149 - The Visit

Cillian Camhanach rubbed his eyes before staring back down at the scrolls on his table.

Paperwork. It used to be his least favorite task, but now that he had gotten older, it became something that brought him calm.

It was a boon from the chaos of the day. Of the entire week, actually. Riorke would never know how his actions and his subsequent imprisonment in the dungeon had tormented his father. Cillian couldn’t sleep without suffering dreams of his late wife accusing him of abandoning their son. Of Riordan telling him how weak he was for allowing Artis to punish Riorke as he did.

He could have put a stop to it. He could have gone to the General’s abode and demanded the immediate release of Riorke from his imprisonment.

But he knew the second he did, Riorke would lose.

The Hand of the empire was an assigned role for the commanding officer of the protective force of Pyronis and its colonies. Typically, the role was given to a Lord Camhanach, as the Camhanach army was by far the most powerful and loyal force in the empire. However, in Cillian’s father’s time, that had changed. The ministers had begun whispering to King Gregor about how unfair it was that only one family held so much military power in the region, alerting him to the potential for a disastrous coup with all the power consolidated in their hands.

The King, desperate to keep the peace and appeal to the representatives of the other groups, eventually relented. Perhaps he had also grown paranoid of the Camhanach’s military strength, or perhaps he simply did it to appease his elders. Either way, he had opened it up and declared that one could be challenged for the position and voted out by the ministers while the King still held administrative power to select the next Hand.

Cillian was the last Camhanach hand before the King's death, and had been accused of not doing enough to prevent said death. Camhanach warriors and guards had stood by while the King was slaughtered, they said. That gave the ministers an excuse to then demand a new Hand. It was decided that it would be Artis, a neutral option, a very distant cousin of the crown who had no desire to sit on the seat, or so they said.

Cillian didn’t have a problem with the man on principle. Of course, his pride stung, and the way they went about things left a bad taste in his mouth, but he did not withdraw the Camhanach's support of the crown, as some feared he would. As he saw it, Artis was qualified, for the most part, loyal to the empire and had led several successful campaigns against invaders. Outside of his grueling training methods, he wasn’t a bad choice.

However, there remained tension between him and the Camhanachs. Riordan had hated serving under him, and had decided to fight for the title of the Hand.

A reflexive pang had Cillian rubbing his chest.

His son was a strategist, and should have stayed as such, but he'd stated that he was tired of Artis ignoring his strategic suggestions and making decisions that led to more casualties than necessary. He’d thought he could do a better job, despite the limitations brought on by his lack of magical acumen.

Riordan had been determined to prove himself with that final campaign.

And now that he was dead, Riorke was determined to follow in his footsteps.

Cillian's hand wrapped around the stem of his quill, squeezing as a pressure built up in his chest. He closed his eyes, took deep breaths, and opened them once more.

Never again.

He would never lose his son in the same way.

A part of him had hoped Riorke had given up on his goal to become the Hand after he went off to magic school, rather than a war academy. Riorke had more magical talent than his brother, though it wasn't saying much considering the reports from all his tutors. Cillian himself wasn't much of a mage, despite being an adept. He knew a few spells and focused on maximizing his build, but he would never be mistaken for a talented magic caster.

A great warrior, certainly.

A tactician, sure.

But magic would forever be a Camhanach's weakness.

Given his discovery, though, that could change very quickly for them.

They only needed time.

If Riorke truly wanted to be a hand, he could gain it, but he would have to be patient and not seek every fight he could throw himself into. He would have to stop losing the battle of wills against Artis, and he would have to start thinking and acting smarter.

It was tough to ask that from a child still grieving his brother.

That was why Cillian had stepped in more times than he should have already.

Unbeknownst to Riorke, Cillian had made Artis let him off with a warning the first few times, but they couldn't keep doing that if Riorke wanted to maintain some legitimacy, to show that he could overcome challenges without running to his father for help.

Although learning what he had learned today about what happened on the training ground, Cillian thought his interference might be necessary now. It might be time for him to talk to Artis about his technique. Not only that, but to deal with whatever had happened to his powers to cause the malfunction that both he and Riorke had witnessed.

Riorke had claimed, after the battle, that someone had interfered. Artis hadn't agreed outright, but he had urged Cillian to search the compounds, which they had done.

There was no sign of any intruders.

Their magic detectors had sensed nothing; their guards hadn't seen anything. Cillian himself had felt a strange shift in the wind earlier when he'd stood in his office, but that could have just been a bird. His powers often made him hypersensitive to his environment, and he had to quickly evaluate what kind of information was relevant and what was not; if not, he would be endlessly paranoid.

Nothing had changed in his office. There was no one here, despite Riorke's insistence that he hadn't won that fight on his own merit.

It had clearly pissed him off.

Cillian smiled, glancing at the small framed painting on his desk, one of his whole family, him and his wife standing, his sons seated.

Riorke was always the more hotheaded of the two. Even in the image, he was frowning and had been endlessly tugging at his cravat on that day, whining about having to wear it. Riordan had a teasing smile on his face, as he poked at Riorke now and again, hiding his hand whenever Riorke looked at him. Niamh was biting orders out of the corner of her mouth for both children to sit still, her expression somewhere between exasperation and fondness.

Now, she was gone. So was Riordan.

One half of the picture was darkened by a forever cloud.

All that was left was Cillian and Riorke.

There was a prickle at the back of his neck a second before a portal appeared.

In a flash, he was on his feet with his sword pointed at the throat of whoever had made the grave misfortune of attempting to invade his sanctuary.

Only for the portal to transform into a person. A woman.

A vaguely familiar woman.

Cillian had not been to an assembly meeting in some time, but he had heard that she'd returned to polite society. And he knew it was her, despite having not seen her since he was a young boy. It was impossible to forget that aura, the strong golden eyes, the sheer space she took up with her authority.

“Commander,” he whispered, putting his sword down and immediately bowing, his hand across his chest in a formal acknowledgment of her position. “I apologize. I didn’t know it was you.”

“It’s alright,” she said. “It’s probably my fault. I have a habit of sneaking up on people. You may rise.”

He straightened, and the commander made herself comfortable, sitting opposite his desk. Now that he had gotten over the shock of her presence, he was wondering what she was doing here and, better yet, how she had gotten into his office without being detected by any of his magic-detecting components.

He probably would never know. She likely had techniques beyond anything he could understand.

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It often disturbed him that there were truly people like her in the world, people who made his powers seem pale in comparison, so much that it didn't even seem like they existed on the same plane.

It made him automatically apprehensive, even though he knew that Vittoria wasn't the type to simply throw her weight around, unlike some Archmages.

Yet, he was not completely powerless against her.

One thing he was good at was analyzing people.

He didn’t know her enough to read her emotions completely, but there were commonalities amongst all humans. The commander was expressionless, but she wasn’t tense. She wasn’t pleased to be here; however, neither was she planning to fight anyone. Her breathing was steady, although slightly slower, in her distraction. The arch of her brow showed discontent, and her finger rubbed the top of her palm, a soothing gesture.

Something was irritating her.

Or she had bad news, but contemplated how to share it.

“Why are you here, Commander?” he prompted.

“I’m here about the flame swords.”

Cillian froze, his eyes widening, shock punching out of his breath. “What…how did you…?”

“You know that I was helping investigate the incident at the Altazon volcano with the dragon, right?"

"Yes." He hadn't made the last assembly meeting where the information was shared. However, his aide had attended on his behalf and told him what had been discussed. "What does that have to do with your discovery of the flame swords?”

“First of all, you’re going to answer a few questions for me, and keep in mind, I’m going to know if you’re lying.”

Cillian's jaw worked. The commander’s voice was soft, but it would be a mistake for him not to see this as what it was. An interrogation. “Alright.’

"Tell me. How did you come across such a thing in the first place?"

Cillian exhaled. He had known this day would come, just not that it would happen this soon, especially considering they were now facing sudden supply chain issues. "A few years ago, we were approached by the Salvos with a deal. They told us they had been working with a scientist, a controversial genius mage who was one of the pioneers in magical technology beyond charms and potions and cantrips. Flame swords. They showed us samples of his work, told us that they would give us majority shares. I thought it was some sort of trick, so I explored the factory and saw the swords for myself. These were no ordinary magical instruments. The swords generated fire on command, powerful, encompassing glames, and they were well-suited for a Camhanach build. I knew how much of a benefit they would be for my soldiers and for the empire as a whole."

"If it was such a benefit, why would you keep this from the assembly and the council?"

His hands clenched, shame rearing its ugly head. Cillian didn't often like to involve himself in the endless politicking of the empire. He found it exhausting and undignified. However, after years and years of being on the losing end, and losing half his family in trying to preserve his honor, he had learned the benefits of playing the long game, breaking the rules, and utilizing deceit.

"It was because I did not want the council to know," he admitted. "This was to be our secret weapon, an advantage Camhanach soldiers would have against our enemies. I wanted to find a way to have these weapons irrevocably linked to us, before I shared the news."

"So that was the plan? That you and the Salvos would own shares."

“Yes.”

“I see." She rubbed her chin, not seeming the least surprised by any of this. "And what did you give to Salvos for this esteemed deal?”

“Our claim to the Horca mines,” he said. “We were going to give up ownership entirely and support their possession of the mine, and offer some soldiers to help them guard it. That was only if we succeeded in getting what we wanted.”

“Ah, of course. Clever.” She leaned back in her seat and crossed her long legs. "Well, I'm not one for strict bureaucracy and detailed disclosure to the council, but I have to say, you did not do your due diligence when you researched that factory. If not, you should have known more about how those weapons were truly being made."

"Yes," he admitted. It had been something that bothered him, the mysterious technique behind the creation of the flame swords. He'd never seen magical instruments like them before, able to create and shoot powerful gusts of blue flame without any battery attached. He had sent out spies to discover it, but they still hadn't brought him anything he could make sense of, even with the help of another researcher.

There had been a lot of code words and secret techniques used. They couldn’t make heads or tails of it.

Maybe he hadn’t tried as much as he could have to look into it. Maybe a part of him was also concerned about what he might find if he were to dig too deeply.

"The truth, Lord Camhanach, is that you have inadvertently been working with demons, and they have been working through you."

He wasn't expecting that.

His blood instantly ran cold, his breath ceasing. “What?”

She nodded. "It's a long story. But before we get into it, you should summon your son."

"My son? Why?"

“Why else? Because I want to see him. I saw that he was having a hard time today at the training grounds.”

“At the–" Realization dawned. "It was you.”

“It was.”

Lord Camhanach's head was spinning. Vittoria had been here. She had interrupted the fight to support Riorke. Why?

More importantly, what was this about demons?

She smiled. "Don't worry. I'll explain it all shortly."

***

Riorke was lying in bed when the summons came.

Instead of enjoying his first night's sleep outside of a dungeon, he'd been still replaying the battle in his mind.

The general had said that if he managed to beat him, then he was free from confinement. Riorke had seen it for what it was–a humiliation tactic, but he refused to let it play out like that. He had planned to fight well, even if he didn’t win.

But he’d won. Somehow, he’d won, and it frustrated him that he didn’t know how or why.

It hadn't been his doing. The general's magic had failed, and once he'd woken up, he had accused Riorke of doing something to mess with it or maybe having him poisoned.

But Riorke wasn't capable of using most magic, much less the type of magic that could cause someone's spells to fail. The only person he knew who had ever done something like that was Arielle Blacksoil.

She had done it during her fight with Fiodor Antigones and Anne Earthbinder, though it hadn't been as violent a result.

And after she had beaten them thoroughly, she had walked off with that blank, oblivious look on her face.

He smirked.

He missed Arielle, strangely enough, although they weren't all that close. He missed watching her duels in combat class and wondering how he was going to beat her.

He also missed sparring with Lacey, and Cedric's stammering and Cuthbert's whining. He even missed Godfrey's obsession with that girl from Khor.

He missed the academy. He hadn't thought he would. He had gone there initially because it was Riordan's dream school that he never got to attend. After all, he didn't have magic.

When Riorke did get in, he saw it as a fulfillment of that dream.

But now he was appreciative of it, despite the fact that it made him take classes that were ultimately useless for someone like him.

The knock interrupted his musings.

He was told his father was looking for him, but when he got to his father's study, there was a woman seated opposite him.

“Who are you?” he asked, and his father gave him a warning look.

“This is Commander Vittoria Di Santinael,” Lord Camhanach said, in a tone that suggested that she was important.

It took a while for Riorke to recognize the name. His jaw dropped.

Vittoria Di Santinael. The great military commander. The partially Fae, all-powerful Golden Beast who had saved Earth countless times and was a divine, heroic figure in all the lands.

She was sitting in his father’s office.

Riorke was in such a state of shock that he didn’t do anything for several seconds.

“Bow,” Lord Camhanach hissed.

“Oh, right.” Riorke hustled to do just that. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay," she said. "You look well. I was afraid that you would get punished for my interference.”

"Your interference..."

"Yes. I'm the reason your trainer's spell failed."

"Oh!" It finally snapped in his mind. "Oh, it was you."

"Yes," she said. "I probably shouldn’t have butted in, but you seemed to be in a crisis, and I didn't want to witness a tragedy."

"Ah no," Riorke said, clearing his throat, his cheeks getting hotter. One more person had seen Artis wipe the floor with him. He’d made a fool of himself in front of the Commander, of all people. "No crisis. I was fine. It was fine."

"It didn't seem like it. You seemed to be in some real trouble.” She smirked. “Regardless, you should probably learn better defensive spells. Or any spells."

Riorke's stomach plunged, his shoulders stiffening. He heard the censure in her voice, making him instantly defensive. He could feel his father's warning gaze at the side of his face, so he kept his lips fused shut.

Nevertheless, she seemed to notice something was off because she asked, "Did I say something wrong?"

Riorke swallowed thickly and shook his head. "No. No, you did not, Archmage."

She gazed at him for a few more seconds, her eyes seeming to pierce into his skull. He waited for the inevitable questions: why didn’t you use a magical shield, and why did you insist on only close-range attacks when long-range would have been better?

However, she merely hummed. “Hm.”

There were a few more awkward seconds of silence before Vittoria began speaking again. "Anyway, I'm glad you're well, and no longer sleeping in a dungeon. You should avoid that as much as possible moving forward, and probably refrain from rebelling unnecessarily against your trainer from now on. I observed some of your conversation during the fight, and while his methods might not be kind, it doesn't make him entirely wrong."

Riorke’s head snapped up, and he met her eyes.

They were cool, not mocking but also not pitying either. They weren’t cruel like Artis’.

She wasn’t saying this to hurt his feelings; she was saying it because she genuinely thought she was right. Which was arguably worse.

Riorke struggled.

In his logical mind, Riorke knew she wasn’t saying anything outrageous that he hadn’t heard before. She wasn’t saying that Riorke had to learn magic, or that his brother had deserved to die because he didn’t know magic.

Nevertheless, though she wasn’t saying it, those were the words that bounced in Riorke’s head anyway. The image of Riordan flashed in his mind, and the pain that arced through him quickly became anger.

He kept it leashed, nodding again.

"Is that all you called me here for?" he asked, and his tone must have been bordering on disrespect because his father sent him a sharp look.

"No," she smirked. "But you may go."

Riorke nodded, bowed stiffly once more, and left the room.