webcrawl/APGTE/Book-6/tex/Ch-057.md.tex

\hypertarget{charlatan-iv}{%
\section{Charlatan IV}\label{charlatan-iv}}

\begin{quote}
\emph{``We like to tell each other devils are the true face of
wickedness, for it makes evil into a monster we can vanquish. A sword
cannot settle the banal cruelties decent folk inflict on each other, you
see, though these do more evil in a day than a flock of devils in a
year.''}

-- King Edmund of Callow, the Inkhand
\end{quote}

Spring had brought troubles, at first, but what followed was stranger.

The ice broke and melted, and it was as if the world had been uncorked.
A hundred things were pouring out onto sleepy little Beaumarais, each
coming quicker than the last. First the muddy mountain paths found early
travellers, another pair of mages from the low country, and Olivier was
barely done settling them in a house when word came that a company of
riders from Apenun was headed the town's way. Lady Mireille Lassier,
Alisanne's mother and the ruler of the city, had heard rumours and sent
some of her men to have a look at the town. It was the same highborn
officer as last time who led them, Captain Alain, and the man developed
an interest in the arrangement around the shop that had Olivier wary.
They were not yet ready, he felt, for such scrutiny. Alisanne was of a
different opinion.

``Now is the time to make bargains,'' she told him. ``Your numbers a
rising but still small, you've proved you are able to settle affairs
with townsfolk without resorting to unsavoury means and the shop is
popular with the people of the town. You will never have a finer hand to
play, Olivier.''

He could not refuse to speak with the captain, anyhow, so there was
little choice to be had. The officer asked probing questions but to the
younger man's surprise he was polite and respectful throughout. A degree
of surprise must have shown, for Captain Alain amusedly addressed it.

``Lady Alisanne has taken a shine to you, all agree, and she has been
part of this from the start,'' he said. ``I would not harbour great
hopes there were I you, but I'll not act the bull over a matter where
one of Lady Lassier's daughters has been so involved.''

Olivier managed not to blush, wondering if the other man knew how much
of a shine had really been taken, and the implication of marriage he
chose not to address. He'd never had any illusions there, so there was
no hope to disappoint. The captain requested to be allowed to visit the
shop and see some of the enchanted wares that had already begun to sell
and seemed rather impressed.

``The wizards we've in Apenun insist only spells can chase away vermin
properly, not artefacts,'' he told the younger man. ``Many will be
pleased to hear the truth is otherwise. There is much coin to be had
there, Master Olivier.''

Though Alisanne had not been part of the conversation of the visits,
keeping to at least a thin pretence of not being his accomplice in every
way, Olivier wasted no time in calling on her as the captain retired for
the night. Though the febrile energy that'd taken the both of them was
first spent in a more pleasant way, they spoke at length after. The
young man admitted to a fear this entire arrangement would be shut down,
or at least severely curtailed, but Alisanne enthusiastically disagreed.

``Wizards are dead useful to nobles, Olivier,'' she said. ``The issue is
that much of the taxes levied on them are levied by the Highest
Assembly, so neither princesses nor ladies can waive them. That and no
one is comfortable allowing the old guilds to rise again. There is only
so much influence to go around, and what they might gain will have to be
lost by someone.''

``If we grow too much, shop or not we will be as a guild,'' he pointed
out.

``The House of Light already has hooks in you, so you won't seem a
threat,'' the grey-eyed beauty smiled. ``And you won't want to keep all
the mages here forever, will you? There's only so much use for them in a
town the size of Beaumarais, and too many will make the people uneasy.''

Olivier's brow creased in thought.

``You would see us turn into a school of sorts,'' he said. ``Teaching
mages profitable skills then releasing them into the world.''

``Even that drunk Maxime would have a use, if you go down this path,''
Alisanne said. ``He knows war, for all his empty bragging, and a few
wizards so trained would make even a country lord's retinue something to
reckon with.''

``The House will object,'' he said.

``The priests will want the right to dictate where those wizards go, no
doubt, but too many in the higher ranks will see the use of this,'' she
denied, shaking her head. ``Magic made to serve the influence of the
House would be a delicious turn in their eyes, I imagine.''

Everybody would benefit in the world she painted with her words, Olivier
thought. Everybody, though perhaps the mages the least of the lot.
\emph{You have made yourself into the lord of this little town's
wizards}, Morgaine had accused. And here was now, plotting to barter
away their hours without consulting even one of them. There'd been just
enough truth to her words, he thought, for them to sting. Yet the
thought of simply handing this all over to someone else was an ugly one,
and perhaps deep down handing it over to Roland made it worse. What had
his brother done to deserve being given all this? Olivier had thought
himself beyond those old jealousies, but perhaps he was not. It had been
one thing, when he had a path of his own, but not Roland was encroaching
on even that and this was a harder pill to swallow.

He told Alisanne none of it, for the thoughts shamed him, and instead
simply held her close.

Captain Alain left within days, away to report what he had seen to Lady
Lassier in Apenun but his parting words to Olivier were encouraging. It
was more than a month before he returned, and in that span yet another
mage came over the mountain paths. It was more practitioners than
Olivier could ever recall hearing of being in the same place, save in
old stories. It was exhausting to organize it all, to keep incidents
from happening in the first place instead of simply reacting to them,
but it needed to be done. When Captain Alain returned it was with a
royal magistrate and a certain Brother Elian, whose name Sister Maude
went stiff at. Olivier was brought in for a more formal conversation at
the mayoress' own home, though she was gently evicted for the duration
of it.

Brother Elian was one of the greats of the House in Apenun, while the
royal magistrate was the one who habitually dwelled in the same city.
This would be, Olivier understood without being told, the moment that
determined how this would all end. He felt ill-prepared for such a
trial, but he would not flinch away in the face of the unexpected.

Though he left convinced he'd doomed them all, the evening brought
different results. A glowing Alisanne ambushed him with an enthusiasm
that saw them distracted for some time before telling him she'd just
spoken with Captain Alain and learned he had, somehow, convinced these
people that he knew what he was doing and it was a worthy enterprise.
Both the royal magistrate and Brother Elian had given their blessing to
the arrangement, though already there was jostling about how the
services of certain mages might be `leased' and who should get primacy
over the other. Beaumarais' sudden rise in importance was expected to be
bringing people and coin to the town, as well, and it would be quietly
arranged that it would get an appointed magistrate and eventually elect
its own.

``Apparently my mother has decided this means I am not entirely bereft
of political instinct,'' Alisanne wryly told him. ``I have been recalled
to Apenun, where my fate going forward is to be decided.''

Olivier had known it was only a matter of time, yet he was startled by
how grieved he felt at the thought he might never see her again. He'd
believed himself hardened to the prospect, but perhaps that was simply a
lie he'd told himself. He would not make a scene, the young man told
himself. It was beneath them both.

``I will miss you sorely,'' Olivier quietly said.

Grey eyes turned to him, confused.

``It will only be for a month or two,'' Alisanne told him, stroking his
side. ``I'll be back before you know it.''

He blinked in surprise.

``You intend to return?'' he asked, sounding like a fool even to his own
ear.

``There's more than sharing your bed that keeps me here, Olivier,'' she
said, tone cooling. ``Though I had expected even that might mean more to
you than it seems it does.''

``You would be giving up a wealthy and exciting life,'' he slowly said.

Apenun was not a grand city, in the greater scheme of things, but it was
still as another world from the likes of little Beaumarais nestled in
the mountains.

``I'll be wealthy regardless, and you overestimate the excitement there
is to be had as the seventh child of a noblewoman,'' Alisanne said, eyes
searching his face.

She paused.

``Did you really think I would cast you aside as soon as the call to
return to Apenun came?'' she asked.

The answer to that now shamed him, so he did not answer.

``I have feelings for you,'' Olivier artlessly confessed, ``but I
harbour no expectation of permanence. It would not be difficult for you
to find better prospects.''

``I'm not offering marriage,'' Alisanne frowned. ``But you have been my
lover for near half a year now, Olivier. It is not a small thing and I'd
not have it treated as such.''

``I would not have you feel bound to something you began away from home
and bereft of company,'' he plainly said.

``I can decide for myself whether I should feel bound to something,
Olivier,'' she said, and if her tone earlier had been cool it was now
frigid. ``I do not need you to settle my own affairs for me.''

\emph{It is a well-meaning condescension you offer, but condescension
nonetheless}, Morgaine had accused. Making decisions for others without
truly understanding them, what they wanted. To see that sentiment
reflected in Alisanne's grey eyes made it impossible to deny the
sorcereress' words.

``I meant no offence,'' Olivier said.

``You have given it regardless,'' Alisanne evenly said. ``Perhaps it
would be best for us to be apart for some time, yes?''

It was not truly a question but he nodded in assent, hastily dressing
himself from the clothes littering the ground. She looked at him as he
did, and for a moment hesitation flickered in her eyes.

``We will speak when I return,'' the grey-eyed beauty said, face
conflicted.

She did not stop him when he left, and he did not try to stay.

---

It took six months for Alisanne Lassier to return to Beaumarais.

Six months where Olivier grew increasingly restless, his hours always
fully used yet somehow never in a way that felt satisfying. Another four
wizards and witches came over the span, and there were now simply too
many to host even when spread out between the shop, the family home and
the house they'd bought at the edge of the town. After consulting with
Mayoress Suzanne, they'd agreed it would be best if a house was raised
away from Beaumarais. The townsfolk were growing uncomfortable with the
amount of practitioners around Beaumarais: too many had come, and too
quickly. In a twist of irony, the location that was settled on was the
Knightsgrave. The small valley wasn't too far from the town, it had a
small river for drinking water and no one used it as grazing grounds
because of the old legends.

Eager to avoid old mistakes, Olivier put it to the mages themselves. The
notion was a popular one -- in some ways the practitioners were just as
uneasy about the townsfolk as the townsfolk were about them -- though
there would have to be rotations in who got to sample the comforts of
the town instead of staying out in the mountains. The greatest matter of
debate was the shape the lodgings out in the Knightsgrave would take.

``It should be a tower,'' Morgaine said. ``There are many magical
reasons why this is preferred dwelling of our kind, and so close to the
mountains we will not lack for stone.''

Olivier thought the raising of a mage's tower out in the wilds was a lot
more likely to bring unease than a hall or cottage would have, but
Morgaine's suggestion was highly popular and he would not deny these
people without a good reason. Not after having asked them what they
wanted. Coin was sparse but a loan was extended by the House of Light
through Sister Maude, as the priests were eager to demonstrate that it
was they who were the patrons of this arrangement and not the rulers of
Apenun. Olivier found his brother began to come around more frequently,
though never as much as when they'd been younger. The relationship felt
only half-repaired, but neither of them had the time to spare for more.
Roland simply had too much to do, too much to learn. He was a student to
half a dozen practitioners now, not merely their parents and Morgaine.

They saw him as their future, Olivier realized. Someone who would be
able to speak for them yet be one of them. Morgaine had not lied on that
night.

Before winter the magistrate Apenun had assigned them arrived, along
with a small retinue. They were put up in the temple until more fitting
lodgings could be raised. Olivier called on her the evening of their
arrival, heart split.

``Did you miss me?'' Magistrate Alisanne Lassier smiled.

He had, more than words could properly express. They got to work
together again, and already the old tension hung in the air between
them. The same way it had before they'd begun. Before they'd quarrelled,
too. When spring came Olivier took the first good excuse he found to
return to the road, lest he find himself making an inevitable mistake.

---

The road did him good.

Out there he went, sifting through towns and countryside looking for
mages who had not yet heard of the refuge that could be found in
Beaumarais. He obtained contracts for enchantments against vermin, for
tools that would not rust, for brews that would help childmaking or
prevent it. And he returned to Beaumarais, often but not for long. There
the town grew to thrive, the coin poured in by peddlers seeing houses
raised and shops open. People came to live in Beaumarais who had not
been born there, or been brought in by kin and wedding, for the first
time in living memory. Magistrate Alisanne saw to the order of it all
with bewitching grace, her natural aplomb a fair match for the demands
of the office. The tower out in the mountains slowly grew and the
practitioners were drawn towards it. The shop would be how they won
their coin, how they afforded to live, but the tower would be their
\emph{home}.

Olivier stayed on the road, drawing the closest towns and villages into
the fold of what was being built. Justice need not be sought in Apenun
now, not when there was a magistrate in Beaumarais. All manners of old
disputes could be settled at last. Those few he'd taught how to read and
write remained bound to him by gratitude, and they were all from
families of importance: the town of his birth was, slowly but surely,
becoming the heart of the settlements in the Vermillion Valleys. Olivier
longed for grey eyes and a quiet laugh, but found himself reluctant to
return to what the two of them had once been. She must have been as
well, for while they lingered close to one another neither ever reached
out through that slight, final distance separating them.

These days he felt reluctant to stay in Beaumarais at all. Out there
Olivier found he thrived: wherever he went, he found success. He talked
around peddlers and craftsmen to bring Beaumarais into their routes,
secured a proper mason's help for the tower. He even picked up a few
disaffected fantassins ready to turn bandit and convinced them instead
to turn into a company under contract by half a dozen towns to keep the
mountain paths \emph{clear} of bandits. Even the House of Light was
danced with, as Sister Lucie of Grisemanche was recalled in disgrace
when she was found to have taken payment for healing travellers instead
of offering it freely as was her duty. It was all \emph{exciting}.
Something he was good at, something he'd been meant to do. Unlike
looking over the shoulders of mages in Beaumarais, something they
resented of him and he disliked doing in the first place.

By the second year the practitioners had taken to pooling their
knowledge and a library was being assembled in the more than half-done
tower, and while Olivier would have loved to read through the books
there he often felt unwelcome when he visited. The mages who nowadays
stayed in the Knightsgrave, having raised tents and small huts there,
had started to think of themselves as a small village of their own. They
did not like the notion of being beholden to anyone. Morgaine and his
brother had taken to staying one week there and another in town, and
eventually given Olivier's frequent absences it became natural for
Roland to be given the responsibility of seeing to the affairs of the
valley. It was better this way, Olivier told himself. He closed his eyes
to Roland being rather well versed in poetry, these days, and spending
much of his time in Beaumarais calling on Alisanne.

For three years it all grew. The town, the tower, the profits. Rumour
had spread that enchanted wares could be bought in the mountains and so
now a caravan of peddlers came every spring, while the highborn of
Apenun had their orders conveyed by riders along with the payment.
Beaumarais had swelled, and these days Mayoress Suzanne and Magistrate
Alisanne were considered the grandees of the region. Olivier himself was
known, but not as much. He preferred it that way. There was talk that
soon a petition to the court of Prince Arsene of Bayeux might be
arranged, requesting that someone might be raised to formal rule over
the Vermillion Valleys, and Alisanne's name was the one bandied about.
The notion found some popularity even away from the town, largely
because the magistrate herself was popular.

Winter was ever the season Olivier spent in Beaumarais, and on that
third year he'd come a month early as he had a few affairs to see to in
town. It was his habit to call on Alisanne the day he returned, no
matter the hour, but he was surprised to see his brother leave her house
well two hours after sundown. Roland looked just as surprised to see
him, and for a moment Olivier was taken aback by how much taller his
little brother had become. Roland had grown into a man while he wasn't
looking: his shoulders had broadened, he had a short beard and even wore
a knife at his hip. The wonder went away when he remembered where he'd
just seen his brother leave, and at what hour.

``Olivier,'' Roland smiled. ``Back so soon, this year?''

The smile was, he thought, too stiff.

``Out so late, Roland?'' Olivier replied, and did not bother to smile.

``There's no call for that face, brother,'' Roland said. ``I was only
having dinner with a dear friend. We share great hopes for the future of
Beaumarais.''

His little brother, still taller than him, began to walk past Olivier
but paused.

``Besides, even if I did have other designs are the two of you not
done?'' Roland asked. ``There would be no call for bruising.''

Olivier's eyes narrowed.

``I sometimes dislike the man you're growing into, brother,'' he said.

``Then perhaps you should have been around more, brother,'' Roland
replied.

He walked away and did not turn back. Olivier breathed out, calming
himself, and only then called on Alisanne. He was ushered in by the
servants and brought to her small parlour, where she was having a glass
of wine. Alone, he noticed. There was no second, empty glass. \emph{It
could have been removed.}

``Olivier,'' she smiled, waving him in and inviting him to sit. ``Back
early, this year.''

``So I've been told,'' he said. ``Twice now.''

Her brow rose. He bit his tongue. He had no right to feel jealous, he
reminded himself. They had not been lovers for years now.

``Your brother is the soul of persistence,'' she said. ``It is somewhat
flattering.''

``Is it?'' he quietly asked.

``None of that now,'' she replied, just as quietly. ``For years I
thought you might apologize, that we might begin anew. You never did.
Our friendship is dear to me as well, Olivier, but it is not a friend
who speaks to me now.''

``No,'' he admitted. ``It is not. Do not think too badly of me for it.''

Alisanne kept silent for a long moment.

``Jealousy is something, at least,'' she said, eyes unreadable.

She drank from her cup, then rose to pour him one as well. His lips felt
parched when he drank.

``I am not involved with your brother,'' Alisanne said. ``Nor have I
ever been.''

Relief. Relief, however guiltily it might come.

``He has, however, been courting me for years,'' she continued. ``And
tonight he sought my hand in marriage.''

His fingers clenched around the rim of the cup.

``Tell me you refused him,'' Olivier prayed.

``I did not answer,'' Alisanne said. ``Too swift a refusal would have
been indelicate.''

He drank deep to hide the way his hand had trembled.

``He is not in love with me, Olivier,'' the grey-eyed beauty mused. ``He
his taken with my looks and thirsts for lordship over these mountains,
which he fancies wedding me might grant him.''

``I did not think him so ambitious,'' he confessed.

``Morgaine has been fanning those flames, along with the dream of a
hidden city for mages,'' Alisanne said. ``Though I'll not blame her too
much for that: there were already embers there to fan.''

``I've let a lot of things grown rotten, haven't I?'' Olivier softly
said.

``There's a light in you, on those days you come back from the road,''
Alisanne said. ``A glow almost. When you've traipsed around like a
rogue, tricking and helping and trading in knowledge. It was hard to
grow angry with you, when what you did make you so blatantly happy.''

``It has,'' Olivier admitted. ``Yet I regret what I left behind.''

She studied him again, silently.

``Apologize,'' Alisanne ordered.

``I am sorry,'' Olivier said, ``for how it ended between us. And for
every day since.''

``Good,'' she said, and kissed him.

---

It was a soft night, after that. Patient and tender, almost like a
goodbye. They slept in the same bed for the first time in years and
neither woke until late in the morning. Olivier woke first but waited
until she did, moving as little as possible to not wake her. Eventually
her eyes fluttered open, and they stayed nestled together for a long
time.

``You're going to leave, aren't you?'' he asked.

Alisanne sighed.

``Three years is long enough,'' she said. ``Beaumarais is now capable of
electing its own magistrate.''

``And you are growing bored,'' he said.

``I am,'' Alisanne admitted. ``The tower is nearly done, the affairs
with the mages quite settled and the rest is\ldots{} middling.''

``When do you leave?'' Olivier asked.

``In a few days,'' she replied. ``I might return come summer to oversee
the election, but it is not certain.''

He breathed out.

``Would you stay, if I asked?''

His own question startled him, but embarrassed as he might be to have
asked he did not regret having done so. Grey eyes met his.

``No,'' Alisanne said. ``But it doesn't need to end, Olivier. Come with
me to Apenun.''

``I cannot,'' he replied instantly.

``Think about this, actually stop and \emph{think},'' she insisted.
``You'd go mad, staying here all year, and I'd not stand to be your port
of anchor when it's too cold and nothing more. But in Apenun, you could
\emph{thrive}. Already your work here has made you known in some
circles, opportunities could easily be arranged. I'll find an occupation
of my own, and we can live as we want to live. Not bound by half a dozen
uneasy threads, forever defined by your family.''

``I can't abandon all we built here, Alisanne,'' he said.

``Then don't,'' she said. ``Roland wants it, so let him prove he can
lead. You'll still have shares of the profits, coin to live comfortably,
and you can return in a year to see how he's done without you looming
over him.''

And Olivier wanted to object but the truth was that he was already gone
most of the year, wasn't he? What was it that was lost if he left? The
more he thought of it, the less he had to say. He did not agree, leaving
their bed later and burying himself half-heartedly in the shop's
bookkeeping, but the thought did not leave him. He returned to
Alisanne's home that night. She knew his answer before he spoke it, as
she often did.

A hundred things would need seeing to before then, but when she left
he'd leave with her.

---

Olivier woke up to screaming on the night before their departure.

He'd slept at the shop, as he'd been there until late seeing to the last
details, and he dressed hastily before slipping into the street.
Beaumarais was ablaze, he saw. Armed men on horses were tossing torches
onto houses. The militia had come out, but it was a small thing these
days and Olivier saw several of them were already corpses. The horsemen
were eerily silent as they went around burning and killing, and it was
hard to tell how many of them there were. A dozen, two? One of them was
knocked down by a vivid red fireball, as Maxime Redflame came out of the
tavern drunkenly bellowing and waving about his arms, and they all
turned towards the threat. Olivier took advantaged of the distraction to
sneak past the nearest raider, towards the east of the town.

Alisanne's house would be there, along with her small but well-trained
armed retinue. The House of Light was close as well, and these days
Sister Maude had help from other priests capable of wielding Light.
Except that when he got there, the house was strewn with corpses.
Soldiers and servants, even a young priestess. Olivier frantically
looked through the butchery, but of Alisanne there was no trace. Or of
the raiders themselves, though from the way the blood was spilled at
least some of them must have been killed forcing the house. Had she been
taken? Livid with fear and rage, Olivier stumbled onto a mess in the
gardens that looked like it'd been made by someone struggling as they
were dragged. The were horse tracks leading away from there, away from
the town. Into the mountains.

Olivier followed.

The horsemen had not been careful when they left. Only a few had left by
the path, two or three, and though on a rocky stretch Olivier lost their
trace he knew well these mountains. This path in particular, which he'd
first tread as a boy. Once upon a time, it had been a rite of passage
among the children of Beaumarais to sneak out in the night and steal a
flower from the valley known as the Knightsgrave. Stomach dropping as
unwelcome but inevitable suspicions took hold of him, Olivier sped
through the dark mountain paths. Above him the moon lit his way, and
vigour like he'd never known before made his stride long and sure and
tireless. Before long he stood above the stretch of a small valley
filled with tall grass and red flowers by a mountain spring, though now
there was more. Tents and huts, close to the shore, and a stout tower
jutting upwards that was now nearly done.

The Knightsgrave was almost empty, Olivier saw.

Of the near dozen mages who lived here even in winter there was no
trace. Two raiders stood silent in the night, their tall form a stark
contrast to the red flowers around them, while their horses drank from
the mountain spring. The tower's door was open, and torchlight flickered
within. Olivier no longer had a boy's body, but he was still spry and
the raiders were both eerily still and inattentive. Too still, he
eventually realized. They did not breathe at all. \emph{Undead}, he
thought\emph{. Merciful Gods, Roland, what have you done?} He snuck past
the standing corpses, sticking to the tall grass until he was close to
the tower. He peeked within and found only a single silhouette within.
Morgaine. Sitting in an armchair, looking down at the fire roaring in
the firepit.

Anger seizing hold of him, Olivier slipped into the tower and crept upon
the sorceress from behind. There was a small paring knife on a table and
his fingers closed around the hilt. About to place the blade against the
throat, he stopped when he got a look at more than Morgaine's side. She
was burned, heavily. Most of the left half of her torso was a blackened
ruin and her breathing was laboured. The sorceress' dark eyes fluttered
open and she caught sight of him. She let out a small, bleak laugh.

``You,'' she said. ``Of course it would be you.''

``Where is Alisanne?'' he asked.

``Upstairs,'' she croaked. ``Gods, the folly. It all went wrong.''

``You did this,'' Olivier hissed.

``No,'' she denied. ``It was not the plan at all. They were supposed to
attack as you left. We would drive them away, the girl would\ldots{}''

Morgaine let out a dry, rasping cough.

``The girl would owe us,'' she said. ``Her mother. Roland would be a
hero, the natural magistrate.''

``You raised corpses,'' he accused. ``So that they would serve you.''

``We,'' she snorted. ``Me, him. For protection. This place was already a
grave of knights, we just needed to dig.''

``Your \emph{protection} is burning the town,'' Olivier snarled. ``You
have destroyed everything with your madness.''

``You did this,'' Morgaine hissed. ``He went mad when he learned the
girl would leave with you. That he'd never be lord, that he was just a
fool. It was all you. My plan would have fixed everything, but he lost
it. Sent our soldiers for the girl, and when I tried to stop
him\ldots{}''

Olivier looked down at the sorceress, burned by her own pupil and pride.
Even now it was all his fault in her eyes, wasn't it? And maybe it was,
in a way. Because he'd chosen the thrills of the road and the chase
rather than stay here and see this through. Because he'd chosen to be
someone at the expense of being a brother. Maybe he'd had a hand in
this, if not the one she thought. And the truth he knew, deep down, was
the same truth he'd known since he was a boy: no one else was going to
fix this. To try to make it right. It was not his place to pass
judgement over that dying woman before him, for he was neither a lord
nor a magistrate, but it still needed to be done. And he'd had a hand in
this, in the magic that had gone to wicked use here, and so he would
also have a hand in ending it all.

``Too many people have died, Morgaine,'' Olivier said.

She tried to raise her hand, lips beginning an incantation, but however
quick her magic it was not quicker than a knife. It went straight into
her heart and Morgaine gasped out her last breath with a hissing curse.
Olivier ripped out the knife, bloodying his hand. It was the first time
he'd ever killed. The anguish he'd expected to feel from having taken a
life did not come, even after a long moment passed. He felt tired,
mostly, and sad that a woman who'd been exceptional in many ways had
come to die like this. It'd been a bitter flame at the heart of her, and
it'd ended up eating her from the inside. \emph{We lit it}, Olivier
reminded himself. Magic hadn't done that, men and women had. With the
ways they treated each other, with the slow strangling grasp of
something subtler and deeper than sorcery could ever be.

Bloody knife in hand, he looked at the stairs. This might not be the
last life he took tonight. Even as he went up the stairs, Olivier's mind
dreamed up what a monster his brother might have turned into. A raving
and ranting madman, or a warlock wreathed in pale lightning.

Instead, what he found was Roland on his knees and weeping.

His little brother looked terrified, the look on his face making the
beard he'd grown and the broadened shoulders look like they belonged on
someone else's body. Alisanne had been laid down on a cot in a corner,
her hands folded over her lap with delicate care. She was slumbering too
deeply for it to be anything but the result of a spell. He could have
snuck in, Olivier knew. Roland was lost inside himself, he wouldn't have
heard it. Merciful Heavens, his brother wouldn't have noticed a thing
until the knife took his life. And it'd be safer, wouldn't it? If
Roland's magic could defeat even his old teacher's, what could a peddler
with a paring knife do against it? But that would mean that his brother
was his enemy. And fool that he was, Olivier could not accept that.

He set down the knife on a table and knelt by his brother's side,
pulling him close. Roland did not fight him, let it happen, but his eyes
were unseeing. It was only after some soothing that sense returned to
them.

``Ollie?'' his brother asked, voice hoarse from the weeping.

``I'm here,'' Olivier quietly said.

``I-'' Roland said, then his voice broke. ``Gods, what have I-''

He violently retched, breaking out of his brother's embrace and throwing
up on the floor. Looking scared and ashamed, Roland backed away from him
afterwards.

``The magic,'' he said, ``it was worse than wine. I was in a haze, and I
was so \emph{angry}\ldots{}''

``Your undead attacked the town,'' Olivier said. ``Morgaine is dead.''

``Morgaine,'' Roland hissed, ``\emph{Morgaine}. It was her who convinced
me. Who told me we would never get our dues fairly, that we needed to
raise the corpses. I never wanted to, you have to believe me.''

It began, slowly, to dawn on Olivier. But he did not want to look it in
the eye, fought it tooth and nail.

``Alisanne,'' Roland suddenly said, ``what-''

He glanced back and relief touched his face when he found Alisanne was
asleep on the cot.

``She won't wake until the spell is broken,'' Roland said. ``She\ldots{}
she doesn't need to know. Olivier, you have to help me. I never meant to
\emph{hurt} anyone.''

He was aching behind the eyes with the effort of not seeing it, but he
was losing the war. It felt inevitable, inexorable.

``What do you want me to do, Roland?'' Olivier softly asked.

His brother did not notice the soft, steely undertone. Perhaps he would
have tread more lightly if he had.

``Morgaine is dead, or good as,'' Roland said. ``And it was her idea
from the start. We can tell people\ldots{} Alisanne is the magistrate,
and she trusts you. If you tell her it was all Morgaine she'll believe
it.''

Dragged up by the hair and forced to look the truth in the eye, Olivier
saw it plain for the first time: his brother was not a good man. Magic
had nothing to do with it, or little enough it hardly mattered. The
older brother stayed silent, trying to fight the revelation but finding
little to fight it \emph{with}. Roland's eyes went hard when he got no
reply.

``Trying to get rid of me, are you?'' Roland said. ``Now that you have
all you wanted, time to do away with the mage brother before you buy
yourself a title. You \emph{owe} me, Olivier. If you hadn't taken her, I
never would have-''

The other man bit down on the sentence, but the hardness in his eyes did
not waver. \emph{It was never the magic, was it? It was you, Roland. All
along it was you.}

``It's your fault,'' Roland harshly said. ``You know it is.''

``I do,'' Olivier quietly replied.

And it truly was\emph{.} If Olivier had not left the family home as
quick as he could, if he'd not left his brother behind, it might not
have come to this. But he'd avoided the place as much as he could
because it brought a bitter taste to his mouth. Because he wanted to
leave it behind. And he had, but he'd also left behind more than the
house. There were so many ways this could all have been avoided. If he'd
not taken to the road, if he'd not left so many things half-said, if
he'd found it in him to not see, deep down, his own brother as a rival.
He'd left Roland to stew in a cauldron of anger, and so anger was what
Roland had learned.

Too slow to notice, too slow to act.

All that was left, now, was to look at a man who had used his magic to
throw a murderous tantrum when denied what he wanted. And the thought
disgusted Olivier, because in the end it would be others who paid the
price for this. When it came out Roland had raised the dead, had been
responsible for so many deaths, then the House of Light would smash all
of this to pieces. And their town would be spoken of as an example as to
why mages could never be trusted, never be listened to, when the lot of
wizards was next questioned. \emph{Have you heard of the fate of
Beaumarais, my child}, a thousand Sister Maudes would say, tutting about
how it was so sad but you just couldn't expect differently of \emph{that
sort}.

``You can't have done this,'' Olivier finally said. ``It would ruin it
all.''

``Yes, exactly,'' Roland said, licking his lips.

It couldn't be Morgaine, either. She was too well-known, it would be
almost as damning. The undead were the keystone, for what Proceran mage
would dare dabble in necromancy? There was a ready-made culprit on the
other side of the valleys: Praesi warlocks with their wicked arts, who
had wanted to ruin the good work of reliable Proceran wizards. Olivier
himself had once falsely claimed that bandits who'd robbed him had been
in the pay of Praes, the precedent would make it more believable to
highborn always keeping wary eye on the east.

``There is a spell that could make her more suggestible when we wake
her,'' Roland told him. ``Nothing untoward, just as if she'd had a large
cup of wine. It would-''

``You should not have magic,'' Olivier said, and believed every word.

No more than he should have a sword or a lordship, had he been born to
either. His fingers itched with the truth of it, as if something were
trying to claw its way out from beneath the skin. Roland cracked a
scornful smile.

``It should have been you, right?'' he said. ``You manage to go a great
many years without saying it, brother. I'm almost impressed.''

``You have abused your power,'' Olivier said slowly, as if testing out
the words. ``You no longer deserve to hold it.''

``I was \emph{born} with it, Ollie,'' Roland hissed. ``There it is, the
simple truth: I was born with it and you weren't. And you've been trying
to take things from me all my life to make up for that, but it won't
ever do anything because the Gods Above already decided which of us
would matter when they gave the Talent to only one of us. Allow me to
\emph{demonstrate}-''

It was all, in that moment, clear as crystal. Every detail of the world
around him, from Alisanne's steady breath on the cot to the slight
coating of dust on the bookshelves to the flush on his brother's cheeks.
And Olivier knew, with unearthly certainty, that it could be done. He'd
spent all his life taking knowledge and putting it to use, and wasn't
the knowledge always the hard part? And so when he saw sorcery flare
around his brother's hands Olivier brushed his own against them, and
took the magic. No, not took. He was not a wanton thief, stealing away
whatever he wished. He had done this because the magic was being
misused.

Confiscated, he thought. He had \textbf{confiscated} the power.

The word felt right, like an old friend he'd never met.

``What have you done?'' Roland shouted. ``What have you done, Olivier?
Did you \emph{destroy my magic}?''

No, Olivier knew. He hadn't it. He could feel something within him, like
a bundle of warmth. Or perhaps a spool of wool, one that he might yet
learn to unspin.

``It's over, Roland,'' he said. ``You won't escape the consequences of
this.''

A shout was his answer, and to his surprise his brother charged him.
Roland was taller and had caught him flatfooted, so Olivier stumbled
backwards into the table as his brother grabbed him by the hair and
smashed his head against the wood.

``It will come back, if I kill you,'' Roland seethed. ``Won't it?''

Olivier felt daze and his hands scrabbled for leverage so that he could
throw back his brother, but his head was smashed again. Blindly groping,
his fingers closed around something hard. A knife, he realized. The same
bloody paring knife he'd killed Morgaine with. And if he struck now,
while Roland had not noticed\ldots{} And still he balked. Roland
noticed.

``A pushover to the end,'' Roland sneered.

He ripped out the knife from Olivier's grip and tossed it behind him.
The older brother closed his eyes and desperately reached for the bundle
within him, the Talent, but there was something missing. He could not
touch it, could not understand \emph{how}. He was thrown down against
the table again, head rapping against the wood, and his vision swam as
he felt a hand close around his throat. There was a gasp, and the hand
trembled as it loosened. Olivier kicked his brother away, gulping air
desperately, and as his vision came back he found that Roland's mouth
was open in a silent moan.

Alisanne Lassier, standing tall and cold-eyed, stabbed the paring knife
in his brother's lungs a second time.

The death was startlingly quick. A few heartbeats was all it took before
Roland slumped to the ground, first on his knees and then all the way
down as the light left his eyes. Olivier found he could not look away,
and that though Alisanne was speaking he could not seem to hear her
words. It was as if the whole world had gone still and silent and dark,
save for the sight of his brother's face in a growing pool of blood.
Someone was touching him, he realized.

``- are you all right?'' Alisanne said. ``Did he hurt you?''

Olivier blinked, as if waking up from a deep sleep.

``No,'' he said, touching his throat and wincing at the bruising, ``He
didn't -- I'm all right.''

``We need to leave this place, Olivier,'' Alisanne told him, tone gentle
but urgent. ``We don't know if anyone else was helping him.''

``We can't leave,'' Olivier tiredly replied. ``Not when it's like
this.''

She looked askance at him, wary and confused.

``It can't have been them,'' Olivier said, hesitating. ``It has to be
me, Allie. It can't have been them, or everyone will pay.''

``You're not making any sense,'' Alisanne slowly said. ``You're in
shock, Olivier. We need to \emph{leave}.''

Lies wouldn't be enough. Magic could, if it was the right kind, and
Olivier had read the books. He knew the principles. Yet that perfect
sphere he could so easily imagine -- so easily he was not certain it was
imagination at all -- seemed beyond his reach. There was power there,
but he could not use it. Frustration mounted in him. What had been the
point, if he couldn't do any good with this? If he couldn't use his
talent to do anything but subtract from the world? He had to be able to
\textbf{use} it, or so many people would suffer for the madness of so
few.

The world shivered.

\emph{Oh}. It couldn't be about him, could it? It couldn't be selfish.
There had to be a purpose. Thinking of what would come to pass, Olivier
reached out for the sphere within himself and gathered the slightest
lick of power. One of the easiest tricks of any mage was the making of
fire, he'd heard. And as Olivier raised his palm a small trail of flame
grew on it, though he snuffed it out even as Alisanne let out a loud
gasp and stepped away.

``You're a mage?'' she asked.

No, Olivier thought. Not even now that he had magic.

``I am a charlatan,'' he bitterly smiled.

He reached for the power again, and it came more easily this time. Even
with his eyes closed to concentrate, it took him three times to
successfully weave the illusion. He watched comprehension dawn in her
grey eyes, watched the horror rise.

``No,'' Alisanne quietly said. ``No, \emph{please}. Olivier, don't do
this. Don't take his face.''

``Olivier de Beaumarais died,'' he replied. ``Slain along Lady Morgaine
by the Praesi warlock who raised the dead and set them on the town and
tower. He will be buried here.''

Roland's body could fill the grave.

``Roland de Beaumarais heroically drove back the Praesi but failed to
kill him, and now pursues him to avenge his brother,'' he continued.
``He wills all his possessions to Alisanne Lassier, to dispose of as she
sees fit, as he will never return to Beaumarais.''

The deception would not hold, were he forced to uphold it around people
who'd known them both. Illusions could only do so much.

``And when authorities seek out Roland to interrogate him?'' Alisanna
asks.

``He will not deign to be found,'' the man who was now Roland de
Beaumarais sadly smiled, ``What do the wishes of men matter, to a rogue
sorcerer?''