Chương 73: Chapter Seventy Three

"Ugh. Just look at this place. Bad enough mother chose to run off with her tail between her legs rather than accept the inevitable, she couldn't even do me the decency of cleaning up a bit first." Countess Brien of House Brienhell did her level best to ignore the ongoing commentary of her 'charge' as they strode through the shattered corridors of the Royal Palace of Lindholm at the woman-child's request. Although privately, she couldn't help but agree on some level. The place was a mess.

Half of it was practically open to the elements where the walls and ceilings had fallen in – while the other half had all but sank into the earth. Still, according to the engineers they'd brought with them, what remained was still more or less structurally sound. Which was unfortunate, because otherwise they might have been able to avoid indulging their 'queen to be's' latest whim.

Unfortunately, that wasn't the case, and as such they were on the way to visit the royal throne room – where the royal throne still sat. Which was darkly amusing in a way. The former queen had been so quick to flee the metaphorical seat of her power in face of the North's power that she'd left the literal seat behind. … Or perhaps she was too busy tinkering with… whatever the fuck took down the Orc's Bane and the Steely Will to care about an old chair? She thought.

"So, do you think it was sabotage or some kind of super weapon?" her opposite number from New Haven asked quietly enough so as not to be overheard. Calla Ironsleet was… tolerable. For an elf. Of course, it helped that the pair of them had a common enemy in the form of the Princess. As for the question, it was one Brien had heard more than a few times over the past week.

"Sabotage. It had to be," she responded.

"That ship was filled with something and the Queen detonated it in order to cover her retreat."

"Perhaps," the elf allowed.

"I just can't see it. Even for Yelena – to destroy one of her own ships just to strike at us?" Brien resisted the urge to snort in derision. That was the problem with elves. Or at least individual ones. They lacked imagination.

"Once upon a time the idea of fighting over open water was considered unthinkable. Now there's talk of ships that sail underwater." She shrugged.

"And besides? What's the alternative? That Yelena had some kind of super-weapon that outranges any aether-cannon and she chose to unveil it by destroying one defecting ship?"

"Spell-bolts." Brien rolled her eyes. A technique developed by Tala Blackstone's traitorous fiancé. Though just about everyone who heard the tale of the farcical duel knew it was really the Queen who developed it and gave it to the young strumpet in an attempt to humiliate their liege lady's heir. And probably fucked him as payment for good measure, she thought.

Still, from the hands of their enemy or not, the North hadn't hesitated to make use of the new technique for their mage-knights – and some of their ships as well. Brien looked at her companion.

"Ok, even if they managed to extend the range of some kind of projectile, you're suggesting that they had some kind of weapon that could smite three ships out of the air. You saw the size of that explosion." Calla shuddered a little.

"Like an entire household's enchanting stockpile going up at once." Yeah, that sounded about right. Truth be told, some part of her still thought that was what happened – and that the Queen had just found some way to mask the magical signature aboard the ship.

"Still," Calla continued.

"Some kind of super-enchantment on a cannonball is not outside the realm of possibility. The Lindholm line is Imperial…" Which meant that theoretically, the line could have been layering explosive enchantments on a single object for hundreds of years. Since before the founding of Lindholm. Multiple generations of mages working beneath the Royal Palace. It was the sort of thing you heard rumors about from time to time, but only ever as an errant what if.

The potency of each enchantment grew less effective the more you layered them, so while what Calla was talking about was possible, it was grossly inefficient. You'd be better served simply layering two or three enchantments on a single cannonball and stockpiling as many of those as you could. As just about every house already did. Though we in the North never have the opportunity to stockpile as much as we might like before the Orcs decided to make an issue of themselves once more, she thought.

Indeed, last she'd heard, Duchess Blackstone was in arguments with that of New Haven over their next move. Elanor wanted to fortify the capital while sending some of the fleet back to siege out the loyalist forts and keeps they'd flown over while driving South. In doing so, she could seize their enchanted cannonball stockpiles. The Duchess of House New Haven wanted to pursue the Royal Navy all the way south and force them and the southern duchies into a pitched battle.

Though we might as well send letters to the Lunites and Solites saying 'please invade us now' if we go that route, she thought.

"Ok," Brien grunted.

"Assuming they have some kind of super cannonball they've been enchanting since before the fall of the Imperium – you really think they'd waste it on a single defecting ship? And not say, one of our flagships?" The elf coloured slightly.

"It would explain why they retreated immediately afterwards. They only had the one shot." She coughed, before continuing.

"But it's also possible the Queen used some other weapon we aren't aware of. You've heard the tales I'm sure?"

"Aetherless-shards. Fire rockets. And some kind of weapon that allowed for a shard to take down an entire airship singlehanded. As much as we want to deny those things exist, our own… princess has confirmed they exist." The pair glanced forward toward where the inebriated woman nearly tripped over a fallen flagstone, only avoiding planting her face into the floor by the timely assistance of one of Calla's other knights.

"…As did a number of other witnesses we've interrogated since reaching the capital," she sighed.

"I guess," Brien allowed reluctantly.

"And then there's the Kraken Slayer," the elf continued.

"Perhaps that was what caused the explosion. It was launched via the aid of some kind of spell-cannon?"

"Or the ship was filled with whatever the Kraken Slayer is to begin with," Brien shot back.

"Because if it was as potent as you're describing, we'd all already likely be dead." Three ships from beyond aether-cannon range? Forget using it to kill krakens and raid their nests for cores, you'd be better served heading over to the continent and blowing up a few Solite or Lunite ships. Then you could pry the cores out of their smoking hulks – and there'd be sweet fuck all anyone could do to stop you.

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. Maybe there are conditions of its use we're unfamiliar with. Either way, I believe it's an explosive," the woman insisted.

"Because I'm pretty sure it's also responsible for the issues our people have been having 'settling in'." This time it was Brien's turn to shudder. The 'bombing' campaign they'd been suffering from pretty much the moment they started garrisoning the city had been… rough. Barracks. Armouries. Hangars. To hear people talk about that first day in the city, a mage or a pleb would open a drawer or sit on a chair – and then be randomly blown to bits. Or set alight. Orders had naturally gone out to find the cause.

But it wasn't easy. Mostly because the explosions and fires left little evidence of what caused them just by the nature of how they operated. Void, they'd initially thought the deaths were being caused by loyalists who'd stayed behind rather than traps. By the time they'd realized what they were dealing with 'invisible traps' – all of the obvious locations to search for them had already gone off. The only ones that remained seemed to have been placed with little in the way of rhyme or reason.

Which meant they were near impossible to find – until they went off. Last I heard some poor bitch was burned to death visiting an outhouse near the academy this morning, she thought. Not even a mage-knight – just a random sailor.

"Perhaps," she allowed.

"Though if that is the case, we'll find out soon enough. They managed to find one of the traps before it went off the other day." Under a box of mouldy potatoes.

"I heard," Calla said quietly.

"Unfortunately, I also heard that we lost two alchemists – one from each of our houses - when the pair attempted to open the device to inspect the insides." She hadn't heard that.

"Really? Shit."

"Shit indeed," the elf allowed.

"Either way, much like whatever destroyed those three ships, those traps are invisible to our magical senses." Their argument came to a pause as their charge finally reached a large set of double doors.

"Well, get on with it?" Solanna grunted. Resisting the urge to respond, Brien gestured for one of her five knights to open the doors for the woman. Typical Southerner, she thought as Calla did likewise, sending forward one of her own people. Soon enough the doors to the throne room were open and the spoiled princess strode in. She moved toward the throne with the imperious stride of someone who had never once doubted her right to sit there.

"Ugh, look at this place," the woman sighed.

"Did none of you think to try to clean up before bringing me here?" Bring her here? The woman had randomly woken up this morning and decided she wanted to get to the throne room. And clean up? Brien glanced around. The once austere room was practically a ruin. They'd not thought to 'clean up' because any cleaning they might have thought to do would likely be undone when the wind blew in again through the hole in the wall. Or birds chose to shit through the one in the ceiling. Or it next rained. Enjoying the story?

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"Apologies princess," Cala responded.

"Your request to visit your throne caught us most off guard. Given the state of the city after the pirate attack and your mother's flight, our priorities have mostly been on restoring functionality to the skydocks." Or any number of other vital pieces of infrastructure. The palace had barely been an afterthought.

"Well how am I expected to rule my new nation from a ruin? I can hardly have my coronation here with the palace in such a state can I? Why hasn't the reconstruction started already!?" Solanna hissed as she finished rubbing her hand over the amrest of the throne. Which Brien might have been worried about given the ongoing bombing campaign they'd suffered, but she'd had the throne room checked out days ago for traps. Magical and conventional.

She'd even had one of the 'free orcs' – some noble's old maid - that had been prepped for sending back up North sit in the throne to ensure that it didn't trigger anything. Nothing happened. Naturally, they'd disposed of the fat old greenskin afterward to keep it secret that one of their ilk had defiled the throne, but it seemed that no matter what depths Yelena might have sunk to, she'd hesitated at destroying her own literal seat of power.

Which was fortunate, because it would only give further legitimacy to her moronic replacement.

"There are other venues available my princess, the academy for example has been spared much-" Brien started to say.

"No!" The woman hissed.

"It will be here! This is the palace. I am to be Queen. I will be coronated on this chair!" Her bit said, she sat down. Something clicked. And then she exploded. One moment the woman was there, the next Brien found herself ass-down on the stone tiles, ears ringing, and bits of princess dribbling down her chest plate. And the throne was gone. Simply gone. A small smoking crater occupied the space where it had stood, the stone beneath cracked in radiating spokes.

Glancing over, she saw that Calla was in a similar position as herself – bowled over and covered in… Solana. As were the many knights that had been here specifically to protect the woman.

"W-we checked it!" One of them hissed.

"Someone sat in it!" Brien's mouth opened. Then closed. Finally, she spoke.

"Shit." From her right, her opposite number echoed her words.

"Yes. Shit." Absently, Brien reached up to wipe… a little ear off her shoulder.

"How the fuck are we going to explain this?!"

"I…I really don't know," Clera said slowly – the dark elf paler than the human had ever seen her before.

"I really don't." …They'd checked the chair!

Marcille was a little amused as William went from fae-may-care firebrand to the young man he actually was as he watched their family approach. It was actually rather endearing, to see that he could actually be discomfited about something. Though he needn't be. Papa wasn't scary. And neither were their aunties. She placed a small comforting hand on his shoulder – as did Clarice – before stepping forward to intercept their family.

Father's green eyes, so much like their own, flashed with joy as he swept both her and Clarice up in a fierce hug. Marcille let herself sink into it for a heartbeat, the familiar weight of family easing something tight in her chest. Looking over Papa's shoulder, she favoured aunties Yurine and Uriel with a smile. Eventually though, the hug unclenched and the trio of older Whitemore's turned toward William.

"Lord Ashfield," Father said, voice warm but appraising as he offered a hand.

"Or should I say Count Redwater? You've certainly caused quite a stir down South, young man." William clasped the offered hand firmly.

"All good stir, I hope, Lord Whitemorrow." Aunt Uriel laughed.

"That rather depends who you ask. It's not every day one hears about a young man taking on a team of third years all in an attempt to wriggle out of an unwanted engagement."

"Ah, that. Well, I can't say I regret it. And I also feel rather vindicated in my actions now that the Blackstones have revealed themselves as the blackhearted traitors they are. Besides…" He glanced at the twins, smiling warmly in a way that made Marcille's stomach do an odd little flip.

"If I hadn't done as I did, I'd never have met Clarice and Marcille." Both twins blushed in perfect unison - something they'd never quite managed to grow out of. Would that he was always this smooth, she thought. Alas, their relationship tended to be more… workmanlike than anything romantic. And that was fine – even if sometimes she might wish for more. Still, she was glad he was clearly putting in the effort to impress their parents and make this work.

"Well, the fact that the two of them are now set to inherit a rather large duchy probably helps sweeten the deal too, eh?" Father joked innocently. Because as nobles there would always be some truth to that, but one didn't generally come out and say it – in public. So it was an entirely innocent jest. And Marcille really wished he hadn't made it as William's face split into a smile she was coming to grow all too familiar with.

Marline had warned her about it – and she saw the young dark elf tensing slightly from her inobtrusive position behind William's shoulder. William could be normal. He could be charming. He could be suave and brilliant. … Right up until he wasn't.

"Entirely correct," William said, happily unconcerned about the sudden stillness that spilled over the Whitemorrow party.

"That's precisely why I wanted to speak with you all so soon. You see, I have plans for the Summerfield duchy. Serious plans. Industrialisation on a scale Lindholm has never seen. Steel production. Fuel refineries – that's the stuff that makes my aetherless-shards run. And workshops that should hopefully be able churn out my Corsairs by the dozen before the end of the year." He beamed up at aunt Uriel, having clearly identified her as the 'highest ranking' member of the group.

"And I'm telling you all this now, straight out, because I don't want anyone getting in my way when it comes time to, well, pay up. Because anyone I side with is going to win this upcoming succession. The Jellyfish and my Corsairs will make any battle between the claimants a foregone conclusion – especially given the state of the ships I saw coming in." He nodded.

"Of course, I'm afraid that if you decline my generous offer to uplift our new duchy, I'm afraid I'll be forced to back my sister for similar terms. I assume you're already aware of her blood relation to the now dearly deceased brother of our now equally dearly deceased duchess?" He gave a small, apologetic shrug.

"Of course, I'm sorry if this seems rather forward, but there's a war to win and I can't afford to dance around the subject. So I thought I'd just lay it all out now. The twins are already aware, of course." Marcille and Clarice both sighed in the silence that followed. They'd starting growing used to William's particular brand of directness - had even come to find it oddly endearing in its own terrifying way - but they'd hoped to ease their family into it over time.

Alas, they'd not accounted for William's 'drama-king nature' as Marline liked to put it. Which was why she was at least somewhat thankful as she saw Marline's boot connect neatly with William's ankle in a decidedly subtle manner. And the cad actually had the audacity to look surprised, eyes widening for half a second, then recovered with a cough.

"Of course, I really do like the twins," he added hastily, as though the previous thirty seconds hadn't happened.

"They're both brilliant inventors. Truly. The Basilisk is definitely going to be a paradigm changer in time. Marcille found herself fighting a second sigh, though this one was fonder than the first. She imagined most women might have preferred other brands of compliment – but the truth was that she and Clarice really did take pride in being good inventors. And as far as the basis for an actual relationship? Well, she'd heard of weaker ones for an arranged marriage.

That fact didn't make their father and aunts seem any less poleaxed though. Aunt Uriel recovered first, clearing her throat with exquisite dignity.

"Well, that's good to know. We'll certainly keep that in mind. With that said, might we borrow our daughters for a moment? It's been far too long since we spoke face to face. Of course, we'd be delighted to catch up at length with you later and talk your... proposal over at length."

"Of course," William said, unbothered as ever.

"It's actually long past due I had a private conversation with my own family." Father managed a smile that only looked slightly strained.

"We'd also love to meet them after."

"I'm sure," William agreed, as he allowed Marline to steer him away with a hand at the small of his back.

"It was lovely meeting you all."

"And you young man!" Father responded before turning back to Clarice and Marcille and speaking in a quieter tone.

"That's who you picked!?"

"He's quirky," Clarice defended instantly, the words leaving her mouth with the speed of long practice.

"His pipers are leaking aether." Aunt Yurine exhaled sharply.

"Did he really blow up one of his own airships just to blow up two other airships?"

"Yes – but isn't that the whole point of an airship!? To blow up other airships?"

"Not by exploding your own!" her aunt protested, voice rising half an octave.

"I don't know, I think my daughter raises a decent point. One I'd not really thought of before." Father chuckled.

"Tell me, did he really figure out a way to make aether-less shards?" The twins nodded in unison and their father looked delighted, but before he could open his mouth, Aunt Uriel interrupted quietly.

"Yes, on that front. There are rumors. Some say he's… harrowed." Clarice frowned.

"Was he drooling? Or writing on the walls in his own faeces?"

"Not all harrowed are the same," Aunt Yurine pointed out. Marcille stepped in before the conversation could spiral.

"Yes, but it's pretty obvious when they are. He's quirky. He's direct. He could probably learn to coach statements a little more gently, but I think it's pretty obvious he's not mad." Yurine frowned.

"I… suppose. Though I can't believe he just talked to us like that." Marcille shrugged. She wasn't a fan either, but she also recognized that they needed William more than he needed them. And she knew he didn't mean anything by it.

"Do you actually have an issue with what he said, or are you just balking at how he said it?"

"Can I say it's a little of both," Father admitted slowly – his lust for shard-based technology momentarily put on hold. Marcille pressed on though.

"He's not wrong. I don't know if you noticed from down here, but we are at war now. We've just lost the capital. I'd say if there was a time for any suitor of ours to be direct about what he wanted from us, this was the time for it." Was she retroactively justifying William being William? Yes. It didn't make it untrue though.

"I… suppose," Uriel admitted.

"Is it steam?" Father asked.

"What?" Marcille asked.

"The aetherless shards? Do they use steam? I remember someone talking about using it to create a landship some time ago, but it never went anywhere that I recall."

"Harold, honestly. Can you focus for one moment?" Yurine sighed, drumming the handle of her ceremonial sword. Her father shrugged.

"I am. I can be worried about this young man and asking questions about his inventions at the same time."

"Contained explosions, actually," Marcille said happily.

"He explained it on the way over here. There's a substance called gasoline that ignites to push pistons. Which turn the propellers much like a regular shard would. There's no aether ballasts though, so it needs to generate momentum before it can get any lift."

"Contained explosions!?" both aunts cried in unison. Father's eyes lit up.

"Fascinating." Marcille laughed, the sound low and warm.

"I know, right?"

"Is that…." Father continued, turning the concept over in his mind.

"Is that why this Jellyfish of his has a flat top? We were just commenting on the odd shape on the way over here. It's because his shards can't land vertically. They need a running stop to land and bleed off momentum." He leaned in as another idea occurred.

"Actually, how do the bolt-bows work without aether? Does that also use gasoline to-""Enough," Aunt Uriel said, cutting him off with the firmness of long practice.

"You can pick their brains about that later. Or ask the boy himself. I'm sure he'll indulge you."

"Right," Marcille agreed, seizing the opening.

"Our point is, even if William can be a bit much... agreeing to let him use the duchy to build up our industry to churn out his inventions can only benefit us."

"More to the point," Clarice added quietly.

"He wasn't wrong when he said whoever he backs will take the title. I think we all know the succession is going to end up an honor-duel – and whichever side has the Jellyfish on it is going to win that."

"Really?" Yurine asked.

"It has forty Corsairs aboard auntie," Marcille said.

"Forty!?" The woman gasped.

"I'd heard the stories about him 'saving the capital' but…"

"It's true," Clarice continued.

"Whatever you've heard, it's all true. Those Corsairs of his. They aren't cheap knock-offs of real shards. They're… dangerous." Aunt Uriel sighed, shoulders dropping a fraction. Finally, she turned to the girls.

"You're sure about this?" Marcille smiled.

"As sure as we can be about anything. We want the title. William is how we'll get it. And as for loving him? I don't know. We like him well enough." Father trailed off.

"Do I need to discretely give him some tips for the, uh…" Both twins flared red immediately.

"No!"

"We've not even done anything like that yet!"

"What, you haven't? Father cocked his head, then chuckled.

"Well, he has better self-control than I did at his age. Although, seeing the Dark Elf he was with, are you sure he's not… you know."

"Marline's a woman," Clarice said dryly.

"And we know he's not… like that, because he's sleeping with one of the instructors. And one of his knights," Clarice said dryly.

"Really? And an instructor!?" Father's voice rose again – and Marcille hated that he sounded impressed.

"Yes, Papa. The other dark elf. Over there," she supplied, pointing discreetly toward where Griffith stood near the Queen's table. Father followed her finger, spotted the tall, severe woman and let out a low whistle.

"Well, nutty or not, my respect for him just went way up."

"Harold!" Aunt Uriel scolded. Marcille sighed, even if she was a little amused.

"Anyway," Clarice said, steering them back on course.

"Do we have your blessing to go ahead with this. We'll have to have the marriage soon – before the succession duel starts?"

"You have it," Aunt Uriel nodded.

"Not that you need it at your age, but you've got it all the same." Both twins grinned, sending each other triumphant looks. Looks that vanished as Papa suddenly got… serious.

"Now, with all that out of the way, what's this I hear about you two taking the Basilisk up against an entire airship single-handed!?" Both twins winced. It took a lot to make Papa mad, but when he was… Hopefully William's own conversation with his family was going more smoothly, she thought as she got ready to throw her sister under the carriage by saying it was her idea.

"You want to what?" William couldn't believe his ears.

"Support you and those Whitemorrow girls in your bid for the Summerfield duchy," Janet Ashfield repeated calmly. Behind her, Olivia's lower lip was doing its absolute best tremble. Still, as much as William wanted to comfort her, he still couldn't believe his ears.

"What?"