In a castle filled with magic, there were countless possible ways to distract their guests. But after discussing it with Grimsby and Sir Clonk, Gideon realized there was one obvious solution. Since their guests were under the impression that The Last Rest was a ‘themed lodging experience,’ maybe it was time to deliver.
It might even win them some points with Caelan Whitfield or their mysterious ninth visitor. Gideon had asked Grimsby and Clonk if they’d seen the ninth person staying at the inn. Clonk remembered carrying a stack of his luggage—much more than anyone else had taken with them—but said the stranger hadn’t seemed memorable otherwise.
According to Grimsby, he was an older man who acted as if he were wealthy. He’d asked for room service for every meal. At the man’s instruction, Grimsby left trays of food outside his door and returned later to pick up the dishes.
How strange, Gideon thought. Is he reclusive or haughty? Either way, it hardly mattered.
They had a night to prepare for.
The three of them dusted off some tables and chairs from the old dining hall, carried them out to the courtyard, and arranged them in a semi-circle. It didn’t take Gideon long to build a small earthen stage using geomancy.
Melissa had no interest in any of it. After watching them for a minute or two, she headed back down the mountain to the forest, promising to return the next day for more food. Grimsby complained, but Gideon suspected the skeleton was happy to have such a reliable fan of his cooking.
By the time they were finished setting up, they’d attracted the attention of most of the guests, including Caelan Whitfield, who watched them dubiously from where he sat by one of the wagons.
“Dinner will be provided in the courtyard this evening,” Gideon explained as he approached the man, putting on his cheerful customer service persona. “Along with some … entertainment.” Gideon was far more confident about the dinner than the entertainment, but he kept that to himself.
Though Caelan looked skeptical, he nodded. “That’d be… That’s what we expected we’d be getting every night.”
“Yes, well, I apologize again for our staffing issues,” Gideon said. “I’ll come by shortly to collect your laundry.” Gideon looked around, making a show of counting the guests, even though he already knew one of them wasn’t there. “Does your ninth guest have any laundry they need to be done?”
Caelan grunted. “They’re the only one who needs any laundry done,” he said, rolling his eyes. “The rest of us are used to the road.” He let out a sigh. “But I wouldn’t mind having fresh breeches for the journey.”
Gideon blinked his eyes, confused. Caelan had been so demanding earlier—had it only taken a little [Quake] to get him to calm down? “Well, I’d be happy to take care of it,” Gideon said.
“You’d better, considering what we paid for this lodging.”
Gideon sighed. That attitude was more what he’d expected from Mr. Whitfield. Nevertheless, as long as Caelan wasn’t outright hostile, Gideon could work with that.
Leaning towards Caelan, Gideon lowered his voice and said, “You know, you’re all welcome in the castle, as long as you avoid the west wing and any locked doors.”
Caelan made a face and shook his head. “No, thank you. We’re just fine out here during the day. A rat watched me walk to my room last night. I swear it was following me. Its eyes were glowing like the moon.”
“State of the art illusion magic,” Gideon said, then chuckled nervously. “We, uh, take the ambiance very seriously here.”
Caelan looked at him dubiously, but said nothing.
Gideon walked back over to where Grimsby and Clonk were lounging in a couple of the dining chairs. “We’d better get to work on the night’s festivities.”
“I suppose we should, bub,” Grimsby said, a sarcastic tone in his voice as he hopped up and headed inside. There were still hours until sunset, which left plenty of time to prepare dinner. Gideon had asked Grimsby to try to impress them, if possible. Since they were leaving tomorrow, tonight would be the last chance to win them over.
“Work?” Clonk asked, his joints squeaking as he rose to his feet. “How dreadful, Gideon. You used to be more fun.”
Gideon cringed, hoping none of the guests had heard this exchange. Thankfully, they all seemed to be minding their business at the edge of the courtyard. Almost as if they were trying to be as far from the castle as they could.
“I’ll oil you after I start the laundry,” Gideon offered. “It would be awkward if you were squeaking tonight, anyway.” Clonk was in charge of the night’s entertainment, such as it was. “In the meantime, you can rehearse.”
“Rehearse?” Clonk said. “I know that book like the curve of my breastplate. Are you sure they’ll appreciate The Phantom of Wraithwood Manor?”
“It’s a classic ghost story, and it’s one of the only books on your shelf that doesn’t contain erotica,” Gideon said.
When deciding on the night’s entertainment, Gideon had thought they should stick with something Clonk was familiar with. Though the knight had an extensive collection of books in his room, most were inappropriate for polite company.
“You don’t think Swordplay and Silk might be a little more exciting?”
Gideon rubbed his forehead with his hand, then glanced towards Caelan Whitfield. “Does he look like he wants to be excited?”
“Probably not,” Clonk said, after a moment of hesitation. “Phantom it is.”
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Gideon grabbed a wicker basket from the laundry room and collected the dirty linens from the guests in the courtyard. Other than Caelan, they were pleasant to interact with and seemed to appreciate his help.
He then headed up to the second floor of the castle and knocked gently at the door he’d passed earlier. None of the rooms were numbered, which Gideon knew they should rectify, but this was the largest in this hall. They could probably turn it into a suite.
“A bit early for supper!” a voice called from inside. “But fine, leave it there.”
“Uh, it’s not dinner yet,” Gideon said. “Do you have any laundry you’d like washed?”
There was a long pause, followed by the sound of shuffling feet. The door cracked open, and a man with balding salt and pepper hair peered out. He was tall, with gaunt, angular facial features and blue eyes surrounded by lines. He wore an elaborate silk jacket dyed with a gradient of colors resembling a sunset. Despite his unusually thin build, his clothes looked tailored to fit him perfectly. Gideon instantly pegged him for nobility—old money, which meant old magic.
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Gideon took a risk and decided to [Appraise] him. If he was powerful, he would be able to detect it and might consider it rude, but Gideon was tired of not knowing anything about him.
Status Name: Marcus Stormrider Level: 5 Attributes Might: 7 Brilliance: 10 Fortitude: 9 Willpower: 8 Finesse: 12 Skills Phosphomancy: Copper, B Grade Meditation: Copper, D Grade Manasculpting: Stone, C Grade
Gideon was shocked at the man’s low level. He possessed skill in a rare school of magic—Phosphomancy, which allowed the user to manipulate light. Yet Marcus hadn’t developed it past Copper Rank.
Then there was the manner of his family. Gideon was sure he recognized the name Stormrider from somewhere. Wasn’t there a building at Falconridge named after the Stormrider family? How could a level five be descended from such a lineage?
“Just a moment,” Marcus said, then let the door swing open as he walked back into the room and began to collect a pile of dirty laundry off the floor at the foot of his bed.
With the door open, Gideon saw a canvas on an easel by the window. Now, it was clear why Marcus hadn’t left his room. He was in the middle of something—a half-finished oil painting of a train of wagons being swarmed by spiders.
At the center of the swarm, a knight raised his spear towards the sky, and a lightning bolt coursed down from the heavens, about to blast the closest spider.
“Uh, is that—” Gideon began. Though embellished, the knight looked eerily similar to Clonk, and the wagons matched the color scheme of the ones down in the courtyard.
“Don’t look!” Marcus screamed. He flipped the easel around to face the wall. “It’s not even close to finished.”
Marcus seemed to have more clothing than the rest of the guests combined, and soon Gideon’s arms were aching from the weight of the now-heaping laundry basket. “Uh, give me a moment,” Gideon said. “I can come back for the rest.”
“Hmm,” Marcus said without really acknowledging him. He sat on his bed and had a distant look as if he was daydreaming.
“By the way, dinner will be served in the courtyard tonight.”
Marcus shook his head. “Tell the chef I’ll have room service.”
“There will be a show, too,” Gideon offered. “If you’re interested.”
The man turned to look at Gideon and, for the first time, showed the barest glimmer of interest. “What’s your name, kid?”
“Gideon Moody.”
“Well, I’m Marcus Stormrider,” he said, then repeated it. “Stormrider.”
“I knew that,” Gideon said, and the man flinched as if he’d been slapped. “I checked.”
Marcus’s eyes narrowed, and he shook his head. “Oh. You’re a wizard.”
“Trying to be.”
The man snorted. “Well, Gideon, just this year, I’ve seen the Acretan Royal Opera perform Wands and Warriors, Aristan’s Aria, The Last Dragon… Need I go on? No offense, but I doubt your show will impress me.”
“If you change your mind, your favorite knight will be on stage.”
Marcus didn’t say anything for a long moment. The tips of his ears turned red, and he stared into the distance as if he were daydreaming again. But then he said quietly, “I’ll think about it.” He waved his hand dismissively. “You can go, wizard boy.”
“Well, I still need to get the rest of your clothes,” Gideon said, then hurried towards the laundry room.
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Later that evening, Grimsby, Clonk, and Gideon wheeled out carts containing a feast into the courtyard. Grimsby had taken Gideon’s instruction to heart, and dinner consisted of thick, prime-cut steaks, vegetables in a fancy creamy sauce Gideon didn’t recognize, and shadowberry cheesecake for dessert. He’d even cracked open some two-hundred-year-old bottles of wine.
Gideon had eaten his meal earlier, one of the best he’d ever tasted. But he had no idea if it would impress Caelan Whitfield, let alone Marcus Stormrider.
Their guests soon assembled in the courtyard, even Marcus himself, who emerged from the castle and sat at the far end of the row of tables. Gideon watched as he rearranged the chairs so that he was seated alone. The other eight guests waited for him to finish, then sat down four to a table. Gideon could hear Grimsby’s jaw rattling next to him, either in annoyance or amusement, but the skeleton said nothing.
Though the sun had begun to set, each table contained a small, glowing lantern. The stage was lit by a spotlight they’d rigged up earlier using some of the castle’s mirrors and one of Clonk’s telescopes. Though hastily prepared, the ambiance was strengthened by the presence of the castle, its dark stone edifice looming over the gathered audience as the light slowly faded from the sky.
Gideon walked to the stage while Grimsby and Clonk began to serve food and wine.
“Welcome to The Last Rest’s dinner service,” Gideon announced. “Please enjoy your meals. We have a special show for you all tonight. Our own Sir Clonk will offer a dramatic reading of the classic tale The Phantom of Wraithwood Manor.”
The audience stayed mute. The only sound in the courtyard was the clinking of dishware and the chirping of crickets.
Tough crowd, Gideon thought. I should have expected that.
Gideon helped with the dining service, moving from table to table as their guests ate, topping off glasses of wine and water. The food, at least, was a hit. Most of Caelan’s underlings chatted with each other, and the courtyard was soon alive with conversation.
To Gideon’s surprise, Caelan Whitfield grudgingly looked at Grimsby and said, “My compliments to the chef.”
The only one who said nothing was Marcus Stormrider, who sat chewing his food with a blank expression, staring down at his plate.
Soon, the sounds began to wind down, and Gideon walked over to where Clonk was leaning against the castle wall, almost out of sight.
“I think it’s time,” Gideon said.
“New telescope,” Clonk whispered under his breath.
“What?”
Clonk shrugged his pauldrons. “Didn’t say anything.”
He marched to the stage, his joints sounding perfectly smooth, without a hint of squeaking, thanks to some oil Gideon had applied before dinner.
Clonk swiveled his helm as if surveying their guests, then his voice began to intone in a flat, dry manner, “The Phantom of Wormwood Manor. A dramatic reading.”
Gideon tried to stop himself from groaning, looking at the audience nervously.
“I mean, Wraithwood Manor,” Clonk said. “Yes, that’s the title.”
Clonk launched into a soulless recitation of the story. Gideon’s hopes died more with each passing moment. He had begun to regret having Sir Clonk handle this part of the evening.
The knight had acted confident, and he’d been a natural choice—Gideon didn’t have much in the way of showmanship himself, and Grimsby had already done more than his fair share. He was now busy clearing the plates from those who were finished.
As Gideon looked toward the wagons behind them, he saw an ethereal light moving in the darkness. The form of a woman, half-seen, floated past. She vanished almost as soon as she had appeared.
Well, the show doesn’t have to be good, does it? Gideon thought. It just needs to keep them occupied until Ondine is finished.
But he had wanted it to be good, he realized. Though Caelan may have been a terror, and Marcus a bit pompous, Gideon had still hoped their guests might be entertained. He had wished, somehow, that they might want to return here.
A few guests had started whispering to each other, their voices echoing from the stone walls. Marcus Stormrider stood up from the table and shuffled back towards the keep.
Clonk seemed to realize he had lost his audience. He stopped mid-sentence and shook his helm sadly. “On second thought,” he said, “do you want to hear a real ghost story? As it happens, I know a good one.” Clonk stepped forward and sat at the edge of the stage, his legs dangling above the ground. “I was there when it happened.”
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