Last Life

Book 5: Chapter 6

“I’M ALSO GOING TO NEED a few herbal preparations,” I said as I laid a scrap of paper down onto the table that stood in front of the witch.

After unfolding it, Madleyn read through the list and nodded:

“Hm... Seems like you know what you’re doing.”

“Well?” I asked. “Do we have a deal?”

“Deal, spellsword,” the coven’s Mother answered with a nod; then, with a glance at the door behind me, she called out in a loud voice:

“Yvonne! Come here, my girl!”

I heard the rustling of skirts and the sound of light footsteps behind me, and an instant later the smell of jasmine wafted into my nose. A deep, rich, sweet, and slightly intoxicating scent, with notes of wax and fruit.

On the tails of the sounds and smells came the woman they were emanating from. A very pretty blond-haired girl, roughly the same age as Max. Somewhat short, and quite well-built. She was energetic, rosy-cheeked, and generally seemed full of a springtime energy, as did the lace-edged dress that fit snugly around her graceful figure. A bright green ribbon, on which hung a simple silver medallion, stood out in elegant contrast against her thin neck and accentuated the color of her deep, emerald eyes.

Without realizing it, I found myself spellbound by this stunning creature. My reaction didn’t go unnoticed. The coven mother’s sly, knowing glance told me that my reaction to her daughter was exactly what she’d expected.

“You called, mom?” The young woman’s velvety voice sent shivers down my spine. And as she spoke, she shot a quick, intrigued glance at me with her gorgeous emerald eyes.

Madleyn nodded and turned to me:

“This is Yvonne, my youngest,” the coven mother said with an ingratiating smile.

“Your Worship,” the young woman greeted me with a perfect curtsey and a bewitching smile.

As etiquette required, I responded with a gallant half-bow. A faint blush immediately appeared on the young woman’s cheeks.

While we exchanged greetings, I quickly scanned the girl’s system; as I did so, the sense of charm that had overwhelmed me for the first few minutes faded almost immediately. Judging by her well-developed energy system and the impressive volume of her reservoir, this young witch wasn’t nearly as young as she appeared at first glance. She had a long way to go until she reached the coven mother’s age, to be sure, but I was 100% certain that with her power, she definitely wasn’t a junior member of their little Family.

“Yvonne, my dear, have a look at this list.” Madleyn handed her my scrap of paper. “Besides all these ingredients, our guest will require ash oil.”

“Yes, mom,” Yvonne nodded; then, casting me a quick appraising glance up and down, she walked off.

After Yvonne disappeared through the doorway, the coven mother turned to me with a heavy sigh:

“Such a capable girl. My only happiness. She’s the future of this coven. Besides that, she knows manners and court etiquette, several languages... And that lace, by the way? She made that herself!”

“There’s probably no end to the suitors knocking down your door,” I smiled, keeping the real point of this whole spectacle firmly in the forefront of my mind. “Smart, beautiful, and skilled to boot? Who wouldn’t dream of such a wife?”

“Tell me about it,” said the witch with another exaggerated sigh, before adding: “The only problem is that none of them are worthy of her. But anyway — it’s still too early for conversations like this. I’m interested in something else: where did you get those little birds?”

Madleyn glanced down at the figurines in my palm. The sudden change of subject didn’t throw me off in the least, although I could see that the witch was expecting me to react differently.

“They’re mine,” I said calmly. “That’s all you need to know.”

“So there’s no chance the former owner might show up and demand their return with interest?” Madleyn’s left eye narrowed as she asked this.

“Categorically impossible,” came my firm reply.

Madleyn watched for further clues in my behavior for a few seconds, but then she just grunted and looked back down at the bronze birds.

If the avaricious sparks in the coven mother’s eyes were any indication, these little figurines were even more valuable to her than I thought. And the witch’s attitude toward me was totally different. Five minutes before, she was ready to attack me; then suddenly, she was the picture of courtesy.

Besides that, it seemed like they wanted to prod me into action. Otherwise what was the point of the whole charade with “smart-and-beautiful” Yvonna, whose gaze (I won’t lie) had set my heart racing. If Max were in my place... Actually, why pick on Max? Not many people I’d ever met could have withstood that beautiful witch’s charms.

As for the figurines...

Which of the chests did the nisse find them in? And most importantly, could there be anything similar still left in those chests? I was also starting to doubt the wisdom of giving them to these witches. Maybe they would come in handy for me?

The nisse didn’t really explain what exactly the birds were. She just mentioned that they were ancient protective charms, and that the coven mother would definitely be happy to see them.

There was no magic in them — that much I could tell for myself. Apparently, they had some other sort of value for the witches. Although on the other hand, if the nisse — who was always so careful and scrupulous — was happy to hand these figurines over, that meant it wasn’t a big loss for us.

Hm... I made a mental note to insist on a more detailed explanation. I could understand Itta’s reluctance to tell me much about the charms, but still — it was time for a serious conversation when I got back.

After all, I always gave her plenty of space, and never asked her to tell me about her former life. Although there was definitely something to tell. I also understood that her reluctance to talk wasn’t the only factor at play here — it seemed almost certain that Itta was bound by all sorts of oaths and promises to her former master. And who said there was only one such former master? Basically, I was going to have to clarify a few things where she was concerned.

Anyway — it so happened that at one point, both the witch and I were looking down at the figurines at the same time. The witch noticed this, too, and remarked pensively:

“I haven’t seen a black magpie for ages... And then you stroll in with two of them at once...”

So cunning, I thought — it’s like she was reading my thoughts. Actually — hold on! Something had suddenly come back to me...

“High through the air the black magpie flew,

Catching every whispered word, the whole world through,

And alighted at my ear bearing tidings new...”

A fragment of an old rhyme, a piece of dark witching magic that Vadoma once told me about, suddenly floated up in my mind.

I looked down at the figurines in my hand as if seeing them for the first time. That, I thought, explains why the nisse passed these birds to me. After all, I asked her to find something we didn’t need. And these fit the bill — we had no need for them whatsoever. I wasn’t going to get involved with dark witching magic...

Vadoma once told me that these amulets were made from ore that was mined in places of power. If you could somehow overlook the bloody ritual by which the artifact was activated, it had an extremely useful function. The spirit of the magpie inside the figurine served as a sort of alarm. For example, a witch could stash her goods away in some out-of-the-way place, together with one of these birds, and continue with her business in peace. And if anybody disturbed her little stash, the spirit of the magpie would inform her immediately.

Need I explain exactly how the link between spirit and amulet had to be established? By the way, Vadoma once told me that in ancient times, some witches were actually able to transform themselves into magpies. Sometimes coven mothers used this for their own ends. Such “birds” could become spirit assistants. They could guard a house, or gather intelligence.

That said, though, I didn’t really need these figurines myself. And actually, I had recently learned that they hadn’t come from the Duke de Clairmont’s collection at all. The birds came from the nisse’s personal supplies...

I understood that Madleyn was trying to pry out of me exactly where I got these items. And I could understand why: she didn’t want to find herself having to answer to their former owner.

“I bought them up north, on a whim.” I decided to “share” a little bit of info with her. “In Fjordgrad, in the Crafting District. They’ve got all sorts of stuff for sale these days — “

“Why’s that?” Madleyn’s guard was up. She even leaned in a little bit. She didn’t believe me. But she really wanted to believe me.

I bent down just a little bit, glanced around suspiciously, and then whispered:

“This is still a secret, but I’ll share it with you anyway... A big expedition just got back from the Svartvald Shadow. It was outfitted by Konung Sharptooth himself. There are rumors that the strykers brought back a huge amount of loot that found its way into Vintervald’s royal warehouses. And of course, the members of the expedition didn’t neglect themselves either. They ended up with a lot of artifacts in their possession, too, and sold quite a number of them to the masters in the Crafting District.”

I grunted, tossed the figurines into my palm, and continued:

“You wouldn’t believe it, but I found these birds at a regular souvenir stall. They were lying on the back shelf, covered in dust. My eyes must have been the size of thalers when I spotted them there.”

“Why wouldn’t I believe it?” The witch commented after biting her lips for a moment. She leaned back in her chair. She even let out a little sigh of relief. “That’s what people are like. They don’t notice anything, even if it’s staring them in the face.”

“Yep,” I agreed.

“Were there a lot of things like this?” Madleyn asked, trying to make the question sound casual. But I wouldn’t be surprised if a couple daughters from the coven soon received orders to pack their bags and head north.

“A fair amount,” came my evasive reply.

“I’ll tell you why I’m asking. If you have any other interesting artifacts that you’re willing to part with, don’t be shy. Bring them to me. I’m sure I’ll find something that’ll interest you in exchange. I understand you’ve already given your most valuable stuff to your comrades, but who knows? Maybe we can work something out.”

“My comrades?” This put me on edge. What did she mean, “comrades?”. “Who do you mean, exactly?”

“Your brothers — the spellswords,” the witch chuckled. “Who else?”

Suddenly, however, her eyes widened.

“Wait a minute, little fox... So what, you’re not from Basile’s clan?”

“Nope,” I replied. “I’m from the line of the de Gramonts.”

“Oh-ho-ho!” The witch exclaimed; she sounded excited. “The old badger will be surprised when he learns that there’s a new spellsword right under his nose. He’s getting old, losing his touch... Hehe... You, little fox — you better prepare for company.”

Having said this, the witch rubbed her hands together gleefully and shot me a wink.

* * *

Outskirts of Herouxville

The hunting lodge of Carl III

“Your Majesty,” said Ruben Garrelle, the king’s senior healer, with a low bow. “As I’ve said before, scarlet magic isn’t able to remove the infection completely. We’re powerless against this magic. These aren’t just my conclusions — this is also the opinion of the council you ordered.”

Kiko cast a quick glance behind this man, who was one of the most powerful healers not only in Vestonia, but in all Mainland. Because behind him stood five other healers, no less famous and respected than Garrelle. All these great masters — people who could bring someone back from the brink of death almost with a snap of their fingers — were now standing in a group, looking sheepishly at the floor, having just admitted their inability to deal with the problem at hand.

Carl III, for his part, sat in his armchair, listening to Ruben in silence. He reminded Kiko of an ice sculpture, staring without a shred of emotion at these people, whose duty was to extend the life of their ruler for as long as possible.

Kiko was familiar with the king when he was in this particular mood. At moments of mortal danger, Carl didn’t fall into hysterics; he didn’t scream at his subordinates, and he didn’t rashly order the executions of the bearers of bad news. He remained calm, collected, and cold. These specific characteristics had seen him triumph over his enemies, time and time again. As it happened, senior master Garrelle was also very familiar with his king’s moods, and therefore (unlike his colleagues) he avoided showing his fear, spoke straight and to the point, and didn’t conceal anything. This was why the king appreciated him.

Kiko turned to look at the king’s right shoulder, which bore a hideous black wound left by the bolt of an enemy’s crossbow. The projectile had punched right through his pauldron, and only grazed the king’s flesh. And if it hadn’t been for the black poison on the bolt, the wound would have been forgotten long before.

Kiko understood very well that the anonymous crossbowman hadn’t been there by accident. They came to kill the King of Vestonia, and he made their job easy for them.

Carl’s wounding occurred during the siege of a small fortress occupied by the Atalians. For some reason, he was seized by an urge to shake off the torpor of his advancing years and participate in the assault himself.

Actually, the king didn’t even notice the “scratch” at first. He just drank a scarlet potion and continued directing the siege. Just like when he was a young man, he didn’t take his armor off when the fortress fell, and he didn’t let any of the healers near him. Instead, he spent the entire evening feasting with his generals, and that very night he lapsed into amnesia. If it hadn’t been for Ruben Garrelle, who noticed that something was wrong almost immediately, the king wouldn’t have survived at all.

That said, the only thing the senior royal healer’s magic could do was slow the spread of the poison down somewhat. In time, the little scratch turned into a big, disgusting, black wound about the size of a fist.

“What do you suggest?” The king’s tone was icy.

The senior healer obviously expected a question like this, but nevertheless he hesitated in answering.

“Speak, Ruben.” The king spoke more softly this time. “I need the truth. I know you’ve always been honest with me.”

“Your Majesty,” the healer began. “We need to eliminate the incubator of this disease before it’s too late.”

“I understand that,” the king nodded. “What I’m asking is specifically what you...”

The king trailed off. The full import of the healer’s words had finally dawned on him. With a heavy sigh, he overpowered the flash of fury that suddenly erupted in him. He closed his eyes, leaned back on his chair, and in a calm voice he asked:

“Do I understand you correctly, my faithful Ruben? Are you suggesting that the right hand of your ruler be cut off? Leaving a pitiful, one-armed cripple to sit the throne of Vestonia?! The Atalian peasants will no doubt be singing a song to that effect by tomorrow anyway. What do you think — will we have much longer than that before our allies and so-called friends go for our jugular as well?! And then there are my beloved sons, with their uncles and their chums all itching to try on the Vestonian Crown for themselves. This isn’t an option, Ruben. Go and think. If you can’t do it yourself, find people who are capable of fighting this filth.”

The senior healer listened to his king in silence, and then replied delicately:

“Does Your Majesty wish for me to involve the true gifted?”

“Involve the devil himself, for all I care!” The king shouted angrily, causing everyone present except Kiko to jump. “I need results! And remember — you won’t be taking this arm! Dismissed.”

The healers bowed and scurried quickly out of the hall. One of them, the youngest, stayed behind a minute to apply a fresh dressing to the king’s shoulder before he too raced for the exit.

“Old fools,” the king snapped as the healers made their hasty exit. “Why the hell did they come to me with that? What’s with the silence? Something in your mouth? Out with it — but tell it to me straight. No nonsense.”

“There’ll be plenty of time to lop that arm off if need be,” Kiko snickered. He understood his friend the king, and the mood he was in, very well.

“Forget it,” Carl grunted in response, before adding: “I can see it on that smug little face of yours. You’ve got something. What the hell is it?”

For the first time since the conversation began, Carl frowned as he pointed down at his wound.

“We’ve received word that the “ice priests” have started making sacrifices again.”

“You mean to say that this isn’t Shadow poison at all — it’s forbidden magic?” The king caught on quickly.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” replied the jester.

“What does the master of the “stones” have to say about it?”

“Frederic de Moati swears he doesn’t know anything,” said Kiko. “But we’re certain that he met with some priests of the Frost Temple a few months ago. And he’s on friendly terms with the Scarlets as well. It’s time to do something about the Order. Otherwise it’ll be too late.”

“Calm down,” muttered Carl. “Unlike the other masters, de Moati is controllable, and he’s loyal to me. And he’s been effective in dealing with these true gifted upstarts. I need balance in the kingdom. Your job is to be on the lookout and catch him the moment he crosses the line. Send word that I want to see him tomorrow.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” The jester bowed his head, causing the little bells on his hat to jingle.

“Okay,” said Carl with a wry smile. “Now out with it. I can tell you’ve learned something. Just look at the gleam in those shameless eyes of yours.”

“Sharptooth’s people have discovered lands on the border of the Svartvald that were under the Shadow for several decades,” the jester rattled excitedly.

“A big ebb?” Avarice flashed across Carl’s eyes.

“Yes,” Kiko smiled. “About the size of a county.”

“And my Louis is marrying Sharptooth’s daughter,” Carl chuckled.

“No thanks to that idiot Gray, of course. He almost ruined the whole deal,” Kiko noted acidly.

“We should’ve been tracking de Blois,” the king grunted as he reached out and flicked his jester on the nose. “It would’ve been foolish to expect that Gray would sit quietly in the north while his neighbor ravaged his lands. That said, we now know that de Blois’ visit to the de Gondy estate seems to have kindled a fire in him. But the old snake was cautious. That idiot de Blois assured me under oath that the initiative for the attack was his and his alone. But nevertheless, he saw reason to mention his little visit. Gray, for his part, expressed his eagerness to head to Bergonia and kill Atalians, along with his entire retinue and mercenaries too. And I graciously acceded to his request.”

Kiko knew well that at some point, Carl would remind Lord Gray of his hasty exit from the north, and his failure to complete the task his king had assigned him. But that would come later. When the royal stryker was least expecting it. The king never forgot anything.

“So the de Gramont bastard has given a good account of himself yet again?” The king smiled. “A very interesting young man.”

“And more importantly, a very tough one,” Kiko chimed in.

“Keep watching him,” commanded the king as he rose from his chair. “And think about how we might reward him, but do so discreetly. It’s not yet the time to bring the traitors’ children back into the fold.”