Less than a week later and the two arrived at Isenfell, the capital of the Isen dukedom. The journey had been quiet, solemn, and underscored with doubt. Alistair felt less sure of himself, his abilities, and even his conviction. Bredon had shaken him, there was no doubt about it. Every night he dreamed of the attack and of the villagers he’d been unable to save. More than once he’d woken his traveling partner with a scream of terror.
And now, as they approached the gates of the largest city of the duchy, Alistair realized the nightmare was only beginning. Bredon had only been a taste of what was to come. Ilvara presented the evidence and helped him connect the dots, but even together they were too insignificant to put an end to this conspiracy by themselves. They needed help and who better to aid them than the duke himself? At least, in an ideal world he would. But if the lowborn had learned anything so far, the world was anything but perfect.
Alistair struggled to imagine Duke Cormag Isen, the castellan of Isenfell, would give them the time of day. He, a lowborn paladin, and her a fae elf, neither would appear as the most sympathetic of those seeking audience with the noble. Not to mention all the other issues and courtly dramas someone as powerful as a duke was sure to be mired in. It would give him little time or patience to entertain their plea.
Still, they had to try.
“Wait,” Ilvara said. She motioned for Alistair to join her off to the side, away from the main thoroughfare. “I think it might be best if I stay outside the walls.”
He gave her a funny look. “Why?”
She nodded in the direction of the castle. “Your duke and his friends won’t appreciate a fae like me anywhere near this place. My presence will only hurt your chances of convincing them of the truth.”
“I wouldn’t have known the truth without your help,” Alistair replied, his concern palpable. “You must come with me.”
“Listen to me. You and I might have developed something of a working relationship, but this,” she said while motioning between the two of them, “isn’t normal. Elves and humans don’t usually get along this well. Especially not with winter elves.”
The youthful paladin shrugged. “I mean, you can be a little diffic—”
“No, Alistair. I mean look at me.” Ilvara, in a rare move, pulled the veil down around her neck and revealed her full face. She pointed to her gray skin, white eyes, purple lips, and sharp ears. All of it was alien, exotic. “It isn’t the temperament. My looks will do you in. You should know better than most how your people’s nobles like to judge by appearance alone.”
Alistair opened his mouth as if to disagree, but found himself unable to come up with a reasonable argument. She was right, of course. Not so long ago he’d been troubled by the same issue on his visit to Adelgard, in the audience chamber of the viscount there. To save himself the embarrassment of appearing as a lowborn, of being judged for his manner of dress, he’d transformed into the Aegis body to protect his own pride.
Now, he was asking Ilvara to do the same. Except the elf didn’t have the same privilege he did, nor the power to hide herself.
“But, I don’t think I can do this alone. I mean—”
“You can,” she interrupted, adamant in her protest. “You must. Otherwise, a great many of your people will die. You know this.”
“Yes, but…” Alistair felt his nerves getting the better of him. He felt butterflies in his stomach, heart pounding. The thought of facing the duke seemed to throw him into some kind of panic. “Can’t you just wear a hood like before? How would anyone know the difference?”
“One glance by one of your people with the Sight will tell them exactly what I am. There’s no hiding it with simple clothing. I’m a pathfinder, not a spy. It would take some powerful magic to hide my true identity from the followers of your lake goddess.”
“So, you and I can fight and travel together, but the moment we risk being seen by anyone remotely important I have to hide my friendship with you?” Alistair raised his voice, moved by frustration. “The only way this warped perception will ever change is if we make it change. You shouldn’t have to hide your face among humans, not when you travel with a paladin. Besides, your work should speak for itself if a motive is called into question. You did it because you cared, not because of some bargained reward.”
Ilvara was silent for a long while. She stared at Alistair with an indecipherable gaze, her mind surely working away at her next argument. Her eyes flicked back toward the busy gates as merchants and travelers made their way into the city.
The elf sighed. “This won’t go well. Come on.”
----------------------------------------
“Welcome to Isenfell, milord!”
“Oh, Sir paladin! A pleasure to see you!”
Alistair had become the center of attention as they trotted through the capital’s streets. Somehow, all the peasants and nobles alike could see him from what felt like leagues away. Everyone turned to greet him, smiling and waving. Rotund merchants offered him wares, fair maidens had colorful bouquets in hand, and children asked for a ride on his steed.
“Here, milord! Take this loaf of bread as a gift!”
“Oh, mine too! Take some of my best cheese, Sir paladin!”
A trip through the market square had Alistair up to his ears in gifts from the common folk. Both of his arms were full of all kinds of gifts and trinkets, so much so that he could barely hold onto the reins. A welcome convenience, as Alistair had been running low on goods and supplies from all his traveling. He’d found that the life of a paladin-errant left little opportunity for making any coin. From his experience so far, it almost seemed like the Lady expected her paladins to live off of milestones and charity.
Taking in the crowd, he wondered if this was what it meant to be well known in the system of renown. He heard them whisper of his exploits. They spoke of the dragon, of Adelgard, of hobs, and even the dullahan itself had already reached the public’s ears. Alistair was slowly getting used to the attention but still, he felt awkward. They made no mention of his mistakes or the people he’d let down along the way. This system of reputation focused only on the positives, and it made him wonder if that was why paladins like Dogan managed to stay relevant even with their irresponsible attitudes.
To the people, it seemed they only cared about the title rather than the details.
Ilvara rode a little behind him, out of the spotlight. She insisted on wearing her hood no matter how he tried to convince her otherwise. Her seeing him like this, with what she knew about him, made Alistair all the more embarrassed. For some reason he imagined her eyes piercing the back of him, judging him more harshly than ever before.
Eventually, they escaped the throngs of infatuated bystanders and made it to what could only be the biggest castle Alistair had ever seen. The duke certainly didn’t shirk on his personal residence as it represented his right to rule. But while the keep and its fortifications certainly looked more impressive, the trappings and the guards looked much the same as anywhere else. The colors of the heraldry might have changed but otherwise, it felt the same as when he had lived in Wyrdwood.
A handful of bored guardsmen were there to greet them, and one held up his hand to signal a stop.
“What’s your business here, Sir paladin?”
Alistair awkwardly cleared his throat. “Well…you see.” Alistair gestured to Ilvara, who remained silent and aloof behind him. No help would come from her. “My companion and I, we are…here to seek audience with the duke. I—well, we have information that we believe he urgently needs to hear.”
“Urgent?” repeated the guard, scratching his chin. His fellows looked at each other with mild concern.
“Yes, urgent.” Alistair swallowed uncomfortably. “The town of Bredon has been destroyed. Sacked by a dullahan.” He waited a moment for them to react, but found the guards’ lack of concern disturbing. “Does that not…bother you?”
Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.
The lead one shrugged. “Eh, I heard it was close to the border. Bound to happen sooner or later.” He flashed a toothy grin. “Besides, we heard you slayed the dullahan. Along with some other paladin, I think. Good on ye!”
Their congratulations fell on deaf ears. Alistair might have expected such a reaction from a noble, but a fellow lowborn? He glanced at Ilvara but she simply shook her head, as if to discourage him from pressing further. Maybe she was right. They had to stay focused.
“Is the duke available for an audience?” Alistair asked again, his voice having grown an edge to it.
“Sorry, milord,” said a different man, this one with a particularly long chin. “The duke is out hunting at the moment. He left the chamberlain in charge of handling any visitors, so you might speak to him instead.”
“What’s his name?” Ilvara asked, eliciting surprise from the men, Alistair included.
“C-Calum Iosaig, milady,” the guard stuttered.
Again, Alistair exchanged a glance with the elf. He wished the woman had some sort of rune of telepathy in her bag of tricks. Alistair found it impossible to read her intentions. All she did was shrug in return.
“Fine, we’ll see this chamberlain.” Alistair dismounted from his steed. “Would you mind having someone look after our horses?”
They signaled for some stable boys to come and handle the animals. Meanwhile, the adventuring pair made their way through the castle courtyard, to the duke’s keep itself. Alistair felt as if he should have practiced some kind of speech for this. His body felt so tense, wound up. Like the two of them were about to walk into some beast’s den or something.
An attendant was quick to guide them through the labyrinth of the duke’s home. All around them were tapestries of stags—the Isen guardian animal. Portraits of the previous dukes ranging back to the Great War were scattered throughout. Guards decked out in their lord’s colors of green, white, and gold stood at silent attention. Alistair paid them little mind as his thoughts drifted to the task at hand.
The more they walked and the more he thought about it, the more Alistair started to believe he was once again woefully out of his depth. Alistair wasn’t raised to be an orator or statesman. If anything, he’d be lucky to not trip over his own words in front of a crowd of nobles, with all of them sure to be impatient and judgmental. His only chance was to play to his strengths—keep things short and sweet.
“Alistair!”
The paladin was stirred from his thoughts by someone loudly shouting his name. His first thought was Ilvara, but the elf was staring elsewhere. Before he could catch his bearings properly, Alistair found himself embraced by masculine arms. All he could see of the man’s face was an impressive mustache.
“Sir Manus?”
“The one and only,” Manus replied, his smile growing wider. He let Alistair go so that they might get a better look at one another. “What brings a paladin to my lord’s home? If you came looking for Duke Cormag, he won’t be back until tomorrow. Or maybe the day after. The man loves his hunts.”
“Well, my friend and I have discovered some disturbing information.” The Earl raised a brow, dividing his attention between Alistair and the still-silent Ilvara. “We thought it best to inform the duke right away. I-It's about the undead, you see.”
“Undead you say?” The man scratched his chin, the mood of their reunion quickly souring. “What kind of information did you find?”
Alistair nervously glanced at his companion before continuing. “W-We think saboteurs are working to weaken the dukedom’s defenses. On our travels, we found evidence that points to a planned attack on Isenfell, and proof the same group commissioned the murder of Viscount Lathurn in Adelgard.”
“How can you be sure it’s related to the undead?”
“Who else would have anything to gain from such attacks?" Alistair asked, raising his voice. He looked around and suddenly felt embarrassed at the eyes trained on him. The boy continued, quieter. "The letter you took to the duke, did you have it checked? Were you able to figure out the owner of the seal?”
Manus grimaced. “We discovered it to be—”
“Fake?” Ilvara interrupted. Alistair thought he could hear a hint of smugness in her tone.
“Y-Yes. How did you know…?” The Earl focused on her, running his eyes up the elf’s slender figure. “Who are you, exactly?”
“She’s my companion,” Alistair said. He put himself between the two in an effort to shield her from scrutiny. “And a friend. A lot of this proof is thanks to her investigation.”
Manus narrowed his eyes but acquiesced all the same. “Very well. I imagine you don’t want to wait then?”
“I plan to go check on my family once I’m done here. The sooner I get this done, the better.”
“Alright then.” Manus waved off the servant and motioned for Alistair to follow him. “I’ll take you there. And I’ll do my best to support your case if this evidence of yours is sufficient. But any kind of immediate support would have to wait for the duke to return. The best you can do is try and convince the chamberlain and the marshal as they will be the ones to convince Duke Cormag.”
“Very well.”
Their group soon made its way to the audience chamber. Gathered there were a scattered bunch of lower nobles and courtiers, mingling amongst themselves. All of them had nothing better to do on such a slow day, given the lack of petitioners. At least it meant Alistair wouldn’t have to wait in line.
Sat in his lord’s seat was the chamberlain, the noble Calum Iosaig. Same as the rest of the men in his station, the chamberlain wore fanciful clothes bedecked in all kinds of jewelry with everything tinged in gold. Calum looked especially bored, his head resting in the palm of his hand as he watched the nobles around him bicker and gossip.
Another man, wearing a set of gleaming steel plate armor, stood next to him with what looked like an especially dour frown. The duke’s marshal, perhaps. Must not be a fan of these proceedings, thought Alistair. He wouldn’t be either, the whole ceremony felt awkward.
As soon as they entered the room, Alistair and Ilvara were under intense scrutiny. Earl Manus, a man familiar with the workings of a noble’s court, waved over the herald in a hurried motion. Then he made a well-practiced bow to the paladin and marched over to join the mass of nobles that were slowly gathering together to hear his petition.
The herald, a tall young man with a flashy outfit and golden horn in one hand, offered Alistair a hurried bow. None of the castle goers had been expecting a petitioner of such prestige to appear, so the announcer looked a bit more stressed than usual.
He leaned in close to Alistair. “Apologies, my lord. Your visit was unexpected. May I ask if you have a preferred method of address?” The crier spoke so formally that it made Alistair feel even more out of place.
“Erm, no. Nothing in particular,” he replied.
“And your companion? I’m not familiar with them.”
Alistair glanced at the elf at his side. She kept her hood low and pulled on the gloves that hid her stony complexion. She was just as uncomfortable as he was.
“She needs no introduction.” Alistair decided after a tense pause. “A companion of mine, that’s all.”
“Very well,” the crier said, bowing again. He took a few practiced steps back from the petitioners and raised the horn to his lips. Soon the room was filled with a powerful blast from the horn, a formal signal of their arrival. “Hear ye! Hear ye!” Following a deep breath, the herald belted out the introduction. “Today, the paladin, Alistair of Wyrdwood, blesses us with his presence! His deeds are well-known to the people of Isen: the single-handed destruction of a hob warband, the stalwart defense of Adelgard from roving fae creatures, the cowing of a greatwyrm threatening the duchy, and the slaying of a monstrous dullahan responsible for the destruction of Bredon!”
Alistair felt a shiver run up his spine as those assembled cheered him on. Not out of pride, but from shame instead. He didn’t deserve to be celebrated for the dullahan’s kill. Not only had he done it with the help of Dogan, but the monster took the entire village of Bredon with it. As far as Alistair was concerned, there was nothing remotely worth clapping about.
The chamberlain Calum lazily waved them forward as the excitement of the crowd dimmed. If the man had any real respect for Alistair, he certainly didn’t show any. The whole process seemed like a chore for him. This wouldn’t be an easy man to convince.
“Greetings, noble paladin,” Calum said, his voice lacking any warmth. “What has brought you to the fair court of Isenfell? We wait on bated breath.”
Alistair cast his eyes among the crowd once more. Most of the faces he failed to recognize, having never visited the capital properly before. He managed to spot Manus near the front, hands tightly clasped behind his back. The old man looked nervous for him. One glance at the crowd told him why. These nobles didn’t look a slight bit interested in what the relic user had to say, despite their earlier niceties.
His title of paladin had only managed to get him into the door—it didn’t earn him their respect.
Just as Alistair was about to continue, his eyes caught on someone. A young woman—hair an interesting shade of blonde pulled tightly into a ponytail—wearing clothing he’d expect from a knight rather than a lady-in-waiting. Their eyes met and he recognized the familiar twinkle of magic. The Sight did the rest.
Brianca Le Floch
Supplicant | Shadow 4
Recognized & Blessed
A supplicant, here? Alistair hadn’t expected that. He now saw the relic hanging from her neck, a golden scale. Her surname, Le Floch, sounded like a northerner's. What was a supplicant like her doing this far south? She seemed just as interested in Alistair’s presence there. Brianca had leaned forward to get a better look, her arms were crossed as she waited almost impatiently for him to continue.
Alistair cleared his throat and spoke all at once to those gathered. “Milords, I come with grave news. With it, I also bring proof.” He paused to hold back a stutter, the Wyrdwood boy’s nerves had almost got the better of him. “Proof of sabotage. Acts made to harm the duchy. All of it in preparation for one cataclysmic event.” Alistair hardened his gaze at the murmuring nobles, their scowls deepening with every word. “An invasion of the undead.”