Book Three - Chapter Twenty-Four (Patreon)

“Quit fidgeting,” Alarion said.

“I am t-trying,” Bergman muttered irritably.

The young Ashadi clenched his hand into a fist, but the act didn’t alleviate the problem so much as transfer it. A few seconds later Ivor shifted from one foot to the other, then back again. When that didn’t help, he squared his shoulders, drew a breath—and started rubbing his thumb and forefinger together all over again.

“Ivor.” This time it was Lily who rebuked him, her voice softer—and considerably more gentle. “It is just a meeting. It will be fine.”

“I k-know.”

“A meeting with your—” Nessa started to tease, before Anastacia pointedly cleared her throat and they all went silent.

It was hard to blame Bergman for being nervous—they all were.

The march to Ilvan-Syed had been an easy one over well-worn roads, but there was no denying the electric energy running up and down the ranks. There were more fights than usual, petty squabbles over food or duties that escalated into shouting and shoving. Kali had put these down with his usual vigor, but a lighter touch. They all understood what they were walking into.

Yet Bergman had it worse than most. While he’d been offered a position as Sergeant when Alarion had taken control of the 238th, Bergman had declined. He was a good organizer and a talented strategist, but he was no leader—no figurehead. Ivor was uncomfortable having a light shone on him, preferring to live in others’ shadows whenever possible.

Williams was having none of that.

Given the politics involved, this year’s Blue Ex was high profile, which meant Williams had greeted them at Ilvan-Syed with bells on. His staff had arranged lodgings, organized meetings and, above all, photo ops. The 238th were to be seen as much as possible before the event kicked off, with Williams right alongside them.

As a recognizable hero of both Carling Hill and Ikeda, Bergman was expected at every event.

The full command staff stood in a line, a few steps behind Williams and Anastacia. Alarion, Kali, Lily, Archer and Witch, with Bergman joining them as a newly elevated Sergeant, replacing the recently discharged Dimov. Bergman had tried to refuse, but where Alarion had accommodated his friend, Williams had pushed the issue.

Yet it wasn’t the thousands who’d come out to watch, nor the imposing ironclad and disembarking Vitrian Regulars that had Ivor so on edge. It was the slim, dark-haired woman waving to them from the ship’s railing.

Ellaphane Hart. Not quite Bergman’s mother-in-law, but close enough that Alarion still felt a pang of sympathy for his friend.

The disembarkation of the Vitrian ironclad, The Spark Became a Beacon, was an arduous process made worse by the ceremony. Trumpets blared and drums beat deep into Alarion’s core as the honor guard disembarked, followed by the battalion standard, their own marching band, and on and on…

Alarion had long been of two minds about his Awakening. The power he possessed made him a target. It had cost lives, many of whom he valued. Some of whom he’d even loved. But it had also saved so many by giving him strength to do the things he’d done. It had kept him alive at the worst moments of his life and given him some measure of control over his own fate. Yet the power was always two-faced, the cosmic embodiment of Vitrian Ambition and Obligation.

Without his Awakening, Alarion would have died of heat stroke during the procession. But if he weren’t Awakened, perhaps they wouldn’t have made him stand under the blazing summer sun for nearly three Mother-forsaken hours.

Thankfully, it was almost over.

The 86th Vitrian Regulars had taken their place on the cleared-out marketplace, opposite the 238th, 39th, 92nd and 112th Ashadi Auxilia, presenting a clear contrast. The Vitrians were, for the most part, older and larger than the Auxilia, in crisp blue-and-gold dress uniforms that gave them a prim, professional air their ramshackle counterparts lacked.

They looked like a real army, because they were. These were not a smattering of barely trained conscripts—they were the sword arm of the Vitrian state. Paid, professional veterans who’d chosen a life of violence—and were very, very good at it.

“Step Out!” cried one of the Regulars.

The chorus of affirmation and the stamp of booted heels was louder than the music had been. It struck at something primal within Alarion, the same fear that picked at him when he heard an animal growl. It gave him a new appreciation for the pomp and ceremony of military drills.

He didn’t care about their traditions, but intimidation had value.

The 86th’s Color Sergeant stepped out from among his fellows and crossed a quarter of the field before pivoting on his heel to face one of the ironclad’s ramps, the heavy battalion standard held in an outstretched, unshaking arm as two more soldiers disembarked.

The first was a short, plain woman, remarkable only for how out of place she was among her Vitrian peers. Her uniform was crinkled and ill-fitting, her head bowed, and her shoulders slouched as if she wanted to be there even less than Bergman. She was wiry, more sinew than substance, and shockingly old for her profession. At least fifty, if Alarion had to guess.

Behind her walked the Vitrian Empire.

Alarion could think of no better way to describe the tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired Vitrian. Regal in appearance, imperial in posture, the man was the walking image of everything the Empire wished to project—strength, poise, dignity, the simple idea that Vitrians are better than you.

Clean-cut and well-dressed—and wearing a distressingly familiar House sigil—the officer had clearly been looking forward to the event every bit as much as Williams. He paused a few times on his descent, waving to the crowd on one occasion, smiling for the clatter of photographs on another. The Color Sergeant’s arm had begun to subtly vibrate with effort by the time his commander finally deigned to do his duty.

The officer accepted the offered banner to a round of applause, and took his time to pose with it for yet more photographs before handing it to his sunken, put-upon adjutant who carried it back toward the line.

“I am Dietrich von Ostel, ze second,” he announced, his voice deep and commanding, though curiously accented. “By Grace und Selection I am Captain of ze 86th Vitrian Regular Combat Battalion, und Seventh Seat of ze House of Hunger. I vill meet my Obligations, und I vill fulfill my Ambitions.”

A single, guttural roar answered Dietrich. In return, he tipped his head, turned on his heel and started across the field with slow, measured ease.

Up close, Alarion was annoyed to see that the man was every bit as handsome as he’d looked at a distance. Straight white teeth, an aquiline nose and high patrician cheekbones. He felt a little twinge of his own jealousy, then something much worse tickled at the back of his mind.

Lust.

“Really?” Alarion muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Nessa to hear his displeasure as he clamped down hard on their emotional connection.

“I am Dietrich von Ostel, ze second.” Dietrich was smiling as he spoke, his eyes trailing over the assembled members of the 238th with interest before settling on Alarion. “By Grace und Selection I am Captain of ze 86th Vitrian Regular Combat Battalion, Seventh Seat of ze House of Hunger, und Blue Force commander of ze Joint Readiness und Trial Exercises. Whom do I have ze pleasure of opposing?”

Anastacia stepped forward without hesitation.

“I am Anastacia Regethern. By Grace and Selection I am Lieutenant of the 238th Ashadi Auxilia, and Brevet Captain of the Red Force of the Joint Readiness and Trial Exercises, representing the 238th, 39th, 92nd and 112th Provincial Auxilia Companies.”

“It is good to finally meet you, Brevet Captain Regethern. My mother speaks highly of your House und your family in particular.” Still smiling, Dietrich stepped closer and pressed his right wrist against hers in a formal introduction. When he was finished, he turned to Williams and said, “Zis must make you ze Provincial Governor, Villiams, yes?”

“It does, indeed,” Williams answered warmly. “I suspect your mother speaks less highly of me, but—”

“No, no,” Dietrich interrupted, only to laugh apologetically at his own faux pas. “I am sorry, I just cannot stand to start a relationship on such poor terms. I am not my House, nor my mother, und I hold you no ill vill, Governor. Vat vas, vas. I cannot promise ve vill be friends or allies in ze future, but for zis stay I vould like to… how do you say, start fresh?”

“You are as amicable as your reputation suggests.” Williams met Dietrich’s wrist with his own, adding, “I have prepared only the finest, along with a Host.”

“Mm, now see, zis is vhy you have ze reputation that you do. You must vait before buttering a man up so soon, or he shall get soggy.”

If Williams was bothered by the strange idiom, he made no show of it and instead waved a hand toward the line of Ashadi. “I would like you to meet—”

“Ah, yes. You must be Two-Thirty-Eight.”

“The 238th,” Anastacia corrected.

“Mm, no. Zat is ze unit. I am speaking to ze man.” Dietrich took a few long strides toward Alarion and offered him his wrist. It was the same courtesy he’d given the other two, and though far from unheard of, it was uncommon for a Vitrian to offer the same level of respect—particularly on such a public stage. “Ze Orphan boy, yes? Or Orphan man, now, I vould say. I have heard much more about you.”

Alarion considered the offered hand for half a heartbeat. It would be so easy to leave the man hanging, and to embarrass Dietrich tremendously in the process.

“All of it bad, I assume?” Alarion asked as he reluctantly followed through on the introduction.

It would have been satisfying to turn his nose up at the courtesy, yes, but Alarion had matured enough to know that petty victories were seldom worth the blowback.

“No, no, no, to ze contrary! My mother adores you, und I have much to thank you for myself.”

Alarion couldn’t help but take the bait. “Oh?”

“Of course! You see, you killed my aunt Elena und—”

Alarion didn’t even realize he’d moved.

One moment he was trying to parse the thick accent, the next the world had narrowed to the smug line of Dietrich’s jaw and Alarion’s right fist.

He made it three steps before Kali cut him off.

“Orphan.” Kali’s voice was as strained as his body. The Godborn was still the stronger of the two, but stopping Alarion while making it look like he was merely patting him on the shoulder wasn’t something he could keep up if the young man resisted.

“Oh, no, no! I am sorry. I did not mean to imply…” The sincerity of Dietrich’s words was undercut by that ever-present smile, as if Alarion had merely scowled at what he’d said rather than tried to jump down his throat. “I know you did not murder her, I would never so imply. But you did cause her death. If you had never been found, she vould not have been on that island und—”

“And you—” This time Alarion caught himself before his temper fully flared. He took a steadying breath, then nodded Kali away before he finished, “—need to thank me for this? Why?”

“I think that is quite enough for now.” Williams was grinning for the camera as he stepped between the two men, but the smile came nowhere near his eyes as he said, “The press cannot hear you, Orphan, but they can see you just fine.”

“Do not be too hard on ze young man,” said Dietrich. “It is my fault. I should not have broached such a difficult subject on first introduction. You have my apologies, Two-Thirty-Eight.”

Alarion opened his mouth to reply, but it was Williams who answered.

“They are appreciated, Captain. But if you will excuse us, we have other guests yet to meet.” Williams kept up appearances as he half-led, half-dragged Alarion away from the conversation while quietly adding, “And after that you and I will have a long talk.”