Chapter 70: Chaste & Grace

  Theo gawked at the unexpected visage of Chaste, the very first person he’d ever met in Aera. What was he doing here? Theo approached with open arms and hugged the taller man with a wide smile on his face. He couldn’t help but notice Grace’s hand clambering to keep him from approaching, but she seemed more surprised about the situation than even Theo was, and he freed himself easily.

  Chaste reciprocated the hug and seemed happy to do so. The embrace of men lasted for two whole seconds, after which the men disengaged and smiled at each other.

  “You’re looking much better since last I saw you. I wasn’t going to say anything back then since, uh…you know. But this last month has done you wonders!”

  Chaste poked and prodded at Theo’s arms, chest and face with playful fingers, sending a laugh through Theo.

  “Stop! It couldn’t have been worse, though, right? It’s called the bottom for a reason.”

  “These two know?” Chaste asked in hopes of allowing himself to stop repressing his words.

  “Everything. More than you, even,” Theo teased.

  “Good! Did you two know, when I met Theo a month ago, he’d been affected by Forest Squirrel venom? He was paralysed!”

  “Chaste!” said Theo with a shush following it, but Wen was already laughing.

  “Really? I’ve heard it barely slows down Squish Bunnies.”

  “I didn’t think it was real until I met him,” Chaste laughed. “So, Theo, how have you been? I don’t think this is where I left you, right? That town seemed…bigger?”

  “I’ve been great! Learned a bunch of skills and found a place for myself here in Sigil Lake. Brook Town shattered in the Ranking, so there’s nothing but flattened dirt back there. That’s where I met Wen.” Theo gestured at the blonde woman.

  “Wait! Theo, is this the man who gave you all that money?”

  “It sure is.”

  “All that money? It was enough to get by for a little while, I guess,” Chaste mumbled.

  “That money is behind everything you see around you!” Wen argued. “Okay, the tools and so on. The people and their work are Fresh Starts, most of them.”

  “Theo.”

  Grace’s voice shuddered, sending shivers down Theo’s neck. He stepped towards her, seeing her deadpan stare pointed at Chaste.

  “What?” he asked.

  “What’s your relationship with Chaste, and what is he doing here?”

  Frowning, Theo looked closer at Grace, finding her body tense, her knuckles taut. He then turned back to Chaste, who seemed to have caught on to the cold gust of fresh air she emanated.

  Stepping between her and him, Theo laid his hands on her shoulders and asked, “What’s wrong? He’s a friend.”

  “He’s not your friend,” she grimaced.

  “Did I do something? Have we met before?” Chaste asked. Wen now shifted her eyes between all three in confusion, her laughter having died down.

  “Theo, Chaste is…” Her words faltered. Meeting Theo’s firm gaze, her shoulders loosened ever so slightly, and she leaned towards them. “He’s the prince. He’s the Queen’s son. He…tortured me.”

  “Hey now, I admit to two of those, but I’ve never tortured anyone!” Chaste defended himself. “I’m sure I’d remember torturing someone.”

  “The Church of the Magician! In the cellar…” Her voice started loud, aggravated, but ended in a squeak.

  “Oh…so Grace is the name you chose. I didn’t recognise you.”

  As Theo turned, about as angry as he was confused, Chaste’s defeated expression spoke louder than any words could. He’d even admitted to whatever had happened, in a roundabout way. Seeing Theo’s rage, Chaste continued, this time talking to Theo with a hand raised, palm open.

  “Theo, it’s not what you think. I’d never hurt anyone, I swear. Grace, I understand what you might think you remember, but please, allow me to explain—”

  “Why are you here?” Grace asked, her voice back to its normal sternness. She must’ve pushed it back in and stomped it down. Theo didn’t approve of her way of coping, but at least he understood it.

  With a resigned breath, Chaste’s shoulders sank into himself, and he looked down. “I’m here to warn Theo. My sister is coming with a platoon of soldiers…and me.”

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “We already know,” Theo responded, still not sure about what to think. Both Grace and Chaste seemed sure in their own beliefs, and Theo had no idea what they were even talking about. He’d have to navigate this situation carefully, else he feared he might lose them both.

  “No, you don’t. My sister doesn’t want to do this, but Mother isn’t giving her a choice. At the very least, she’ll tear down the effigy of Arcana. At worst, meaning you all resist, she’ll wipe out the town and anyone associated with it.”

  “But why?” Wen asked.

  “Because of Theo.”

  Theo frowned. So did Wen.

  “Because Mother knows she never made a Town Deed to this place, and that giant statue of Arcana is clearly made in an attempt to mock her—an attempt that has succeeded, I might add. It’s my sister’s leniency that will save the town.

  “Why don’t you stop her then?” Theo asked.

  “Because I shouldn’t even be here. I can’t reveal to them that I know you.”

  “So why warn us at all, then?”

  “Because I…” Chaste eyed Grace carefully. “Because I believed I’d find you here, Theo, and I wanted you to be safe. Take this, read it, and keep it hidden. If my sister finds out you have that note, she might kill both of us. You, at the very least,” Chaste said in an attempt at a joke. The air remained wound up tight.

  Theo took the proffered note, but didn’t so much as glance at it. He instead turned back to Grace.

  “Hear him out. I promise I won’t dig, but—”

  “I’ll hear his version, if nothing else than to hear what kind of excuse a member of the royal family has to make him forget torturing a small, helpless girl.”

  Grace stared daggers at the tall blonde, so Theo turned back, hoping he’d tell his side. Chaste faced Wen first, then Theo before avoiding Grace’s cold stare, then spoke.

  Chaste was eight, he thought, when he studied in the Church of the Magician. Most nobles spent a year studying their preferred church’s religion and their related magic, if so inclined. Chaste had always been infatuated with Arcana and the legends told of her, so the Magician was his third church—his third year. He was older than the rest of the children, which weren’t all nobles, but featured a smattering of clerics-to-be and the children of devout followers of the church with enough money to spend on a real education.

  It was a nice church, all things considered, with studious and learned clerics well-versed in their version of Arcana and in the focus of her status as a magician. High-Cleric What’s-her-name led most of their classes and seemed to care about the children’s learning.

  Like many churches, including the two Chaste had studied at before, the Church of the Magician dabbled in arcane practices which many of the mundane Aerians would frown upon. They researched and expanded upon plenty of normal magics, things they could proudly show off once in a while to attract new followers. Then, there were the less-known magic, ones carved into the skin of the devout to improve them, be it spells carved into their skin, or enchantments engraved in their bones.

  In the weeks before a nobleman’s sixteenth birthday, the church would often welcome them back in preparation for their coming-of-age. With the approval of the teenagers, the church would offer an engraved spell to them. The pain would be tough to withstand even for the hardiest dungeoneer, so many opted out of the experience. Chaste had opted out. Chaste had never returned to the church, any of them, since that day.

  While most of the children were there by their own free will, or rather that of their parents and their heavy sacks of coin, some had known nothing else but the firm hand of the church. Grace was a rather special case, as far as Chaste remembered, though she went by another name at that time. She was there by her own free will, but on the church’s dime. She had no parents to pay, nor was she old enough to be there for clerical study. Still, it was hard to notice the skin-and-bones girls, smaller than all the others.

  Chaste had talked to her twice. Their first interaction was a shallow greeting, the royal prince having better things to do than to share words with a fellow student without the backing of anyone worth so much as a name. His older self couldn’t stand his younger self’s behaviour, but what was done was done. Their next interaction was months later.

  It was a bleak day: one of the queen’s mandatory hail days. On those days, the temperature dropped precipitously, snow and hail fell in near fist-sized clumps, and the thought of natural winter warmed the people’s hearts and minds, despite Ercheat’s far-north location. Chaste remembered their class for the day had been cut short because a lump of ice had bounced through a stained-glass window.

  It was whimsy that led him to follow the High-Cleric and the girl who would one day become Grace. He must’ve noticed the hostile grip of the High-Cleric’s hand around the bony girl’s wrist, or the deep gashes behind the girl’s ears formed from long fingernails after gripping the ear tight. Maybe he saw the girl’s diminished eyes beg for help. He couldn’t remember why he snuck behind them, down into the cellar. But what happened next, he could never forget.

  He watched as the High-Cleric and her closest undressed the girl, leaving her with nothing of comfort before they sprayed her down with cold, stale water. Grace took it without a word, well-versed in the treatment by then. This was just preparation, however.

  Chaste, a kind boy despite his royal decorum, involved himself blindly the moment the girl’s body was alight with magical markings, lighting the entire cellar from the deep, brooding dark, lit only by a single torch. Her screams of pain, visible more so than audible, didn’t seem to penetrate the area in which she was tortured.

  Chaste, maybe on the springtime of his ninth year at that point, shoved the High-Cleric away, the sharp, magically inclined implement in her hand along with her. A tiny amount of glowing blood landed on Chaste’s chin, but that was the least of his worries. The other clerics grabbed him, but being small and stronger than they expected, he slipped away from their grasp.

  “Reckless child!” screamed the High-Cleric, up on her feet in no time flat and had somehow already grabbed hold of his neck. He fought against it, but he had no way out of her clutches. “You nearly killed it!”

  “S-sorry,” he gasped. Then one of the other clerics recognised just which kid it was that had intruded on their business.

  “It’s the prince!”

  The High-Cleric froze, considering her options. She couldn’t kill the prince—the church would be flattened the moment the queen got word. So, after some deliberation, she did the next best thing: she made him complicit.

  “To repent, face it and apologise! Hold her down so it won’t happen again.”

  Chaste, scared for his life that the High-Cleric would tell his mother about his behaviour, did as asked. He turtled his way towards the girl, meeting her vanquished stare.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Tears fell from his eyes as he held her down. The light enveloping the girl grew in intensity as the High-Cleric continued her work, and Chaste, hoping to keep the girl alive following his almost killing her—held her down.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he cried, never taking his eyes off hers. The dead stare didn’t so much as move, despite the screams, the light, the pain, and the blood. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”