CHAPTER 281: STOLEN BLOODLINE

Stolen Bloodline

Lansius

It was a few hours before sundown when the meeting finally ended. Lansius and Audrey chose to take a walk in the garden, as the weather was fair with fall just around the corner. Sir Omin followed behind. His presence was not out of the ordinary, as he was part of the family as Audrey’s cousin. Here, without the other retainers and with the entourage waiting at the garden entrance, they could speak freely.

“So, Omin, what do you wish to speak?” Audrey said as they reached a stone bench, though none cared to sit.

“Indeed, My Lord, I wish to speak about the decision. It is sufficient for now, but it does not solve the greater problem,” Sir Omin said, his tone level.

“Let us not speak in riddles,” Lansius said, unfastening his doublet at the neck to catch more breeze.

“My apologies. If you wish me to speak plainly, then know this,” Sir Omin said firmly. “Whatever path you take, My Lord, in the end it will always lead to a crown.”

At those words, Lansius drew in a breath and let his eyes wander to the soft grass around them, as though searching for an answer there. At his side, Audrey studied him closely.

Sir Omin continued. “No man who rules such vast domains can hide behind the title of baron for long. I urge you to give serious thought to kingship, for the future of all your subjects.”

Lansius sighed briefly. “We have discussed the consequences. I do not wish more hostile eyes upon our House’s nascent domain.”

“Yes. Wars,” Sir Omin retorted. “Wars that you can win.”

Audrey was about to intervene, but Lansius gestured her not to and answered, “I would rather have my top staff think level and wisely, not gamble on wars. We do not have inexhaustible resources.”

“Your domains, My Lord, are the size of two ancient kingdoms and no less than several baronies tied together. Despite you solving the compensation issue, which I thoroughly support and may even call a work of genius, to remain a baron for life will eventually cause administrative issues and bring dissatisfaction among your own ranks.”

“Then you should agree that the solution should buy plenty of time.”

“Indeed, it will be sufficient for many years,” Sir Omin said without hesitation.

Finding an opening, Lansius, weary of the topic of kingship, said dismissively, “Then we shall cross that bridge when we come to it.”

Yet Sir Omin countered, “I am sure My Lord understands that preparation for an event of such magnitude will take time.”

Lansius disliked being cornered, but he knew Omin was right. For a mere baron to claim kingship smoothly would take years of careful planning. A pedigree would have to be drawn up and forged, weaving him into a branch of royal descent and replacing his true origins with borrowed ancestors. From there, tales of his supposed lineage would need to be spread among the populace to accustom them to the idea of his royal blood. He might even have to rely on fabricated stories of being chosen, claiming the Ancients’ divine favor to stir the grassroots to his cause.

And still, it would fail unless the nobles around him either believed those fictitious tales or partook in the scheme. He would have to become a great provider, offering lucrative deals, lavish gifts, and even taking their children into his House as ranking officers, showing them a degree of favoritism. It would be costly, in treasure and in integrity, for he would be forced into such concessions. And it would certainly take many years to do it properly.

King Gottfried had bided his time in the Northern Provinces and only declared himself king after a lifetime of consolidation and support.

Lansius had nothing of the sort. He had just crushed a rebellion. Now he ruled through purge and fear.

Although a portion of the population, such as the pilgrims, liked him, it would be fatal to assume all felt the same.

With all these thoughts weighing on him, Lansius exhaled and chose to sit. Once settled on the firm stone bench, he said to the two before him, “In my birthplace, aside from the Shogunate, there was a much older empire. During a civil war eighteen hundred years ago, a powerful minister saved a young emperor from a rebellion. Yet the writing on the wall was clear: the emperor’s House was already failing, with no talent and no support. Still, the minister kept the emperor.”

The other two did not interrupt, eager to hear more.

“He funded the royal court and its lavish ceremonies, and fulfilled his obligations as minister, bowing to the emperor’s wary but mistrustful whims. Yet all of it had no real use beyond a weak stamp of authority. As the minister continued to dominate the civil war, the emperor, even as a puppet, had no purpose left. It was clear the times had changed, and that a dynasty change was imminent. However...”

Audrey listened with fascination, while Omin looked intrigued.

“Either from fear of loyalists among the populace, or from some semblance of loyalty still left in him, the minister refused to take the throne. Even when he was the de facto ruler, with the government and the military loyal to his growing House, he resisted temptation. And I think he was wise. He knew he already held power, so why risk everything simply to gain the title of emperor by being a usurper? Despite the prestige, in reality, it was only another honor.”

“Then what happened to him?” Audrey asked.

“In the end, he had only the emperor bestow upon him the office of Prince,” Lansius said as his eyes wandered to the scenery, where two bold-colored butterflies drifted calmly in the distance.

“A prince?” she muttered, looking for clarification.

“Yes. As was the tradition in that Empire, that meant the minister was made equal to the royal family. After the minister’s death, his son, as the son of a prince, part of the same royal family as the emperor, had his House declare him the better fit as the next ruler. Thus, his son took the throne. In this way, his House avoided being branded as usurper.”

Sir Omin nodded, his face brimming with satisfaction. “This is a complicated way. Slow and demanding, but also more legitimate, clean, and poignant.”

Lansius turned to watch the old trees that loomed before them. “Our time here is but brief compared to those ancient trees. We, too, must show self-restraint if we want to keep our roots strong. The great game of conquest requires great patience.”

Audrey, with the gentle wind stirring her short brown hair, asked, “Then, will you follow this minister’s path?”

Lansius met her gaze. “I merely give you a story. Take it as you will, but that knowledge is only for you.” Then, turning to Sir Omin. “Know that my mind is still undecided.”

“Fair enough, then, My Lord. I shan’t disturb you any longer.” Sir Omin bowed to Lansius and then Audrey before excusing himself from their presence.

The wind stirred between them.

Now alone, Audrey stepped closer, closing the gap until she stood before Lansius. “You must be weary of it all.”

Lansius gave a short snort but said nothing.

“But you are already strong, far stronger than I am," she added.

He frowned, lifting his gaze to her face. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Look at my arms,” she urged, pulling back her sleeves to reveal what she had hidden. Goosebumps ran across her skin. “All this talk of kings and emperors. Even Omin thinks you are fit to be one. By the Ancients, Lans…”

“But Drey, you asked me about this before,” he said, perplexed.

“I did, but that was only teasing,” she admitted. “I never thought about it seriously.”

At that, he gave another snort, this one amused, and the tension drained from him. “Never change, Audrey. I cannot handle this alone.”

She looked at him tenderly. “We are in this together. My oath to you still stands.”

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“Then you had better protect me from walking the wrong path.”

Audrey placed her hands on his shoulders and drew him into her embrace.

Lansius was mentally exhausted. The rebellion still weighed heavily on him, and the monastery had given him no chance to rest.

“At least everyone accepted your Banneret plan, so we can put this issue aside for a while,” Audrey said, trying to comfort him.

“Yes. In time, this will allow us to gather powerful and loyal bannerets tied to our House. Many of them would be common-born and serve as the necessary counterweight to the traditional nobility within our ranks. Also...”

“Yes?” Audrey prompted.

“As they would not manage the land, there would be fewer manor houses. Even if rebellions arose, there would be fewer to lay siege to.”

“Ha,” she exclaimed, as if uncovering something.

Lansius blinked, looking at her in surprise.

“I knew it. In the end, it is always about war with you.” She chuckled.

Hearing her, Lansius chuckled as well. “One of many reasons,” he admitted.

“So, a prince,” she ventured softly. “That would mean a princedom, would it not? Or a principality?”

“I have not looked into that,” Lansius answered frankly.

“Then, My Prince,” she said, startling Lansius, “does a prince usually have a harem?”

“Perhaps after siring nine with the princess,” he answered playfully.

Audrey grinned, and Lansius rose swiftly, catching her by the arms and stealing a gentle kiss. From a distance, the entourage watched, some grinning, others blushing. It seemed the second child would not be long in coming.

***

Kapua Castle

The King’s hundreds of servants were finally brought from the royal camp and at once set to work in the castle. Yet, unfamiliar with its ways, they faced all manner of difficulties. Naturally, they did not know where goods were stored, and every castle had its quirks: which well yielded the cleanest water, which windows could be opened safely in the rain, or even how a staircase might skip a floor. With only a dozen of the original servants taken captive, the King’s servants did their best to clean the corridors and prepare a feast from their own supplies.

Meanwhile, the King’s guards scoured the halls for hidden rooms or passages. They searched the bedchambers and private halls for venomous snakes or scorpions. Only when the place was declared safe did the servants change the bedsheets and wipe down the furniture, ever wary of poisoned needles or other insidious traps that might have been left behind.

King Nico was fortunate to have a crew of loyal and competent servants. Many had been saved by him when their lords’ manors were raided and burned during the conflict, and since then their number had grown. They served him faithfully, and some had died in the line of duty. Most notably, several food tasters had perished, most likely from poison. His allied warlords and mercenaries were too ambitious, and suspicion lingered even among his own ranks.

Even under torture, the captured cooks and servants gave no proof that ever tied his allies or officers to the plots. Still, Nico, not yet a king at that time, answered poison with poison. The most suspect were dealt with swiftly. When the killings caused an uproar, Nico feigned outrage as if he too were a victim, letting his allies turn their quarrels against one another.

His ruthless brutality, combined with the charm of a reasonable and approachable mercenary leader, served him well. After years of savage competition, he had secured enough support to declare himself King. His half-Nicopolan blood earned him trust, but in truth, he was loyal only to his own people, the Centurians.

“Have the cooks prepare something from our hometown. I will not have my men dine at a victory feast without pickled spiced meat and white bread pudding.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” His chief servant, half-Centurian himself, bowed low and departed for the kitchen.

Nine officers, staff, and guards remained, but with nothing urgent at hand, King Nico relaxed in the padded chair, one leg stretched out and resting on a smaller stool.

He was not a particularly patient man, but he knew patience was required to ensure his chambers were safe and in order. After a month of marching, he could afford to wait, especially now with a solid roof overhead. Even with a lavish tent, to camp in the rain was a miserable affair. A drizzle with wind could drive the droplets hard against the canvas, the noise loud and unending. Leaks came easily, soaking everything and leaving the place perpetually damp, especially through the night.

The siege had made matters far worse, since the command tent could not be moved for security reasons. They had to remain in place, and muck gathered quickly.

Before, he had listened to reports from his officers and staff but found nothing of concern. They had won, and no immediate threats lurked near the city. Even if trouble arose, his army was large enough to give an iron answer.

His gaze drifted toward the servants and maids working in the Grand Hall. Two years earlier, against custom, he had taken a beautiful young maid as his lover. In time, he grew bored of her, and when she turned haughty toward the other women he frequented, he dismissed her, granting her a half-ruined villa in a distant land. Since then, he had taken no true lover.

Officially, he was married to a rival warlord’s daughter, but her clinging ways and constant suspicion soured his appetite. He still needed her father’s support, so the facade would have to endure for many years to come. Not that it kept him from bedding any woman he desired.

Turning to his guard leader and confidant, he motioned the man forward.

The officer was shorter than the guardsmen he commanded, but he stepped quickly to King Nico’s side.

“Can’t you find anyone suitable for the night?” the King whispered.

“Your Majesty, the city is empty. We found none but the sick left behind to die.”

“Even the brothels?” Their eyes met briefly.

Of course, not all were evacuated, but no one thought to offer the King a peasant woman. “I am afraid not, Your Majesty.”

King Nico grunted in displeasure. Usually, after he liberated a town or city, families would offer their women to gain favor or protection. But Avery had ruined this. Now, his victory night, for the first time, felt hollow.

At the center of the hall, servants lowered the chandelier to replace its candles. The King noticed the dull, yellowish color.

"What are they doing?" he asked the guard leader, who still stood nearby.

The guard leader turned to the servants and replied, "Changing the candles, Your Majesty."

The King frowned. "But those are tallow. We can't use it for victory night?"

"My King, our foes seem to have taken all the expensive beeswax. We are left with only the lesser kind." The cheaper tallow candles were smoky and sometimes reeked like the fat scraps at the bottom of a cauldron.

The King frowned. To use tallow for a feast of victory would cheapen him. His men would not complain, but his honor and standing would suffer.

Understanding the King's plight, one of the officers asked, "How about oil lamps?"

But the staff beside him replied, "All the good burning oil is gone. Only tallow oil remains."

The King leaned back in his chair and muttered with a sigh, "This Avery is making us miserable..."

The nine staff, officers, and guards standing before him held their silence.

Then, from across the hall, his cupbearer came running. “Your Majesty.”

“What is the hurry?” the King asked as his guards readily stepped aside to clear a path.

“The cellar is locked, with men banging from inside,” the cupbearer reported.

The King turned to his guard leader, frowning. "Do not tell me we cannot have ale and wine for the feast?"

"I will seek them out and inquire about the wine and ale," the guard leader replied.

“I will bring the poison master,” the cupbearer added, as was his duty.

“Test it on the wounded," the King said. "Either way, even poisoned, wine is a fine way to send the Nicopolans off.”

The two men of mismatched height bowed and left.

King Nico, feeling rather alarmed, rose and went toward his chamber to inspect. With Avery proving this troublesome, there might be other issues. "Dear Ancients, I hope he has not fouled the bed before leaving," he muttered in jest.

But none of his entourage laughed. Each knew it was a real possibility. Earlier, they had heard that one of the bed frames had been sawed through; it collapsed and injured a servant.

They were in the corridor when the chief servant returned from the kitchen, nervousness plain on his face. "Your Majesty."

Stopping, the King asked, his tone weary, "What is it, vermin in the larder?"

It was not all the chief servant had found, but he bowed low and dared not speak of what the Dawn had done to the kitchen.

"A classic," the King muttered, keeping his composure as he moved on, knowing he would likely uncover more surprises.

...

The cellar of the castle had broad doors and wide access to move barrels of ale and wine. Since such stores were quick to spoil, easy entry was a necessity. Because of their width, the doors were built thicker and sturdier than most, which made them a misery to break down. No key was found, likely intended.

"One of the Dawn’s pranks," the guard leader grunted after his men forced it open. It took ten with hatchets to hack the door apart.

From within, three men stumbled out, pale and trembling. “Gratitude for saving us!” one babbled.

Another added, his voice shaking, "That bastard Avery meant to lock us here to die."

The last, the youngest, could only cry. They were shoved aside as the guards pressed in.

Inside, the air was thick with the sharp reek of alcohol. It quickly became clear why the three had been so overwrought: they had drunk themselves near senseless on undiluted wine, like witless brutes.

“How much have you drunk?” the guard leader asked the trio.

“We thought we were about to be killed—”

“Or worse, burned alive,” another added, his words slurred with drink.

Finding no better answer, the guard leader gave his order. "Get inside, open the windows, but mind the fire. This stuff can easily burn."

His men obeyed at once. The leader followed them in, planted his hands on his hips, and studied the rows of casks. It was plain that the three locked inside had opened many of the front ones and sampled as much as they could. "Well, at least now I know those are not poisoned," he muttered, while his men searched the rest of the cellar area by the light of small lanterns.

"O honored officer," one of the rescued trio said, struggling to hold back tears, "may we offer what we know of this cellar?"

"Why?" the leader asked.

"My brothers and I are vintners. We have no other craft. If you would, may we ask that you put our names before those in power, so we might keep our work? I swear, we will serve you well."

The leader scoffed. They already had a cupbearer, and common vintners who drank undiluted wine were near to a jest. "We will take it from here. If I need you, I will find you."

"Of course, it is all yours. But please, call on us. We are humbly ready to assist."

With a wave of his hand, the guards seized the trio. "Get them out of the castle. They will be shouting and crying by midnight. Take them far from here."

Three of his men then closed ranks before him.

"Well?" the leader asked.

"Nothing seems suspicious. And we have plugged the casks too," one replied, wiping the sweat from his brow. The air inside was still heavy, humid, and intoxicating.

"Good," the leader remarked. "Those men drank enough. But let the cupbearer and the poison master test it before the feast."

"Can we risk it?" another asked unexpectedly.

"What?" The leader's eyes narrowed.

"We volunteer as testers." His men, including the ten who had axed down the door, grinned, one of them showing two broken teeth in front.

The leader sighed. "Drink it now, and here, with water like educated Centurians. And once I leave, guard the entrance. Nobody but the cupbearer comes in, or the King will know."

"Yes, chief." The men answered with spirit, lifted their helmets, and rushed inside to pour wine.

They drank merrily from their stolen casks, never guessing that six men lay hidden inside a stack of modified barrels, with supplies and arms enough to turn the castle into a single blazing pyre.

***