercy,” said Édouard. “His Majesty is a just ruler.”

“How about you? Are you just?” Renard asked quite unexpectedly. “Are you capable of shedding the idea that I’m your enemy?”

The young man’s icy gaze sent an icy chill down Édouard’s back. The Duke could sense it — at least potentially, he was just a hair’s breadth away from the Abyss. A light touch from Renard would be enough to stop his heart instantly. And not for a moment would anybody suspect murder. Édouard would simply have died of a heart attack.

But the Duke wasn’t afraid of death, and Renard seemed to know that. Therefore, Édouard also knew that the Margrave wasn’t trying to threaten him, or even put pressure on him. He simply wanted to determine whether the man in front of him was a friend or an enemy.

“I no longer consider you an enemy,” said Édouard with absolute conviction in his voice; the look in Maximillian’s eyes as he listened made it clear that the young man accepted these words as genuine. “But neither do I consider you a friend. At this point, I’m a man who’s in your debt.”

“That’s enough for me, Your Grace,” concluded Renard. With that, he rose from his chair.

Before leaving, he added:

“As your healer, I advise you not to spend too much time out in the cold. One more hour, and then I’d like you to return to your tent where it’s warm.”

With a polite bow, the Margrave set off at a leisurely pace toward the neighboring tent, which was full of wounded soldiers.

After watching him leave, Édouard could finally let out a big sigh. Unbeknownst to him, he had been holding his breath the entire time they’d been talking.

The more he spoke to the unusual young man, the more questions started to arise in his mind. For example, Édouard was interested to find out more about the sale of the Fox Den to Count de Gramont, which Maximillian had mentioned.

Louisa had taken care of that piece of business, so Édouard couldn’t remember much about it at all. Especially since the Duke himself had been on campaign at the time. His wife had merely informed him that she had decided to sell the castle, because it kept reminding her of Christine’s death.

Édouard had agreed with Louisa at the time; in fact, he had often felt the same way himself. Besides, he had never really liked the castle, even during his childhood. To some extent, therefore, he was actually glad that his wife had decided to get rid of it.

That said, Édouard now had another question for his wife... How, he wondered, did it come to pass his amulet with the fox’s head on it, an heirloom that had been passed down in his family for generations, which he had given to Christine, and which Louisa told him had then been lost... How was this amulet now hanging on a chain around Maximillian de Valier’s neck?