Chapter 1: Error apparent

Caspar

“It’ll have to do,” Caspar’s father grumbled.

Whether the old man- the old margrave, to allow him his title- was referring to the suit, the fit, or the young man within it was left ambiguous.

The tailor coughed awkwardly behind them. “Are we going with this one then, sir?” The tailor made expectant eye contact with Caspar in the mirror.

The eyes they encountered were a study in pallor. Grey irises bled almost seamlessly into whites of the eyes, bled into a face almost without pigment. A messy mop of raven-dark hair sat atop the corpselike, rail-thin features. This man- teen, really- had an elegant suit draped awkwardly over his slight frame. The clothes- a fine, richly made black suit- looked tawdry on Caspar, hanging loosely and oddly.

Don Estarón scowled into the mirror. “Why are you asking the child? I already told you, it’ll have to do. We have places to be, cretin. Finish it.”

The tailor stammered out an apology. Caspar winced slightly. The menial was doing the best he could. Though, Caspar mulled, one would think he’d be used to men such as the Don- his father- by now. A shop such as this, in a city like Seren va Llynder- they were hardly the first nobility to grace these halls. And the riches of the nobility came with attendant costs.

Caspar watched in bemusement as the tailor finished scraping and bowing and stepped out of the dressing room to go get his supplies. “I rather liked the blue one, Father.” he tried cautiously.

The margrave snorted dismissively. “You would, boy. Blue is not a serious color. Not for a person of your rank.”

“But,” Caspar continued, “Don Benavente is said to be partial to blue.”

His father’s face purpled. “And what precisely are you implying, Caspar? You think that buying a suit based on a rumor you’ve heard will make this match more likely? You think that would make you more appealing? Arcanes protect us boy, you’re lucky I’ve found us another chance.”

Caspar debated pushing the point further. If he was safe to argue with his father anywhere, it was here- a public area, right before a major social engagement. But that wouldn’t forestall consequences forever.

His father’s face trickled back towards a normal shade.

Caspar couldn’t stand it.

“I’m sure it’s purely coincidental, of course, that this one is the cheapest on the rack?”

Don Estarón’s visage rocketed right back through purple, to an alarming shade of almost black. “How dare you child? After everything I’ve done for you, you would insult our house like that? Insult my taste? My matchmaking? Insolent, useless, spell-bereft whelp!” The marquis hefted his walking stick menacingly. “Apologize. Now.”

He should.

Caspar weighed about as much as the metal-tipped cane, he reckoned. His father had never turned to actual violence- but, well, he’d already pushed the brute as far as would be wise today.

“You’re right father, I apologize”. He forced contrition into his voice. Estarón grunted. “After all, we can’t afford to buy another suit if you scuff this one.”

With life-saving timing, it was then that the tailor returned. Caspar strongly suspected that the man had been hovering outside the opulent privacy curtain for some time- the family dramas of the powerful made for fine gossip. Or some such. The tailor held aloft a small golden needle and thread. “Please hold still, my lords.” the tailor murmured. The man- a fairly nondescript sort, by Caspar’s reckoning- intoned a few key words, made certain select gestures, and waved decisively with the needle.

There was a hiss of displaced air, and a faint puff of orange smoke. Caspar watched with delight as the suit’s bags and wrinkles tightened instantly, the ill-fitting suit rendered bespoke in the blink of an eye. While not perfectly attuned to Caspar’s spare frame, it was as close as reasonably could be asked. The needle and thread were consumed, of course, immolated to produce the effect. The tailor nodded, allowing himself a small smile of satisfaction.

Caspar’s father scowled in response. “Oh, would you wipe that look from your face? You look like a cur who's just performed a simple trick." He snorted. "And simple it is. Come, boy, we must pay and be on our way."

The two stepped into the main body of the shop, a well-to-do establishment catering to a very specific type of gentleman purchaser. Full-body mannequins displaying the latest in suitmaking innovations (Caspar presumed) rotated slowly, powered no doubt by some terribly complicated Magitectural device. He wandered around the shop while his father berated the shopkeep in hopes of lower prices, trying to act as if he didn’t know the man. There was little chance of that, in truth. To know of the one was to know of the other. Don Estarón’s diseased child, the end of the family line, the death of scholars- he’d heard them all. Caspar paused thoughtfully in front of one especially flamboyant suit. A handwritten sign bragged about the unique arcane merits of the fabric: woven enchantments kept the wearer at a perfect temperature, disguised odors, and self-cleaned.

“But why purple?” Caspar asked himself thoughtfully. He made a brief note in his journal.

His attempt at self-distraction was shattered by the clumping approach of his father. “It’s done, boy. They took credit after all. The nerve of that woman, attempting to throw our house honor into disrepute. She had the gall to insinuate that we wouldn’t be able to recompense her, as if our title and honors meant nothing.” His choleric features were at their usual frothing shade. “Not a word from you, boy- I know what your insolent tongue was contemplating. Now, on your feet- we must to the Benaventes’ post-haste”

Caspar seethed quietly as they exited. Father was getting better at seeing when he had left himself open to an embarrassing retort. This did not bode well. Yet, even still, he could not help but marvel quietly as they stepped onto the cobbled streets of Seren va Llynder.

. . .

Seren va Llynder was a magical place. That is not to imply whimsy, though certain parts could be whimsical enough. No, it was magical in the strictly literal sense- magic overflowed from every drain, window, and doorway. The streets had spells cast on them to reduce erosion, the street was lit by arcane lights, and even the vermin had acquired certain strange abilities over the centuries.

This is because Seren va Llynder was settled by wizards.

Wizards from another place altogether, a world apart, settled on this world. Caspar’s home city was where they had first crossed over.

As one might expect, over eight hundred years later, and a certain fundamental magical competency pervaded the city. Well-established schools were mostly to blame, backed by the recent advances of the printing press into spellbooks. While not everyone could become a wizard in the traditional, adept sense- hurling lightning bolts or conjuring pillars of flame- most everyone knew a simple spell or two. It was embarrassing to be truly spell-bereft- it betokened a lack of effort, or severe disability. This went doubly for the children of the nobility. Nobles, in a world run by wizards, were held to certain magical standards. The optics would be dreadfully embarrassing for the government, otherwise.

Caspar Phillipe, sole heir to the house of Estarón, could not do any magic.

. . .

And yet, whatever he was, the streets of Seren va Llynder were full of wonder. The sun, just past its zenith, reflected gleaming rays off the red-tile roofs. From here in the walled enclave of the upper city, Caspar could see the buildings spilling down the hill up to the edge of the water, their incandescent roofs forming a golden-red road. The air smelled of dust and the wandering crowds. The cream of Llynderite society milled about on the streets. Richly attired nobles and merchants went about their business, each with a calling card of some kind; wyvern-leather boots of tremendous speed, a purse that could contain far beyond its volume, a hulking Magitectural golem serving as bodyguard. This last was acting as a traffic guardian for a portly OIC merchant, plowing a path through those unfortunate enough to be inconvenient.

This was not to mention the offworlders, of course. While most dwelt in other districts of the city, a fair few browsed the Governor’s Third in these golden late-afternoon hours. Caspar noted a woman seemingly made out of tree-bark and vines haggling over the price of a copper urn with a creature composed entirely of whirling air currents. Mundane humanity was the majority in the city, but hardly the only population.

A loud boom of displaced air shook him to attention. He looked up in annoyance, muttering a curse at the departing air trail that was the calling card of a flying carpet operating at illicit speed.

“Reckless fool,” his father grumbled. “This is why I got rid of our rug, boy.”

Got rid of? Caspar thought. A polite way to say sell. A politer way still to say pawn. He tried to resist the bait.

“Of course Father.”

“We both know how reckless you get, whenever an idea gets into your fool head,” Don Estarón continued. “But then, you probably wouldn’t be able to activate it, anyway. They require a touch of magic, as I recall.”

Ah. So this was revenge for the tailor. Caspar bit his tongue for a moment as a troop of city guards ambled past. Then, he gritted his teeth and dove for the throat:

“I’m sure the disappearance of our heirloom rug had nothing to do with those muscle-bound mooks loitering outside at all hours. Tell me, Father, how have your card games been going lately? Well, I hope?”

Don Estarón feigned a chuckle as they passed some gentlemen of his acquaintance. “Keep speaking like you have any knowledge of the adult world, whelp. Were it not for your mother, I’d have left you to the tender mercies of the street years ago.”

Caspar’s blood ran to ice. “Leave mother out of this.” he snapped. “Don’t drag her memory through whatever… this is.” They crossed over a canal bridge into the Reserved Third. The houses were much closer to manors, here. Sweeping two-and-three-story townhouses, walled in white stucco, sprawling across an acre or more each. The heart of the city’s noble enclave. Almost to the Benavente residence, for better or for worse. Caspar was too incensed to feel queasy about the impending forced match.

“Besides,” he continued, “I’m the heir you’ve got. The only one. I don’t think you’d much care to see the Estarón line die with me in some back alley.”

Don Estarón nodded thoughtfully, tapping his cane along to the beat of a street musician. “Could be, boy. Or could be I’d sire another heir- I have time left.” He glanced sideways, meeting Caspar’s eyes. “We’re almost there. Do I need to remind you of your obligations?”

Caspar sighed theatrically. “Don’t embarrass you. Don’t embarrass the family. Flatter old Benavente. Try to learn the triplets from one another.”

“Good. One more thing. Tell me, Caspar, oh essential heir of mine, what is the difference between you and the tailor who adjusted your suit to meet your mawkish self?”

“Nobility, father. Yes, I remember.”

“No, that’s not quite it.” His father smirked cruelly beneath well-trimmed mustaches. “No, he was capable of performing magic and doing a job without embarrassing himself. Thus far in your nineteen years, you have shown proof of neither. Since the former is impossible, apparently, do try to prove me wrong about the latter.”

Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

. . .

Caspar seethed his way through the magnificent entrance to the Casa de Benavente. He hardly took in the high-vaulted ceiling, glowered past the magnificent balustraded stairwell, scowled past generations of collected fine art, and positively abhorred to consider the verdant expanse of the magnificently manicured back lawn. No, none of that was for him. His was to sulk.

The magic. It was always the magic. Nothing else would ever be good enough for Father.

It was hardly for lack of trying, he mused. Caspar Phillipe Estarón was, whatever else his faults and follies, a bright spark. He’d been able to get the incantations down to the syllable for any spell he’d tried. Even his emaciated frame could handle the sundry hand gestures and motions with foci. He had put the requisite attention in- had spent days at a time as a youth thinking solely about some spell or another. And yet, when he snapped his fingers and said those portentous words… nothing happened.

It had driven tutors to madness. No sparks, no catastrophic magic backfiring. They ranted and raved, cajoled and coerced, trying to find a reason for the default. And yet, each in turn ultimately left in defeat, forced to admit that they knew not what was wrong. Caspar wasn't inept; he was miraculously non-magical. An adept in the field. Were he not of noble birth, perhaps even a lab experiment for alchemists to study. 

A well-dressed elderly man in a magnificently bespoke suit (Caspar quietly seethed; the man was wearing bright blue) greeted the two Estaróns next to a marble fountain in brilliant white. Don Benavente, owner of the city's most prestigious music colleges, father of the three most eligible bachelorettes in the city. His quietly commanding tone was a dramatic contrast to Don Estarón's bluster.

"Ah, welcome friends. Don Estarón, it has been too long. Since the de Leon dinner last year, was it not? And Caspar! My but how you have grown! You will find my daughter Valentina in the shade of the tree over there- it's her favorite place in the city. Please, run along, don't let the idle chatter of two old men keep you! Be young, enjoy yourself. The servants are around, should you need anything." With that, seeming to presume compliance, Benavente turned fully towards Caspar's father and began talking with him in a low whisper. After a moment, both began walking inside, talking in hushed tones all the while. Neither looked back towards Caspar.

He shrugged laconically, hoping idly that some observing servant would notice how unbothered he was acting. It galled him, of course, to be relegated to play in the yard while the grown-ups no doubt discussed politics and other "matters of import" as Father would put it. Almost as much as the faint look of disgust Benavente had concealed when he first clasped eyes on him. Caspar looked around glumly, spying the dramatic bulk of a towering oak tree. The giant oak was easily as tall as the house- it must be over a hundred years old. He strolled across the lawn, whistling idly as he did. 

Suddenly, he yelped in shock as a sharp chill went through his foot. He looked down quickly, trying to determine the cause. Nothing seemed to be- there! A flicker of blue-white movement in the grass. Before his eyes, a spectral form rose out of the lawn. It was certainly the most strangely adorable specter he had ever seen. A 'Phantasmagorical Vole', as he recalled hearing once. It was a rodent in basic shape and size- bushy tail, big eyes, slightly rotund body. They also, perhaps more importantly, dug no burrows, ate no plants, and couldn't be harmed by random passers-by (or, indeed, through). A remarkable product of Federal arcane spellcraft: decorative vermin for the wealthy. Seren va Llynder, he considered, could be a bizarre city at times.

Regardless, he approached the mighty tree. The sight of Valentina Benavente- well, one of the Benavente triplets reading quietly on a bench under the mighty oak did not help abate his self-abuse. All three of them were well-formed in a way that he was not- of healthy weight and with fine tans instead of alarming pallor. All three trained in swordcraft and instrument while he was merely... himself. He sighed loudly.

The Benavente girl looked up from her book, a faint look of shock marring her regal features. Caspar smiled apologetically. "Beg pardon. My father and your father are conspiring together, and part of their scheme requires us to socialize. Valentina, I presume?"

She smiled faintly. "Why would you presume that? We have never met, to my knowledge- I could be anyone. What separates me from a servant, a guest, or even an intruder? Have you a portrait of Valentina?" She looked down at her book, and with a hint of irritation closed it delicately on a bookmark. "And, perhaps a better question, who are you to be asking?"

Caspar paused thoughtfully. "One might as well ask how I know whom anyone is that I have only secondhand knowledge of."

"How do you?" 

"Well, in this case I think we can dispense with lengthy philosophical inquiry; your father told me that Valentina Benavente was sitting under this tree. One would expect that to be a sufficient source to form knowledge on."

She sipped from a cup of water thoughtfully. "You should be grateful," she said slowly.

"And why is that?"

"Because it would seem that my father is the one to be embarrassed, not yourself." She giggled in a most un-ladylike way. "Isla Benavente, at your service. Now then, who are you?"

Caspar felt himself warming to the girl. "Fathers have a way of missing the  details of these things, don't they? I'm Caspar. Caspar Estarón. I was meant to meet your sister here, but it would appear that...?"

"It would appear that you're stuck with Isla. Sorry about that." She smiled shyly. "Valentina is... indisposed, at the moment. I'm covering for her. Father never really took the time to tell one from the other." 

This was quite the conundrum, Caspar reflected. Not that he had been thrilled at the idea of an arranged match, but his afternoon had been fairly clearly delineated. Father had imposed no script for such an eventuality. Of course he hadn't; the man could hardly plan his breakfast. He stood in place awkwardly as Isla returned to her reading. He coughed, politely. "So, I don't suppose you have a plan?"

She looked up with a faint hint of irritation. "I plan on sitting here and reading. I'm not trying to be difficult, and I'm sure you're a perfectly nice person, but think about our situation logically. Our father and yours want to arrange a match. I know we have no real say. Judging by the fact that you're standing here, I'm willing to hazard that you aren't able to say no either. Do I miss my guess?" She didn't seem to be needling; merely resigned.

Caspar sighed, letting his shoulders slump forwards. "No, you're right on target. Nothing against your sister, I'd just rather have some say in the matter." He kicked his feet. A Vole squeaked cheerfully as it phased through his leg. Then, a thought: "Well, but hold on! Valentina isn't here. Clearly defiance is possible, no?"

Isla pursed her lips. "Maybe. But, on the other hand, Valentina is more, um, rambunctious then either of us. Certain more so than the two other Benavente sisters, and with all due respect..."

"I'm aware that I'm not precisely a wall of muscle, no offense taken. How do you mean?"

"It really isn't my place to say. Leave it at this: if Father could tell us apart, she would have something of a reputation around town." Isla smiled wistfully. "She's a good sister. I hope you make her happy, but I think she'll be fine either way quite honestly. Now, if you don't mind, I think I'll get back to it." She picked up her book again. Caspar caught a glimpse of the spine: 452 Sunrises: Being a True and Accurate Accounting of the Western Voyages of Xenolith Skarn. 

"Not her best work, if I'm being honest" Caspar blurted, composure dropping.

Isla looked skeptically at him. "I appreciate the effort, but you don't need to make small talk. I'm quite capable of entertaining myself until our respective Fathers finish hashing out the terms of surrender."

"You don't think I've read Skarn?"

"Like I said, I don't know you. I'm sure you're lovely. But she's very dry, and doubly hard to lay hands on, so I think a certain degree of skepticism is warranted. Besides-"

"Her boat on that voyage was called the Entente. She was primarily exploring the region around what is today Foillet and Bella Inys, with some wildlife surveying on the side. She actually wasn't supposed to lead the expedition, initially- oh, that isn't in the text, it's in some of her later commentaries- but then-"

Isla raised an interposing hand. "It's okay, I believe you!" she laughed. Genuinely, no hint of sarcasm or irritation. 

It was lovely, Caspar thought.

She continued "So, you're more interested in what, the later voyages to the Devil's Grasp region? I disagree with you there, I think- her prose might have gotten better, but that's only part of the narrative of exploration. The challenges she faced on earlier journeys, before she had so many resources and trusted officers available..."

. . .

"Psst!"

Caspar barely heeded whoever was trying to summon him. "Yes, no I think we're in agreement regarding the later voyages of the sixth century. But in terms of historically important explorers, I think there's a reason McIntyre is now-"

"Psst! Isla, I know you can hear me!"

Isla grimaced. "Sorry, Caspar, just a second." She looked up, into the branches of the great oak. Caspar looked up as well, noting as he did the position of the sun. Which is to say, set. How many hours had they been talking? Regardless, Isla was now furiously whispering to a shaded figure standing amidst the mighty boughs of this massive tree. Fireflies flickering past only dramatically silhouetted whoever it was.

"-Back now? Really? Why not just stay out all night at this point and save me the trouble?"

"I would never leave you like that!" A pause. "Besides, Antonio sent me back. Apparently, I 'need to get patched up', but I'm fine honestly."

Isla shook her head. "Just get down here, and let's make the swap."

There was a faint snapping of twigs, and then the spitting image of Isla came crashing down, landing with catlike grace before tilting onto one knee with a wince. "Ribs. Ow." 

It wasn't quite accurate to say she looked exactly like Isla, Caspar realized. There was more tone to the muscles, and a fair few cuts and bruises over the exposed skin. She was dressed more practically, too, wearing tight-fitting, flexible pants and a red bolero jacket. A finely crafted rapier hung at her side. "Caspar, I assume?" She said, extending a hand to shake. 

He grasped it, looking uncertainly at Isla. "Indeed. I take it that this makes you... Gabriella, right?" 

He was pleased to watch her cool demeanor instantly drop. "Gabriella? You think I'm that- that- thief?" Her face was beet red now: "Of all the things! I come here, back out of kindness to our guest, and you confuse me with HER? How dare you!" Valentina's hand went to the hilt of her rapier. Isla put a gently restraining hand on her wrist. "What?" Valentina snapped. "Are you going to prevent me from my satisfaction now?"

Isla and Caspar looked at each other. She winked. Then, all of a sudden, the floodgates burst- both started laughing uncontrollably. Isla slumped forward, wheezing for air, as Caspar leaned against the tree for support. "You should see your face, sis!" Isla managed. "That was-" She doubled over again, unable to finish.

Caspar chimed in, "She told me how much that would annoy you, but I didn't-" he chuckled- "I didn't realize it would be so effective. I'm sorry. Heh. Valentina, yes, I knew it was you."

Valentina rolled her eyes, and moved her hand away from her sword. "Very funny, you two. Isla, glad to see you're telling everyone who passes by about the family gossip."

"Oh don't be like that," Isla retorted, "It was just some harmless fun. Look, I- he's a nice person. Besides, if Father is going to shackle you two together for the foreseeable future, shouldn't he know what he's getting into?" Seeing no response other than a scowl, Isla soldiered on: "Look, let's get you patched up then we can show him around the mansion.  Father is likely to be done soon, and," she dropped into a passable imitation of her father's voice, "I don't want him to start in on you about 'failing to show proper hospitality as befits one of your stature.'"

Valentina couldn't help but laugh at this. "Alright, alright you two. Fine. Consider your conspiracy forgiven." She winced. "Now, can you grab the medical components bag? I don't want word of this getting around." 

"Of course." Isla said quickly. "What happened to you anyway?"

"Duel. Few broken ribs, I think. Should have seen the other guy. Ow." Valentina grabbed her side. "Hurry, please." Isla darted off, clearly trying to conceal a look of concern. Valentina turned to Caspar. "Do I need to give you the whole speech?" she asked quietly.

"Which speech?" Caspar asked. "And, your ribs-"

"Not as bad as I led her to believe. Still... still probably cracked" she admitted. "But look: Isla is a wonderful sister, and a bright spark. I'm happy to see her making friends. And if you get her hurt in any way-"

"Ah, that speech. Let me stop you right there: I'm not interested in her like that, and even if I were, I think even your father would notice if he married off the wrong sister." Seeing her skeptical expression, he soldiered on: "Look, genuinely, it's not- it's just been nice to have someone to talk to. About books, I mean. I- there's not really anyone like that, in my household."

Valentina nodded. "I'll take you at your word, for now." She grimaced and clutched her side. "Thank goodness, she's back."

Isla hurried up with a small canvas bag. She pulled out from within it a small model of a bone- a tibia, Caspar thought- hewn out of a single piece of jade. "Do you want to, or shall I?" she asked Caspar, offhandedly. He froze, felt the frustration seeping up into a blush. Of course she would assume he could cast the spell. The teachings were very clear: magic simply *worked*; belief or inner strength were irrelevant. That was the whole point of Magic- of the systemic study of the Arcane. A healing spell like this, provided the necessary components were present, wasn't even a matter of particular skill.

He forced the rising sense of inadequacy back down and simply nodded. "Why don't you do it, you're her sister." he managed. Isla shrugged, and said the words of the incantation. The jade bone cracked visibly, but was not consumed as the needle had been. Either the break wasn't that severe, or the jade was remarkably pure. Either way, the focus retained some power- for the best, Caspar decided, since even for one of the wealthiest families in the city, it couldn't be cheap. He watched with curiosity as Valentina's face grew less pained over the course of the next minute, and her breathing seemed to become less labored. He had seen this spell cast before- quite often, in fact. Caspar's frail form broke with little provocation, even more so when he was younger. He had always been the subject, however, and it was fascinating to watch bones mend in real time from the outside.

Valentina stood upright, stretching cautiously. "Alright. Alright! Nicely done, sis. Let's give him that tour, before Father summons us."

It was ultimately only an hour or so before a servant came bearing the news. Like an order of execution, the butler grimly requested their presence in the dining room. But, before that, what an hour it was! Caspar saw the wonders of Seren va Llynder at their highest ebb. A three-story library, full of spell-tomes and great works of history and exploration  (he had to be dragged away from the shelves). Magical, self-tuning and playing instruments. Enchanted suits of armor, who would animate and defend the castle if needed. Even the most mundane things in the mansion were opulent and enchanted; self-fluffing pillows, plates that kept food on them warm, lamps that never ran out of oil. He could not help but feel quietly satisfied at the state of things, as they returned downstairs to dynastic politics and marriage deals. Perhaps he would be forced into a marriage, if he couldn't compel his father to see reason. Yet, the beauties of this life- the mighty oak, the luxurious furniture, the multifarious magical conveniences- were not to be denied. Not to mention getting to see Isla again.

It could be a good life, he decided.