Castle Kingside - Chapter 102

Seeing them on the street, Saphiria had always adored children. They wobbled as they walked, their eyes gleamed with playful curiosity, and the innocence of their smiles could never hide the malevolence of adulthood. She thought them incorruptible. Pure.

But she was wrong.

Very wrong indeed.

Elbows out, two boys stood atop a drawer, ready to body slam an unknowing third as he played on the carpet. Girls bit and slapped each other over territorial disputes. Someone was poking the chandelier with a stick. Four of Saphiria’s chambermaids rushed through the orphanage, mopping spills, stopping fights, and dissuading a gang of children from scratching precious metal shavings from a silver-trimmed mahogany chair, but for every wrong righted, two more took its place.

Chaos had struck the home of Saphiria’s late father. Even Leandra, a court sorceress who had seen scores of men perish in war, stood petrified at the sight.

Saphiria would have no more of it. She clapped her hands to gather the attention of all, to restore order to an anarchical land, yet only the chambermaids looked in her direction, disgrace and fatigue in their weary eyes.

Those poor souls. Her maids undertook the job in secret, a line of work they hadn’t trained for and one that grew in difficulty as Saphiria brought in more children from the street. She could not blame them for this atrocity. Though the gesture did little to repay the debt owed to them, she gave her chambermaids an understanding nod.

They reciprocated with tired smiles before resuming their endless labors.

Yet the children did not seem to notice—neither the toils of those who cared for them or their benefactor’s call to attention.

Saphiria grimaced at the devilry.

Arms folded across her chest, Leandra smirked. “You can dress serfs like nobles, but that will only make them pampered swine.”

“Noble or commoner, they are only children. It is discipline and education that will decide their fate.”

“Their fate has been decided before their parents’ conception.”

“Leandra,” Saphiria said. “As my childhood watcher, you know better than most that discipline does not accompany status. How often did I neglect my studies to play in the stables? To accompany Father in the mines?”

“Such is my point, Your Roy—Lady Julia. You’ve matured into a fine woman despite your undisciplined youth. They cannot hope for the same.”

“Even if it is so, there is not a commoner in Remora who has inflicted harm onto me like a noble. Perhaps it’s best that these children remain common.”

“I only say as I do to prepare you for disappointment. We must accept our fates.”

“If I had accepted my fate, I would still be living in a brothel in Ravenfall, committing atrocities at the behest of a disgraced baroness. Does that sound like the grace of nobility you hold so dear?”

“I did not mean to—” Leandra dropped to her knees. “Forgive me for my—“

“Just watch.” Saphiria stomped forward. “Silence!”

Snot dripping from her nose, a girl froze. She slowly glanced back at the source of the shout that rattled the windows.

“From now on, anyone who troubles my maids or defaces my home will not eat for an entire day! Anyone who coerces another into misbehaving will not eat for two days! Anyone who helps keep order will get extra helpings! Those who don’t behave after repeated warnings will face my wrath. Do I make myself clear?”

The boy who poked at the chandelier moments ago gently lowered his stick onto the cabinet he stood on. Two fighting girls stepped away from each other. For a moment, the orphanage fell silent.

A six-year-old pointed to a toddler tugging at carpet tassels. “How about the liddle ones? They do bad things and never listen.”

Saphiria knew her new rules had many loopholes, but they were guidelines rather than strict policies. She approached the toddler and lifted him into her arms. “You are children that have survived life in the streets. You have sense. Ask yourself what the apostle might do and do that. If you’re kind and help guide others, including babies who don’t know any better like this one, your efforts will be noticed and rewarded. Otherwise, my maids are my eyes and ears. If you upset them, you upset me. I advise you not to upset me.”

After recovering from their petrified states, children began cleaning their messes. Or perhaps ‘cleaned’ wasn’t the right word. They just stopped making them worse.

An elderly chambermaid, one that cared for Saphiria in her infancy, bowed.

Saphiria thanked the maid for her continued service before returning to Leandra. She rocked the toddler with one arm and used her other to wave his little hand. “Tell me. How is a noble child superior to this one?”

Leandra looked away. “Forgive me, Lady Julia. I do not know.”

“I know your mind still has not changed, and you needn’t hold your tongue if you disagree. I prefer you to speak openly as you always have.” Saphiria kissed the cheek of the toddler that now pulled on her hair. “But surely even you think they’re equally adorable.”

“It might upset Lady Julia to know that I find all human children unsightly.”

Horrified, Saphiria pulled back. “All of them?”

“All of them.”

“And puppies and kittens?”

“They’re marginally better.”

“Then we shall visit the animals upstai—“

A knock at the door.

Saphiria tucked the toddler’s head to her chest and stepped behind a hallway divider. She couldn’t be seen. Not here. The few people she trusted enough to tell about the orphanage were already here or busy elsewhere, meaning this evening’s visitor posed a threat. For the princess to be discovered caring for commoner children would tarnish the Pesce name and undermine Saphiria’s goal of returning order to Malten. These babies would mature into criminals if circumstance forced her to toss them back onto the streets.

Leandra strode to the door and thrust it open. “What?”

Saphiria glanced around the corner.

Standing at the threshold was Root, an orphan she had released from the castle dungeon, and a cloaked man that held the girl by the scruff of her neck. He knelt. “A delivery and a message for Her Royal Highness.”

“There are no highnesses here.” Leandra’s scowl shot dread even into Saphiria’s blood. “You must be mistaken.”

The man hesitated. “Lord Lukas told me—“

“Lord Lukas?” Although Saphiria knew the spymaster would unearth her secret eventually, she didn’t think he would so soon. She stepped into the hallway. “Speak. And my name is Lady Julia.”

“My apologies, Lady Julia.” The man nudged Root forward. “I believe this is yours. We found her sneaking out of the castle district. Lord Lukas advises you to manage your… people carefully next time.”

Tears streaming from her eyes, Root lowered her head. “I’m sorry.”

Despite Saphiria’s best attempt to reprimand the misbehaving child, she managed only a disappointed frown. “The apostle told you not to walk more than necessary. Your feet are still swollen.”

“I’m really sorry.”

“Why did you sneak out? Did I do something wrong?”

Root shook her head. “N-no! It’s just stuffy, and, and… sometimes I go to the city because I need space for myself and stuff so please don’t be sad. I like you really a lot.”

A deep sadness pressed down inside Saphiria’s belly. Knowing well a lady’s need for privacy, she couldn’t blame Root. The orphanage was growing too fast. Eighty children and twenty-six animals lived in one house. Malten simply didn’t have enough space to accommodate orphans elsewhere, and the countryside nobles were too proud to care for commoner children. She needed land close enough to personally oversee.

“Excuse me, little girl,” the man said. “You said you snuck out before?”

Root looked up at Saphiria as if for permission.

“It’s okay. I want to know as well.”

“A little bit of times a day.”

His eyes widened. “You sneak in and out of the castle district several times a day? Past the halberdiers and sorceresses guarding the gate?”

She nodded. “I’m sorry.”

Saphiria stood in awe. How could a nine-year-old regularly circumvent Malten’s soldiers? Stealthy and knowledgeable under the guise of youthful innocence, Root might have made for an excellent assassin. However, as long as Saphiria lived, no child in Malten would suffer a fate so tragic.

Leandra smirked. “Maybe some of these snot balls aren’t so bad.”

“Get inside,” Saphiria said. “And no more sneaking out unless you absolutely have to. Got it?”

“Okay!” Root waddled towards the other children.

The man watched her walk away, his eyes gleaming like those of a mercenary recruiter.

“Perish the thought,” Saphiria said. “She may be cunning for a child, but true professionals roam this land. You’d be wise to keep silent on the matter.”

“Only I, Her Royal Majesty, and Lord Lukas know.”

Mother knew as well? It mattered not. She could not quash Saphiria’s ambitions lest she lose her heiress’s favor entirely. “As you have completed your duties, you may leave.”

“Though a more intriguing outcome than I initially thought,” the man said, “I didn’t come to deliver the child.” He held out a scroll. “An invitation for you, My Lady.”

“From?”

“The Most Reverend Dimitry Stukov. He seeks your wisdom.”

Light from illumina enchanted lanterns filtered through stained glass lenses, painting the castle’s banquet hall a faint blue. Today, the repetitive melodies of bards didn’t play, and the scent of honey-roasted meat was absent. Only the scattered chatter of guests from two tables colored the atmosphere.

One table played host to Malten’s royalty, several nobles, and others of high station. Attendants serving them wine, their voices carried proudly and reverberated across marble walls as if to establish social dominance. The other table, far more reserved, seated commoners who glanced over at their betters before muttering so much as a whisper.

Dimitry scribbled down last-minute notes as he waited for everyone to arrive, and once the last guest entered the hall, he descended from the upstairs balcony.

A hand scarred by overload waved cheerfully as he approached. It belonged to Raina, Malten’s head enchantress and a woman whose bubbly smile could bring positivity to an understaffed emergency department’s crowded waiting room. She sat beside her daughter, Emilia, who watched Dimitry with an expression devoid of discernible emotion.

Saphiria nodded as he passed, Queen Amelie sat high and proud, watching him with piercing red eyes, and then one voice cut above the others, its tone halfway between inconvenienced and buzzed.

“Reverend!” Marquis Richter shouted, one hand resting on his rotund stomach and the other gripping a silver goblet. “Finally plan on telling me why I’m neglecting the northern border to be here?”

The banquet hall fell silent. Two dozen inquisitive stares fixed on Dimitry.

Their concern was well-earned. All Dimitry told his guests was that he needed their wisdom, but not because the contents of his meeting were secretive. Rather, he couldn’t afford to send large, detailed parchment letters to everyone, and he didn’t trust Lukas’ couriers with delivering complex verbal messages. The spymaster might twist the wording to suit his own needs.

Dimitry cleared his throat. “As most of you know, my goal as archbishop is to reclaim the western lands. Shores ripe for fishing, land to grow crops, a secondary border to combat heathens were Malten’s defenses to fail. This territory is imperative to our survival. However, with my limited resources, I can’t take it back on my own.”

A woman taller than most men in the banquet hall straightened the cuffs of her red-gold robes, those denoting the sorceress guildmaster, and leaned slightly forward. “And that is why you need us?” Mira asked. “To provide resources?”

“If you’re asking for troops,” Richter said, “forget it. There’s a reason we let the western lands fall. The perimeter is too large to defend, and I’m struggling to hold the northern border as it is. If you need men, Your Holiness, go ask the Marquis of the South. I’m sure Tylo’s got plenty saved up after sitting on his ass for years.”

Tylo Sauer? The man who despised Dimitry at the weapon’s summit and avoided him since? Even if he needed soldiers, Tylo was the last person he’d ask. “Troops are part of the issue, but if that’s what I wanted, I wouldn’t have invited people like Jesco.”

Richter’s face contorted. “Who?”

As if fighting up against oppressive pressure, a trembling hand slowly rose from the commoners’ table. “M-me, my lord,” Jesco said. “You sent me to help The Most Reverend with—”

“I did?”

Dimitry sighed. For Richter to forget what happened less than a month ago said a lot about his character. He hoped asking for his help wouldn’t be a mistake.

“W-well, he wasn’t The Most Reverend back then, b-but you sent me to help him with his plant bettering project.”

“Ah,” Mira said. “His Holiness spoke of it before. The ‘biology’ spell that shall make Malten overflow with crops.”

“Bah!” Richter flailed his arm. “If holy magic was so convenient, the Church wouldn’t have been taking crop tithes from me for decades before they left.”

“Or perhaps you fear being left behind while those of us who have dedicated ourselves to magic finally reap our reward after centuries of thaumaturgical research. The time when sharp sticks can no longer defend a land draws near.”

“Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart.”

Mira smirked at a dejected Richter before turning her gaze to Dimitry. “Speaking of research, I hope you haven’t forgotten our deal. The doors of the Sorceresses Guild are always open for you to share the secrets of your magic.”

“I didn’t forget,” Dimitry said. “That’s part of the reason I called everyone here today. I’d like to ask all of you to join my board of advisers.”

Confused whispers filled the banquet hall.

Saphiria brushed her raven hair behind her ear. “Is that what you meant by needing our wisdom?”

“Precisely, Your Royal Highness. While I’m knowledgeable in medicine, aside from ideas and magic scavenged from glimpses into a world unknown, my knowledge isn’t much at all. You are all leaders in your respective fields. Sir Richter, the most experienced general in Malten. Lady Mira, the most proficient sorceress. Raina, an unpeered enchantress. Valerie, a hospital chef who handles ration logistics and produces enough meals to feed over a thousand patients and refugees daily. Jesco, a farmer whose crop hybridization techniques are constantly improving. Elias, the head of the Blacksmithing Guild and a dedicated artisan. Her Royal Highness, a metallurgical specialist. Her Royal Majesty, a diplomatic and political expert. Moritz Stein, the stonemason guildmaster and the engineer who rebuilds Malten’s wall after every Night of Repentance. Clewin, an apothecary and budding chemist. Klaire, a master of economy and trade. Claricia, a librarian with a deep understanding of language, both foreign and native. Emilia, the best inscriber of seals in Malten. The other craftsmen that have assembled.

“You’re Malten’s most knowledgeable. Without your input, all of your inputs, I cannot rebuild the heathen barrier. That is why I ask you to act as my advisers.”

The first to respond was Valerie. Her silver amethyst earrings jingled as she stood up. “Your Holiness, you have been working me to death ever since you forced me to become your head chef. My entire day is me grinding grain, baking fish, and slicing loaves of bread. I’m scared to think how much my workload will grow after taking on more responsibility.”

Dimitry paused, floored by a response he never expected to get. Perhaps his own fervor caused him to overwork his employees. “If you feel you have too much on your hands already, I’d understand if you decline.”

“I never said I’ll decline. All I’m saying is that I’ll hate myself later if I accept, and I’ll hate myself even more if I don’t. Free time is great, but no feeling compares to the one I get in the quick break between a day of meaningful labor and bedtime. I just had to get that other stuff off my chest.”

Scattered laughter filled the banquet hall.

Having experienced twenty-four-hour shifts as a surgeon and the resulting blend of frustration and accomplishment, Dimitry chuckled. “I’m guessing that’s a reluctant yes?”

Valerie knelt and raised an upturned hand. “Ready to serve, Your Holiness.”

From Clewin and Claricia to Jesco, his other employees knelt as well.

Raina raised her hand and forced Emilia’s hand up as well. “We’ll help!”

The nobles and guildmasters took longer to respond. The first among them was Saphiria, who grabbed the sides of her yellow skirt and curtsied. “Our ambitions are in alignment. I too have a project for which I need land, and if the knowledge of metals bestowed onto me by the late Duke can better Malten, then I shall oblige.”

Jesco and several others rushed to applaud their dedicated crown princess. No one seemed to notice the queen’s scowl as she glanced away from Saphiria to take another swig of wine.

Though Dimitry flashed Saphiria a knowing smile, he pitied the girl. She risked her budding reputation as a politician to guide Malten’s most corruptible, and no one commended her for the effort. It was rulers like her that built safe and prosperous countries.

Mira curtsied soon afterward. “I’ll extend our previous agreement to advisory roles as well, and unlike Richter, I won’t be so stingy with sorceresses if you need them. Just don’t forget your side of the bargain, Your Holiness.”

“I won’t,” Dimitry said. “I appreciate it, Lady Mira.”

“Think of it as a recompense for saving my darlings’ lives from the plague and on the Night of Repentance.”

Raina nodded vigorously.

The muscular giant Elias massaged his bald head with a meaty hand. “Well, if Her Royal Highness and the sorceresses are in, I guess I am, too.”

Klaire and Moritz looked at the queen.

Her Royal Majesty straightened her gold-trimmed mantle. “I am she who arranged this meeting, so it is only natural for me to offer my aid as necessary. We will have Zera’s Blessing once more.”

An ecstatic round of applause came from the wide-eyed attendees who never saw a castle’s interior before, let alone a living monarch.

Pressing her accounting books tightly to her chest, Klaire uttered the most anxious giggle known to man. “Y-yes… Zera’s Blessing. How exciting.”

Sitting next to Richter, Moritz was just as tall and wide, except his bulk came from muscle rather than fat. “My family has served the Pesce lineage as stonemasons for generations. If Her Royal Majesty expects me to offer my aid, then the apostle will have it.”

All eyes fell on the only person who had yet to respond.

Richter, one of the three most powerful people in Malten, downed his wine and slid the empty goblet across the table. “Tell me, Your Holiness. What do I get out of this?”

The stupidity of the question stumped Dimitry. He didn’t let his disbelief show. “I know you have many matters to attend to, especially after a brutal Night of Repentance, but surely you can see the advantages. Not only will being a military adviser allow you to shape the holy army as it forms and influence its policies, but you’ll also bolster Malten’s western defenses, allowing you to focus on the north.”

“You don’t understand, kid. If I give you the military secrets of the Kuhn family, help you organize your army of squatters, how do I know they and their Zeran weapons won’t be used against me? How can I know for sure that you’re not with the Church, here to finish mowing us down?”

Deafening silence rolled through the banquet hall.

In a moment of clarity, Dimitry realized it wasn’t Richter who asked a stupid question, but he who was too naïve to realize its implications. The marquis didn’t want anyone to threaten his hold over Malten. His authority.

Dimitry massaged his brow as he stepped away. “You’re right. You can’t know if my army will march against you. You can’t know if I’m with the Church. But there is something you know better than anyone else. If the heathen raids continue to grow, multiplying by the month, whether I have ulterior motives won’t matter. Your territory will become a wasteland like Volmer. Thousands will die. Just as I have no choice but to ask for your help because I know nothing about militarization or strategy, you have no choice but to rely on me to guard your flank.”

Richter leaned forward, his knuckle tapping the table surface with a slow, ominous rhythm. “Thing is, with heathens, you know the worst fate is death. With the Church…”

A glance at Saphiria’s downcast expression spoke of true horror. Dying might have been shitty, but living as the Church’s emotionless slave with fleeting glimpses of freedom was even shittier.

Yet that changed nothing.

“So,” Dimitry said. “You’ll just die then?”

The rhythm of Richter’s tapping hastened and hastened until he stopped entirely, exhaling a deep sigh. “As much as I’d like to decline, there’ll come a day when my boy inherits my land. I’d rather Valter share a kingdom with you than command a pile of rubble. I’m in. For now.”

A few nervous chuckles sounded as all tension had left the room.

Like that, Dimitry’s board of advisers came to fruition. But he wasn’t happy with the name. Advisers. It sounded bureaucratic. Clinical. He needed something more… holy. A title that conveyed sagacious wisdom but couldn’t be confused with the Church. He sucked at that sort of thing.

After a moment’s contemplation, Dimitry spoke again. “Since you’re all already here, the Congregation of Arbiters will now hold its first meeting.”

Emilia tilted her head, and her unusually straight brown hair fell over her shoulder. “Arbiters?”

“Yes,” Dimitry said. “You can be the Arbiter of Inscriptions.”

“And I?” Saphiria asked.

“The Arbiter of Mining and Metallurgy?”

Lukas, who declined his invitation, stepped out from behind a curtain. “I’ll be the Arbiter of Intelligence.”

Raina waved her hand. “I’m the Arbiter of Enchantments!”

“Guess I’m the Arbiter of Blacksmithing?” Elias massaged his bald head. “Of forgery? No, that sounds wrong.”

“Then I shall be the Arbiter of Majesty,” Her Royal Majesty said.

Mira lowered her head. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. I do not believe it works that way.”

“Then we shall make it work that way.”

Palm sliding down his face, Richter shook his head.

For once, Dimitry agreed with the marquis. Who would expect a mixed room of nobles and commoners to behave like children? He ended the chaos by slapping a thin book onto the table. “First on the agenda is this.”

“It’s a book,” Klaire deduced. She lifted the cover. “And aside from some scribbles on the first few pages, it’s empty.”

“That’s because it has yet to be filled. Right now, it contains notes on the military I have seen in a vision. A place where men shoot rifles from flying machines and armored wagons. But the technology in Remora is different. I hope Sir Richter and Lady Mira can help me extrapolate these ideas. I want to produce a rough draft for a manual that details the training and management of soldiers wielding non-magical rifles simple enough for the common man to follow.”

“Voltech rifles that do not operate on magic. How strange.” Mira glanced at Richter. “Such an army would resemble a mixture of ours, would it not?”

“Sounds dumb,” Richter said. “Let’s get this over with so I can turn my attention back to important matters.”

“Like your wine?”

“I’ll need something stronger than that to get through this.”

“How about me?” Valerie asked. “What task shall you bestow upon the Arbiter of Fish and Bread, Your Holiness?”

“You can be the Arbiter of Nutrition, and there’s something important I’d like you and everyone else in this room to do.” Dimitry held up several slips of parchment. “I need to devise a series of tests to put recruits through to decide their role in my army. Cooking, tailoring, enchanting, foreign language, smithing, and any other useful skill you have. The tests can be performance-based or question-based or both if that’s what you decide is best.”

Pointing at the top parchment in the pile, Clewin scratched his gray hair. “What are those boxes?”

“They’re… patterns,” Emilia said. She glanced at Dimitry. “Are they also a test?”

Impressed by the girl’s intuition, Dimitry grinned. “You’ll find out tomorrow.”