Rhode edged by, and his eyes were drawn to the point of a bayonet as the soldiers made way for him. They moved with perfunctory, regulated precision as they drew to either side of the hall. There were apologetic smiles on more than one face. There were cold, measuring expressions on the others.
Leaning in close to the priest, Rhode closed one hand gently over the man’s shoulder. It was either familiar, or threatening: one or the other, but not both. “Eloft, I am telling you now. If you are about to tell me you’re like some secret mastermind in charge of all this, I am legitimately going to be angry.”
“Gods no,” laughed the healer weakly, “and if I was, after something like tonight? No. Thanks be to Dogoda, I would have died of stress. Please, ah, I have to ask that you just don’t do anything too treasonous. I may have promised that you wouldn’t, and it would be really complicated for me if you did.”
Rhode held on.
Eloft stared him down. “Come on. Please. Things haven’t gone as far wrong as you think they have. I mean, they have, but…”
Rhode reluctantly let go.
The priest stepped into a broad, darkly upholstered drawing room and Rhode followed him. There was a low table, and an open bottle of wine. There were crystal goblets, and black-indigo velvet divans that seeped with an intangible, invisible energy. There was a FengShui, a careful placement of the contents of the room which made the whole space feel like it was humming. There was presence that pooled anywhere that the light didn’t touch, and tickled a gentle reminder at the edge of Rhode’s survival instincts.
An opaque curtain divided the receiving room from another one. A bodyguard reclined on a simple wooden stool, wearing plain clothes and holding a cruel-looking wand. There was a short young woman with □■□■□, ■□■□ hair that made her head look a bit like an egg. Her fingers laced together nervously as she gave Rhode a lopsided smile.
There was a homunculus lounging on a sofa.
His glass of wine was at his lips, staining the bandages that were coming loose at his chin. The jewelry Rhode had glimpsed from the courtyard below hung on his chest loosely. Each segment of gold was generously heavy, and it all shone more intricately from up close. The man looked like nothing so much as a pharaoh, wearing his funereal garb early to try it on for size.
“Ser Rhode Mortimer Irving,” Eloft murmured, shutting the door behind them. He stepped forward and inclined his head, sweeping one hand towards the Hero. “Allow me to introduce you to Ser Ignacio Edilberto Asterio Santos.”
Rhode choked up. He cleared his throat. “Hey man.”
The Hero Ed Santos set down his drink. His tongue worked over his teeth, searching as if he had a fragment of food stuck in them.
“Rho-um. Ser Irving,” piped the □■□■□ ■□■□■. Her voice had a slight whistling lisp. “You gotta talk slow. Ser Santos is still assimilating his language parasite.”
Rhode blinked. He wanted desperately to ask for clarification on one particular word in that sentence.
<
<<¡Che, bo! No entiendo esa mierda inglesa. >>
Ser Santos tugged the bandages free from his head, like a snake shedding his skin. The hornupant goblin squeaked in alarm at this, and tugged at fistfuls of her curls. Rhode had not become familiar with his own face yet, but he recognized his reflection in his younger ‘brother’. The other homunculus’ short wisps of black hair were carefully styled on his squarish crown. His mouth was curled in a perpetually cocky grin. The main difference between them was that this other man was shaped with a trim, olympian athleticism, where Rhode was just wide.
There was a second distinction: a complete absence of scars along the younger man’s cheekbones, jaw, eyebrows, and skull.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
Rhode struggled mightily to remember the one year of Spanish that public education had provided him with. <
The Hero laughed full-throatedly, and without reservation. <
“Yea, I guess,” Rhode frowned.
He stepped forward. The bodyguard in the corner fractionally raised his wand. It was made of wood, brass and ivory, and an ashy smell of charcoal faintly wafted from it. Rhode’s frown deepened.
Eloft’s hand patted Rhode’s arm, drawing his attention. “Ser Irving,” the healer said, “I’ve got to be with my patient. I’m very much still on duty. Respectfully, you should probably know that they’re listening right now. Just um, for the purpose of decorum. We’ll probably chat in a second, okay?”
“Oh, is that so. Should I stop in and say hello to their lordship?” Rhode asked.
“No, nonono, not unless they ask for you, please,” Eloft paled. “Rhode, you’re going to give me a heart attack.”
The healer made a beeline for the dividing curtain, and pushed through. As the drapes parted, the shadows on the other side resisted the passage of light, and Rhode was unable to discern the room beyond.
Rhode’s eyes flicked back to the bodyguard, and then settled on Ser Santos. “Are you healthy?” he asked. “Are you safe?” he winced.
Two bandaged arms spread wide open. “Are you my mother? Don’t be such a hen. Drink wine.”
“Listen. Ignacio, right? It’s just… it was very difficult for me to come see you tonight. And I’m really not supposed to be here. It’s very important for me to know that you are okay. Okay?”
“Yea. Whatever. Here. This is strong.”
Rhode looked down at the bottle that Ignacio’s long arms offered across the table. The second homunculus wiggled a glass enticingly in the other hand, and sloshed the wine to indicate its volume.
“As good as that sounds, man. I am really messed up right now.”
“You have drugs?”
“No, I did drugs, but –”
“You have dope?”
“No, Ignacio. I do not have drugs. I am out of drugs. This isn’t a party, man. Jesus. Sorry. Man, you need to take this seriously.”
“If it’s not a party, then why do you do drugs?” smugly asked the second Hero of Sacred.
“Because I am fucking bleeding,” Rhode cried out. “Look at me. Good god, how old are you? Ignacio, come on man, I’m a wreck.”
Ser Santos set the wine back down. He chewed on his lip in thought. “Yea, but it’s purple.”
Rhode threw his arms in the air, and rolled his eyes. His head bounced with frustration. “Well, guess what, Ignacio? Our blood is purple now. This is what it looks like.”
“You are very messed up.”
“Yea,” Rhode choked. “It’s been kind of tough.”
“You lost fight against little goblins,” grinned Santos, “I saw you. You fight so bad.”
Rhode stared at his fellow earthling in disbelief. The bodyguard had settled back into his seat, with a neutral and confident air. The hornupant acolyte looked down at her lap, as if ashamed to meet Rhode’s eyes.
“Okay. Yea, maybe I’m not so great at beating people up. But that’s not the point. Ignacio, um, do you remember the story of that guy named” <
Ignacio Edilberto Asterio Santos stared blankly back.
“He was a writer, I think. Like a guy, he wrote this book and it was famous, and it’s very important that you think of what it was about.” Rhode gestured desperately. His voice grew weaker with every passing moment.
Ignacio’s grin returned after a long moment. He nodded sagely and stepped over the table completely, then clapped Rhode on the shoulder. “It is okay, old man,” he whispered, “I will be a stronger Hero than you. I will be so powerful. Don't worry. I will destroy Delight. You can stay at home, and retire.”
Rhode staggered. [Spite] advanced by seven percentage points towards finalizing in an instant. His mouth was dry.
“Oh my God,” he groaned, “what have I done. You’re a fucking idiot.”