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CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Many Threads Weaving Together

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By the time Bram finished his work—the managing of a kingdom that seemed on the verge of another financial crisis brought about by the sudden shortage of trade from its northern region among other recent chaotic events related to Rhyneland—it almost seemed like yesterday’s visit with the bandit twins had been nothing more than a fleeting reprieve from the impending storm.

Bram looked up from his desk and sighed. “Is war our only option…?”

“They did try to kill you…again.” Rowan lounged on her couch by the fireplace, inspecting the crystal tablet she held up to her eye level. “Though this latest venture was a sloppy attempt.”

“That might be your fault… I think Lotharin’s run out of White Rose to call on.”

Bram chuckled, though it was quickly stifled by his sour mood.

“We’re not sure they were northern spies either…I knew one of them. Maybe two.”

The leering face of the guard he’d had flogged flashed in his mind’s eye, causing Bram’s frown to deepen.

“Didn’t they meet their ends the same way as Baron Archibald?”

“They did.”

“Then there’s your connection.”

Bram couldn’t refute Rowan’s words. He thought the same.

“‘Tis more impressive that they managed to find you — disrupt the spell I helped improve — despite the precautions we set in place…”

“Do you know how?”

“No — that’s why I’m impressed.”

Bram’s gaze returned to the unfurled scroll on his desk.

“Ser Anthony’s investigation of the corpses that didn’t go ‘boom’ had some interesting conclusions…”

Of the eight assailants who’d ambushed Bram and Ravi, the four the vice master slew with magic didn’t end up exploding. Ravi theorized that burning their flesh had kept their curse from activating, and Ser Anthony’s report agreed with this theory.

“Fire has ever been a tool for cleansing curses,” Rowan said.

As for their identities, their faces, which Ravi had been clever enough not to burn, helped to identify them as Vicomte Henry’s soldiers who’d been among his guard when he arrived at Bastille months ago. According to Ser Anthony’s report, these men were part of a group of northern spies who’d been captured in recent weeks, many of them caught within the boundaries of Reise’s borders. Ser Anthony concluded that their shoddy attempt to attack Bram might have been the last desperate effort made by the group’s remnants.

“Even without their master, Vicomte Henry’s dogs continue to hound us… They show him such loyalty, and yet the way they died…” Bram was used to making light of even harsh things, but he couldn’t bring himself to joke about this. “What sort of wicked mind would curse his own subordinates with a ‘Corpse Explosion’ curse.”

“Chris claims such men exist on Earth as well,” Rowan revealed. “Suicide bombers, he called them…the weapon of zealots.”

The prince’s brow creased at hearing the z-word.

“You could always try to appease the northern nobles first,” Rowan suggested.

“They have no demands to appease that I know of except the one I cannot do…” Bram leaned back against his chair in a kind of surrender. “No child of the Sovereign is allowed to step down from their duty. To do so would mean my death and the death of those—”

One of his eyebrows twitched up.

“Where did you get those…?”

Rowan wore new spectacles he knew she didn’t need. They were a slim wrought-iron frame in the new butterfly design of the other world that she and Bridget had discussed a few weeks ago.

“I found a shop of curiosities that offered discounted commissions for peculiar designs they might turn into future products.”

“You went shopping without me…?”

“You’ve been holed up here for days, and the only free time you had, you chose to spend with others…”

The knowing look Rowan gave him caused Bram’s spine to tingle, though he was quick to tamp down on the shiver that was a physical manifestation of his conscience. In truth, Bram had no cause to feel shame about his recent dalliance with the comely Josslyn. He and Rowan weren’t in that sort of relationship. They were partners. Just. At least that’s how Bram justified it.

For an unknown reason—at least to Bram—his own self-justification annoyed him.

“As I was saying,” Rowan continued as if she hadn’t just unsettled the mood between them, “Bridget wanted new clothes for her job advancement quest, so I went with her before she left for Walc.”

“Right.”

Of the two quests the Loom’s lead narrative designer had been given, one required Bridget to spend time learning from the weargs of the Flametail Tribe.

JOB PROMOTION QUEST: The Path of a Hunter! QUEST DETAILS: Spend one cycle of the twin moons living in the village of [Walc] and follow in the footsteps of the [Flametail Tribe] to learn the ways of a true hunter! Succeeding in tasks given by tribe members will count in your favor. Failing in tasks will lengthen the duration of the quest. QUEST REWARDS: [Title: Flametail Blood Sister], [Increased Fame with the village of Walc], [2nd Tier Job Promotion: Hunter], [3rd Tier Job Promotions: Totem Warrior and Forest Warden will become available for later promotions]

Bridget wouldn’t just be trailblazing the path for herself either. If she was successful, the Loom would make the hunter job available for other users as well, though aspirants would also need to undergo the same quest to be promoted.

“Wait a moment,” Bram frowned. “Why did she buy new clothes?”

He recalled the hundreds of scantily clad warriors and non-warriors alike who’d cheered for him while he shook the hand of their leader, a giant of a man who’d been naked during their last meeting on the deck of Bram’s new skyship.

“She should wear fewer clothes if she wants to fit in with them. They barely wear anything,” Bram argued.

“I believe that’s the intent of the safari clothing she had made,” Rowan giggled. “Fortunately, the shop that made my spectacles was willing to work on Bridget’s risqué designs.”

A thought occurred to Bram; one he didn’t want to voice out loud but couldn’t help from doing. “Did you…want to go with her?”

To his great relief, Rowan shook her head.

“I’ve had my fill of old ruins and dark forests… Besides, I prefer men who only take their clothes off for me in the comfort of privacy.”

“Oh.”

“…And only for me.”

“Ah…”

“And that’s all I’ll say about it.”

Bram couldn’t help but cast a furtive glance at Rowan. To his relief, she didn’t look at him with accusation, but with a playful smile that had changed with just the addition of spectacles. The beautiful warrior was now the attractive scholar the prince often hoped he’d stumble upon during his many visits to the Great Library or the Grand Archive of the Imperium’s capital.

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Never take them off, was what he wanted to say, but instead, he said, “You don’t need those specs, do you?”

“I don’t,” she agreed, “but one’s presentation is the first step to succeeding in business. Or so Chris tells me.”

“I see.” Bram didn’t think that’s what Chris meant by ‘presentation’ but decided not to point this out. “So, the specs…and the new clothes, they’re for business?”

Rowan tucked her crystal tablet between her arm and bosom and then got up so she could walk toward Bram’s desk.

“As I am now the Executive Producer of what will soon become the greatest gaming studio in two worlds, I thought I should at least look the part.”

She twirled around for him in a playful way, giving Bram a good look at the new teal gambeson and long bronze skirt Ser Anthony had commissioned for her knighting ceremony later in the day. Her hair was done differently this time too. No longer a messy bun atop her head but a single neat red braid reaching down to the small of her back.

“You’re drooling again,” Rowan said once her twirl was done. “I take it you’re enjoying the view?”

“I, um…” Bram cleared his throat. “…I see you’re prepared for the ceremony…”

“I am,” Rowan answered confidently. “‘Tis a moment that marks the beginning of our ruse turning into reality, heralding the start of our great undertaking — The Feast of Travelers.”

The Feast of Travelers…this was the title they’d given the day when the great trick would finally be revealed to the other world in its first stage, a period that Hajime called ‘Alpha Testing.’ On this day, a hundred otherworlders—the so-called ‘Alpha Testers’—would arrive on Aarde while thinking they were playing the most immersive virtual game ever created. Meanwhile, the Loom’s development team would observe these ‘Alphas’ as they explored Central Lotharin and interacted with its people. The data they would collect from these alphas should help the dev team tweak the Loom’s inner workings, fixing its bugs as if it were a real game to ensure the next batch of players would have a much better experience…with hopefully far fewer deaths than the team’s predictions for their testers.

To help promote this day to the otherworlders, Bram had given Bridget a quest of the utmost importance using the Loom’s [Quest] feature, a tool that allowed users with administrator access to assign quests to other users.

URGENT QUEST: The Loom of Ill Fates Announcement Trailer! QUEST DETAILS: Take a tour of central Lotharin while capturing moments of life on Aarde with the Loom’s experimental recording tool [Loomtube] and then splice these moments together for the game’s first announcement trailer. A maximum of [150] seconds is needed to complete the trailer. Rewards may vary depending on the trailer’s reception and audience metrics.] QUEST REWARDS: Pending...

“Have you finished with your work?” Rowan asked, drawing Bram out of his musings. “I want to do more shopping before Ser Anthony calls us into the Oaken Hall.”

Bram glanced down at his table. “Just one last thing…”

Two letters were lying on a silver plate that was the last of the documents he’d finished perusing.

The first was a letter of gratitude from the Lord of Bellen, Baroness Lena of House Leyen. In it, she wrote that she’d discovered that the prince had been responsible for making the Red Forest reasonably safe once more, helping to breathe new life into Bellen’s economy which had become stagnant without the resources of the woodland realm. Her letter also explained that Baroness Lena had begun trade negotiations with the weargs of the Flametail Tribe after Bram, upon his return to Bastille several weeks ago, had declared the tribe his vassals while officially acknowledging their claims on the western edge of the forest where their village was located.

With this act of legitimization, you’ve proven yourself a savvier governor than rumors suggested. Finding new allies that can help you secure Central Lotharin’s northern border without mobilizing your forces directly against the disgruntled lords of Rhyneland… It may not be a popular move among our fellow nobles, but at least here in Bellen, the common people have begun to speak well of you, the governor who gave them back their livelihood.

Of course, Baroness Lena hinted that allying himself with halfbreeds wouldn’t endear Bram to the nobility of Central Lotharin. For they, like the rest of the Imperium’s nobles, were prejudiced against those with ‘tainted blood’ and would sooner see these weargs in chains than invite them to a ball.

I, for one, do not care whether they bleed red, white, or blue so long as they’re willing to negotiate in good faith… I confess that I’m rather looking forward to meeting this wearg leader who I’ve been told is taller even than our courageous governor.

Baroness Lena wrote many other things, like how she’d ultimately refused support from Rhyneland’s nobles when the offer came, how the celebrated vineyards of Bastille shire were nearing their season of harvest, and how her eldest daughter was now of marrying age. Of all these concerns, the one that caught Bram’s interest most was written at the end of her letter.

I shall be visiting you in Bastille once negotiations in the Red Forest are completed. I hope you will welcome me into your city and your confidence readily for there is much Bellen and Bastille can do if we stand together.

The second letter wasn’t so wordy as the first though the gist of it had been the same.

A governor without a council to support him is one who will not be governor for long. A single set of eyes cannot observe the whole forest — but with many gazes trained in other directions, the narrow path widens, allowing one to avoid the pitfalls of ruin and madness.

Signed, Margrave Albert of House Lothaire.

His father’s eldest brother, and the previous Governor of Lotharin who held the seat until Atlan’s seventh prince came of age was more direct in his reminder that it was long past the moment that Bram brought others into his confidence…and the high noble with the greatest influence in southern Lotharin wasn’t wrong.

It’s been more than a month since Bram became Governor of the Forest Kingdom of Lotharin and yet the seats of its Verdant Council remained vacant. Apart from Ser Anthony who was the shire’s and the kingdom’s Seneschal, the high positions of Chancellor, Steward, Marshal, Spymaster, and Admiral were yet to be filled. Even the lesser posts of Chief Herald, Master of Ceremonies, and Captain of the Guard remained vacant since Bram fired the last guard captain, which he’d done because of the incident with his former coachman.

“Rowan, instead of becoming my knight, wouldn’t you rather be my spymaster?”

“Though I enjoy dealing in trickery, to have to manage the intrigue of an entire kingdom sounds exhausting… My role in the great undertaking is tiring enough. No, better you find someone more suited to the task, My Prince.”

“I figured…thought I’d ask anyway.”

Bram was by no means a lazy governor, but he did believe that such important positions needed to be filled by people he could trust—perhaps even those who would be privy to the secret of the great undertaking—and he simply didn’t trust anyone outside of his small circle.

Once again, his gaze turned to the letters on his desk.

“Not today…”

He resolved to wait a little longer until those people he could trust began to appear. Perhaps he would even look for them himself.

“I’m done with work!” Bram rose from his seat while feeling that his shoulders seemed less burdened now. “So, shall we go buy a book?”

To buy a book didn’t sound like the most interesting of propositions to a young woman, but in a world like Aarde, it would depend on the book. Indeed, by the time Bram and Rowan arrived outside the doors of his bastion’s Oaken Hall, a thin tome with softly glowing sigilry on its pale blue cover was securely fastened to his belt.

Bram was looking down at his latest item with a wide grin. It had cost him a thousand gold griffins to acquire, the equivalent of a hundred thousand US Dollars by the current conversion rate. This price seemed excessive, certainly, especially since a thousand gold griffins were more than enough to afford a house in Bastille’s Midtown. However, in Bram’s opinion, a ‘Dimensional Diary’ that could hold a hundred pounds in each of its fifty pages was a good long-term investment.

“The Satchel of Storing offered at Master Kalden’s Kaleidoscope of Kuriosities could hold just as much and only cost us half the price of that fancy diary of yours,” Rowan commented.

“I’m not sure I fully trust the claims of this Master Kalden… he can’t even spell ‘curiosities’ right,” Bram pointed out.

“I believe it was meant to be humorous,” Rowan answered. “Trust or not, you still bought the more expensive item from him.”

“If a prince of the Imperium showed up to court with a simple adventurer’s satchel, I’d be laughed out of the Oaken Hall.” As he said this, Bram glanced sideways. “Besides, I’m not the only one who enjoys buying expensive things.”

Apart from her knightly garments, a new cloak was draped over Rowan’s shoulder. It had a hood, fit her perfectly, and was fastened around her neck by an expensive-looking, leaf-shaped emerald brooch.

“I’ll say this for this Master Kalden, his Camouflage enchantment is as good as advertised,” Bram relented.

The cloak’s color was hard to define, emerald when Bram had bought it for Rowan in the afternoon, pale grey while she walked the streets during twilight, and a dark silver now that night had fallen.

“It suits you.”

“I agree.”

Rowan flashed Bram a smile that wilted quickly after she noticed his hand.

“Is it hurting again?”

“What…?”

Bram glanced down.

Only then did the prince realize that he was absentmindedly scratching the dark lightning-bolt-shaped scar on his left hand with his right hand’s fingers. He had scratched it enough that his sun-kissed skin had reddened considerably.

“It’s nothing…” Bram’s hands dropped to the sides. “It just got cold again.”

In truth, Bram did feel a slight throbbing in his hand that usually occurred in the hours leading up to midnight. He didn’t tell Rowan this because there was nothing that she could do to help him. No one could.

He admitted to her that he had his scar checked yesterday when he’d visited Reise to survey its construction, but even the expert ‘Curse Breakers’ at the sun god’s temple offered no relief. They assured the prince that they found no hint of a curse on his strange scar. Yet despite their claims, none of their healing arts could get rid of this blemish on his hand. Perhaps they hadn’t tried hard enough because Bram had been in disguise. If he’d shown up as the governor, they might have attempted more expensive means to rid him of his curse. He wasn’t sure.

“Of course, those charlatans couldn’t help you,” Rowan fumed. “How could they, when their divine powers couldn’t even undo the ‘Curse of Erosion’ that I placed on their front lawn?”

Fortunately, Bram was rescued from Rowan’s ire by the heavy groaning of the thick wooden doors that were now opening to admit them into the Oaken Hall.

Beyond it was a darkened space sparsely lit by the large stone braziers set at intervals on either side of an emerald carpet that stretched out from the hall’s entrance to where a great yew tree stood at the other end. Despite its low lighting, Bram and Rowan could see the crowd of gathered nobles and officials who had come to celebrate the auspicious event of Lady Rowan Wolfe’s knighting ceremony.

“Your Highness,” said the guard standing on one side of the open entryway. “They’re ready for you.”

Bram glanced sideways at Rowan. “Last chance to turn back.”

And miss another opportunity to pull the wool over everyone’s eyes?” She linked her arm around his. “Never.”

Together, the prince and his trickster walked into the hall, and all gazes turned their way.