Chapter 5: Requiem for a Family

Caspar

Caspar stood in silence, his face wan in the ragged rays of embered light that lazily traced out the sluggish motes of dust. His father’s blood ran down his face.

Something felt... complete. Resolved. A blockage within the young man, cleared. He sat there for a moment, reveling in the sensation. What was this thing he was feeling? Not energy- quite the opposite, he could sleep for a month. Not exactly joy either, unless joy could be alloyed with rage and terror into some third emotion. No, he think he knew this novel sense.

Power.

He breathed deeply, tasting the air. It smelled of gore and ash, tasted of metal. Or was that just the blood in his mouth? Caspar's eyes opened, almost lazily. What need had he to hurry?

Visual confirmation of what he already knew lay in front of him. Don Estarón, dead. His father- the corpse- was barely recognizable as Don Francesco Phillipe, Margrave de Estarón. The greying head of the man, once so regal with its mustaches and hawkish gauntness, was nowhere to be seen, along with much of the upper torso. The crater that remained was like a canon-wound, but superheated- the edges were seared black and sealed, though viscera had scattered in a broad arc across the study. The back wall by the deck was marked by a thick knot of hair, hanging oddly in place against the wall Caspar gaped at the magnitude of the damage, gradually turning a shocked gaze on his own extended right hand, which was steaming greenish-black streamers of foul-smelling smoke. So. He had done it after all.

Caspar stood, shakily, and became aware of his body. That is to say, the extent of the damage that the blast he had unleashed. His left arm- his magic arm?- burned with cold and furious pain, and he felt barely able to stand. Cold sweat ran down his back and forehead. But, on the other hand- he was conscious. He hadn't knocked himself out. He needed no medical attention- well, no major attention anyway. Caspar gingerly prodded a back molar, which shifted painfully. Father had left his scars, as always.

Was he getting better at this? More powerful? That was three spells now, and two had been intentional. At least partly intentional, anyway. Possibly in part, though Caspar suspected another answer. The mage-fire was gutted, reduced to embers. The wood and wizard grass had all seemingly been consumed instantly, leaving almost nothing. Heat, as he suspected. He... pulled it out, somehow, used it in place of his own energy. He needed to learn how to do that on purpose.

It had been almost thirty minutes, somehow, judging by the church bells from the central city. Nine in the morning. It didn't feel that way in the oppressive gloom of the study, but for most Llynderites, the day was just beginning. Time to get out of here.

Caspar took stock of the room. The spell-tomes were useless to him. Father hadn't even bothered to teach him any of the exotic tongues he would need for the greatest magics, though perhaps the kraken-hide could be salvaged... no, Caspar decided. Best not to deface his new bookcase. His new bookcase. He liked the sound of the word on his tongue, though it foreshadowed a conversation with himself that he was not ready to have. He bottled that thought for now. What else of use? He tried the magnificent golden longsword father had conjured. As he suspected, he couldn't lift the thing. Even with both hands, he only was able to bring the handle to about waist height. No great loss; Caspar had not the slightest idea what to do with it.

That really only left the desk, lest he be reduced to scrounging in seat cushions for options. Caspar went over to the old behemoth, now cracked by arcane force and dashed with blood. Standing in front of this had brought him so much fear as a child. Now... now he wasn't quite sure what he felt. He rifled the drawers, careful to avoid the razor wire Father left on the inside. Symptom of a younger, more adventurous Caspar and a desire to keep him out. Inside, he found plenty of paperwork and trinkets, but few coins. Caspar took a black hidebound notebook he had often seen Father writing in, what coins he could, and some other trinkets. But the thing he needed most wasn't there. He turned to the corpse with a groan. Of course. Father always was paranoid.

As he rifled through his dead father's pockets, the mental conversation he'd been trying to avoid started battering down the walls of his will. He had committed murder. In self-defense, possibly, and against a perennial abuser and belittler. Against a man with no money and no friends. But a murder nonetheless. He had willed his Father to die, and he had done so in spectacular fashion. What that meant- how Caspar was to proceed- he wasn't sure. A tear trickled down his cheek. Was this his fault? Had he pushed Father too far with his needling? Damn it all, he didn't want this!

Or did he?

Another voice entered the conversation, one he'd tried to suppress. This was good, was it not? Father was a murderous monster, who sunk his family into debt and blamed his child for it. He didn't deserve to live. And now, Caspar had the power. He could make things right. Restore the honor of the house of Estarón! Caspar looked involuntarily up at the tapestry. Grandfather, he thought, I wish you were here right now. Alexandre had ran away from it all, leaving governance to Father at a young age. Perhaps not an icon of responsibility, Caspar thought ruefully, but certainly one of ambition.

Regardless, he found what he was looking for: the key to the safe under Father's bed. It was made entirely of wrought platinum, save two small beads of an unknown metal on prongs of the key. Caspar's vision briefly swam as his held it, and purple and orange sparks leapt from his left hand momentarily. Magic, then, unless he missed his guess. Slipping the signet ring off of the now-cold hand, Caspar took one final look at Don Francesco, his father, with whom he’d shared house and home for almost twenty years. There was no pity in Caspar’s eyes, sunk deep into a gaunt and paper-white face.

“Goodbye, Father. You lived longer than you deserved,. I do not forgive you, though perhaps Mother might.”

Speaking of keys, it was time to leave this coffin of a study. He didn't want to be locked in with the corpse of his Father- his father- any more. He approached the heavy doors. What to do? He could blast them down, but would certainly knock himself back out. A spell of unlocking perhaps? Countering Father's binding spell earlier hadn't required much energy. On a whim, Caspar recalled the command word Father had said so many times, and uttered it.

To his utter shock, the doors clicked open.

Caspar didn't quite know what to do with himself. He hadn't expected success. Experimentally, he tried it again. Click. Again. Click.

"What on Creu-c'tal?" he muttered. It didn't feel the same as using the magic from his arm- didn't feel like much of anything, in point of fact. No power ran through him when he used the door. Was that how it felt for everyone?

More importantly, could he do normal magic now?

He tried to repress his excitement. If he could- if that mysterious arcane blockage was finally cleared- a hundred closed doors were suddenly open to him. No more social stigma, for one. He could attend the family university, for another. Finally learn the secrets that were denied to him for so long. But, caution. Opening one Magitectural door might not mean "Semiotic" magic would work. For now, he merely opened the door out of the study, and returned to his room.

In the full light of day, it was certainly a baroque affair. Denied freedom to travel, Caspar had instead concentrated his life into his room, insofar as he could. Maps of the world hung on every wall, bedecked with notes in his tiny spidery scrawl. Every book the young boy had been able to acquire crammed the shelves which lined every wall. The classical texts were there, of course, as they were part of every young noble’s education, but so were books on history, exploration, and meteorology. He gave a grim chuckle. It seemed increasingly unlikely he’d be serving in the Cortes, he thought. One relative’s portrait bore pride of place, the only portrait he could stand. It was of Alexandre, who had left before Caspar was even born. He had abandoned the family name in order to live the life of a mercenary-adventurer, a tercio of the Federation. What strange new worlds he had seen under that banner were a matter on constant hushed speculation. Proceeding to his writing desk, Caspar opened a drawer and pulled out a bag prepared against this day. Inside lay basic travel supplies, some spare coins he had squirreled away, a map, his medicine, and several precious journals. Journals which would remain empty for the forseeable future, he brooded. He would need to learn to write right-handed.

Caspar's childhood room wasn’t even a gilded cage; the gilding had long since stripped away, revealing the cheap tin of reality underneath. Still, to a sickly young child, this had been his citadel. He had built fantastic models of the world in his head, based only on old maps and smuggled-in stories. Now, it would finally be time to uncover the truth of the matter. He gazed again at the portrait of Alexandre. The portrait depicted a young man, robust where Caspar was frail, ruddy-faced and clad in archaic armor. A broad, welcoming smiling creased his face under foppish mustaches. Caspar had tried for years to imitate that smile, with no success. He would be old now, Caspar thought, but perhaps he remained to be found. Perhaps they could meet on some far shore and commiserate about the stagnation of Llynderite nobility. But, for now, he'd settle for exploring the world outside his house.

As Caspar was turning to go, he saw himself in the full-length mirror. He was much as previously described, still caked in now-dry blood. Whirling, he took in the bloody footprints winding wherever he had been, a crimson ribbon of guilt. He let loose a curse; one more matter to clean up before he could leave the house. He opened a trunk at the base of the ancient four-poster bed, grunting with the effort. Inside lay a number of beginner spellbooks and the accoutrement of years of failed schooling; writing samples, workbooks, quills, and casting foci. He pulled out a large piece of dried sponge, and, after a moment of arrogant resistance, a spellbook.

Turning to the mirror, he attempted to recall the right words to launch a simple cleaning spell. On the first attempt, nothing happened. On the second, the sponge seemed to smoke in the fading daylight, but the caked blood clung firmly on. Finally, Caspar caved and consulted the book, finding the relevant incantation. As he dutifully enunciated every syllable, the sponge dissolved in a pleasant-smelling puff of smoke, and the blood began to vanish into the aether. Yet, before it fully was cleaned, the sponge was consumed and Caspar felt the spell fade. The focus didn’t have enough left in it to clean a mess of this magnitude. His temper flared. He just wanted to be clean of this whole affair.

“I don’t have time for this!”

There was an inrush of cold air, snuffing all the candles in the room. Caspar felt a searing pain crawl up his left arm, starting from his fingers and radiating to the shoulder. Yet, this was no empty pain, and the sting of it already seemed an old friend to him. The remaining blood cleared instantly, and his appearance grew subtly trimmer; the long, raven-dark hair was now combed, dust and grime on the clothes evaporated instantly. He took himself in, wincing at the now-fading pain in his arm. He couldn’t afford to do that on major spells, he knew; if there hadn’t been a roaring fire to draw from earlier, he might well have killed himself as well as Father. Grudgingly, several spellbooks found their way into the bag.

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But, for now, the next step was to visit Father's room, and the safe therein. As he returned to the dreary upstairs hallway, the rot of the place set in. Years of fiscal neglect had deprived the private parts of the House of the Open Book of even the most basic maintenance. It was just the two Estaróns and Max- Caspar froze. His brain, still reeling from the dual recent traumas, had finally internalized certain key issues.

Caspar was struck all at once by the colossal peril of his situation, a full-body blow of anxiety. His father would be missed at the High Mass tonight. Even presuming he could clean the area before a witness arrived- quite the assumption, given the gory end his father had suffered- there would be nobody else to pin the killing on but himself. It was only Caspar, Don Estarón, and the long-suffering Maximillian in the tomb of a townhouse these days; no pecuniary concerns could drive his damnable father to let any of the vacant rooms. Not a soul in the city would believe Max dispatched the margrave, let alone in so barbarous a manner. True, the ancient servant’s pay was years in arrears, and no longer slept in the house; true, Maximilian was only keeping his post out of love for the old master of the house, Caspar’s grandfather. That said, the old butler had transferred his fierce love for Alexandre to his son Francesco. To anyone with even a passing knowledge of the Phillipe household, the thought of Maximilian being anything other than scrupulously loyal would beggar belief.

What to do? He could claim an accidental death? No, no that wouldn't work. Certainly not given the state of the body. Something to mull over as he finished gathering the things he needed.

Father's room was stark, as the man liked it. There was no budget for maintaining the rooms beyond a visitor’s purview, of course. Still a certain spareness of the soul led to the state of Francesco’s sparse room, containing only a bed, writing desk (actually used, unlike the dramatic one in the study), and safe. The only personal touch was another family tree, painted into a fresco over the bed. Caspar walked quickly over to the bed and bent down to the safe; this was not a happy place for him. He looked suspiciously at the pristine lock. If the key was magic...

Caspar gingerly laid his damaged hand on the safe. He had felt that strange sensation early, a sixth sense outside Father's- father's- study. He closed his eyes, and focused. Focused on wanting to know what was inside. Nothing happened for a long moment, before, without warning, he found himself disassociating. For the space of a breath, he could feel every source of magic within about ten feet- certain mundane magical miscellany, in addition to whatever was in the safe. But something was indeed pinging as magic in the safe.

Interestingly, this new sense of his didn't seem to "count" as drawing energy. He hadn't the faintest why that would be the case, but was hardly about to object. As wonderful as having power was, the physical toll taken every time was proving arduous. Regardless, he had a decision to make. Lacking any kind of lockpicking training, he could only rely on the key. Hopefully, whatever trap was inside wouldn't be triggered. Caspar winced preemptively as he slowly turned the odd key- which had showed up as shockingly magic, in his brief scan- in the lock.

Click.

And, to his massive surprise, nothing happened. As the old strongbox creaked open, he was disappointed but not shocked to find it mostly empty. Still, the key documents remained: the official family papers of nobility and a notarized travel pass. The former included the deed to the House of the Open Book, and the Federal writ to operate Estarón University. As Caspar pulled these out gleefully, he couldn't help but notice the pile of letters underneath. He shrugged and grabbed those as well. No reason not to- Don Estarón could hardly object. Caspar left the room hastily- he refused to spend any more time than necessary in this hateful place.

Actually, in point of fact, calling the corpse in the study Don Estarón was a mistake Caspar needed to stop making. The margrave was dead; long live the margrave! His father had never educated him in the finer points of succession- something of a red flag, in retrospect- but this was the whole conceit of hereditary nobility, after all. He had the relevant papers, and so long as he didn't find himself brought up on charges of parricide, he should be able to claim the entire Estarón birthright. For what it was worth.

As Caspar proceeded downstairs, he couldn't help but reflect on his own place in the family tree. The whole way down, the frigid stares of dead forbearers raked him from the portraits adorning the walls, shouting accusations in noiseless voices. He paid them no mind; the whole house was haunted by the time-displaced ghosts of heritage. Yet, the familial weight sat heavy on his shoulders. Unless Alexandre should turn out to be alive, he was the last fruit of the tree. Caspar had long since stopped lying to himself about his future. He was not well, and had only gotten worse over the years. The young man’s pallid complexion refused to turn a healthy color no matter what exercise or treatment he was given. His ribs could be counted at a great distance, even under his own well-kept dress clothes. Perennial coughs were bringing up more and more blood as time passed. His pace slowed to a crawl on the dramatic main stairs. What did it mean, to be the end of so long a line? What did he owe them?

Nothing. Caspar resolved.

He resumed walking, purposefully. He would not let himself be bound. Caspar desired other things.

The family sitting room downstairs had long since fallen into neglect and disrepair. Past glories had long since choked the life out of the present. Old suits of armor and tapestries lined the walls, and the ceiling was adorned with a minutely detailed fresco, depicting just how instrumental the Phillipe line had been in furthering the glory of the Federation. The fresco had no doubt been glorious once, the toast of the great houses of the city. Now it was cracked and faded, in parts barely distinguishable from water damage. Yet, it still possessed the inestimable virtue of having the coziest chair in the house. Maximilian would be starting his shift in a few hours; in the meanwhile, Caspar had reading to do.

. . .

Whatever his faults, Caspar had gotten very good at reading.

He was well aware that this wasn't traditionally considered a skill that one got good at. Nonetheless: a childhood spent locked in a house with nobody to talk to and nothing around but literature will make a speed-reader out of anyone.

Caspar had gone over the deeds and titles quickly, then read through the letters. These gave him a terrible idea for how to get himself off the hook; lacking good ideas, however, he filed it away for later. By the time Maximilian entered, he was well into his Father's journal. The book was relatively slender, bound in durable wyvern-hide. However, as Caspar read it, he noticed that however many pages he turned, he seemed to be near the front of the book. Idly, he began fanning the pages as fast as he could. Just after the page numbered "5401" in Father's cramped hand, the pages finally stopped turning, and a back cover unveiled itself. Hmm. That was hardly standard. Still, Caspar had seen magic items like this advertised in the wealthy stores of the upper city. A "Bottomless Ledger", a relatively complicated work of Magitecture that required regular top-ups of power to keep generating new pages. After Father's selling spree, it was likely one of the most valuable items in the house.

Maximilian's firm knock at the door echoed through the empty halls. "Come in, Max." Caspar said absently, engrossed in a particularly thorny turn of phrase. The old servant entered, curiosity running rampant on his face.

"Master Caspar? You're up early, aren't you sir?"

"Yes, Maximilian. We need to talk."

"Sir? Is everything alright?"

Caspar had debated lying to the servant, but ultimately decided against it. He didn't exactly have a compelling cover story regardless, but fundamentally he simply trusted the man. Max had always been kind to him, a beacon of light in the suffocating darkness of this empty house. Whatever else, he deserved to know the truth. "No, Max. No it is not."

. . .

It would be difficult to convey, in simple words, what passed between those two. Maximilian knew that Don Francesco Estarón had been a hateful man, declining in vulgarity to become a monster. He trusted Caspar's version of the events; had watched the father and son interact too much to believe otherwise. But that didn't spare Max's heart.

For, alone in the house, Maximilian Ruiz knew love. He knew it well and truly, and felt it deeply for the family he served. He had loved Alexandre, and loved him still even after the rest of the family Estarón had sworn him off. He had loved Francesco like a son, and refused to abandon him to the darkness. And, of course, he loved Caspar. For nobody else in this rotten house would.

Maximilian wept, for hour upon hour. He cursed the Arcanes, the wizard-gods of the Federation, cursed the four winds and the heavens above. He sobbed at the injustice, that not one but two of his charges had been swept away by fortune. He wept at the thought of this family's final ruin, son divided against father. No amount of foreknowledge could possibly repair the tragedy a father attempting to kill his son, a son killing his father.

And so, we will not pry into the whispered conversation that took place that morning and afternoon. Maximilian was a good man, among the best, and his hurt and sorrow are not to be made a spectacle of.

. . .

When they were done, it was some time past two. Max had finished his tears for the moment, and insisted on making them both a hearty lunch, "to keep the spirits up." Now, as they sat and ate, the conversation turned to grim practicalities.

"So, what do you plan on doing, sir? I'm happy to go along with it, if it's ethical. I’ll handle the funeral, and I’ll do my best to keep your name away from the affair. This is a private matter, and the society vultures have no right to peck at it in their salons."

Caspar smiled awkwardly. He was no good at it, still. "You must have noticed our family's financial straits as of late?"

"Unfortunately yes, sir. I've been hoping the Estaróns would come upon better times, but no such luck.

"Luck is precisely the issue. There are other reasons Father has been hinting at- longer term family issues- but, over the last fifteen years, the family wealth has disappeared. My father was a little too fond of cards, it seems. High-stakes cards."

"You don't mean...?" Maximilian raised an eyebrow skeptically. Caspar almost laughed- it was out of character for the servant to raise even so mild an objection. The death truly had shaken him.

"Yes. Apparently, Father owed rather a massive sum. Not just to local families- they stopped offering him seats at the table when he stopped paying. No, he started playing with a group called the Menagerie."

"Ah. And they are, I take it, some sort of nefarious underworld group?"

"A crime syndicate? It seems like it. Anyway, he owed them an astronomical amount, more than this house is worth. Apparently some of those "work trips" he was always taking were visits to Port Fortune, to gamble and make payments."

"That's terrible, but I'm not sure I see how this helps you. Won't they come and try and get their money from you as well?"

"It's not my debt, and we have nothing to give them. Besides, Father said in the journal that they never threatened his family- just him, in all sorts of horrific ways. No, this can help us immensely. Don't you see? We have an alibi. Pin the murder on the Menagerie for back debts, and nobody will pry too deeply because of the shame of the thing."

"Possibly, sir. But how do you know they won't suspect you? And won't there be a Federal investigation? It's the death of a noble, not one such as I."

Caspar snorted. "A Federal investigation? You mean some bloated Navy officer wanders around the place for a bit? I've seen their kind at parties, I'm not worried. And besides, who wouldn't suspect me? Don Estarón was killed by magic- that much is obvious. As far as anyone in this town is concerned, I can't perform any." he paused. "And stop with the self-effacement. We both know your life is as worthwhile as any other."

Maximilian smiled warmly. "Ah, so some of my teachings did rub off on you. I'm glad to hear you say that. Well, sir, we can certainly try. But, in the haste of preparing a reaction, I think you've forgotten to consider the most important question of all."

"And what's that, Max?" Caspar raised an eyebrow in turn.

"What do you want to do now?"

"I'm not sure I understand the question. I want to finish reading this journal, to start. And then-"

"Sir. Please. As someone who loves you: what do you want to do with your life? Who do you want to be?" Maximilian shrugged despondently. "The events of the last few days have opened up countless possibilities."

Caspar stopped mid-sentence. He hadn't had the luxury of considering the question before. He had dreams, of course- dreams of following in Alexandre's footsteps and seeking to make a name for himself as an explorer. Yet, those had never seemed plausible, not given his fragile health and family obligations. He pondered this for a moment.

"I think," Caspar said slowly, "I think that I need to know who I am now before I know who I want to be. More importantly, I need to know what I am- what I'm capable of. What Father did to me." He snapped his fingers, desiring for the candles in the chandelier to spring to life. They did, with a dramatic inrushing of air and audible pop. "Why I can do that, without following any of the rules." His stomach growled; Caspar felt as though he'd never had lunch. "And what the rules of it are."

"Shall I take it you're invoking your family privilege then?"

"Yes, Maximilian. I'm going to University."

END

PART

ONE