-Mercius, count's castle – October 7335-
The castle of Mercius rose in the centre of the plain like a fortress of pale stone, surrounded by fields of golden grain and vines that were beginning to lose their leaves. The towers were low, wide, designed to withstand sieges, but the windows had stained glass that shone with the light of the dying afternoon. The iron gate, flanked by statues of griffins, creaked as it opened.
Zirinos dismounted. Count Mercudoth awaited him in the inner courtyard, surrounded by servants and guards. He wore dark clothes – navy blue with gold embroidery – and his fat fingers gleamed with silver and gold rings. His face was rosy, his belly protuberant, his smile that of a man who sells and buys.
"My Count," said Zirinos, with a bow.
"The hero of Endomyar!" exclaimed Mercudoth, extending his hands. "Enter, enter. My home is yours."
"I thank you for the invitation, Your Excellency."
"Excellency?" Mercudoth laughed. "My dear, call me My Count. Long titles tire the tongue."
"As you wish, My Count."
The count led him through wide corridors, with thick wool carpets and walls covered in tapestries telling stories of hunting and battles. The castle smelled of wax, wine, and roasted meat.
"My children are eager to meet you," said Mercudoth as they walked. "Marco, the heir. Mário, the warrior. Márcia, my sweet one."
"I have heard of them, My Count."
"Good or bad?"
"Good and bad, My Count. Rumours are like the wind. Sometimes they bring a good reputation. Other times, they sink ships."
Mercudoth laughed again.
"I like you, Zirinos. You have a sharp tongue. But sharp tongues cut."
"They also open doors, My Count."
"They do."
---
The dining hall was enormous. A long table of dark wood occupied the centre, with seats for twenty people. Candles in silver candlesticks lit the room, and the plates of painted porcelain awaited the food. Servants in black and gold livery moved in silence.
Mercudoth sat at the head. Zirinos, to his right – a place of honour. The children occupied the remaining seats.
Marco, the eldest, was tall, thin, with dark hair and narrow eyes. He wore a black tunic, without adornments, and observed Zirinos with a calmness that did not hide his contempt.
Mário, the second, was shorter, wider, with the shoulders of a man who trains with swords every day. His face, marked by a scar on his cheek, wore an expression of permanent challenge.
Márcia, the youngest, was the only one who smiled. Brown hair, light eyes, a light blue dress. She seemed out of place among her brothers, like a flower on a battlefield.
"Zirinos," said Marco, inclining his head. "Fame arrived before you."
"Fame is a shadow. It follows, but does not define."
"Then what defines you?"
"My actions. Nothing more."
Mário banged his knuckles on the table.
"They said you killed Trussum. Alone."
"I had help."
"Who?"
"A woman from another world. And a little girl."
Mário laughed.
"A little girl? What little girl?"
"My protégée." Zirinos took a sip of wine. "Do not underestimate children. They see what adults pretend not to see."
Silence fell. Mercudoth cleared his throat.
"Let us eat," said the count. "The food is getting cold."
---
Dinner was served in three courses. Vegetable soup, roasted wild boar, cheeses from various regions, crystallised fruits. The wine, red and full-bodied, came from Mercius's own vineyards.
Zirinos ate sparingly. His eyes moved across the table, the servants, the children.
Márcia, beside him, spoke softly.
"My brother Mário wants to challenge you to a duel."
"I know."
"Will you accept?"
"If he insists."
"And if you hurt him?"
"Then I won't hurt him."
"Do you promise?"
Zirinos looked at her. Her light eyes, where concern mixed with fear.
"I promise, Lady Márcia."
She almost smiled.
---
The duel began after dessert.
The servants moved the tables aside, opening space in the centre of the room. Mário wielded a wooden sword – thick, heavy, meant for training. Zirinos chose an identical one.
"Rules?" asked Mário.
"First to touch the opponent's chest wins."
"Simple."
"Simple."
They began.
Mário attacked first. Fast, strong, his blows precise. Zirinos dodged, retreated, dodged again. He did not attack. He only defended.
"Fight!" shouted Mário, frustrated. "Don't be a coward!"
"Patience is also a weapon," replied Zirinos.
He dodged the fourth attack. On the fifth, he touched Mário's chest with the tip of his sword.
"He wins," announced Mercudoth, without emotion.
Mário threw his sword to the ground.
"It wasn't fair."
"It was." Zirinos sheathed his sword. "You attacked. I waited. Patience defeats strength."
"Lies."
"Truth. Believe what you want."
Mário left the room. The door slammed shut.
---
Later, as the servants served tea, Marco approached Zirinos.
"My brother is impulsive," he said, quietly. "But loyal."
"I know."
"I am patient."
"I know that too."
"What do you know of me?"
"That you are the heir. That you want power. That you trust no one."
Marco smiled. The smile did not reach his eyes.
"You are perceptive, Zirinos."
"I am a survivor. It's different."
"A subtle difference."
"But an important one."
Marco walked away. Zirinos watched him.
---
The incident happened when Zirinos was preparing to leave.
Marco called a servant.
"Our guest's backpack," he said, loudly. "Has anyone seen it?"
"It was at the entrance, my Lord," replied the servant. "I brought it here."
Marco opened the backpack. He took out an object – a silver pendant with a blue stone, which did not belong to Zirinos.
"What is this?" asked Marco, raising the pendant.
"I don't know," replied Zirinos, his voice calm. "It's not mine."
"It was in your backpack."
"Someone put it there. Do you take me for a thief?"
"Who?"
"You."
Silence fell. Mercudoth paled. Márcia raised her hand to her mouth.
"Márcia?" called Marco. "Did you see anything?"
The girl hesitated. Her light eyes moved from her brother to her father to Zirinos.
"I saw," she said finally. "It was you, brother. You put the pendant in the backpack."
"Lies!" Marco stepped forward. His voice rose.
"It is the truth." Márcia's voice trembled, but did not waver. "I saw it when the servant wasn't looking."
Marco went pale. Mercudoth stood up.
"Marco," said the count, his voice cold. "Explain yourself. Now!"
"I have nothing to explain, Father."
"Then leave."
Marco left without looking back. The door slammed violently.
Silence settled.
"Márcia," said Mercudoth. "Go rest. You need to."
"Yes, Father."
Márcia left. Her eyes, before disappearing, fixed on Zirinos.
'Thank you', her lips murmured. He did not reply.
Mercudoth poured himself wine.
"My son is... complicated."
"I know, My Count."
"But he is the heir."
"For now."
The count looked at Zirinos.
"Do you like games of power?"
"I like to survive. Games are for those who have time."
"And you don't have time?"
"I have a war to win, My Count. I cannot waste time on family intrigues."
Mercudoth almost smiled.
"You are direct."
"I am honest. It's different."
The count put the pendant in a safe.
"Take this," he said, handing Zirinos a small silver amulet. "For the girl. Your protégée. They say she likes shiny things."
"I thank you, My Count."
"You don't need to thank me. You need to return."
"I will return. When the war from above descends."
The count did not reply. He only drank his wine.
---
Zirinos left the castle at dawn.
The sky was clear, the sun pale. The backpack on his shoulders weighed more than the day before – the silver amulet, the music box, the books from the library. The egg, inside the cloth sack, pulsed slowly.
'I'll give her the amulet when I see her', he thought. 'Little Mira will like it.'
The road to Derylini stretched before him, dusty, empty.
Mercius was left behind.
The heat of the forges, too.