Chapter 143
Two Stories
The castle as a whole was afire with excitement, with everyone in a great rush to prepare for the impromptu tournament that the Prince was throwing. Most excited were those keen on participating, especially after learning about the rewards--every participant will get a full gourd of ale regardless if they win or not, and every winner will get one extra gourd for each victory. Furthermore, there were special rewards for all those who place in the top ten, and some of the more experienced and confident ones had already locked themselves up in the last-minute training to possibly be in their strongest state for the tournament.
After all, even for just the tenth place, they were guaranteed three personal lessons for the castle's Commander of the Army, Captain Derrek. For most, that was more than enough, and that was just the tenth place's reward. The reward for the winner was especially breathtaking, as they would immediately be Knighted and tasked with serving as the Prince's personal guard for life, the highest position a commoner could ever dream of achieving.
In-between, there were also the talismans specifically crafted by their own castle's Exorcist, special weapons, armor, even sessions on magic, as well as permanent titles. Even without those, there would be fire as there was little else to do whilst deeply snowed in, but the rewards were like adding a lake of oil on top of the raging blaze, stoking it to high heavens.
The atmosphere was more than palpable--it was ripping like lances through the walls, and every conversation between any number of people was dominated by the discussion of the tournament--who might join, who might win, which rewards were more enticing, and many-a-promise between a young lad and a young maiden flagging victories on their name.
While the castle was on metaphorical fire, Sylas, Asha, Ryne, and another girl, Ryne's personal maid, Luna, were in the basement, preparing the talismans. Sylas was quite rusty still, but Ryne looked like she barely slowed down. It was evident, from the way she moved around the small room, that she likely spent a lot of time in here, familiarizing herself as much as possible in her own time as to be able to do it so smoothly. She held her shoulders heavy, as always, and words were incapable of lifting up that burden.
Sylas didn't think it strange; after all, she was a teenager--and a very stubborn one at that. Once her lot was decided on something, dispelling that dream was harder than ripping out a star's core. And she was very determined--determined to prove to everyone, herself and the world, that she was capable of being an Exorcist despite everything. Though she still stumbled here and there and it was clear some coordination was lacking, she was spry and quick about the 'lab', and even quicker when it came to drawing runes.
Unlike Sylas, she remembered all the ancient runes and had refined their usage further, creating talismans that were far stronger than the ones Sylas used during the castle's defense. Naturally, none of those would be handed out as rewards--the ones to be handed out were fairly simple, such as a protective charm that deflected a blow to the heart, or a talisman that started a fire, or enhanced the blade for a while. None were outright deadly, though some were clearly better than others.
"Alright, let's take a break," Sylas called out, pouring himself a cup of ale and yanking open a massive tome--it was empty, actually, and was meant to be his temporary diary where he'd pour out every bit of knowledge he recalled and study it further. Since he planned on staying in this loop for at least five-six months, there was a chance some learned things might slip him, and he couldn't afford the risk. As such, he settled on writing down everything in the form of cliff notes, using breaks as moments to dedicate himself to it.
"What are you writing?" Ryne quizzed as she nibbled away at some bread while Luna cleaned up the working tables behind them. The latter was a young girl herself, no older than eighteen, and though she seemed somewhat awkward, she at least didn't seem to be a bad person.
"A love story," Sylas replied. "As an expert on loving someone, I could use your input."
"Ugh," Ryne groaned though flushed still, lowering her head. "No way."
"You've gotten better at hiding it," he chuckled. "Still not great, though."
"Leave her alone," Asha ribbed him gently. "Don't listen to him. Nobody knows."
"Really? Because you two know. And now Luna knows," Ryne added. "And I'm fairly certain that everyone knows, Valen included."
"What's wrong with knowing?" Sylas said. "I've known for a long, long time that Asha was into me, but I kept it down, you know."
"You did?" Asha glanced at him. "Why do I have a feeling that isn't the case? My memory may be a bit fuzzy, but it's not entirely wiped."
"Setting that aside," Sylas said. "We've pretty much framed out all the talismans, right? Going any stronger than these might be too strong."
"Yep," Ryne nodded. "Honestly, even these are... iffy. If you weren't pushing me, I wouldn't be handing them out."
"I'm not pushing you."
"But you said--"
"Oh, so, me saying something qualifies as me pushing you?"
"..."
"Of course it does," Sylas corrected himself after another elbowing. "Don't worry about it. I'll personally beat the notion into whoever wins them that they are not toys and that if it gets out into the wide world that they're in possession of talismans, their very gnarly deaths will be a fine addition to that tale."
"Okay, but seriously--what are you writing?" Ryne asked. All the while, she could hear the pen pressing against the paper, singing a familiar melody.
"I'm writing," Sylas said, his fingers never stopping. "History, so to say. Things that happened and things that matter. One day, this Kingdom will have a saying--'if you want the truth, you can't go wrong with Sylas' uh... tome of history so curt'? Anyway, they're gonna say something cool and flattering, I'm sure of it."
"... nothing shakes that confidence of yours, huh?" Ryne chuckled, taking a sip of tea. "I wish more people were like you, to be honest. The perhaps lesser version of you, but leaning in that direction."
"What? Arrogant pricks who think they can do no wrong while they set the world on fire with their farts because they never look back at the chaos they've sown?"
"That might yet be the most literately beautiful way you described yourself," Asha said with a smile. "We're going places, definitely."
As the atmosphere quieted, Sylas concentrated. There were many things to jot down onto the paper, and many more that he'd already forgotten, praying that they would come to him in the dreams. However, it was growing easier, since a good chunk of the scatterbrained details from before now formed a frame of sorts--it didn't all appear as just random chunks of information bearing no influence on each other. It was... a story. A story still filled with holes, but a story nonetheless. No, he mulled inwardly, it's two stories...
Sinking further into his thoughts, he realized that the reason most things didn't fit was that they didn't necessarily belong together. It wasn't just one, overarching story that had everything tied unto itself. It was two stories--Sylas', Valen's, the Kingdom's... and then the other story, one he dug out recklessly, the story of the dead, of the times before the Kingdom's founding. Those had no direct links to him--only those which he himself forcibly fabricated. If anything, they existed outside of him and he, instead, dragged them into his own framework.
Two stories clashed like two boats and exploded into millions of tiny chunks, and now he was trying to build a single boat from the pieces instead of two. While some overlap existed, namely in the cultists working with the dead and against the Kingdom and in the name of the Empire, the overlap was forcibly extorted by him. If he had stuck to the 'goal', cultists would have simply been rebels that he would have dealt with naturally. He wouldn't have known of their connection to the dead, or the living crossing the border to commit robberies, or even of the discrepancies between the Empire and the Kingdom.
Though he desperately wanted to believe it... not everything was connected. And even if some links existed, they weren't hard-coded, so to say, into the nature of the tales. Most lay stilled and fabricated on the floor of his dreams, dead on arrival, leading him astray. Putting down the pen, he took a sip of ale and began stroking his beard. He was happier, he realized, for it.
After all, splitting it whole into two made two decently-structured stories with a few holes still rather than one overgrowth that seemed to not have enough plugs for all the leaks it was breeding with each new revelation. At the very least, now he could compartmentalize. With each new piece of information, rather than trying to force it into the frame it didn't fit, he'd have two choices.
For now, he decided to focus on the problem west of the village, one of the men hiding in the caves and conspiring with the dead and siccing them onto the castles of the living. It would be a solo journey, he knew--even with the Gods' blessings, Asha was still too slow. With each reset, her body would reset too--and, blessings of the gods notwithstanding, she was frail and weak and slow. At the very least the first few times, while he examined the situation, circumstances, and their numbers, he would be better off alone, afforded freedoms beyond those he had while she was with him. Though she'd be soured and unhappy, it had to be done.
The true reason, however, beyond the shallow excuses was quite simple--he was afraid she'd see the side of him that... wasn't pretty. He was still angry--beyond angry. Angry that the dead have come to the walls time and again, and angry that the dead had caused so much pain and suffering to this place. However, he couldn't exactly blame the unfeeling, unthinking dead for it--but he could blame the living who guided them to the castle. As such, he feared he might lose himself the first few times in that anger and rage and become someone else entirely. Someone he didn't want to be... but someone that still lived and beat loudly within his chest, ready to come out rather quickly and sharply, if the circumstances dictated so.