The Wastrel's Act (1)
Isaac emptied his glass once more. Silence lingered in the cabin. The window rattled in the wind, while the hall downstairs remained boisterous. That only made this room feel all the quieter.
A mage's melancholy sometimes struck without warning, absurdly out of place.
Melancholy at a moment like this?
He hadn't burned through as much mana as in his clash with Bishop Lebonius, nor grasped some profound truth or principle.
Isaac knew full well, from decades past, that the human spirit was fleeting amid an infinite world.
Yet he sank into that peculiar melancholy now, worn down by mental exhaustion.
Distant clamor drifted in. Cheers and laughter from the jubilant Baismen. Their hearty chorus of the national anthem. Voices that, for this one moment, seemed to cast aside every worry—even as exiles scraping by on a foreign frontier.
I thought I'd at least feel some fulfillment.
That sound, that sight. Precisely what Isaac had longed to hear and witness.
Which was why he'd bothered trekking to Bernsi, ordering Benders to hand out the citizenship certificates in person.
He'd wanted to see the Baismen rejoice.
But the fulfillment faded fast, leaving an unanticipated fatigue that clung like damp rot.
When would such a day dawn for Goethe?
When could they clink glasses and laugh without a care?
If the kingdom's currents held, no such tomorrow awaited Goethe.
The empire had its emperor, the republic its magitech revolution, the kingdom its civil strife, betrayals, and wars.
Always wars.
Always battles to face.
Could his spirit—already burdened with seventy-two-odd years—endure all those years ahead?
Could he shield his precious ones through another half-century of storms, mind intact?
And at the end of such an existence, would Goethe's vista match his vision?
Isaac yielded to that uncertainty.
He felt, keenly, how aged his soul had become.
"Young master."
"Ah."
Violet's tentative voice snapped him from his reverie. He'd been staring blankly out the window, empty glass in hand. For a rather long stretch, it seemed.
"Are you alright?"
Isaac's gaze shifted to her. She wore a strangely rigid expression.
"Mm."
He pulled himself together. Only now did he recall why he'd summoned her.
"Violet."
"Yes."
"Until you leave Goethe, teach Yonas spirit arts."
"Pardon?"
Violet blinked. She mulled his words a moment before replying.
"Wouldn't it be better to find a superior teacher? All I can teach young master Yonas now is... how to harm people through spirits."
"Then teach him that."
"But he's only nine."
"He'll grow up. He must."
Isaac spoke with a bitter edge.
"Goethe faces a gauntlet of battles ahead. Unavoidable fate for anyone born here. I want Yonas equipped to choose his own path. Lend him a hand."
"Is this a condition for staying within your 'line of good'?"
Violet recalled his words.
The Isaac who plotted and executed the massacre of 113. The Isaac who mourned the dead alongside Baisman and Bill.
One and the same.
The sole difference: inside the line or out.
Nothing more.
Violet yearned to remain within that line, if possible.
Not solely for his favors, either.
That boy belongs to no world of this one.
The spirit's warning, triggered by Isaac's surging mana.
Hers was the Plour house's guardian spirit, handed down generations. Its articulated omens were never to be dismissed.
"No. Consider it a personal request."
Isaac replied.
"I won't even ask you to play tutor. Just drop by the manor now and then, check his spirit arts progress."
Violet regarded him, half-smoked cigarette between her lips.
The thick, hollow mana he'd exuded was long gone, vanished like a mirage.
Yet its afterimage still gripped her tight.
How to describe it? Mana like an endless mire—if you peered too deep, you'd drown without end.
The spirit's counsel: keep your distance from Isaac.
But whither? Empire and republic were hostile lands; the kingdom, imperial thrall. Radicals ruled the republic.
No haven for Baismen save Goethe, for now.
Besides, Yonas tugged at her.
The boy evoked her long-lost brother. A child who met the outsider Violet with pure kindness and curiosity.
Goethe brothers, yet polar opposites.
"I'll do it."
Violet concluded.
"Go on. I need rest."
Isaac flung himself onto the woolen bed, as if utterly spent.
"Peaceful night to you."
Violet departed.
Isaac lay there, eyes open to the room's gloom.
In profound, weighty quiet, he weighed what lay ahead.
The window rattled anew in the gusts.
"Tch."
Marcel Reich clicked his tongue.
The second day's symposium and third day's tournament left him dissatisfied.
First day's magic showcase had spiked expectations sky-high; the letdown matched.
The papers brimmed with outlandish claims, to Reich's ear.
Magic chess? Amateurish, even by Royal Academy standards.
Tournament finalists: Beltran of Buechner house, Carlos of Ripe.
Crowds marveled at such spell-slinging from boys so young.
Reich found it tediously dull.
Both claimed victory on raw casting speed and reflexes—far from what he'd hoped.
They'd simply hosed fire magic pell-mell, heedless of matchups or counters.
"You seem sorely disappointed."
As boredom drove Reich toward his lodgings, a boy barred his path.
Black silk tunic. A familiar face.
Gray locks, blue eyes. Keen gaze, sharp jaw. Irascible air laced with odd fatigue.
"Me, you mean?"
"Yes. Dean Reich."
"Did I look it?"
Reich snapped curtly.
It happened often. The insecure sort sidled up to the dean, desperate to register.
"Plain as day."
"Then enlighten me. Why disappointed?"
"Real combat demands accounting for myriad variables in magic."
"Such as?"
"Say a forest skirmish. Blind fire spells? Suicide. Blazes your retreat, beacons your spot."
"Hm."
"Elements each have strengths, flaws, tactics. Combat mages master at least two by default. Finalists? Zero such thought."
The boy echoed Reich's mind precisely.
Theory, though, was no substitute for practice.
"If you're so wise, why not you up there?"
"Circumstances barred entry."
"Aye, excuses abound. Farewell."
Reich spared a glance, resumed walking.
Intriguing chat, but futile—armchair prattle.
"My name, at least?"
The boy tailed doggedly.
"No need."
"Isaac von Goethe."
Reich halted sharp.
"Hah—you're Isaac? Grown a sight since last."
He stroked his beard, eyeing Isaac with wonder.
"Twelve, they said? You'd pass for full-grown."
"Quick developer."
"Explains the familiarity. Helmut's spitting image in youth."
Reich gnawed his pipe stem.
"Thick as thieves with Father, then."
"Helmut was my Academy charge once. I eyed him keen as professor. But beyond my sway—talent immense, stubborn as stone."
Reich spun yarns with relish.
All Helmut von Goethe. The present count's student days: prodigy, eccentric, iron-willed, righteous to a fault.
"Father's traits chafe me some too."
"Ah, you share his blind spot."
"Deeply."
"Beat four noble whelps to pulp once, shielding a commoner enrollee. Privately gratifying, publicly regrettable. Sweated bullets averting his boot."
"Commiserations."
Isaac smirked.
Delightful tale. Eyewitness lore, unfindable in tomes.
About Father, no less.
Ever the same, it seems.
"To you, he was prized pupil."
"Pupil? Never once. Closer to boon companion."
"I see."
"But mercy—changed you have."
Reich's brow creased amid the glee.
Two years back, he'd visited the manor at the count's behest.
To probe Isaac's unique constitution, seek remedies.
Then, the lad matched Yonas in build. No such discourse imaginable.
Frail, pain-racked, illness-frightened child.
Two years on: transformed.
Were it not for the fierce mana churning in his frame, Reich might cry imposture.
"Much transpired. Much altered; much unchanged."
Isaac summed tersely.
Epochs beyond scant phrases.
Reich, naturally, grasped little.
"Aye. Your scandals precede you. Fine young lordling—why the wastrel routine?"
Reich pressed.
Age be damned, Helmut's comrade.
Goethe's weal mattered keenly.
Fine interlocutor, yet Isaac's shadow loomed.
Talk engaged, he'd chide regardless.
"Incurable quirk or no—proxying a maidservant? What folly?"
"Amusing."
Isaac flashed a roguish grin.
"Enet's my ward. She gains better prospects; I, a mage sworn body and soul. Mutual gain. Else, who'd pledge fealty?"
"Hah."
Reich barked a hollow laugh.
Sneer unfit for twelve winters. Fatigue, pique too world-weary. Vigorless twist.
Yet those shadowed eyes mirrored Helmut's.
Pondering, far-seeing. Keen-spirited, clashing the mask.
The sage clocked it exact.
"Spare the ham acting."
Reich scoffed.
Pierced the guise in a blink.
Thousands schooled gray; dozens of royals dissected.
Isaac's slapdash theater? Child's play.
"Not mere face-time, then."
"......"
Isaac faltered briefly.
Lifespan-wise, Reich the junior by a decade.
But worldly rubs differed.
"Rumors painted wastrel sole; forgot 'words fly winged, truth stands plain.'"
"I don't follow, but surely..."
"Pleasant enough. But done."
Reich rose.
A true fool? Simpler fare: ribbing, banter till sated.
Yet purpose drove this approach.
Gutsy ploy. Deliberated, no doubt.
No bandwidth, though, for boyish brooding.
Royal counsel alone split his skull.
Grown howsoever in near two years, a child's a child.
Helmut fodder aplenty now.
The dean savored that yield.
Motive moot, feint or fact: Isaac played wastrel.
That curmudgeon count's shock? Priceless.
"Weighty words? Through Helmut."
Reich smiled thin, turning for the parlor door.
"Heard you're developing long-range comms."
Isaac's sally spun him back.
The king's privy purse project. Utmost secrecy.