Chương 30: Chapter Thirty - End of Book One

"Well done." As far as first words were concerned, William definitely hadn't expected those to be hers. She certainly looked like she wanted to say a few.

"My thanks, mother," he acknowledged, about as gracefully as he could.

"Please be sure to tell Tala it was a hard fought win." And wasn't that the truth. The whole match had just about gone tits up from the very first shot. His plan had been for that first salvo to take out at least two of Tala's teammates – and maybe the girl herself as well. Instead, they'd gotten one before the rest went evasive. One! At the time he'd actually been stunned by that, though he'd not exactly had time to dwell on how his supposedly incredibly skilled team had fucked up so hard.

It had only been a few hours later that he'd realized that the fault was more his own than anything else. Spell-bolts were not bolt-bows. They didn't require as much lead, they had significantly more recoil and the 'feel' of that recoil was different. All factors that a few hours of practice in an open field at night did not come close to ameliorating. With that in mind, it wasn't too hard to understand why his team had missed a series of shots he'd have been able to make blindfolded.

And as a result, Tala's team had been able to retake the initiative and practically decide the course of the engagement for the rest of the match. Proof positive that no plan survives first contact with the enemy, he thought with grim amusement at just how close he'd been to having years of planning nearly go up in flames. Oh, he'd have adapted to a loss. Made new plans. But it wouldn't have been ideal. Not at all.

"For some reason, I doubt either Lady Blackstone will be inclined to read any letters I might think to send." Inside the orb, his mother scoffed.

"Given just how thoroughly you have managed to shatter the ties between us." There was no missing the open censure in his mother's words.

"Perhaps. Still, let us not retread old ground, mother. As I recall, we discussed my plans prior to this most recent conflict and I believe your words equated to 'give it your best shot and I'll give it mine'." He eyed her.

"Try not to be too sullen in defeat, because my shot happened to be stronger." The woman laughed at that.

"Ah, the tits on you boy. Years of planning gone up in flames over your fit of pique and the closest thing you can summon to remorse is 'deal with it'." William shrugged.

"Not all the planning that has occurred over the last ten years has been yours alone, mother." At that, the Ashfield matriarch stilled, a note of caution entering her gaze.

"No, I suppose not. Though you'll forgive your mother for not believing too heavily in the planning ability of a boy of eight." And William didn't blame her for that. Oh, he certainly had his reservations about how she'd made those plans in total contrast to his stated wishes, but not her belief – or lack thereof – in his ability to counter-plan. After all, he'd been eight when he'd started planning his rebellion. What kind of person took to heart the threatening schemes of an eight year old?

Certainly, the intervening years of his continued resistance to her plans might have shaken that belief, but he knew more than most how easy it was to fall into the easy rut of contemptuous familiarity. And even with all that in mind… he didn't believe his mother wrong in dismissing him as a threat. He'd spent the intervening years cultivating that very image after all. That of a flighty layabout of otherwise middling ability.

"It's funny," his mother of this world continued.

"You were such a bright child. Always asking questions. Always reading. Occasionally spouting out bits of otherwise profound insight. In retrospect, I can't help but wonder why I didn't think it odd when all that potential seemed to dry up overnight – relegated only to the kitchen." William's eyes flitted across to the other occupants of the room, the Queen and his Instructor, who were each eying him consideringly.

No doubt they too were wondering just how long he'd been planning this little rebellion – and the frightful answers such a line of enquiry gave rise to. Turning his gaze away from them, he shrugged once more.

"A talented youth squandered on youthful rebellion is a common enough tale." As he spoke, he became aware of just how… commiserating he was being. Perhaps that might have seemed a little odd to others, given the lengths he'd gone to in order to essentially spite his birth-mother. A person who by rights had wronged him gravely in her quest for power. Personally, William thought that a rather shallow view of things. Certainly, his mother's plans had worked against his wishes, but would they have harmed him? Truly?

A lifetime of luxury in the bosom of one of the nation's greatest powers was hardly what most would think of when they thought 'harm'. No, in her own way Janet Ashfield had been looking out for his interests, even as she maneuvered him about like a piece on some great chessboard. Was he a little sore about her stealing the Flashbang out from under him? Yes. The same went for the myriad other slights he'd endured at the woman's hands, from the corporal punishments he'd endured to being disowned as her heir.

Still, even with all that mind he couldn't quite summon up the animosity to be vindictive about it.

"Ha," the woman in question laughed.

"That's true enough. Though more fool me for not seeing through my prodigious son's deception." There was a hint of bitterness in her words, that of an old wound that had been re-opened.

"I take some small personal pride in being difficult to account for," he said quietly. Janet laughed again, though as she spoke, her words seemed mostly directed at herself.

"'Some small personal pride', he says. As if his actions haven't shaken the very core of the nation a half dozen times over the last month." She gazed at him.

"I'm proud of you, my son. Truly. Deeply. Yet at this moment I can't help but wonder if I ever truly knew you." That stung. Quite a lot. Because it was true. Because in some very real way, by being born into this world he'd robbed this woman of her son. Oh, he'd played the part as best he could, but he knew in truth that he was a poor facsimile. Because he'd come into this world with the mind of a man fully formed, if not the body of one.

And to a man who'd lived a full life prior to this, how could the thought of seeing a woman many years his 'junior' and calling her 'mother' seem anything less than unsightly. In some of his quieter moments, he couldn't help but wonder if his mad plan was in some ways borne of that creeping disquiet? Had he chosen a path that set him in opposition to his family because it would help free him of their unsettling entanglements?

After all, it wasn't as if other paths to seeing this nation freed of slavery didn't exist. Paths that might have been less direct, but equally less bloody and prone to risk. The truth was he had no answer to those morbid questions. Only the self-appointed duty he'd thrust upon himself.

"If that is the case," he said slowly.

"Then I can at least say with some confidence that the fault is not your own." It was a meagre thing, as an olive branch, but it was all he could offer. Even if he knew it would bring the woman no true relief.

"You'll forgive me if I don't believe that," she said with a brittle smile. William didn't doubt that his blood-mother would spend many a coming night wondering just how far she'd driven him away by trying to thrust this betrothal upon him… … Without ever knowing that the distance between them had always been as inevitable as the rising of the sun. Perhaps a more open man could have bridged that gap, reconciled the two lives and made new bonds. That wasn't him though. It never had been. He just wasn't that… open.

Too rigid. Too stilted. Both in this life and the last. … With one exception. He coughed.

"With that said, if it were at all possible, might I speak with Olivia?" Even if all his other familial bonds in this world were tainted in some way by those that had come before, that one at least remained pure and untouched by self-reproach. Slowly, those words seemed to rouse Janet Ashfield from her melancholy.

"…You have five minutes. I'll leave it to you to explain why your coming visit this Winter Festival will be so awkward." William winced. He had a feeling that might take a little longer than five minutes. It also seemed that while he wasn't feeling vindictive about how this whole charade had gone down, the feeling wasn't entirely mutual. Though to be fair, he'd been on the winning side of said charade. It was a lot easier to be magnanimous in victory than graceful in defeat.

Tala sat brokenly as she stared at the ruined remains of the room she was in. Chairs lay in shattered heaps where she'd thrown them against the walls. Tables were bent and broken. And most tellingly of all, the shattered chips of a crystalline orb were scattered against the back wall. That'll be expensive to replace, she thought absently. And it'll probably come out of my stipend. This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon. She laughed woodenly.

There was a decent chance she wouldn't even have a stipend by the end of the week. Perhaps under different circumstances she might have been able to argue against that. Wrathful as her mother was, the woman wouldn't want to see their house's prestige take yet more damage by having her heir incapable of affording basic sundries. She was pragmatic like that. Unfortunately, now it was a moot point. There wouldn't be any political rivals aboard the Blackstone fleet. Just hard nosed rugged sailors and marines.

What did it matter if they saw that she couldn't afford the latest fashions? Or to keep her men in decent dress? Not that there'd be any men either aboard the fleet. Excepting perhaps a few orc cabin boys, she thought. And it'd be a hot day in the depths before she lowered herself to touching one of those communal disease piles. She lay back against the cool stone of the wall before sliding down to sit on the hard tile floor. Her name was in tatters. The third year who'd lost to a team of firsties.

Worse, a team of firsties with an orc amongst their number – an orc who'd swung her about like a damn rag doll. Never mind that the first years had access to an otherwise unheard of weapon that was capable of piercing right through armour. Never mind that her team had all but been taking the first years apart before that. No, the rumor mill didn't care for unfortunate little facts like that. Only that the high and mighty Tala Blackstone had lost.

A lifetime of doing as she'd been told, striving to be the best daughter of House Blackstone that she could be, and it had all been undone in a single day. The only bright side to the whole debacle was by being pulled from the academy she'd need not hear the taunts of her rivals. It'd only been a day, but already she'd heard more than she cared to stomach as she stormed through the halls. Even within the walls of the Blackstone dormitory the air was… stilted. Her team would be disbanded, of course.

Though they didn't know it. Even now they stood steadfastly outside the room, guarding the entrance and ensuring her privacy, even as those in the halls sneered at them. Loyal even now. Her mother hoped that by wiping the name she might wipe the shame. More to the point, those same steadfast friends of hers would find no reprieve from this loss even on fresh teams. Tala's mother intended to tar and feather them. Steadfast friends Tala had known since she was old enough to have even a faint idea of the concept.

They were going to be offered up as social sacrifices. The blame for Tala's defeat aimed at the ineptitude of her 'teammates'. Bad luck and 'coincidence' was going to follow them like a plague. Corroborating evidence as to their incompetence. And Tala was powerless to argue otherwise. Not with the magnitude of her failure weighing on her tongue like an anchor. And the cause of that failure? Her fist clenched.

"William Ashfield," she muttered, poison practically dripping from each syllable. She hated him. Truly. It was the kind of hate she'd never known herself capable of. After all, she hated the orcs. She hated the elves. She hated the royal family. Hate was an old friend of hers. And yet this sensation was new, painful in its intensity. This was true hate. And it was directed at one man.

"William Ashfield." He'd pay. He needed to pay. One way or the other, Tala Blackstone would have her vengeance. And it would be bloody. …Though it would need to wait. For now she would bide her time and lick her wounds. And William Ashfield would enjoy his triumph. It would only make it all the sweeter when she one day ripped it away from him.

"Kraken Slayer," someone whispered in awe as William walked past. For his part, he sighed tiredly as he continued ambling his way back to his room. He drew a lot of attention as he walked through the halls, but the two academy servants serving as his escort acted to ward away any curious onlookers who might have approached. After his call with Olivia – which had been understandably tense given the damage he'd done to their house - he'd shared a few more words with the Queen.

Mostly vague comments on the means by which he'd killed Al'Hundra. Irritatingly vague. The Queen had not been subtle about wanting to know more, but by the same token she knew she couldn't push him too hard. His little fallback plan ensured she couldn't just take it from him, and that meant she needed to play nice and win him over.

Oh, he'd share the means by which he'd killed Al'Hundra eventually – he needed to if the crown were to recover enough cores to stand a chance against the North – but he'd do it on his terms. That was a problem for tomorrow though. For today, he just felt… drained. Mentally, he was exhausted. Emotionally, he felt battered. Physically he felt like both and more. Still, his building lethargy wasn't so great that he failed to notice the uncomfortable shifting of the guards outside his team's room.

For a moment his heart skipped a beat as his mind leapt to the worst possible reasons for it, before reason reasserted itself. House Blackstone wouldn't strike at them so openly after their loss. And definitely not within the walls of the academy. Bonnlyn's probably just being irritatingly… Bonnlyn and they can hear it through the door, he thought. With that said, if she was up and about he'd be a little impressed.

He knew the dwarf had a decent tolerance given how much of her smuggled booze she'd managed to put away last night before hitting the deck, but he had no idea that it would translate to an equally impressive ability to shrug off a hangover. Or at least, that was what he was thinking right up until he took another breath and gagged. Christ on a cracker, he thought as he winced at the smell wafting down the hall from his team's dormitory.

Why does it- He'd barely started to have the thought before he connected the dots. Ah, he thought. Marline. Marline and her family's mithril core. A mithril core he'd stashed in the outfield's latrines as a temporary measure. Latrines that had likely seen a lot of use yesterday, given that a decent chunk of the academy staff had 'coincidentally' come down with food poisoning. For a moment he wondered if it had been Marline or her recently arrived Aunts that had done the deed of fishing the thing out.

For another moment, he considered turning around and going back the way he'd come. He didn't though, as nice as the thought was. Instead, he took a deep breath and bravely strode onward.

Sienna sighed as the orb went dead. Across the ocean, she knew that even now the myriad ocean bound vessels that allowed her to connect all the way to Lindholm would be lifting anchor and moving on. Like a solar eclipse coming undone, she thought. Until such time as she had need to speak with her subordinates in Lindholm once more. At which point the many traders and 'pirates' that plied the Eastern Sea between Mantle and Lindholm would 'coincidentally' assemble once more. Simple. Elegant. And undetected.

"It seems the plans of our Lindholmian allies have hit a snag," she murmured dispassionately.

"The civil war they promised may well have been delayed for years." All as a result of one young man's actions. A human man. She sneered at the very thought. That the direction of a nation could be so weak as to be directed by the fumbling of a single male.

"It need not be, my empress, simply command House New Haven to push harder for their conspirators to act." Lea said, her advisor's pale frowning face standing out in the quiet gloom of Sienna's study.

"Short sighted as this Eleanor Blackstone seems, the half-life would surely not require much prompting." Sienna considered it, before shaking her head.

"Half-life though she may be, she is no fool. Ambitious beyond her station, yes, but not beyond reason." If House New Haven pushed for a war now, the human woman might grow suspicious of her 'ally's' true motives. No, House Blackstone needed to believe they could conduct their coup without weakening Lindholm enough to invite invasion. Never mind that that was New Haven's goal. After all, not all of the rebel lords had forgotten their true allegiances.

True, the House of merchants was primarily motivated by the gold and power that would be made available to them when the Solites ruled Lindholm, but Sienna knew she did not imagine Lady Faline's disgust was feigned when she discussed the encroachment of the lesser races on her domain. No, the woman was a true believer in the Solite cause – merely one that required more than one motivation to act on that belief.

Motivation that Sienna was more than willing to provide just so long as it gave her the opening she needed to expand her nation's holdings. Maybe then we might finally crush the damned desert rats once and for all, she thought with a smile. Ultimately, the delay was unfortunate, but that was all. She was no half-life after all, that needed to grasp at what precious few moments they had in this life in the hopes of achieving anything of scant meaning. No, she was a high-elf. Time was her weapon.

To that end, an opportunity would present itself with time. Likely not even all that much of it. Such was the nature of half-lives. Ever scrambling. She need only wait.

William was dreaming. He recognized it from the moment he was capable, though he didn't remember falling asleep. He rarely did. Presumably he'd gone to bed sometime after Marline had finished shouting at him for forcing her to go diving into a latrine pit. As for why he knew this was a dream? It was hard not to, what with the quiet hum of electrical lighting overhead and the distant sounds of a city outside. Honking horns. Car engines. The occasional beeping of a truck backing up.

No, the dusty warehouse he was currently standing in was something entirely a product of memories of a previous lifetime. The only exception was one of the occupants.

"Puck," he said slowly, using a random name as he generally did. Puck seemed appropriate this time.

"Contractor," the spindly floating spider thing 'responded'. Though he struggled to call what it did speaking. Nor could he truly claim the thing was a spider. Because it was an ant. With a deep voice. It was a pixie. With an ethereal tone. It was an elf. With a man's voice. It was an orc. With a woman's voice. It was a star. With no voice. It was an ocean. With a hundred voices. It was… it was… It wasn't worth thinking about. As a rule of thumb, he found it best not to dwell on the fae. They were alien.

Unknowable. His brain rejected its very presence even as it tried to squeeze itself into something he could understand. Poorly. Because it couldn't understand how he understood. So he paid it little attention. Instead he focused his gaze on the small terminal that sat in the centre of the room. A small computer on an equally small desk. He ignored the way the chair failed to make a noise as he sat down, nor the way the computer frayed at the edges, switching between one model and the next.

If he bothered to focus on it, he'd find the rest of the warehouse was much the same. Few things remained solid in a dream. A mortal mind could only contain so much. There were exceptions though… Weapons, he typed into the terminal, ignoring how the keys lacked letters. Intent mattered more than actions here. … For most things. After all, not everything here was borne of a mortal mind. Sourced perhaps, but the vector was distinctly inhuman.

As inhuman as the being floating somewhere a few feet behind him and an entirely reality away. As his finger hit what might nebulously have been called the 'enter' key, the warehouse came alive. Racks upon racks seemed to fly out of the middle distance, grinding into the soft material of the dream warehouse like a rock shattering the surface of a lake. William stood up, ignoring the way the terminal and desk just seemed to… disappear. Instead, he moved to walk along the aisles that had formed from the many racks.

His fingers ran over the surface of an ARMALITE AR-10, as he marvelled in the cool sensation of the metal under his fingertips. He didn't doubt that if he touched the stock, he'd find a small crack there. Couldn't doubt it. He knew. He couldn't not know. The knowledge was so sure it burned. He moved on. His hand brushed over a M68 FRAGMENTATION GRENADE. His hand brushed over a MODEL 870 FIELDMASTER. His hand brushed over a FATMAN NUCLEAR FISSION GRAVITY BOMB. And yet the racks went on and on.

Off into the distance, beyond the range of what he knew the warehouse should have been able to hold. Every weapon that GEORGE STATFIELD had ever seen, touched or even read about - even so much as an errant glance. Recreated here and now. With a clarity that no human mind should have been capable of. Yelena had asked him if he'd ever intentionally engaged in Harrowing. He'd said no and he'd not lied. Not truly. Harrowing was the act of asking the Fae not for power, but for information.

Truthfully, it wasn't actually difficult to do. In most ways it was even easier than the simplest of spells. After all, one need only ask. And as he had the thought, he could feel the Fae all-but hovering over his shoulder. It wanted him to ask. Anything. It didn't care what. It would honor the terms of any deal he asked. Within the realm of what it was capable of. And for all their power, the Fae were no more capable of understanding him than they were of experiencing emotions as William knew them.

To that end, asking one for information was as close to the analogy of a monkey paw as one could get. As an example, if William asked it for information on how to fly, it was entirely possible he'd get info on how a species from an alien world flapped its wings. … Or he might get the entire tech base of an entirely different winged species downloaded into his brain, from the moment of flapping said wings right up until the heat-death of the universe. And he'd never forget it. Ever.

It would be seared into the very fabric of his mind – and most likely drive him utterly irrevocably mad in the process. After all, a human mind had limits. William glanced over at a Wikipedia page on LATE ERA ROMAN PILUM. He needn't have bothered. He already knew the contents. He couldn't forget it. Along with a thousand million other things. Sighing, despite the lack of air in his lungs, he sat back down at a computer terminal that hadn't been there a second ago, once more in the center of an empty warehouse.

The fae floated behind him. And for a moment, he was tempted to ask what question an infant William Ashfield asked it that had resulted in the entirety of GEORGE STATFIELD'S mind being downloaded into his – forever wiping away whatever might have once been the young boy. He didn't, of course. There were simpler ways to commit suicide. No, instead he simply had to deal with the consequences of that boy's actions. That boy who was him. Those memories that thought they were the boy.

That boy who thought he was the man. The memories that puppeted the boy. The boy that used the memories. He'd long since given up trying to figure out if he was the machine or simply the ghost within it. William? George? He didn't know. More to the point, he had more important things to do. With an errant thought, a sketchpad appeared in his left hand as his other moved what was now a typewriter.

'World War Two Fighter Craft / Engines', he typed. And then they appeared. All the Engines. And William started making plans / And George started making plans. The fae watched. With something a mortal mind might have called eagerness.