PART 3

CHAPTER 13 PART 1 OF 2

GRACE

Astor woke with the dawn to begin preparations for the ritual. He brushed off dirt and bits of debris from the forest floor as he sat up. The House Morgan combat robes, resplendent in blue and white, repelled any particles or grime that were not present when it was enchanted. He took them off, shook them out vigorously, and hung them over a tree branch to catch the pale morning sun.

The river stones had gone cold as ice overnight, biting at his feet while he crunched through them on the way to bathe. He had camped near the water, and not far from a place suitable for the ritual so he wouldn't need to go looking for them in the morning. He was shivering by the time he came back to get his uniform. Timid rays of the morning sun had managed to warm them. Astor delighted as the warm clothes settled over his chilled skin, it was good to be out of the city.

He chewed an apple as he made his way through the forest. Soft dapples of light navigated the canopy above to come down in rays, tinted with the last hints of pink and orange from the dawn. Before long a small glade opened up in front of him. A very old oak tree stood conspicuously in the centre, as if the other trees had decided to keep a respectful distance. Astor’s sensitivity was not as good as a real ritualist, but even he could feel how calm and dense the ambient Mana was here.

The sensation made him feel like he should tread softly as he approached, as if loud sounds might disturb the oak’s regal slumber. He began laying out his stones in a diagram to redirect disruptive Mana in the atmosphere. In a place like this they were probably not necessary, but the habit helped to get him into the right state of mind. When the diagram was complete he sat in the traditional way and began to look inwards.

The first to emerge was a sense of pride. Pride at being chosen again by his Master for a task that was important to the House. Pride that his judgement was trusted to determine for himself what was in the best interests of the House and act as he saw fit. Astor worked diligently to make himself a versatile and reliable asset. Knowing that the Master recognised this was deeply satisfying and vindicated the sacrifices he made to sharpen himself.

He held the powerful cluster of emotions in check for a moment, tempered them against the danger of arrogance, then permitted them to rise. They flowed into his Aura cleanly and evenly, at all times subservient to his will. When that was done he settled and waited, looking for whatever was next to drift up from his emotional core.

A familiar feeling came next, one he knew would come. He knew it would come because it always did. Frustration at the Master's son. The Scion who squandered the Master's love and trust by not working to make himself worthy. With it came anxiety; fear that once the Master retired, and the son became head of the House, he would no longer be welcome.

He held the emotions and anxiety in check, dissecting them and subjecting each one to cold reasoning. Astor felt he was correct that the house Scion was too lax on his duties and training. The Master was a warrior of immense power and a wise leader. He would leave vast shoes to fill when he retired. House Morgan had risen to towering heights under the Master’s reign, but they had also made themselves a target for many ambitious powers.

If the Scion did not address his lack of both wisdom and strength, ruin would surely follow. Astor said openly what others feared to say and, when they sparred, he demonstrated directly how lacking the Scion was. The Scion’s ego could not be pandered to when the future of the House was at stake.

Astor served the clan by bearing the hatred of the Scion and his sycophants, by loudly and unambiguously displaying the peril that awaited their House. Perhaps Astor would be exiled or even killed for it when the Scion came to power, but dying in service to his house was acceptable.

The anxiety faded away as Astor became resolute, certain now that all his actions were in perfect harmony with what he believed to be right. He would gladly accept whatever the consequences of that might be. With his heart and mind now properly aligned, he allowed the emotions to rise into his Aura. As the ritual progressed, Astor’s Shield of Grace began to form.

His Aura became clear and pure, without a trace of conflict or contradiction. Everything within it was there because it had been seen, understood, and allowed. His self control was complete and his will was absolute.

By the time the ritual was complete the outer boundaries of his Aura had become a glassy sphere surrounding him. From outside it would appear as if he sat in the centre of a crystal ball. At this point his Aura had become both a shield, that could withstand almost any attack, and a weapon that could strike with overwhelming force. Astor knew his Grace was powerful. Only the Master’s one was stronger, but the Master was prodigious beyond anything in living memory.

With the ritual complete, his intentions and purpose were as clear as his Aura. While he secured the straps on the loose fitting combat uniform, Astor considered the information he had on his task. A representative from a Slaver named Caleb had come to Votterdam talking about a slave with dimension powers, like from the stories of Rurik the Wise.

A quick thinking agent from House Morgan secured the Slavers' silence cheaply, preventing the other powers from finding out, and then informed the Master. Astor had been called immediately. He was to investigate the Slavers' claim, identify any threats or opportunities for house Morgan, and act accordingly.

The fact that the Master had involved himself personally could only mean there were greater forces at play. House Morgan had no need for slaves gifted or not and, as a rule, did not associate with Slavers. The Master knew that Astor would understand this, and had still chosen not to reveal the true nature of the situation.

Hoisting a small backpack, he set out for the road. If the Slavers' information was correct he would arrive at their camp some time tomorrow. He hadn't run into any of the farmers on the road so far, so he would need to make a slight detour to visit one of the local homesteads. Any member of house Morgan that left the city on a non-urgent task was required to maintain the house's good standing with the rural folk of the countryside.

The good will of the farmers was crucial to keeping the scheming merchants in line. If any merchants defied house Morgan the farmers would refuse to deal with them until they made amends. Votterdam had become a point of political contention since the end of the war, and was quickly turning into a boiling pot of intrigue as competing powers vied for influence. House Morgan had secured an official mandate, thanks to the Master’s indomitable presence on the battlefield during the war, but their position was still unstable. Any potential threat or advantage had to be identified and addressed before their rivals could use it against them.

The day was calm and beautiful. Astor loved spending time away from the house compounds whenever he could. He didn't enjoy politics and subtle manoeuvring, preferring to get to the heart of any issue as directly as possible. The Master knew how best to apply his strengths and avoid his weaknesses causing problems. With the Master in charge Astor could simply be himself, follow orders, and trust that he was the correct tool for the job.

The wildlife knew to avoid the roads this close to a city, so Astor was left to his thoughts as the day wore on and more of the ancient forest was left behind him. Any common predators, that had not been driven mad by a Nexus, would flee on seeing Astor’s Aura. They tended to have good instincts for when they were outmatched. The sun was already drifting towards the horizon by the time he finally encountered a path that led off the Old Road, usually a sign of a farmstead.

Astor left the cobbles, turning down a well trodden dirt road. The forest near the road quickly gave way to large, open fields. Fragile new sprouts of wheat were just beginning to show through the freshly tilled earth. Great copper wind chimes, gone green with age, rang in deep tenors to ward off The Silence.

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This time of year the farmers would be working to beat back the ever encroaching forest, or wrestle new land from its grip. Scattered Relics could be seen at a distance; great stone cogs lying at odd angles among strangely shaped frames. The metal that would have made up much of the machinery had long ago turned to dust, leaving their original purpose unintelligible. They were apparently too heavy for the farmers to remove from the fields, or perhaps they were just the tip of some gargantuan construct buried underground.

The homestead appeared on a central hill after Astor had already passed an impressive stretch of farmland. A small child spotted him from a distance and ran off, no doubt letting his parents know of Astor's approach. Even from this distance his Shield of Grace would be clearly identifiable.

As Astor was making his way up a well kept path, the head of the homestead came to greet him. He was a sturdy, rustic man, well built from a lifetime of hard work. His clothes were good quality and well maintained. The farmers around Votterdam enjoyed a respected place in society, and protection against profiteering by the merchant class. Much of this was due to House Morgan supporting their interests in city politics.

“Warmest welcome Hir Morgan,” the man said, his hat held respectfully on his chest as he made a short bow. He gave the boy at his side a cuff on the shoulder, which prompted the lad to do the same.

“I offer you my bread, my lord. And my hearth and home are yours. We would be honoured for you to join us.”

“The honour is mine good farmer. I will follow you,” Astor replied, and they continued the rest of the way up the hill.

The farmer's son gazed at Astor with wide eyes from the other side of his father. Everyone knew stories of the Shield of Grace, but even within house Morgan not all the warriors could demonstrate it. Perhaps the child was seeing it for the first time. House Morgan had been in this area for countless generations, originally a rural dynasty not unlike farmers themselves.

The power of The Grace in combat, when properly trained, was very formidable. As the Empire came north the Morgan family became more and more martial; now a house of dedicated warriors. They had never lost contact with their roots however. Ancient heroes of House Morgan still populated the hearthside stories told by the farmers to their children.

The homestead had a feel that can only come from being lived in and built upon by unnumbered generations. Each new generation adding to it in small and reverent ways. It sprawled asymmetrically across the hilltop. Lofts and balconies and little staircases to secret peaceful rooms could be seen as they moved around to the main entrance. The ancient workmanship of great great grandfathers was maintained indefinitely when it was useful, but also built upon as the family's needs changed from generation to generation.

Astor brushed past strings of garlic and herbs hanging from the rafters as he was reverently ushered into the house and shown to the place of honour. There he sat as the farmer's wife bustled about, shining already clean benches. As she fetched the family's best dining sets, that had been buried in deep cupboards, the farmer sat near Astor. A glare from underneath bushy eyebrows was all that was required to have the child sit quietly next to him.

The farmer's Aura was obviously proud, and perhaps a little vindicated. It occurred to Astor that he probably kept his house in such good order by lecturing his family about how a House Morgan noble could show up at any time. It wasn't long before a plethora of fresh fruits, nuts, and cheese were presented on finely carved plates. The firepit oven had already been burning to warm the house when Astor arrived, but soon a tray of greased and salted meat was pushed into it.

“Good farmer. Safe must be the hands that bring bread to our tables, and vigilant must be the swords that hold The Silence at bay.” Astor started, reciting the words that had been repeated so often they had taken on a ritual quality.

“How may House Morgan be of assistance?”

The farmer's Aura turned pensive, followed by the mood of the entire house. After a moment of silence the farmer spoke, his Aura shot with a mixture of grief and fear.

“Hir Morgan... A Fallen One has taken our neighbour's daughter.”

Astor recognised the phrase ‘Fallen One’. Rural folk commonly spoke in this way about people who had succumbed to a Nexus of self reinforcing negative emotion, such as hate, fear, or anger. Not wanting to suggest such a tragedy was the fault of those afflicted, rural folk referred to the event as if some evil force had invaded and taken hold of them. It was in some ways closer to the truth, since the person's nature would quickly become overwhelmed as the reinforcing cycle deepened.

For wealthy families, or even just people who lived near population centres, losing someone to a Nexus was very rare. Anyone who saw the Aura of someone losing themselves would recognise the signs long before the pattern became irreversible. Vulnerable people turning into murderous monsters was a strong incentive to provide support to the Afflicted. Banding together to help people process trauma or powerful negative emotions was a foundational pillar of civilization.

Out here in the countryside however it was easy to become isolated. Sometimes a family will feel too much guilt over whatever abuse led to the trauma, or not reach out for fear of others finding out something was deeply wrong with their family. Usually however, it was simply a lack of having enough people, with enough free time, to give the Afflicted person the support to prevent a pattern taking hold.

Seeing a loved one turn into a monster is traumatic enough, but if the Afflicted are not dealt with promptly the stories often end up with a far more tragic end. As the cycle deepens they begin to develop supernatural strength along with murderous intent, making them extremely dangerous.

“They held her restrained to a bed with ropes and bells, and sent for a healer to banish the evil. We… We could see that time had run out, that she was too far gone…she was such a kind girl. The family refused to give up hope.” The farmer continued.

“Two nights ago the Fallen One’s strength took hold, she broke her bonds and fled into the forest. The family have barred the doors and windows, for fear she will return and…”

Silence settled over the house, nobody moving a muscle.

“I promise you good farmer, I will see that she is sent back to the winds as the girl you once knew. I will drive the Fallen One out and see her off quickly and painlessly. Do you have any of her belongings? Something that was precious to her?”

“Ah, yes Hir Morgan. Thank you Hir Morgan. Go and get it boy,” the farmer said.

The boy sprinted past and up a set of stairs, obviously wanting to escape the hearth room and the heavy conversation. Astor turned to look deeper into the boy's Aura as he ran past. He had known the girl on some deeper level, the grief in him was like a black pit. Tragedy had a way of creating chain reactions sometimes. Astor resolved to send a healer out to check on them when he got back to Votterdam.

The boy returned not long after with a small doll, obviously crafted with love and care. Astor looked it over, but he didn't have the sensitivity to tell if it was what he needed.

“This was hers? And, was it important to her?”

“Yes, Hir Morgan,” The farmer replied. “The neighbours let us take it in case we found someone that could help.”

‘So they have some understanding of ritual magic then’ Astor thought as he put the doll in his backpack, which was resting against the table leg.

The rest of the evening was sombre. The farmer's wife tried to lighten the mood, but the boy was inconsolable. He ran back up the stairs as soon as the farmer gave up trying to keep him at the table. Astor was shown to the farmer’s own bedroom and was flatly refused when he attempted to suggest he could sleep near the fire downstairs. Astor knew they would not relent on this point so he submitted to sleeping on the soft goose feather bed. Astor set off again before dawn, leaving a Silver Crown piece on the hearth room table.

He would gladly have helped the inflicted girl anyway, but doing so as a member of House Morgan would result in stories of heroics being spread around at the farmers markets and spring festivals. Services like this helped to reinforce House Morgan’s reputation with another generation, securing the aid that was increasingly vital to maintain their standing at the top of the food chain of local powers. However, it would have to wait until he had met with Caleb and his Slavers.