Blood Plunders

It’s the middle of the night when he wakes. After listlessly cycling through radio channels, he ventures out of his room to explore the castle.

The grounds are smaller and architecture less glamorous than those of Aquila or even Phoenix’s palaces. It suggests castle Indris as a much older, and more defensive structure, rather than one geared toward comfortable living. That Raum has enough first-hand experience with Asphodel’s varied aristocratic lodgings to make these inferences quietly stuns him.

From the parapets, he gazes down at the city, half-lit under starlight. One small red ember burns like a spent coal on the outskirts. The ground rumbles beneath him as a train thunders in from outside the walls, passes close aside the castle, and continues along an embankment into the city. Though these sights hold novelty at first, too long in the quiet and dark begins to flare in him feelings of uncertainty, though about what, he’d rather not question.

As he kills more time wandering the castle, Raum again encounters the majordomo, who pauses to regard him despite appearing busy with an armful of papers. Raum apologizes for snooping around the guy’s castle, only for the majordomo, stunned, to correct him. This isn’t my castle. This is your castle. It’s a holding of the Whitewood Estate, and with its former master dead — and all others down that branch of the bloodline, and the branch neighbouring that, and the branch neighbouring that — ownership falls to Raum. In fact, Raum’s impromptu inheritance of the Whitewood Estate’s possessions has landed him with consolidated power, assets, and public favour at a scale unseen since the rise of Fidel Asphodel. It’s enough, even, to rival the Crown.

It doesn’t matter than I’m Ordish? Raum asks.

A few generations of good breeding will fix that, the majordomo replies. Do not underestimate the power of a legitimate bloodline, here. Seeing that Raum is only beginning to grasp his overwhelming political importance, the majordomo takes him to a communications room hidden in his office. Aside the telegram machine and radio setup, there, upon the desk, is a single white feather.

It’s Aquila’s. He can both sense its general location and feel forces against it—so you can tap out code! Raum excitedly interrupts the majordomo’s explanation. The majordomo nods. Since the line is absolutely secure, he invites Raum to transmit whatever message he’d like.

Taken off-guard, Raum requests the first thing that comes to mind: Missed you.

The majordomo taps the message through. The feather remains standing after he releases it, and it taps out its own reply: Pleased you’re safe.

After regards and salutations, Aquila outlines his present thoughts and game plan for the twins’ situation with the majordomo translating. First of all: They should stay in castle Indris until Reyl’s condition improves. Cult activity in the city aside, it’s a highly defensible location and assuredly less vulnerable than any transport he could arrange. In fact, they might flush out cult operators by arranging a decoy convoy. Since, while they know the principal figure behind Raum and Reyl’s abduction upon entering Indris, the allies, affiliates, and subordinates of that figure remain unknown.

Raum presses the point. They know who it is?

Not precisely enough to give a definite name, Aquila responds. But city guards have been locked in combat with a single cultist outside Desiree’s hideout for several hours now. Between the cultist’s exceptional martial prowess and exquisitely forged weaponry, it’s safe to assume they’re not someone insignificant. He has suspicions, but as he also notes, it’s not Raum’s concern. It’s the majordomo’s, who Raum best trust to address the issue.

Aquila is correct. Raum, however, abruptly fears that leaving Aquila and the majordomo to subdue the cultist may run afoul of Phoenix’s command. What happens if the most prominent cultist dies without any particular contribution from Raum or Reyl? Did their involvement in inadvertently leading them to the authorities count as enough? Even if it does — Raum would rather not risk being wrong.

Though he’d like to keep talking with Aquila, it isn’t the time. Raum swallows his rue as he signs off and instead addresses the majordomo. Though unaccustomed to this authority, and yet ignorant of its limits, Raum orders that the majordomo capture the cultist alive — so, as he does not divulge, Raum can then personally order the execution and ensure Phoenix’s order is met. Though faintly surprised at Raum’s assertiveness, the majordomo seems pleased with the order and nods.

They return to the office proper, when there comes a knock. In strides a serious-looking woman dolled up in the silks typical of Asphodelean nobility. She begins to recount an inventory of the castle’s weapons, vehicles, and guardsmen to mobilise into the city, but interrupts herself to note, in an unfriendly tone, that the majordomo’s guest looks Ordish. The majordomo scolds her furiously. She smoothes her gaffe by concluding that he must be Raum, who helped save the caravan, and cooly apologises for the comment. Still, the air when she departs is practically a snowstorm, for its chilliness.

Raum asks what that was about. The majordomo assures him she’ll change her tune once Aquila publicises Raum’s parentage. It should happen within the week. Once he aligns the timing, the presentation…

Hold on, don’t I get a say here? Raum thinks, but what he asks is, can I see Reyl?

With a nod, the majordomo directs him to her room.

The light swish of the opening door jolts Reyl awake. Her eye snaps open and her hand jerks under her pillow for her electrical prod — the one they left back in East Welding. Raum smirks grimly at the reflex, hand on his hip, as he waits at the foot of her bed. Some seconds later, she snorts at herself and slumps back into the sheets.

Multitude stitches mummify her into a terrible knock-off of Frankenstein. However awful she looks, though, she’s alert and far from deceased. Raum’s relief is beyond indescribable.

After retrieving a chair and settling beside her, Raum recounts everything he’s learned at the castle. Though satisfied that they’ve reestablished contact with Aquila, she resents their sudden rise in Asphodel’s political food chain and that Raum has already capitalised on their position, though she recognises it as the right move. Returning to Ordanz before Aquila publicises their heritage is now necessary to prevent massive complications in their journey back home. Even then, they should expect Seacrest to want to exploit the twins’ newfound international clout too, but they can negotiate that situation later. For now, they should gather their resources, establish their options, and begin planning to leave.

And while he attends to that, she should rest, Raum adds. Reyl scooches deeper into bed with a huff and concedes: Yeah. Her body knows its limits and she’s been on enough operating tables over the years to listen to it. Though she’s not at risk of anything debilitating, she’s weak and unfit for even light activity, which will undoubtedly reopen her sutures.

It’s not that she doesn’t usually behave, when injured like this, but her humble obedience does comfort Raum enough to smile. He reaches to the tray of food left on her bedside table to help her eat, his mind drifting at the sight of her stitches.

Mom might be dead, he says abruptly. Pinks and oranges of dawn creep into the room through the windows, casting their fingers over the floor.

Reyl digests that statement stoically.

I might’ve killed her, Raum continues. A black mass churns in his stomach, heat welling in the pits of his eyes. Even saying the possibility of it makes it far more real: murderer. You murdered your mother.

“Jackie," a slight rebuke from Reyl interrupts like a thunderbolt, as she flicks open her raised palm. “You’re fine. The bitch’s still kicking."

The claim is entirely baseless. But somehow — utterly convincing. They’re the exact words to soothe the oppressive guilt and dread festering in his gut to nothing. He sighs a wet sigh of relief, breath hitching with an airy sob, as he collects himself and returns the emptied plate to the tray.

He notices something. On the tray, under where the plate was sitting, is an envelope. Upon the envelope is written the message: To Jay & Jackie, in Ordish script, and in the unmistakable handwriting of their father — the woefully deceased Mason Whitewood.

Raum and Reyl are stunned. What is this? Who put this here? How’d it get here? Once the first questions breach the dam, the flood of subsequent queries rushes never-ending.

The writing doesn’t look old, either. Undeniably, this was written in the weeks leading to the funeral, or maybe even after. Is it a forgery? Raum’s keen eye for handwriting says, no. Mason wrote this.

Though they’ve already run into traps here in Indris, they determine that this is probably not one. Short of Mason being a cultist all along, Raum cannot think of any feasible way their enemies could have this envelope. This is much more likely to be a communique that someone very high-up wanted to keep absolutely secret. They are big fish now, so to him, it doesn’t sound unreasonable. Reyl carefully opens the envelope with her dinner knife, but indeed, it’s not laced with poison.

Inside is a small cylindrical device made of glass and silver, containing a cyan liquid that shifts like mercury. Raum recognises it as an Asphodelean-style recording device, and after Reyl confirms it isn’t rigged to explode, they fiddle with its buttons and switches until with a clack, it plays.

From it resounds the sombre, but beautiful lilt of a piano. Exquisite melodies soon fill the room with such intoxicating tones, Raum cannot help but bask as the angel at the keys lifts his heart to heaven. Even as the final notes trail and fade, the aftertaste of their resplendence keeps him drunk in warm reverie.

Superb, says the voice of Aquila on the recording. Hearing him, of all people, jolts Raum to earth.

But the snide young voice that replies shocks him further: “grovel for no further encores tonight." It’s Phoenix.

Their dialogue continues with Aquila patiently receiving what Raum understands is Phoenix’s typical brand of venom. But no great revelations, or particularly meaningful words are exchanged between them — it all sounds like mundane, and in fact familiar, sibling banter that the two have surely repeated countless times over countless nights. All it reveals is a closeness between the brothers that Raum, distracted by present-day politics, hadn’t considered to have existed. The recording cuts abruptly, leaving Raum and Reyl speechless.

This recording answers absolutely none of their questions.

What significance are they meant to glean from that episode? Is this a message from the cult? A friend? A foe? From Aquila? When was this recorded? Is this blackmail? Are Phoenix and Aquila allies? Is that what they’re meant to comprehend?

It’s a startling but plausible thought. Even if Reyl, for argument’s sake, drove Ordanz into civil war, murdered thousands of innocents, and ultimately killed him too, Raum wouldn’t stop — well, if he still loved her after that it would speak more of his dysfunction than hers, but at the very least, he’d still care.

Maybe Aquila, too, still cares.

Reyl snaps to action. Things are already moving and they can’t let themselves get behind. As well as investigate who left this recording, she urges that Raum retrieve maps of the castle, city, and region. Raum urges her to try and remember if anyone entered the room before him, but she can’t. It must’ve been while she was sleeping.

Finally, he tries contacting Phoenix for information on his radio, but there’s no reply. It’s far outside Raum’s designated hour for transmissions anyway. Phoenix, if he even listens then, likely isn’t presently.

With the situation only getting more complex, Raum heads for the majordomo’s office.

The majordomo is there alone when Raum drops in. Though unsure what the recording meant, and hesitant to rat out a potential friend, given that the note offered no guidance, he opts to trust the majordomo first.

The news of the message alarms the majordomo. It likely got to Reyl at the hands a servant: either the cook who plated her food, or the housemaid who delivered it to her. Raum asks if anyone on staff has been to Ferendaux recently, since that has to be the source of the envelope. The majordomo confirms that several have, returning from mourning.

With that deduced, the majordomo summons the noblewoman from before — Raum mentally dubs her the Dame — and orders her to round up the staff. As they talk, Raum notices that the papers spread upon the majordomo’s desks include maps, to chart the position of the cultist. The Dame marches off, barking orders at passing servants to seal all exits and lock the castle down.

The majordomo commends Raum for coming forward with the message. He urges Raum to divulge more about it, particularly its content. Though he’s trying to keep Raum calm — plainly, he does not have the same leeway Raum does to consider this message as anything positive.

His wariness rattles Raum, whose face slowly reddens with shame.

If ‘a friend’ sent this… come on, Raum really means ‘Aquila’. How was the recording sourced? Aquila had it in his archives. How was the envelope sourced? Aquila had Mason write it in advance. Why was it addressed to the twins? Because Aquila knew something was going on. But the meaning of it all is just… so oblique…

He needs to speak with Aquila. But if the message was meant to be confidential, telling the majordomo feels like a betrayal. Heat flushes Raum’s cheeks at the thought of Aquila, disappointed, angry… but he chokes the feeling down. This situation isn’t that hard, and doesn’t need to get messy.

Raum joins the majordomo in the comms room, which is soundproofed against eavesdroppers. He has the majordomo inform Aquila that he just received a funky recording with some weird stuff on it, letting the ball for how to proceed fall in his court. The feather stands still in reply.

…Is he busy?

When the feather does move, its message is: ‘That is indispensable news. What is on it?’ The majordomo turns to Raum, awaiting his response.

Raum shakes his head sharply and sighs in some attempt at relief. Aquila didn’t send the strange recording, after all. That is a fundamentally unnerving thing, but it means Raum was right to bring it to the majordomo, and Aquila can advise them how to respond. Raum begins explaining the content of the tape, but between the overwhelming awkwardness of confessing he heard one of Aquila’s private moments, and the way the majordomo’s expression flattens once Raum hits the syllable ‘Phe’, Raum’s tongue catches.

Instead of juggle the phrasing, Raum just plays the tape.

The acoustics of the small room only compliment the beautiful music. The symphony entrances them both into the dialogue: Superb.

A scream peals through the room. Raum flinches, eyes wide, as the majordomo beats his head against the stone wall, claws at his ears, screaming like a pig, eyes wide in horror. His limbs bend in impossible angles as bloody froth rises from his mouth, bones popping and snapping while his body twists into knots. His soul shears out of his skin in splinters, fracturing in ways Raum has never seen or known possible.

The majordomo soon lies slumped at Raum’s feet in a gross, contorted lump. The suddenness of the death stuns Raum too potently for his brain to even register what happened. The recording cuts at its abrupt end. Finally, Raum gasps and backs up against the wall.

While half of him reels in dread, the other half cools into grim rationality. Yes, he understands what the message is, now.

Raum had been naive.

That was, undeniably, an assassination attempt.