Chapter 3: Inheritance

Caspar

The Benavente dining hall was, of course, enormous. This was hardly a surprise to Caspar, not at this stage of exploration of the Benavente mansion and opulence. Still, the setting seemed to have worked some form of good grace on his father, who was laughing uproariously. The two men were huddled at the end of the long table, surrounded by empty plates and goblets.

Well, Caspar supposed, that also could explain the good mood in the room.

Don Benavente turned. "Ah! Caspar! Valentina! Please, come, join us in our happiness." He waved invitingly at Caspar and Isla, who almost spoke up then seemed to think better of it. Valentina entered behind them at that point, a barely-concealed smirk on her face. "And Gabriella too? Well, why not! Today we celebrate!"

Caspar approached the two old men cautiously. They were lit strangely by the roaring fire in the hearth. It was a mage-fire, created by the burning of wizard-grass in between the logs. The resulting blaze cracked and sparked in many hues and strange patterns, looking almost alive in its iridescence. The shadows cast on - and by- the two patriarchs were strange and distorted. "Don Benavente. Father." Caspar said neutrally. "Did the talks go well?"

His Father grinned. It was somewhat uncanny, seeing that stormy face so happy. "Did they go well? Of course they did boy! You think we would call both of you in here to discuss a failed match!"

The lord of the house nodded in agreement. "Your father is wise indeed, boy. I look forward to you joining our household." He rose slowly. "In fact, I think I have a present for you in my study. One moment."

Valentina raised an eyebrow quizzically. "You're going on an errand yourself? Are the servants gone for the night?"

"No, no. The gift is in a secure place, and it is in my study. I simply prefer to keep that place mine own. Besides, I am not yet so old as for stairs to overcome me. Valentina!" He pointed at Isla. Valentina rolled her eyes and stood. He merely shrugged, cackling. "Ah, of course, as I thought. Stay here, acquaint yourself with your father-in-law. I will return shortly."

Don Benavente strode out of the room dramatically, long red cloak billowing behind him. The room hung in fragile silence, punctuated by the crackling of logs in the fireplace. Caspar and Valentina locked eyes. "Are we doing this?" Caspar asked.

She laughed. "I don't think I'm interested in getting tied down just yet. No offense. Maybe we see if I can swap with Isla after all, hmm?"

Caspar could have sworn Isla blushed, but Don Estarón interrupted. "Are you doing this? Are you doing this? What's the matter boy, is my match not good enough for you?" His face was flushed, but whether with drink or choler, Caspar couldn't tell.

Yet.

"Well, I suppose that depends Father. What did we need to give up for it?"

The Benavente sisters looked side to side in confusion. "Wait," Isla said slowly. "Give up? But-"

"Nothing of importance, boy. The line will carry on." Estarón took a massive swig of amber liquid. "A child will bear our surname. What else do you need?"

"He said I'll be living here." Caspar said quietly. "No ordinary marriage contract works in that way, Father. What price did you pay?"

"No, no hold on!" Isla interjected. "I've read about this! The wife's family pays the dowry. That's standard among the nobility. Not the other way around. Sir Estarón, is something-"

"Don't you talk to me like that!" Don Estarón roared. "Don't you dare. You don't know what I've lost. Don't know what I've sacrificed. You want to know so badly, boy? Fine. You were the price. You and yours. The firstborn shall be an Estarón, and inherit our title, privileges and estates. And then you will become a Benavente, then and forevermore." He stood as he said this, pointing an accusing finger. "And then I will be done of you, boy! Done for good! You never appreciated what I gave up for this family."

"Family?" Caspar asked coldly. "Mother is dead, Father. You have no siblings. No children other than myself I am your family. What have you ever given up for me?"

"Bah!" Don Estarón waved his hand dismissively. "What do you know of family? Family means more than blood. I had our house name to think of- all of it. Besides, you should be happy, boy! Look at this place! Would you scoff at this comfort?"

Caspar shrugged. "It seems to me I have no choice." Yet, there was something in that hateful tone he could not totally foreswear. Did he actually want to return to that den of dust and memories that was the family estate? Back to nothing but Father for company, locked in those hateful halls. Caspar thought back to his youth, to shadow-draped windows and- no. He shook his head. He would not relive that hell again. "What will you do if I say no, Father?" Caspar asked thoughtfully. "Or if I want to keep my own name?"

"You won't say no, boy. I command it. And keeping your own name isn't part of our arrangement. Your father-in-law insisted, in order for there to be Benavente heirs." Father shrugged, and made to sit down. "It was the only option we could agree on." He said this dismissively, but Caspar had known the man long enough to read between the lines. Only option we could agree on... What else could his father even offer a man like this? The Estaróns had no money left to their name. The family estate was stripped bare of valuables, and the building itself was mortgaged well in excess of its value. The only thing they even had left was their name. Their name...

"He asked for our noble privileges?" Caspar didn't bother to hide his disbelief. They were transferrable, as a mater of right. It had only happened once before among the truly great houses, four hundred years ago when the poor, unlucky Foillet clan had folded up entirely and fled Seren va Llynder for less competitive waters. All of the nine legal great houses of Seren va Llynder had certain rights and privileges, regardless of how poor they might find themselves. These included many little perks- convenient canal access at all hours, preferential treatment on many administrative matters, rights to dueling and to the best seats at High Mass. Yet, there were also benefits of a more substantial variety, which the houses often fought over. Each of the nine great houses held a substantial trade monopoly, a concession from the government. The Estaróns ran the city's magical university; his father took a hands-off approach, but legally still owned the land and had absolute hiring and firing powers.

The benefits of nobility also included voting privileges. Each of the great houses had one vote in the local Cortes, on the admittedly infrequent occasions when the nobles were consulted. These ranged from matters like who was allowed to host the yearly winter festival of Tuliatide to electing the city mayor and planar governor. Well, most great houses got one vote. The de los Santos house held two, ever since the Foillet collapse.

Don Estarón didn't bother denying it. Caspar whistled appreciatively. "That's quite the power play. Are we truly in that dire of a situation Father? Do you have an island picked out to go live in exile on?"

Isla interjected with a quiet cough. "Are you sure you want to be having this conversation right here? Right now?" Valentina nodded in agreement, discomfort writ large on her face.

"I don't think it will do you any harm to know the reality of your situation." Don Estarón scoffed. "I coddled the boy here, and it did him no good. And, as to what you were saying, Caspar: no, I don't have an exile location picked out. The Foillets are madmen and cowards, and should have let their house simply finish withering rather than dishonouring themselves the way they did. We Estaróns are of sterner stuff. And thus, why I didn't agree to his initial proposal. After all, he needs at least one of his daughters to marry matrilineally. Otherwise, the Benavente name gets passed to a cousin or some such." Estarón sighed. "And there it is, boy. All lays bare. Are you going to make an issue of our house's interests? Or will you do your thrice-damned duties and stop badgering me about the details?"

Caspar smirked. "You should know better Father; I'll never stop badgering you." Still, this degree of honesty from Father threw Caspar for a loop, if he was being honest. There was an almost forthright attitude- as if his father had at least some desire to persuade, rather than bully. "Fine then. Let's see how this goes." He wasn't quite sure what to make of his Father's bearing- Caspar decided he would puzzle it out in his journal that night.

Valentina rolled her eyes. "I'm glad you're both okay with me getting married off without my consent. Don Estarón doesn't even know which one I am."

Caspar's father seemed to roll a die mentally. "Gabriella?" he hazarded. Her face clouded with momentary rage, interrupted by the fortunate return of her own father.

"Hello again, Estaróns. I apologize for the wait; perhaps these old bones need more assistance on the stairs than I'm yet willing to admit. Nonetheless! Caspar my boy, you accept the marriage contract between Valentina and yourself, with all of the provisions your father and I have discussed?"

Caspar swallowed. And there it was. "May I have some time to think about it, sir?" He was being unusually respectful, he realized, but these were unusual circumstances.

"What do you think I was just giving you?" The old man stood up straight, his face souring. Caspar realized with shock that the limp, the stiff joints, the slight shiver to the hands- all of these were mere affect, at least in part. "I offer your family the best deal it's had in a century and you try and stall? 'Need more assistance on the stairs', honestly. Don't waste any more of my time. This is the best- and last- good marriage offer you'll be getting."

"In that case..." Caspar felt his father's hand close on his shoulder. A gesture of support? A warning? "...I suppose I will accept, of course. Thank you, Don Benavente."

"Think nothing of it, lad." Don Benavente's face dropped back into its previous genial mask. "We'll be delighted to have you around! After this, you can pick out a room- we have plenty available- and start getting you settled. After that, we can start looking at dates and locations to celebrate the occasion. Traditionally, we've often used the house for the ceremony, but some of our more pious ancestors preferred the Cathedral- what?" Caspar had raised a hand cautiously. "Speak up my boy, you're part of the family now!"

"Wel, that's just it sir." Caspar coughed awkwardly. "Don't you need to ask Valentina as well?"

Don Benavente paused. He began to shake. And then, he exploded with hoarse laughter. Don Estarón joined in, after a moment. Caspar- well, Caspar felt something he'd never felt before.

Rage.

In all his years, after all the abuse he'd suffered, he had never felt this cauldron welling up within him before. It felt as though the fire raging in the flue was lodged in his chest. At least he'd been asked- worthless, magic-less, frail Caspar. Valentina and Isla were- to not even ask. To not even ask. A vein pulsed angrily in Caspar's temple. Like his father, some small part of his brain idly thought.

The two lords finished their collective guffawing eventually. Benavente was leaning on Estarón, wheezing uncontrollably. For the duration, Caspar, Isla, and Valentina stood in awkward silence. He saw Isla lay a comforting hand on her sister's shoulder. It wasn't just. The fire was growing brighter. Finally, Don Benavente stopped. "Ah. Aha. That was good, boy. I'm glad to know my son-in-law has such a sense of humor! That will do you well, in the world. Valentina has- she has already consented, shall we say. Now! I have a little something to mark the ocassion."

Don Benavente produced a fine hardwood box, inlaid with ivory and precious gems. A large ruby adorned the top, and the hinges were of electrum. The vein pulsed hard in Caspar's temple. He felt... strange. Not quite light-headed. Heavy-headed? Don Benavente opened the box. Inside sat a magnificent brace of pistols, the finest Caspar had ever seen. The filigree on the handles alone must have taken a master craftsman weeks. And the barrels! Wrought of what looked to be solid platinum, bound with runes to keep from warping. Several cartridges were arrayed decoratively at the bottom of the box, nested in a rich cushion. "They're an old, old family heirloom." Don Benavente whispered. "A gift from the Governor for our part putting down the Three Mountains rebellion. I'm told you can't miss anything you shoot at when you use these." Don Benavente winked. "No command word required, either. For the, ah, magically disadvantaged." He extended a gun, handle-first. "Why not try it out? Take a crack at that armor over there. Don't worry-we have plenty more where that came from!"

Caspar's heart was racing. The implied slight was obvious- a present for the "magically disadvantaged". He could hear the scorn. He could see the man's contempt. He grabbed the gun.

And everything went white.

...

When Caspar dreamed, he was alone.

He dreamt of a long, lonely childhood. Chronic illness had kept the child locked inside most of his youth, doomed to stare out the window at other people's joy. Mother died when he was young. She wasn't all there by the end; hadn't been the entire time Caspar could recall. She was like him- pale, wasting away to nothing, sickly.

And yet, her marble skin and raven-black hair were the closest thing he could associate with parental love. When she was lucid, there was such affection in them, such hope.

One day, a chill wind blew through the House of the Open Book, the family estate. A wind that smelled of change and ill omen. Mother took sick, and then slipped away. Something broke in Father that day. Whatever had been holding the animal inside back died with Mother. Teasing became mockery, fatherly advice turned to scorn. And, of course, Father began indulging in more destructive habits that day. They put up black drapes the day Mother passed, covering the windows and furniture. They had never seen a point in taking them down.

He didn't attend school with his peers. He couldn't- no magical aptitude, even if his health permitted it. The shame of a nobleman's child- the child of the Estaróns, of all people- lacking the most basic spellcraft could not be endured. Caspar knew no friends outside the few servants they could afford. That number decreased as he grew up.

Caspar dreamed of being younger, at home. The dusty, sunny Seren va Llynder breeze gently stirred the black drapes. A pile of books sat by the sick-bed; books of adventure, exploration, and glory. Books of the Family Estarón and their great conquests. Young Caspar loved his books dearly. Sometimes, he would watch out the window, and imagine that other children his age liked to read as well. One day, they would talk, and share stories of the tales they had discovered in the musty archives of the ancient city they dwelt in.

When Caspar dreamed, he was alone.

Wake up, little dreamer.

The voice came unbidden, from all around. Something of Caspar's adult consciousness came to rest in the body of his young self.

Wake up, Caspar. Your strings have been cut. Go, and do as thou willst.

The dream became lucid; no more was he playing out a pre-rehearsed part. Now was a time of improv.

Caspar cautiously got out of bed. The weakness he had always known seemed to fade as he rose. His muscles felt strong under clear, tan skin. He breathed deeply, savoring the taste of the air. "As he willst?" Well then. Caspar raised a hand, and dismissively swatted it to the side. The window blew open, along with a good portion of the wall. Below him, on the square in front of the House of the Open Book, he saw Valentina and Isla. He stepped out.

When Caspar dreamed, he would be alone no longer.

. . .

Caspar awakened not at his new abode in the Casa de Benavente, but rather back in the hated family home. The House of the Open Book. Consciousness was restored through the gradual oncoming of the pain. The intense, agonizing pain. It felt as though someone had dipped his hand in an open fire, then simply held it there until the nerves should have burned out. But, instead of charcoal replacing flesh, no blessed relief came. Instead, pain gave way to new height of pain.

When Caspar awoke after several false starts in a state of true lucidity, he was in his bed. Not a bed picked out in the opulent manor, but the black-draped four poster of his childhood. The window hung open, letting a faint night breeze in. It was barred, of course- how had he forgotten it was barred?

A middle-aged man stood cautiously as Caspar's tossing and turning became more obvious. He was dressed in well-loved but sober clothing. Black, of course. Maximilian, the head of their staff. The only one his father had not fired, though Caspar was not entirely certain he was being paid anymore. "Beg pardon sir, are you awake?" The man's tone was subservient out of a lifetime whipped practice. Caspar had always hated that tone, vowed never to talk like it. Yet, he had talked just like that to Don Benavente, when he wanted something more than he valued his pride.

Caspar hated the obsequious even more now. Something burning and foul briefly rose in his chest, before returning to slumber. Max was a good man, Caspar reminded himself, among the best. Certainly among the only people Caspar had been able to talk to growing up. The servant's loyalty to the Estaróns was unimpeachable. He should be kind. He would be. "Maximilian. Yes, I'm -agh- awake. What happened?"

Max's face sagged in relief. "It's so good to hear your voice, young master. You've been unconscious for over a day, you see, and the physicians were worried that you wouldn't pull through, given your constitution. How are you feeling?"

"I'm in agony, Max. What happened?" Caspar wasn't exaggerating. The pain hadn't abated at all. It seemed to flare especially bright in sync with the burst of anger. He looked at the damaged hand- his left- in concern. It was bandaged heavily, as was his whole arm. As was his chest, by all appearances.

"Perhaps we should discuss this later, sir. You should rest. Recover your strength."

Caspar shook his head. "I won't be able to rest. Not until I know what happened. I was in the midst of a marriage proposal, Maximilian. I feel like I should know what happened to my father-in-law."

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

"You should worry about yourself, sir." Max's voice was quiet. "Are you certain-" he seemed to read Caspar's expression "-yes, I see that you are. You never were one to let questions stand. Very well: As it was conveyed to me, a gun exploded once it touched your hand. There was something 'strange', I'm told. Don Estarón said that a bolt of light leapt from the fire, to you, to the gun. Then, it misfired. Nobody was able to quite tell me how, but apparently it exploded with a force well beyond what it should have been able to produce. A dozen times as much."

"Well, everything got chaotic after that sir. I was summoned, eventually- and let me tell you, I didn't mind in the slightest that it was in my day off sir, I just wanted to make sure- well, you know. I came running. By the time I got there, sir, the medical mages had done their best. Don Benavente apparently nearly died himself! Fortunately, the table in front of him was knocked up by the blast and absorbed most of the impact."

"And his daughters?" Caspar asked through gritted teeth, trying both to stifle pain and pretend a lack of concern. He was unaccountably furious that Don Benavente had made it through. But then, he certainly had no lost love for the old goat, he supposed.

"Fine, sir. Valentina was by late last night asking after you. She said both of them were worried sick about you, and sorry that they wouldn't see you again."

Caspar sighed in relief. Then, he finished parsing the sentence. "Wait, wouldn't see me again?"

Maximilian winced. "Yes sir." He did not elaborate further.

Caspar winced at the rising pain in his hand. "Maximilian. Explain, please."

The servant looked strangely skittish. "Very well sir. Given what happened to your potential father-in-law, the damage to his home, and the potential danger you pose to the health and safety of his daughters..."

"The match is off." Caspar groaned. He closed his eyes, laying his head back on the pillow. He hadn't even wanted it at first, but now the exclusion just felt exhausting. "Of course. I messed it up again."

"Beg pardon sir, but what exactly happened?" Maximilian couldn't keep the concern from his voice, nor was he truly trying. "You weren't just wounded by a blast, young master. You were... well, emaciated. Like you hadn't eaten for a month. And your arm-"

"What happened to my arm, exactly?" Caspar interjected.

"It's mutilitated, sir. You'll see when you take the bandages off. You should rest now, my lord. I have to go tell your father that you've awakened." Maximilian stood and made to leave.

Father. He couldn't be happy. "How... is my father?" Caspar asked cautiously.

Maximilian smiled distantly. "Well, thank the Arcanes. As it happens, you shielded him with your body. But-" a cloud descended upon the servant's kindly features "-but he does want to talk to you, as soon as possible. I was to tell him when you awakened." Max seemed sheepish.

Caspar shrugged. "Let him come see me, then." Maximilian shook his head. Aha. It was like that then. "In the study, I presume?" The servant nodded grimly. "I think I understand, Maximilian. I understand all too well. You had best be getting home, hadn't you?"

"Sir?" Max's face went white. "You can't seriously be thinking about going to him now?"

"I'm not sure what point there is in waiting." Caspar sat upright with a wince. "Help me unwrap these bandages. I want to see what the damage is."

"Only if you agree to wait until you've both had a night to calm down, sir. I know this household too well to let you walk headlong into doom." Max set his face in a firm line.

Caspar rolled his eyes. "Fine, fine. If only because- ow- I don't think I could make it there under my own power." Sitting up had been a bluff; his energy was drained by that simple act. The servant came to his side, and began to unwind the bandages on the arm.

He started up by the shoulder, for which Caspar was grateful. The scope of the damage was unveiled gradually, incrementally. From the ball of the shoulder downwards, his arm was a quilt of jagged scars. Above the elbow, the underlying skin was pale (as always), lined with heavy purple veins underneath. The muscle tone seemed to have faded slightly, though it was difficult to tell. Below the elbow, however, it was more readily apparent. The skin there was blackened and charred, stretched taut over bone. There was something odd about the darkness- a faint shimmer or iridescence, when viewed from the right angle. Scars laced this too, though they were faint against the scorched ruins of dermis. The hand came last; Caspar almost asked Max to stop. Paroxysms of pain prevented the poor poet from professing this preference, however. Exposure to air was only intensifying the agony radiating off the wounds.

The hand was revealed, and Caspar couldn't help a wail of despair, a choking sob through teary eyes. His left hand- his writing hand- was unrecognizable as a hand at first. It looked like a strangely charred dead spider. The fingers had been reduced to mere nubs, curled inwards like a shriveled monkey's paw. The hand itself was fat with blood and pus- or Caspar assumed as much. Yet here, the burnt-in iridescence was even more pronounced. Blisters of visible pus stood out on the back of the "hand", though he was having trouble meaningfully using the term anymore. The liquid inside reflected the light oddly, like lantern-oil spilled in water. Or did it have its own faint luminescence? He couldn't tell. What he could tell, however, was that the withered husk was no longer following orders. The fingers would not open, nor could he articulate his wrist; control ended at the elbow.

"It's still like this? Were we unable to afford regeneration magic?

"No sir. It wouldn't respond to the magic. They postulated that it might have something to do with the mage-fire that burned in the room at the time, but could give no other explanation."

"Why did the doctors even leave it on then?" Caspar asked quietly. His writing hand, gone. His drawing hand, gone. His cartography hand, gone.

"They couldn't remove it, sir." Maximilian responded in a similar hushed tone. "They tried, but as soon as the saw set in, your pulse started fading." He laid a hand on Caspar's shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Caspar. I know- I know what you've lost. If there's anything I can do, anything at all-"

Casper nodded absently, removing Max's hand. "I expected as much, but I always appreciate it Max. Just- how?"

"How, sir?"

"Max..." he sighed. "You know my condition. My struggles. This event, whatever it was- surely it must have been magic?"

"The medical mages couldn't say, sir. Perhaps the gun merely misfired." Caspar could tell from the old servant's bearing that he didn't believe that explanation any more than Caspar did. However, he soldiered on: "Did you say an incantation? Perform any specific hand gesture?"

"No, no. You know I didn't. What would the point be?"

"Then there is your answer, sir."

"But could it not be something else? Some other form of arcane power?"

"I'm hardly the man to ask, sir. I know only simple household spells, for cooking and mending. But, from what they tell us in mass, magic is magic. There's only one kind. Unless you want to count Magitecture, but that's far outside my realm." Maximilian smiled apologetically. "Perhaps this would be a good topic to research sir? You'll need to spend quite some time recovering. I can fetch you some tomes to read from the university library! You've always found that therapeutic, if I may be so bold."

Caspar shrugged. Max's answer intuitively didn't feel right. Or rather, it was the 'right' answer for a worldview that Caspar wasn't entirely sure he occupied any longer. But, of course, he had no great knowledge of the mysteries of magic himself. He couldn't; to attend the self-named Estarón university of magic, one needed to actually be able to cast magic. The depths of the field were only accessible in those hallowed halls. Hmm- no, he put the thought from his mind. He wasn't even ambulatory, and apparently was down one hand for the foreseeable future. The thrills of academia didn't have quite the same hold on him that they once had, however.

Of course, first he needed to have a conversation with Father. Well, conversation was perhaps generous- the study was an ill-omen. Father wanted to yell and shout, to vent whatever demon boiled in his breast. It was no matter; hardly the first time Caspar had undergone this particular ordeal. He wasn't exactly anticipating it with joy however. "Alright Max, let him know I'll visit in the morning. I think I'll take you up on that demand of sleep. Best to make yourself scarce, after you talk to Father. I doubt you want to spectate our woes."

"Perhaps it won't be that bad, sir." Maximilian said hopefully. "I'll make sure to stress your innocence in all this. And your injuries! Don Estarón is a good man, deep down. He just gets in ill-tempers, sometimes. His own father was the same way."

Caspar snorted derisively, but thought better of pressing the issue. Better to leave the servant his delusions. "Alright Max, whatever you say. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, young sir. Rest well."

. . .

Morning came with merciless slowness. Caspar's burning arm kept him in a delirious state of half-sleep, fading in and out of feverish dreams. Nothing coalesced into a narrative, but nor was he able to simply enjoy the comfortable blanket of nothingness. Hours ticked by, a second at a time, while he tossed and turned and writhed. The pain was more than physical; a whole life, imagined and destroyed over the course of a night. A lifetime of taking solace in the pen and page, ruined. The faces of the Benaventes danced hazily before his eyes. Would he ever see them again? Should he?

Eventually, the clarion clatter of birds awoke him from the latest vague dreamings. These were no ordinary birds, however. These were the pint-sized terrors of Seren va Llynder, the Derringer Macaw. Tiny, ruthless, and shockingly flock-oriented. The Derringer Macaws were an iconic staple of life here, if only because they refused to leave one’s trash alone, and cursed you out while doing it. They were mostly grey, with strange shocks and plumes of vibrant color on their torsos and undersides of their wings. This was no natural plumage, however- it stemmed from the consumption of the city's iconic weed, wizard grass. The multi-hued crabgrass could seemingly grow through and on solid stone, and had a powerful staining effect on anything that consumed it. One such Derringer pecked at the window.

"Food?" it croaked hoarsely.

"No food, no. Go away!" Caspar moaned and dug his face into his pillow. Not like this.

"Food!" it insisted. Two more joined it on the narrow windowsill. "Feed the birds. Nice to feed the birds."

"No it is not you vermin. Now leave, before you- ugh!"

For one of the macaws had edged too close to the metal grill on the window, triggering the small work of Magitecture built in. A sharp shock- and accompanying horrid scent of singed feathers- wafted through the room. "Bastard!" a chorus of voices called back, as the birds retreated for easier marks.

Caspar groaned and sat up. It was cruel, he thought, but given enough time, he'd seen a team of Derringers pick a window lock. Or, simply break one with enough rocks and time.

He swung out of bed, dressed, and made for the hall. Father would be expecting him, and he intended to get this farce resolved so he could start his day properly. Sleep- or the equivalent thereof- had done him no small good, and the burning in his hand was reduced to a dull ache. His arm and chest hurt as well, and he could eat a porpoise, but this was still an improvement. He debated covering his hand, but decided against it. Perhaps the sight of the dead weight would forstall Father's anger.

The study was just down the hall. A light shone from under the door. Something strange tickled at the back of his mind, a faint intuition of something within the room. He shook his head, clearing the sensation. And then, three knocks, just as Father insisted.

"In."

Don Estarón waited, behind his writing desk. The room was cavernous, a relic of old Estarón wealth long since forgotten. The most obvious sign to those in the know was the bookcase, a gorgeous antique of hardwood and bronze, with krakenhide casing on the outside for safety. The shelves were full of spell tomes by the great masters of Estarón university. Any one of the oldest books there could buy a house in the lower city. This was not to mention the true treasures- tomes from Offworld, from the motherland. From Monttherox. Tomes of magecraft and hidden spells that were legally permitted only to a scant few of the colonials. These five books were chained and warded, occupying a place of guarded pride at the center.

There were other signifiers of wealth, too. An opulent chandelier, bobbing merrily and freely near the dark ceiling. The rug was made out of some great furred beast of the North, with over a dozen limbs and a face with no eyes. A magnificent tapestry hung on the wall, depicting the Estarón family tree over the last ten generations. One name was charred out, a hasty burn scar on the otherwise gorgeous tree. Carafes of expensive liquor adorned a magnificent end table- wine from Foillet, deep green absinthe from Placidia, orange-red thermal bourbon from San Cristobal. Mage-fire burned in the hearth- Caspar winced at the sight, as a phantom pain ran down his left arm. It was, as it had ever been, a room designed to impress visitors with the wealth of House Estarón. Father had cut corners everywhere else he could to avoid sacrifices here.

Speaking of the head of the house, Father looked terrible. His normally well-kept mustaches were ragged, and several days of stubble covered his gaunt, tan jawline. Deep shadows hung under his eyes, and even across the room Caspar could detect the unique scent of despair. Alcohol fumes mixed with the stench of several days in the same clothes- had Father slept at all? The man waved a hand impatiently, muttering a word under his breath. Nothing happened. Father cursed, drank something from a flask, then tried again, enunciating more clearly. This time, the doors behind Caspar swung closed. Caspar looked up and back worriedly. The doors were Magitectural, containing their own source of power- all one needed to do was say the simple command word. How far gone-

"Sit, boy." Don Estarón's voice was ragged and moth-eaten, rusty with underuse. He took another swig. "I said SIT!" Something dark flashed in the man's eyes. Before Caspar could comply (or perhaps, more realistically, say something in retort), he felt himself grabbed by an invisible force. His arms were bound to his side, and he was yanked forward to the edge of the mahogany writing desk. Estarón laughed bitterly. "What's the matter boy? Spell have your insolent tongue?"And, indeed, Caspar found that he could not talk. The binding spell father had cast- there on his desk, the iron manacle of the focus- was absolute, and Caspar had no counter magic. Father swaggered out from behind the desk, leaning heavily on a walking stick. "And here I thought you finally might have learned how to do a simple spell or two. Such as a child might do. No matter. Sit."

With that, Don Estarón backhanded Caspar hard across the face.

He dropped the spell at the same time, sending Caspar sprawling backwards into a waiting chair. His gangly frame was too light to dip the heavy oaken chair over; instead, he merely hit it as if it were a wall, slumping over in shock and pain. Had that just happened? Father had never crossed that line before. Father looked unperturbed. If anything, the sneer on his face seemed positively delighted. "What, no witty retort? No braindead comment? Finally realize that you're a noble, not a lush or jester? Good. I've spent the last fifteen years waiting for you to shut up, brat." He quickly said the spell again, locking Caspar in place

Father leaned back on the desk, twirling the walking stick idly. Caspar sat still, in stricken silence. Finally, the old man continued. "Now that you know your place, boy, you will explain yourself. How long have you been able to do magic?"

"I can't do magic, Father. You know this. You never let me forget it." Caspar kept his eyes downcast, trying unsuccessfully to avoid provoking this stranger in the flesh of his father. No such luck; this last experimental prod brought another blow. Father whipped his walking stick into Caspar's knee, hard. He gasped in pain.

"No, boy. You're done talking back to me. Done forever, I think. And you can do magic, you thrice-damned whelp, you anchor around our family's neck. I watched you do it."

"Father, I didn't!" Caspar pleaded. "The gun exploded. It must have backfired. I didn't say any incantations."

Father merely snorted. "Have you never seen a gun backfire before, boy? It doesn't set a room alight. And the fact that you didn't say any incantations- but no matter. How long have you been able to do that?"

Caspar had never seen a gun backfire before. He had never, in point of fact, held a gun before that moment. "Never before that day, Father. Please, what do you know? Are there other ways of doing magic?"

Don Estarón looked darkly at Caspar, but didn't respond violently, yet. "You know so little about this world, boy. So very little. I will grant you this one. Yes, of course. This world of ours- this magnificent, hateful, wonderous ball of water- contains so much more than is contained in your histories. You would know that, of course, if you even the slightest aptitude with Semiotic magic. Arcanes above wretch!" Estarón swept his hand madly across the desk, sending papers flying in a spray. "Even the vaguest hint! A drop! That's all you needed to show. It's our damned university, and I could have made sure you got in, got your certifications. But no, you had to be useless, had to be plague-ridden."

"But I have magic now, Father. I don't know what it is, but perhaps you could show-"

Another heavy blow with the cane, this time into the stomach. Caspar's sentence was cut off in a wheeze of pain. He gasped for air. Don Estarón laughed bitterly. "No. I will not be showing you anything, anymore. It's too late boy. Too late." Something wet ran down the man's face; tears? He wiped them away quickly, and took another long draught from the hip flask. Caspar looked furtively at the door. Nobody else in the House of the Open Book at this hour, not after he'd sent Maximilian home. He just needed to get through this conversation unscathed. Father was whispering something indistinct, muttering to himself. A phrase, slurred badly. Again. Again.

Click.

Aha. The door lock. Caspar's arm burned cold. Was this really happening? Surely, it was a bluff. "Too late, Father? Why?"

Don Estarón raised an eyebrow. "Why? Are you dense, boy. You've nearly killed our last marriage option in the city. You were ugly to begin with, but now you're permanently disfigured. And, to top it all off, you might explode at any moment, it would seem. No, your utility to this family is at an end. Educating you would be a waste of resources."

Caspar shrugged, painfully. "We've had the conversation before, Father. I'm the heir you have."

Crack. The cane slammed into Caspar's burned arm, triggering a yelp of pain. Don Estarón smirked. "You know, it really was quite the tragedy. How the young heir to the house of Estarón died in that explosion. Just when he seemed on the mend too..."

"But what about the succession? You'll leave the house with nobody!" Caspar felt the panic welling within him... and then, subside. Something else crept in. An old voice: if you're dying anyway, why give him the satisfaction?

"Yes, well, I think you'll find that this is hardly the first time a noble house has been in this situation. You really should have paid more attention to my lectures about noble politics, you useless, pathetic, magic-bereft fool. Families in this situation often have strokes of fortune. Long-lost distant relatives show up, that sort of thing. And as it happens, I've had a few successors in mind for quite some time. Yes, boy, I think I'll just do fine without you." Don Estarón casually backhanded Caspar for emphasis on each word. His head bounced to and fro from the blows.

So, this was to be it. Fine. Best to know, then. Caspar spat blood out, and asked the question that had haunted his sleep for nineteen long years: "Why keep me alive this long then? Why, if replacing me would be so easy and I was so useless?"

"Because I truly cared for your mother once, boy. And because you were an experiment. An experiment which has self-evidently failed. Chin up, Caspar! You were dying if this last match fell through, one way or another. Some... associates of mine would have ensured it. Your blundering merely made this easier." Don Estarón took another drink from the flask, draining it until nothing remained.

Caspar frantically searched his mind, looking for anything that could get him out of what appeared to be the end of his short tale. Body, bound. He could talk, but suspected that mouthing off wouldn't help at all-

"You coward!" Caspar coughed. "At least give me a chance to defend myself. Drop the spell, let me die like a man."

Don Estarón chuckled. "That wouldn't help you whelp. But no. I'm not taking such chances." He brandished his cane, and said a long portentious phrase. Nothing happened. He cursed, and tried again. Still nothing.

-No, that route wasn't going to work Caspar thought. That only left...

Magic?

Magic.

But he knew no magic. Or, at least, he didn't know how to do any. Besides, being bound meant that Semiotic magic didn't work- most every spell required some kind of hand gesture. And, while he now -apparently- knew that there were other kinds of magic, he didn't know how to use them. Across from him, Don Estarón finally cobbled the phrase together correctly. A small letter-opener on the desk warped, and the cane transformed into a magnificent golden sword. Bright light emanated from it, and fine rubies gleamed in the hilt and pommel. Father hefted it over his shoulder and prepared to strike. "Goodbye, boy. I shan't miss you."

What had that voice in the dream said? Do as thou willst?

Well, at the moment, Caspar wanted to be free. He focused on that want, tried to spark it into an inferno. A jolt of something ran down his arm- not quite hot nor cold, a pulse of energy. The air crackled, and a faint pop of displaced air sounded. Caspar felt weary and cold, all at once, as if he'd just walked several miles. But, on the other hand, he knew intuitively that he could move freely now.

With moments to spare, he lurched sideways, ducking the oncoming blow and spilling out onto the hearth of the fire. The sword cleaved through the chair, not with a harsh splintering of wood, but with a faint ringing sound. The chair fell cleanly into two equal halves, split like a ripe fruit. Don Estarón growled in fury. "So now you figure out how it works! Too little too late boy. I'm bigger than you, stronger than you, and know what the hell I'm doing." He raised a hand to cast another spell of binding, but cursed as the manacle crumbled to dust in his hands, the focus ground down by repeated casting. Caspar felt his joints momentarily seize up, but shrugged it off in time to scurry backwards. Another heavy blow fell, this time slashing a trench in the stone of the hearth. The blade barely seemed slowed by the rock.

"The door's locked, runt. Just die already!" Don Estarón fumbled in his pockets for another spell focus. Caspar took the split second to think. No, not think- react. Whatever this thing was that he could do, it needed fuel, like Semiotic magic. But it didn't care about focuses. It needed- energy? Heat?

As he thought the word, something echoed in his head, a faint peal of intuitive affirmation. He'd question where that came from later. Heat then.

On the topic, his father pulled a matchbook from his jacket pocket, and muttered a few words. On the second try, a jet of flame emerged from his outstretched hand, rocketing at Caspar. The bolt took him in the leg, punching a sizzling hole clean to the bone. Caspar roared in pain. Don Estarón merely laughed darkly. "That'll be the end of your running, boy. You always were a frail one."

Don Estarón walked slowly over towards Caspar's prone form, no hint of parental affection in those bloodshot, hateful eyes. Whatever else he was as a person, in that moment, he was everything Caspar had ever hated. The eternal oppressor, the sneering face of a lifetime of humiliation.

Caspar didn't wait for him to raise the sword, didn't wait for a final taunt. He knew what he wanted.

Caspar Estarón wanted his father dead.