Chapter 76

Behind the Curtains (II)

“They fought and fought, carvings of their efforts inlaid on the fallen walls; spears and swords hung from the sky like chandeliers, raining weapons. It was the Age of Strife.”

Historic Archives, Vol. II – Age of Strife

Hard-nosed Evon was currently buried in the stack of parchments, his handsome, aging face barely visible behind the wall, his brows scrounged up into a frown. Reports came in flying left and right from his delegates, and as distrustful as he was, he would never let anyone else comb through them first.

His expectations that the news would mostly be relating either to the Fire or to Sylene’s fate, however, were blown wide open within the first twenty that he had examined. A lot of strange things were happening within the Kingdom’s borders, so much so that it appeared both the Fire and Sylene weren’t on as many minds as he thought. Draths shuffled their Prime Garrison away from the Blackstone Castle and onto the Crystal Swamp, citing an increase in Nomadic presence beyond the sludge-trodden hills of the northwest.

His birds within Elucido noted a spike in the missing cases of women, mostly nameless commoners, and have asked for extra Crowns to pursue the matter. The ones inside the Brightfort reported that the Duchess hadn’t been seen since the incident and that the rumors have started to spread regardless of Ymmir’s repeated reaffirmations that she was merely recuperating.

Furthermore, there were four registered attempts at his little sister Olivia’s life on her way over to the Brightfloods with her army. Four. That number… angered him. Regardless of whether he agreed with her on what she was doing, or if he even felt threatened, someone was after his blood – so openly, so aggressively, so wantonly. Though he knew, deep down, it was most likely one of them, voicing it, however, was another issue entirely. If he threw out the accusation, whether it was true or not, it would destroy more than it would help. Asandra? He noted a name attached to all the reports, words citing her as Olivia’s primary savior, having done so three times, with the fourth being simply a failed attempt on the side of the assassins.

Isn’t she Voller’s daughter? Too many things… too many things were happening concurrently. Had the Nomadic Tribes gotten the wind of the coming Fire which is why they began inching toward the Kingdom's borders? Last winter, after all, was fairly harsh, which could have taken a toll on their food reserves. They could be growing desperate. He, however, didn’t know. No matter how hard he tried, he was never able to inject an insider into any of the tribes… let alone bribe anyone within.

Was Sylene truly dead? Or was this all part of her scheme? If anyone could scheme, it was that woman. Scheme for what, however? And, if she indeed is dead, how would that impact not only the War of the Kindled but also the Holy War?

Is it really one of their own trying to kill Olivia? Why? Even if her entire expedition goes on without a hitch, she is not a threat to any one of them, not even Prestol, the least-likely inheritor. At most, she would build up some goodwill with the commoners, but that was about it. Though, in a way, whoever did come to the throne would have to build a cordial relationship with her as it would lessen the burden of stabilizing the seat of power considerably.

Another note cited that the Kingdom of Freemen had a new King once again. How long has it been? Three months? He remembered, over thirty years ago when he had first read a note like this… it had drained all color from his face. Then, a couple of months later, he read it again. Then again. Then again. The longest reign within the Kingdom of Freemen, in the years of his life, lasted one year and eight months. He couldn’t even send anyone deep enough to investigate what in the loving Light was happening since the border regions were teeming with bandits and scavengers.

Too many things, he sighed, rubbing his temples and closing his eyes. There were too many things to keep the track of. Just one week. All he needed was one eventless week to recharge. As it stood, however, he wouldn’t be getting it anytime soon.

Several quick knocks jolted him awake, the sound resonating throughout the small room. He frowned, not expecting a visitor – and no one of those who knew he was here would dare so brazenly interrupt him. Setting aside the parchments, he stood up and walked over to the doors with a hardened expression, creaking them open. He felt his insides flip up when he saw the colorful face on the other side, only overwhelmed by the even more colorful clothes that no one should ever be forced to wear. The jester… the courtly lad who everyone both loved and hated. Loved for as long as he focused on everyone else… and hated when he focused on you. Even Evon, regardless of his status, had been a designated target of this clown. No, even his Father, the King himself, and his mother, the Queen, weren’t spared the vile tongue.

The jester smiled queerly and widely, wiggling his waist oddly, ringing his bells and causing Evon to shudder. He backed off the doors and quickly ran inside, hiding behind the stacks of papers as the jester walked in, closing the doors behind him.

“That was a wonderful reaction, Your Highness,” the jester chortled as he started touching the shelves and the books and the tables and even the walls. Evon could never read what the madman was thinking. "Though still falling short of your brother's, His Highness Sigmund. I, entirely accidentally, of course, walked in on him in the winery; I still can't quite grasp whether his beautiful expression was due to the shock of seeing me, or the shock of having just finished inside a lovely, young maid."

“…” Evon stifled a laugh; it was an open secret that Sigmund was… quite weak to the Palace maids, so much so that their Father had him locked up for six months once for impregnating one of them. Not much as changed, despite it all.

“Plenty of things to see in the dark places of this lovely Palace,” the jester smiled, finally settling down and walking up to the desk, standing on the other end, staring down at Evon. “You seem tired, Your Highness. Would you like a massage?”

“No.” Evon replied immediately, shuddering. “T-thank you for the offer…”

“Eeh? Why not? I must say, in my humble opinion, I give exquisite massages; all my patients, thus far, hadn’t mumbled a word of complaint. If anything, they moaned in pleasure.”

“…”

“Ah, fine; I can’t force a man, after all. I am not that deviant,” the jester grinned, sitting up on the desk, ignoring the parchments that he had just dispersed all over the place. “Are you worried about your sister’s life?”

“…” Evon’s expression hardened once again as he met the honest gaze of the jester. “Do you know who is targeting her?”

“Of course I do," the jester chortled. "I know nearly everything there is to know, Your Highness. Perchance, I even know why our dear Princess Olivia has volunteered herself to lead the charge against the Fire. I may also know of a Prince who is seeking out the aide of the ever-elusive Internalizer. Ah, that mysterious figure. Appearing like the rain, disappearing like the wind. I would love to know more about him; perhaps Your Highness may know a thing or two?” the jester looked at him with a playful smile, tingling the annoying bells left and right, driving Evon’s mind up the wall. It was a mistake, certainly, letting this clown inside these halls and walls. All other jesters before were fools, actual fools. This one… this one is not. Far from it.

“… what do you want?” Evon relented, sighing. There was no point in bantering and bickering with the clown, that much he knew. He’d tried, after all – many times before. And, without fail, has never succeeded.

“Me? I hardly want a thing, Your Highness; I am a man of simple needs, after all,” he said as he reached inside his colorful outfit, taking out a neatly folded letter and placing it on the desk. “A curious shadow, however, did spike a dagger up against my crotch the other night – a tingling sensation, if I may say so myself – and had tasked me with delivering that letter to you under the threat of death. It would do wonders for my little, oh-so-easily-lost life if you read it. Ah, before you start running the halls outside and screaming my name, asking who gave me the letter – I don’t know,” the jester shrugged. “He was even more elusive than that poor Internalizer. He came cloaked in shadows from behind me, and before I could even turn to meet the gaze of a man who fondled my balls with a dagger… he was gone. Poof. Just like that. Like smoke in the wind."

“…” Evon glanced at the letter, curiosity burning inside of him; he, however, held back, waiting for the jester to leave. “Did you read it?”

"I wouldn't dare," the clown shrugged, getting off the desk and strutting over to the doors. "I only have one life to live, you know? And, I hold it very dear, much to the dismay of many in these halls. Farewell, my dearest Prince. I cannot wait until our eyes meet once again, and our lips lock in a talk so wonderful… it ought to be performed in a bedroom…" Evon cringed silently as he watched the colorful jester leave the room, immediately reaching for the letter.

It was written neatly, in ordinary ink, with no distinct features. He took a deep breath and ran through the room once with Light, seeking any signs of anyone or anything inside, but found nothing, relaxing slightly.

Your Highness Evon,

It pains to reach out to you through such means, but the time is a luxury I have found myself lacking expressly recently. You ought to know the best, perhaps; wishing there to be eighteen days in a week, and forty weeks in a month. Alas, I stray. You do not know me, and, if the dice of Fate plays out properly, you will never meet me. I am reaching out to you in hopes you might be the reason amidst the greed; your sister, Her Highness Olivia, will be safe. I promise her wellbeing and swear to deliver her back home safely. I cannot say the same, however, for the army; many will burn, and twice as many will weep. We will be expecting the High Heroes to storm the Blaze with us.

Praised be the Light, I must also inform you that Duchess Sylene, unfortunately, had lost the fight with the death; in that name, I implore you turn your eye elsewhere when the news comes flying like the fire to Elucido. The Brightfort is not your battlefield, nor is it where you will earn the deserved Crown. It is right where you are, within the Walls of Bright. Don’t be wary of your Sister – her aspirations are not for the Crown, I am afraid, however much I had beseeched her to reconsider. Her dreams… lie elsewhere, beyond. To win the Crown… you best know who you need, Your Highness. It is not the commonmen dying to the Fire, nor is it the army lazing beneath your feet. It is the North, as it always has been. Should you need assistance, pester the jester, and assistance shall come.

Yours Truly,

Skyler.