It took a few days in the infirmary before Ceric was in reasonable shape. His ordeal in the catacombs had taken its toll on his body, and after he’d been properly hydrated and fed easy-to-digest foods, he spent most of his time sleeping.

  Ailn owed him a considerable debt—and so did the city of Varant. Ceric had chanced upon something sinister in those catacombs. The exact nature of what he found, they still didn’t know, but the possibilities ran from grim to dire. Someone had managed to sneak the miasma itself into Varant’s holy barrier, and the threat it posed could very well be existential.

  At dusk, the usually sunny infirmary was as gloomy as the rest of the castle. There, Ailn found Ceric lying motionless in bed, a small stand beside him bearing a fruit knife and an uneaten apple. His face was only half-lit in flickering torchlight.

  “Ceric, how are you feeling?” Ailn asked. “You scared us there, for a moment. Dehydration’s no joke.”

  Ceric was slow to respond.

  “...It was a poorly thought out excursion,” Ceric admitted. “And my aching body is dampening my spirit.”

  He just lay there limply, without looking Ailn in the eye.

  “That just means you have to plan better next time, right?” Ailn asked. “Intrepid explorers meet infamous ends when they don’t learn from their mistakes.”

  “Do I ever learn though…?”

  The sight of Ceric this depressed made Ailn wince. He’d really thought Ceric’s optimism was indefatigable, and even though he hadn’t played any part in the explorer’s recent predicament, he felt an inexplicable guilt.

  “You’re being too hard on yourself,” Ailn said. He pulled up a stool, and started peeling the apple. “Give yourself some credit. You were the one who told us all about a cult, right? Then you went out and found evidence of…” He paused. “Something pretty cult-like at least.”

  “Did what I found have any relation to what I was looking for?” Ceric asked. He was unusually lucid today. For most people that would’ve been a good thing. “I can’t even remember what I was looking for.”

  “...I say if someone writes ‘shadow cult’ on your bingo card, and you find a jar filled with miasma—you get to call it,” Ailn said. “In my line of work, some of the worst criminals in the world have been caught because of a routine traffic stop. An explorer can’t exactly afford to snub lucky discoveries. That’s sort of the whole occupation’s bread and butter, isn’t it?”

  A musing look flickered across Ceric’s face.

  “We’re about to go to Sussuro to follow up on the Areygni portrait, you know. I thought I should invite you to join in on the treasure hunt,” Ailn said. “You’re wanting to solve this world’s mysteries, right?”

  “I look forward to you solving it yourself, my friend.” Ceric smiled weakly. “I have no desire to ride your coattails. I feel a strong need to reflect, while I fully recover.”

  The expression on his face turned dark, then anguished.

  “Lately, I can’t help but feel that Nightwriter messes with me more than it helps.”

  The day of departure arrived and Ailn, in his usual display of good sense, decided it should also mark his official investiture. After all, the tapestry celebrating his victory over Sigurd had just been completed, and his custom-made ‘ducal raiments’ had finally come in.

  “It doesn’t look bad, but…” Renea gazed at Ailn’s new outfit. “You’re going to stand out, you know.”

  Her eyes flitted up to the deerstalker hat atop his head. And though she looked as if she had more to say, she simply tilted her head, then shook it in resignation.

  “Ailn eum-Creid, what manner of garb is this?” Ennieux nosily pinched the fabric. “My goodness, is this geomisil?”

  “That’s right. I could jump right into a fire and come out unscathed,” Ailn said.

  “Please don’t do that,” Renea frowned. Her lips remained pursed, as she eyed Ailn’s trenchcoat suspiciously. “You… don’t even know if that’s true. I would hardly trust a word from a merchant of sil-Kytsune.”

  Renea herself wore a riding gown with breeches, and the hat she’d received from Ennieux yesterday. She and Ennieux followed Ailn close behind—Renea bearing Ailn’s sword, and Ennieux a chalice adorned with the eum-Creid heraldic symbol—as they left the castle’s foyer and entered the forecourt.

  Waiting for them were the knights, kneeling in respectful reception. At their head knelt Sigurd, with Sophie standing at the front.

  Camille and Nicolas, meanwhile, stood atop the ramparts, ready to unroll the tapestry of inauguration. Given that the siblings were giving fretful glances that managed to slip past their usual emotional masks, they’d clearly already seen the tapestry. Kylian, standing below the ramparts to direct them and help them unfold it, looked like he was nursing a headache.

  Ailn took slow and purposeful steps, coming to a stop before his knights.

  “I’m going to keep this short and sweet,” Ailn said. “Most of you did not think I could become the family head. And most of you are still loath to see me in the position of headship. All I can say is—for now, let’s try to get along.”

  The knights gazed back with firmly, dutifully repressed expressions fitting the moment’s decorum. Typically, they didn’t put much effort into hiding their scowls, but even Ailn deserved this much, apparently.

  He craned his neck to look slightly behind, toward Renea. “My sword, please.”

  She walked before him, sword in both hands, and started to kneel to present it. Ailn, however, caught her shoulders and, with gentle ease, lifted her back to her feet. She looked at him in confusion and he just shook his head.

  “Thank you,” Ailn said, taking the sword from her. “Ennieux, if you could deliver the oath.”

  Ennieux followed suit and—apparently quite moved by Ailn’s subtle act of solicitude toward Renea—looked quite misty-eyed. She cleared her throat a few times before she managed to speak.

  She held up the chalice, approaching him just a step. Then she began to speak, her tone solemn and proud.

  “Ailn eum-Creid, you stand in front of land, knight, and people not merely as ruler, but as vanguard. Do you swear to prove yourself strong to stand, no matter the tempest?”

  “I will not fall.”

  “You look down from the peak of the duchy’s tallest mountain, to keep watch for what approaches. Do you swear to climb by thine own hand, conducted not by the sufferings of those below, but sustained by their hopes?”

  “I will lead.”

  “Your blade exists to cut through darkness, not to serve it. Do you swear to fight for all that is good and holy?”

  “I will cut down evil. And I will be the people’s quiet light.”

  “Then accept this house’s burden, Ailn eum-Creid, because…” Ennieux cleared her throat again, pausing for a moment as her eyes closed. Then she opened them again, giving Ailn a weak and sad smile. “Our glory is our sacrifice. And our treasure is peace.”

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  She offered him the chalice, filled with the pearl wine that glinted brightly in the noon sun. And at the bottom—

  Ailn took the chalice and drank its contents with the appropriate reverence, revealing the ducal signet that had been hidden.

  “Please…” Ennieux started softly. Retrieving the ring from the chalice, she placed it upon his index finger. “... make our forebears proud.”

  “... I will,” Ailn said, after hesitating a moment. “I promise.”

  He was, as of this moment, officially the duke. Which meant his upcoming visit to the Fleuve county, and Sussuro within it, was now the will of the duchy.

  Renea looked at him with eyes bright, like they’d only been when she was enchanted by Noué Areygni’s mausoleum. And Ennieux… This was likely the warmest she had ever been toward Ailn, even when taking into account the gradual softening of her demeanor since the inquisition;

  “It appears the time has come to lower the banner, as is fitting,” Ennieux said, smiling at him.

  Then, when he caught Kylian’s wince, Ailn realized that the moment was about to be lightly blemished by a joke he’d planned weeks ago.

  The banner unfurled, gently at first with the dextrous workings of Ennieux’s children, and then more heavily as they let gravity do the work with Kylian’s subtle guidance.

  Twelve feet tall, twenty feet across, and woven of pure silk, the two brothers’ profiles were depicted on the tapestry with exquisite detail. Their silver hair was rendered with stunning verisimilitude—not merely with silver thread, but through the judicious application of pearlescent blue and alum-enhanced lilac dyes on the cream-colored silk.

  Except… Sigurd was depicted with a jester hat.

  Next to each brother’s face was a number. Ailn’s was a ‘1’ rendered in shimmering gold foil gilded into the fabric. Sigurd’s was a big fat zero, splotched onto the tapestry in mustard yellow.

  It was a masterpiece. Perfect for an entirely different kind of moment. Ailn certainly couldn’t have predicted a couple of weeks ago that Ennieux would proclaim the oath herself, nor that she would be so emotionally invested in it.

  He coughed lightly, averting his eyes as Ennieux’s scrunched up in anger, and Renea’s turned bleak with disappointment.

  Ailn dared not look at the knights. Especially not at Sigurd who would be forced to stare at it while still mid-kneel.

  His only supporter, in fact, was Sophie who was madly giggling in the background… which was actually worse than no support at all.

  Sigurd had stood up unceremoniously—he really wasn’t supposed to do that—and shoved his way through the knights, presumably headed back to the northern wall to vent his frustration on the shadow beasts once more.

  Ennieux had also stomped away in a fury—to the lord’s chamber, where apparently she was going to take a long, angry nap. Even Nicolas looked at Ailn in disbelief.

  Needless to say, once he actually had to face and dismiss them, the knights’ fuming expressions were no longer restrained.

  “Are you… ill at ease when people like you?” Renea asked, as the two made their way to the stables. She gave him a pitiful look. “I really don’t get it.”

  “I feel like, somehow, that’s not the first time I’ve ever been asked that question,” Ailn said, scratching his head. “It’s fine. I’ll apologize to Ennieux later.”

  “...And Sigurd?”

  “Sigurd?” Ailn raised an eyebrow. “Sigurd was going to throw me into a hut for the rest of my life. What’s a little humiliation compared to that?”

  “Sigurd really shouldn’t be the bar you set for how you treat your family,” Renea sighed.

  Shortly after, on the way to the stables, they met up with Kylian who would be one of the knights accompanying them to Sussuro. He seemed more concerned with the hard leather art tube he was carrying than with the end of the investiture ceremony. Turning it every which way, he seemed to be evaluating the safest way to carry it—strapping it across his shoulder, holstering it to the side of a hypothetical horse—and he gave a nod of acknowledgement to his new duke.

  “Well done, my liege,” Kylian said.

  “You seem pretty unperturbed,” Ailn said.

  “Being forthright with you, it did not go nearly as disastrously as I expected,” Kylian shrugged. “I truly thought Sigurd might rise to strike you down. He’s… mellowed out recently.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “No, Sir Kylian is absolutely right,” Renea nodded. “I noticed it too.” She paused. “That’s why you should apologize to him.”

  “Does a jerk deserve praise for being less of a jerk?” Ailn scowled.

  “If… you want the jerk to stop being a jerk, then yes,” Renea said thoughtfully.

  “Your Highness,” Kylian interrupted, addressing Ailn by title instead of name. It seemed that his preoccupation with the art tube had pulled him more fully into knight mode. “You’re certain you trust me to carry it? I wonder if we should not take the coach of state, and simply surround it with a full company of knights.”

  “Should it come down to physically protecting it, I trust you more than anyone else,” Ailn said. With a glance at his own sword, he shared more of his reasoning. “Between you and Sir Dartune, I feel confident in the retinue’s combat prowess. And I’d rather move with speed, especially since Renea can ride a horse fine.”

  “We could certainly make stellar pace if we needn’t mind a carriage,” Kylian agreed. “I must admit, I’m anxious to protect something of such monetary value. Especially when it might be the key to even greater treasure. I’ve protected many things with my life, but… the feeling is quite different.”

  Kylian’s escort hit a lot of birds with one stone. For one, since Father Ciecout was held down at the cathedral, the knight's analytical mind and knowledge of the realm's art, culture, and religion were invaluable.

  He was a good diplomat, who understood the ins and outs of the relations of the eum-Creids to the Fleuves.

  And not least of all, he was a strong, quick-thinking knight who could protect Noué Areygni’s portrait should unsavory elements attack them and try to steal it.

  They had been as discreet as possible in contacting the number one scholar who specialized in Noué’s life and works. That hardly mattered, though, as the lips at the cathedral were almost certainly loose, especially since Father Ciecout’s eccentric behavior often set the tongues to wagging.

  At any rate, the scholar would meet them in Sussuro, Noué’s childhood home. While the viewfinder’s hint—‘Home Sweet Home’—was allegedly kept under wraps, Ailn had a gut feeling their trip wasn’t going to be an uneventful one.

  When they’d reached the stables, not only were the rest of the knight escorts waiting for them, but Sophie was as well. She’d apparently arrived ahead of them.

  While Kylian set to holstering the art tube to his horse as securely as possible, Ailn got on his own horse and drew his sword, trying to get a sense of his comfort with horse mounted combat. He idly watched Sophie, who had come up to Renea looking uncharacteristically distraught.

  "Renea…" Sophie clasped one of Renea’s hands gently between her own. "Will you be all right?"

  “I will be, Sophie,” Renea said, sweetly. “Don’t worry about me, so. Think of it as a brief respite I’m taking.”

  Though she seemed reluctant to do so, Renea softly drew her left hand to herself, so Sophie would release it, and climbed atop the horse that had been prepared for her. With a flick of its ears, and a shift of its weight, the horse gave a loud neigh upon being mounted—leading Sophie to flinch backwards.

  Still, she took a shaky step back forward, scowling as the horse started to nuzzle her in apology. She pushed its face away with one hand.

  “It’s the first time you’ve gone by yourself since we’ve…” Sophie started quietly. “Shoo! Stop that!”

  She fumed at the horse, as Renea couldn’t help but giggle at her sister’s trouble.

  “You’ve gone by yourself to the northern wall plenty, haven’t you?” Renea asked. “I’m merely traveling to Sussuro.”

  Sophie’s scowl deepened as the horse’s nuzzling grew more persistent. But the set of her frown seemed to be more than horse troubles. Ailn noticed the emphatic dilation of her pupils—an extreme physiological reaction that betrayed a discomfort far beyond what she was openly expressing.

  “Then… you’ll be back soon, won’t you?” Sophie asked.

  “Of course, Sophie,” Renea said. “It’ll be a bit a couple weeks at most.”

  “...Okay,” Sophie said. She gave a hesitant nod, letting her gaze fall to the ground. Then she lifted it again, to look at Ailn and his drawn sword. “I will, Sophie,” Renea said softly. “Please. Believe in me that I can take care of myself.”

  Then, her expression suddenly brightened as if she’d had an epiphany. She pulled the drawstring from one of the pouches hooked upon her belt.

  From it, Renea retrieved a wolf pup carving—one of the ones she’d received on her birthday, after Sophie finally worked up the courage to give them to her. Ailn was fairly certain the squire Sophie met in the knights’ yard had talked her into it.

  Renea, who’d been worried sick about Sophie staying out in the cold, burst into happy tears when she received them. According to Ennieux, she even took both of them with her to bed that night.

  “I shall bring one with me, Sophie, and leave the other with you,” Renea said, with a wide smile. “And when I’m back, these cute pups will be reunited, won’t they?”

  “...Mmhm,” Sophie said, with a tiny smile upon a quivering lip. “Then… then please return safely.”

  As she dealt with Renea's horse all the while, Sophie followed them all the way to the gate, gagging as the horse sneezed on her and the majestic Saintess’s robe became increasingly smeared with saliva and snot.

  She kept watching them from the top of the hill as they left the castle. Past a certain distance, Ailn couldn’t see her expression anymore, but he had an inkling that it was crumbling.

  And he was right. Unbeknownst to Renea, Sophie was shaking. The last time her sister had left Varant without her was the day she had departed with their mother.