Last Life

Vintervald

Fjordgrad

The Pearl of the North, Palace of the Konung

BARON JEAN-LOUIS DE LEVY was sitting opposite a massive fireplace, wrapped in a thick wolfhide coat as he watched the flames dancing in the fire.

At first, the Baron had stubbornly tried to keep dressing like a Vestonian, which kept the locals thoroughly amused. Eventually, a few troublemakers took it too far, and after a few duels Jean-Louis found that the mockery had stopped. After all, none of the Vintervalders had imagined that the strange, redheaded alchemist, who spent the invaluable magical resources at his disposal producing a bunch of useless colored water, would end up being a pretty competent fighter, and a man who certainly knew his way around a sword.

Jean-Louis had finally switched over to local fashion at the beginning of autumn. The wardrobe he had brought from Vestonia was completely unsuited to the northern weather. Even the warmest clothes in his collection (as he had once thought of them) would have been considered appropriate for springtime in Vintervald — or even summer, if it was rainy out.

The first few cold days showed Baron de Levy, and all the other Vestonians in the capital, that a change in wardrobe wouldn’t be a betrayal of fashion sense — it was simply a question of survival.

While Jean-Louis was having his new clothes tailored, he smiled as he remembered his friend Max Renard. There, he thought... THERE was a man who never gave a tinker’s curse about life’s little niceties. You’d be hard-pressed to find a more practical, level-headed man than him. From the very beginning of his time up north, Max had made it clear that he had no intention of freezing his ass off. In fact, he took it even further than that. While everybody else froze, Max was traveling in relative comfort in his wonderful, sumptuous campaign wagon.

Thinking of his friend, Jean-Louis couldn’t resist a sad sigh. As it turned out, he hadn’t actually known Renard very well at all. He had turned out to be a very gifted man who, after already having been created Margrave de Valier, had defeated the Golden Lion and driven him back into Atalia. Every report that arrived at Prince Louis’ court poured more fuel on the fire, and there seemed to be no end to the discussions about the “bastard who grabbed luck by the tail and never let go.”

Right from the start, by the way, a theory had started circulating among some people in the know: it held that the verdict handing the victory to Renard had been unjust, which was something Prince Louis considered to be a fact. Consequently, the Margraviate that the bastard had been handed as a reward for his victory would need to be taken from him at the earliest possible opportunity. Prince Louis was fond of talking about this, and he didn’t bother to veil his intentions in the least. By doing so, however, he put himself in a pretty awkward position...

After all, if the rumors were true, and Renard’s victory in the Trial was a sham, then Prince Louis’ betrothal to Princess Astrid would have to be called off. That said, and looking a little bit closer at the situation, the Prince had already basically achieved that with some of the other things he had said. His Highness’ heart belonged to the Marchioness de Gondy. And the more time the Prince spent up north, the more his love began to resemble a sort of obsession...

As for Jean-Louis, he had never doubted for a moment that Max was a solid, dependable man — a fact which he had already proven by his deeds. Those who wished him ill had seen what the young man was capable of. Baron de Levy was genuinely happy at all the news arriving from the south, and from the very depths of his soul, he wished he were there with his friend...

His Highness’ perfumer shook his shoulders a little bit and moved closer to the fire, which seemed reluctant to share any of its heat.

This cursed north, he thought... This cursed winter and this cursed cold... Having been born in the south, Baron de Levy hated this freezing land with every fiber of his being — as well as the rude, uncouth people who called it home. Between themselves, Vestonians still tended to refer to the locals as savages.

Princess Astrid and some of the people from her court were notable exceptions among the great mass of northerners, but that wasn’t enough to save the situation. Life in Fjordgrad had become genuinely tortuous for Jean-Louis.

The short, gloomy days, the long, cold nights, the horrible-smelling locals all around him who had no appreciation for the wonderful world of subtle scents. It all gave him the impression that nobody in this land had ever even heard of perfume before. The disgusting stench of sweat seemed to follow Jean-Louis wherever he went.

All his attempts to garner popularity for his products among the locals quickly ran up against a solid wall of confusion. The smells of their own unwashed bodies seemed to suit the locals just fine. His Highness perfumer knew that if he ended up having to stay in the north for another year, he would undoubtedly lose his mind.

The Baron was pulled from this grim train of thought by the piercing, strained, unpleasant sound of a poorly-played flute. Knowing that nobody could see his face, Jean-Louis grimaced.

Another attack on the senses. Having been driven to distraction by his months-long spell of melancholy and boredom, Prince Louis had conceived a desire to write a long solo sonata with the poetic title “The Song of Moonlight.” For some reason, he had chosen the flute as his victim.

It might have been fine, if the sonata had actually been as brilliant as he thought it was... But alas... The sounds coming from the unfortunate instrument could have been described in any number of terms, but “The Song of Moonlight” definitely wasn’t one of them.

The Prince’s entire court was forced to listen to the horrible experiment play out, time and time again. This court, by the way, had become quite a bit smaller as of late. Jean-Louis was genuinely afraid to admit it to himself... He had once looked down with disdain on the fairweather friends who had returned to Vestonia and joined up with one of the two elder Princes, but when the most recent group of nobles had set off for the motherland, he felt intensely envious of them.

Alas — no matter who ended up abandoning Prince Louis, Baron de Levy would never be one of them. Having presented himself as one of the most loyal followers in His Highness’ retinue, he was determined to be a model of steadfastness and self-sacrifice. Princess Astrid, who seemed to understand the Baron’s true feelings instinctively, made sure to remind him of his benefactors every time their paths crossed.

And every time, the trick worked like magic. Baron de Levy kept catching himself wondering who he was really aiming to serve: the Prince or the Princess. Mind you, this soul-searching on the part of the Baron had never once made itself visible on the surface. He simply knew that the amazing, precociously-wise young woman, who seemed to know exactly how to keep up the morale among her future husband’s partisans, would always be able to count on whatever help he, the Baron de Levy, could possibly offer her. Jean-Louis also knew exactly who would end up ruling Vestonia if Carl III’s youngest son actually ended up ascending the throne.

That said, the relationship between Prince Louis and Princess Astrid was evolving every day, and not in a good way. At first, he had been somewhat spellbound by her, but by winter his flight of fancy had evaporated like dew under the morning sun.

Externally, of course, His Highness was still tactful and courteous with the Princess, but whenever the Baron found himself alone with the Prince he inevitably heard a stream of curses poured down on Astrid’s head. Jean-Louis always felt uncomfortable at such moments. After all, the Prince might trust someone one day, and get rid of them the next day — just to be safe, because that person happened to know too many of His Highness’ secrets.

Especially now that Prince Louis had started experiencing occasional bouts of paranoia. He seemed completely confident that nothing could possibly threaten his life in Vestonia. And that the whole episode with the poison had been orchestrated either by Princess Astrid herself, or by some of her supporters.

For a little while, Baron de Levy took the Prince’s suspicions seriously, but it wasn’t long before he cast them out of his mind. After all, the Prince could hardly go a week without indulging in some sort of conspiracy theory that imagined enemies all around him.

From time to time, as he looked at the slightly-gaunt young man with the sickly color to his face and the unhealthy fire burning in his eyes, Jean-Louis would ask himself what had happened to the happy, creative young Prince Louis who had been so full of life.

News from the north, of course, had merely thrown fuel on the fire. Konung Bjorn Sharptooth and his army had been slaughtered. The Konung himself, along with his youngest son and most of his nobles, had fallen in the battle. As soon as the terrible news reached Fjordgrad, it set off a wave of unrest in the capital, which thankfully proved to be shortlived. Once again, this was because of Princess Astrid and her wise response.

The Konung’s daughter refused to complicate the already-labyrinthine power struggle that was unfolding in the country. In spite of the fact that with her razor-sharp mind, her cool-headed personality, and (most importantly) her magical gift, the temptation to assume the throne herself must have been overwhelming. But she didn’t succumb to it. And as later events would prove, she had made the right choice.

Princess Astrid had immediately yielded all power in Vintervald to her elder brother Olaf the Gray, and the people supported her decision. As did her middle brother, Ulf Wolfheart, who, upon receiving orders from the new Konung, immediately began assembling a new army. Thankfully, Sharptooth hadn’t summoned all the clans in his Kingdom for his northern expedition.

Between the former Konung’s shocking defeat and the various pieces of news coming in from the south, the status of the Vestonian delegation had grown somewhat ambiguous. It wasn’t something that manifested itself externally, but Jean-Louis could feel a strange sort of tension hanging in the air.

Take, for instance, the regular receptions that Her Highness Princess Astrid would organize with Prince Louis. The latter had long ago ceased to be an object of attention for the local nobility, which had once made such strenuous efforts to appear before Carl III’s youngest son as often as they possibly could. Even the Princess had gradually started losing her popularity at court, once she ceded the throne to her eldest brother.

The attention of Vintervald’s nobility was focused entirely on Olaf the Gray and his family. Especially since the raucous games and various competitions that the new Konung tended to favor were much more in keeping with local tastes than the pointless discussions of music, fashion, painting, and sculpture that Princess Astrid and her foreign fiance were so fond of. I mean, how could THAT compare with bloody duels between the most fearsome champions in the Kingdom, days-long drinking binges, and fast-paced hunts for some of the best game in the world? Indeed — as Jean-Louis sat there, huddled in the cold, practically all of Vintervald’s nobles were gathered in the main hall to celebrate the new Konung.

Jean-Louis already knew perfectly well that those people would never accept Prince Louis as one of their own. Basically, His Highness just needed their support in his bid for the throne of Vestonia. As things stood, though, Baron de Levy was starting to get the impression that he might not even get that. Especially since the Vintervalders had plenty of their own problems to deal with. They would probably have been happy simply to hold on to power in their own country. And in that fight, every single soldier would make a difference... So the idea of a campaign to distant Herouxville was virtually out of the question.

This uncertainty was starting to extend to the wedding plans, too. In the aftermath of Konung Sharptooth’s death, the negotiations concerning Prince Louis’ marriage to Princess Astrid kept getting postponed, time after time after time. The new Konung didn’t seem to be in any hurry to give the marriage his blessing. And that despite the fact that, at least as far as Jean-Louis understood it, one of the points in the agreement Olaf the Gray had concluded with Princess Astrid prior to his coronation was a stipulation that her marriage would take place in short order.

Enveloped in a maelstrom of gloomy thoughts like this, Baron de Levy sat by his fire late into the night, listening to a stomach-turning, squeaky flute and shivering in the damnable, damnable cold...

* * *

In the middle of a spacious hall, filled with the light of innumerable torches, stood a long, heavy oak table. At its head sat a thirty-year-old man with long, gray hair and a broad beard. His enormous frame filled onlookers with an instinctive feeling of respect and fear. This was the new Konung of Vintervald, Olaf the Gray.

The crown which the priests had so recently bestowed upon him was shining across his brow, and a cape of cloth-of-gold embroidered with polar bear fur hung from his mighty shoulders. Crown and cloak alike had belonged to his father, Bjorn Sharptooth, who had met his end somewhere in the lands of the Frost Priests.

Konung Olaf was holding an engraved, mead-filled horn in his hand. A mirthful light flickered in his eyes as his voice thundered through the hall and drowned out the joyful shouts of the nobles who were feasting with him. The banquet in honor of Vintervald’s new ruler had already lasted for two weeks. And still, it seemed that the party was just getting started.

A dozen clanleaders, each of whom represented a different one of the eastern clans, had gathered around the Konung. They had come a long way to attend the coronation, in order to discuss a number of important affairs, but by that time the serious conversation had given way to laughter and singing.

The table groaned under the weight of the food on top of it: freshly-baked bread, a mountain of fruits and vegetables from Princess Astrid’s famous orangeries, barrel after barrel of mead and beer. The warriors raised their silver goblets to wish the Konung a long reign, to toast each other’s health, and to salute the victories that awaited them in the future.

Those clanleaders whom the previous Konung hadn’t summoned to join him on campaign — a group of men hardened in battle, with long beards and big, gruesome scars — were only too happy to wolf down the free food and beer, smiling happily as they did so and exchanging knowing glances with one another.

One of them, a powerfully-built man with a mane of fiery red hair and a huge golden chain around his neck, was telling the story of how he had once wrestled an alpha-male wolf to the ground with his bare hands. Another, whose face was covered in tattoos, recounted how he had cunningly lured an enemy out of his fortress to his death.

As he listened to yet another hilarious tale, the Konung (who was well and truly pickled by that point) slammed his fist down onto the table and burst out laughing with such vehemence that all the food in his mouth suddenly flew all over the place. Big wet hunks of bread and meat remained stuck in his gray, mead-soaked beard.

Servingwomen and butlers were darting lightly along the rows of tables, pouring drinks and bringing out plate after plate of food. The smell of grilled meat and fresh bread mingled with the sour smell of stale beer, the pungent stench of unwashed bodies, and the omnipresent smoke from the torches.

With every new barrel, the conversations grew louder, the songs livelier, the laughter more and more infectious. Mead was flowing in streams, beer was splashing all over the place, and the feast didn’t even seem close to wrapping up.

From time to time, the Konung would rise to his feet and make a toast, which never failed to elicit a roar of approving shouts from the warriors around him.

During one such toast, Princess Astrid and her entourage strode quietly into the hall. Helga the Valiant was walking alongside her.

“Sister!” Olaf the Gray burbled loudly. “You’re finally here!”

Olaf’s close-set eyes were glistening in the torchlight, and his tongue was interfering noticeably with his speech.

“I’m told you wanted to see me, Your Majesty?” Astrid greeted her brother with a polite bow, and her entire entourage followed suit.

“Yes!” The Konung hiccuped. “But I see you weren’t in any hurry to answer my summons!”

“Please forgive the delay, Your Majesty,” Astrid replied in a steady voice.

“Of course,” the Konung said with another hiccup as he waved the half-stripped bone in his right hand through the air. “I forgive you. But you’ll have to be more punctual from here on, sister...”

“Thank you, my brother.” Astrid was a model of meekness.

“Oh, Gods above!” Exclaimed the red-haired warrior who had just been bragging about beating the wolf. “It’s Helga the Valiant! The one who killed the stryker with her bare hands!”

“Yeah!” Soldiers began to comment from all around. Mugs and goblets started to thump rhythmically on the table.

“Is it true you were totally naked when you did it?” The redhead asked with a mirthful grin.

He glanced around at his companions, and then, narrowing his right eye, he shouted: “I wish, I WISH I could have seen it, even just for a second!”

Nobody noticed Helga as her frame jerked forward in preparation to attack; nobody noticed how quickly Astrid stopped her sister in her tracks with her shoulder.

“Not now, sister,” she whispered. “Not today. Let that scumbag’s loose lips keep flapping for now. You can cut them off and feed them to him later. I promise. But not until I say so.”

With a silent nod, Helga took a gentle step back, ignoring the sleazy gazes of the soldiers in the crowd as she did so.

The Konung slapped a palm down onto the table to call attention back toward himself.

“Sister,” he said as his brows furrowed into a frown. “I’ve been thinking. Isn’t it time you got married?”

“It is,” Astrid replied with an eager nod. The Konung’s words kindled a fire of hope in her eyes. “High time. You know that.”

“I do,” the Konung agreed as he stared attentively back at his sister. Only at that point did Astrid realize that the Konung wasn’t as drunk as he had seemed at first sight. Her old brother had always been stealthy — always a shrewd operator. “But not to that useless dandy you’ve been babysitting in the palace. A real warrior, with several clans united behind him.”

Having said that, Olaf the Gray turned and pointed to a broad-shouldered, bearded man sitting next to him, who had so far kept his silence. This was Arik Thunder, head of the largest of the eastern clans.

Princess Astrid wanted to say something in response, but her brother stopped her.

“I know what you’re about to say... That your fiancee is a Prince of Vestonia, and that marrying him will bring a beneficial alliance with Carl III. And you’ll remind me about the Great Trial... So stop, already... Listen to what I’m about to say. Our father gave you too much leeway. These are new times, and there are new rules.”

To everyone’s surprise, Astrid was silent. She made no effort to object at all. Even the Konung was a little thrown off by his sister’s reaction. Still, just to be safe, he nodded to his bodyguards, who were standing vigilantly just a few steps from the table.

“Think about it,” he continued. “What’s the point of an alliance with a country that doesn’t even have an army of its own at the moment? Whose King is at death’s door? Have you forgotten that we’ve got an enemy coming at us from the north? We need support NOW, and Arik Thunder and his men can give it to us. Understand? And don’t start telling me about the Great Trial... I respect the traditions of our ancestors, but you’re forgetting that our father never invited Arik Thunder to the tournament, which was a violation of his legal rights as a vassal. We have no idea who actually killed the Shadow beast. And I certainly don’t believe it was that little bastard boy...”

Helga was about to snap into action again, but once again Astrid stopped her.

“Is that all?” She asked the Konung in a calm tone of voice.

“For now, yes,” Olaf replied with a wave of his hand. “Now go. Think about everything carefully. We’ll talk later.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” With a bow, the Princess turned around and walked calmly toward the exit.

“Sister... What’s going on?” Helga asked anxiously as they walked down the long hallway that lead to the Princess’ wing of the palace. “You said Olaf agreed.”

“He did,” replied Astrid icily, although her behavior was as calm as could be. She knew that there were too many eyes on her to risk anything else. “Our brother has decided to play his own games. So much the worse for him...”

Olga mouthed the last sentence silently to herself, but Helga caught everything without difficulty. A bloodthirsty smirk flashed across her face.

With a quick glance at her sister the healer, the Princess lowered her eyes to the floor:

“Don’t even think about it. I’ve got other plans for you.”

Helga didn’t have a chance to ask anything else. They were already walking into the fireplace hall, from whose depths they could hear a series of horrifying squeaks. The healer frowned. Prince Louis was blowing away on his horrible little pipe again.

Seeing Princess Astrid and Helga appear, Prince Louis stopped torturing the poor flute, while the red-headed perfumer leapt up from his seat by the fireplace and met the two women with a low bow.

“Your Highness,” he greeted the Princess courteously, before turning to Helga and greeting her with equal deference: “Your Ladyship.”

“Ahh, Baron de Levy!” Princess Astrid exclaimed as she smiled at the Prince (who frowned back at her) before walking over to the fireplace. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“I’m always at Your Highness’ service,” the Baron replied with another bow.

“Get ready for a trip, Monsieur,” said Princess Astrid with a smile. “The time has come to do your master some service. I need you to deliver a very important message for me.”

“I’m ready, Your Highness,” said the Baron. As always happened whenever the Baron got excited, a slight blush rose up into his cheeks. “But where will I be going, and to whom will I be delivering Your Highness’ message?”

“You’re heading to the Margraviate de Valier to pass on a message to our mutual friend, Maximilian Renard. Or rather, the Margrave de Valier, as I should probably start calling him.”

Prince Louis and Baron de Levy stared back at the Princess. They were dumbfounded.

“And yes... My sister’s going with you,” she added with a nod at Helga, whose eyes were slowly widening as she realized what was in store for her. “I’m sure the Margrave de Valier will be happy to see you both.”