Chapter 49: The Stone Muse (9)

Belzemine wordlessly stared at her tea. The workshop had become silent after Simon explained the situation to her in private. She still seemed to struggle to accept that the castle she had lived in for the last four centuries had been destroyed.

With the civil war now inevitable, Simon had acted quickly. He telepathically gave leave to Leonard to put Anna and Tiella on the first airship to the Berwick Islands for their safety, then asked Meredith to bring him back Elaine Malphas’ remains alongside some documents from the archive. Having closely followed the civil war through the news in Valne, he gave her a longer return itinerary than usual to ensure she would avoid areas bound to be bombed by the War Party.

He still had no idea how the conflict would affect Whispermire—he didn’t remember the town being mentioned anywhere in the previous reign’s newspaper—but its proximity to the Goetia Research Center put it at risk.

“Belzemine, do you understand what I just said?” Simon received no answer, his hands clutching his own cup. “The news hasn’t been made public yet, but the elves of Illusea have struck Castle Frightwall with a powerful Tier X spell. I do not know how they managed to pull it off yet, but I have reason to believe they only proceeded with the plan once they had confirmed your departure from the castle. Why?”

“I do not know,” Belzemine admitted. “I am not important to Illusea. We elves do not have nobility like humans do, so our lineages mean nothing. My parents were common healers, and my only sister is dead.”

“Yet you are clearly important enough to Illusea that they would forgo a devastating strike against their sworn enemy for your sake.” Belzemine still seemed to draw a blank. “Perhaps something to do with someone named Frea?”

“Frea?” Belzemine’s head perked up in surprise upon hearing the name. “No, it cannot be. I haven’t met her since…” Her scowl deepened. “Since the Red Forest.”

And still Frea tried to keep her alive during their clash in Valne, even to the point of pulling her punches and losing her life for it. Perhaps there was something unique or special about Belzemine that she herself was unaware of.

“Tell me where you came from, and how you know Frea,” Simon said. His gut told him her past was key to answering this mystery. “I want to know the things the history books do not mention. This may be important.”

Belzemine frowned slightly, but dutifully obeyed his request. “I was born in the forest of Jarnvidr, west of Frightwall, which humans once called the Ironwood and now…” Her scowl deepened into one of profound sorrow. “The Red Forest.”

Simon held his tongue. The Red Forest Massacre had been one of Overlord Mardok’s great atrocities alongside the Despoiling of Nabadia and the Walling of the Screaming Saints. His violent, indiscriminate slaughter of the forest’s elven population had forever tainted its leaves and grass red. It was the very first time an Overlord had dared to strike an elven community, and it set the stage for the pogroms that would follow.

Theories abounded as to why Mardok had struck that area in particular: it had housed followers of the prophet Pharis who had survived earlier purges, it was located west of Frightwall and thus in the way of the burgeoning empire’s military expansion, it was poorly defended… but Simon was beginning to wonder if it had something to do with Belzemine’s presence there.

“I was born in the decades after the Doom to an apothecary and a healer,” she said. “I lived in Jarnvidr and was trained to become a Caretaker with my sister Aza.”

“A Caretaker?” Simon recalled where he had read the term in the context of elven civilization. “Those are elves who directly serve a dryad and take care of her forest on her behalf.”

“Yes. I was raised to ensure the prosperity of Jarnvidr’s manatree. Taught of its… its secrets.” Belzemine’s voice began to waver. “Frea was… a friend I was raised with, and who traveled to Illusea to train as a mage. She returned home the day before the massacre, with the Oracle herself visiting us to proclaim her among her new apprentices.” She clutched her cup. “This… this was a great honor to Jarnvidr’s community.”

So she did meet the Oracle. “What is she like? The Oracle?”

“I… I was young back then, but I still remember her smile,” Belzemine confessed. “She bestowed gifts upon each of the Caretakers on behalf of the Mana Goddess. To me, she gave the Healer Crestone and said…” She gulped. “She said I had a bright future ahead of me.”

And that was one of the most dangerous things to say in a world where the Overlord could rewrite fate.

“Overlord Mardok came for us the very night the Oracle departed to visit another manatree,” Belzemine said, her voice weaker. “He struck in the dark with an army of demons when we were celebrating Frea’s ascension. We were dancing and laughing, and then we were screaming and fleeing.”

“And no one saw it coming?” Simon asked, his heart overflowing with sympathy. The things she must have witnessed that night… he wouldn’t wish it on anyone.

“No,” Belzemine replied darkly. “Lord Mardok had been the Overlord for a little over forty years, but my kind did not truly fear him back then. Many demons had threatened Illusea and the elves even before the Doom, but each time the Oracle and her chosen heroes saw to their defeat. Everyone thought Overlord Mardok would be no different. Many followers of the Light of Pharis went to us for shelter, which we granted.” She avoided Simon’s gaze. “Overlord Mardok… hanged them from the manatree’s branches before setting it on fire.”

And the Oracle failed to see it coming, perhaps because of Anathemic Secrecy. Simon didn’t think it was a coincidence that Mardok attacked the moment she had left Jarnvidr. This reeked of a plan born of foresight granted by a previous reign.

“Only five of us were spared. Me, my parents, my sister Aza… and Frea.” Uttering their names alone seemed to cause Belzemine physical pain. ”Lord Mardok branded my family as his slaves in front of Frea, then let her go free so that she would carry the news of what happened that night to Illusea… so that the Oracle would know that she had failed to save anyone, and that no one was safe from the Overlord’s wrath. I have not seen her since then, though she took the field against Mardok and Gargauth.”

The pieces started to fall into place for Simon. Belzemine wasn’t taken for who she was, but who she would have become, and to send a grim message to the Oracle. She was a lesson that the elves would never live in peace so long as the Overlords remained, and that no foresight would save them from Mardok’s heirs.

That could explain why Illusea wanted Belzemine back and alive. She was a national humiliation and a personal shame to the Oracle, a living reminder of the elves’ powerlessness in the Crimson Throne’s shadow. She was a martyr and hostage to their nation.

That, or the Oracle foresaw that Belzemine would do something extraordinary when she bestowed the Healer Crestone upon her; something so great Mardok personally intervened to put an end to it, and so important that the elves were still trying to recover her three centuries after her abduction.

Simon couldn’t be sure of the Oracle’s reasoning unless he could somehow ask her, and it didn’t matter that much. The elves wanted Belzemine safe and sound enough to forgo their attack on Frightwall, the end.

The Malphases tried to free her, Simon realized. The two always died in reigns where Belzemine stayed in Frightwall, after which she would mysteriously vanish. They told her to evacuate before the strike, and it went wrong somehow.

Considering Belzemine’s psychological dependency on the Overlords, Simon considered it likely that she refused to leave Frightwall and lashed out at the Malphases, killing them during the struggle. With no agents left inside Frightwall to confirm Belzemine’s safety, the elves had no choice but to call off the spell.

This didn’t explain why they didn’t try again after Belzemine disappeared, though. In all likelihood, the spell either lost its anchor or could only be used in specific circumstances, like on a given date. They had missed their one and only chance to decapitate Endymion’s leadership.

“Why did Mardok spare you and your family specifically?” Simon asked. That part remained unclear. “You said you told him something.”

Belzemine didn’t answer him for a very, very long moment. She simply stared at her own reflection in the tea with a look of absolute shame and guilt.

“Caretakers have another duty,” she said, so low he could barely hear her, “Should a manatree perish, we must guide our community to another. To ensure we succeed without losing anyone during the migration and that our new home can welcome us, we… we are taught the location of all manatrees and how many elves they can sustain.”

Simon held his breath, a shiver running down his spine as the true horror of what happened dawned upon him.

“One night, Lord Mardok summoned my family to his throne room.” Now, Belzemine was so pale she began to resemble a corpse. “He… killed my sister Aza where she stood, and then… then he looked at me, his hands still drenched in her blood…” She suppressed a sob. “He wanted the location of every manatree on the continent, and he said… either I would tell him, or he would kill one of my parents like he did my sister… and I would have to choose which one died.”

And she told him. She told Mardok, and he used that information to twist the Stone Muse, launch pogroms against elves across the continent, and slaughter thousands of innocents. And considering her own parents were long dead, he might not have held up his end of the bargain anyway.

The most awful part was that the Brand of Pride compelled its victims to obey an Overlord’s orders. Mardok could have easily forced Belzemine to give up that information. Instead, he chose to make a vicious show of it, to have her forswear herself and willingly betray her own community.

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He had earned his title of the Bloodthirsty, the same way Balzam Magnos lived up to the name of the Cruel.

“How old were you?” Simon asked, his voice breaking.

“I was thirteen,” she confessed. The archmage now sounded as small and frail as a child.

Thirteen. She had seen her community massacred and her family savagely murdered at thirteen.

“Agn–” Simon cursed himself as he took the elf’s cold hands into his own and squeezed them shut. “Belzemine, I swear to you that you will never go through something like this again. I promise you that.”

For a brief instant, Simon saw a brief flash of understanding and the smallest of emotion in Belzemine’s gaze… only for them to leave like shooting stars in the dark night, dashing his hopes.

“Your Majesty need not worry about me,” she said, her slave persona taking over once again. “I am always your faithful servant.”

And it would take so long for her to realize she didn’t have to live that way any longer.

Simon opened his mouth to offer words of reassurance, when he sensed an echo of pain ring in the back of his skull, sharp and familiar. It was the familiar sting of a death echoing through his Brand of Sloth, but closer to home than Shabram. Simon bolted out of his seat, fearing Meredith and Leonard had somehow perished in the bombardments, only to quickly confirm another of his retainers no longer answered his telepathic communications.

“Lorimor?”

Simon learned another very valuable lesson that night, namely, that unstable cultists did not make for good and reliable employees.

Since Lorimor had spent the last few days moping around and being useless, Simon had more or less left him to his own devices as he focused on more important matters. He had assumed the man would simply continue to beg his demon patron for forgiveness, and that had been a colossal mistake.

As it turned out, Lorimor had tried to regain his Muse’s ‘affection’ by taking the radical step of attempting to abduct his son once again, having learned absolutely nothing from the experience. Odette Kano, having foreseen her estranged husband would try something like this, had guards posted in her apartments to protect her son. They shot Lorimor with crossbow bolts when he broke in and threatened them with a knife.

That absolute idiot.

“I told you this would happen,” Odette Kano told Simon when he first laid eyes on his retainer’s hole-riddled corpse. “I will not pay for the tombstone either. You would have been better off gagging him.”

“You are right,” Simon replied angrily. Not only had Lorimor betrayed him by going behind his back and against his orders, he had jeopardized a relationship with a local ally and derailed some of Simon’s plans. “I can’t believe I trusted that fool.”

The ritual was now out of the question unless they found a suitable replacement before the Vernal Equinox. The Muse still had a few hidden cultists in the Whispermire, but whether any of them would count for the Seasonal Key’s strict requirements remained to be seen. While Simon hadn’t been particularly keen on trying it, the loss of an option annoyed him to no end.