Chapter Text
The Matriarch’s Magic Mischief lands at the docks of Bordeleaux, and the instant we do, I know nothing will ever be the same again. The sails of my father’s fleet collapse like lungs in terminal exhale as the winds that had nearly torn them asunder die at the whim of Max Fulminator; the Celestial Magister drifts to the side of a gaunt greybeard I’d never have noticed if not for Max’s blindingly obvious entrance— soon joined by the stern, serpentine statue I’d learned to fear ever since he taught me my first cantrip.
“Verena keep you, acolyte Weißvogel,” recites Hierophant Humbert Hellmann, the light from his eyes scintillating against the sapphiresque snakes threading his gold robes. The ancient Wizard looks rather lonely without his customary cloud of acolytes and adepts around him. “You are summoned. Dire circumstances urge us to Altdorf…” Instead of flensing me with rays hotter than the sun— my grim guardian bows to me. “…but I would be remiss if I neglected to laud the outcome of your evaluation.”
“Indeed, you may never have another opportunity, Hierophant!” booms Max Fulminator, the firmament of stars across his robes twinkling all the colours in the cosmos. His white beard and flowing hair whip about his surprisingly spry limbs as if he is his own cumulus cloud. While the Celestial’s voice resounds with slightly less volume than when he presented his accusation against me, it still rolls over the bustling Bordelen docks like thunder.
Yet it is the silence of the third man that unnerves me the most. Clad in a shadowy wisp of a robe and a crooked walking staff, I’d never have picked him out from the throng of penitents begging for alms in the city streets, yet by the pride and strength with which he carries himself I cannot doubt that this is a Magister of the Grey Order. The only other Grey Wizard I’d met— Glimmer the Grey Matriarch, standing proud atop the flagship’s prow in her ornamented mauve corset, smoky half-cape, and wide-brimmed feather hat— uses the Grey Wind of Ulgu to hide in plain sight. She mingles among the well-to-do of Bretonnia in an elegant rakematiz gown and a flamboyant flabellum fan, whereas this emaciated hermit does not blend into the shadows, he is the shadow. Here is the Grey Wizard I thought Glimmer would be, not a flitting wisp but a monolithic stone steeped in smoke. Gooseflesh prickles my skin as I approach him. The silence that surrounds the shadowmancer is as eloquent as Hellmann’s dark sarcasm, and the gaze from under his pointed weathered hat is as fierce as Fulminator’s furor.
“Magister Reiner Starke,” Glimmer says to her fellow Grey Wizard. The bow her head gives could be mistaken for a nervous tic (that is, if she ever got nervous). Starke’s castigating glare erodes the Grey Matriarch’s haughtiness, and she removes her hat to reveal a shock of fiery red curls. “What, ahh… what brings three eminences such as yourselves to Bordeleaux?”
“I believe you know, madame,” Max Fulminator growls, brandishing his gavel bound up with the essence of galaxies and levelling it at Glimmer’s left arm— or its facsimile, ever since a Mesmerian Stalker bit it off and we had to use the monster’s flesh to reconstruct the limb. “The Grey Matriarch mutilated. A Jade Wizard slain. A Bright acolyte corrupted. A Light acolyte blaspheming the tenets of his Order.” The Celestial’s fierce indigo eyes, like a sky perpetually threatening to storm, train on me. Not even a week since Floraison de l’Acacia’s death and Candy Conflagratia’s betrayal, the weight of these blows has only deepened in my soul. The invective I’d spat against the circumstances leading up to these tragedies was but an iota of the hurt that raged in me… yet it seems that iota has poisoned any chance I had at a happy future. Flo would weep if she saw us now, I mourn.
“What about the blinding of your apprentice?” Glimmer says, fingernails digging into the rim of her grey hat. “Surely the sufferings of poor Clem would rank—”
“The acolyte Clement von Leithammel is tertiary to this travesty.” My friend Clement, who’d been shrinking beneath the gunwale until now, is gusted to his knees before the gaze of his master. I have a good sense for why he’s trembling and fidgeting with his jade blindfold, and it’s not from the cold of a Celestial wind. “If he lost his vision over the course of a mission, it is only because of his rash and improper usage of the Blue Wind of Azyr. The Celestial Order deems that the expunging of ocular functionality is penalty enough for his mediocrity.”
“That’s not fair,” I declare, stepping beside Glimmer and Clement. “Your apprentice was trying to help his family. If he overexerted himself in adverse conditions, it is only because your dogma spurred him to do so.”
The shards of universes burning in Fulminator’s eyes recentre on me before smouldering on Clement. “Von Leithammel is not my apprentice,” the Celestial Magister growls in the quietest voice I’ve heard from him yet. “He is an insignificant acolyte occupying the lowest echelon of the Celestial Order, unfit to stand before the war hero who deigned to edify him. And what’s this about a family?” The veteran Max Fulminator advances a step against me, and I give ground as if against a lightning-strewn tornado. “Are you quite cracked? I’ve been over your transcripts, sonny, and it is not at all glowing in regards to filial relations.” This last snipe is a particularly tender one, though not for the reason this blowhard thinks: while Max references the fact my foster parents relinquished me to the Light Order as a baby, I cannot help but remember how my real mother (who still sits in a jilted sulk in her quarters) all but said she’d rather see me dead. “Insolent child.” Max takes another step forward, and I another step back, until my back is toward the shifting seas. “You disgrace the discipline of your vaunted Order. You disgrace us all. I will hear no more of this heretical—”
“Luce is not a heretic!” cries Clement, shooting to his feet. Luminous azure blazes through his blindfold where eyes would be. “And he is not wrong about me; if I was hasty in channelling the Blue Wind, it is only because he inspired me to protect our family. Lucernus Weißvogel risked everything to bring us victory… I only pray I accomplished even a tenth of what he was able to.”
Max sneers and says, “Ending a sentence with a preposition? I taught you better, acolyte.” He turns to Reiner Starke. “Let the record show the heretic has attempted to corrupt the simple acolyte in my charge.” The Grey Wizard inclines his hoary head as if to nod, his trimmed grey beard burrowing into his ragged scarf.
Thurisa Greif is the next one off the ship, accompanied by their trusty gryphon steed Eboncoat (whose sleek black coat has half-faded to silver after being struck by our enemy’s cursed hammer). The Beast acolyte has stood by my side with love and compassion throughout our adventures together, and it was Isa’s wild kiss in an hour of peril that ignited the flames of romance between us. Suffice to say, I relish their words of rebuke towards this terrible trio— yet Glimmer pulls them aside, whispers something in their ear. Their gorgeous auburn eyes widen… then flicker away from me. The dagger thrust in my heart by our journey’s myriad tragedies twists deeper. I am sorry, my love, Isa empaths, their telepathic Beast Bond a mere murmur in my addled brain. You shall understand soon. And I hear no more.
“The Light acolyte has not been found guilty of heresy yet, master Fulminator,” a powerful Arabyan voice says, its dulcet majesty carrying in it a whisper of everyday fatalism. “I shall be sure to report my investigation’s outcome to a legal tribunal.” The Amethyst Wizard Shriver al-Zurvan leaps from the flagship’s gunwale into the scene— but not by me. Shriver’s rich robes, parted half in black and half in white, flutter like a deathly spectre between Starke and Fulminator. This duality in his clothing is repeated in his intense eyes, one a grey pale enough to be white and the other dark as midnight, both exceedingly capable of discerning truth from lies. His skull sceptre and golden gauntlet seem to represent yet more ostentatious regalia, yet having seen them in action (firsthand, due to a series of misunderstandings that set him against me), I respect them as the lethal tools they are. “Abstain from judgement, O wise aghayan, until the clear sky of truth manifests itself from obscuring clouds.”
“A perspicacious verdict, master investigator,” Hellmann says, bowing before Shriver. “Yet it is not the tribunal before you that shall deliver judgement: that authority belongs to none other but His Supreme Magnificence.”
My face blanches. “You don’t mean…”
The Hierophant nods solemnly, and for the first time in my life he seems almost remorseful. “Magister Starke shall convey all pertinent parties to the appointed court forthwith.”
“Bloody braggadocio,” Glimmer whispers, eyeing Starke with unfettered loathing.
“Hold fast, bonhommes!” a voice commands from without. The favourite of the sea god Manann, beloved lord of legend, tamer of the hippogryph Tempête, slayer of the Necrarch Nicodemus of Nuln— Duke Alberic de Bordeleaux staggers from the deck of his flagship piss-drunk. There’s a good chance this man’s my father, I remind myself sombrely. “I wou— hic!— would have a palaver with the heroes of la Cathédrale Crânienne de la Dame du Lac. En solitude, s’il vous plaît.”
All three elder Magisters grimace at the drunken giant of a Duke, but they bow before him and yield us space on the dock.
The plain-clothed Duke, with his broad swarthy face and wavy black beard and thinning hair is the most at-home of all of us in the dockside district. Atop his own pier, Alberic truly towers, and his inebriated gait gives way to the proud walk of a man in his element; it heartens me, at least, that the spinal fracture he’d sustained in Nico’s lair has been mostly mended. When he pulls me into an embrace, his wine-sodden breath nearly knocks me out.
“Enjoying the grapes of victory, seigneur?” I exclaim.
Alberic grins warmly. “I kept my oath, did I not?” His grizzled voice lowers. “And I ken who helped me keep it, my so… er, boy.” My would-be father leans a heavy paw on my shoulder, producing a sharp sting (yet more evidence of my disgrace; I had been healed more completely by Nico’s dark magic than by the holy Damsels of the Lady). “Let not these varlets pen you into their stable. You are your own steed, untamed and unbound, and you are the true victor of la Cathédrale Crânienne. Never forget it.”
“As you wish… my Duke.” Warily, I drape my hand over Alberic’s and risk a squeeze. It is this gesture that causes us both to drop our grips.
“I… I had devised to guerdon you this at tonight’s feast, but alas, your business is more pressing.” Alberic takes out a sheathed sword from his belt and presents it to me.
I palm its warm grip, inching its golden blade from its scabbard. “Is this Dyreglaive?” I whisper.
“Boules bleues de Manann, non!” Alberic makes the sign of the trident, a three-fingered salute from the waist. “That glaive felled a deathless warlock, and it shall rest honourably with its bearer forevermore.”
“I see.” Pity passes through me as I consider the prospect of a fine weapon such as Dyreglaive rusting away with the corpse of Marshal Heri Brunais. I could not and cannot shake my distaste of the Paladin who’d so brusquely bullied us Wizards about. Brunais represents much of my woes with Bretonnia and the forces of Order in general… though perhaps that is too harsh, as he had proved his valour against a fearsome Necrofex Colossus, even when it cost him his life. That is more than can be said of most. Truly, he lived up to the title ‘Paladin’ in the end.
I unsheathe the new sword Alberic gifted me: an ornate gold cutlass, hilted by the one-winged aquila that adorns the top of my staff. Its single-edged blade of Light swishes through the air like a marlin in water, and I notice a flaw in its design: the blade melts most morosely the more excited I become.
“Ah, you have grasped the smith’s art!” Alberic claps my back proudly, adjusting his force when he sees me wince. “The arcane artisan who forged this cutlass imbued it with an especial function: to shift and extend according to the wielder’s passions. But none of my men have thus far exhibited the emotional mastery the blade demands, so in my armoury it has lingered for a decade or so.”
“Well, I’ll gladly take this leftover off your hands, seigneur.” With a jolt of joy, I whip the fickle blade into a long rod, then an amorphous string, then a quivering lariat. I loop the lasso over a nearby jetty, and the magical steel tightens over the post in the manner of real fibre. It scores blade-marks on the wood as it retracts suddenly and quite outside my control.
“‘Tis no ‘leftover’, lad: I had old Forgeron fashion its hilt in the guise of that headpiece of yours. If you finally repair your staff, perhaps he can add another wing and we can make it a proper broadsword. What say you to that?” I smile slightly, momentarily distracted from my imminent trial. Alberic beams with all the joy of a father coaching his son. “I’ve a notion the blade was meant to be on this quest with you. Just as the churl I fobbed it off on was meant to be eaten by a Mourngul.” Alberic rubs his neck. “Ah… I’m not convincing you, am I?”
“No. Perhaps you are not sober enough, Duke?” Focusing my emotions into a steady, stable calmness, I finagle the lariat-blade back into a sabre. “But thank you ver— ah, gramercy, seigneur.” I sheathe the sabre and bow deeply. “Has the sword a name?”
Alberic shakes his shaggy head. “Mayhaps you should name it after your eagle.”
I glance at the one-winged aquila on my staff. Sheared by a mutant’s halberd, exposed to the White Wind of Hysh on a near-daily basis, just about melted into a puddle… yet through every ordeal we’d shared, I had never thought to give the gold headpiece a name. “It’ll come to me eventually.”
“Tell me as soon as it does. I would wit it forsooth.” Alberic and I share one final embrace. We linger in its fondness for longer than is entirely proper, but neither of us care, even as Hellmann clearly his throat audibly from across the dock.
As I join the others, Glimmer departs to the chagrin of the three aged masters. “Thank you for aiding us in our quest, noble seigneur,” she says, curtsying before Duke Alberic. “Since you hold Nico’s severed head, I recall you owe us your entire fleet… but for the life of me, I cannot think of what I would do with such a thing. Just give me a swift frigate, and we’ll call the debt paid.”
Alberic bursts out in laughter. “You never had a husband who fell to beastmen, did you?”
Glimmer smiles sweetly. “Why, my dear Duke, I never had a husband. But if you ensure my coach, my ship, and my acolyte’s pet gryphon remain far away from the Grail Damsels, then that might change.” The Grey Matriarch winks and extends her gloved hand, slyly smirking at the glowering Prophetess at the gunwale.
Alberic lightly kisses Glimmer’s glove. “Fare ye well, Comtesse Umbra d’Arque Quentain. For a lady of L’Anguille, you proffer pleasant parley.” The Duke sends her off with a respectful bow, then meets my eyes once more. “Adieu, Luce. Et bonne chance.”
As we gather into the teleportation sigil Reiner Starke prepared, I glimpse the Grail Prophetess Melfleur Guisglaive. The woman who cursed my very existence, the woman who called me incubus spawn… the woman who might have birthed me. I expect one last harangue from the holy harridan, at the very least a withering scowl— yet the Damsel sends me off with a simple hail.
Not even a second passes before the Magic Mischief and our three elderly escorts are whisked in a blink of shadow beneath the cold regard of Supreme Patriarch Balthasar Gelt.