“Tales of explorers about the uncharted world are such that we cannot single out truth and fact from myth and exaggeration. Legends of dark gods worshipped by old empires at the edge of the world, of primeval forests harbouring frightening fauna in the south, and barren lands beyond the eastern plains... Few dare wander toward these uncivilized places, fewer come back alive from their journeys.

-traveller”

* * *

Astrael

He closed a thick, ragged grimoire in a clap and let out a long sigh. Still nothing. Astrael got up from his chair and went to put the book back on its shelf. At this rate, he would have gone through every single work in the temple's library, without success. Neither Tarhas nor Milemnon, two of the greatest Callirian scholars, made mention of anything relevant in the many books they wrote during their lives.

Euronel had only visited the Vieran cities and the western kingdoms, but he was far from being an expert on ancient history anyway. The scriptures of Xito weren't of any help either. So far, there was no mention of his past deeds, or those of his comrades. But then again, their fight against the corruption hadn't been entirely forgotten, since one of them was featured in the paintings of the hall. There should have been hints somewhere, and he intended to find them.

Astrael walked to the acolyte in charge of the library, and asked once more for help. “Is there anything serious about the Abyss, the demons, or whatever?”

The man raised his nose from a piece of parchment and stared at him, obviously not pleased by the half-hearted request and the tone with which it was made. “Young master...” he said, and exhaled deeply before continuing. “You cannot expect me to find something that would satisfy you at this point. You'll do as usual and mock the Callirian legends, calling them a bunch of child tales and whatnot.”

“But it is what they are. Would you rather have me lying to your face?”

He frowned. “I would have you study history with the same seriousness that is expected of acolytes and priests,” he said in a smug tone. What's with your high horse? You're not even a priest yet. “Or perhaps you mean to say that you can differentiate truth and falsehoods among our texts.”

“Certainly.” The acolyte made a grimace that hinted at his growing fury. “So, any lead? I'm sure you remember this, but my sister sees this venture as a most important one. Perhaps your precious cooperation would compel her to, say, facilitate your studies toward priesthood... On the other hand, how would she react if she learned that you hindered my research, I wonder?”

It was a lie – there was no way he could have told Rina about his past fights, just to satisfy his curiosity. Still, if he asked her, she would play along without a doubt.

The man clicked his tongue. “Fine. Err... demonic corruption and history of ancient gruesome diseases, was it?” Astrael nodded, and the acolyte mumbled something insulting before sighing and continuing. “I'll see if I can find more books about these... fields. Come back tomorrow.”

“I'll come by tonight,” Astrael said with his best smile and walked away, ignoring the angry muttering of the librarian. He stepped outside the large paper-smelling room and wandered in the corridors of the fourth floor. Stopped at a door where a lesson about geography took place – he glimpsed at the map spread on the table, and a few students who noticed his presence greeted him with a nod. He listened for a bit, but grew bored of the lesson since he already knew these things, and so he resumed his walk through the corridors. A priest bowed his head to him as they passed each other, and a few acolytes gossiped in their corner, perhaps thinking he couldn't hear them.

He had grown used to these sorts of occurrences. For some, he was still the hero's brother, and that alone was enough to earn him respect and fake smiles. Rina had it worse of course, for whenever she wasn't admired and worshipped like a deity, she still had to deal with obvious flatterers and conspicuous backscratchers, whereas Astrael could afford to ignore them, or be ignored. Still, that flattery was often also extended to him by some of these knaves. Others knew him as sir Leon's promising squire and saw him train with the bloodsguard, or ride along the Feanir family. A few more often met him in the library.

As he walked toward the training hall, the sounds of clashing steel reverberated through the corridor. He entered the room, saw a few people in mail and leather sparring amongst themselves, and spotted Rina immediately. As usual when she trained, she had traded her red gown for a gambeson. Her loosely tied hair whirling as she gracefully thrusted, stepped in, slashed. Dodged a blow, and kicked her opponent, sending him to the ground.

The man tried to get up, only to groan in pain and fall on his back once more. Poor lad must have a few broken ribs. These blunt iron swords were at fault, no doubt. Or maybe it was Rina's kick? Claps echoed, and Astrael glanced to the wall against which master Odel was laying his back. The man looked proud to see his student obliterating her sparing partner.

“How's it going?” Astrael slurred as he neared the fencing master. The bald Vieran raised a brow and crossed his arms, showing off his biceps swelling through the light grey-blue fabric of his tunic.

“Can't you see?” he said in his slight accent. A few people came to help Rina's sparring partner while she was wiping the sweat on her forehead with her sleeve.

Astrael scoffed. “All I see is some squire too afraid to swing his weapon at the young mistress because of her title. That isn't a fight.”

Odel spat on the ground but seemed to share his opinion. “Yeah, well... Good luck finding someone her level who would be willing to hurt her.”

True enough. The fencing master had enough courage – or cruelty – not to treat Rina like a delicate flower, but he was too skilled to have a real spar with her. Finding a Callirian who wouldn't hold back wasn't an easy task. Aside from the remorseless Odel, maybe the indifferent Bert? No, he also was too strong.

“What about you?” the master asked. Astrael scratched his head. He had already thought of it, though that wasn't right either. Not anymore, at least. But Odel had a creepy, smug expression that hinted at his own conclusions. “That blue-blooded Feanir kid says good things about you. Brags about you, even. Might just be because he resents me from stealing his job though, hah.”

“Leon? What absurdities has he been spreading?”

The baldy's mouth twisted in a grin that showed his shining teeth. “Word is you're a natural at this. He says he's never seen a lad like you.”

That's because Leon isn't as good a swordsman as everyone seems to think... That didn't mean he was wrong, on the contrary – simply that Leon's praise didn't hold that much value in Astrael's mind. He frowned and tried to avoid this expected development. “You want me to bully my own sister.”

“Oh, who said anything about bullying? Quite confident, are we?”

He let out an exasperated groan. In any case, the best way to get rid of the man's annoying insistence was to show how futile this venture was. “Just observe, you hairless foreigner.”

He took two round shields from a wooden rack, walked toward Rina and handed her one, before grabbing the iron sword that the injured lad had dropped. It might do her some good, actually. It wasn't as if his sister had became arrogant, but she had to understand that knowing how to mistreat the ribcages of grovelling squires wouldn't be of any help on the battlefield.

“Are we duelling?” she asked, immediately making her sword swirl in her hand with a confident expression, yet glancing at Odel and a few other onlookers.

Astrael strapped the shield to his left arm. “Indeed, young mistress,” he said as he mocked the master's accent, loudly enough for him to hear.

The city-states of Viera and Callir shared the same language – and so did the easternmost city-states of Tehen and Ebion – with only small differences. A few idioms and words changed depending on the cultures, but it was mostly the Vierans' pronunciation that was of note – a melodious rhythm and a tendency to stress syllables in strange places. According to the fencing master, it was the Callirians who had an accent, but Astrael wouldn't know how true that was.

They both took a stance, shields up and blades ready to strike. Rina was the first to move and tried a botte which he warded off. He came in and bashed her with the shield, but she managed to fall back and dodged the following strike. They danced for a bit in that fashion, testing the waters, playing rather than seriously attacking. But soon enough the gap between them showed.

His blade and shield kept meeting every strike coming at him, never putting himself in harm's way, whereas Rina had been caught several times, on the arms, the thigh, the calf, the sides. He had been careful not to aim for her head or joints, but it was obvious her limbs and muscles ached. She was panting, her movements were more sluggish with each minute passing, and more importantly, her face betrayed her frustration.

She tried one last assault, an angry and clumsy one, raising her sword very predictably. He blocked the swing mid-air and before she could do anything, swept her feet.

That should do...

A glance around told him their bout had attracted a few onlookers. It wasn't everyday that they got to see the young mistress getting hit like that. “Alright everyone,” Odel bellowed, “get back to training.” Seeing that some of them kept stealing glances at Rina and Astrael, he growled. “Stop lazying around or I'll whack the crap out of you, I swear it on Viera's tits!”

“Are you okay?” Astrael said to his sister who lied down on the ground, her skin shining and her clothes drenched. She simply nodded between two breaths.

Odel approached. “You.” He had a suspicious frown. “Aren't you a bit too good for a mere squire?”

Of course I am. “Want to see if I'm good enough to be the fencing master?” Astrael retorted flatly, entering a staring contest with the Vieran.

The man kept his cold gaze up for a bit, before scoffing and walking away. “You should be taking care of the young mistress instead of spouting nonsense.”

Astrael snorted, before helping Rina to her feet. After they left the training hall, they did not speak of their bout, nor did they address Rina's carelessness or Astrael's skill – the former she probably understood, the latter she was already aware of.

“You don't mind?” she finally asked, looking at him.

He glanced at her in the corner of his eye. “Mind what?” he said even though he knew.

Rina shrugged and massaged her forearm, where he had hit her. She would have bruises for sure, lots of them. “I thought you wanted to keep a low profile.”

“It's fine,” Astrael replied, waving his hand. “Your consecration is... what, four months away? Whatever interest people have for me now will be gone once it happens.”

A groan escaped her mouth. “You say that as if it was a good thing.”

“Of course it is. The likes of Phiramel still treat you like a child, but that'll change once you officially become the hero.”

Callir's population was already well aware of Rina's existence and status by now, but going through the proper ceremony was a necessary step. Here on the altar, under the statue of the first hero, people would witness the blessing as Rina offered herself to the blood god.

“They'll probably try to whisper many... advices, and whatnot, before then,” he added. “If you're to represent the church of Xito, you can be sure that the high-ranked churchmen won't be able to reprimand you in public after that.” Though I doubt most would dare to reprimand her at all. She has been chosen by a god, after all – it doesn't get much better in terms of legitimacy and credibility... He chuckled. “So now they probably think they should exert as much influence as they can before it's too late. These next four months shall be very tiring for you, I gather.”

“Nothing I can't handle,” she said half-heartedly. “Hopefully.”

“You don't have a choice anyway,” he said with a beam. “Keep acting docile and let them believe you're the ideal puppet.”

These words echoed in a strange way in his mind, as they roamed the corridors and passed by all sorts of bowing people. Docile, every single one of them. The servants and slaves were even worse, since they really seemed to see Rina as a walking deity. Some sort of idiotic rumour among the plebs, one that turned an already worth worshipping existence into a even more godly one. One that would have heroes being the reincarnations of their predecessors, or perhaps the incarnation of the gods themselves. It made very little sense, but it was popular among the less educated bunch – poor, illiterate beggars and slaves the most.

These ones here all had the same look of surprise, the widening eyes and the agape mouth when they understood who she was, dropping whatever they were carrying and kneeling on the ground, showing her their bare backs, tanned and bony like the rest of their bodies, with just enough muscle to fulfil the tasks their masters had given them.

...Slaves? There shouldn't be any slave in the temple save for a few exceptions, yet these days Astrael kept seeing many of them here. He asked Rina about it, as he couldn't bear the idea of not being aware of something.

“Elder Therenus allowed them in,” she explained. Figures. They look and sound like Vierans. “Helping for the ceremony's preparations, apparently.”

“Now? Is the lurker finally losing his wits, or perhaps has he gone deaf to the point where he cannot hear the people telling him he was months too early?”

“I think he wanted to beat Phiramel to the punch.” She paused and frowned. “It's all about appearances, isn't it? A pissing contest.”

Astrael couldn't have said better himself. “Speaking of which. You'd better catch up on this appearance thing, the chosen of Xito can't be heard using such words.”

“What's so fun about their stupid race anyway?” she fumed, ignoring him. “Fighting for power and all that, despite knowing they won't be the ones in charge.”

How could he explain her? Such naivety still surfaced from time to time, and it was better to correct it as soon as possible. Perhaps a legend from his land would do. “Beloved sister,” he began, “let me tell you a story. A tale, to be exact.”

“Oh. Something you've read in the library? Shall we go there and find the book?”

Astrael shook his head. “Nothing of the sort. This particular tale, you won't find here.” She looked like she wanted to ask more, but fortunately she stayed silent nonetheless.

“A long, long time ago – eons ago, when powerful men knew little of commerce and politics compared to our days, but already had the desire to rule their kin and amass wealth – there was a man named- ...eh, I think in Callirian we would call him... Demnir. That man was born with nothing but dust and guile, and though he knew he would end up with nothing, as all men do when they return to dust, he saw what the world had to offer and wanted it all.

“And he started with wealth. He made himself traveller, and wandered the lands in search of opportunities. He made himself cartographer, and sold precious maps to armies and rebels alike. He made himself craftsman, and sold weapons to those taking part in the wars he helped lengthen. He made himself plunderer, grave-robber, merchant, and one way or another, gathered rich fabrics, perfumes, gold and jewels. Before long he was the richest man alive.

“Demnir became what we call a merchant prince, wealthier than kings themselves, and that alone allowed him to fulfil each of his desires. And one of these was none other than power. He could have built his own city, or asked for the hand of a princess, had he wished so. But along the way, Demnir had learned of the jealousy of men, and how the envied were also short-lived.

“And so, rather than buying a crown or a throne, he decided to play god. Using his wealth, his fame and his connections, he made kings, or even unmade them. Nations and empires were dragged into wars and alliances at the mere utterance of Demnir's words. Armies, scientists, governments, they all depended on him, as he was the one who funded them. Here, he found that the power princes and lords revelled in was nothing more than an illusion – he knew, for he was the one who granted said power to these people. He, the merchant prince, was truest prince the world had ever birthed.”

Astrael paused and thought for a moment. “Demnir was a kingmaker. He was among those who believe that power has no worth when it is only granted by blood, ancestors, or the favour of another.”

Rina kept silent, surely pondering on this anecdote's meaning. How's that? That's different from Egael's mindless romances, don't you think? But whatever conclusion she might have reached, she didn't share any of it, or at least not yet. “Was he right to think so?” she eventually asked.

“Who knows?” Astrael smiled, she had to find the answer for herself. “For the record, some people realized how much of a threat he was, and they assassinated him in the end.”

“Eh, assassinated... Whom by?”

“The legends vary. Some say his own friends, some say enemies of the countries he backed. Others even mention heroes, so I'd take it with a grain of salt if I were you. Nevertheless, you'll meet these sorts of people occasionally, those who have neither birth nor blood worth mentioning, but who acquired everything else, be it money, skill, glory... They sometimes decide to take the throne for themselves. A few Vieran city-states are ruled by a council of wealthy merchants, for instance, and I've read that the Dominion of the Summer Princes, across the Grey Sea, has a government of lords that are worshipped for their knowledge of magic.” He chuckled. “If you believe that kind of stories...”

“Then, Therenus?” Rina asked, and Astrael nodded. “His faction wishes to rule through wealth, connections, and... well, me, I suppose. As a puppet.”

“No doubt. You can see that's his way of doing things. He could have become Callir's regent forty years ago when he led the revolution, but he played it smart and gave the people a sweet illusion by founding a council he could easily rule through his many friendships.”

He probably didn't expect Phiramel to rise to his current position, though... I've heard that Therenus was the previous high-priest, was he forced to give him the position at some point?

Perhaps these old men used to be friends, in the past. Some sort of mentor and disciple relationship... Or perhaps it was simply to maintain appearances, once again, as Therenus would have made himself look wise and benevolent to the eyes of the people by stepping down because of his age and giving the leadership of the church to someone else.

“Callir's nobles are merely the remnants of a time when power was granted by bloodlines and family names...” Astrael muttered, earning a glance from Rina.

People like Phiramel and Therenus were the ones who came close to Demnir's kind. Merchant princes, puppeteers and kingmakers.