The pub smelled heavily of liquor. Without having been to many of them himself, Marco could not say if it was the most renowned in Gallenport. Ale flowed by the tankards, the smell of roast goat wafted from the kitchen. A stocky serving girl struggled to quell an ongoing banter between inebriated men over a chess match. Marco felt the need to step in, as a noble who ought to keep peace in the kingdom. But he refrained himself, pulled the cloak over his face more tightly and searched above the raucous crowd.

Where could you be? You must have already felt that I'm nearby.

In a circle of bald and gray old men, he recognized the familiar frame — stout hunched shoulders, a bald patch on the top of his head circled by a smattering of withered silver hair. Will you keep ignoring me?

Marco stopped a serving lady. "A flagon of ale. Now." He flashed her a silver coin.

Carrying the ale with him, he set the flagon on the table right under the old man's nose. "Can I trade for a bit of your time?"

He glared at him with the deep-set eyes of an old bear, chugging the drink in his hand in one draft before he addressed the others around them, "Sorry folks, this young noble must take a liking for old men like me. See, I haven't lost my charm, eh?" He snickered with the few yellowed teeth he had left.

"Will you stop that, professor," Marco muttered under his breath, "They might take me for an infidel."

"Ho-oh-oh," the man he called professor reeled back, acting disgusted, "Hold your breeches, young man." He reached for the flagon offered to him; but Marco's hands were quicker, pulling the drink away, spilling some.

Marco threatened with cold eyes, "Shall I reveal your name?"

The old man realized the moment for japes was over. "Such a mood-killer. Let's talk outside. Give it to me."

Marco moved the ale out of the old man's reach, not until he obtained what he came for. "You were too difficult to find, you are aware I spent half a day just seeking. Now look, it's an hour past sunset."

"You should've understood by then that I didn't want to be found, you numbskull! For all your talent, you're dull and overbearing. I was having a great time. I was enjoying the last seven days before Demach opens, before entitled nobles such as you make hell out of my life," the professor gruntled. "Those fogeys there were bragging to me about how many wives they've got. Heh, their tongues were unbridled especially under the poison of liquor. You could never coax the crones in Demach to spill liberties like that, you know. Who would even brag about wars they didn't even fight in? Or ridicule the nobles, even the crown? You would never guess how many flaws I found about the king's family."

Marco craned his head back in distaste, "Pish! Professor Mallory, no one will regard you with respect if they find out about your weird habits. Which noble would marry you then? You can drop the disguise now. We're well away from your pack of dotards."

The professor looked around in the dark alley before enveloping his hunched figure with dim holy light. A quiet and slow transformation began. His hair cascaded healthily down the back, the silver repainted in coal. His plaque-covered teeth turned clean white, the empty spaces filled in until not one tooth was missing. His ragged smock was washed away with light, revealing a neat purple dress that hugged a bountiful bosom and a swimmer's waist.

The professor had turned into a lady, utterly unrecognizable with not a trace of the irritable old codger from the pub to be seen. Although the geezer's attitude might have remained. Professor Mallory's talent was disguise. She could change her face, not her disposition.

"Ahh," she sighed with a breath ripe with spirits, like a butterfly coming out of a cocoon. "So, cut to the chase, my delightful un-troublesome student who so diligently visits his professor out of academy period. Surely, you did not come to scour the streets of Gallenport just to vex me."

Marco could not help but furrow his brows at the undue sarcasm. He was starting to believe that she was truly angered this time. He handed her the ale. "I'm very sorry, Professor, but Lumen Veritatis failed to return an answer for one instance."

He remembered Lucas's crestfallen figure, and the words that he said denying his hand in Father Pietro's demise. It would have cast off all suspicions, if only the Light of Truth had returned a verdict.

"For just once, your holy power fails you for just once, then you come to seek me? Isn't that too petty?" Despite her aggravation, she grabbed the flagon and took a swig.

"It's important to me. It was a question that could've endangered our bond. I risked it, for nothing."

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

"And of course, it couldn't wait until the next week. You sure make use of the Light of Truth so wantonly like matches in a box you burn for fun. It exacts such a heavy toll on one's holy reserve. God, I could only probably use it twice a day before I run dry. But you have such a huge reservoir, so I understand. Then, just recite to me the requisites for Lumen Veritatis." She took a gulp of ale.

Marco straightened his back, taking a deep breath. He felt like one of her students again. "One, I must stand impartial. I must expect neither the good nor bad, the evil nor holy, the right nor wrong. Await only for the truth. Two, if a question is asked, the question must be asked without intention to harm, only to know. And three, I must recognize that the truth has many forms: one shard of truth — a thousand facets. Lumen Veritatis affirms the existence of truth, not the meaning of it." The scholarly side of him feared he had failed to explain clearly.

"Hmm, certainly among the best in the class," she praised him, taking a draft. "Do you think you failed on any of them? Ruminate on that now and give me an answer before this drink is finished. Remember that's the trade you made. My time for this flagon of ale." She began drinking with renewed haste.

Marco had asked himself often if his bias ever affected the verdict of Lumen Veritatis. There is no such absolute truth, even when unveiled through the eyes of god. One person's truth might still be different from another, because of the prejudices and cultures that had shaped them. Even so, the Light of Truth should have given an answer.

Marco had never hoped for the good or bad. Right nor wrong never played into the intention of the question. Marco was ready to accept any answer, even if it would be difficult to deal with. He never meant harm towards him by asking the question. Even if Lucas felt offended, it was Marco's perspective that mattered. He was the one asking after all. And the third requisite, Marco understood it perfectly. Even the truth could be twisted.

"I satisfied all three, Professor Mallory. The Light of Truth should have succeeded then."

"Then there are only two possibilities left," she said, wiping the froth off her lips. The flagon was empty. "The speaker must have higher power that rendered Lumen Veritatis useless. Or... you were asking the wrong question."

* * * * *

Whenever Marco came to Gallenport, he was treated as a guest of the King. They usually prepared a room for him in Michael's Cradle — a tower that stood lower than the Keep and served as quarters for their visitors. He usually stayed there until Demach opened. After which, he would be staying in a large suite in the Academy dormitory.

In order not to offend the Araias, Marco still accepted the offer to stay in Michael's Cradle. But it was not in his power to bring in a disowned Vermilon inside the King's holy walls. The repercussions were too unpredictable for him to risk it. Thus, despite Lucas's grumblings, he had no choice but to live in a flat in the city. Marco chose a bigger one for him, in the row of houses neighboring Araia's walls.

He should be home by now. The Test must have been mind-taxing. Marco planned to treat his brother to steak. He had been showing him around, taking him to the Church and the Peony Garden, to the heater and the Royal Menagerie.

After meeting with Professor Mallory, he headed straight for Lucas's apartment. Felix greeted him at the door, in a simple tunic over mail. Marco assigned him and Dunce to the task of looking after his brother, even when their reluctance was plain to see. "My lord, how fares your day?"

"Not too bad. Is my brother back?"

Felix looked worried. "He returned from the Academy with blood on his clothes."

His or someone else's? Marco thought to himself. "Where is he?" He looked around the empty living room that had yet to get a taste of furnishings.

"In his room. He's been there for five hours, my lord."

"And you didn't even bother to ask if he was well?" They do not talk to him even now.

"My apologies, I have been lacking in my task."

Marco knocked several times with no answer before undoing the lock by himself. "Lucas," he called softly as he pushed the door ajar. He found him not on his feather bed but by the foot of it, curled up like a centipede on the floor. Shirtless, he slept cuddling his trusty gas lamp to his heart, his breathing steady and peaceful. Torn pieces of his old clothes were wrapped around his neck and shoulder, as well as his right hand. Blood seeped through them, dyeing them red. The stained doublet and tunic were neatly hung by the window.

You did not want to stain your mattress, so you slept on the floor? He was wounded. He should not be thinking about dirtying his bed. Marco intended to wake him, to tell him that it was alright to stain the sheets. That the chambermaids would be paid to wash it.

He tapped on his uninjured shoulder. "Lucas, wake up. You have your bed, why sleep on the floor. It's cold. You haven't even put on a shirt."

Lucas groggily opened his eyes. They were the color of a blue ocean, a stormless one. He sat up and murmured, "I fumbled the test."

"It's alright." The test was the least of Marco's worries right now. "Let's get this wound sorted. How did you even get injured like this?"

"I joined a friend in the Hedge Field. She wanted me to watch her. She's very talented, though not more than you."

A friend? A she-friend?

"The instructor brought in a cursed tumbleweed for the test. It was so strong, but I managed to take one vine off," he said proudly, raising his bandaged hand, "I don't know if it's enough to impress him though."

"You don't need to impress him. So long as you've given it your all. That's enough for me."

Lucas seemed to brighten. "But, why did you come?"

"I wanted to treat you to steak, but your recovery takes precedence," Marco replied, and called the Vermilon soldier in. "Felix, you said you have some skills related to healing."

"Indeed, my lord," the soldier who had been eavesdropping by the door stepped out.

"I don't need it," Lucas declined.

"He can help you. It must be painful, so at least let him try, Lucas," Marco persuaded him, confused why he would refuse treatment.

"I'll be fine," he insisted, suddenly upset.

Is he afraid of Felix's holy power? Marco asked, "Lucas, he won't harm you. Why are you declining Felix's support? If you don't want Felix, I'll call in somebody. I don't want you to suffer."

Lucas raked his golden hair with his uninjured hand. "I want to be alone," he whimpered.

A lie. The Light of Truth told Marco.