Vesperia Fic: Allora, Magari - Part 4.1
Schwann turns out to have been something a little more complicated to Alexei than just a tool to be used and discarded. Raven hadn’t wanted to remember at all and reacts badly, but Yuri’s not about to let him get away from the rest of them so easily as that, in the name of the brightest star in the night sky.
Allora, Magari The Growing World
When he finally caught up to the old man, Yuri was going to punch Raven for leading everybody on this wild chirpee chase. He pulled himself up onto the rock ledge with a grunt. Feet dangling over the edge, he sat and sipped water from his canteen, taking in the view. Dunes marched in from the horizon to circle the base of Phaeroh’s crag below like worshipers bent at an altar. In all directions, as far as the eye could see, the desert was barren.
A little over a month ago, Yuri had been stepping off a passenger liner in Zaphias, Repede at his heels, and not planning anything more strenuous than a friendly spar with Flynn, then traveling to Halure for a stay with Estelle. Now halfway across the world, he wiped the sweat from his brow with a grimy sleeve. Dammit, old man. There was a helluva lot of cliff left to climb.
Unsuspecting, his past self had weaved easily around the dockside crowds, eventually arriving at the city gates proper to be waved in by the Knights on watch with smiles of recognition he still wasn’t used to and an armed salute he really could’ve done without. The Royal Guards at the castle were no better; they failed to detain him for a single question about his business there or insist on escorting him to the appointment he didn’t have. And Repede split off soon after they entered the central courtyard, happily abandoning Yuri with a lick at his hand for the barracks and Flynn’s impressionable trainees.
For a moment, Yuri could only stand at the castle doors, wondering anew at the strange turns of fate that brought a lower quarter urchin to the Empire’s loftiest halls of power, welcome and free to do as he pleased. Come to think of it, he mused wryly, Hanks said he’d be out of town picking up some parts ‘cause that fountain’s on the fritz again. How did Hanks put it in his letter?
The more things changed, the more they created the same problems, or some such. Yuri huffed, and the moment passed. He squared his shoulders and strode confidently to the wing where the Knights quartered. Servants about their chores bobbed in small bows and curtsies as he neared. It was worth the delay to greet them and wish them a good day, the maids blushing at the attention and the footmen straightening with pride. Maybe he’d go the scenic route next time, too, as opposed to scaling the castle walls and swinging in through Flynn’s window like normal.
He wasn’t the Commandant’s first visitor of the morning. As he walked down the familiar corridor to Flynn’s office, the sound of muffled voices—no, Yuri corrected, one voice, raised, female—grew more and more distinct, though the closed door was thick enough he couldn’t make out words. The pair of young Knights flanking the door had the wooden posture of guards who were trying very hard not to hear anything, their gazes blank and dutifully fixed forward.
What trouble have you found now, Flynn? Amused, Yuri came to a stop several paces in front of the door and folded his arms over his chest. Both guards stiffened even further under his stare and offered him snappy textbook perfect salutes. “Sir Yuri, sir!” one barked, eyes still focused on a spot of air beyond Yuri’s ear.
Yuri sighed internally. Was he ever so enthusiastically respectful? He doubted it. The Knights’ newest ranks were by and large idealists to the toes of their shiny boots: men and women spurred on to volunteer by His Majesty Ioder’s appeal for the people to defend their homes and families in this changed barrierless world.
Of course, their equally idealistic Commandant had a lot to do with the Knights’ reform into an organization Yuri didn’t mind being a part of these days, albeit in an unofficial capacity that was very loosely defined—something like the Emperor’s personal champion and special adviser, Flynn had explained. Just the way he preferred it. He smirked, thinking of Raven’s complaints about having to do the doubled paperwork of his much more legitimate positions in the Union and the Empire. Well, Yuri’s title of paladin was occasionally handy in the authority it granted him with Knights who were already overawed by the whole savior of the world shtick. Estelle had been unstinting in her praise of what she called, a teasing smile on her face, his dashing heroics.
Mentally shaking off the self-consciousness he always felt when he remembered Estelle’s book, Yuri asked, “Who’s in with Flynn right now?” Although the guards didn’t visibly move, Yuri got the definite impression they wanted to shuffle their feet, their entire demeanor suddenly turned shifty. Curious who could’ve produced such a reaction, he wasn’t really surprised at the mumbled, “Ms. Mordio, sir,” he received in answer. He had to squash a grin that the poor guards didn’t deserve after dealing with Rita on the warpath.
If there was one member of their group whose fame matched and even surpassed Yuri’s, it was Rita. Her genius was legendary before among mages and the denizens of Aspio but had reached worldwide exposure as news spread of her key contributions both to the blastia network that vanquished the Adephagos and to pioneering the emergent field of spirit magic. Her fiery character coupled with her youth and beauty proved an unexpected delight to the nobility of Zaphias and guild leaders alike, who had imagined a woman of her accomplishments to be a hardened old campaigner. Yuri nodded gravely in what he hoped looked more like sympathy than an effort not to laugh.
Rita’s totally flummoxed face at the deluge of gifts, ranging from tastefully expensive to rather on the tacky side, delivered to her rooms following her formal presentation at court was one of his dearest memories of the past few years. Thank the spirits for Estelle and Judy! Who had admirers of their own in spades and deftly pulled Rita aside to sort through all the favors, then decide whether she should respond to each and how. Otherwise, Yuri suspected, everything from the floral arrangements to the jewelry and clothing would’ve been summarily lit on fire. Which would’ve been a damn shame because, upon calmer inspection, there were rare books and sincere letters of gratitude tucked in amidst the rest.
To describe Rita’s reputation as intimidating was underselling it by quite a bit, in short. Finally taking pity on the guards, Yuri suggested, keeping his tone light and casual, “Why don’t you two go fetch your relief? The Commandant won’t have any need of you for a while, and between me and Rita, he’s protected well enough, wouldn’t you say?” It was certainly a sign of how flustered Rita had made these Knights that they didn’t hesitate to question him, instead saluting him again smartly and marching away down the hall at a rapid pace he’d be sure to mention to her later.
He didn’t bother to knock. Time to rescue Flynn from Rita’s temper, Yuri thought dryly. “—sent him on another weeks-long top secret mission to the middle of nowhere—” The scene that met him when he opened the door was pretty much what he figured: Flynn, leaning against the outer edge of his desk, arms crossed and backlit by the window. Rita, ignoring the armchairs Flynn provided for guests to furiously pace the floor between them.
At Yuri’s entrance, Flynn glanced over, impassive save for a barely perceptible frown. Flynn’s uniform was immaculate, his armor polished and hair neatly combed to present the very model of a commandant prepared for the day’s duties. Rita continued unabated, her words easily covering the click of the door as Yuri shut it behind him. “—and didn’t tell me, can’t tell me, I swear, Flynn, I’ll—”
“Yuri,” said Flynn, with a polite dip of his head. Rita whipped about to scowl darkly at the interruption. Seeing Yuri’s arched eyebrow, she planted her hands on her hips and spun on her heel just as quick to show him her back with a pointed noise of frustration.
Unlike Flynn, she was windswept, color high in her cheeks and hair sticking out in every direction around the googles pushed carelessly up on her head. Dressed in the sturdier, warmer version of her usual outfit, too, Yuri noted, that she wore when using the odd flying contraption she and Sicily had built, heavy gloves stuffed into her belted jacket. The fancy that she’d blown into Flynn’s office like a spring squall probably wasn’t far from the truth.
“Flynn,” Yuri returned levelly, smirking, “Rita.” He plopped himself down into one of the armchairs and leisurely stretched his legs, glad to catch a glint of humor in Flynn’s eyes as Rita rolled hers, snorting in fond disgust. Neither was truly angry at the other. Elbow propped on the chair and cheek on his fist, he looked at first Flynn, then Rita. “So, who’s missing?”
“Captain Schwann,” Flynn replied at the same time Rita cried, “That irresponsible good-for-nothing Raven!” Huh. That explained some of Rita’s pique. In spite of or perhaps because of the days and weeks they’d spent in close proximity fixing up the old man’s heart, Raven could get Rita spitting mad faster than all but the most incompetent of her research assistants.
Raven wasn’t the best patient, from what Yuri gathered. “Me ‘n’ Rita darlin’ don’t always see eye ta eye ‘bout this ol’ body o’ mine, and no woman likes ta be ignored.” His smile hadn’t reached his eyes; he coolly deflected Yuri’s concerns and made it clear the matter was nobody else’s business, though not in so many words. Stranger was the fact that Rita also refused to be drawn on the subject, even by Estelle over generous servings of fruit parfait.
“I promise you, Rita,” Flynn said, sighing, “Captain Schwann isn’t on a mission. He was here, like Sodia told you, but left almost three months ago, and we haven’t had any luck finding him since.” He braced his arms on the desk at his sides, knuckles white where his hands gripped the edge. “I was actually hoping he’d been to see you or Professor Sicily.”
“No, and he was supposed to, blast him.” Rita’s shoulders slumped, her ire deflating as her concentration turned inwards, one foot tapping absently on the floor. The old man must’ve been in Zaphias to deliver his letters, Yuri remembered. Flynn spared him a nod at his silent question before Rita pinned Flynn again with a sharp glare. “What did you say to him?” she demanded. “What did he do?” To Yuri’s surprise, Flynn hesitated.
“You mentioned on your last visit that he was due for a blastia exam,” he said carefully, “and that he was avoiding you.” Rita grunted in acknowledgment. She’d once admitted to Estelle that it was a relief to be collaborating with Sicily on this project. Not only for his genius in mechanical design and materials science, eccentric kook that he was, but because Sicily had the single-minded energy that she lacked to go chasing his amico around the continent when Raven didn’t want to cooperate and rabbited at the slightest hint they needed him in a lab.
“He planned to travel on to Dahngrest, where Union affairs might occupy him for months, so I tried to instead divert him to you. We recently unearthed a number of Alexei’s coded journals, and their safe dispatch to you and Witcher seemed as good an excuse as any.” Flynn kneaded at his temples with one hand. “I fear I misjudged the situation.” How like him, Yuri thought. Whether boy or man, Flynn had a tendency of leaping headlong to the rescue of his friends on not much more than a hunch and his desire to help. It was one of his most admirable and most aggravating qualities.
“Alexei,” hissed Rita, low and bitter. The venom she put into the name took Yuri somewhat aback. She let out a harsh bark of laughter. “I can guess what happened next. The old man did a runner, didn’t he?” While there was, of course, no love lost between Rita and Alexei—regardless of his brilliance as a fellow blastia researcher, she could never forgive him Estelle’s suffering—it was not like he’d had the opportunity to add to his already damning list of crimes. The man was years dead, after all.
Flynn pursed his lips. “Yes,” he said. “Had I known Alexei would be such a sensitive topic...” He hung his head; Yuri could nearly see the remorse weighing like a millstone around his neck. “He spoke of Alexei and all of Alexei’s doings in his testimonies to His Majesty and the council without incident. Was he hiding his discomfort then?” Yuri wondered if subterfuge hadn’t become habit for Raven. Did the years of wearing one mask or another leave him unable to recognize the man in the mirror?
Crossing her arms, Rita turned to study intently the decorative banners and arms arrayed on the only wall that allowed her to not face them. “Wasn’t your fault, Flynn,” she snapped, before her tone softened. “I should have warned you, as the person, besides myself, most likely to have this issue with the old man. But I’m his doctor as much as his mechanic, and his trust’s been abused so badly by that bastard Alexei that I just—”
She curled in on herself, her short and slender frame suddenly small without the force of her personality to fill the room. “Rita,” Yuri started, when he realized Flynn was too mired in his own guilt to assuage hers. But then he stalled, unsure what he wanted to say, long enough for the quiet to grow oppressive.
On some level, it should’ve been obvious that Raven could not have escaped a decade of being at Alexei’s mercy unscathed, and Yuri felt a fool for buying into the old man’s carefree attitude—the “heed your wiser elders” act he pulled for Karol—despite plenty of evidence to the contrary. Raven lived through experiences similar to those that still from time to time plagued Estelle with nightmares and anxious days. Why hadn’t he made that connection earlier?
He couldn’t sit for this conversation anymore. Flynn jolted at his movement, the scrape of chair legs upon the floor violently loud. “Alexei’s got him... conditioned,” Rita explained, “trained to react in certain ways, to expect or not expect certain things.” While Flynn examined his armored boots like they held the answers to the universe and Yuri struggled not to kick at the furniture in lieu of killing Alexei all over again, Rita had regained her composure. Her voice as she talked of Raven as, Yuri reflected with a grimace, one might a pet was clipped and clinical, though her shoulders were tense.
“Did you know, hard as he fights me about checking up on his blastia, soon as I have him on an exam table, it’s like he switches off.” It was far too easy to picture what Rita meant. Schwann had been ice-cold at Baction, his facade ground smooth as glass, and drained of every last bit of the whimsy and sentiment that breathed life into Raven. Like a puppet jerking at the end of its strings. Yuri winced. “No awareness, automatic obedience, inhibited response to pain. He doesn’t care what I do to his body.” A noise that was part anger, part grief caught in Rita’s throat.
“The first two times Sicily and I had to perform surgery on him, we accidentally drugged him sick,” she continued in a rasping whisper, “because it didn’t occur to him that he had any say in his treatment, that he wasn’t a-an experiment we were observing, and that if he told us he didn’t take well to common medications, we’d listen and change our approach.” A hitching chuckle entirely devoid of mirth. “Alexei never asked, apparently. Just drugged his food and water.”
Why didn’t the old man...? No, of course not, Yuri thought, pinching the bridge of his nose. Silence was perfectly in character for the Raven who waited until practically the eve of their showdown with Duke to ask Rita about his blastia. He sure had a flair for conveniently forgetting key facts that his well-being depended on, for a guy who so often cast himself as a coward and who Yuri was positive didn’t really want to die.
Fortunately for Raven then, Rita had anticipated the problem. Between Hermes’s decoded book of research notes and her preliminary analysis of Alexei’s blastia network, several sleepless nights running tests in Aurnion, and a couple lengthy consults with Estelle, Undine, and Sylph, she managed to cobble together a special set of conversion formulas too complicated for Yuri to follow but that would, she assured them, keep the old man’s heart going while she investigated and fine-tuned a more permanent spirit magic overhaul. Assuming the Adephagos didn’t eat them all before the week was out, she’d added, stomping off in a huff to complete Vesperia No. 2.
Sparing herself and the old man, too, the relief he couldn’t hide at the good news and an awkward expression of gratitude she didn’t wish to receive from him. Yuri eyed Rita’s neutral face skeptically, as she said, all businesslike, “Some stimuli or a combination of them will also trigger vivid memories. Flashbacks so strong, he can get lost in them.” There was no visible sign that she was troubled, except for how she chewed her lip during pauses. “This is what I think happened with you, Flynn. It’s happened with me.”
He hadn’t missed her wiping at her cheeks with her sleeve, however, so she could present to him and Flynn this stoic front. That Rita cared for Raven, in their own inimitable fashion, was never in doubt. Yet, sometime in the past few years, they’d grown closer than Yuri had noticed. It was a little discouraging, if he were honest. Not that he was such a hypocrite as to begrudge the old man his many, many secrets or Rita hers, the ones they shared. Just that he’d hoped Raven trusted him—them—enough by now to not guard himself so tightly.
A glance at Flynn satisfied Yuri that he was fully conscious of how on edge Rita still was. Quiet and attentive, he held himself almost delicately and absorbed her words without interruption. He must’ve judged, same as Yuri, that this was a confession Rita needed to offer. And one that they needed to hear.
“The old man kept apologizing for killing me,” she said, eyes gone distant, “right after he woke from surgery and wasn’t all there.” With a roll of her shoulders, Rita soon shook off the memory, her focus sharpening to the hard point her assistants had learned to fear. “I had a guess and did a little digging around in Imperial records.
“Clara Blackwell.” The name wasn’t familiar to Yuri or Flynn, who exchanged puzzled looks. “Listed as the primary physician attending on the relief expedition commanded by Alexei to Temza during the Great War.” Flynn tensed; all the air in Yuri’s lungs blew out in a gust. Why did it feel like the beginnings of every tragedy that haunted them to this day could be traced back to that one shattering event? Not only Raven, but Judy and her father, Alexei’s descent into madness, even the deaths of the Don’s family which led to his rebellion against the Empire and the founding of the Union.
If Dr. Blackwell aided in Raven and Yeager’s resurrections, Yuri expected she was a loose end Alexei would not have failed to tie up. And, sure enough, Rita’s story came to a predictable conclusion. “Found dead of a broken neck at the base of a cliff outside her hometown not a year later. Though her death was ruled accidental or monster related,” she said, “it’s pretty clear Alexei had her silenced and who did the deed.”
Flynn’s jaw locked, plainly biting down on his frustration at uncovering another of Alexei’s murders. He and Ioder did their best, Yuri knew, with Raven as their main source of information plus the limited access granted them by Harry to the sealed records of Leviathan’s Claw, to identify Alexei’s political assassinations and the reasons behind them. Sodia then contacted surviving family to tender reparations—under the table, of course, in deference to the sensitive nature of the ex-commandant’s crimes—where possible. Figures the old man left out a few things.
Yuri thought of hissing sands and moonlight on the stark, grotesque angles of a man’s face as he realized death was drawing near, his killer terrible and implacable. Shame could render you mute, and Raven carried a spy-cum-assassin’s fair share. He perhaps counted the blood of this civilian woman a sin too deep to purge. “Her hair was the same color as mine,” Rita finished. Angry as he was at the moment, Flynn would forgive the old man his omission in time; Yuri was certain of it.
Raven was a crazier headcase than he let on, Yuri mentally summarized, and because of Alexei in particular, who was even more of an evil bastard than he let on, despite torturing Estelle, trying to instigate a war with the guilds, and just about dooming the world in his obsession. Dammit, old man! Flynn sighed heavily. “Thank you for telling us, Rita,” he said.
Courteous as his words were, they had a grim cast to them Yuri associated with Flynn wanting to drive his fist into a wall or some asshole’s gut. Rita’s jerky nod dropped her chin to her chest. She was worrying at her lip again. The chair back creaked under Yuri’s hand as he wrestled his own rage into, if not submission, then a leashed tension that wouldn’t cloud his judgment. He liked to believe he’d come a ways from the boy who watched Cumore sink beneath the sands without first wringing from that little prick everything he knew.
“So what now?” he asked. No use moping about what they couldn’t fix. “We find the old man, drag him back to Rita’s place or Estelle’s, and make sure he’s okay?” Easier said than done. While not a professional adventurer of Judy or Patty’s caliber, Raven was probably better acquainted with the smaller settlements of Ilyccia and Tolbyccia than any of them. His network of contacts and boltholes stretched from Aurnion to Yormgen—all the towns he’d visited on guild business, Imperial orders, or both.
“I don’t think he’d react well to us forcing him to go anywhere, Yuri,” said Flynn. Yuri shrugged at Flynn’s admonishing frown. When had they ever pussyfooted around hunting down a missing friend? And, if necessary, giving him or her a couple hard knocks about the head. “I’d settle for a simple reassurance that he’s safe and in good health.” And of sound mind? That was the real question.
By the flexing of Flynn’s fingers on his desk, his and Rita’s abrupt inability to look at each other or Yuri, they were as concerned as he was about the lingering effects of a nervous break that compelled Raven to run out on them for three months and counting. Yuri straightened and tried to dismiss the memories of Baction that crowded in. “But we still gotta find him first, right?” Your life belongs to Brave Vesperia, old man.
Visibly collecting himself, Flynn mused, “I doubt he’s in Ilyccia. The Knights would have reported his location by now.” He smoothed his pristine surcoat. Once Yuri might’ve scoffed at the Knights’ competence, their ranks filled with green recruits, but Sodia’s exacting standards in field fitness to decorum had, he granted, whipped Flynn’s adoring legions into an outfit to be reckoned with, her vigilance finally serving the Empire well. “I sent a missive to Don Whitehorse a month ago inquiring after Raven but have received no news since. Yuri, could you...?”
As if he had to ask. For all his moments of recklessness, Flynn was habitually too careful with his words. “Sure thing,” Yuri replied easily. “Was headed that way already.” He’d stop to make inquiries in Nor Harbor and Torim with Kaufman’s people, assuming Flynn had the Imperial garrisons there canvassed. Between the two, they ought to be able to learn whether Raven boarded a ship and where to.
Neither of them was surprised when Rita declared, “I’m coming, too,” fierce glower daring them to object. Well, Yuri didn’t plan to. Her feet spread and fists balled, Rita would like as not singe their eyebrows right off their faces should they deny her. And, he thought, it wasn’t such a bad idea to have the old man’s blastia mechanic along, just in case.
“Wait, Rita,” said Flynn, “We don’t know what caused Captain Schwann’s... flashback this time.” He held up a hand to deflect Rita’s protests or maybe an incoming fireball, argument so reasonable and practiced that Yuri squinted at him suspiciously. “It could be the specific contents of Alexei’s journals, which I wouldn’t entrust to anyone but you. Can you decode them?” Seeing that Rita was unconvinced, her glare boring a hole into his head, Flynn added, “Yuri will meet up with Judith in Dahngrest, and they can direct the search from there.”
How very sneaky of him... Bringing Judy into the equation, whose brand of shrewd and decisive action Rita esteemed most, aside from her own genius, in a clinch. She weighed her options with narrowed eyes. “Fine,” Rita all but spat out. “Send the journals to my rooms.” Leveling an imperious finger at Yuri, she said, “You better find that old man.”
The promise of dire retribution for a failure on his part was writ large in every line of her body. Nothing to do except nod. Rita accepted that for the solemn vow it was, then without another word pivoted sharply on her heel and stalked to the door, yanked it open, and swept through, her dark mood trailing in her wake like tendrils of lightning forking across a tower of distant storm clouds.
Flynn twitched minutely at the muted bang of the door as it butted against the wall, slowing in its swing until it stood ajar. A hesitant “Commandant?” followed from one of the guards who were too intimidated to risk sticking their necks in. “He’s fine!” Yuri called, blandly cheerful. “Now shut the door.”
A pause as Flynn’s loyal minions awaited a countermanding order, before they complied with a muffled yessir. Flynn probably hadn’t even noticed the quick exchange; Yuri snapped his fingers to draw Flynn’s attention. “All right, Flynn,” he said. “What didn’t you want Rita to know?” Though Flynn’s gaze was distracted, mulling over some dilemma, his explanation wasn’t so difficult to pry from him as Yuri half feared.
“Do you remember the widow Eileen and her son, Sebastian?” he asked slowly, the corners of his mouth hard and pinched. The names didn’t immediately attach themselves to any memory. At Yuri’s silence, Flynn pushed himself from his perch on the edge of his desk and rounded it to sort through the papers stacked neatly in the center.
Ruefully, Yuri thought there were definite disadvantages to having known Flynn since they were knee-high. But Flynn, who kept a careful mental roll of damn near every person he met, wouldn’t bring up their shared history like this unless it had some important meaning, even if Yuri couldn’t quite see it at the moment. Flynn didn’t bother to glance up from his busywork, confident that Yuri would grab hold of their conversation, despite a restless tension in his fingers.
They were maybe ten, Yuri remembered, gradually, and it was summer in the lower quarter. Recently grown bold in the manner of young boys who believed themselves fully capable of outrunning trouble, they’d taken to playing with a small local gang in the rowdier alleyways, well hidden from parental supervision. Sebastian was one of them, his features filling in as Yuri focused: Older by a couple years, dark-haired, eyes black and deep set. A prominent nose bordering on ugly that was his mother’s, too severe by far for a lanky teen.
Yuri sucked in a breath, teeth clenching. “Who Hanks introduced to that old potioneer? Both gone from Zaphias in the spring?” With a curt nod, Flynn straightened and turned to face the window, hands clasped tightly behind his back. It was not a pleasant memory. Sebastian was more often angry than not, a sour stick in the mud with no friends of his own in Yuri’s childish estimation, and didn’t hesitate to let the others feel the rough side of his tongue when he wasn’t sulking by himself on the fringes of their group. Then one day he showed up at their unofficial meeting place with a split lip and, shaking, announced that he was going to kill his father. They were welcome to watch him do it, he added with a snarl.
Sebastian’s father was a brute of a man and—Yuri grimaced—his habit was to spend his afternoons drinking at a seedy tavern Hanks had long forbidden them from ever peeking into. But Flynn wasn’t about to allow Sebastian to storm off alone, and Yuri wasn’t about to allow Flynn to brave danger without him. Here his memory failed him, becoming disjointed.
Yelling, a lot of yelling, by Sebastian, him and Flynn, strangers. Sebastian’s father laughing, a cruel glint in his eye, and his meaty hand around Sebastian’s thin wrist. Flynn had tried to punch the man, though he wasn’t tall or devious enough to hit any vital organs; Yuri might have kicked the man a few times in the shins.
Next thing Yuri remembered was the woman who finally separated them, standing between Sebastian and his father. Sebastian’s mother looked worn and frail. Her hair was dark as her son’s but graying and straggling from a hurried knot at the base of her neck. Her husband’s fingers hooked like claws in the gathered strands, his thumb pressed to the ridge of her jaw, as he spoke in a hissed whisper into her ear. However she managed it, she was soon herding the three of them out of the tavern.
She walked Yuri and Flynn to Hanks’ workshop, Sebastian’s hand gripped fast in hers. Her voice as she explained to Hanks what happened was steady, yet her touch on Yuri’s shoulder was light as a ghost’s, trembling, and pulled from the pit of his stomach such an awful feeling that he wanted to cry like Sebastian was, scrubbing fiercely at the tears on his cheeks. After mother and son left, Hanks had sighed heavily and crouched to stare at them until they dropped their gazes, a grounding hold each on their arms. “It wasn’t wrong of you to defend your friend,” he said, “but not all the world’s ills can be fixed by socking some scumbag on the chin, no matter how badly he deserves it.”
At summer’s end, in the gloom of the lower quarter’s worst streets, the gambling debts Sebastian’s father had amassed at last caught up to him in the form of a knife to the gut, and Sebastian’s mother became the widow Eileen to her neighbors. Hanks offered to send her and Sebastian with a letter of reference to an aged apothecary associate in another town who was seeking help for his business and an apprentice. Yuri had never dared ask whether Hanks played a part beyond finding that little family of two employment freed from the gossips.
They didn’t see Widow Eileen or Sebastian again. Yuri hadn’t thought of them since joining the Knights, honestly, though the entire sorry incident was one of the first to reveal to his younger, more naive self just how low some people could sink. “What’s this got to do with Raven?” he asked, a bit exasperated. Flynn could make the simplest things complicated when he had the mind to.
However, at Flynn’s answering reluctance, a curl of unease wound creeping up his spine. Rita, he could understand Flynn wanting to shield; she was as sheltered as Estelle in a way, the world of her intellectual peers as removed from many of life’s harsher realities as the gleaming corridors of Zaphias’s castle. But if Flynn had some harebrained notion of sparing Yuri’s nonexistent sensibilities...
Well, he’d simply have to beat that idea out of Flynn’s stubborn hide in the training yard later. “Flynn,” he said sharply. The slight stiffening of Flynn’s shoulders told him he’d startled Flynn from, no doubt, a fit of brooding. With a wan smile that meant they might not need to cross swords, after all, and a deep breath, Flynn explained, “There were always rumors about Alexei and Khroma, about Alexei and the noblewomen who sought his attentions.”
Yuri waved a hand for Flynn to continue, not surprised. He’d heard the same when he was with the Knights. “The latter was generally dismissed by the rank and file to be typical high society schmoozing,” Flynn said. The officers’ chatter had more substance, Yuri guessed, with inside knowledge of their captains and assignments. “Never was there so much as a hint of impropriety, and the majority of Alexei’s time was spent at his duties, with his subordinates.” He didn’t like where this was headed.
Alexei’s past romantic exploits was a topic he had absolutely no interest in, and that Flynn was determined to pursue it, tangential as everything he’d said up to now seemed, couldn’t be a good sign. Flynn’s brow was furrowed, his eyes shadowed and intent. Whatever ugly truth they were circling, in his opinion, warranted deliberation and an explicit statement of his reasoning, of the sort they usually didn’t have to give one another. Beneath Yuri’s ribs seethed a queasy mixture of impatient worry and frustration. At Raven, for disappearing on them; at Flynn and his fretful dithering; at Alexei, that bastard, who was still causing them problems from the grave.
“Considering what we’ve learned of Khroma, Duke Pantarei...” Flynn trailed off. Frowning, Yuri had to agree. How likely was it that Khroma could’ve invited into her bed Elucifer’s murderer, an enemy to her species, and Duke’s rival without her Krityan guise slipping before Alexei’s all too observant regard? She hadn’t struck Yuri as the type to act foolishly on so risky a plan.
“The person closest to Alexei, aside from her, was Captain Schwann.” Words quiet and subdued, Flynn added, “He was Alexei’s favorite.” The puzzle pieces finally fell into place with a jarring wrench. Yuri nearly stumbled, feeling like he was back in the temple at Baction and the floor had just vanished under his feet. His knee-jerk instinct was to deny the clear implication, Flynn’s name a growl stuck in his throat, but as if Yuri’s realization was the release of a pressure valve, Flynn suddenly started into motion.
He paced the length of the window, hands balled into fists at his sides, and his speech was a rushed torrent that washed over Yuri’s objections. “His command of the Royal Guard was proof enough of Alexei’s trust, not to mention the classified solo missions that had him absent from the capital for months at a time. Schwann—Raven—almost always reported in private,” he said, the twist of his lips a match for the growing knot in Yuri’s gut, “and in Alexei’s personal quarters, too, though we had no grounds to question that minor breach of conduct, Khroma a more obvious target for barracks talk.”
It was difficult even for Yuri to recognize Raven as a senior captain in the Knights when the old man was sprawled snoring, his garish robes clashing with the checkered upholstery, on one of the tatty couches in their guildhall’s common room. He hadn’t needed Clara Blackwell’s story to know Raven willfully concealed from them a whole life’s worth of secrets. Hell, he was pretty sure Schwann Oltorain wasn’t the old man’s name. At least not the one he was born with, any more than Raven was. That a number of those secrets were probably assassinations and other dirty jobs Schwann had done at Alexei’s bidding was also an easy assumption, Yeager a ready comparison.
“When I brought him to those rooms again...” Flynn’s burst of energy had apparently exhausted itself. He sat with a whump in his chair, arms braced rigidly on his desk and head bowed. “I didn’t notice it then, but later... He was staring at the bed,” he said, swallowing. Dammit, old man! Not that Yuri could blame Raven for wanting this particular skeleton to stay buried. It’d been impossible to treat him like the layabout who occasionally tagged along on their travels and was more annoyance than any kind of support, the Don’s emissary or no, after Baction.
Estelle wavered between sympathy and a betrayed anger, frightened of her kidnapper in a way she struggled to reconcile with Raven’s changed allegiances. Which in turn lent Rita’s regular spats with him a cutting edge they didn’t have before, when neither her words nor magic were truly intended to hurt. Karol was slower to come to his defense, half dismayed at how deeply Raven had been involved in Alexei’s schemes and half curious to catch glimpses of Schwann, who was a legend in his own right, and Judy was as wary of Schwann as Yuri was, their judgments of Raven as a fighter and a man made uncertain by everything he’d so skillfully deceived them about. Flynn was the only one who found it more natural to see Schwann instead of Raven, while Patty somewhat uncharacteristically kept her cards too close to read on the matter. Looking back, Yuri was amazed their little party hadn’t blown apart at the seams.
The few times Raven had tried to—not to excuse Alexei’s deeds, Yuri thought, not exactly—but to suggest that Alexei wasn’t an unfeeling monster, that he was human enough for his end to be as much tragedy as victory, well, nobody was too interested in listening. Yuri fought the urge to slap a hand to his face, groaning. Flynn wasn’t doing much better, recalling unhappily, “He didn’t know where—no, when—he was or who I was.” Agitated fingers raking his hair into a mess, Flynn winced, an echoing twinge in Yuri’s chest like needles stabbing. “He drew his knife on me, Yuri. He flinched at my touch.”
No wonder he’d fled Zaphias like a horde of giganto monsters was on his tail. Dammit, old man... “He reminded me, in that moment, of Widow Eileen,” Flynn murmured, “Like some part of him was... fragile.” His voice was pitched low, almost as if he’d forgotten Yuri was there. “Or broken. I can’t help suspecting...” No wonder either that Raven had never trusted any of them with just how badly Alexei, that bastard, had him twisted around and folded inside out.
Grudgingly, Yuri admitted this on top of the death wish and double spying would’ve hopelessly muddled the Schwann situation. Wasn’t hard to suss out that the old man dreaded their reactions. Yet much as Yuri warned himself not to jump to conclusions, that he didn’t understand the context or the details, he was already reshaping the Raven he was familiar with to fit into this new mold of a man who’d carried on what he feared was an intimate relationship with Alexei, possibly for years.
Was it casual sex, an outlet for stress, or were there emotional stakes and on whose part? Spirits, but the very idea sickened him... If what Alexei did to Raven was despicable before, that it might have been his lover Alexei used and discarded like a worn pair of boots painted their every interaction in an even more horrifying light. Raven helped them kill Alexei, for pity’s sake!
And, Yuri remembered, had made one last attempt to dissuade Alexei that wasn’t any demand for answers or a total rejection of Alexei’s beliefs. Brave Vesperia was so focused on stopping Alexei then, none of them had wondered at that exchange, at the curiously ambivalent tone of Alexei’s reply singling out his former First Captain. What else had they overlooked? Yuri himself took an unplanned dive off Zaude’s tower. He couldn’t imagine Flynn, Estelle, or Karol handled his apparent death well, leaving Judy as the only one who may have cared enough to check on the old man.
Did Raven mourn Alexei? Yuri almost snorted—he would’ve been quite alone in that sentiment among their group—but paused, stricken at the thought. The night he snuck out of Halure for the besieged Zaphias, the weight of his choice to kill Estelle if she was too far gone to recover, her power uncontrollable, had been crushing in its immensity. No matter that it was burden he’d accepted as his responsibility and no one else’s. Battling her as he would an enemy, bruising her, cutting her, while she did the same to him, bloodied and mad with pain, was hellish, like a slow, deliberate carving of his sword through his flesh, his bones. Yuri couldn’t say how he would’ve reacted had he been forced to truly strike Estelle down. Had he been faced with Estelle’s lifeless body, rent open by wounds he’d inflicted.
Maybe he would not have survived it, driven past the brink of insanity. Luckily, Estelle had clawed her way back to them. She wanted to live, their enemy against her will. And the others followed him, refusing to let him shoulder all the weight; they understood the necessity of his choice, even as they hoped for the best, everyone united in their determination to save Estelle. He wasn’t alone in his grief, was what they told him and showed him—dammit, old man—including Raven. Who Yuri could now unequivocally count as the absolute worst of them all at heeding his own advice.
“It’s a gross abuse of power, Yuri,” said Flynn, shaking his head. Flynn’s expression was as grim as Yuri figured his was. “With his blastia heart, what Rita told us, Raven—Schwann—could not have denied Alexei, if he...” Yuri’s heart stopped, then stuttered into a quicker pace. Shit. He hadn’t considered that. Though he silently berated himself for his stupidity, because why would a man who’d implant untested blastia into another’s corpse for the purpose of gaining an indebted puppet worry about niceties like consent?
The straps of his sword sheath dug into his palm as his hand tightened reflexively around them. “I’m going after him,” he told Flynn, “and dragging him back.” Like hell was he letting the old man slip away in the night to jump off some metaphorical bridge because that bastard Alexei screwed him over more than he’d ever willingly confess to.
Flynn knew better than to try to dissuade him and nodded. “After leaving Zaphias, Captain Schwann passed the Deidon Hold checkpoint at dawn and arrived in Capua Nor late the next evening.” Concentrating on the logistics of tracking Raven’s flight across Ilyccia and into Tolbyccia seemed to center Flynn, his shoulders loosening as he spoke in the cool, professional tones he used with Ioder’s courtiers. “He stabled his quietta with the garrison there and boarded the ferry to Torim. The commander at Heliord reported no sightings, but—”
Heliord, like many towns, had near doubled in size without the limiting presence of a barrier blastia; homesteads and trading outposts dotted the surrounding countryside. “That doesn’t mean he wasn’t or isn’t still in the area,” Yuri finished. Caer Bocram and other ruins were no longer the sole province of intrepid explorers, monster hunters, and brigands, and most of the Tolbyccian pioneers were guild affiliated, Imperial influence restricted by treaty to diplomacy and joint military operations with the Union beyond the walls of Heliord and the small depot in Torim Harbor.
“And he has contacts in Nordopolica, with the Soul Smiths in Temza and Yormgen.” Yuri blew his bangs off his forehead in a gust, then ran a hand through his hair. Flynn’s assessment was depressing in its comprehensiveness, despite agreeing with Yuri’s own earlier. “While Captain Agueron has promised to keep an eye out, his brigade’s already spread thin protecting the settlers in and around Aurnion.”
“Old man’s not making it easy for us, huh?” The wilds of Desier and Hypionia were going to be a pain to search, if that’s where Raven was hiding, even with Judy and Ba’ul helping. “No sense in wasting time then,” said Yuri, slinging his sword over a shoulder. He paused on his way to the door, as though the idea had just occurred to him. “Got anything you want me to say when I find him?”
“Could you...” Flynn faltered, his mask of composure cracking. Yuri didn’t turn to watch Flynn shore up his confidence and shove his issues down with a steadying breath; he’d struggled to wear the mantle of his responsibilities gracefully all the years Yuri had known him. His bullheaded refusal to quit would see him through, as it always did.
“Please extend to Raven of Altosk,” he said at last, “the Empire’s long overdue formal apology for the actions taken by then Commandant Alexei against his person. Should Captain Schwann wish to resign his commission, he’ll receive a honorable discharge, with full benefits in addition to compensation for injuries suffered.” Tell him I’m sorry, too. A gentle swell of fond exasperation rose in Yuri.
Neither Flynn’s official voice nor the stilted language could disguise his concern and guilt. It’d do no good, in Yuri’s experience, to argue that Alexei’s crimes were not any other man’s alone to redress, successor or not. That Raven wouldn’t want to hear an apology—probably couldn’t accept one out of his own shame or an offer of retirement, when Schwann’s reputation and unique set of skills were so valuable in rebuilding the Knights—Flynn didn’t need Yuri to guess.
So, Yuri simply nodded. “You going to be okay?” he asked, slanting a look back at Flynn. Angled in his chair, the light from the window gilding the edges of hair and armor, Flynn could not have presented a prettier picture had a master painter posed him for one, in that unconscious way of his. A profile sharp as his blade, eyes the same true blue as his uniform but shaded more intense by the preoccupied mind behind them. Portrait of a Young Soldier in Meditation, thought Yuri, affection strumming across his ribs. Then Flynn heaved a tired sigh, tableau broken. His mouth set in an unhappy line.
“Every time I think I’ve finally reached the bottom of that man’s crimes,” he said, “seen the worst of the evils he wrought...” Yuri gritted his teeth at Flynn’s laugh, a weak thing filled with self-deprecation. “I admired him once.” Having never believed Alexei to be the people’s hero, his image too squeaky clean, Yuri still hated that Alexei’s betrayal could hurt Flynn after all these years. You’re better than him.
“Flynn,” he began, only for Flynn to shake his head. He gestured wordlessly for Yuri to leave. It was a rather haughty twist of the wrist that Flynn had no doubt picked up hobnobbing with the aristocracy at Ioder’s side. Yuri arched an eyebrow and was glad to hear a small huff from Flynn in reply, the spark of warmth in his gaze familiar and welcome. “Go, Yuri,” he said. I’ll be fine. Yuri went, and this time his steps didn’t stop until he passed beneath the castle doors into the sunlit courtyard.
Repede was waiting outside for him, sprawled on his belly in the grass gnawing on a large bone just about stripped clean of meat. Yuri narrowed his eyes at the two other bones in a similar state discarded nearby. Those trainees down in the barracks were spoiling Repede silly. “Don’t come whining to me if you get too fat for your gear,” he warned, smiling. To a decidedly unconcerned wuffle.
Crouching on one knee, he patted Repede’s flank thoughtfully. Repede was the first to sniff out Raven in Schwann at Baction and also the first to accept Raven back as a friend aboard the Heracles, loping over to sit at the old man’s side, tail wagging happily. What’s more, Yuri remembered, there were times when Repede lagged behind to keep the old man company, pressed against his leg at the rear of the group. In Nordopolica, after they defeated the Daybreaker. In Ghasfarost’s basement, faced with Alexei’s handiwork.
Before, Yuri figured Raven distanced himself then because he was unsure of his welcome, his deception and betrayal not forgotten even if forgiven. But maybe he was hiding, too, and scared. Ioder had ordered the Imperial archives searched for any mention of the Adephagos while they were in Aurnion sizing up the end of the world and found reports of monsters like the Daybreaker attacking the Knights dispatched to Temza during the Great War. Had one killed the man who became Schwann? And Alexei was now obviously a touchy subject for uglier reasons than Raven’s past loyalties. Was that why the old man had sought the safe confines of the castle jail at the mere idea of another clash with Alexei?
Yuri turned this new piece to the puzzle that was Raven around in his mind and tasted the bitter sting of a truth gone unrecognized for far too long. Pretty dumb of him—them—given that Repede acted exactly the same with Estelle when she needed reassurance after her captivity by that bastard Alexei, letting her cuddle him or simply rest a hand on his head. To steady herself and ground herself in the present, Estelle had explained once, voice quiet, where she had to believe she couldn’t be hurt.
Dammit, old man... Yuri sighed, suddenly aching with weariness. Repede lifted his head in an inquiring whine, eyes bright. “You knew before any of us,” said Yuri, scratching Repede’s ears, “that the old man couldn’t deal with some things, didn’t you, boy?” He shook himself out of his slump. No point crying over spilt milk or twiddling his thumbs here in Zaphias. Raven had three months’ lead on him and would, he bet, want to avoid places that stank of Alexei’s presence.
Standing, he started towards the castle entrance. “C’mon, Repede,” he called. “We’ve got a skip to trace.” Repede jumped smoothly to his feet and, with a quick glance at Yuri, broke into an easy jog that would take him to the public quarter’s busiest market, their usual shop for supplies. They’d tracked their share of fugitives for Brave Vesperia over the years, sometimes with Judy and Ba’ul but more often just the two of them. While he let Karol handle lost items and deliveries, he liked to screen clients who were seeking to hire the guild to locate missing persons himself. Criminals fleeing justice, debtors their lenders, runaway family members—things got messy, in Yuri’s experience, soon as two equally invested parties were involved.
Last job that Flynn tipped him off on had been a deserter from the Royal Guard, in fact, one of the few diehard supporters of Alexei that managed to slip Sodia’s paranoid watch. Yuri and Repede’s hunt ended in a remote cave in Weccea, fighting the man and the dozen cutthroats he’d gathered to assassinate Ioder by blowing up the castle. Luckily, Raven invited himself along and, between Judy (who gave them a lift there) and the old man, they made short work of the whole bunch. That didn’t bode well for this job, he thought ruefully. And this was personal.
The steely clash of swords rang in his ears, the shadowed halls of Baction looming in his memory. It was only looking back that Yuri could recognize how Schwann had drawn them out from their initial defensive posture, goading them into anger with hurtful words while he pressed his attacks just enough to force them to counter, each cycle of advance and retreat escalating. Until he judged the power for a fatal blow was there and any feeling that might’ve caused them to hesitate to strike one was swept up by the tides of battle.
For a terrible moment then, before the grating scrape of his blade across metal had registered, Yuri truly believed he’d killed the old man. And he hated Schwann, for leaving himself open and making Yuri an unwitting accomplice to his suicide. Like the Don’s resolve but emptier—no ceremony, no purpose to this death. The thin, bloody line scored from shoulder to waist, Schwann’s uniform slit apart to reveal the blastia that had saved him once more, spoke to how close a call it’d been.
I don’t ever want to see you like that again, old man. Hollowed out and crushed in spirit the way Alexei, that bastard, intended to crush them all under two floors of stone. Fragile, Flynn had described Raven, and broken. Repede his guide through the market stalls, Yuri replenished their stock of food by rote, not caring to barter in his distraction. The old man seemed happier these past couple years; of that much Yuri was certain.
Raven’s jaunts around Dahngrest had a springiness to them without the secret of his double identity weighing on his conscience, and even Schwann was a better man, when he could be wrangled into an appearance, the loyalty and dedication Flynn still admired in him showing clear without the taint of dishonorable orders. Yuri was not going to let the old man backslide. He’d ignored the signs in Egothor Forest and Myorzo, that Raven was struggling, and Estelle and ultimately the old man, too, had paid the price. Never again. Determination hardened, he and Repede headed to the city gates.
· · ·
Yuri’s second chance encounter thanks to Raven came only a few days later. Barely had he stepped off the ramp to the ferry in Torim Harbor, Repede nosing curiously at a pile of crates stacked on the pier, when a sharp voice called his name, carrying easily over the water from the wharf. He squinted against the glare of the afternoon sun. Two women, dressed almost identically in dark vests and short skirts; one blonde and the other a redhead, their hair pulled up high into pigtails. With a sigh, he mentally scrapped his plan to grab a bowl of Patty’s seafood stew for lunch, still sold at the misleadingly advertised “Fish Juice!” stand that was now something of a local tourist attraction.
He hadn’t seen Gauche or Droite in person since he defeated them in the Coliseum, though he’d heard from Harry and Kaufman of their efforts starting a couple years ago to reform the remnants of Leviathan’s Claw. The once powerful shadow guild all but disintegrated following Yeager’s demise, its members disappearing into the night with whatever valuables they could loot. By the time Altosk got around to organizing a crew to retrieve Yeager’s records, the Manor of the Wicked was deserted and stripped clean of gald, weapons, supplies, even furnishings.
They were lucky none of Yeager’s underlings thought to steal the guild archives for use as blackmail or to burn the evidence of their crimes, leaving his meticulous logbooks of surveillance on assassination targets, client profiles and tallies of payments received miraculously intact. Given the closets stuffed full of those ugly yellow hooded coats, slashed like a horde of feral children had taken scissors to them, it was pretty obvious to Yuri at least that Yeager was the brains running that whole operation. Possession of the mansion itself and its forested grounds went to Gauche and Droite, according to Dahngrest’s oldest, most respected legal guild. Yeager left a signed and witnessed testament bequeathing them everything shortly before Zaude.
For a while, they allowed the estate to languish, visiting just enough to stave off disrepair and drive away squatters. Then suddenly, in a choice Yuri could appreciate, they packed up the Torim orphanage and moved the matron with all her young charges into the empty house. He was less sure of Gauche and Droite’s scheme to revive Leviathan’s Claw. So far, however, they largely restricted themselves to scouting and brokering information, accepting legitimate contracts from Fortune’s Market and the Hunting Blades. And the orphanage was thriving on their donations, with the funds to hire an additional two governesses. Yuri occasionally spotted them in Dahngrest, Heliord, and back in Torim peddling rustic handcrafted jewelry, toys, and trinkets, a variety of seasonal vegetables, and wildflowers arranged clumsily into charming bouquets.
Still, Harry agreed it’d be safer to keep a close eye on the new Leviathan’s Claw. The only inkling of potential misdeeds they’d uncovered was a certain tendency of ex-members who had turned to robbery, alone and in groups, or worked as unaffiliated killers for hire to suffer mysterious and violent deaths, and that was a level of murder Yuri was comfortable with, honestly. He had no problem with Gauche and Droite securing their leadership of an improved guild by cleaning up the rotten dregs of the old one.
Gauche and Droite were no longer his enemies. Time would tell whether their Leviathan’s Claw could steer clear of the worst of the sins that came with dealing in the shady business of spies, saboteurs, and assassins. Until then, Yuri would treat them cautiously but civilly. If, on the other hand, they were angling for a second rematch in revenge for Yeager, well... He really wasn’t in the mood.
“We’ve been waiting for you, Yuri Lowell,” said Gauche, unsmiling and arms folded, as Yuri walked over, Repede padding along at his side. Droite stood to Gauche’s right in a pose of relaxed attention. Her hands were clasped behind her back, Yuri noted, and not on her belted sword. Let’s play nice. He let his own sheathed blade drop to rest tip down on the cobblestones against his foot, his grip on the pommel loose.
“Ladies,” he drawled, and to his surprise, he meant it. Yeager’s foster daughters always struck him in the past as young and sheltered despite their skill, not unlike Rita when he first met her. Gauche and Droite had swapped their charcoal gray vests for ones in a rich deep blue that together with their pale yellow neckties reminded him of Yeager. Intentionally, Yuri wagered. They held themselves much more confidently than the girls who’d fled time after time rather than offer a simple explanation. “What can I do for you? Got business with Brave Vesperia?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Gauche admitted reluctantly, Droite giving him a curt nod. “One of you promised us satisfaction for the death of Master Yeager”—not this again, Yuri thought, wanting to roll his eyes—“but failed to meet us as arranged or contact us. Tell us his whereabouts.” With a sinking feeling, Yuri realized who was ridiculous enough to invite Gauche and Droite’s challenges.
Not a moment later, Droite confirmed his suspicions, adding, “The one you call Raven. We’ll trade you a favor for a favor.” Both glared at him expectantly, expressions mirror images in stubbornness. Yuri rubbed at his chin with a hand and tried not to sigh. A fine mess this was!
That the old man and Yeager shared some sort of history was no secret: a woman named Casey, whose memento Raven gifted to Gauche and Droite at the end of that first fight in Zaude for an exquisite white and gold bow he rarely went anywhere without. It was just rude to pry, though, no matter how keen Rita and Judy were to dig up all the juicy details of a love triangle. Like Schwann’s relationship with Alexei, Yuri was beginning to regret not pressing Raven about Yeager.
Hold on... “What exactly was your arrangement with Raven?” He narrowed his eyes at the wary look the two women exchanged. Dammit, old man! If Raven had been sneaking around, in regular communication with Gauche and Droite, to help them out of an obligation to the dead Yeager or to monitor their activities, influence their decisions—Yuri didn’t know what Raven’s game here was—while conveniently forgetting to mention this fact to him or Harry as they investigated Leviathan’s Claw and its resurgence, Yuri owed the old man another punch to the face.
Spirits, he hoped Raven wasn’t directly responsible for any of those fatally retired ex-members of Leviathan’s Claw. It might be too much to assume the old man had nothing to do with planting that idea in Gauche and Droite’s heads or plotting the bloody execution of it, for how furtively he’d acted. Maybe he needs a good kick in the ass! Yuri frowned. When I finally find him...
Gauche bit her lip, then brushed at the hair parted over her brow with a huff, but it was Droite who said, “He would leave us messages every couple months at the manor, with the orphanage, or in one of our caches near Dahngrest or Torim, asking to meet at a specified time and location.” Her face hardened. “Don’t bother searching for our drop sites,” she warned hotly, a pride in her spycraft that somebody must have taught her burning bright in her gaze. “They’re well hidden.”
“A guild is entitled to its trade secrets,” Yuri said evenly. He weathered Droite’s prickling scrutiny unfazed, until she turned her head with a jerk to watch the dockworkers haul crates into one of the many warehouses lining the wharf. The sounds of a bustling port, water lapping, and the low creak of ships at anchor filled the silence between them. Repede, sitting patiently on his haunches, craned his neck to track the flight of a cawing seagull.
Clearing her throat, Gauche continued, “It’s not like him to miss a meeting or go so long without sending us word.” Droite grunted in agreement. “It’s not that we owe him anything,” she muttered under her breath. “We’ve got a score to settle, and it won’t do for him to run out on us before we can put our new training to the test.” Gauche nodded at this assessment, serious as Flynn in the Knights’ quarterly budget review.
Yuri was oddly touched by their concern for the old man. Shaking his head in sincere apology, he told them, “Raven took an extended break from guild business for... personal reasons.” More or less true. “The old man didn’t provide us with a travel itinerary or forwarding address. He’s probably just out there bumming around.” He shrugged casually. “You know how he is...”
From their flash of chagrin, Gauche and Droite were familiar with Raven’s habit of cropping up where he was least expected but never staying in place when there was some wholly justified pique to vent on him. “He’ll be back when he’s back,” Yuri concluded. I’ll drag him back myself. Now the two sisters, he supposed, wore almost identical expressions of disappointment. They hadn’t done too bad with the cards fate dealt them, even if Yeager wasn’t the greatest role model and caregiver for a pair of young orphans. Or Raven, for that matter.
“Look,” he said, “I’ll tell him to contact you. Free of charge.” Estelle and Karol were making him soft, Yuri chided himself. He needed Gauche and Droite discouraged from following up Raven’s absence; he didn’t have to worry about their peace of mind, too. Yet he couldn’t quite muster any annoyance at being saddled with messenger duty again. Gauche’s small smile, her quiet, “You have our thanks,” caught him off-guard.
She and Droite vanished soon after into the market crowd, Droite bobbing in a little half bow. The rest of the road to Dahngrest passed uneventfully in comparison. Warmed by a campfire and Repede’s fur a downy bristle beneath his palm, Yuri wondered at the double-edged nature of Raven’s life. Yeager was his enemy, and Raven killed him to fulfill the Don’s dying wish. Only to learn Yeager’s heart was the same as his, Gauche and Droite another debt of vengeance.
Alexei was an absolute bastard who wasn’t worthy of Schwann’s loyalty—Yuri couldn’t think too much on Alexei’s abuses and still keep his temper in check—but without whom Raven wouldn’t have survived the Great War. Was it possible to love and hate a man in equal measure? Rita was more right than any of them could’ve guessed in saying things with the old man were pretty complicated.
It wasn’t going to be easy to convince Raven to... What? Talk about it? Yuri snorted. If he was at all interested in that, Yuri wouldn’t be chasing him across two continents. And who could Raven talk to? Not like Yuri had a wealth of experience to draw on, which he was selfishly grateful for, and Flynn was similarly stymied and dense as a geo stone when it came to sex, besides.
Karol and Rita he dismissed immediately. Raven was too protective of them. That Rita had stumbled upon so many of his darker secrets already was, Yuri figured, a big part of why the old man dragged his heels in seeing her for his blastia. Estelle? A whole host of issues lay between them, especially in regards to Alexei, that nobody else dared broach. Judy? Patty? The former had a cool manner, logical and nonjudgmental, that might be what Raven lacked, and Aifread was no greenhorn, that Seifer, who Yuri reckoned was her lover as well as her quartermaster, died at the end of her gun a starting point of sorts. Neither held a shred of sympathy for Alexei. Dammit, old man... He’d have to play it by ear.
Once in Dahngrest, his first stop was the guildhall. Raven was likely too frazzled from the breakneck pace he set out of Zaphias to risk tripping Karol’s surprisingly intuitive sense of his well-being, but it certainly wouldn’t hurt to update the boss, clear Brave Vesperia’s schedule for several months, and maybe bump into Judy before she flew off with Ba’ul. Karol was seated with a client, Yuri saw. In the plush wingback armchairs they’d moved into one corner of the common room for patrons who wanted the illusion of privacy.
This client, a slight bespectacled woman with a scholarly air, looked like she needed the cup of tea Karol had poured her, a plate of cookies accompanying it on the table. She startled at Yuri’s entrance, though Karol was quick to reassure her—“Yuri there is one of our guild officers, ma’am,” he said with a nod Yuri waved off—deftly regaining her attention with a question about the net weight of equipment her expedition intended to bring.
Grinning, Yuri left him to it. Karol had grown into his position over the years, becoming something of a charmer even. Raven’s influence, no doubt, and his own desire to be personable. Yuri instead perched himself on the front desk. A glance at the mission roster on the wall revealed Judy was on a courier round and not due back until tomorrow, her chalk mark fresh on the slate. He paged idly through the pile of completed contracts in the desk tray.
Judy and Ba’ul were in demand as usual; the Tolbyccian settlers had soon recognized no other guild could match their speed and cargo allowance, willing to pay a premium on delivery. Karol had partnered with Nan and the Hunting Blades on a monster extermination in the Caer Bocram area. And he’d conscripted the latest batch of recruits to join him. From the interview and requisition forms scattered on the desk, Karol was also weeding out the unsuitable from this year’s hopefuls, then ensuring those lucky few who made the cut were supplied with at least basic gear. Yuri hummed approvingly.
Despite its ascension to one of the Union’s five master guilds, Brave Vesperia remained a relatively close-knit organization. Its members vowed to abide by the guild’s founding principles of serving the common people and working hard to change the world for the better, were more often than not hired on the basis of officer recommendations, and prided themselves on never abandoning a job half finished. Karol and Yuri were determined to maintain the right... spirit. This newly initiated group was bound for Aurnion next for up to nine months of seasoning, fighting monsters and exploring ruins side by side with the Imperial Knights.
Both he and Flynn felt their forces could benefit from the joint training exercises. Yuri enjoyed personally putting the troops through their paces, anyways, and he got along swimmingly with Captain Agueron. The man hadn’t lost one bit of the cheerfully demanding attitude that sent Brave Vesperia scrounging for tree bark, monster parts, rare crystals and metals in the town’s early days.
Thus, slowly and steadily, Brave Vesperia had grown, too, from only three official members and Repede, plus two and a half consultants, to a strong guild of over thirty, including four young Krityans who were being mentored by Judy and a team of researchers from the defunct Ruins’ Gate who lived in terror of Rita descending upon their lab upstairs. Not to mention their affiliate maritime guild, Patty’s reestablished Siren’s Fang. Some nights, the mess tables loud with his celebrating comrades, Yuri had to pinch himself to make sure he wasn’t dreaming.
At length, Karol was able to seal the deal and walked their client to the door, chatting amiably. That mask of friendly professionalism didn’t last. Yuri hid his smile with a hand at Karol’s fist pump of victory and the sheer exuberance with which he threw himself into the desk chair. “Good news, boss?” asked Yuri, cocking his head. Much as he’d matured, Karol was the same earnest kid at heart.
“You better believe it!” Karol said with a wide grin. “Mrs. Lamarr’s leader of a big group of mages and artificers that’s been bugging Harry to let them in Ghasfarost to study the old fortress and Tower of Gears.” He straightened and jabbed a thumbs-up at his chest. “Well, Harry’s agreed, and we’re clearly the best choice to guide them—gone through that place from top to bottom! They’ve got some equipment they want airlifted up the spire, so Judy and Ba’ul ought to come, and they’re hoping Rita might, too. I’ll go, of course, to represent Brave Vesperia, and I was thinking you and Repede, for extra security and in case Barbos left any traps...”
Mumbling on about timetables—Lamarr had proposed a tentative date next year, with the summer spent camped in the ruins—and provisions, escorting the expedition overland to Ghasfarost, and whether the recruits were prepared for that task, Karol reached absently for a blank scrap of paper and began jotting down notes with the pencil he’d wedged behind his ear. This was as good an opportunity as any to wheedle some information about Raven, while Karol was distracted.
“Say, has the old man been around?” Yuri shuffled the contracts he was reading back into order, carefully tapping their edges on the desk, and stacked them neatly in the tray. He watched Karol out of the corner of his eye. The soft scratch of writing slowed to a stop, as a frown crept up Karol’s face, his mouth flattening into a line and a deepening furrow between his brows.
“No,” said Karol, gaze suddenly focused on Yuri, “he hasn’t.” He drummed the blunt end of his pencil on the desk. The staggered rhythm was as deliberate as his words, and Yuri winced inwardly at the implied reprimand. “Harry asked after Raven, too. Said it was Knights business.” But Karol wasn’t a stickler for the rules or hierarchy. It was more the concern of a friend than that of a boss which prompted his questions. “What’s going on? Anything I should know?”
Weighing Karol’s worry against the hunch that Raven would not want the kid to hear about Alexei, Yuri settled for another half-truth. “Yeah,” he said, “Flynn and the old man dug up a bit of history they’re looking into.” He met Karol’s intent stare and held it, willing him to understand. “Flynn’s come across something big but couldn’t get in touch with Raven, so he’s been putting feelers out to his guild contacts.”
“Including you,” Karol guessed. Yuri simply inclined his head. Though the Adephagos may have forced the Empire into cooperation with the guilds and greater transparency, Alexei’s coup airing a decade of dirty laundry, there was still a plethora of state secrets and internal matters even Flynn refused to share. Brave Vesperia was privy to more than most in the Union, on account of Yuri’s familiarity with both Flynn and Her Grand Ducal Highness Princess Estellise, Chancellor of Justice. Raven, in contrast, had an insider’s perspective, as Schwann.
How the old man balanced so many competing interests, Yuri wasn’t sure. Years of practice, he imagined, serving far harsher masters who were at bitter odds. Ioder, Flynn, Harry, Karol—they all seemed to have an unspoken agreement not to demand anything of Schwann or Raven that would land him in an awkward position. When Karol’s expression screwed up into the little moue of frustration he only showed at the least productive Union assemblies, Yuri let himself relax a tad.
“Anyways, it’s nothing dangerous.” Don’t make me a liar, old man. “Nothing that’ll affect the guild or Union either. Flynn called in a favor, so I’m searching for the old man until I catch him. I figured Judy could chip in, too. Do a couple courier runs to towns it’d take me weeks to get to.” Tone light, Yuri treated Flynn like a number of their clients who’d requested that packages or messages be delivered to people they had no idea where to find. Just business as usual, that Raven was missing a minor hiccup. Karol combed his fingers through his hair thoughtfully.
“Okay, Yuri,” he said at last, nodding once, decisively. I trust you. “I’ll tell you what I told Harry: Raven hasn’t been in here since he left for Aurnion to meet you, but Nan mentioned he was at the Hunting Blades guildhall a couple months ago, pulling some records.” He shrugged apologetically, serious despite a faint blush the memory of Nan brought to the tips of his ears. “I don’t know which ones. You’ll have to ask her.”
It wasn’t much of a lead. Still an improvement over the vague direction he had before. Yuri hopped off the desk and gave Karol’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Thanks, boss,” he said. Yawning exaggeratedly, he stretched his neck, rubbing at sore muscles he hadn’t noticed. “I’m going upstairs to grab some shut-eye. Can you let Judy know I wanna talk to her when she comes in tomorrow? I’ll drop in on Harry and Nan myself.” Karol chewed his lip but nodded gamely. He patted himself on the cheeks with both hands and in renewed concentration bent his head over his work, pencil again scratching away.
Repede had beelined for the shaggy rug in front of the common room fireplace soon as they arrived. With a huff, Yuri saw that he was already fast asleep, sprawled on his side and not even a twitch of his tail to mark Yuri’s approach. He crouched and unbuckled Repede’s dagger harness, slipping it out from under him, to a few quiet snuffles and one half-lidded eye that drooped closed as Yuri stroked his hand along Repede’s crowning tuft of fur. “You’ve earned a good nap, buddy,” he said, chuckling.
Upstairs were the research lab, library and armory, barracks, officers’ quarters, and guest suites, connected by a corridor that opened into a foyer above the entrance and common room. Most members of Brave Vesperia rented apartments or owned small residences elsewhere in Dahngrest or the towns they were assigned to, stays at the guildhall limited to post-mission crashes and training sessions. Karol and Yuri were exceptions, living here on a permanent basis. Judy kept a cramped study, preferring to bunk with Ba’ul, while Estelle was happy to take any available bed when she visited and Rita had a cot heaped with blankets tucked between the library shelves. If Raven wasn’t lazying on their couches or at Union headquarters, he was carousing in some tavern or holed up in his nondescript flat.
Digging about in the bottom drawer of his desk, cluttered with odds and ends he’d collected over the years, it was the key to this flat Yuri sought. The old man had tossed it to him one day, exclaiming that it was a rare honor he was bestowing upon Yuri. “I don’t let just anybody into my inner sanctum, y’know, though ol’ Raven’s got many admirers of the female persuasion keen ta go home with him.” A crooked smile and wagging finger. “Mind you, this ain’t no invitation ta snoop. Can’t have ya ruining my manly air o’ mystery.”
Sorry, old man. Setting the plain key on his nightstand, its only identifying feature a metal tag etched with the door number, Yuri kicked off his boots and flopped into bed, hands laced behind his head. Raven was... weird with women. He liked them well enough and they him, yet regardless of his frequently effusive efforts to wine and dine them, compliment them, and romance them, Yuri would bet three months’ worth of contract fees and his second best sword that the old man never allowed a single one of his pursuits to turn into a full-blown affair.
The string of disappointed dates Raven left in his wake who hoped to share drinks with him or ask him to dinner was what built his reputation as a ladykiller. Before, Yuri assumed this was because even a quick tumble might raise a bunch of uncomfortable questions Raven didn’t want to answer, starting with the blastia in the old man’s chest. He ground his teeth. Now, well, he had his doubts.
If Flynn’s suspicions proved true and Alexei coerced Schwann into sex, trapped him by means of a device Alexei implanted and then—Yuri could hardly bring himself to put a name to it, spirits damn that bastard!—nobody would blame Raven for shying from that sort of intimacy. Hell, on the off-chance that whatever Alexei and Schwann had wasn’t a worst case scenario, Baction and Zaude damaged their relationship beyond all salvaging. And maybe Raven’s ability to bare his body and heart to a lover with it. This mildly amusing, occasionally annoying quirk of the old man’s was transformed abruptly into a wound none of them had treated with care.
Yuri resented it. That this happened to a friend, that he was blind to it for so long, and that he couldn’t help feeling angry at Alexei, pointless as hating the dead was, but also at Raven. It wasn’t fair of him, and he knew better than to actually dump his issues on Raven. The old man had plenty on his plate and didn’t need Yuri piling on more.
He shut his eyes and cleared his mind, breathing slowly. Until finally the urge to move, to do something when there was no enemy to fight or trail to follow that wasn’t months cold, drained from him like water wrung from a used rag. What was left settled heavy as lead in his bones was the realization that if—when, Yuri corrected—he caught up to the old man, he might not be able to look at Raven without seeing the shadow of Alexei’s hand upon Schwann. This, Yuri loathed, a burning worm gnawing a path through his guts.
Alexei had no right to intrude on their lives now, and in some roundabout way Yuri couldn’t really explain, giving even his memory any say in how they lived was surrendering to him a power over them he should never hold. Bad enough that the harm Alexei did continued to cause Estelle and Flynn grief. That Raven had to be added to this list of Yuri’s people who Alexei scarred so deeply when the old man tried so hard to free himself of Schwann’s ghosts was galling. Worse, the nature of what lay between Alexei and Schwann (sex and lies and murder)—Yuri’s face hurt with the force of his grimace this time—made it impossible to speak of and not inflict more pain on Raven.
Did he rape you? No amount of tiptoeing would soften the blow. One Yuri wasn’t sure the old man could take. He obviously hadn’t wanted them to learn this secret, ashamed—and who wouldn’t be? Worries fluttered around in Yuri’s head like a flock of birds shouted from their perch descending again to roost. He threw an arm over his still closed eyes and groaned. Dammit, old man... Sleep was slow to come.
· · ·
The next day, Yuri paid a visit to the western residential district. Dahngrest was the den of a hundred guilds, but not everybody who worked and lived in the city belonged to one. And while members of the Union and other centralized guilds that provided services for hire tended to keep room and board close to their headquarters, Dahngrest’s sizable population of transient laborers, waged employees, and independent artisans resided farther from the city center. Though, to be sure, many of these joined looser trade associations that ranged from the Dahngrest Pie Council (which hosted an annual baking competition open to all comers) to the Dahngrest Society of Seamstresses (ladies of negotiable affection who did precious little sewing).
It was unusual for a high ranking officer of Altosk to rent an apartment here. When Yuri commented on that to Raven, the old man had shrugged and said, “Can’t get enough of the local food. And it’s cheaper.” Now he wondered whether there wasn’t some story behind it, like so much of what Raven did, as insignificant as it seemed. The residential districts were on the whole quieter than the guild quarter, with fewer armed strangers roaming the streets. It reminded Yuri of the smaller barrier towns south of Zaphias: prosperous regional hubs for commerce that could boast a nightlife without losing the quaint charm of a country village.
Schwann was reputedly a commoner who’d traveled to the capital from just such a town to serve and defend the Empire in the valiant Knights. Was there a grain of truth to that propaganda? It was impossible to say, since which town in particular Schwann hailed from was conveniently left obscure. For all Yuri knew, Raven’s choice of home was driven by cold practicality, not sentiment. It must’ve been easier to play the double spy with an incontestable excuse to loiter in areas of Dahngrest where he could slip the eyes and ears of the Don’s loyal men, any guild tail certain to stick out like a sore thumb among the neighbors. Yuri smiled ruefully as he climbed the stairs to Raven’s flat. Nothing was simple with the old man.
Harry was brusquely relieved that Yuri would handle looking for Raven when he stopped by the Union this morning. The old man wasn’t without his detractors in Altosk. Mainly those that questioned the young Don’s wisdom in retaining an adviser and enforcer whose allegiances, past as well as current, were so murky. Up to now, Harry had managed to silence the critics by pointing out that his grandfather accepted Raven as a full-fledged member of the guild despite first meeting him in an assassination attempt.
Don Whitehorse was no fool. Who could believe he wasn’t aware of Raven’s Imperial ties? Clearly, he valued Raven’s abilities more than he feared a betrayal. Lounging in his chair at the head of the imposing table he’d moved into the Union’s audience chamber, Harry all but dared his lieutenants to either present evidence they could perform Raven’s duties as competently—a nonstarter, Schwann’s standing in the Empire unmatched—or challenge his grandfather’s judgment and his own courage. This meant, however, Harry couldn’t show favoritism in diverting guild resources to find Raven.
“Commandant Flynn takes too many liberties,” said Harry in the deceptively polite tone he’d adopted to cut the Union’s numerous hotheads down to size. “Remind him that if he wishes to open an investigation into sworn guildsmen here in Dahngrest, there are proper channels for him to submit a request. Neither Clint nor I appreciate his going behind our backs.” Harry’s face revealed nothing of the worry that had flashed in his eyes at hearing Raven was still missing.
Nan repeated to Harry and Yuri both the explanation that Raven was checking into how many former Royal Guards were recruited by the Hunting Blades on Flynn’s behalf. Too bad none of them bought that story. Harry and Nan suspected Schwann’s real mission was to track a specific person, a fugitive ex-Knight wanted in connection with Alexei’s crimes perhaps; Yuri, who knew Flynn had issued no such orders, could only speculate what exactly Raven was after. That Alexei’s name had come up again, the Royal Guard once his henchmen, made Yuri uneasy.
Was this unrelated to Alexei and Schwann’s... affair? He grimaced, as he unlocked the door and let himself into the old man’s apartment. Except the timing couldn’t be a coincidence. Yuri hoped Raven hadn’t bitten off more than he could chew.
The sight that greeted him of the bow Raven always called Casey’s left hanging in its little used rack on the wall gave Yuri pause. “This ol’ girl’s been through enough. I don’t want her lost because of me.” Not a good sign. Shaking off the memory of Raven polishing that bow to a gleaming white with reverent hands, Yuri made a slow circuit around the sparse flat.
He found the kitchen untouched; the old man’s surprising assortment of crockery and ingredients was squared away in the cabinets. “Nothin’ impresses the ladies more than a gent who can dish up a home-cooked meal for ‘em.” Yuri winced. Entertaining company would’ve been the last thing on Raven’s mind.
Likewise the living area with its table and chairs and, separated by a door that didn’t so much latch as get wedged in its frame, the closet-sized bathroom showed no trace of their sole occupant. The only indication Raven had been there at all was the bed in one corner. And Yuri didn’t care for what the mess of twisted blankets said about how well the old man slept. Both windows were shut, the curtains drawn over them. Casey’s bow was a spot of muted brilliance in the gloom.
Steps heavier than when he entered, Yuri retreated into the midmorning light, locking the apartment door again behind him. The narrow street outside was deserted, the sounds of the still waking city carrying faintly from a small plaza nearby. He forced himself to breathe, hands braced on the railing, then to think.
Raven fled Zaphias and Schwann’s ugly past for Dahngrest, but upon his arrival had neither eaten nor bathed, worn down though he must’ve been, or, Yuri added with a frown, gotten a whole lot of rest that was actually restful. Dammit, old man... No word to Harry or Karol that he was in town; no message for anybody who might wonder where he went. You didn’t have to hide from us. It was going to be a long walk back to the guildhall. He would uncover no clues here.
Karol was in the middle of an animated recounting of their latest giganto monster hunt for a table of bright-eyed recruits when Yuri returned. At Yuri’s look, he tilted his chin up at the stairs. Judy was waiting. Yuri just wished he had some direction to give her and Ba’ul.
Then again, he admitted, as he sidled through Judy’s cracked open study door, maybe he needed a fresh perspective on this. Glancing around at the eclectic, ever growing collection of weapons (mostly spears, staves, and other polearms, Sicily’s deck brush in pride of place), historical artifacts (from the ancient Geraios civilization, Temza, Myorzo; of her father’s invention), and whatever knickknacks caught her interest (the newest must-haves out of Yumanju were posable toy figurines of, well, them), Yuri thought wryly that Judy was sure to offer him unique insights, if not exactly useful ones, in typical Krityan fashion.
Judy was seated, legs crossed, on a stool at the wide lectern she used as a desk. Spread in front of her was a large book bound in dark blue; she wrote carefully in its pages with a feather quill. Her current project, Yuri recalled. A manual of spear artes, including traditional Krityan styles and her own, that Rita suggested she assign to her trainees as homework. She peered up as he entered and, after a final looping stroke, set aside her pen, asking, “You didn’t find anything?”
Yuri shrugged a no. “Plan’s to head down to the docks next,” he said, fetching up against a cabinet of blank stone tablets that only revealed their inscriptions to nageeg. “See if the old man jumped ship and where to.” That was going to take all afternoon and probably a good chunk of his evening, too. Dahngrest had expanded northward to the sea, rickety wooden buildings and walkways sprouting from the cliff in a zigzagging descent to the deep water jetties, the growing port connected to the city by a single road lined with storehouses, vendors hawking their wares, inns and taverns.
Not that the old river wharfs weren’t as busy as ever, busier even, that route still the fastest and cheapest for ships stopping in Heliord or Torim Harbor with drafts shallow enough. Yuri grudgingly revised his estimate of how long he’d have to spend hoofing it around Dahngrest up a day. In the meantime... He scratched at his cheek with one finger. “I know you and Ba’ul just got back from a courier run, but think you could swing by Heliord and ask around the settlements about Raven?”
“We can,” Judy agreed readily. Hand delicately propped under her chin, she angled her head up to frown at the ceiling. “Although my feeling is that he’s moved on, to Temza.” The old man made a pilgrimage of sorts there every year, Yuri knew, to honor Casey and his other comrades from the Great War. Always alone, something about the cratered battlefield and the barren, windswept mountains quieting him, however earnestly Flynn offered to go with him, the big softhearted lummox.
Following Raven’s trail into the rocky wastelands of Temza... That’d be one helluva trick. Yuri blew out an aggrieved breath. “We’ll cross that desert when we come to it,” he muttered, rubbing his temples and the ache there that threatened to bloom into a migraine with one hand. He really hoped the old man had more sense than that.
Of course, this whole situation was arguably a sign that Raven and sense of any kind beyond a wounded animal’s instinct to run and hide had parted company a while ago. Yuri grimaced. At Judy’s curious look, her fingers tapping her thigh, he sighed and said, “What do you remember about the old man after Zaude?” She was the most likely to have noted a change in Raven’s behavior then.
Proving again that her insight was sharp as Brionac, Judy paused for barely a moment before cutting straight to the heart of the matter. “Does this have something to do with Alexei?” It was more statement than question. Yuri made a noncommittal noise, but Judy’s arched eyebrow told him he wasn’t fooling her.
Her piercing gaze clouded as she reminisced. “I thought it strange at the time,” she said, tone measured, “that he would take it upon himself to retrieve Alexei’s body.” Yuri jolted, reflexive disgust chasing his shock. Dammit, old man! Alexei had been crushed to a bloody mess beneath Zaude’s giant blastia. With the Empire already disavowing him as a traitor of the highest order, those typically denied proper burials, Yuri assumed his corpse was left to rot where he fell, the broken blastia both grave and a monument to his sins.
“Yeager I could understand,” Judy mused. A flicker of her eyes took in Yuri’s doubled surprise. That was how Raven’s arrangement with Gauche and Droite began, he supposed. Behind the Manor of the Wicked on a grassy knoll shaded by trees was, according to Harry’s spy reports, a lone headstone garlanded with fire lilies. “Enemy though he was, his situation was not so different from Raven’s, and he was due some honor as a fellow guildsman.” Yuri tended to agree. For all that he was Alexei’s and others’ hired killer, Yeager lived and died by a guild code. He was certainly more professional than that wacko Zagi, even with the accent and fancy affectations.
“But Alexei?” Judy shook her head slowly. “Why grant that man the dignity he did not afford Schwann, in life or death?” That was an answer Yuri wasn’t sure he wanted to learn. Schwann’s life debt to Alexei had been repaid hundreds of times over, in Yuri’s estimation. Problem was, his wasn’t the opinion that counted here, and he couldn’t say the old man felt the same. In the past, maybe, he would’ve, when Raven fighting with them against Alexei was more a man finally waking up to right the wrongs he helped commit and less a... He faltered.
A mercy kill. He didn’t like the implications for the old man’s state of mind, to act as if he owed that bastard anything after Baction, after whatever sent him fleeing in knee-jerk terror even now. “You don’t feel Alexei was due some honor as a fellow Knight?” asked Yuri, partly in jest because he figured he knew what Judy’s view would be. Mostly so he could stop comparing Raven and Alexei to him and Estelle or Patty and Seifer—both the result of Alexei’s cruel ambitions.
“No more than you do,” she replied coolly. Yuri couldn’t argue with that. As far as he and Ioder’s government were concerned, Alexei’s service as a Knight officially ended when he attacked Zaphias with the Heracles, then let the capital get overrun by monsters in his attempt to seize power. While in truth Alexei went rogue long before that, given the Heracles’s secret construction, Yuri appreciated that Ioder didn’t deny the Empire’s responsibility for damages done to Dahngrest, Mantaic, and Nordopolica. His Majesty’s dry remark about auditing the auditors at Yuri’s comment during one of their joint conferences that the Imperial treasury must be pretty loose with its purse strings for Alexei to hide such a big expense won him a little bit more of Yuri’s respect.
Flynn’s exasperated sigh and the giggle Estelle had to stifle with her hand were worth the glares he got from the Imperial councillors for the rest of that meeting, Yuri remembered. Mood improved, he smirked at Judy to show her point had hit him fair and square. It was a game they both enjoyed playing. Judy flashed at him the dazzling smile that left hopeless suitors trailing in her wake across four continents. Then, quick as her spear, her attention shifted, expression growing pensive. “Alexei was more to Schwann than his master and captor,” she concluded.
Huh, Yuri thought, mildly surprised at Judy’s turn of phrase. He’d never considered that Schwann was Alexei’s prisoner, physically chained to him by the blastia in his chest and emotionally hostage to an unwilling obligation Alexei stretched thin. Despite the prestige of his rank, Schwann had been trapped, his life in Zaphias not as free as Raven’s. Another thing the old man had in common with Estelle.
Once again, Yuri worried that he might not be the best choice for Raven to talk to about all this. But the old man’s gotta be found first. Living in Halure allowed Estelle to escape most of the court formalities that came with being Ioder’s heir, at least until he married and begot himself another, but that Chancellor of Justice title wasn’t some empty honor, and Estelle worked hard to keep it that way. Every week, she traveled to Zaphias to consult with Ioder and for a full day of open audiences, judging grievances from nobles and commoners alike, that she wouldn’t want to miss.
Looked like the old man was stuck with him. And Judy, he added. Who was, he suddenly noticed, gracefully waiting for him to continue their conversation. Yuri cleared his throat. She shrugged off his unspoken apology with a toss of her head and asked simply, “How much more?” Her stare was intent.
What was Schwann to Alexei? Or Alexei to Raven? “Does it matter?” Yuri wondered aloud. More to the point, he didn’t want to speculate and air the old man’s secrets willy-nilly without hearing the whole story firsthand. Judy hummed softly, closing her eyes. After a few heartbeats, her lucid gaze wandered to the shelf where Hermes’s creations, only curiosities now with their blastia shorn of power, were arrayed. Some her father had left her; others she searched for, as persistent in recovering them as she’d been in destroying them.
“No,” she finally said. “I cannot pretend to understand his choices, but the fact of our friendship remains unchanged.” Her voice was firm and her posture steady as the seasoned troubleshooter she was—Brave Vesperia’s heavy hitter stepping up to bat. “He has my help, whatever it is he needs.” Yuri envied her that rock solid certainty.
Raven probably would, too. Sincerity untarnished by ulterior motives was in short supply in his previous life. “I’m not sure he knows what he needs,” he said cautiously. If nothing else, the old man had shown he was as skilled at lying—to himself more than them, Yuri suspected—as ever, the habits of a decade of skulduggery too strong to bury as he seemed determined to do with Schwann’s darker sides.
“Does it matter?” Judy returned. Yuri pulled a face. Something so... hurtfully violating couldn’t just be brushed off, like the old man did his drinking. Often as he hit the taverns to socialize and for business, there were nights when Raven obviously didn’t care for company, nursing at a back table two whole jugs of cheap rotgut even Patty was hard pressed to down in quantity without ending up passed out on the floor. Not one to poke his nose into his friends’ personal affairs on principle, Yuri let the old man be. Raven handled his liquor like a man with a routine; if it hadn’t gotten him killed yet, he knew his limits, or so Yuri reckoned.
But this thing with Alexei? The old man was so far from handling it that Alexei might as well have died yesterday, the last three years of peace apparently not having dulled his pain or fear one bit. Scars which ran deep enough to turn Raven into the flight risk he always claimed but Yuri didn’t believe him to be. It wasn’t some punishable offense to bend under pressure instead of allowing it to break you all to pieces, no more than it was cowardice to not want to die, to hesitate in drawing the knife across your own throat. Now if only he—they—could convince the old man of that...
“No,” he said, and for the first time since Flynn shared his suspicions about the true nature of Alexei and Schwann’s relationship, Yuri realized he meant it. They’d all done things and been people they weren’t proud of. On a gut level, Raven’s shady past was no more shameful than Flynn following Alexei’s orders or Judy’s masked blastia terrorist days. Me moonlighting as a vigilante, he added ruefully. They’d all changed for the better despite their follies, and the old man was no exception. He deserved to be judged by who he was in the present.
I’m still gonna sock you one, Yuri promised himself, for making Karol and Rita worry. A spring that had been winding tighter and tighter over his shoulders loosened; a suffocating weight lifted off his back. The old man would be lazying around the guildhall again in no time. I’ll find him. Rita would fix up his blastia and Estelle his heart, with her gentle touch, and everything would be fine. Judy’s smile was small but no less lovely. She nodded and said, “Then let’s get to work.”
· · ·
A few weeks later, trudging into Mantaic with the sun pounding down on him, Yuri thought glumly that they were no closer to finding Raven. The harbormaster in Dahngrest had granted him access to the passenger manifests of ships departing over the days Raven was in town. He picked up the old man’s trail again quick enough, the longshoremen able to match someone fitting Raven’s less than inconspicuous description to a freighter that registered a last minute fare. Only to discover, to his chagrin, that the ship’s destination was Aurnion.
So, back to Aurnion he went, though at least the journey was faster and more enjoyable with Ba’ul doing the legwork and Judy’s company. Why Raven returned to Aurnion he still didn’t know. Captain Agueron, surprised to see him barely a month after he left, reported no sightings of the old man; Judy’s on the fly questioning of the local settlers yielded the same result. The dockworkers were their sole lead, having seen Raven arrive and then, worryingly staggering in from a direction that pointed nowhere, leave aboard another ship bound for Nordopolica. Judy’s guess that the old man was headed to Temza was looking more and more likely.
Upon reaching Desier, Yuri decided they should split up, Judy going ahead to Temza and the Krityan colony with Ba’ul while he took the long way to Mantaic. They agreed to meet there in a week’s time to compare notes. He was really hoping they wouldn’t have to scour the Kogorh. In Nordopolica, Natz confirmed that Raven had passed through, staying a couple nights at the Fomalhaut. He couldn’t say whether the old man was doing well, however, or where Raven went and why, the message he sent Natz no more than a formality stating vaguely that he was “off the clock.” Off the books, too, Natz assumed, like Harry and Nan, easily accepting Yuri’s suggestion of Knights business. Flynn would have to invent some secret mission for Captain Schwann, at this rate, to avoid future awkwardness with Altosk and Palestralle.
Wiping the sweat off his brow with one sleeve, Yuri stopped first at the Antares, Repede following at his heels with tongue lolling. The innkeeper was happy to share with him news of the old man, full of cheer at the prospect that Yuri would rent a room for as many nights as his friend. Asking around the neighborhood also proved useful. Raven was the toast of Mantaic’s merchants, it turned out, from the Fortune’s Market vendor to the elderly grandmother who sold kebabs from a stall.
Dried meat and fruit, rice, flour, and oil; an assortment of vegetable seeds; extra bars of soap, thread and twine—the old man was packing for an expedition and into the mountains, by the long coil of climbing rope he bought. There were plenty of spots in Temza, fed by springs and snowmelt, for a determined person to hole up in, if not comfortably, then in the rugged style that was becoming popular amongst the nobility of Zaphias. Besides, neither Raven nor Schwann was a stranger to camping rough, much as the old man preferred to stay at inns. Was the fool plan to live a hermit in the wilderness?
He grimly added Temza’s rocky bluffs and gullies to the list of places he did not want to search for Raven. That list was growing, as the old man skipped out of every city, town, and village. Out on every friend. Yuri ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. The sun was dipping low by the time he finished, and canvassing the locals after a two-day trek from Nordopolica was catching up to him. It was hard to remember that Raven didn’t mean to be such a pain in the ass to find, probably hadn’t been thinking of anything except getting away from it all, when he was dead on his feet, the tray of kebabs he’d split with Repede long eaten.
“Break sound good?” he asked Repede. Who’d taken the opportunity to lounge in the shade of a palm, dozing, while Yuri tried to chase down some kids the old man was fond of—yes, they talked to Mr. Raven; no, he only told them he couldn’t play with them—but who now raised his head with a bark of approval. It was on their way back to the inn that Yuri spotted his third chance encounter thanks to Raven and by far the strangest one.
Smack dab in the middle of a street that led to the oasis was a tall, lean man, his gold-trimmed red and black clothes a stark contrast to the sand and plain adobes surrounding him. Yuri almost couldn’t believe his eyes, frozen in midstep. Duke Pantarei—there was really no mistaking him, bizarre as his appearance here seemed—stared at Yuri pointedly for a moment, then started towards the water’s edge, white hair trailing and wordlessly demanding that he come, too. Repede snuffed at Yuri’s glance over and curled up in a nearby alcove, resting his snout on his paws. Which left Yuri to go after Duke alone.
With a scowl at Repede, the traitor, and a sigh, Yuri dragged his tired feet to the oasis, praying halfheartedly to the spirits that whatever Duke had in mind, it’d be fast. Duke cut an impressive figure against the lake and trees, arms crossed as he regarded the sunset ripples mirrored on the water’s surface with an air of grave contemplation. Approaching slowly, hands in a lazy stretch that kept them clear of his sword, Yuri studied him.
The years since Tarqaron had not changed him noticeably. He’d vanished in the chaos of the ancient city’s collapse, and despite the fact that the Imperial order for his arrest was never rescinded, Ioder and Flynn quietly let him do as he pleased, so long as he didn’t enter Zaphias. As reward for his heroism during the Great War and his timely aid in ending the threat of the Adephagos, on the one hand; as punishment for destroying Aspio and seeking humanity’s demise in a rather half-baked scheme to begin with, on the other.
Formalizing Duke’s voluntary exile from the Empire would’ve been much more difficult, Yuri knew, had Aspio’s residents not evacuated well before the mountain caved in on them or kicked up a fuss about their lost homes and belongings. As it was, the majority of the city’s scholars were too eager to move into Tarqaron to bother with petitioning the Imperial court for reparations. Hell, they might’ve pinned a medal on Duke for dropping the secrets of the Geraios in their collective laps, according to Rita, if he hadn’t managed to ruin their library in the process. Go figure. Rita’s people were weird like that.
“Duke,” he greeted the other man. Imitating Duke’s pose, Yuri resisted the urge to say or do more, mentally prepared to stand there together in silence until Duke talked, left, or night fell, whichever came first. He doubted Duke’s solitary travels had improved his patience for idle conversation. The shadows beneath the palms darkened from blue-green to a rich violet as they waited.
A smile crept unbidden onto Yuri’s face at the memories of Estelle and Flynn in this very oasis. He decided to return later, with Repede, after supper. The moon shone brighter in the desert, somehow looming larger when it rose into a cloudless sky painted with sprays of stars more numerous than he ever saw in Dahngrest or Zaphias. Mantaic’s old barrier blastia would reflect in glassy waters like a plunging shard of light, the roof of fronds and farther out the rolling dunes silver-fringed. Crickets and whippoorwills were already filling the in-between spaces with their songs.
It was a sight worth seeing again, even if he got stuck with a stubborn companion who’d forgotten pretty much all the social niceties. Like that it was poor manners to beckon an acquaintance over only to ignore him, Yuri thought wryly. The seconds counted steadily up into minutes. Finally, Duke acknowledged Yuri’s presence with a flick of his gaze.
“Yuri Lowell,” he said, “the one you seek is in the Yormgen of yore.” Yuri slanted a sharp look at Duke, inwardly a bit bemused. Gauche and Droite’s concern for the old man was, in hindsight, not entirely unexpected, given the Yeager connection and Raven’s sometimes unreasonable guilt, but damned if he could tell what business Duke had here. Though the old man and he both fought in the Great War, comrades they were not. Duke continued, “You have leave to enter and speak with him, but tread lightly and do not linger.”
Setting aside the question of the messenger for now, Yuri considered this new information. Yormgen, huh? And, he gathered, Duke didn’t mean the seaside resort town with its free port. Nobody had gone back to Phaeroh’s fake Yormgen since that odd episode with the otherworldly visitor a few months post-Adephagos; Yuri kind of assumed Efreet would let the illusion run its course, whatever purpose he had in creating it served once he became a spirit.
Guess not. As hiding places went, it was positively inspired. He wondered how the old man had hit upon the idea. Not to mention... “How do you know?” he asked Duke, amused at the possibility that Raven had annoyed Duke out of a basically empty ghost village. Duke could use a little disruption to the dreamlike routine of his life, in Yuri’s opinion. His imaginings must have shown because Duke nearly huffed, dignity ruffled, and Yuri had to fight a grin at his stiff tone.
“I am merely passing on the words of a friend.” And without even a nod of farewell, Duke made to leave, as abrupt as ever. Yuri couldn’t help sending him off with a wave and a smirk, both roundly ignored, watching as Duke walked in that stately way of his down the trail out of town. A sudden breeze teased through the pale fall of his hair like a lover’s fingers. It was hard to be sure in the deepening twilight, but Yuri thought he saw Duke turn his face into the wind, shoulders loosening in a soundless sigh.
Huh. Well, that was an answer of sorts. Sylph had taken an interest or, Yuri realized in a slow hiss of breath, maybe the part of her that was Khroma had. Flynn’s voice echoed in his ears. Just how much did Khroma know about Alexei personally, trusted as she was in his various plots? Raven had certainly never treated Sylph like Alexei’s right hand woman, though Schwann must’ve worked closely with her on occasion.
Then again, Raven still sometimes pretended ignorance when it came to being recognized as Schwann and not only by raw recruits who might buy the act but people who’d actually met him in his First Captain of the Imperial Knights uniform, so it wouldn’t be out of character, Yuri admitted with a twist of his lip, for the old man to willfully deny that Sylph had any connection to his past and at idiotic length, too. Good on Khroma for not following suit. Harry, Karol, Rita, Flynn, Estelle... Me, he added with a snort and a quick glance off the ledge he rested upon at the sands of the Kogorh far below. You got some friends in high places, old man.
With one last sip of water from his canteen before he tied it to his belt, Yuri stretched his arms and legs, spine unbending with a satisfying pop, and started climbing again. He’d left Mantaic that very night, stopping only to wolf down supper, order a breakfast to go, and drop Repede off at the local Hunting Blades lodge.
Luckily, Karol’s friend Dyne was there on assignment and agreed to keep an eye out for Judy. Tucked safely under Repede’s harness was a hastily scrawled note. She wasn’t due to meet them for four or five days yet, and while Raven had already spent Sylph knew how long holed up in fake Yormgen alone, Yuri decided he couldn’t wait, loud as his muscles were protesting the absence of Ba’ul now. Not much further, he told himself, as he scanned the cliff face for his next handholds.
Zaude’s tower was taller, the blue plane of the ocean warped into a dome beneath it, but after freefalling from one such height, Yuri was not keen to repeat the experience. So he forced himself to move slowly, taking short breaks whenever he could. The urge to push harder hung like an angry ape on his back, beating at his shoulders with every memory of the old man putting himself down, as smooth and practiced as the way he drew his bow. Fewer though they’d become over the years, there were still too many for comfort. A step off the plateau above would be as easy as jumping from one of Dahngrest’s bridges. Easier even, without any nosy witnesses. Yuri gritted his teeth and climbed.
Finally at the top, his clothes sticky with sweat in the late afternoon heat, he paused to catch his breath. He didn’t sit or lie prone on the sunbaked stone, however. Panting, hands on his knees, he rubbernecked around until he spotted the strange ripple in the air at the center of the ring of rock spires Phaeroh once claimed as his perch. There you are. On stiff legs, Yuri staggered to the rift and in.
The sudden drop in temperature from stiflingly hot to cool and refreshing, a faint scent of the sea on the breeze, caused him to stumble. Gone were the weathered browns and reds of the desert, replaced by a riot of greens; trees arched overhead, branches laden with fruit as well as leaves shading verges and meadows thick with grass, dotted with wildflowers. This Yormgen was as beautiful as he remembered, caught in time like a painting come to life, and as empty. Nobody strolled its winding paths and boardwalks, its shops shuttered. Or lived in the neat houses Yuri entered one by one, filled with dusty shelves and thousand-year-old antiques forgotten by their owners.
He ruthlessly squashed his first instinct to run clear through the whole village, yelling the old man’s name. An uninvited guest, the last thing he wanted was to spook Raven into hiding. Not that he was going to let the old man out of his sight when he found him, even if Yuri had to grab a fistful of that flashy robe and pin it to the ground with his sword. And he wasn’t going to let Raven brush off the past few months with a clueless shrug either, a laugh or a smile that wouldn’t touch his eyes.
“Oh-ho! Were ya worried ‘bout little ol’ me? And here I was sunnin’ myself on the beach, not a care in the world.” Yuri could almost hear the excuses, in that flippant tone of voice which disguised the calculation behind it so well—distract and deflect; deny and deceive. Raven was too good at playing the spy for his own sanity. Not this time, old man. Though he ached from the tips of his toes to his dirt-caked fingernails, Yuri picked up the pace, jogging from house to house peering into windows and across the fields. He was growing desperate enough to consider looking for the Krityan sage instead and suffering another rambling tale to get some answers when he saw the familiar figure lounging at the end of a small pier, fishing, dammit.
“Raven!” The name burst out of him, sharp and shocking. Yuri watched, heart in his throat and a fizz of anticipation in his veins, as the old man jolted, whipping to turn in Yuri’s direction before his flailing arms tangled in the yanked fishing line. A grin tugging at his lips, Yuri lowered his head, planted his feet, and sprinted the rest of the distance separating them fast as he could. Never had the sound of Raven cursing been more welcome.
By the time he reached the old man, Raven had recovered somewhat from his surprise and scrambled to his feet, fishing pole kicked to one side. Left hand clenched in his robe, the right inching up to scratch at the back of his head, the old man wore a sheepish expression that didn’t fit quite as well as usual. “Oh, um, Yuri,” he mumbled to Yuri’s boots, “I was, ah, waitin’ for you.” His gaze darted over the water circling the pier like he was weighing his chances at escaping by swimming.
Yuri stared at him, tongue in a knot. A bit thinner maybe, the shadows under his eyes and the lines at their corners a bit deeper, Raven otherwise seemed healthy. There were no bandages around his wrists where they peeked out from his sleeves; the skin of his throat was unmarked, as was his chest, the edge of his blastia just barely visible and intact, his shirt half unbuttoned. The old man was the same as ever.
All at once, the complaints of Yuri’s body came crashing in. His thighs and calves screamed in pain, his shoulders and arms so sore he wasn’t sure he could lift them. His knees folded in a rush, weak as soft tofu, and he plopped down on the sandy bank with a groan. It was too much of an effort to sit up, so he didn’t bother. Ow. Wincing, he conceded that scaling Phaeroh’s crag unaided wasn’t his brightest idea.
“Hey, hey! Are you okay?” Raven’s frantic face blocked his view of the sky, blue and cloudless. While the old man crouched at his elbow, Yuri focused on inhaling and exhaling, feeling the burn of overexertion in his lungs. “You bring the lovely Judith with ya? Can’t believe she let you wear yourself out like this...” Craning his neck to and fro, Raven searched the area. They were alone, of course, and his hands gradually slowed in their wringing, settling on his hips as he straightened. “Wait a minute,” he said suspiciously. “How’d ya get up here?”
“I climbed,” said Yuri, deadpan. It was worth the ringing in his ears at Raven’s very loud, very peeved what?! to see him so animated, so alive. As he listened to the old man harp on about the dangers of what he did, how the Princess would worry and Flynn should they learn of it, and seriously, Yuri, were ya thinkin’ at all?! a chuckle bubbled up in his chest, rising and ballooning until he was laughing so hard his ribs hurt at Raven’s dark glower.
Now he couldn’t help smiling and blurted, embarrassingly, “I missed you, old man.” Raven stomped off in a huff to retrieve his fishing pole at that, muttering under his breath about stupid, reckless kids. But the curve of his cheek betrayed his echoing smile. Slight as it was, it warmed Yuri more than the sun. He closed his eyes and napped.
« TBC »
I really did want to fit Yuri and Raven’s much anticipated conversation into this chapter, but halfway through realized it would be too long and take too long to write, on top of how late (so sorry!) I already am. So, patience pretty please? Er. In addition, while I have a good idea of what the next (and last!) part will include, nothing’s been scripted, and I might try to complete one of my Tolkien fics first. Which has been waiting for its final act since ‹checks profile› Sept 2014—holy smokes, I’m such a slowpoke! Again, I apologize for the delay. All the delays! -___-;;
