Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve

Aurya 16th 468 AC

Blair Fredricks

Meanwhile, some distance away, Blair urged his weary horse, a sturdy roan named Cinder, down the gentle slope. He'd left the edge of Nestir's Forest that morning, the dense, ancient trees finally giving way to rolling hills and open fields. The journey had been long, and the day's travel had etched a weariness into his bones. The air, though crisp, carried the faint, acrid scent of wood smoke, a testament to the sheer size of Westeria.

As he descended, the city grew larger, its stone walls looming like a dark, jagged crown against the silvery-blue washed landscape. The twin moons, high in the night sky, illuminated the sprawling city and the chaotic encampment that surrounded its walls. Torches flickered like fireflies in the distance, and the murmur of a thousand voices drifted on the night air, a constant, low hum that spoke of a city teeming with life.

Blair squinted, trying to discern details in the moonlit panorama. He could see the main gate, a massive structure of dark wood and iron, thronged with people moving in and out like ants. The area outside the walls was a sea of tents, carts, and makeshift shelters, a temporary city built by those seeking refuge or opportunity within Westeria's walls. The sheer number of people was staggering, a stark contrast to the quiet solitude of the forest he'd just left. He slowed Cinder to a walk, his eyes scanning the scene, a mix of curiosity and apprehension settling in his gut. He knew he'd find what he was looking for in that city, but the sheer scale of it was daunting.

Winding his way through the crowded streets, a tapestry of noise and smells assaulting his senses, he made for the heart of the city. The castle, a towering structure of white stone that seemed to pierce the very sky, dominated the landscape. That's where he would find the Viscount. He hoped bringing word of the Viscount's granddaughter, still alive and well, would net him some coin. He could certainly use it after his long journey.

Blair guided Cinder through the press of bodies, the horse's hooves clicking on the cobblestones slick with refuse. He kept a tight rein, navigating the throng with practiced ease, his eyes scanning the crowd for pickpockets and drunks. The stench of unwashed flesh, stale ale, and greasy cooking fires hung heavy in the air, a nauseating miasma that clung to the back of his throat. Every few steps, he passed stalls overflowing with roasted meats, pungent spices, and questionable stews, their aromas mingling with the reek of sweat and urine to create a truly revolting olfactory assault. He resisted the urge to gag, his stomach churning. Gods, this place reeks, he thought, his gaze fixed on the looming silhouette of the castle. Just a little further. He longed for the clean, stone walls and the promise of air untainted by the city's filth. He wanted to get away from the eyes that watched him, the hands that might try to steal from him, and the general overwhelming sense of the mass of humanity that seemed to press in on him from every side.

After what felt like an eternity of navigating the labyrinthine streets, Blair finally broke free of the concentrate, squalid crowd. He entered a district of wider avenues and taller buildings, the air noticeably cleaner, though still carrying the undercurrent of the city's grime. The press of bodies thinned, replaced by well-dressed merchants and their richly adorned escorts. Here, the cobblestones were cleaner, the refuse less prevalent, and the stench less overpowering. He loosened his grip on Cinder's reins, allowing the horse to break into a canter. The rhythmic clatter of hooves on stone echoed in the relative quiet, a welcome change from the cacophony of the lower city. He urged Cinder onward, his gaze fixed on the imposing silhouette of the castle, its white stone gleaming in the moonlight, a beacon of power and, hopefully, coin. He still felt the lingering unease from the crush of the city, the sense of being watched, of being a target. He knew he couldn't relax until he was within those castle walls.

As the twin moons climbed higher in the night sky, their silvery-blue luminescence washing over the city, Blair approached the castle gates. The massive iron-bound doors loomed before him, their dark surface reflecting the moonlight like polished obsidian. Torches flickered in sconces along the walls, casting long, dancing shadows that obscured the faces of the guards patrolling the ramparts. The air, though still carrying the faint scent of the city, was noticeably cooler and cleaner here, a welcome respite from the stifling heat and stench of the lower districts. He slowed Cinder to a walk, his eyes scanning the gates for any sign of trouble. He knew that gaining entry wouldn't be easy, but he also knew that the information he carried was worth a king's ransom. He just hoped the Viscount agreed.

"Halt," a guard at the gate called, his voice rough and authoritative. The man stepped forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Do you have an appointment?"

"No," Blair replied, his voice steady, though a flicker of impatience danced in his eyes. "But I have information for the Viscount that he'll want to hear." He reached into his worn leather pouch and produced a ring, holding it up for the guard to see. The moonlight caught the intricate design, revealing the Viscount's emblem: a lion holding a rose in its powerful jaws. "This should vouch for my sincerity.”

The guard's eyes narrowed as he examined the ring. "I'll send someone to see if the Viscount is taking visitors," he said gruffly, his gaze still fixed on Blair. "What's your name?”

"Blair. Blair Fredricks," Blair stated, his voice clear and firm. "Adelaide Fredricks' son."

The guard nodded, a flicker of recognition in his eyes. He motioned to another guard standing nearby, and after a short, whispered conversation, the second guard slipped through a smaller side gate, disappearing into the castle.

"Wait here until my compatriot comes back," the first guard ordered, his voice leaving no room for argument.

Blair waited impatiently, his booted foot tapping a restless rhythm against Cinder's flank. The minutes stretched, each tick of time grating on his nerves. Finally, the guard who had disappeared into the castle returned, his face impassive.

"He's clear," the returning guard told the first one, nodding curtly. "The Viscount will see him.”

Finally, Blair thought, a wave of relief washing over him. He dismounted from Cinder, the weary horse shifting its weight with a soft snort. The guards opened the massive gates, the iron-bound doors groaning on their hinges, allowing him to lead Cinder into the castle courtyard. A stable hand, a young man with calloused hands and a patient demeanor, approached, waiting patiently to take the roan's reins.

Blair barely acknowledged the stable hand, his gaze sweeping over the man with a dismissive air. He offered a curt nod, as if the stable hand's existence was a mere inconvenience. "See to him," he said, his voice clipped, and turned his attention to the imposing castle.

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The stable hand, unfazed by Blair's haughtiness, took the reins and led Cinder away. Blair watched him go for a moment, then focused on the courtyard. It was lit by torches and the soft glow of the twin moons, revealing a bustling scene of guards, servants, and messengers hurrying about their duties. A stone pathway led towards the main entrance, a grand archway flanked by towering columns.

A man in finely tailored livery approached, his posture stiff and formal. "Blair Fredricks, I presume? The Viscount is expecting you. Please follow me."

Blair followed the man through the archway, stepping into a vast, echoing hall. Tapestries depicting scenes of battles and hunts lined the walls, and suits of armor stood guard at intervals, their polished surfaces reflecting the torchlight. The air was thick with the scent of beeswax candles and expensive perfume.

They ascended a wide, sweeping staircase, the sound of their footsteps echoing on the polished stone. The man led him down a long corridor, stopping before a pair of ornately carved doors. He knocked softly, then opened the doors, gesturing for Blair to enter.

The room beyond was a spacious study, filled with books, maps, and strange artifacts. A large desk dominated the center of the room, and behind it sat a man with faded red hair and a stern expression. This was the Viscount.

"Blair Fredricks," the Viscount Garrith Warwick said, his voice deep and resonant, like stones grinding together, filling the opulent yet suffocating chamber. The air, already heavy with the scent of old money and unspoken power, seemed to thicken around his words. "I understand you have information of importance." His eyes, the color of tarnished emeralds, fixed on Blair, holding him captive.

Blair, despite the tremor that threatened to run down his spine, stepped forward, his gaze steady, a practiced mask of composure. "I do, my lord. Information regarding your... granddaughter." He chose the word carefully, testing the waters.

The Viscount's eyes narrowed to dangerous slits, a flicker of something unreadable – ancient fury, perhaps, or calculated malice – passing across his gaunt, aristocratic face. "Go on," he commanded, the words barely more than a growl.

"There's a girl in Eagle Point," Blair began, his voice measured, carefully chosen to convey importance without alarm, "who bears an uncanny resemblance to your daughter, Lyra. The spitting image, in fact, if one were to disregard her unusual features. Except for her elven traits—the distinctly pointed ears, the delicate, almost ethereal bone structure that marks her as something... other. And she's been actively seeking out books and manuscripts related to magic and channeling, my lord. A rather... peculiar interest, wouldn't you agree, for someone of her apparent background?” He let the implication hang in the air, a silent accusation.

The Viscount sat back in his throne-like chair, its dark, polished wood creaking softly under his weight. His long, skeletal fingers steepled beneath his chin, resembling ancient, predatory talons, his gaze fixed on Blair, unwavering, dissecting. "I see," he said calmly, his voice betraying absolutely nothing, a terrifying placidity that hinted at the storm beneath. "And what is this girl's name, young man?" A faded red brow, thick and menacing, arched slowly, a silent, deadly question hanging in the suffocating air, demanding immediate satisfaction.

"Raena. Raena Silverthorne," Blair stated, the name hanging in the air like a dropped stone into a bottomless well, reverberating with silent, forgotten echoes. Silence, cold and charged, filled the room, pressing down on Blair until he felt he could barely breathe. The Viscount's green eyes narrowed further, twin points of emerald ice, and his face turned a dangerous shade of crimson, the subtle flush a stark contrast to his usual pale, controlled composure. A muscle ticked violently in his jaw, once, twice, and the very air in the room crackled with a sudden, palpable, unspoken tension, thrumming with raw, barely contained fury.

"She's supposed to be dead," the Viscount growled out finally, the words forced through clenched teeth, heavy with a promise of annihilation. With a sudden, explosive movement, he slammed a fist on the desk with a thunderous crash that made Blair flinch violently, a visceral shock that rippled through the room. The sheer force of the blow sent papers scattering across the polished mahogany surface like frightened birds, and inkwells rattled precariously. A cold pit, growing rapidly, formed in Blair's stomach, churning with icy dread. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all, he thought, his earlier confidence evaporating like morning mist under a scorching sun. This information might cost him more than he had ever anticipated.

"You say she's still in Eagle Point?" the Viscount Garrith Warwick rumbled, his voice thick with suppressed rage, every syllable heavy with menace. "She supposedly died ten years ago. I was lied to." He rose from his imposing chair, a dark, formidable figure, pacing behind the desk like a caged beast, his shadow stretching ominously across the polished floor. "And with her looking into magic and channeling… this complicates things immensely. Her very existence, now, throws a wrench into everything.” He stopped pacing abruptly, his green eyes flashing with cold anger. "This changes everything.”

He paused, his gaze hardening, drifting to some unseen point beyond Blair. "What kind of magic does she use?" he demanded, his voice low and dangerous, a predator contemplating his next move.

"Fire," Blair responded, his voice clear, though he felt a tremor of apprehension at the Viscount's darkening expression.

The Viscount's expression darkened further, a deep shadow crossing his face. "That just won't do. My title has been held by healers for the last four hundred years," he stated, his voice now laced with a hint of something that sounded like regret, a fleeting echo of a different path. "It's a shame Regina and Emily don't have magic." He didn't elaborate on the implications of Raena's existence for his desired succession, but the unspoken weight of his disapproval hung heavy in the air.

Blair nodded, his glacial blue eyes flickering nervously, unsure what else to do or say in the face of such raw, complex emotions. He impatiently brushed a strand of black hair from his eyes, a sharp, almost frantic gesture, a reminder that he was well overdue for a haircut, a small, mundane detail against the backdrop of the Viscount's simmering fury.

The Viscount approached his desk, his gaze still hard, snatched up a heavy, well-worn bag of coins, and tossed it to Blair. The weight of the bag landed with a solid thud in Blair's hands, a satisfying jingle of metal against leather. "For bringing me the news," Garrith said curtly, his voice flat, devoid of any warmth, yet laced with a chilling finality that left no room for argument or further discussion. "I'll have her taken care of. Consider your task complete."

The Viscount then waved a dismissive hand, a gesture that sent a cold shiver down Blair's spine, a stark reminder of the man's ruthless efficiency. Blair retreated hastily, bowing shallowly, grateful to have been paid and even more eager to put some significant distance between himself and the Viscount's unsettling, predatory presence. The air in the study still felt thick with suppressed rage and a terrifying calm.

Once safely outside the study, in the quieter, albeit still imposing, castle corridor, Blair couldn't resist the urge to peek into the pouch. A satisfied grin, wide and genuine, spread across his handsome face as he saw the distinct glint of gold coins mixed generously with silver. It was a substantial sum, far more than he'd expected for simply relaying information. He quickly secured the pouch deep inside his jacket, the comforting weight a welcome reassurance against his chest.

With a newfound sense of prosperity bubbling through him, Blair decided to indulge. He'd stay at a truly fancy inn in the city's wealthy district, the kind with soft beds and attentive staff, not the usual common traveler's establishments. He yearned for the luxury of a long, hot bath, soaking away the grime of travel and the lingering tension of the Viscount's presence, and then, a truly decent meal, perhaps even with a good vintage wine. He'd earned it, he thought, after the long journey back from Eagle Point and the undeniably tense encounter with the formidable Viscount. He made his way through the labyrinthine corridors of the castle, back down the grand, echoing staircase, and through the bustling outer courtyard, his steps lighter than before, a spring in his stride. He'd find the very best inn he could, settle in, and relax. He was sure the Viscount would take care of the Raena situation; it was none of his concern anymore. His part was done.