Gripping his belt at the belly with both hands, the nervous page scurried along in front of Vincht, his short legs a blur of motion beneath his gold and crimson tunic as he fought to stay far enough ahead of the focused soldier to keep from being trampled. Given the option, Vincht would have forgone the company of his guide, a boy with broom chopped hair barely old enough to be trusted with a whittling knife. The scar-faced warrior had committed the layout of the baron's modest estate to memory on his first visit; a paltry feat when compared to his intimate knowledge of the major estates back in Vadderstrix. Nearly the whole of Comelbough would fit snugly inside his hometown's slums.
He idly scratched the fresh scab covering the dimpled scar on his chin. The young baron had always been one to stand on ceremony. Everyone had a place in his service, and everyone adhered strictly to the jobs they were given. Servants, few as they were, dutifully maintained and organized the spartan manor grounds, though Vincht had never so much as laid eyes on one, as the baron preferred them to accomplish their tasks without drawing attention to themselves. Conversely, armed guards stood at attention at strategic points within the corridors, tucked into small, out-of-the-way, arched alcoves and armed with man-catchers and short swords.
Vincht looked down at his hand. Fresh blood glistened on his fingertips, and his nails were packed with scab dust. He brushed them against his dusty leather vest, smearing the mixture atop a darkened swath of crusted fluids from dozens of previous wipes.
Truth be told, Vincht was in no state to seek an audience with the baron. Three days of hard, non-stop riding had left him with only one of the three horses he'd left the caravan with, and an accumulation of road filth and dried sweat whose scent was sure to pucker the sheltered nose of even the least pampered aristocrat. But since Stephen's incompetence had taken from him the one thing he could never get back, Vincht found himself increasingly less concerned with the specifics of his personal appearance.
“Move it, Geldon,” he said to the back of the page's head. “I only have so much patience today, and I've reserved none of it for you.”
The boy picked up the pace and barreled through an arched doorway, skidding to a stop at the foot of an elongated stone dining table. Vincht followed him in. Late morning sunlight poured into the spacious room through a series of soaring, open windows, framed with sets of bunched crimson curtains emblazoned with the Lancowl coat-of-arms. To one side, a low fire simmered within an ornate brick fireplace. On the other wall, a pair of armed guards silently appraised his arrival from within two of three recessed alcoves. A dense pair of crimson curtains hid the contents of the third alcove from sight.
The polished white dining table was mostly bare but for the space at the head of the table. Bowls of dried sand plums and mulberries, a torn loaf of speckled rye bread, and a half-eaten roast quail sat before a surprised aristocrat. Hunched over his meal, Baron Caviil Lancowl considered Vincht from beneath a protruding brow, sucking loudly at a morsel of food lodged between his upper incisors.
“Caviil.” Vincht flashed the young baron a comfortable smile, feeling the scabs on his cheeks and forehead cracking painfully. “You look well.”
Baron Lancowl wiped his mouth and leaned into his high-backed chair. The man's eyes flicked across Vincht's face, quickly taking in each of his scab-encrusted scars before speaking. “Deacon Morfren. Your expedient return was not expected, nor was the condition of...”
“Of what, your lordship?” Vincht edged forward, resting his hand on the ivory hilt of his sword. “The condition of what?”
Clearing his throat, the young baron popped a mulberry in his mouth and averted his eyes. “The southern roads and woods are not always kind to travelers. It's good you made it back in one piece, and only mildly the worse for wear.”
Despite his youth, the baron's long face and cheeks displayed a sunken, almost corpse-like quality that had always disgusted Vincht, but what the man lacked in physical attractiveness, he made up for in style. His stark white hair was pulled tight against his skull in a high ponytail. A number of polished brass buttons adorned his crimson, low-collar jacket, with a jet black scarf tucked neatly into its lapels.
But what bothered Vincht the most was the piece of the man that wasn't present. The left sleeve of his jacket was folded and pinned neatly to his shoulder, his missing arm a remnant of the event that solidified his position as patriarch of the family name. In the interest of maintaining decorum, Vincht had never pressed the man for the details of that day.
If the baron wished to discuss the circumstances of his father's death, the man would need to bring it up on his own.
“That will be all,” said the baron to the young boy, gesturing toward the door. With a sheepish glance at Vincht, the young page scampered back the way he came.
The baron ate another mulberry and straightened with a resigned sigh. “Now then. What more do the Origin Knights require from the barony? I can only assume your presence means you need some additional assistance, as I doubt you'd choose to come before me again had you found whatever it was you were looking for. Am I correct?”
By the man's irregular pace and uncertain inflection, he could tell the baron was not used to sustaining such a careful tone. A problem unique to intelligent people who don't regularly interact with those in power over them. Vincht found it endlessly entertaining. “Things did not go exactly to plan, but I am confident the outcome will ultimately align with our interests.”
“I am pleased to hear it.” The baron forced a tight smile, leaning forward to rest his hand on the tabletop. “I wonder...might I inquire as to another matter, momentarily? In your exploration of the Traagen Peninsula, did you happen to come across anyone...unusual?”
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“Unusual?”
“A man. A warrior with unnaturally blue eyes. Burning with some internal, infernal light. Did you happen across anyone like that?”
Vincht clasped his hands together behind his back and strolled around the room, coming to a halt before the pair of curtains drawn tight across the opening to the third, central alcove. The weighty fabric drifted in and out, manipulated by the currents of some undetectable breeze. Slowly, the man leaned forward, turning his head to point an ear at the covered alcove.
Though he couldn't be certain, he thought he could barely detect the whisper of raspy breathing coming from behind the twin curtains.
“I have no interest in playing a part in your personal vendetta, Caviil. You've had nearly ten years to solve your problem. If you haven't yet, it's likely you never will. Best you should focus on what you've gained, and put to rest the thoughts of what you've lost.”
The baron slumped back into his chair, frowning. “Of course. Thank you for your insight, Deacon Morfren.”
Vincht grinned. How easily the weak give in. If the baron had pressed him even a little, Vincht would have quickly recounted his encounter with the mysterious black-cloaked stranger inside the secluded cabin. Years of failure had apparently eaten away at the man's hope, and Vincht refused to reward his lack of persistence.
“How do they work?” he asked softly, turning only enough to see the baron from the edge of his vision.
“Who?” The baron halfheartedly picked at his quail. “You mean the Breathers?”
“Mmm. For someone who hates magic as much as you do, you've certainly found a unique way to employ it in order to root out those who use it.”
“So I've been told.” The baron pushed his plate away and reached for a clay jug, filling a simple cup with a deep burgundy wine. He swirled it idly, but didn't drink. “The way I understand it, the human body only pulls as much spiritual energy through its soul channel as is necessary to operate its systems. In truth, most men and women live their lives deficient in the amount of spiritual energy required to perform at their highest levels. What they lack is then supplemented in part by the sun, the food they eat, and the company they keep.”
“Really. The company they keep?”
The baron nodded. “Some people give. Others take. Unconsciously, mind you, but I'm sure you've met someone who left you feeling drained after long bouts of their company.”
Vincht grunted in agreement. Rowen. He was even more glad to be free of that one.
“Users of magic are of a different sort. As willful manipulators of their own spiritual energy, they seem to suffer from a natural excess. They bleed this extra, unused energy into their surroundings wherever they go. The Breathers track that excess, sniffing it out and honing in on its location.”
“Ah.” He scowled, disappointed. “Little more than glorified trackers, then.”
The baron scoffed, taking a sip from his cup before returning to his nervous swirling. “You insult me. How foolish I would be to create a tool capable only of locating, but not of dispatching.
“No, Deacon Morfren. The Breathers are much, much more than glorified trackers. They are single-minded beasts existing only to find and destroy sources of spiritual manipulation. They are possessed of a hate matched only by my own, yet where mine is impotent, theirs manifests in the strength to tear limb from limb any user foolish enough to come before them.”
The smile returned to his scarred lips. “They sound magnificent.”
“They are nothing short of a necessary evil. A poison masquerading as the antidote. Given I could, I'd have them all put down just to be free of their detestable wheezing and horrifying countenances.”
Vincht turned to face the man full-on. “Are they truly so hideous?”
The baron ceased his swirling, staring down the table to keep from meeting Vincht's heavy glare. Finally, he took a long drink before setting his cup down, a slight tremble in his hand.
“Speaking of users, where is Stephen? I must say, I was surprised to see you return to the capital in such a wounded state. Surely my man would have tended to you had he been offered the chance.”
Vincht returned to his examination of the crimson curtains. He scratched at the scab covering his cheek, peeling away at the clot until fresh blood drooled down the side of his face. “He'll be along, in time.”
“In time,” he repeated flatly. “I trust nothing tragic has befallen him?”
“I can promise you he fared better than most.” Vincht reached into a small pouch on his belt and produced a small, glass sphere. It was perfectly round and smooth to the point of slickness, and no larger than a field mouse. A mote of what appeared to be spent coal rested at its heart.
“As you suspected, the item we sought eluded us, but if my instincts are correct, it's likely heading this way as we speak. I rode out ahead of everyone else in order to prepare for its arrival.”
He raised the sphere to his lips and blew gently across its surface. A ripple of orange light spread out across the surface of the tiny mote within before bursting into a single, unwavering flame encased entirely in crystal-clear glass.
In the space behind the twin curtains, something gasped, an extended inhalation that sucked the heavy fabric deep into the recessed alcove.
The soldiers to either side shifted nervously, lowering the blunted tips of their man-catchers out before them and edging out into the open. The baron slowly stood, his wide, sunken eyes trained on the glowing object clutched in Vincht's fingertips.
“Have you lost your mind?” he said, his harsh whisper echoing in the cavernous dining hall. “Bringing unauthorized magic within the walls of this estate is strictly forbidden, and for good reason. Have you any idea of the danger to which you expose not only yourself, but the rest of us as well?”
The trapped flame blinked out, and the mote fell dark once more. “The only thing you need worry about is failing to help me secure what I seek before it leaves your city. But with your help, and the help of your Breathers, you will have little to worry about.”
As Vincht watched, the twin curtains slowly bulged outward as something pushed forward to press its bulky form against the walls of its fabric prison. Nearly a foot above his head, the curtains shuddered as the unseen creature sucked in a lungful of air. He resisted the urge to reach out and touch what he could only assume was the beast's face as it sought the source of its brief taste of magical energy.
Smiling, Vincht idly picked at the scabs on his forehead and dreamed of his victory to come.