Blessed Time: The Complete Series: (A LitRPG Adventure Box Set), page 125
“Victor,” she said, not taking her eyes off of Micah as an older man in ankle-length robes shuffled up to her side. “What do you think? I’m inclined to believe Mr. Silver. He certainly didn’t look like he was in good shape when we arrived, and his friends appeared fairly frantic, but for all I know, the four of them are top-tier actors in between playing footsie with every daemon these sands have ever seen.”
Micah locked eyes with the older man, flashing him a quick smile. From his staff to his robes, everything Victor touched was heavily enchanted, and he gave off the aura of someone that had at least four specializations. In short, one of the few blessed that could possibly consider themselves Micah’s peers.
The old man nodded back before removing a monocle from his robes and peering through it. Micah could feel the enchantments layered on the item, all of them focused on perception and revealing hidden characteristics.
Victor hummed to himself as he looked Micah over, the magic from his inspection causing Micah’s skin to crawl. He let out a breath, closing his eyes and doing his best to resist the urge to use the crown to thwart the search. There wasn’t anything to hide, but an inconclusive search would raise suspicions and slow his plans.
“He’s practically swimming in ritual energy,” the old spellcaster said with a rasp, “but he didn’t summon the daemon. The mana signatures are too different. I’d say he’s telling the truth.”
“That’s what I was afraid of,” Gwen replied. “It would be a lot simpler if this were all some sort of elaborate con. Either way, it’s Mother’s problem now. I don’t see another answer but to take you to meet her and let her sort this entire mess out.”
THIRTEEN
SOCIAL NICETIES
The sound of violins washed over Micah as he stood awkwardly in the corner of the ballroom, a crystal champagne flute in his hand as he watched dozens of nobles and wealthy commoners dance in the center of the room. A waltz was playing and all around him the ruling classes of Sandrovok engaged in quiet deals and conversation, using the party as a pleasant excuse to gather.
He took a sip from his glass. His father would probably make some sort of comment on the bright and bubbly body or woody aftertaste of the drink, but to him, it was just wine. Fancy and expensive wine that somehow didn’t manage to satisfy him half as much as the cheapest mug of juusht.
Micah looked around. A minute or so ago, there had been a servant walking by with a silver platter filled with finger food, but the man had disappeared somewhere in the milling crowd. He glanced at the champagne glass a second time and sighed.
He wasn’t really thirsty, and his body attribute made it almost impossible for Micah to get drunk, so consuming more of the sparkling wine wouldn’t be a problem, but that wasn’t the point. The champagne was more expensive than good, and there was nothing else to do.
Dancers swirled past, stepping in time to the violins and cellos, but Micah didn’t even bother to make an effort to join them. His last etiquette lesson had been a couple lifetimes ago and in a foreign land. Micah didn’t know the first thing about the dance in question or the formality of requesting or accepting a dance. Worse, no one had even bothered to approach him to talk. He had been at the party for over an hour, and other than the servant that announced his presence when he entered the ballroom, Micah hadn’t talked to another human being.
There wasn’t even a good place to put his half-empty glass down. The party was too stuffy and full of itself for Micah’s taste. He wasn’t as much of a degenerate as Trevor, prone to finding fun and trouble wherever he went, but right now, Micah would pay a count’s ransom in attunement for the loveable idiot to be here with him.
But no. The invitation that Gwendolyn had secured him was for Micah only. It made sense. An ordinary guild leader or merchant wouldn’t be invited to a ball thrown by the Empress. Almost all of Micah’s influence and reputation was very recent, or, in the case of the battle outside Count Arass’ manor, entirely secret. Even with the Princess’ help, it took almost all of her pull to open the doors for just him. Without further accolades, the rest of Micah’s team would have to remain at the luxury hotel where they were probably having a lot more fun with Eris, Esther and the animals.
A murmur of conversation drew Micah’s attention. A crowd of twenty or so nobles, all centered around Gwendolyn, were making their way over toward him. Of the cluster, only the Princess was actually looking in Micah’s direction. The rest of the courtiers were fawning over her, making and laughing at bad jokes in a failing effort to amuse the disinterested royal.
“Micah Silver,” Gwen’s voice seemed to cut through the music. He wasn’t sure whether it was a matter of personal charisma or magic, but all outside noise seemed to fade the minute the Princess spoke. “I’m glad you accepted my invitation to this ball.”
The crowd of gossips and hangers-on behind her began to whisper, and Micah bit back a pithy response. Of course he showed up to the ball. Gwendolyn practically ordered him to three days ago in the desert. But now she was pretending that his presence was a pleasant surprise. It would be foolish of him to not play along.
“Of course,” Micah replied with a light bow. “Any man would be a churl were he to ignore an invitation from a woman as beautiful as you.”
Gwen’s smile never left her face, but Micah swore he saw her cheek twitch. It looked like the shameless flattery had gotten under her skin, but it served the Princess right for abandoning him for an hour.
“You embarrass me,” she responded, snapping open a fan to hide her expression. “Have you met the Counts Lenal, Bellian and Fratton?”
Micah took note of the three names, inclining his head at the nobles and smiling politely. He’d heard of all three of them. Sandrovok only had twenty counts, so it would be hard to avoid any mention of them. Count Lenal was on his list of probable betrayals and Micah recalled Count Bellian dying honorably in combat against Pereston’s daemon hordes, but Fratton didn’t spark much of a memory.
Three men behind her all nodded briefly in Micah’s direction, noticing, assessing and then dismissing him all within a fraction of a second. Of the companions, only Count Lenal, a man a couple years older than Micah with sandy blonde hair, bothered to pay him any attention. The rest immediately put him out of mind, turning their attention back to Gwen or the other nobles around them.
“I have not had the honor,” Micah said, trying his hardest to mimic the courtly smile and cadence he had been forced to learn as a Royal Knight cadet in Pereston. “After all, I’ve spent most of my time in Red Sands, only returning to the capital recently.”
“Of course,” Gwen replied, fanning herself gently. “Did you know that Micah saved my life from an assassination attempt in Red Sands? It was surprising to find a blessed of his power and experience outside of the capital, but without his assistance, my blood would have stained Pereston blades.”
Several of the younger figures in the crowd oohed and aahed. A couple of them even clapped politely. Of course, their attention was still on the Princess, but some focus was shifting to Micah. He could almost see the gears turning in the lesser nobles’ minds. If Gwen began to favor him, it was possible that they could grow closer to the Princess through cultivating a friendship with the commoner she favored.
“You must be very strong,” a noble in a red and orange silk shirt remarked. Gwen hadn’t introduced him, so Micah assumed that the man wasn’t one of her more important or interesting guests. “After the Empress and the Crown Princess, Princess Gwendolyn has some of the most powerful guards in Sandrovok. If you were able to help them, you must truly have an incredible blessing.”
“I was in the right place at the right time with the right skills,” Micah responded, trying to thread the line between bragging and being humble. “The Princess’ guards were skilled warriors, but I don’t think that they had as much experience putting down daemons as I do, something I suspect that we’re all going to need in the coming months.”
“Nasty beasts,” the man in the orange shirt said with an exaggerated shudder. “I’ve fought a couple of those ape-dog creatures in a controlled setting, and even if they aren’t as powerful as the high-level monsters that come out of dungeons, they’re significantly more bloodthirsty.”
“How do you know that this… Micah wasn’t involved with the summoners?” Count Lenal asked with a laconic drawl. “If he has the capability to put daemons down, he might have the capability to raise them up. Next thing you know, he’ll be charging you for some ‘magic powder’ made out of rock dust and wood shavings that he claims will banish them. You should be wary of men like him, Princess. After all, you can never be too careful.”
She flicked her wrist, sending a puff of air into her face. It barely moved her heavily perfumed hair. Even without seeing Gwen’s face through the cloth and wood of the fan, Micah could tell that the Princess had a predatory smile on her face.
“I was suspicious at first,” she replied coyly. “But more recently, my seers detected a massive daemonic incursion. When I rode with the response team to put the creatures down, I found Micah already there, having done the lion’s share of the work before we arrived. My seers were able to determine that he wasn’t their summoner too. I’m inclined to believe his warnings.
“Of course,” Gwen continued conspiratorially, “it helped that he had evidence. Did you know that Micah found a bundle of correspondence between a number of daemon worshippers in Sandrovok’s nobility? Unfortunately, most of the letters are coded, so we are still trying to sort out who is a threat to the realm. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t put much weight on his accusations, but it sounds like at least a couple counts have betrayed us to Pereston. At this point, my mother has no choice but to investigate.”
All of the nobles surrounding the Princess froze. Most of their faces betrayed their shock, but unsurprisingly, Count Lenal’s expression was a bit clouded. It wasn’t enough for Micah to take any action, but it went a long way toward confirming Micah’s suspicions.
Of course, the fact that the man’s body was utterly tainted by the corrosive energy of Elsewhere helped solidify that opinion. Micah could practically see the Count glowing when he closed his eyes. There was no way the noble was uninvolved with the groups that were seeking to undermine Sandrovok, but political considerations prevented him from acting. For now.
“Have you taken a sample of the man’s handwriting?” Count Lenal asked, narrowing his eyes as he looked Micah up and down. He might have been keeping tabs on Micah before, but now the noble was openly staring at him like he was a threat. Or something squishy stuck to the bottom of his shoe after a walk in the garden. Either way, it wasn’t terribly pleasant.
“How can we be sure that he didn’t manufacture another incident in order to earn your trust?” he continued with a sneer. “Unless I miss my guess, your new friend has a Pereston accent. It hardly seems fitting that you would trust a foreigner without any proper verification.”
Micah felt a flash of anger but instantly pushed it down. Shouting at a noble would only cause trouble, but by the same token, so would meekly accepting the man’s slander. If he let Lenal label him as a victim, it would be like he stood aside and watched as the man put blood in shark-infested water. The rest of the nobles that were hesitating would pounce on him in a feeding frenzy.
He smiled at the older man, showing a bit of teeth as he met the Count’s gaze without flinching in his reply.
“I would hardly question your expertise, Count Lenal. After all, unless I miss my guess, you’ve been spending a lot of time with individuals from Pereston. You would know a lot more than me about what their accents sound like and what their government is up to.”
Lenal froze, bristling back at him. Micah didn’t know if the noble was genuinely angry, putting on an act or if, for some foolish reason, he expected his lackluster glower to be intimidating. Regardless, he didn’t break eye contact or let his smile slip.
After everything that had happened, having the Count try to threaten him felt a little anticlimactic. The Pontiff, the greater daemon and the Third Prince; all of them were worthy foes. Count Lenal, on the other hand, felt like a small lapdog growling at a bull. Micah had faced more adversity in the washroom after a night of spicy food and juusht.
“What are you trying to imply?” the noble asked, glaring at Micah as he took a half-step toward him. “Just spit it out, boy. If you’re going to make an accusation, say it out in the open.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Micah responded with a shrug. “We’re in the open and I’m making an observation. The Princess was discussing Pereston agents, and I simply said that we should defer to your expertise as you clearly know more about who is and isn’t working for Pereston. I wouldn’t want to speak out of turn, and a wise man always bows to experience.”
Before the Count could spit out an answer, the snap of Gwen’s fan closing silenced the entire group. This time, the smile on her face was genuine.
“A fair point, Micah, Richard,” she said, inclining her head ever so slightly in both his and Count Lenal’s direction. “Although Micah has helped the crown on several occasions, he comes bearing weighty accusations. That is why I have done my best to arrange an audience with my mother. The Empress will be able to determine whether his words are true or not, and more than that, she will be in a position to act on his warnings.”
The crowd around them began to murmur, many of them casting uncertain glances in Micah’s direction.
“Micah,” she continued, “the audience will begin shortly. That is part of why I sought you out. Prepare yourself. A servant will come to fetch you shortly.”
She turned and flowed away from him, her white dress trailing after her like mist on the evening breeze. A moment later, the crowd of courtiers and hangers-on lurched into motion to follow. Count Lenal shot one last dirty look in Micah’s direction before he followed the rest of the mob.
Still, Micah wasn’t entirely alone. The man with the orange shirt from before was standing next to a man in a blue vest with bulging biceps. Although the individual in the orange shirt had a beaming smile on his face, his fellow was glowering at Micah like he had just kicked his puppy.
“My name is Thomas Slova,” the man in the orange shirt said, extending a hand to Micah. “My father is a baron in the Red Sands area just along the Pereston border. We’re a martial family, so I had heard something of your guild, but lately, General Hura has been singing your praises. If something does come to pass with Pereston, my family will be on the front lines with you, so it only seemed appropriate that we meet in person.”
“Nice to meet you,” Micah replied, shaking the man’s hand. “I had been trying to lay low, but circumstances have gotten out of hand. Unfortunately, given the hidden nature of the forces that threaten Sandrovok, I don’t really see that I have an option other than to stand out a bit. I need to gather a bit of attention if anyone is to believe my warnings.”
“Surely,” Thomas agreed, nodding eagerly. “This is my friend Baron Adrian Harris. His estate is located near mine and-”
“Best not draw too much attention.” The Baron cut him off, flexing his biceps as he crossed his arms in front of his chest. “If people see you showing off too much in front of the Princess, they’ll think that you’re trying to make a play for her hand. That won’t go well. This is your only warning.”
Micah blinked as the Baron spun on a heel and stalked off in the direction of Gwen’s crowd. Thomas smiled apologetically before running after his friend. Now that the Princess was gone, the music swelled back to its normal volume, leaving him bemused and alone on the outskirts of the dance. He shook his head, words slipping out of his mouth.
“What in the name of the Sixteen.”
FOURTEEN
AUDIENCE
The Empress exuded both beauty and danger. She looked like a snake, coiled and waiting for its moment to strike in the morning light. As best Micah could tell, she was barely a couple of years older than Gwen, but he knew for a fact that she had ruled Sandrovok for at least thirty years.
Behind her stood her three husbands, a human, an elf, and a Durgh. All were incredibly handsome in their own ways, and given their auras Micah suspected that the weakest of them, the human, was at least level 40.
One step below the Empress were four smaller thrones, each with one of her children sitting in them. The First Princess, a half-Durgh, sat with her back straight, a trident planted in a stone holder by her side. To her left were a pair of half-elven twins, a man and a woman, each with a scepter lying horizontally in their laps. Finally, there was Gwendolyn, the youngest and only truly human daughter of the Empress.
“You may rise.” The Empress’ voice came from all around him, an effect that would be much more impressive if Micah couldn’t sense the enchantments skillfully woven into the artwork all over the throne room projecting the monarch’s voice from every direction.
Micah stood up, clasping his hands behind his back. At the same time, twenty imperial officers joined him. He recognized about half of their faces from the previous timeline, mostly generals and their seconds.
“Our daughter comes bearing dark tidings,” the Empress continued, her voice slipping smoothly around Micah and wrapping him in its coils. He could practically taste the magic oozing off of her as she used a blessing to try to enthrall and captivate him. “She claims that you have found a number of our enemies. That Pereston is about to attack, and that only by preparing will Sandrovok be ready for their assault.”
He nodded his agreement, not wanting to risk a social faux pas by interrupting the monarch. Mana welled up around her, encircling the Empress as it built in intensity. The ability had already filled the room, but none of the guests seemed to notice as it condensed, turning into a ribbon of light that drew back its tip, as if waiting for some unspoken signal.
