Chapter 57: The Fake Silanatiell
Marhal rose from his seat. The anxious gazes of the two fledglings followed him.
"Wait here just a moment. Your Excellency, please."
"Got it. But you understand, right?"
"I'll handle it cleanly."
Even at a landlords' meeting, aside from a few major agenda items, most of the time was spent in chit-chat among faction members. Marhal didn't form factions. If anything, the native Westerners were his allies, but Haily was the only one present here. There had been a few before Haily, but after he'd dragged them into the meetings, they'd latched onto Rugen or Ales. Parasites clinging to greater power. For landlords whose only asset was a scrap of land, it was the sensible choice—but he couldn't help wishing they'd spare a thought for how the betrayed felt.
Rugen's villa was impeccably landscaped, even around the edges. Nights fell swiftly in the mountains. It had been dusk when Marhal arrived, but now the outdoors was already dim.
As Marhal admired the shrubs in the villa's rear garden, he sensed footsteps approaching from behind.
"Imperial roses. They bloom just once every five years, a single flower. That bloom becomes a magical ingredient even the seekers of mysteries covet."
"And who are you?"
Marina asked, her voice laced with curiosity and wariness. Aphranche was a language few bothered to learn anymore—a tongue fading naturally with time. She herself wouldn't have studied it without the Silanatiell name. Yet Marhal spoke Aphranche effortlessly. And that wasn't all. She'd overheard him using Holy Empire liturgical tongue while waiting outside, and in conversations with others, he mixed Duchy and Imperial dialects. What unnerved her most was how native every language sounded from his lips.
She knew a few languages herself—the fate of anyone bearing the Silanatiell name. But she didn't master them all perfectly. It could be chalked up to exceptional talent, but someone fluent through talent alone wouldn't grasp the ties between land and history.
"I already told you. Mercenary and landlord. A fairly wealthy one, at that."
"The landlords won't like hearing the Nutes are forming an organization."
"Is that a threat?"
"Exactly. I have to know what I need to know. So who are you? You're no commoner."
"True enough. Descendant of fallen Western nobility."
"Which nation's house?"
"Would you even know the name?"
"If I don't, I'll investigate."
Marina stepped closer to Marhal. He was snapping off a twig from the shrub, utterly ignoring her. Her pride flared. She was Silanatiell. A mage. Even Imperial nobles showed her respect upon witnessing her magic. If he was just some ordinary mercenary, as he claimed, he had no business dismissing her.
Marina reached for Marhal's shoulder and spun him around.
"Where are you from? I'll say it again—this is a threat."
"If you're that insistent, I'll answer. But I'll ask a question in return."
"You think you have the right?"
A spark leaped from Marina's eyes. The mysteries stirred with her mood—a pinnacle even lifelong seekers rarely glimpsed. Proof that Marina Silanatiell had reached heights ordinary folk could never touch in a lifetime of striving. Overwhelming power was authority. The force to trample others' rights and seize one's desires. Perhaps her disdain for the powerful stemmed from how closely her actions mirrored theirs.
Marhal brushed off Marina's hand gripping his shoulder. Whether from the Silanatiell blood or separate training, her grip strength was no joke. His shoulder throbbed. He'd probably have a bruise under his clothes.
Smoothing his rumpled shirt, Marhal said, "A few words aren't hard to spare."
"Go ahead."
"Tell the head of the Silanatiell house that I've found what they were seeking, and I'll visit soon."
Marina's body went rigid as stone. She opened her mouth, but no words came. They swirled in her chest, rising to her throat only to sink back down unspoken. She could never answer that question.
The man before her kept pressing. With each word from Marhal, her limbs froze and her blood chilled.
"Just pass along one message to the head. It's been a while; I wonder if they're well. They value mysteries over their own life, so even a distant relative wielding such magic would surely earn the current head Gallia's favor."
"Th-that... um... The head is busy. Not in a position to take outside contacts."
"Just mention my name. They said they'd always take my calls, no matter what. Please make sure to relay it. It's important to me too."
Marhal walked past her. Even after he vanished, Marina remained frozen like stone. A chill colder than the evening air crept up her body. Reflexively, she hugged herself.
She couldn't obey his words. She couldn't even verify their truth. After all, she wasn't truly Silanatiell.
Marina Silanatiell didn't know where the Silanatiell house was or who its members were. She could claim the name because Imperial nobles vouched for her identity. Her magic stemmed from tomes issued under the Silanatiell name with their backing. That's how she bore the name. But she knew nothing of the family's affairs. She'd only learned today that the head was named Gallia.
What do I do? If he finds out?
If her fraud was exposed, if word spread she'd impersonated a great mage's house? Mar Silanatiell was godlike among mages. And the benefits she'd reaped in that name were substantial. If it all unraveled as fake?
Marina sank to the ground, clutching herself. Marhal's true identity was irrelevant now. She needed a way out of this crisis. She sat motionless for a long while.
Heading back to the villa, Marhal glanced at the petrified Marina.
She knows she's a fake.
A mage chasing mysteries would naturally be drawn to the Silanatiell allure. Tempt them with the chance to become one, and all ten would bite. The issue was who had egged her on.
The Silanatiell history spanned over a century, shrouded in secrecy. All that was known was they resided in the Empire. Yet no landholding noble house in the Empire bore the Silanatiell name. Impersonate them, and unless you were among the tiny circle privy to their secrets, there was no telling truth from lie.
Whoever made Marina Silanatiell was one of that circle. Marhal had a good guess who pulled her strings from the shadows. Only one person would dare wield the Silanatiell name so boldly.
Viktorma Muesilrigo II.
The Imperial Emperor, and the Silanatiells' greatest patron. The Emperor wouldn't dirty his hands directly. Even the Wild Dog Knights' deeds paled beside what he orchestrated from afar. He'd watch this play out through proxies, as always.
Marhal despised that above all.
Marina probably didn't even know who backed her. A true mage might not care. But she'd used the Silanatiell name. Built history upon it. To her—who'd only exploited the name—Marhal's question was a natural disaster.
She knew nothing of Silanatiell. Yet she had to resolve Silanatiell matters. That contradiction. The paradox inherent in the name was beyond her.
The Nutes' organization wouldn't even linger in her mind now.
How will you respond now?
Marhal had posed his question. To Emperor Viktorma Muesilrigo II.
* * *
As Marhal entered the meeting room, a chill silence hung in the air. Haily shot his hand up.
"Marhal! How'd it go?"
"Handled it fine. But what's this about?"
"Opinions are split on land race participation rights. Empire, Holy Empire, and now us too."
"Why don't you two stop yapping and sit down?"
Ales snapped irritably. Marhal slipped back between Marin and Karian, taking the empty chair. In a low voice, he asked,
"What happened?"
"Uh, well... They were talking about how many participation slots to give, stuff like that."
"Debating how many land race entries to release."
"Yeah, that."
Marin, who'd been hemming and hawing to answer Marhal's question, nodded. "No decisions yet on participation qualifications?"
"Looks like they got some intel. Not details, but landlords can apparently buy unlimited slots."
"And?"
"That priest says we should decide among ourselves here. The count wants a fixed number. Azenman and that guy over there say unlimited release."
"Got it."
Qualification barriers for the land race to filter entrants once, then sow division among landlords. Divide and conquer—the Union schemers wouldn't rest until they'd carved up the West to their satisfaction.
"Now that you know the situation, I'd like your thoughts. What say you?"
Ales asked with a sneering smirk.
"Priest Ales. Let's show our cards before fighting. Looks like you've got the info— what exactly are the land race participation qualifications?"
"Why should I tell you?"
"Because otherwise, I'll release unlimited slots."
"Unlimited in words, but each slot costs money in practice. Got that kind of cash?"
"Even better. Land races sell around three thousand flags per event, right? Hand 'em out free, and my standing skyrockets. Might even start a religion."
"How dare a baseborn scum invoke the gods' name!"
Ales slammed the table and stood. Vases toppled, spilling water. Marhal met the priest's glaring eyes head-on.
"Shut it when I call you priest. Or should I report to the Holy Empire that I saw you work miracles? Flood 'em with a few thousand tips, spread rumors across the West—they'd have to investigate by force."
Ales ground his teeth. That would gut Marhal's faction too. No sane man would try it. But Ales knew: if it served his purpose, this madman would do it regardless of cost.
Ales gestured, and a landlord beside him spoke.
"They say there are various qualification exams: riding, general knowledge, combat, etc. Pass two, and you get certified. Landlords can buy certifications outright. No limit on numbers."
Gouging commoners and landlords alike—squeezing both sides.
"That so? Then I'll go unlimited. Money's just something you earn. No more important business, right? Demons are a 'handle internally' anyway. We're out."
Marhal stood, with Marin and Karian following. Marin showed no regrets, but Karian whispered at the prickling stares from behind.
"We can just leave?"
"Sit or stand, haters gonna hate, non-haters won't. And if this earns hate, Priest Ales took the brunt. He's always the first to bail anyway."
Back when Marhal attended religiously, Ales would provoke him until he stormed out first, ending the meeting.
Bang!
A table slam echoed from behind. Marhal draped an arm over Karian's shoulder as he turned to look, shaking his head no.
Hugo, reading in the coachman's seat, stood as they approached.
"Any success?"
"Beyond expectations. How're the horses?"
"At full gallop through the night, we'll arrive by dawn."
The carriage raced down the darkening mountain road.