The Whitewood Conspiracy

Raum arrives in Joliet. At the order of the local Lord, he is locked in the castle’s tower awaiting interrogation and sentencing. Though an outline of events from Indris’s Dame has surely reached the Lord, and placed Raum in an extremely undesirable position for negotiating or otherwise talking his way to innocence, he finds himself unable to worry about those prospects right now.

Because there, already occupying the surprisingly well-furnished cell into which the guards shove Raum, is his father, Mason Whitewood. Sitting at a desk rather casually, thumbing through a book.

The unexpected reunion jolts Raum, but he is soon corrected: this man is not his father, but his father’s identical twin brother, Morgan Whitewood. In other words, Raum’s uncle. Raum never knew about him, and likewise, Morgan never knew he had a nephew. Altogether, it’s a shocking meeting for both of them, especially in these circumstances.

After collecting themselves, Raum explains his circumstances, and Morgan divulges his. In simplest terms, he has been incarcerated for several years at Aquila’s order, on suspicion of involvement with Phoenix cults. In reality, though, things are likely a little more political, more personal, and more complex.

Morgan and Mason were childhood friends of Aquila’s — their fathers were close, and so were they. They got in trouble a lot, misbehaved a lot, and frankly said were absolute hoodlums. Things changed, though, after Phoenix was born. Aquila distanced himself from the brothers and their antics, became far more understated, dry, political, Morgan supposes the right word for it is responsible.

Back then, Aquila loved Phoenix. He adored anyone he considered family. His devotion, once secured, ran deep. He’d give anything to his favourites: gifts, privileges, he’d cover for them, kill for them… not die for them, since he was too clever for that. But that was the thing with Aquila. He was smart enough that he rarely needed to cross the line, though he never hesitated, when he did.

Mason always deeply resented Aquila’s adoration of Phoenix, and to a lesser extent, Morgan did too. Formerly, did. Now he can’t help but feel sympathy for the kid. It’s not that his perception changed over time, or with hindsight.

It’s that he’s functionally incapable of not sympathising with Phoenix. Because when Morgan died in a bungled drug deal, and Aquila asked Phoenix to resurrect him instead, Phoenix botched the resurrection such that Morgan can now only feel generally positive things about Phoenix. Though he doubts it was intentional, it—

No excuse me what, Raum interrupts, seeking explanation for the incredible thing he has just heard. Morgan opens his shirt to display the remnants of a very old, deep, and gruesome scar over his heart. It was an incredible resurrection, though, Morgan attests. No aftereffects, no discomfort, and no particular indications that he had ever died — apart from the personality twist, of course.

Raum presses further: But Aquila can do that too? Resurrect people?

Morgan affirms yes, all the royal family can. Whole—

Then everyone could be alive, Raum interjects. The people who died at the funeral could be alive.

—shebang is beyond taboo. Listen, kid, Morgan doesn’t know much of what goes on outside, but he’s heard enough guard gossip and been interrogated by enough desperate chodes to know that that was an arson. There aren’t bodies anyone would wanna live in left over from that. Let ‘em rest.

Raum’s shoulders sag coolly as he looks aside. Of course. It was a stupid thing to hope.

‘Course, Morgan himself is around, so it’s true they did do it sometimes. After Phoenix, though… Morgan tilts his head and waggles his hand back and forth. …Bad publicity, however you cut it. Hell, used to be nobody’d dare compare the royals’ soulsmithing to a witch’s, even though it’s the same shit. Even used occult texts as training aides. Now it’s the first thing anyone thinks. Wild how it changes, eh.

Anyway, Morgan got resurrected. He found himself sickened by his family’s dealings and left them after that. He wouldn’t say he went into hiding, exactly, but he did assume a new name, fell out of contact with all his old friends and relations, moved to a new city, settled into a tediously unassuming job, and altogether disappeared from the radar. He’s not even sure what the official word on him is — whether he died in the Tyrant’s reign, whether he simply vanished, or whether he even existed. The guards here, at least, don’t think he’s anyone of positive note.

But this still leaves the ultimate question of, how’d he wind up imprisoned?

Well, Aquila tracked him down. Told the Lord he was a high-ranking cultist with value as a hostage or information source, but be sure to keep him alive and treat him well. Then told Morgan that he regretted doing this, owing to their formerly close relationship, but knowing about Morgan’s bias towards Phoenix, couldn’t risk him being free to act and falling in with the cult. That was three years ago. Aquila has never visited, and Morgan has never left this room, since.

Morgan thinks it’s bullshit.

Aquila’s changed.

He can’t say how, precisely, because his demeanour in that brief visit was essentially the same Aquila that Morgan always knew. But if Aquila’s fondness for Morgan is stilling his hand from issuing the death penalty, Aquila would’ve visited him more than once. Faffed about with more conversation, made a greater sentimental gesture of it, catalogued the moment as another of his mementos. Even if circumstances put them at odds, Aquila never failed to let those he cared about know how much he truly did care about them.

Otherwise, he’s simply being kept alive, as he formerly thought, for no purpose. But now, with the Whitewoods dead — Morgan finds it all a little too convenient to simply be nothing. Though as for what it is, well, he wish he knew, too.

Raum then asks a question that has always bothered him: Why was Mason exiled? Morgan doesn’t know. He’d already left the family when it happened. All he can surmise, though, is that Mason massively pissed off the royals. Massively — immensely — enough that Aquila didn’t weasel him out of it. But otherwise, whatever happened was kept under tight enough wraps that it never became public knowledge.

Raum then asks for any advice on escaping Asphodelean justice, but Morgan has none. He isn’t overly concerned with it either. It’s interesting to learn of his wayward nephew, and liberating to divulge this information to someone who’ll believe him, but he isn’t exactly spitting casual treasons because he thinks Raum will survive to make a great thing of it. If he has any advice, it’s to pledge himself to the King while he can. Deathly damnation by rot is a far worse fate than any kind of injustice, failure, or punishment the Crown could inflict upon him in life. Raum should consider himself lucky and blessed to be dying in Asphodel.

Morgan does, at least.

He’s long resigned himself to his lot, regardless of Aquila’s personal dispassion, if it’s in Aquila’s interests.

On that grim note, Morgan folds his legs at the ankle, leans back in his dinky wooden seat, and resumes reading his book. The cell door booms open—Morgan doesn’t twitch; Raum flinches. With a stony frown and a shout, the guardsman at the door summons Raum for his interrogation.

The torture equipment along the wall of the dank, dark interrogation room convinces Raum, at a glance, to comply. The stern expressions of the interrogator and the Lord, seated across the austere wooden table, inform him vaguely: this is not an inquisition into his innocence. This is only an extortion of his intelligence and an assessment of how severely he should be punished. Having a sense for such situations, Raum recognises immediately that telling the bare truth of how he got into Castle Indris, of why the majordomo died, or of his affiliations — all of which rest on the foundation of Raum being a secret Whitewood known to the Crown — will earn him little more than pliers ripping at his toenails, until he starts making sense.

Still, when the interrogator calmly invites him to tell his story, Raum obliges.

He twists details. He himself is not a Whitewood, but a family affiliate. He found himself marooned after escaping the tunnels and pursued Indris nearby. Realising his identity, the majordomo invited him in with Aquila’s blessing—

—Preposterous!, the Lord cuts in. Though the interrogator isn’t brazen enough to gesture a superior down, a hint of strain comes over his features, and the Lord falls into a somewhat embarrassed silence. After he composes himself, the interrogator bids: continue.

Right. Preposterous. Thank you for the reminder.

Raum shifts gears. —And the very next day, he planted a trap on the Majordomo’s person that killed him within the hour.

The Lord purses his lips and stares down his nose, but orders no swift execution. The interrogator shifts in his seat and finally interjects with a question: a trap of what nature?

He’s hooked. Gamble worked. Raum, exhaling slowly and quietly, nods and switches off his brain to fluently deliver the biggest screed of bullshit he’s peddled in his life. Soon a grand conspiracy unravels — of how the cathedral was bombed, of traps and infiltrations, of cultist sects and chapters and cells all squabbling, and of vague but definite scheming from the insidious Phoenix Valens.

The goal is to act as a willing cult defector and inundate his interrogators with information: things they cannot easily prove, but equally cannot dismiss. To untangle the vastness of the web, they’ll need Raum’s future collaboration. And even if they begin finding falsities in the story, the truthful weft of its foundation should spark a reluctance to send his head to the guillotine, for at least a few days, or weeks or months if he sells it. For once, the frustrating vagueness around the cult’s operation serves Raum, as a knife and a shield.

Most critically, Raum presses one specific point: Aquila himself may be in imminent danger. That, assuredly, is information they ought swiftly forward to him. Then Aquila would know Raum’s present location, and situation, and fingers-crossed will intervene to rescue him under some pretence of taking him for further questioning. It’s only a vague hope, yes. But it’s the extent of what he can do.

At least he proves himself charismatic enough, and compliant enough, and consistent enough, not to wind up on the bad side of the torture equipment.

The interrogator and Lord step outside to discuss things, clearly conflicted by Raum’s information. Though the heavy door of the room muffles their voices, by putting his ear to the door, Raum catches the gist of their conversation. This was all far more than they expected. They can’t ignore the link to the Whitewood assassination. Though wary of misinformation, and doubtful of Raum’s inherent trustworthiness, the Lord is eager to contact Aquila posthaste.

Raum pumps his fist, Yes!. But just as he draws himself away from the door to breathe a giddy sigh of relief, a frantic new voice cuts into the dialogue. Urgent message from Indris. They need the Lord in the comms room immediately.

Raum warily withdraws to his seat. The silence of the room stretches on, excruciating.

Before he even hears the thudding of the footfalls, he feels the vibrations of the Lord stomping back to the end of the hall. His angry yelling carries well enough that Raum doesn’t need to huddle at the door to eavesdrop. Still, the exact words are incoherent. Raum’s brain can fill in the gist though. Something unpredicted has gone very wrong.

The interrogator returns shortly after, without the Lord.

The tenor of his questions, this time, is very different.

With a grave expression, he asks, Have you died before?

Raum barely catches himself from spluttering. “Bit of a crazy question," he tries to say, but in thinking so he realises it’s not. Have you died before? In reality: Has Phoenix Valens resurrected you as a thrall?

Well. Yes.

Well, yes, and isn’t that exactly the role he’s trying to sell? Raum goes to confirm it, but his voice refuses to say anything but “no". He tries to nod, but his head will only shake. No matter how he tries to convey that some impelling force is perverting his answers, his body refuses to do anything but calmly sit and smile.

The interrorgator’s gaze bores into him, contemplative. After a moment, he nods, seeming relieved. His voice carries incredible compassion and mercy as he thanks Raum for his cooperation, despite surely oppressive circumstances, and advises he wait here for attendants to dress and ready him for his prompt execution.

Things progress swiftly from there. Raum, stunned, can barely find time to breathe and question, what changed?

The patience of the attendants, receiving his urgent questions and pleas for reconsideration, is so overwhelmingly calm and rehearsed they could be readying him for a photoshoot at a bridal party. Even though he recognises, fundamentally, that going along with the proceedings will land his neck in the gutter, the way they comprehensively and comfortingly explain everything ruthlessly tempts him to just shrug and accept it.

Execution, like all things surrounding death in Asphodel, is not just some mechanical process. It’s a sanctified ceremony of great national importance and identity — the last chance for criminals, heretics, and purveyors of treason to repent and pledge their soul to the King. Like many other rogues, Raum falls into those categories. Unlike them, and reducing the urgency for torture and other abuses to both punish his disloyalty and exact disavowals of it, Raum’s soul has already been purified.

Viewed from another angle, the only reason Raum has done anything criminal is because Phoenix Valens made him a thrall and denied him any will to resist. Being that countless people were killed, resurrected, enslaved, and bound with horrifying geas forcing them to do horrifying things at Phoenix’s behest during the Tyrant’s Reign, dealing with such cases has become somewhat routine. Any ill-doing conducted after the establishment of geas is spiritually pardoned, but not temporally excused. A clean, swift death is appropriate, delivered with utmost respect and compassion for the turmoil doubtless unfolding within their soul — which, by death, is again freed.

For some it must truly be a mercy. An exoneration from whatever wrong they’ve done and an assurance they won’t do any more.

For Raum, though, it’s really not. As the attendants swathe him in a pristine white silk shroud and offer him final requests, messages, and meals, he wracks his brain for anything that could possibly help him escape. His more daring requests — postponements, carriage joyrides, escorts outside the city — are naturally denied. What he is allowed, and what he finally settles on, is that an announcement of his execution be extensively and publicly spread in advance, by flyers, heralds, and over local radio channels, hell, make a whole party of it. All the same, it’s not a lot of advance notice. But it’s enough to signal Reyl, he hopes.

Finishing their ministrations, the attendants tightly bind Raum’s wrists with a red cord. This is the bond of your oath to the blood of the King, the attendants warn. Treasure it as you would the fate of your soul, for that is exactly what it is.

This part of the ceremony seems to have adapted to the Tyrant’s Reign poorly. Even so, the pressure to keep his wrists close together and protect the string weighs far more heavily than even would iron shackles, which he could at least break without rankling his conscience. For someone properly born into the culture, he can only imagine, the symbolism must be exponentially potent.

Seeing Raum’s nervousness as he is escorted out of the chamber, an attendant rubs his arm comfortingly and turns to him with a smile.

You’ve already felt what’s to come, she assures. There is nothing to fear.

She’s right, but through a veil of agreement and peace, his mind snaps back: you’ll need more consolations than that, before a spoiled nancy like me could ever bow to the chopping block.