Private Restoration

Faine thumbed the handle of what could generously be called a cage. The monstrosity was more of a box, really, with clusters of small holes for filtration and pure silver lining its interior walls. Combined with the ring ore hidden surreptitiously throughout, there was enough precious metal weighing the contraption down to feed an entire town for weeks. Hence, the carrying handle being polished to a mirror shine by one very restless thumb.

But a cage it still was, for locked within it was a prisoner of even more devastating value.

There was no hiding its size, though a cloth of muted green covered it nonetheless. Salazin's last minute idea. Of course, she had chosen for it to match the sage of her own robes. Faine didn't know the old weaver well enough to decide whether she had done so out of hubris or convenience, or worse yet, sentiment. They prayed to all the known powers of the universe that it was not sentiment.

It had taken considerable time to travel this far north to Altalusia. Under any other circumstances, Faine would not have minded. Looked forward, even, to visiting a kingdom made almost exclusively of scenes ripped straight from storybook fables. Babbling brooks, grassy highlands, sea lined cliffs—a land so picturesque it ought to be framed in every direction, as they had once been told by one very garrulous painter. But a heavy box had sat by their feet the entire trip, and heavier consequences still laid across their shoulders, should they fail.

By the time their somber entourage arrived, Faine was only slightly losing their mind. Their dark eyes were smudged with exhaustion, having slept little throughout the journey, and the collar of their tunic remained perpetually damp from the sheer number of times they jerked awake in a cold sweat. They must have checked the latches of the cage a thousand times. It never felt enough.

Salazin, on the other hand, slept like a babe. The old woman snored her way to North Ilica with a level of apathy that sent Faine spiraling in envy. She seemed remarkably confident things would not go wrong, considering the fact that if they did, she would be the first to die. And not even because of the thing in the box, but because Faine would cut her down before she could produce so much as a single, mutated nub. The sabre sheathed neatly by their side was not a decorative addition. Faine had chosen it deliberately for optimal hacking.

So it was with almost visible relief that the imperial spy greeted their hosts. They had shown up late in the evening, sparing everyone from useless pleasantries, and were taken to their temporary quarters immediately.

From the moment the heavy wooden doors closed, all Faine wanted to do was collapse face-first into the soft bed tucked against the northern wall of their room. But there was business to attend to first, so they forced themselves to stay awake. They slipped their smallest knife under the bright wed wax, knicking it clean off, and sipped on hot, herbal tea as they opened the first of their letters. The sharp scent of spruce invaded their nose while they read. It was a description of one of the candidates, provided by a superior, written hurriedly and in lackluster fashion. Skilled in combat. As every knight of the kingdom ought to be. Good at following orders. Again. Did this root vegetable for brains even try?

Faine tossed the letter straight into the fire before opening the next. This one had neat, legible handwriting, which was a promising start. But then the author went on to describe what Faine was pretty sure was the unseasoned, pampered offspring of some Count or Baron. So that one went into the fire, too.

They picked up the third and last letter. It was unsealed, free for anyone to peruse. Faine opened it with a weariness that defied description. Sighing, they scanned the first line, then the second. A handful of seconds later, they were finished and set the parchment down, hands steepled above the yellowed parchment. They stayed that way for a good while, mind churning. The other two letters were naught but ash by the time Faine moved again, this time to dip quill into ink and scribble across the bottom of the letter. They waited the appropriate amount of time for it to dry, rolled it up, and rang for a servant.

"If you would be so kind as to deliver this to Syr Osytha," Faine requested as they slipped both the rolled up parchment and a bit of coin into the servant's palm. "I would be much obliged."

And then they dove greedily into bed, waking only at the last possible moment. For the new day would surely be a long one, starting with Salazin on one side of the reception room, Faine on the other, and The Cage sat squarely in the middle. It was a minor relief to the Arshakan spy that the young queen and her council would not be in attendance. Only a Margrave by the name of Ballius and a selection of trusted guards to oversee the debrief, standing richly by the doors.

Oh, and hopefully one recently summoned Syr Osytha, Knight of Anatheum and soon-to-be guide for this doomed mission.

Who was also conspicuously late.

It was one thing to know patience. It was another entirely to enjoy it.

“Where is she?” Faine asked, their jaw only slightly clenched.

The Margrave’s guards glanced nervously at one another. Faine knew they would be of no use; all the servants had been dismissed, due to the sensitivity of the mission. They had asked more to express their agitation than in any hope of an answer. Looking out at the neat row of blank faces, they breathed heavy through their nose.

A commotion broke out from the other side of the double doors. Voices clashed, muffled through the thick wood.

“Miss, you can’t—”

“It’s urgent! Let m—”

“Open the door,” Faine ordered.

The guards did not move to obey, looking to Ballius instead. So Faine repeated themselves, louder this time, locking their gaze onto that of the Margrave.

“Open it.”

Ballius stared at them for a moment before nodding to his men. Two of them moved in unison, lifting the drop bar and turning the locks until the doors swung open to reveal one very disheveled, out of breath young woman. Her fawn colored curls were barely trapped in a bun and her skirts decidedly humble in appearance. Freckles speckled her rather youthful face.

Faine frowned in disappointment. “You…are not Syr Osytha.”

“No! I am not, your…” she trailed off mid-pant, glancing up at Faine with a quizzical expression.

Faine was about to insist on dropping honorifics altogether, tedious things that they were, but Ballius beat them to the punch. “Our guest is an Ambassador of the Arshakan empire. You may address them as Your Excellency.”

The young woman blinked and then nodded, swiveling back to Faine with wide eyes. It seemed the Arshakan reputation still held, even in parts of Illica this far north. “Your Excellency, forgive me. I am but a humble servant who caught sight of Syr Osytha on my way here, and she seemed to be in trouble, so I thought to report it straight away.”

This was concerning news to say the least. “What kind of trouble?” Faine inquired, head cocked to one side.

The girl hesitated. Surprisingly, yet again, it was Ballius who intervened.

“Speak freely, Renia. You are safe here, so long as you tell the truth."

Renia ducked her head in deference. "My Lord, I would never dare to lie to one such as yourself, nor our esteemed guests. I speak true. Syr Osytha was accosted by some important looking men, well dressed and the like. I...It is not my place to speak ill of those above me, but...I do believe I recognized Lord Fletsley among them."

Faine's frown deepened. They recognized that name. It was lying somewhere in a pile of ash in their fireplace.

Before the Margrave could interrupt again, Faine took the opening viper quick. "If you can show me where this is taking place, Renia, I will not only ensure your safety, but a reward for your bravery as well. And the faster the better—I need Syr Osytha in one piece."

Renia curtsied low, head still bowed. "Of course. Anything I can do to help. Syr Osytha does not deserve to be treated so unkindly."

A simple enough statement, but Faine tucked it away all the same. There was something there, perhaps, to explore later. For now, they had one unlucky knight to track down, preferably before any real damage was done. The Arshakan spy had no interest in revisiting their other options. And they definitely did not wish to carry out this mission with only Salazin to rely on.

By the time Renia slowed to a timid shuffle, the small entourage could hear the sounds of a fight well underway. Faine laid a gentle hand on the girl's shoulder, silently thanking her while nudging her out of harm's way. Then they peeked around a corner, a handful of Ballius's men trailing behind. The fight must have been going for at least a minute or two, both opponents sweating and panting from the exertion of being evenly matched. From a distance, Faine took the time to assess how each fared, mentally noting details as one might catalogue a new species of frog or tree. For a moment, they worried that Syr Osytha would lose. Her swings were growing a little too wild to be fully in control. All it would take was one reckless mistake.

But then she outwitted the haughty young lordling, cleverly baiting him into over committing, banking on his arrogance. And he fell for it, nice and neat. The blade sat snug against his skin. Bold, for someone of her standing to even dare threaten a lordling, though Faine guessed it was not she who started this fight.

It was then that they decided to make themselves known, Ballius's men staying exactly two feet behind as ordered, their vigilance unwavering and expressions grim. On any other day, a bit of bullying between two wildly differing stations could have been overlooked. Unlucky for young Rupert that today, of all days, threatening the life of an Ambassador's guide was almost tantamount to treason.

"I suggest you heed the good knight, Lord Fletsley," Faine intoned as they drew closer. They stopped once they were close enough to discern the color of Syr Osytha's eyes. Grey blue, like a brewing storm. "Though there will be no corpses to waste your energy on, outside of those you are asked to make, Syr Osytha."

With a quick nod to Ballius's men—a nod that seemed uncannily similar to that of the Margrave's himself—Faine watched as one guard separated the two heated opponents, while the others formed a bulky wall between their charge and Lord Fletsley's goons. The young lordling was steered back toward his comrades, ego smarting but otherwise unharmed, before the guard joined rank with his brethren.

"Young Rupert, was it?" Faine mused, feigning recollection. "As a courtesy, I will tell you why, here and now, you were not chosen.”

Rupert’s expression turned rancid, his mouth opening. Faine gave no quarter. “For one, the Baronness would never forgive me if a single hair on your head was harmed. For another, you are entirely unseasoned. I need experience and reliability, not clout or influence. The two, by the way, are irrevocably linked. My advice is to think on that, long and hard, should you have any ambitions beyond keeping your hair coifed. But, more importantly..."

They moved fast, cloak rippling behind them. Lunged forward, placed one foot behind Rupert's, snaked a hand around his waist, and twisted. Hardly any effort at all. Just flawless, well timed technique. One moment the young lord was standing on his own two feet, looking mussed and absolutely sour. The next, he was ragdolling over Faine's bent knee, arms and legs cartweeeling through the air before he landed flat on his ass.

"...you do not realize when you are in danger. And I have no interest in liabilities."

They turned to face the knight once more, a ghost of a grin on their otherwise somber features. "Come, Syr Osytha. We have much to do and no more time to waste. There is something you must see, back at the castle."

And all the while, the cage stewed underneath its cloth, waiting.

Faine's eyebrows rose a fraction. Hearing their mother tongue was quite far down on the list of things they expected from a Northerner. Least of all from a knight of reportedly humble origins.

"No apology required," they responded mildly, choosing not to deviate from Altalusian. They were fluent, of course, having prepared for this mission months in advance. But they were also keenly aware of Ballius's men hovering around them, ever vigilant and unerringly loyal. "Needless theatrics, after all, make the world go 'round."

Their trek back to the castle continued in amiable silence, punctuated rhythmically by the sounds of boots and jostling gear. Syr Osytha seemed to be in high spirits. She walked alongside her new benefactor with vigor, looking around and grinning at a rather rosy cheeked Renia. Meanwhile, Faine collected each detail before filing them away into some secret compartment in their mind, just as they had done when they first came upon the dueling rivals, and again when the knight had sized them up. She was a clever one, Syr Osytha, quick to think on her feet. A dangerous trait to possess. Fortunately for everyone around her, she did not seem to have any ambition beyond being good natured and dutiful. At least, not as far as Faine's little spies could tell.

Back home, such a propensity would have been picked out early on and honed. Training lead to testing, and testing lead to working. The better you tested, the more dangerous the work. And, undoubtedly, the higher the prestige.

Which was why Faine often found themselves in a bit of a paradox. Because yes, their work was as dangerous as work could get, and therefore required only the finest of tools. But at the same time, their work was secretive, as was the true nature of their role to play in it, so they could quite literally go about saving the world day after day and receive...fuck all. A pat on the back and some quiet luxury, perhaps, with a small vacation tucked in between, and then off they'd go again.

But they were not in it for fame, or for glory. And neither, it seemed, was Syr Osytha. That part was important.

As if on cue, Faine's thoughts were cut short when Syr Osytha brought up the issue of liabilities, continuing to use her quaintly Northern take on High Imperial. For a moment, a dark cloud passed over Faine's otherwise placid features. So it was that when they finally answered the knight, they did so heavily, the weight of truth dragging down every word.

"It will not. Because when the moment comes, you will know exactly why, and you will see no other recourse." Faine turned their solemn gaze to meet that of the knight's. "Our mission is to preserve life, not to take it."

And then, a smidge more cryptically in High Imperial, "And know that when you realize it is time to make a corpse, it will be a mercy."

By the time they were all back in front of the reception room, Salazin was snoring in one of the plush armchairs. Frizzled, white hair was barely visible over a hawkish nose, while her weathered brown hands were draped on either side. The Margrave, however, appeared to not have moved a muscle, standing exactly where Faine had left him. His grey hair was still neatly combed back as he watched the procession return with those icy blue eyes of his. As they funneled in, Ballius's guards reunited to form one, neat brawny row and the door was once again barred shut. The cage, thankfully, had also not moved.

The Imperial spy waited until they heard the click of the lock behind them before leading Syr Osytha to the center of the room. There, they waited a few seconds more before clearing their throat loudly. Like the dead rising back to life, Salazin rolled her head up to attention as her eyes blinked rapidly. "Back so soon?" she crooned, stifling a yawn. "And with fine company in tow, I see."

Faine barely suppressed a sigh. "Salazin, this is Syr Osytha. Syr Ostha, Salazin, one of our leading Imperial experts on Blight."

"Pleased to meet you, good knight," Salazin greeted with a toothy smile, her Altalusian more thickly accented, though she made no move to rise from her chair. Which, for once, Faine did not mind the lack of decorum, because they had the more pressing matter of getting their new guide caught up to speed.

"Syr Osytha," Faine warned, one hand hovering by an edge of the sage green cloth, "I must ask that no matter what happens, you do not touch what is inside this cage."

And then they lifted the cloth, revealing a lumpy object about half a foot in length. Its cylindrical body was dark brown and textured almost like a pinecone, except it was also sprouting strange, clam shaped growths. Some of them were open and looked not unlike empty eye sockets. Most disturbingly of all, the whole thing was also pulsating, as if it were alive. Every now and then, one of the empty eye sockets would ooze yellow pus, and then almost imperceptibly, the socket would...grow. The resulting effect was sockets of all varying sizes and a small radius of hardened, sap like substance underneath the specimen.

Faine watched Syr Osytha's face carefully, though what they were looking for exactly, they were not sure of yet. "It is a unique form of Blight, taken from the Suldazan desert," they explained. "But we have, through a series of experiments, managed to slow down its growth."

The old woman’s smile widened, all her pearly, even whites accounted for. “Something like that,” she replied slyly. “You’re more than you seem, Syr Osytha. How interesting.”

Faine stared at the knight while the knight stared at the Blight. There was no recognition…which was both good and bad. Good, because the host plant was truly alien to this ecosystem. Bad, because that meant the new host they were hunting remained a mystery. Well, it had been a slim hope to begin with.

Next came the onslaught of questions, which Faine considered both expected and healthy. They ran the answers once in their head before saying them out loud.

“The behavior, at first, is benign. Nothing more than a dozen or so cycles of rapid growth. The rate has always been too inconsistent to reliably measure, but we know that it is fast. Typically, a newly infected host takes less than a few hours to reach what we call the feeding phase, during which the mutated host begins actively seeking a larger energy source. We, of course, cannot let them feed for long. Size is usually the limiting factor, but every now and then something precedes it.”

Salazin chuckled. “It grew a tentacle, once.”

Faine scowled. “We’ve found that they prefer organic matter. Living is better, though they will feed on the dead as well. Predictably, they take on characteristics of whatever they absorb.”

This was the most number of words they’d spoken in a very long time. Faine turned to pick up a pitcher and pour themselves water, though they did not take a sip until after they dropped a pebble-like object into the goblet and swished it around. They had taken all the necessary precautions earlier that morning, including dumping a cupful into a potted plant. The plant remained healthy, but Salazin had done a very poor job of keeping watch. There was no telling what someone could have slipped in while they’d been gone.

As they drank, the old crone voluntarily picked up the slack, for once. She must actually like this one, Faine mused.

“The cage contains it,” Salazin said almost wistfully. She got up, stretched her back with a couple resounding cracks, and walked slowly around the cage. “It is a work of art. The design alone took months of dedicated skill and effort from our finest smiths and weavers. One Magister even lost his life in its making.”

She pointed a crooked finger at one of its ribs, hovering up and down along the metal without touching. It made Faine nervous, seeing the old weaver so close to the specimen, but they had to trust that months of craftsmanship would hold. That Keritus had not died in vain.

“The metal itself is near indestructible, but it is the ring ore lining its interior that keeps most of the specimen stunted. The Magisters found a way to use it to cut off the host’s access to the Shroud. Don’t ask me how. It was all very secret secret hush hush. Too classified for the lowly likes of me. But it does the job, I’ll give them that.”

Faine fought the urge to roll their eyes at the undercurrent of bitterness in Salazin’s voice. She never was going to get over it, was she? Despite it being entirely her fault that she was banished in the first place.

“As for redundancies,” Faine continued, “well…that is what we are here for. If one of us fails and succumbs, we must be terminated. Salazin and I have agreed it would be a mercy to end the other before we are fully consumed. It is kinder that way. Trust me when I say you do not want to find out what it’s like to share consciousness with Blight.”

A memory of Keritus’s voice moaning through the weird, anemone mouth of Host #29 flashed through Faine’s mind. They shuddered imperceptibly.

“If you touch it, you will become infected. There is no cure we know of. We could say a small prayer for you, at most, after which you will simply be put down like a rabid dog. The quicker it is done, the less harm you will cause.”

Faine chose not to mention their protocol for total failure, in which all three of them became compromised. It wouldn’t do any good for them to know. And besides, they would be beyond caring at that point.

“Normally,” they pushed on, “you would not see any effect on the Shroud. Not without enhanced optics. However, if the host were to consume a powerful weaver…well, you might find yourself wishing you couldn’t see what it grows capable of.”

There was a queasy sort of silence after this last admission. Even Ballius looked a touch disturbed, his silvery brows furrowed, and Salazin had sunk back down in the plush chair.

“I would recommend against developing any sentimental attachment to the specimen. It might make you hesitate for one second to do what is necessary, and that one second could cost you your life.”

Faine drew their gaze away from the pulsating host and rested it upon Syr Osytha once more. “We plan to use this host to track down the one currently hibernating in your mountains. We’ve…received reports that one is frozen somewhere, unable to feed for the time being, but with warmer temperatures returning, it is only a matter of time before it thaws. And when it does…”

“There will be panic, mayhem, utter chaos,” Ballius finished. Faine wanted to feel annoyed that he was interrupting them yet again, but he was not wrong, and his conviction only bolstered their cause. “Should any of this leak beyond these walls, we will have to divert even more resources to maintain order. We cannot afford this. We must focus all our efforts on eliminating this threat before it spreads.”

The Margrave strode up to the knight, his spine straight and eyes steelier than ever. “We understand it is too much to ask of one person, let alone three. And yet we ask all the same. We need someone capable, familiar with the land, and most importantly of all, trustworthy. Someone who can do the right thing, no matter how difficult, no matter the cost.”

Now the whole room watched Syr Osytha with bated breath.

“Will you agree to be our guide, Syr Osytha?” Faine asked. “Will you aid us in cleansing your mountains of this corruption?”

A hint of amusement came and went, and when Faine looked upon Syr Osytha once more, it was with the careful neutrality of someone used to being watched.

"I will take you on your word," they responded tactfully. Then they bent down to reach beneath the table cloth, pulling out a dark blue travel sack. From its weathered folds, they drew forth a collection of papers neatly bound in leather. For a moment, Faine considered the knight. There was, of course, no reason to withhold trust at this point. But even handing over a set of copies gave the Imperial spy pause. So much dangerous knowledge...years of research, some paid in blood, culminating to this little stack of papers. In the wrong hands, this access could prove catastrophic. But what choice did they have?

In the end, they held out the portfolio to the knight. "You may study this to your heart's content for today, though I will need it back once we begin our mission tomorrow morning."

Faine looked up, calculating something in their head, then added, "Considering it is barely noon, you will have ample time to read through some of the reports, as well as prepare for the journey ahead. Dinner is at eight. We can discuss logistics and answer questions during that time. Ballius?"

If the Margrave found being addressed by their first name distasteful, he showed no sign. "It is my honor to host this evening's meal in Her Majesty's stead, here at the castle. A servant will be sent to collect our esteemed guests. And of course, no formal attire necessary."

Faine was sure this was said for their benefit as much as it was for the knight's, but they took no offense. After all, there was no room left in their luggage for court dressings.

"And Syr Osytha," Ballius offered, "should you need anything during your preparations, my men would be happy to assist. They can be trusted and save you the trouble of sending missives. I will leave two in your care; you may command them as you see fit."

A quick nod and gesture later, two of Ballius's men peeled away from their neat formation to stand on either side of Syr Osytha.

Well, this was no surprise. The rest of the staff could not be entirely trusted, that much was certain. They had been vetted before Faine's arrival, or so the Margrave had claimed, but as usual, anything Faine did not personally carry out themselves, they had a hard time putting their faith in. For this reason alone, they could respect Ballius for the extra layer of caution. You never really knew what kinds of rats might wriggle their way in when you least expected it. Besides, Faine had their own preparations to make, no matter how interesting those missives could ultimately prove.

It did occur to them that the men were there to assist the knight as much as they were to keep on eye on her. But such was the predicament they found themselves in. They had to trust someone, and it was either Ballius or a plethora of much less qualified ilk lingering about the castle.

Once the initial round of business was concluded, Faine covered up the specimen and carefully brought it back to their quarters. They did not enjoy the thing's constant presence. Or rather, Rupert's presence, they remembered belatedly. But with Salazin's complete inability to stay awake for more than thirty minutes at a time, it always fell on Faine to be the cage's sole caretaker. As they packed up their belongings—which was not much, all things considered—they found themselves fantasizing about sinking into the steaming pools of an empty bathhouse, with a cup of something strong in hand and the knowledge that both specimens were dead and gone.

Sighing, Faine sunk down into a chair and reviewed a series of maps and reports until their eyes started to burn from staring. It wasn't until someone came knocking at their door did they finally lose their focus. Ye gods, it hurt to blink.

So it was that by the time Faine made their appearance in what seemed more akin to a parlor than a banquet hall, their eyes were just wee bit red from all the rubbing and yawning. Despite their exhaustion, they straightened at the sight of Ballius and his men. The others had not arrived yet, giving them time to smooth over their mask.

"So..." Ballius began in way of greeting. A few hairs stood up on Faine's neck. They had not been expecting a solo interrogation so soon, but in their sleepiness, they'd grown sloppy. They should have timed their arrival more effectively, but it was too late now. A quick scan of the room revealed that the only obvious exit was the door they had just walked in from. A single bead of sweat began to form at their brow. "I admit I am curious, Ambassador. Why did you choose me in the end?"