Chapter 55: Love Rivals (Patreon)

“I won’t be coming with you today,” Viviene informed Willem as he woke up. “I have to help your brothers out with something.”

“Aren’t they nearing thirty?” Willem asked off-handedly, focused on something else. “Let them be.”

“You’re nearing ninety, yet I’ve been walking around with you as you smuggle soap into forbidden places and duel Arend the past ten days,” she pointed out.

“You’d let a ninety-year-old walk around unattended?” Willem looked at her incredulously. “A stiff breeze could blow them over.”

“That’s not—” Viviene scoffed, then decided to move on. “King Arnoud is going to be giving them a final assessment, to see if they can be freed of their obligations and released. I want to be there when that happens, and prepare them for what comes.”

“Oh,” Willem said in surprise. “They seem better, except for Hans.”

“That’s all your insight?” Viviene crossed her arms.

“Lennard’s easily influenced, and now he’s had positive influences, it seems. Godfried was always a decent egg, just stiff. And now he’s less stiff. But Hans? That boy’s missing something to correct his behavior.”

“Or he’s just unempathetic and generally unkind, like you,” Viviene suggested.

“If only. He’s just got the problem that youngest kids tend to have.” Willem shook his head. “They need to find something that feels right for them to get themselves sorted.”

Viviene scoffed. “You think you know everything, don’t you?”

“You’ll understand when you’re older,” Willem said.

Viviene had used that line all of her life. Now, it was coming from her son. She didn’t quite know what to do about that.

***

“Raphael,” someone called out.

Raphael, who’d been deep in his book, lifted his head at the call. One of his fellow academy mates walked up.

“Heard about some sparring match that goes on between two people in the arena,” he said. “I heard he’s a contestant. Apparently they’ve been sparring every day since he arrived in the city two weeks ago.”

Raphael put a mark in his book. “Who’s the other side?”

“A former royal knight, apparently. Wasn’t kicked out due to a lack of skill, from what I hear.” The man nudged Raphael’s shoulder with his elbow. “I remember you saying that you wanted to see how strong the royal knights were. Well?”

Raphael closed his book and set it aside. “Why not?”

***

Raphael watched the fight between the two men—he’d learned their names were Arend and Willem. A lot of his fellow academy mates had come to watch, curious about the caliber of their competition at least in terms of aura. And as Raphael watched the ferocious blond man…

I want to fight him, he realized. Been a while since I’ve thought like that.

The man by the name of Arend wasn’t bad by any means. He’d probably be among the top in the academy. It was quite obvious that he’d been fighting this person again and again, because he’d developed certain strategies to try and counter Willem. He tried to limit his freedom of movement by staying near the corners of the arena, and anticipated certain attacks before they’d even been sent out. He had excellent danger senses—some of the best that Raphael had seen. It seemed his style of aura was a poor match for Willem’s, but he still stood his ground.

The mark of a truly skilled warrior wasn’t in developing strategies to counter an opponent—it was the ability to adapt to the changing situation on the fly. Willem had that skill—he didn’t even blink no matter what Arend threw at him.

Willem has the flow, Raphael thought. He knows how to flow with the power.

The flow was a term that Raphael himself had coined in the academy to describe the sensation that he often felt. With every attack, parry, deflection—every movement in a battle, there was a flow of power. That flow could build up toward a devastating momentum. It was the natural inclination of people to resist the flow, and as a result, their control of aura was lesser. Having an iron grip over one’s aura wasn’t the way to control it. One needed to follow the path that it wanted to route, redirecting it with subtlety to best manifest its terrifying power.

Raphael’s point was proven when a cleave of Willem’s aura-infused blade cut right past that silver shield of aura, stopping just short of the former royal knight’s neck. Arend collapsed to one knee, clearly exhausted. Willem helped him up, then gestured to the arena master. The barrier powered down.

“I thought they were going to kill each other,” one of his classmates commented. “Brutal stuff.”

Another tapped his shoulder. “You could take him, though, Raphael.”

Raphael took a deep breath. Could he? He wasn’t certain, but he didn’t want to broadcast his lack of confidence. A defeat would be a tremendous stain on his prospects. He’d come here for one reason alone—to earn a future for himself and his mother.

Raphael was a bastard—one whose existence hadn’t been acknowledged. He didn’t know who his father was, but he was certain that he came from House Villamar, who reigned over one of the four grand duchies of the kingdom. The evidence for that came in the form of his overpowering aura which had earned him entrance into the Arnoud Military Academy.

If I fight him and lose… my chances of catching the eye of the Villamar family lessens. Raphael kneaded the palm of his left hand with his right thumb, his hands quite literally itching. But… damn it all, I want to do it.

“Let’s go find out,” Raphael said decisively, walking forward to the chatting pair.

***

“I don’t understand,” Arend said. “Why me? Why in the world would you ask me to guard you?”

“Amends, maybe,” Willem said. “Say what you will, but I did turn your life upside down. I’m not saying that this is going to mend it all, but it’s definitely a start. You’d be paid a nice little salary, be provided room and board, and long-term, maybe repair a little of that reputation. If you’ve got any competing offers, I’ll match them to a point.”

Arend looked at his hands. “Did Godfried ask you to do this?”

“No,” Willem said firmly. “I asked him to talk to you, in fact. I was hoping that he would manipulate you with kindness into accepting my offer. Has he?”

Arend closed his eyes. “This is too bizarre. I… I need some time to think.”

Willem waited a few seconds. “Was that long enough?”

“No, I mean—” Arend trailed off, sensing the coming of someone dangerous. He rose to his feet, eyes trained forward.

A brown-haired, rather tall and lithe man walked up to Willem. He had piercingly sharp red eyes—beyond that, most everything was quite normal-looking about him. He wore a familiar academy uniform which was in the colors of the Ravenveld house: black and gold. He had a saber on his belt with a golden tassel. That meant he was a particularly distinguished student.

“Willem, right?” the man asked, then held out his hand. “Raphael.”

“The duelist?” Arend asked. “The one that beat your instructor?”

“It seems my reputation precedes me,” Raphael said, hand still outstretched.

Willem didn’t shake his hand. “What?”

Raphael retracted his hand, unoffended. “How about a match? I’m part of the Arnoud Military Academy. One of the top fighters in the—”

“How much?” Willem asked. “If you’ve got enough gold, we can do it tomorrow.”

Raphael smiled. “I’m not the richest.” He looked to Arend. “How much does he pay?”

“This is charity work,” Willem said. “And like most charity work done by the rich, the recipient is my personal friend, who’ll doubtlessly reciprocate further down the line. But for you? Full charge.”

“A shame,” Raphael said. “Well… if you change your mind, I’ll be around the capital somewhere. But who knows? Perhaps His Majesty will have us fight in the contest.”

“If he’s stupid, maybe. Swinging a sword doesn’t matter much when it comes to running a kingdom,” Willem said unabashedly.

Upon his besmirchment of the king, Arend said, “Willem… you shouldn’t say that about—"

“I said ‘if,’” Willem argued. “But he’s not, right? Unless you’re implying that the king is stupid. Arend, do you have something to admit?”

“Of course not,” Arend said defensively.

“I’m almost as comfortable with administration as I am swordplay,” Raphael interjected. “I was briefly enrolled in the University of Ravenveld, after all.”

Willem looked at Raphael with a grimace. “Oh. You’re one of those types.”

“What?” Raphael put his hands in his pockets.

“People that’ve got something to prove. A baron of bravado, a prodigal prince.” Willem shook his head. “Anyway, I’ve got things to do. Fight Arend if you want.”

“Don’t volunte—” Arend began, but Willem was already walking away. Arend puffed air out of his mouth in annoyance. He looked back at Raphael, and upon seeing the expectant look, shook his head firmly. “No chance in hell are we dueling. I already fought one monster.”

“I’m always ready,” Raphael said, holding his arms out.

As the academy student walked away, Arend thought back on that match… and that offer. He was getting better. A lot better. As much as it bothered him to admit, Willem was the sole force responsible for that. He probed at weaknesses Arend didn’t even know that he had. As for the offer… was it a joke? Was it serious?

Arend probably could get a job on the borderlands, where fighting was common. The people there didn’t care about reputation like the major noble houses. Or… he could peddle his services as a mercenary. Or… Arend paused. He hadn’t thought about the future in quite a long time. He didn’t think he wanted a future. Now? He was thinking about his best options. He had to admit…

Willem helped me.

After all that had happened between them, Arend didn’t know what to make of that.

***

“A few of the guest houses have already reached out,” said one of the soapers that Gustav had assigned to help Willem. “They want to bring in more soap. We’re talking quite large orders.”

Willem smiled. “Alright. String them along,” he said. “Wait at least a few more days ‘til we got more offers. Pick the guest house that’s offering the most value for money. Use them to set a precedent. We’re not going to compromise on price this early.”

“Alright, sir,” the soaper nodded, then went off to work.

Willem looked around the warehouse, and then went into its private office. Someone was waiting for him there.

“Alright,” Willem said, shutting the door behind him. “Where were we?”

“The Dubois family’s businesses,” the man said.

Willem sat on the cramped desk, missing his place in Gent already. “What was your name again?”

The man scoffed with a Valdérie accent. Willem didn’t even know how someone put an accent in a scoff, but he did it.

“Don’t scoff at me. You know what I’m doing here, don’t you? I barely have time for the details. So—name.”

“François,” the merchant said.

“Alright,” Willem said. “So—they’re big in wine.”

“Not big,” the man said. “Valdérie is wine, and the Dubois family controls the finest vineyards in all of Ravenveld. They have the most skilled glassblowers in the world, and the best gem-cutters on this continent. On top of that, they’re the most dominant producers of olives.”

“Olives?” Willem repeated. “Alright. What else?”

“I just gave you some of the most lucrative industries in the world,” François said. “What more do you want?”

“Anything under the board?” Willem asked.

“I… only have rumors,” François said.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re absolved. Just give me the dirt,” Willem insisted.

“There’s some smuggling,” François said quietly. “Alcohol is highly taxed, so the Dubois family engages with some smugglers. Moreover… tobacco, from overseas, is becoming quite popular in the high courts of Valdérie. Most nobles have smoke rooms there, at this point.”

“Tobacco’s illegal?”

“De jure,” François said, his accent hamming up. “But de facto? It’s unenforceable. And…”

“And,” Willem pressed.

François dithered for a while. “There are rumors that the Dubois family engages in literal kidnapping.”

“What, for virgin blood?” Willem guessed.

“In a manner of speaking,” François said. “The eunuchs of Valdérie are some of the most famous servants in the entire world. Though it is legal to castrate a man in adulthood, doing it before then has been outlawed. Nevertheless, in Valdérie it is highly desirable for a eunuch to have been castrated before puberty.”

“Good lord,” Willem said. “I can’t believe you would accuse my maternal relatives of such a crime.”

“What?!” François stood up.

Willem laughed. “I’m playing around. Sit back down, relax.” He rubbed his chin as he lounged back in the chair. “You really think it’s popular there?”

François hesitantly lowered himself back into his seat.  “I can say only what I’ve seen. Valdérie still has many young eunuchs with a high voice, beardlessness, and a non-muscular build. That means it’s still occurring.”

The Dubois family seemed as though it was going to be a difficult nut to crack. Willem was anything if patient, though.

***

Willem was walking through the streets when a firm female voice brought him pause.

“Willem,” she said.

He stopped, turning around even as people bumped past him. A tall black-haired woman with her hair tightly bound above her head and glasses framing sharp green eyes walked up to him. Each of her steps were measured and elegant. She had quite stern, but pretty features.

“You look familiar,” Willem said at once.

“You’ve spent the past ten days avoiding me,” the woman said, her voice quick and whip-like. “I’m Eleanor, aide to Duke Baptiste.”

“Are you his relative?” Willem guessed. “Perhaps that would explain the familiar feeling.”

“I’ll be teaching you etiquette, among other things,” Eleanor said. “And given that this meeting is ten days late… we’ve a lot to cover. And before you brashly refuse me and walk away, realize that I can and will mention to Baptiste that you had a meeting with one François.”

Willem shifted on his feet, but held firm. “About what?”

Eleanor wasn’t so quick to answer on that point—meaning she knew that they met, but not what they talked about. Still, this woman was a bright one, it seemed like. And the fact that she hadn’t already told Baptiste meant that her loyalty was a little more up to question.

“Fine,” Willem said. “You can come with me. But I’m not breaking stride so I can learn how to tuck a napkin into my shirt.”       

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