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Overpowered Dungeon Boy
Book Two

Benjamin Barreth
 Copyright © 2023 Benjamin Barreth

All rights reserved

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real
persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in

any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise,
without express written permission of the publisher.

Cover design by: Lucian Acatrinei

Printed in the United States of America
 Thank You

Thank you to my wonderful wife, Meredith, and daughter, Romy,

for your continued encouragement during this project.

Special thanks to my cover illustrator, Lucian Acatrinei, who

continues to blow my mind. Check out his amazing work at
https://www.artstation.com/dragonwarrior

Lastly, thank YOU dear reader for choosing this book out of the
millions out there vying for your attention. Once you're finished,
please, please, please consider submitting a quick rating or two-
sentence review on Amazon. Self-published books can only survive
because of reviews like yours and it would be incredibly helpful.

This is a self-published novel. Although great care has been

taken to eliminate errors, please email me at
benjaminbarreth@gmail.com if you find anything noteworthy.

Enjoy the book!

 Contents

Title Page
Copyright
Thank You
Recap: The Story So Far
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Thanks for reading
About The Author
 Recap: The Story So Far
Thomas was born fifteen years ago in an endlessly-repeating
monster dungeon. It’s all he’s ever known. His elven mother passed
away last year and now the only ones left in their party are his dying
father: Robert, the former King of Adaria, and Tyrek: the Captain of
the Royal Guard, all imprisoned in the dungeon when Thomas’s
uncle usurped the throne sixteen years ago. Now it is their eternal
prison.
Thomas fights for his life daily. But his unbelievable combat
abilities can’t hide his boredom. Things change when he meets Gina,
the fluffy white dog he finds on floor seventy-one and his new best
friend. Together they defeat the void creature that has been
relentlessly chasing them, only for Tyrek to die during the battle.
During the fight with the void monster, Gina merges with the beast
when they are both sucked inside the group’s spatial bag, causing
her to evolve into an infinite-spatial-bag-dog chimera.
Things go from bad to worse when Thomas’s father slips him a
sleeping potion, then attacks the final boss on the hundredth floor,
purposefully forfeiting his life. With his father dead, the dungeon
prison has completed its original purpose, and it ejects Thomas and
Gina to their freedom. However, their good fortune is short-lived
when they appear in a prison of another kind: the long-abandoned
and partially-submerged Malchives fortress.
After discovering a dragon egg, bursting a time bubble, and
causing an old king to turn to dust before their very eyes, they
engineer a creative exit through the flooded basement by Gina
swallowing a lake’s worth of seawater.
Bypassing a tunnel down to another mysterious dungeon
entrance, they arrive in the outside world, only to be confronted by
an elder dragon. Thomas is shocked to discover that his family was
stuck in the prison dungeon for two hundred years rather than only
fifteen because time traveled differently there. He yields the egg but
rejects the dragon’s quest, arguing it should try fixing its own
problems rather than imposing them on teenage boys.
Thomas then enjoys a peaceful stroll through the adjoining
forest, despite the evil Mage Rankel nearly trampling him on a horse
when hurrying by to check on his popped time bubble spell.
Next, Thomas is hunting a legendary beast when he stumbles
upon a dwarf named Brogan. Separately, Gina routs a troop of
goblins, saving Victor Lanrey’s family, who are escaping Mage
Rankel’s vicious clutches. They all retire at Brogan’s village before
Thomas finally explodes in grief over his dead family. He then goes
dungeon delving with a guard named Derek Flagwater to regain his
spent mana, siphoning an entire dungeon dry of the magical essence
and acquiring its dungeon core.
He and Gina return to the village to find the dwarves beaten
down by a group of villainous hunters, whom Thomas swiftly
executes. The hunters had been escorting thirty downtrodden
children back to the capitol. Thomas and his new friends decide to
take the children along with Victor’s family and seek refuge with the
elves, deep in The Wilds of the forest and far away from the far-
seeing abilities of Mage Rankel.
Meanwhile, a different adventure has unfolded hundreds of
leagues away. Nell is an eighteen-year-old orphan trapped in a tiny
village named Windfelld, living in a crack in the side of The Great
Cliff. The cliff is a hundred leagues tall and only possible in a world
of magic. The villagers are running out of water and attempt a
daring expedition into the inner sanctum of the crack, where their
ancestors first lived two hundred years prior. To better protect their
moisture net, they hope to make a stand there against the
crevassers, the flat monsters that attack them regularly. Only Nell,
Dungall, and Little Jim survive, dragging back a mysterious locked
chest and a magically scrambled journal they find. The rest of the
expedition perishes, killed by a gigantic boss crevasser.
Garen Hawken and Commander Chints, both members of the
Adarian Sky League, are on a mission for the kingdom when a
Lightning King attacks, forcing them to crash-land their verticopter
into the secluded village of Windfelld. Garen cracks the code to the
journal and the chest, discovering the passphrase: “Fighters against
Fate,” a title used by Mage Rankel’s minions. The chest is a spatial
storage device and contains a balloon-powered flight machine: their
ticket off the cliff. Garen salvages the broken verticopter to fix the
balloon’s flight module, but as they power it on, the mighty boss
crevasser attacks. They defeat it when Chints’ mana gun shoots
Nell’s forgotten mage staff, lodged in its throat.
The entire village climbs aboard the flight machine and departs
from their destroyed village. During the descent, Nell’s magical
abilities awaken. They enter a sprawling cloud bank and Nell bonds
with a cloud familiar before they finally land on the ground at a ridge
in the middle of The Wilds: an endless forest filled with monsters. An
ogre immediately attacks, which only Nell can overcome, using her
new mental abilities. The villagers take up residence in the ogre’s
cave at the ridge, where they discover a mysterious brown crystal in
the corpse of the boss crevasser stored within the spatial chest.
Unfortunately, the attacks of monsters from the surrounding
forest rapidly deplete the villagers’ numbers. Three weeks after their
landing, an organized band of wolves attacks, led by a minotaur. Just
as Nell is about to die, Thomas’s group arrives and destroys the
monsters effortlessly.
After restoring Nell to health by leveling up her cloud, the
Windfelld refugees join Thomas’s group. Nell’s cloud transforms into
a floating vehicle and swiftly transports the entire company to the
edge of the Blue Mountains, where they discover the camp of a
demon battalion.
Thomas explores the camp, finding various atrocities, including
two hundred captured elf children. He attacks the demons, utterly
destroying the entire battalion of one thousand strong in his rage.
One elf child contained a mind worm, a parasitic spy left behind
by the demons, which emerges from its elf host and evolves into a
terrifying gnollbeast. Thomas is about to fight it when Gina, his
spatial-bag-dog, swallows it whole, storing it in her spatial ability.
Three other mind worms appear, but Victor’s daughter, Sarah,
stomps them to death before they evolve. The soul mana from the
worms is so great that it shatters the soul crystal embedded in
Sarah’s chest since infanthood. Thomas uses mana manipulation to
condense her mana into an inner core like his, saving her life. The
elf children surround Thomas, chanting ‘L’aesh,’ an ancient title of
unknown origin and meaning.
The group resolves to travel deep into the elven country of
Forranwen, seeking refuge for their growing troupe of child refugees
by reaching the sprawling forest city of Melhendallyn.
 One
Misplaced Blame

The towering doors of the council chamber creaked slowly open,

pivoting on their ornately carved bronze hinges. The artful display of
wealth in this city was staggering and the sprawling room before
them was no exception, resplendent in masterfully inlaid marble set
before a backdrop of a grand sweeping colonnade. An angled shaft
of light pierced the murky shadows and marked their obvious
destination in the center of the chamber—a flat circular stage about
a foot tall and made from a single piece of rose quartz. The scene
was clearly meant to impress, and Thomas’s eyes popped for what
seemed like the tenth time that morning.
The two hundred elven children had been interviewed first, the
largest segment of their refugee group, followed by the thirty human
children they had rescued at Dnarden Grove. Then the forty
Windfelld villagers. Finally, it was time for Thomas and the other
leaders of their ragtag group to go before the Grand Council of
Forranwen.
Thomas glanced at his friends beside him. They certainly defied
common convention. Nell, the beautiful eighteen-year-old woman of
Windfelld: a fledgling mind mage with her cloud familiar, Misty,
wrapped into bracelet form on her upper arm. Garen Hawken, the
nineteen-year-old aspiring cadet of the Sky League, along with his
superior, Commander Chints, the military-hardened forty-year-old
woman that led their group more often than not. The family of Victor
Lanrey, fleeing from the machinations of the evil Mage Rankel.
Brogan, a teenage dwarf from Dnarden Grove looking to prove
himself. And finally, Gina, Thomas’s own pet dog, fused with a
spatial bag and a creature of the endless void, forming a fiercely
loyal companion with infinite storage space and the ability to teleport
between shadows.
 He chuckled to himself. Goddesses help whoever tangled with
them now.
I hope this council of elves can keep an open mind.
The sore point was that the elven children had been rescued by
humans. The elves had long considered themselves proudly
independent from the human race. Humans were rare this deep in
The Wilds, and even when the occasional merchant or traveler made
it to the far-flung kingdom, they were instantly rebuffed. Most of
these elves hadn’t seen a human for centuries, if ever, and rumors
constantly circulated that all humans had been corrupted and were
in league with the elves’ ancient enemy: the demons. So the matter
of humans rescuing two hundred of their own, and children at that,
was very poignant indeed.
Thomas carefully kept his aura clamped down to level twelve as
his old mentor Tyrek had taught him. He even went so far as to hide
the fact that he was a half-elf himself, from his mother’s side, and
could understand the elvish language perfectly.
From the scant few conversations Thomas had overheard on the
way in, these elves were far snobbier and less trusting of humans
than the smaller clans in the forest’s outer reaches.
Their group climbed the single shallow step and gathered
together somewhat defensively on the lit stage. The shaft of light
was angled intentionally into their squinting eyes. It meant they
were utterly exposed and thoroughly blinded to the chamber
audience in the shadowy depths beyond.
Thomas reached out with his mana sight, focusing intensely to
simultaneously keep a tight guard on his aura. The shadowy depths
were covered in a shimmering veil that resisted his perception with
surprising strength. He squinted his eyes, concentrating, and his
mana sight pierced beyond the barrier to reveal an astonishing
number of elves in the chamber. As many as two hundred were
seated on ascending semicircular rows about fifty feet away. Many of
them appeared to be quietly talking amongst themselves, but all
Thomas heard was a deadened silence. Far in the upper back of the
amphitheater layout were a dozen box-shaped structures that
appeared to hold special significance because of their elevated
placement and the ostentatious dress of their occupants within.
Thomas caught himself staring and immediately looked at the
floor. He was supposed to be acting as a lowly level-twelve magic
user, not someone that could pierce a high-quality perception barrier.
Fortunately, Garen and Nell were standing in front of him and they
appeared to be taking the brunt of the attention. As he glanced
stealthily about, the elves in the veiled seating area disregarded him
entirely.
Just the way I like it.
A tall male elf with long black hair ascended the stage and came
into their view. He was regally dressed, with a finely embroidered
velvet vest atop a green silk shirt and billowy linen trousers. Yet, for
all the warm colors he wore, his face held an icy gaze, his pointy
nose raised practically to the sky. The thin lips of his mouth were
pursed in a cruel smile and his eyes were brimming with
condescension.
As one, their group fell to one knee with their faces turned to
the floor.
They had agreed on that action beforehand. They didn’t know if
they would be greeted by the elvish equivalent of nobility, but
everyone thought a posture of humility would be a good start.
Commander Chints and Garen were champing at the bit to return to
Astra. However, Victor’s family aimed to make this their forever
home, safe at last from the long reach of Mage Rankel. It would do
them well to make an excellent first impression.
That simple action caused the elf to pause before he spoke.
“Rise, humans from the west,” he said in a clipped tone.
His enunciation of the Adarian language was perfect, although
he spoke the words with an odd cadence and a lilting accent. It
reminded Thomas of his mother.
Their group rose to their feet and Brogan sheepishly raised his
hand.
“... and dwarf,” said the elf belatedly.
Thomas thought he saw a sliver of mirth cross the elf’s features
for a fleeting moment, but it was gone in the next instant, replaced
with the same cold look as before.
Victor stepped forward as their elected spokesperson before
flourishing one of his perfect bows. “My lord, we are at your service.”
The elf acknowledged him with a slow nod, his head tilted at an
angle. Then his eyes flashed and narrowed.
“My name is Moranon. I am the Speaker for the council today.
You may refer to me as ‘Speaker’ for the time being, per council
tradition.” Then he looked Victor straight in the eyes, bearing down
on him with an air of authority. “Although I hold many other titles of
great import. You would do well to remember that.”
Moranon raised his voice and turned about, addressing the
entire chamber. “The council has convened to decide your fate. It
seems some elves of questionable ethics in the outer reaches have
been spinning some tall tales. Tall tales indeed. Of a considerable
demon threat that has somehow remained undetected yet
swallowed countless unregistered villages.
“Then your unlikely group mysteriously appears from The Wilds,
destroys an entire demon battalion, and rescues the remaining
children without asking for any reward. A most suspicious tale during
a time of unrivaled menace from the human threat in the west. What
have you to say for yourselves?”
Thomas’s fists were clenched tight in anger, but before he could
speak, Victor’s smooth response rang clear, instantly mellowing the
tension that had sprung to the air.
“A mere misunderstanding, dear Speaker, I assure you. We have
proof of the demon threat. If we may?”
One eyebrow on the elf’s forehead arched up and he sported a
haughty grin. “Proof? On behalf of the council, we would love to see
such proof of the demonic presence on our borders. The ancient
enemy that our elite ranger force has yet to detect. The threat that
our Mages of Far Seeing have somehow completely missed. Please,
good man, enlighten us with such evidence that would validate such
a preposterous fable!”
The elf stretched his arm to the side where a small plinth of
solid quartz materialized out of thin air.
 Victor paused with his mouth open for a moment. “The
evidence is … erm, quite large, dear Speaker.”
The elf released an audible “hmph” before waving his hand
again. The plinth disappeared to be replaced with a sturdy table
about ten feet long and three feet wide.
“Perhaps, the floor would be a better option?” said Victor.
The elf’s sarcastic grin morphed to a frown of pure annoyance.
“By all means, use the entire stage if necessary!”
Victor winced. “What about the floor around the stage?”
The elf stood there, glaring at them for a full thirty seconds.
Finally, he waved his hand again, dismissing the table. Then he
pulled back the embroidered sleeve of his robe to reveal a strikingly-
beautiful mana slate, covered in gems and winking with silver filigree
in the light. He tapped it three times in quick succession, causing the
angled light above them to enlarge and encompass an extra thirty
feet around the circular stage on all sides.
Victor looked around and shook his head. “Well, it’s not perfect,
but we’ll have to make it work. Gina, if you would be so kind?
Speaker, you may want to stand back.”
Thomas lowered Gina to the floor from where she was slung
around his shoulder, then hurriedly retreated from the stage and
onto the floor with the rest of the group.
The elf’s brow knitted together when he saw a stylishly furred
woman’s purse ambling toward the center of the stage. When he
saw the rest of their group step off the stage and back away, he
snorted and pointedly took a single step back.
“That may not be enough, Speaker,” said Victor, a good twenty
feet away from the stage now.
“Human, I assure you whatever tricks you are playing, they will
not be well received here,” said Moranon, raising his voice with
indignation. “I have stood on this council for over a hundred years.
When Garbrook the Destroyer was sentenced, I pronounced his
judgment from this very position. No matter what your feeble minds
have planned, it will fail!”
Victor shrugged, stepping back and calling loudly, “Gina, he’s all
yours.”
 Then Gina erupted.
A deluge of troll’s blood blasted onto the floor in the middle of
the stage, splashing all over Moranon’s rich robes. The flood quickly
covered the entire stage, pouring over the edges to stream in rivers
across the floor.
The elf screamed in disgust, but Gina was just getting started,
vomiting out as many as ten demon corpses per second. Within no
time at all, she was clambering atop a small mountain of them,
spewing more bodies about her that tumbled down the hill to hit the
bloody platform of quartz.
The corpse mountain steadily outgrew the stage and began
encompassing the surrounding floor. Thomas and the rest of their
group had retreated to the furthest edge that remained lit by the
mysterious light from above, but the bodies kept coming.
The blood mostly drained in the direction of the hidden
audience so Thomas was at no risk of getting soiled, but he
estimated the current mountain of demons wasn’t even close to
being all of them. It was only forty feet tall.
“Make it stop! MAKE IT STOP!” the sodden elf shrieked,
desperately clawing away from the heap of carcasses.
Gina stopped the deluge without any further instruction. After
all, she understood Adarian perfectly. Then she barked down toward
Thomas, who nodded and spoke into Victor’s ear.
“That’s only about half,” said Victor loudly. “Would you like us to
deposit the rest of the bodies somewhere else?”
The angry elf shook out his sleeves before activating a cleaning
enchantment. A sudden breeze blew through his robe, considerably
brightening its gems and filigree, yet the fresh stains didn’t
disappear.
“Ugh, troll’s blood? No enchantment will work against that. You
have RUINED my finest council vestment!”
Thomas tightened his fists in anger at that, but Victor beat him
to the punch once again.
“No, dear speaker, that was not us,” he said, tossing the fuming
elf a wink. “That was your own pride.”
 Two
Family Ties

“That arrogant bastard!” said Commander Chints, hot venom

peppering her words.
“Aye. ‘Is ‘eds so far up ‘is own arse, he can smell beer,” said
Brogan.
There was a brief silence as everyone attempted to digest the
dwarf’s words.
“At least they didn’t lock us in a cell,” said Victor’s wife, Marie,
dispelling the puzzled looks.
“They said house arrest. It’s practically the same thing,” said
Garen.
Thomas eyed the stout elvish rangers standing guard at the exit
to their own personal wing of guest suites.
The lavishly decorated rooms could hardly be called
imprisonment, boasting four bedrooms, a shared living area, and a
fully stocked kitchen. Another shining example of the astronomical
wealth that the elven nation boasted.
To Thomas’s limited experience, these rooms might have
housed foreign ambassadors and visiting luminaries. The fact that
they had magically heated running water and a cooling device
stocked to the brim with frosted beverages blew his mind. He never
imagined such things were possible.
Nell took full advantage of the facilities by trying out the exotic
drinks displayed in tall flasks in the cooling closet. Most of them
were brightly colored with fruity aromas. Brogan called it “elvish
trash,” but Victor seemed right at home, putting his feet up on an
oversized cushion and sipping away at a glass of frothing blue liquid.
Thomas meandered over to the tall stained glass windows. They
looked down upon a bustling square between two conjoining bridges
that arched over a glistening river of bright blue water. The square
was edged with merchants in small wooden booths, selling
everything from garments to meat on a stick. Besides the industrious
feel of the place, it seemed very peaceful and civilized. There was
certainly no fear of demon invasion in the air.
As he pondered, that thought seemed the one question he
couldn’t escape: How had these people not heard of the demon
raiders on their borders? The painful questioning they had endured
in the council chamber had rammed that home. These elves were
utterly oblivious. The demons were a real threat to their way of life,
but the Speaker of the council seemed more interested in political
theater. Perhaps they were so supremely confident in their military
prowess against the demons that they couldn’t fathom otherwise.
Hubris. That’s what Father would call it.
An unexpected knock rapped against the suite’s fine walnut
entry doors before a bright, magical seal glowed over the frame. The
arcane symbol hovered in the air, then visibly faded into mist,
unlocking the room.
The guards swung the double doors open to reveal a short and
portly elf dressed in a fine robe and striding confidently forward.
Thomas recognized him immediately from his mother’s dreams.
It was one of the two reigning sovereigns of the elvish people, King
Lamyll of Forranwen.
Thomas’s body fell to one knee before his mind understood
what he was doing. The others in the group stood stunned for a
brief moment before following his lead, their eyes bending to the
floor as one. Victor lapsed behind the group as he leaped to his feet
from his comfy roost in the overstuffed chair. He hastily flung a knee
to the floor, still clutching his fruity cocktail in one hand.
“Please, please, rise and sit with me, dear guests!” said the
rotund elf in perfect Adarian, chuckling with genuine mirth in his
eyes. He settled deep into one of the oversized armchairs, like a
glowing bread roll nestled within a baker’s basket. “You must pardon
my rude interruption. I simply had to congratulate the strangers that
caused such a momentous event in the council chamber earlier!” He
paused to wipe a brimming tear from one eye, his smile bright and
contagious. “Why, I have not seen Moranon so effectively put in his
place since he was dumped by Countess Resha as a young boy!”
There was a moment of dumbed silence as Thomas’s group
reeled from their larger-than-life visitor. It seemed only Thomas was
aware of the king’s identity. He had planned to keep his elven
ancestry and mastery of the language a secret. If he said too much
now, he’d surely slip up somewhere. Much better to stay quiet in the
background.
Yet with the nation’s king sitting before them, he felt compelled
to speak. He couldn’t allow his friends to gape cluelessly at the
monarch and risk offense.
So with great reluctance, Thomas cleared his throat.
“It was never our intention to embarrass Speaker Moranon like
that, Your Majesty.”
At the sudden mention of “Your Majesty,” everyone in the room
tensed. The short elf was so welcoming and ready to put them at
ease that they never would have guessed his importance otherwise.
As Thomas continued, their bows subconsciously drew lower to
the floor. “We have only the most honorable of intentions toward
your great nation. Is there a way we could apologize to the Speaker
to smooth things over?”
“Oh, pish posh. The lad had it coming to him. Only next time
you see him, be sure to use his formal title when addressing him and
I’m sure all will be forgiven.”
There was an uneasy silence that lingered several moments
before Victor spoke up. “Your Majesty, if you would be so kind:
please forgive the ignorance of your servants. What is the formal
title of Speaker Moranon?”
The portly king burst into laughter at the question. “Why of
course, you don’t know! Why ever would you? Oh, this makes it that
much sweeter!”
He laughed so heartily that he clasped his hands across his
bulging waist to temper the barrel of a belly that jostled up and
down.
“My dear, dear guests. Moranon is none other than the Crown
Prince!” he said with a mischievous look.
 As one, the humans and dwarf dropped their jaws and bulged
their eyes in horror. Their unsightly awe only made the king laugh
harder.
Finally, as the jovial monarch gathered control of his faculties, it
was Brogan that broke the terrified silence. “I do believe I may’ve
shat my pants a little just then.”
Thomas winced as the king split into a fresh uproar of laughter,
slapping the side of his armchair as he guffawed. Offending the
crown prince with their very first interaction was the exact opposite
of what they had intended.
The king finally calmed down and Victor stepped forward with a
perfectly executed bow to lead a short round of introductions. Each
member of their group executed a short bow or curtsy, with Nell’s
effort appearing almost outlandishly clumsy. However, the king
dismissed their attempts as unnecessary and waved them aside with
sincere geniality.
“... and that strange woman’s purse asleep in the corner?” he
said.
“That would be Gina, Your Grace. Thomas’s pet.”
“—and best friend,” Thomas added.
A sudden stomping salute from the guards at the door drew
everyone’s eyes to a new arrival.
“Forgive my intrusion. Is my husband creating mischief in here?”
The enthralling Queen Lystrith of Forranwen stood before them,
her eyes twinkling merrily. She was dressed in a sweeping gown of
shimmering fabric the color of aged oak, and her long chestnut hair
draped down behind her lithe frame all the way to her waist, finely
braided into an array of looping crescents. She was the very picture
of elegance, sweeping into the room with a gentle, soothing power
that immediately reminded Thomas of his mother. Before he realized
what was happening, his eyes were brimming with tears as he gazed
helplessly at her serene beauty.
“My dear boy, whatever is the matter?” she said, full of sincerity
as she caught his look.
The king’s laughter abruptly stopped and he clambered to his
feet, eyeing Thomas closely with genuine compassion.
 Thomas’s words failed him, his head pounding with such thick
emotion that his throat bobbed precariously. He didn’t know what
else to do except hold out one solitary hand to the gracious couple,
yielding his most precious possession on his palm.
His mother’s soul crystal.
The king’s eyes drew wide and the queen clasped a hand over
her mouth.
“This was my mother’s. She would… want you to have it,” said
Thomas, desperately trying to keep a lid on the pain that threatened
to overwhelm him.
Victor, Marie, and the others exchanged a look of complete
bafflement. No one had the foggiest idea what was going on. Even
the guards at the door looked intrigued, bending their necks to see
the narrow soul crystal in Thomas’s palm.
King Lamyll held out his trembling hand, hesitating to touch the
object as if it was a spell that would disperse upon his touch. He
could see the etchings on the side, clear as day. His head already
knew what Thomas held, but his heart was taking a moment to
catch up.
The queen gasped as her mind clicked in realization and the
king suddenly threw his arms around Thomas, sobbing
uncontrollably.
They had another grandson. And he had just come home.
 Three
The Crown Prince

“Seal the room,” the queen ordered, speaking elvish to the

guards. “Fetch the Keeper of the Stones. Immediately.” As the first
guard leaped to obey her command, she turned to the other. “Stand
guard outside. No one except the Keeper is to enter. No one, do you
understand?”
“Yes, my queen,” the guard said, hurriedly bobbing his head
with wide eyes.
She turned and switched back to speaking crystal clear Adarian.
“Now, Lamyll dear, let’s give the poor boy some room to breathe,”
said the elegant queen, guiding her emotional husband away from
Thomas.
“Don’t you see the resemblance?” he said, wiping his eyes and
gasping anew.
“Yes, of course,” she replied, turning demurely to Thomas.
“Despite the evident lack of elven ears. I imagine you have quite the
story to tell.”
And that’s where Thomas began, telling his story from the
beginning. Victor, Marie, and Sarah knew the most about his time in
the dungeon prison, but no one had an inkling of his sovereign
birthright.
Every eye in the room was on Thomas as the tale tumbled out.
The battle with the void creature that had sucked the memories right
out of his mother’s crystal. His father’s sacrifice to free him from the
dungeon. His escape from Malchives fortress and the dragon that
had explained how two hundred years had passed. How he and Gina
had stumbled into Brogan and saved Victor’s family.
By the time he was done, they were all staring, slack-jawed.
“... and that’s how I recognized Your Majesty,” Thomas said,
nodding towards the king. “One of my mother’s memories from the
soul crystal was of her hundredth birthday in the Ancient Grove. You
gave her a gift of sunburst mountain flowers that bloom only once a
century—their last bloom had been the day she was born. They were
bright yellow with accents of shining silver.”
“Ahhh, what a wondrous celebration that was,” the jovial
monarch said, his eyes glowing with affection as his mind turned
over the memory like a spade tilling rich soil.
“Thomas I …,” said Victor, looking around at the group, “... none
of us knew anything about this.”
“I still can’t believe you met a dragon,” said Nell with disbelief.
Thomas grimaced. “You probably wouldn’t have liked her.”
“Still, you could have told us you were basically royalty,” said
Garen, a little affronted.
The boy shook his head soundlessly. “It wasn’t important. That
was all two hundred years ago. I wasn’t even sure if my mother’s
side of the family were still alive here in Melhendallyn.” Thomas
flapped his hands against his hips in a helpless gesture.
“Not important? The fact that your father was the previous king
of the country?” said Nell in disbelief.
“Well, I didn’t want it to affect what you thought of me,” said
Thomas, shrugging. “My father always said his friendships turned
strange once they realized his title.”
“Indeed,” said the king sorrowfully.
A gentle knock sounded on the door, interrupting the moment
and silencing the group immediately.
“Enter,” said the queen in elvish, speaking in a commanding
voice that carried across the room.
One of the double doors crept aside to reveal a wiry elf with
half-moon spectacles standing there. He wore a tidy vest of dark red
velvet with a timepiece on a gold chain drooping from a breast
pocket. His thinning hair was bright silver and his wrinkled skin
belied his youthful eyes, glinting with a playful spark yet hooded by
weary lids.
Upon entering, the elf immediately swept into a deep bow, then
responded in elvish. “Your Majesties, how may I serve? It was
impressed upon me that I come in the utmost haste,” he said,
eyeing the guard behind him with no slight disdain. “It was most
inconvenient. At my age, ushering a poor elf at such a pace should
be a crime!”
The queen nodded to the guard, waiting patiently for him to exit
the room and sweep the door closed before she responded in
Adarian.
“For the sake of our esteemed guests, let’s keep this
conversation in Adarian if you please.” After the elf bowed in
acknowledgment, she continued. “Now, didn’t I hear you
complaining just yesterday about a lack of adventure in your old
age?” The elf harrumphed as the queen handed him the soul crystal.
“Perhaps this will whet your appetite. What do you make of it?”
The crystal was in his palm less than three seconds before he
spoke, “Well, of course, I recognize it. That’s my mark there, as
expected on a monarch-tier soul crystal. This was Queen
Sofialyndel’s crystal if I’m not…” The elf froze mid-sentence, then
lifted his gaze to the group of humans.
“Are you certain? There must be no doubt,” said the queen
sternly.
He looked up at the imposing queen bearing down on him. Her
look was not unkind but taut with urgency.
“I would stake my life on it,” he said before turning his head and
narrowing his gaze to Thomas, standing there listlessly, sporting
reddened eyes. “Your Majesty, what is going on? This is hardly the
audience to be speaking of such delicate matters.”
“This young man is named Thomas,” said the king. “We have
him to thank for the crystal—”
“—we shouldn’t bother the Keeper with the finer details,”
interrupted the queen, gently raising her hand to her husband. The
king was divulging far more details than necessary and this
knowledge held grave implications. She found her eyes boring into
the aged elf. “I’m afraid there is one more task I must ask of you. I
require a blood oath that you will never mention this to anyone
outside this room unless by my express permission.”
The elf’s eyes went wide with shock. “Your Majesty, I would
never dare to—”
 “I must insist. I trust you implicitly, Dareneth. You have been
my mentor since my youth and also to my mother before me. Yet I
would do your teachings injustice by allowing otherwise.”
The elf closed his mouth with a short clop before frowning,
suddenly persuaded. “Hmph. The only acceptable answer,” he said,
nodding with the frown still deepening the sides of his mouth. “I
agree, of course. I am unreservedly yours, Your Majesty.”
Queen Lystrith broke her stern face with a warm grin and
leaned over to hug the elf. When she pulled away, his cheeks were
visibly rosy and the corners of his mouth were curled upward.
“Ugh, you always know how to manipulate me. Shameful!... and
truly annoying.” He pricked a finger with a short dagger from his belt
and applied the teardrop of blood to the queen’s signet ring. “I
swear by blood to never speak of the existence of this soul crystal to
anyone outside this room without Queen Lystrith’s express
permission.”
A tiny puff of red mist was expelled from the ring as the drop of
blood was absorbed.
“That will do. Thank you, Keeper. You may take your leave,” she
said.
The king frowned at the rude dismissal of the elf but said
nothing. The Keeper merely raised his eyes to them both before
exiting with a bow and closing the door firmly behind him.
“I apologize for interrupting you, darling,” said Queen Lystrith
gently, “but I felt the need to assert my authority with a matter as
delicate as this.”
The king merely smiled in response, but Marie raised a tentative
finger with her mouth open in puzzlement.
The queen answered her unspoken question. “In elvish lands, it
is the queen who rules and her husband who plays the supporting
role. A matriarchy. The opposite of the Adarian Kingdom and many
of its neighbors.”
Now it was Thomas’s turn to be confused. “But, that would
make my mother the heir apparent?”
“Yes, she caused quite the stir when she abdicated the throne
to marry your father,” said the king. “We eventually came around to
the idea when she was so adamant about it. She could be quite
stubborn about the things she wanted,” he said with a sad smile
while staring distantly through the floor.
“I had no idea,” said Thomas. The look on his face glazed over
momentarily as he pieced together the consequences of this
revelation. “From the few dreams I experienced, I never saw any
resentment between you.” He looked up at their faces to check how
his statement landed.
“Once we finally came to terms with her decision, there was no
use fighting over it,” said the king. “Besides, we were equally wooed
by Robert’s gracious temperament.”
Victor scratched his head as he spoke up. “If I understand what
you’re saying, Queen Sofialyndel, Thomas’s mother, was heir to the
throne. So how does the Crown Prince fit into all this?”
“We had a daughter, Sofialyndel, and a son named Grandlyn,”
said the queen softly. “Our son perished when he was a mere
hundred and fifty years old, killed by a mythic-level beast terrorizing
our northern borders. Or so the story goes,” she said, giving a
strange look to the king before she continued. “But years before he
died, he sired a son himself: Prince Moranon.”
“Unfortunately, there is no small amount of bad blood between
us,” said the king, an unsightly frown stretching between his bright
cheeks. “We’ve endured no less than three assassination attempts in
recent years, and all facts point to Moranon being the one behind
them. We now believe the story of Grandlyn’s death may also be
fabricated.”
The king and queen paused with their faces downcast.
“Pardon my ignorance, Your Majesties,” Victor said, carefully
broaching the sullen silence. “With Thomas’s mother having passed,
wouldn’t that mean that his claim to the throne surpasses
Moranon’s…”
“Indeed,” said the queen, throwing Victor a sly grin. “Thomas’s
appearance comes at a most auspicious time.”
As the pieces clicked together in Victor’s mind, his colorful
cocktail glass fell to the floor, smashing all over the exquisite marble
floor tiles.
 Queen Lystrith, however, didn’t bat an eyelid at the smashed
glass, deeming it an entirely appropriate reaction.
“Thomas is heir to the throne.”
 Four
Proof

A profound silence reigned over the group for several moments.

Even Gina had woken up and was listening intently. Marie and
Sarah’s eyes were full of tears. Commander Chints was in her usual
pose, hands on her hips, wearing a calculating look. Garen picked at
his bottom lip, deep in thought. Brogan merely scratched his crotch,
looking for the nearest ale with a bored expression.
Queen Lystrith turned to Thomas. “Of course, there is the small
technicality of verification,” she said, holding out a needle. “I believe
your story, Thomas. I truly do. However, proof by blood is required
with a matter as important as this. It must be official.”
“You want me to say an oath?” he said, a vertical crease
forming between his eyebrows.
She shook her head. “No, just a little blood to corroborate that
your ancestry is a mix of my bloodline and your grandfather’s.”
Thomas nodded, then calmly held out his hand.
The queen jabbed the needle into his palm, intending it to be as
quick and painless as possible, but it stopped an inch from his skin
where a silver sheen began to glow, about a foot in diameter around
the needle.
“Oh, that’s my mana armor, sorry. I always leave a couple layers
running.” He paused while the invisible armor around his hand
dissipated and the queen’s face knotted in confusion. “All right, try
now.”
The queen jabbed again. This time the metal made contact with
Thomas’s skin, but it abruptly bent to the side as soon as the queen
applied any pressure.
“Ah, that needle might be too weak,” said Thomas nonchalantly.
“My skin’s quite firm these days.”
“Firm, he says!” snorted Commander Chints, shaking her head.
 The boy’s a walking tank.
Thomas held up his other hand and conjured a needle of his
own out of pure mana. It was thicker than his typical needles of
mana and much more visible to the naked eye, giving off a blue
incandescent glow as it hovered in midair. It looked deceptively
benign just floating there, right up until the point Thomas pressed
his finger across its narrow edge, severing the tip entirely.
The boy didn’t so much as wince as bright fluid began to gush
from the tip. It was a peculiar concoction of blue mana essence from
his internal core and bright red human blood. Neither fluid mixed,
but they streamed in a sort of symbiotic helix pattern down his
finger and into his palm. The queen gaped at the marvel in
undisguised astonishment.
“How much blood did you want?” he said.
She shook herself from her daze. “Just a few drops is all—that’s
quite enough!” She curled her hand into a fist and dipped the flat
face of her signet ring into the growing pool of blood-mana that had
formed in Thomas’s palm.
Thomas merely shrugged, then absently cast his hand over his
finger, sealing and healing it in one efficient stroke.
“That was bitterly reminiscent of your mother’s healing magic,”
said the queen.
“Father always said she was the best of us,” said Thomas.
“Yes, he did often say that,” said the king in a solemn tone.
The queen stood there contemplating Thomas for a moment,
then raised her ring to her lips. She blew on it with a quiet
incantation lacing the edge of her words. A moment later, a brilliant
royal crest projected out from the ring, hanging in the air above the
queen’s clenched fist.
The crest was two feet wide and blazing with piercing color. The
sight would have been breathtaking if it wasn’t utterly blinding in its
intensity. The queen hurriedly said another incantation, turning off
the effect.
“My apologies. The royal crest is usually far smaller, about the
size of the ring itself. And substantially dimmer.”
“I suppose that eliminates all doubt,” said the king, snorting.
 “Indeed,” said the queen, looking at Thomas curiously once
again. “I could have sworn you were level twelve in the council
chamber. But that was no level twelve healing magic just now. Mana
armor. Mana conjuration. Iron skin. Exactly how strong are you,
Thomas?”
Her gaze was kind yet unyielding, peering questingly into his.
They were the eyes of a monarch, used to getting their way. Despite
the queen’s gracious undertones, her focused gaze made Thomas
deeply uncomfortable. He stepped from side to side, considering
how to avoid the question.
The queen immediately sensed his discomfort and gently
touched his arm. “It’s all right. I can tell you don’t want to talk about
it. Another time, perhaps.”
“The truth is, I don’t know,” said Thomas honestly. “Not
precisely, anyway. The Captain of the Royal Guard, Tyrek, taught me
how to limit my aura so as to not draw unnecessary attention to
myself.”
“There is deep wisdom there,” the king said, chuckling. “If half
the lads walking the streets these days knew how to control their
aura, the city would be a much more peaceful place.”
Thomas hesitated before he continued. “Besides that, mana
slates seem to have a certain… limitation when scanning me.”
Truth be told, part of his reluctance to be scanned by a modern
mana slate was from the fear of what he’d discover. It would also
completely blow his cover as a weakly level twelve. His friends had a
good inkling of his power, of course. Single-handedly destroying an
entire demon battalion let that cat out of the bag.
However, it was quite different seeing your level on a mana
slate. It put you in a box, categorizing your abilities with the invisible
boundaries of what people thought you were capable of. It gave you
an entrenched identity in the minds of others that was difficult to
shake.
“The fickle expectations of others,” his father would say.
If his friends saw his true level, would they still treat him the
same? Would they still think of him as a friend?
 The queen saw his hesitation and decided to gently press the
matter. “Would you like me to scan you now, with your aura fully
released? I assure you I will delete the record immediately if you
wish.”
“I would hate for anyone to get hurt,” Thomas said dubiously.
“Hurt? Why, my dear grandson, it’s only a mana slate scan! No
possible harm can come to you, I promise.”
It’s not me I’m worried about.
Thomas looked at his group of friends, staring at him
expectantly. Garen looked visibly excited, whereas Brogan, Victor,
and Marie had seen more of what he could do and looked far more
apprehensive, even going so far as to take a few steps back.
Thomas blew out a long breath and forced himself to relax. He
supposed there was nothing else for it. He had revealed all his cards
so far. If there was anyone that should know the full extent of his
power, it was his own grandparents.
“All right, I’ll do it. But I really think it would be a good idea if
everyone stood far back, just in case anything goes wrong.”
“My dear boy—” said the king, on the verge of saying something
condescending, but when he saw Thomas’s face full of grim
determination, he hastily changed his tune. “—y-yes, of course.
There’s no harm in being careful.”
The king and queen followed the rest of the group to the edges
of the room, their backs against the walls, while Thomas allowed his
mana armor to fade away from his limbs. He shook out his hands on
his wrists, feeling intensely vulnerable as the skin across his entire
body was exposed to the open air for the first time in several years.
Instantly the atmosphere in the room changed from an ambient
feeling of peace to one primed with power and rifling with energy.
The queen nodded at the change in the air as she prepared her
mana slate. “Impressive.”
“Hold on, I haven’t started yet,” said Thomas, causing the
queen to visibly pause.
He decided to release the clamp from his aura gradually, just in
case anything started to go wrong. His breath slowed as he closed
his eyes and slowly spread his arms to his sides, his palms facing
upwards. Then he gently eased open the mental pressure valve that
was clamped down tight like a pressure cooker over his mana core.
A wild wind erupted in the room, blowing fiercely about
Thomas’s clothes, whipping his loose shirt against his chest. The
king and queen were shocked, pressing themselves back against the
wall in alarm. But the wind only increased, accompanied by a ringing
in their ears and a fierce pressure against their faces.
Thomas flung back his head as he sank into the moment. It
seemed so long since he had let go of this control. It felt so good.
He threw himself into the embrace of the wild mana whipping in the
air, and his soul core leaped in delight.
If he hadn’t closed his eyes, he would have seen his body rising
from the floor and floating toward the ceiling while mysterious lights
began to emit from the fringes of his body, where his skin met with
the air and sparks of magical static ignited spontaneously. He would
have seen the guards screaming as they rushed into the room, only
to be blown back down the hallway by his growing tornado of power.
He would have seen the terrified faces of his friends, their bodies
pinned to the walls as the oversized furniture was swept into the
spinning vortex of mana and ripped asunder by the arcane forces.
The smile on Thomas’s face fell as he opened his eyes, eight
feet in the air. In an instant, he brought down his Will on his aura
like a hammer, utterly smothering its power.
The wind disappeared, the shimmers around his body winked
out, and his feet swiftly descended to the floor.
Thomas looked around at the destroyed room and winced.
Then, right as the atmosphere finally settled into a shocked silence,
a tottering walnut table that had swept against the wall crashed to
the ground, causing everyone in the room to jump.
“Well?” said Thomas.
“Well, what?” said Lystrith, peeling herself from the wall and
wrestling her ransacked hair into a modicum of composure.
“What’s… erm… you know. My level?”
The queen frowned with an aggrieved look, then turned her
mana slate to face him. The front of the device was lit up with
flashing red alarms.
“My child—I have absolutely no idea.”
 Five
False Secrets

Prince Moranon stepped out of his personal steam room with a

towel around his waist and his skin rubbed raw. It had taken a full
hour to scrub the stain of the troll’s blood from his thighs. The filthy
liquid had sopped straight through his silk undergarments in
disgusting globs that refused to yield to his most potent soaping
agents. Ultimately, he resorted to abrasively scouring off the
outermost layer of his skin using a pumice stone and regenerating it
from scratch using his healing ability.
Although his skin was as good as new and had no permanent
damage, the entire process was agonizing. Being a royal prince
meant that the sensation of pain was rare indeed. However, as he’d
scrubbed the pumice stone hard against his tender princely flesh, he
found the pain transforming into another emotion entirely.
Anger.
He vowed to destroy those Fate-cursed visitors from the west
even if it was the last thing he did.
A soft knock came at his door and he barked in response.
“Enter!”
Dareneth, the revered Keeper of the Stones, slid into the room,
carefully closing the door behind him without so much as a click.
Then he gathered himself before Moranon with a frozen look on his
face, his body so tense that his aging back was ramrod straight.
The prince tilted his head to the side as he surveyed the elf.
“Ah, queen caught you in another blood oath?” he said,
chuckling cruelly.
When the Keeper said nothing and a bead of sweat trickled
down his gritted face, the prince leaned forward to rummage
through Dareneth’s pockets. Moranon soon found what he was
looking for: a small coin in the elf’s front breast pocket emitting a
near-invisible wisp of blue mana.
A recording coin.
He twisted the coin’s circumference and the light changed from
blue to green. He then squeezed the coin together and held it to his
ear while strolling to a formidable armchair in the corner to put his
feet up.
Daraneth didn’t move a muscle, barely breathing while the
prince replayed the entire conversation with the queen and their
new guests.
It was the blood oath. It was only because Daraneth had begun
the recording before entering the guest suite that he was still alive
right now. Blood oaths were notoriously tricky to circumvent. The
magic was somehow aware when the oath was being broken,
regardless of the method.
Daraneth knew this all too well. One false move and the blood
in his body would revolt against him, transforming to ash inside his
veins and subjecting him to an excruciatingly painful death.
Once the brief recording was over, Prince Moranon flicked the
coin in the air and caught it with a cavalier grin.
“Well, well, well. The glorious bitch discovered her daughter’s
soul crystal.”
He sauntered over to Daraneth, dropped the coin back into his
breast pocket, and patted the outside gently. “I knew there was a
reason I let you live, Keeper. What was it my father used to say?
‘The slow investments have the steadfast yield.’ Yes, as I remember
it, he was lecturing me on those precise virtues when I plunged that
scorpion tail into his beating heart.”
The prince held his hand to Daraneth’s cheek and patted it with
faux affection, bringing his face close and studying the way the
sweat trickled through the different wrinkles on his brow. “You have
certainly been a slow investment, yet you have paid for your side of
the bargain and then some.”
Dareneth licked his lips slowly before daring to speak in short,
clipped words. “The … queen?”
 Moranon twirled away and flung his hand in a dismissive
gesture. “Yes, yes, her life will be spared as we agreed, regardless of
how I take the throne.”
He brought his forefinger to rest against his chin. “But what of
this new threat? Which of our revered guests was the one named
Thomas?”
The elf’s eyes boggled at the question. Dareneth swore his
pulse had completely stopped as the blood oath magic wrapped
around his heart with an icy grip. He dared not make the slightest
gesture.
The prince laughed at the elf’s discomfort while ushering him to
the door. “Oh, Keeper, I’m merely teasing—I know you can’t answer
that under your current duress. I can easily discover the answer
myself by employing some subtle prying.”
The Keeper of the Stones bowed carefully, then retreated from
the room as stealthily as he’d arrived.
As the prince returned to his favorite armchair to ruminate, he
rested his elbows on the sides and steepled his fingers. Only two of
the humans fit the description of a young man: a bookish level
twenty-nine cadet from the Adarian Sky League and a wholly
unremarkable level twelve whose only memorable feature was that
he wore no shoes. Either way, the prince had no cause for concern.
He poured himself a tall brandy, then paused with the glass
raised to his mouth, filling his nostrils with the tangy sharpness of
the liquor’s scent.
“First, Thomas. Then the Kingdom.”

❋ ❋ ❋

The call to the prince’s most trusted assassin came in the

middle of the night, as usual. After all these years, Shyll still couldn’t
fathom why Prince Moranon chose such an hour to summon him.
Assassins needed sleep too.
The communication crystal glowed green and Shyll said the
catchphrase that unlocked the call. Then he placed the crystal over
his heart where it would resonate with his own soul crystal, echoing
the words of Moranon into his mind where only he could hear and
respond privately in kind.
“I have another job for you.”
“I am ever your willing servant, my liege.”
“One of the foreigners is a young man named Thomas and I
need him eliminated. No shoes. Level twelve. Wears a plain shirt and
brown woolen breeches.”
“Understood.”
“The annual gauntlet run is in three days. I aim to have Thomas
compete in the contest, during which there should be ample
opportunity for certain accidents to occur.”
“I’m surprised the festival is still on, with the threat of war.”
“I pulled several strings to ensure that the war will be… delayed,
shall we say. The festival will proceed as planned and it is the perfect
opportunity to eliminate your mark.”
“Yet with hundreds of witnesses and in broad daylight, sire.”
“Have I ever failed to reward you adequately?”
“Not to mention that our city’s best healers will be on hand to
countermand my efforts—”
“You are trying my patience, Shyll. If the challenge is too great,
suggest someone more qualified.”
“There is no one else. Those pompous bastards at the guild
would butcher this job. I will do it, of course. Dealing with such
complications is how I made it to the top. Only don’t be surprised at
the size of the bill.”
“Just do it.”
The High Assassin lifted the crystal from his chest, ending the
call as he whispered his special catchphrase against its surface.
“Fighters against Fate.”

❋ ❋ ❋

Hundreds of leagues to the west, a different ultimatum was

being laid down as the demon prince’s voice rang out clear and
threatening through a communication crystal to Mage Rankel. “If
you don’t deliver the slaves you promised, I will crush your bones
beneath my feet. Our bargain was one thousand slaves with high
vitality for our blood motors and machines of war. Our offensive
against the elves—which was your idea—depends on it. That is the
price of your kingdom’s life. Otherwise, I will release my hell hydras
on you next.”
“Now, let’s not be hasty, Prince Exerkant,” said Mage Rankel,
swallowing. “It is the quality of the stock I fear for. The human slave
trade is long defunct here in Adaria and I must move with the
utmost stealth so the people don’t revolt—”
“You have ten days,” said the demon prince, ending the
connection so that Rankel’s crystal dimmed in his hand.
“Fate’s ARSE!” said Rankel, flinging the crystal to the ground.
“Vax!”
“Here, m’Lord,” said the serpentine servant, appearing out of
thin air.
“Get me the generals.”
“Ahem. Which one, m’Lord?”
“ALL OF THEM!”
The slithering humanoid scurried wordlessly away.
“AND GET ME A DRINK!”
But Vax was already gone.
The High Mage of Adaria and true reigning power behind the
puppet king slumped into his chair and pinched the bridge of his
nose.
“A thousand slaves in ten days or the kingdom falls,” said Rankel
to himself. “It’s about time those fat generals got their hands dirty.”
 Six
Unwelcome Demands

The following morning was bright and crisp, with a dew-filled

haze hovering above the forest city that captured the morning
sunrise in gleaming shafts of pink and orange.
Commander Chints was one of the first to wake, having never
allowed her body to stray far from the unforgiving schedule of the
Adarian military.
Now that the refugees from Windfelld had been escorted to
safety, she was feeling in two minds about her time here. On the
one hand, she felt a desperate pull to return to her post as
Commander of the Sky League. They had heard nothing from her for
weeks and no doubt thought she was dead.
However, she’d also learned more secrets about Rankel’s
schemes from Victor, the stories of Thomas’s past, and the
incriminating note found in Sergeant Ledwick’s pocket after he was
defeated in Dnarden Grove. Chints’ return to the City of Astra would
undoubtedly garner the mage’s attention, which was a prospect she
couldn’t afford. Rankel had myriad ways of discerning truth from lies,
and Chints was under no delusions of grandeur—she had zero
confidence in her ability to keep secrets from the powerful mage.
And secrets she now had. The fact that the heir to the elven
throne and only son of King Robert was staying in Melhendallyn?
The location of Victor and his family, whom the mage had sent his
chief cronies to relentlessly pursue?
Queen Lystrith had graciously permitted her to send a message
relayed via a network of communication crystals employed by the
queen’s spies. The queen made her record the memo in her
presence—the monarch wasn’t about to give unfettered access to
the commander of a foreign military division so she could relay her
nation’s weaknesses. But then the queen had graciously acquiesced
to Chints’ request to encrypt it with a code only her second-in-
command at the Sky League could unlock.
The commander shook her head ruefully.
It will have to be enough.
A door opening to her left drew her attention. The sudden
crescendo of unabashed snoring rattled the common area’s small
chandelier, ruining Thomas’s efforts to creep quietly from the shared
bedroom. He grimaced at the commander’s raised eyebrow and
quickly clicked the door closed behind him.
“Sounds like the end of the world going on in there,” said
Chints, smirking. “Brogan has some impressive lungs!”
“Naw, that’s Gina,” said Thomas, waving his hand. “Her snoring
does wonders to keep monsters away.”
Chints blinked hard as several incongruous facts about their
journey through The Wilds clicked into place.
One of the guards at the door—a different one from last night
and noticeably older—clicked his heels together in a smart salute
and said in heavily accented Adarian, “A message for you, Master
Thomas. From the queen.” He passed a small note to Thomas.
“Apparently, we’re invited to break our fast with the royal couple
this morning in the Banyan Room,” said Thomas, reading the note
written in the queen’s own hand. He looked around and shrugged. “I
don’t see any point waiting around for the others. I’m famished.”
“Most esteemed guests, I am to guide you there as soon as is
convenient,” said the guard, clicking his heels once again.
Chints tossed the guard a wink. “Then lead on, good sir.”
As the soldier curled his mouth into a sly grin, he exited in front
of Chints who brazenly leaned over to get a good look at his
backside.
At Thomas’s horrified stare, Chints merely clucked her tongue
and discreetly replied, “Always had a thing for elves.”
Their path was a winding traipse through the most lavishly
decorated hallways Thomas could imagine. They finally arrived at
their destination just as he was beginning to doubt they were still in
the city of Melhendallyn, let alone the palace.
 The guard left them in the care of two of his colleagues, who
saluted them briefly before swinging open a pair of bronze-
embellished doors, revealing the sprawling Banyan Room.
The room was several hundred feet across and at least fifty tall,
with a massive live banyan tree as its central focal point. The
weighty limbs of the vast tree were supported all across the room by
roots that had dangled down and grown to become support trunks.
The floor of the room was compacted soil, for the sake of the tree,
overlaid in slats of dark mahogany to create a functional floor. Elves
being elves, the tree had not been left to its own devices but had
instead been wrought into an awe-inspiring work of art, with the
tree limbs twining and splaying into clearly defined rooms where
tables were set up to dine.
The sight was breathtaking, a shining example of the harmony
found in nature that had been artfully guided by sapience. To
punctuate the beauty further, tropical birds with bright colors and
long tails flew between the boughs of the behemoth tree.
For a moment, Thomas forgot he was indoors. Then his
upturned gaze caught sight of expansive skylights filtering the dusky
morning sunrise into the broad chamber.
He spotted the king and queen eating breakfast at a long table
near one of the buttresses on the right and touched the
commander’s arm, drawing her attention to it and bringing her
gaping mouth to a close.
As they approached, the king gestured for them to sit and dine
while a bevy of servants hurriedly set places for the two newcomers.
The narrow breakfast table held a vast assortment of bread,
meats, cheeses, and juices, all lavishly arranged on dainty plates
flanked by sparkling gold utensils. Thomas stared at the juicy meal
and couldn’t stop his mouth from watering.
Chints elbowed him hard to break his trance before addressing
the royal couple. “Thank you for the invite. The others are still
sleeping,” she said.
The king grunted and tossed a letter onto the table in Thomas’s
direction.
 “How’s your mastery of our language?” said the monarch in
High Elvish.
Thomas bowed as he took a seat. He then helped himself to a
few breakfast items as he responded in kind. “I can speak both High
and Low Elvish fluently, but my reading and writing are both weak.
We didn’t have proper writing utensils in the dungeon, so it was
mostly scribbling on walls with charred sticks. But mother taught me
as best she could.”
The rotund king had been outright jovial the night before, but
now he looked positively solemn, sporting a flat frown. He nodded at
the letter and then spoke in clear Adarian for the commander’s
benefit. “See what you make of that.”
Thomas squinted at the paper and sat down to concentrate.
“What’s this word here?”
“Gauntlet,” said the king, sidling around the table to look over
the boy’s shoulder.
After staring at the note a while longer, Thomas’s own frown
peeled down his face. “I don’t understand. How can Prince Moranon
demand such a thing?”
The queen finished swallowing her bite and daintily pressed a
napkin against the edge of her mouth. “Politics, dear.”
Chints’ crumpled brow revealed her confusion, which led the
queen to explain the letter’s contents.
“Prince Moranon has demanded recompense for the damage to
his mythic-level mage robe and the embarrassment in front of the
council. Either Thomas yields his infinite spatial bag—”
“Gina,” Thomas interjected with fire brewing in his eyes.
“Quite so,” said the queen. “Either Thomas yields Gina to the
prince as recompense, or he agrees to compete in the Gauntlet
festival in two days’ time.”
“But how is this fair?” said Thomas. “We did exactly what he
told us. Victor even warned him about the consequences.”
“Oh dear boy,” said the king. “I’m sure your father versed you
well in the matters of fairness. He was always quite keen on that
subject, if my memory serves me right. No, this is not fair. Moranon
is playing more of his manipulative games.” The king sighed as he
gazed upon Thomas with a weak smile. “You will have to outfox him
if you are to become our future royal.”
Thomas’s frown deepened. “With the greatest respect, Your
Majesty, I thought I was perfectly clear on this point last night. I
have zero interest in the throne of Forranwen. My only goal is to find
a safe haven amongst the elves for Victor’s family—”
“Which we already agreed to,” said the queen.
“—then find a quiet place to settle down where no one can
bother me.”
There was a pause as Thomas stood there with his chin out,
daring them to object.
He wasn’t sure what his parents would say if they saw him now.
Thomas had been groomed for years to become the next King of
Adaria, but now that he had a taste of the outside world, he found
the thought of burying himself in kingdom responsibilities
increasingly repulsive. He was far too enthralled with this beautiful
world to rush into the pitiless shackles of kingship. For the first time
in his life, he had tasted true freedom, and it tasted sweet indeed.
“A noble goal, if a little short-sighted,” said the queen. “But let
us get back to the matter at hand. The Gauntlet.”
“Yes. What is it?” said Chints, as blunt as ever.
“It is a contest of ability,” said King Lamyll, his mood lightening
instantly. “Strength, agility, magic. Our most promising young
warriors and mages compete yearly in a grand festival. It is very fun.
Very, very fun, isn’t it dear?”
“Oh yes! My, what fun indeed!”
“You seem a little too excited,” said Thomas, his features rife
with suspicion. “You wouldn’t happen to have a hidden agenda
here?”
“Do we seem excited?” said the queen agape. “My dear
husband, do I seem overly excited to you?”
“No, no, not at all, dearest. This is very common-level
excitement for us. Of the most ordinary kind. Nothing at all
noteworthy going on here.”
Thomas’s eyes narrowed.
“And this contest has prizes?” said Chints.
 “Yes, yes, the usual,” the king said, waving his hand absently.
“Fame, glory, treasure, artifacts, weapons, etcetera, etcetera.”
“Hmph,” Thomas said, folding his arms. He could smell trouble
brewing but couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was. “There’s still
one thing I don’t understand,” he said. “What does Prince Moranon
gain from me competing?”
“Oh, I’m sure it’s a trap of some kind,” said the queen, far too
nonchalantly for Thomas’s liking. “My personal theory is that he
wishes you to fail at the Gauntlet, preferably with great ridicule,
undermining your claim of defeating that demon battalion.”
“But we already gave everyone proof!” said Chints.
“Let me ask you this,” said the king looking at Thomas. “Is there
even the slightest chance you would ever yield Gina to Moranon?”
“None.”
“Then the choice is easy!” said the king. “Simply run the
Gauntlet and be done with it.”
“But why do I have to do anything? You’re still the king and
queen. Can’t you demand that he go bugger off or something?”
The queen raised an eyebrow. “We have the power, yes, but we
happen to think it a grand idea that you participate in the Gauntlet.”
“Yes, yes, this is where the honey is sweetest indeed,” the king
said, leaning into them conspiratorially as his smile broadened and a
mischievous glint caught his eye. “You see, we call his bluff! We
double down on Moranon’s bet. Lystrith has decided to name you
her champion for the event!”
There it is.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” said Thomas.
“Why ever not?” said the queen. “I name a champion every
year. Why not my new grandson, who recently returned to the fold
from his adventures far afield? What better way to introduce you to
the kingdom? Your aura alone proves you are more than capable.”
Thomas clasped a hand to the back of his neck and looked
awkwardly at the ground.
“I have a bad feeling about this.”
“This entire thing makes no sense to me,” said Chints. “The
elves should be declaring war on the demons, not holding a festival.”
 “A bold opinion. Yet one with merit,” said the queen. “The
council is still deliberating. The counterargument was put forth that
we should validate these claims rather than rush the country to war
based on the testimony of foreigners and children. As such, two
ranger parties have been dispatched to our borders to investigate,
and the army has been put on high alert. Frankly, this festival is a
welcome distraction. It’s also a tradition held for over a thousand
years and not one frivolously tossed aside.”
“Can anyone participate?” said Thomas, thinking of Nell and
Garen. Even Sarah was at the stage where her mana core was
strengthening daily and an event like this might be good practice for
her.
“The cost is one hundred gold to enter, which is beyond the
reach of many families in the kingdom, so they often choose to
secure a wealthy sponsor of some kind,” said the queen.
Thomas looked to Chints. He had no clue how much gold they
had, combined as a group.
“We have twenty silver,” she said flatly.
“Which brings me to the second point I wanted to discuss,” said
the queen, sliding a weighty envelope across the table.
Chints picked it up and whistled as she withdrew a thin
rectangle of gold, perfectly disguised as a note within the envelope.
A slightly younger version of the queen’s face was stamped across it,
glinting in the morning light as Chints turned it over.
“We call that a gold leaf. It’s worth one thousand gold,” said the
queen. “Take a wild guess how much the crown bounty is for a
demon corpse?”
“One gold apiece, eh?” said Chints, rubbing her chin with her
other hand. “That honestly seems a little low.”
“Well it’s been so long since anyone has even seen a demon
that I daresay the bounty is out of date,” said the king. “Regardless,
that note should cover the entrance fee for anyone in your little
group and armor you up somewhat. The only restrictions to entry
are that you must be under twenty years old. Which, I might add, is
a very narrow restriction indeed for us long-lived elves. But for you
humans, perhaps not so much.”
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
lit tout habillé.
Hadgi-Stavros, debout au milieu de sa troupe, présidait un
Conseil tumultueux. Tous les brigands étaient sur le pied de guerre,
armés jusqu’aux dents. Dix ou douze coffres que je n’avais jamais
aperçus reposaient sur des brancards. Je devinai qu’ils contenaient
les bagages et que nos maîtres se préparaient à lever le camp. Le
Corfiote, Vasile et Sophoclis délibéraient à tue-tête et parlaient tous
à la fois. On entendait aboyer au loin les sentinelles avancées. Une
estafette en guenilles accourut vers le Roi en criant : « Les
gendarmes ! »
 CHAPITRE V

LES GENDARMES

Le Roi ne paraissait pas fort ému. Cependant ses sourcils étaient

plus rapprochés qu’à l’ordinaire, et les rides de son front formaient
un angle aigu entre les deux yeux. Il demanda au nouveau venu :
« Par où montent-ils ?
— Par Castia.
— Combien de compagnies ?
— Une.
— Laquelle ?
— Je ne sais.
— Attendons. »
Un second messager arrivait à toutes jambes pour donner
l’alarme. Hadgi-Stavros lui cria du plus loin qu’il le vit : « Est-ce la
compagnie de Périclès ? »
Le brigand répondit : « Je n’en sais rien ; je ne sais pas lire les
numéros. » Un coup de feu retentit dans le lointain. « Chut ! » fit le
Roi en tirant sa montre. L’assemblée observa un silence religieux.
Quatre coups de fusil se succédèrent de minute en minute. Le
dernier fut suivi d’une détonation violente qui ressemblait à un feu de
peloton. Hadgi-Stavros remit en souriant sa montre dans sa poche.
 « C’est bien, dit-il ; rentrez les bagages au dépôt, et servez-nous
du vin d’Égine ; c’est la compagnie de Périclès. »
Il m’aperçut dans mon coin, juste au moment où il achevait sa
phrase. Il m’appela d’un ton goguenard :
« Venez, monsieur l’Allemand, vous n’êtes pas de trop. Il est bon
de se lever matin : on voit des choses curieuses. Votre soif est-elle
éveillée ? Vous boirez un verre de vin d’Égine avec nos braves
gendarmes. »
Cinq minutes plus tard on apporta trois outres énormes, tirées de
quelque magasin secret. Une sentinelle attardée vint dire au Roi :
« Bonne nouvelle ! les gendarmes de Périclès ! »
Quelques brigands s’empressèrent au-devant de la troupe. Le
Corfiote, beau parleur, courut haranguer le capitaine. Bientôt on
entendit le tambour ; on vit poindre le drapeau bleu, et soixante
hommes bien armés défilèrent sur deux rangs jusqu’au cabinet
d’Hadgi-Stavros. Je reconnus M. Périclès pour l’avoir admiré à la
promenade de Patissia. C’était un jeune officier de trente-cinq ans,
brun, coquet, aimé des dames, beau valseur à la cour, et portant
avec grâce les épaulettes de fer-blanc. Il remit son sabre au
fourreau, courut au Roi des montagnes et l’embrassa sur la bouche
en lui disant : « Bonjour, parrain !
— Bonjour, petit, répondit le Roi en lui caressant la joue du revers
de la main. Tu t’es toujours bien porté ?
— Merci. Et toi ?
— Comme tu vois. Et la famille ?
— Mon oncle l’évêque a les fièvres.
— Amène-le moi ici, je le guérirai. Le préfet de police va mieux ?
— Un peu ; il te dit bien des choses ; le ministre aussi.
— Quoi de nouveau ?
— Bal au palais pour le 15. C’est décidé : le Siècle l’a dit.
— Tu danses donc toujours ? Et que fait-on à la Bourse ?
— Baisse sur toute la ligne.
 — Bravo ! As-tu des lettres pour moi ?
— Oui ; les voici. Photini n’était pas prête. Elle t’écrira par la
poste.
— Un verre de vin… A ta santé, petit !
— Dieu te bénisse, parrain ! Quel est ce Franc qui nous écoute ?
— Rien : un Allemand sans conséquence. Tu ne sais rien à faire
pour nous ?
— Le payeur général envoie vingt mille francs à Argos. Les fonds
passeront demain soir par les roches Scironiennes.
— J’y serai. Faut-il beaucoup de monde ?
— Oui : la caisse est escortée de deux compagnies.
— Bonnes ou mauvaises ?
— Détestables. Des gens à se faire tuer.
— Je prendrai tout mon monde. En mon absence, tu garderas
nos prisonniers.
— Avec plaisir. A propos, j’ai les ordres les plus sévères. Tes
Anglaises ont écrit à leur ambassadeur. Elles appellent l’armée
entière à leur secours.
— Et c’est moi qui leur ai fourni le papier ! Ayez donc confiance
aux gens.
— Il faudra écrire mon rapport en conséquence. Je leur
raconterai une bataille acharnée.
— Nous rédigerons cela ensemble.
— Oui. Cette fois, parrain, c’est moi qui remporte la victoire.
— Non !
— Si ! J’ai besoin d’être décoré.
— Tu le seras un autre jour. Quel insatiable ! Il n’y a pas un an
que je t’ai fait capitaine !
— Mais comprends donc, cher parrain, que tu as intérêt à te
laisser vaincre. Lorsqu’on saura que ta bande est dispersée, la
confiance renaîtra, les voyageurs viendront et tu feras des affaires
d’or.
— Oui, mais si je suis vaincu, la Bourse montera, et je suis à la
baisse.
— Tu m’en diras tant ! Au moins, laisse-moi te massacrer une
douzaine d’hommes !
— Soit. Cela ne fera de mal à personne. De mon côté, il faut que
je t’en tue dix.
— Comment ? On verra bien à notre retour que la compagnie est
au complet.
— Du tout. Tu les laisseras ici ; j’ai besoin de recrues.
— En ce cas, je te recommande le petit Spiro, mon adjudant. Il
sort de l’école des Évelpides, il a de l’instruction et de l’intelligence.
Le pauvre garçon ne touche que soixante-dix-huit francs par mois, et
ses parents ne sont pas heureux. S’il reste dans l’armée, il ne sera
pas sous-lieutenant avant cinq ou six ans ; les cadres sont
encombrés. Mais qu’il se fasse remarquer dans ta troupe, on lui
offrira de le corrompre, et il aura sa nomination dans six mois.
— Va pour le petit Spiro ! Sait-il le français !
— Passablement.
— Je le garderai peut-être. S’il faisait mon affaire, je
l’intéresserais dans l’entreprise ; il deviendrait actionnaire. Tu
remettras à qui de droit notre compte rendu de l’année. Je donne 82
pour 100.
— Bravo ! mes huit actions m’auront plus rapporté que ma solde
de capitaine. Ah ! parrain, quel métier que le mien !
— Que veux-tu ? Tu serais brigand, sans les idées de ta mère.
Elle a toujours prétendu que tu manquais de vocation. A ta santé ! A
la vôtre, monsieur l’Allemand ! Je vous présente mon filleul, le
capitaine Périclès, un charmant jeune homme qui sait plusieurs
langues, et qui voudra bien me remplacer auprès de vous pendant
mon absence. Mon cher Périclès, je te présente monsieur, qui est
docteur et qui vaut quinze mille francs. Croirais-tu que ce grand
docteur-là, tout docteur qu’il est, n’a pas encore su faire payer sa
rançon par nos Anglaises ! Le monde dégénère, petit : il valait mieux
de mon temps. »
Là-dessus, il se leva lestement, et courut donner quelques ordres
pour le départ. Était-ce le plaisir d’entrer en campagne, ou la joie
d’avoir vu son filleul ? Il semblait tout rajeuni ; il avait vingt ans de
moins, il riait, il plaisantait, il secouait sa majesté royale. Je n’aurais
jamais supposé que le seul événement capable de dérider un
brigand fût l’arrivée de la gendarmerie. Sophoclis, Vasile, le Corfiote
et les autres chefs répandirent dans tout le camp les volontés du
Roi. Chacun fut bientôt prêt à partir, grâce à l’alerte du matin. Le
jeune adjudant Spiro et les neuf hommes choisis parmi les
gendarmes échangèrent leurs uniformes contre l’habit pittoresque
des bandits. Ce fut un véritable escamotage : le ministre de la
Guerre, s’il eût été là, n’en aurait senti que le vent. Les nouveaux
brigands ne témoignèrent nul regret de leur premier état. Les seuls
qui murmurèrent furent ceux qui restaient sous le drapeau. Deux ou
trois moustaches grises disaient hautement qu’on faisait la part trop
belle au choix et qu’on ne tenait pas assez compte de l’ancienneté.
Quelques grognards vantaient leurs états de service et prétendaient
avoir fait un congé dans le brigandage. Le capitaine les calma de
son mieux en promettant que leur tour viendrait.
Hadgi-Stavros, avant de partir, remit toutes les clefs à son
suppléant. Il lui montra la grotte au vin, la caverne aux farines, la
crevasse au fromage et le tronc d’arbre où l’on serrait le café. Il lui
enseigna toutes les précautions qui pouvaient empêcher notre fuite
et conserver un capital si précieux. Le beau Périclès répondit en
souriant : « Que crains-tu ? Je suis actionnaire. »
A sept heures du matin, le Roi se mit en marche et ses sujets
défilèrent un à un derrière lui. Toute la bande s’éloigna dans la
direction du nord, en tournant le dos aux roches Scironiennes. Elle
revint, par un chemin assez long, mais commode, jusqu’au fond du
ravin qui passait sous notre appartement. Les brigands chantaient
du haut de leur tête, en piétinant dans l’eau de la cascade. Leur
marche guerrière était une chanson de quatre vers, un péché de
jeunesse d’Hadgi-Stavros :

Un Clephte aux yeux noirs descend dans les plaines ;

Son fusil doré…, etc.

Vous devez connaître cela ; les petits garçons d’Athènes ne

chantent pas autre chose en allant au catéchisme.
Mme Simons, qui dormait auprès de sa fille et qui rêvait
gendarmes, comme toujours, se réveilla en sursaut et courut à la
fenêtre, c’est-à-dire à la cascade. Elle fut cruellement désabusée en
voyant des ennemis où elle espérait des sauveurs. Elle reconnut le
Roi, le Corfiote et beaucoup d’autres. Ce qui l’étonna plus encore,
c’est l’importance et le nombre de cette expédition matinale. Elle
compta jusqu’à soixante hommes à la suite d’Hadgi-Stavros.
« Soixante ! pensa-t-elle : il n’en resterait que vingt pour nous
garder ! » L’idée d’une évasion, qu’elle repoussait l’avant-veille, se
représenta avec quelque autorité à son esprit. Au milieu de ses
réflexions, elle vit défiler une arrière-garde qu’elle n’attendait pas.
Seize, dix-sept, dix-huit, dix-neuf, vingt hommes ! Il ne restait donc
plus personne au camp ! Nous étions libres ! « Mary-Ann ! » cria-t-
elle. Le défilé continuait toujours. La bande se composait de quatre-
vingts brigands ; il en partait quatre-vingt-dix ! Une douzaine de
chiens fermaient la marche ; mais elle ne prit pas la peine de les
compter.
Mary-Ann se leva au cri de sa mère et se précipita hors de la
tente.
« Libres ! criait Mme Simons. Ils sont tous partis. Que dis-je ? Il en
est parti plus qu’il n’y en avait. Courons, ma fille ! »
Elles coururent à l’escalier et virent le camp du Roi occupé par
les gendarmes. Le drapeau grec flottait triomphalement au faîte du
sapin. La place d’Hadgi-Stavros était occupée par M. Périclès. Mme
Simons vola dans ses bras avec un tel emportement, qu’il eut du mal
à parer l’embrassade.
 « Ange de Dieu, lui dit-elle, les brigands sont partis ! »
Le capitaine répondit en anglais : « Oui, madame.
— Vous les avez mis en fuite ?
— Il est vrai, madame, que sans nous ils seraient encore ici.
— Excellent jeune homme ! La bataille a dû être terrible !
— Pas trop : bataille sans larmes. Je n’ai eu qu’un mot à dire.
— Et nous sommes libres ?
— Assurément.
— Nous pouvons retourner à Athènes ?
— Quand il vous plaira.
— Eh bien, partons !
— Impossible pour le moment.
— Que faisons-nous ici ?
— Notre devoir de vainqueurs : nous gardons le champ de
bataille !
— Mary-Ann, serrez la main de monsieur. »
La jeune Anglaise obéit.
« Monsieur, reprit Mme Simons, c’est Dieu qui vous envoie. Nous
avions perdu toute espérance. Notre seul défenseur était un jeune
Allemand de la classe moyenne, un savant qui cueille des herbes et
qui voulait nous sauver par les chemins les plus saugrenus. Enfin,
nous voici ! J’étais bien sûre que nous serions délivrées par la
gendarmerie. N’est-il pas vrai, Mary-Ann ?
— Oui, maman.
— Sachez, monsieur, que ces brigands sont les derniers des
hommes. Ils ont commencé par nous prendre tout ce que nous
avions sur nous.
— Tout ? demanda le capitaine.
— Tout, excepté ma montre, que j’avais eu soin de cacher.
 — Vous avez bien fait, madame. Et ils ont gardé ce qu’ils vous
avaient pris ?
— Non, ils nous ont rendu trois cents francs, un nécessaire
d’argent et la montre de ma fille.
— Ces objets sont encore en votre possession ?
— Sans doute.
— Vous avait-on pris vos bagues et vos pendants d’oreilles ?
— Non, monsieur le capitaine.
— Soyez assez bonne pour me les donner.
— Vous donner quoi ?
— Vos bagues, vos pendants d’oreilles, un nécessaire d’argent,
deux montres et une somme de trois cents francs. »
Mme Simons se récria vivement : « Quoi ! monsieur, vous voulez
nous reprendre ce que les brigands nous ont rendu ? »
Le capitaine répondit avec dignité : « Madame, je fais mon devoir.
— Votre devoir est de nous dépouiller ?
— Mon devoir est de recueillir toutes les pièces de conviction
nécessaires au procès d’Hadgi-Stavros.
— Il sera donc jugé ?
— Dès que nous l’aurons pris.
— Il me semble que nos bijoux et notre argent ne serviront de
rien, et que vous avez abondamment de quoi le faire pendre.
D’abord, il a arrêté deux Anglaises : que faut-il de plus ?
— Il faut, madame, que les formes de la justice soient observées.
— Mais, cher monsieur, parmi les objets que vous me demandez,
il en est auxquels je tiens beaucoup.
— Raison de plus, madame, pour me les confier.
— Mais si je n’ai plus de montre, je ne saurai jamais…
— Madame, je me ferai toujours un bonheur de vous dire quelle
heure il est. »
 Mary-Ann fit observer à son tour qu’il lui répugnait de quitter ses
pendants d’oreilles.
« Mademoiselle, répliqua le galant capitaine, vous êtes assez
belle pour n’avoir pas besoin de parure. Vous vous passerez mieux
de joyaux que vos joyaux ne se passeront de vous.
— Vous êtes trop bon, monsieur, mais mon nécessaire est un
meuble indispensable. Qui dit nécessaire dit chose dont on ne
saurait se passer.
— Vous avez mille fois raison, mademoiselle ; aussi je vous
supplie de ne pas insister sur ce point. Ne redoublez point le regret
que j’ai déjà de dépouiller légalement deux personnes aussi
distinguées. Hélas ! mademoiselle, nous autres militaires, nous
sommes les esclaves de la consigne, les instruments de la loi, les
hommes du devoir. Daignez accepter mon bras, j’aurai l’honneur de
vous conduire jusqu’à votre tente. Là, nous procéderons à
l’inventaire, si vous voulez bien le permettre. »
Je n’avais pas perdu un mot de tout ce dialogue, et je m’étais
contenu jusqu’à la fin ; mais quand je vis ce friponneau de gendarme
offrir son bras à Mary-Ann pour la dévaliser poliment, je me sentis
bouillir, et je marchai droit à lui pour lui dire son fait. Il dut lire dans
mes yeux l’exorde de mon discours, car il me lança un regard
menaçant, abandonna ces dames sur l’escalier de leur chambre,
plaça une sentinelle à la porte et revint à moi en disant : « A nous
deux ! »
Il m’entraîna, sans ajouter un mot, jusqu’au fond du cabinet du
Roi. Là, il se campa devant moi, me regarda entre les yeux et me
dit :
« Monsieur, vous entendez l’anglais ? »
Je confessai ma science. Il reprit :
« Vous savez le grec aussi ?
— Oui, monsieur.
— Alors, vous êtes trop savant. Comprenez-vous mon parrain qui
s’amuse à raconter nos affaires devant vous ? Passe encore pour
les siennes ; il n’a pas besoin de se cacher. Il est Roi, il ne relève
que de son sabre. Mais moi, que diable ! mettez-vous à ma place.
Ma position est délicate, et j’ai bien des choses à ménager. Je ne
suis pas riche ; je n’ai que ma solde, l’estime de mes chefs et l’amitié
des brigands. L’indiscrétion d’un voyageur peut me faire perdre les
deux tiers de ma fortune.
— Et vous comptez que je garderai le secret sur vos infamies !
— Lorsque je compte sur quelque chose, monsieur, ma confiance
est bien rarement trompée. Je ne sais pas si vous sortirez vivant de
ces montagnes, et si votre rançon sera jamais payée. Si mon parrain
doit vous couper la tête, je suis tranquille, vous ne causerez pas. Si,
au contraire, vous repassez par Athènes, je vous conseille en ami de
vous taire sur ce que vous avez vu. Imitez la discrétion de feu Mme la
duchesse de Plaisance, qui fut arrêtée par Bibichi et qui mourut dix
ans plus tard sans avoir conté à personne les détails de son
aventure. Connaissez-vous un proverbe qui dit : « La langue coupe
la tête » ? Méditez-le sérieusement, et ne vous mettez point dans le
cas d’en vérifier l’exactitude.
— La menace…
— Je ne vous menace pas, monsieur. Je suis un homme trop
bien élevé pour m’emporter à des menaces : je vous avertis. Si vous
bavardiez, ce n’est pas moi qui me vengerais. Mais tous les hommes
de ma compagnie ont un culte pour leur capitaine. Ils prennent mes
intérêts plus chaudement que moi-même, et ils seraient
impitoyables, à mon grand regret, pour l’imprudent qui m’aurait
causé quelque ennui.
— Que craignez-vous, si vous avez tant de complices ?
— Je ne crains rien des Grecs, et, en temps ordinaire,
j’insisterais moins fortement sur mes recommandations. Nous avons
bien parmi nos chefs quelques forcenés qui prétendent qu’on doit
traiter les brigands comme des Turcs ; mais je trouverais aussi des
défenseurs convaincus si l’affaire devait se débattre en famille. Le
mal est que les diplomates pourraient s’en mêler et que la présence
d’une armée étrangère nuirait sans doute au succès de ma cause.
S’il m’arrivait malheur par votre faute, voyez, monsieur, à quoi vous
seriez exposé ! On ne fait pas quatre pas dans le royaume sans
rencontrer un gendarme. La route d’Athènes au Pirée est sous la
surveillance de ces mauvaises têtes, et un accident est bientôt
arrivé.
— C’est bien, monsieur, j’y réfléchirai.
— Vous me promettez le secret ?
— Vous n’avez rien à me demander, et je n’ai rien à vous
promettre. Vous m’avertissez du danger des indiscrétions. J’en
prends note, et je me le tiens pour dit.
— Quand vous serez en Allemagne, vous pourrez raconter tout
ce qu’il vous plaira. Parlez, écrivez, imprimez ; peu m’importe. Les
ouvrages qu’on publie contre nous ne font de mal à personne, si ce
n’est peut-être à leurs auteurs. Libre à vous de tenter l’aventure. Si
vous dépeignez fidèlement ce que vous avez vu, les bonnes gens
d’Europe vous accuseront de dénigrer un peuple illustre et opprimé.
Nos amis, et nous en avons beaucoup parmi les hommes de
soixante ans, vous taxeront de légèreté, de caprice et même
d’ingratitude. On vous rappellera que vous avez été l’hôte d’Hadgi-
Stavros et le mien ; on vous reprochera d’avoir trahi les saintes lois
de l’hospitalité. Mais le plus plaisant de l’affaire, c’est que l’on ne
vous croira pas. Le public n’accorde sa confiance qu’aux mensonges
vraisemblables. Allez donc persuader aux badauds de Paris, de
Londres ou de Berlin que vous avez vu un capitaine de gendarmerie
embrasser un chef de brigands ! Une compagnie de troupes d’élite
faire sentinelle autour des prisonniers d’Hadgi-Stavros pour lui
donner le temps de piller la caisse de l’armée ! Les plus hauts
fonctionnaires de l’État fonder une compagnie par actions pour
détrousser les voyageurs ! Autant vaudrait leur raconter que les
souris de l’Attique ont fait alliance avec les chats, et que nos
agneaux vont chercher leur nourriture dans la gueule des loups.
Savez-vous ce qui nous protège contre les mécontentements de
l’Europe ? C’est l’invraisemblance de notre civilisation.
Heureusement pour le royaume, tout ce qu’on écrira de vrai contre
nous sera toujours trop violent pour être cru. Je pourrais vous citer
un petit livre qui n’est pas à notre louange, quoiqu’il soit exact d’un
bout à l’autre. On l’a lu un peu partout ; on l’a trouvé curieux à Paris,
mais je ne sais qu’une ville où il ait paru vrai : Athènes ! Je ne vous
défends pas d’y ajouter un second volume, mais attendez que vous
soyez parti : sinon, il y aurait peut-être une goutte de sang à la
dernière page.
— Mais, repris-je, s’il se commet une indiscrétion avant mon
départ, comment saurez-vous qu’elle vient de moi ?
— Vous êtes seul dans mon secret. Les Anglaises sont
persuadées que je les délivre d’Hadgi-Stavros. Je me charge de les
tenir dans l’erreur jusqu’au retour du Roi. C’est l’affaire de deux
jours, trois au plus. Nous sommes à quarante nouveaux stades (40
kilomètres) des roches Scironiennes ; nos amis y arriveront dans la
nuit. Ils feront leur coup demain soir, et, vainqueurs ou vaincus, ils
seront ici lundi matin. On saura prouver aux prisonnières que les
brigands nous ont surpris. Tant que mon parrain sera absent, je vous
protégerai contre vous-même en vous tenant loin de ces dames. Je
vous emprunte votre tente. Vous devez voir, monsieur, que j’ai la
peau plus délicate que ce digne Hadgi-Stavros, et que je ne saurais
exposer mon teint aux intempéries de l’air. Que dirait-on, le 15, au
bal de la Cour, si l’on me voyait hâlé comme un paysan ? D’ailleurs,
il faut que je tienne compagnie à ces pauvres désolées ; c’est mon
devoir de libérateur. Quant à vous, vous coucherez ici au milieu de
mes soldats. Permettez-moi de donner un ordre que vous concerne.
Lanni ! brigadier Lanni ! Je te confie la garde de monsieur. Place
autour de lui quatre sentinelles qui le surveilleront nuit et jour et
l’accompagneront partout, l’arme au bras. Tu les relèveras de deux
heures en deux heures. Marche ! »
Il me salua avec une politesse légèrement ironique et descendit
en chantonnant l’escalier de Mme Simons. La sentinelle lui porta les
armes.
Dès cet instant commença pour moi un supplice dont l’esprit
humain ne saurait se faire aucune idée. Chacun sait ou devine ce
que peut être une prison ; mais essayez de vous figurer une prison
vivante et ambulante, dont les quatre murs vont et viennent,
s’écartent et se rapprochent, tournent et retournent, se frottent les
mains, se grattent, se mouchent, se secouent, se démènent et fixent
obstinément huit grands yeux noirs sur le prisonnier ! J’essayai de la
promenade ; mon cachot à huit pattes régla son pas sur le mien. Je
poussai jusqu’aux frontières du camp : les deux hommes qui me
précédaient s’arrêtèrent court, et je donnai du nez contre leurs
uniformes. Cet accident m’expliqua une inscription que j’avais lue
souvent, sans la comprendre, dans le voisinage des places fortes :
Limite de la garnison. Je revins : mes quatre murs tournèrent sur
eux-mêmes comme des décors de théâtre dans un changement à
vue. Enfin, las de cette façon d’aller, je m’assis. Ma prison se mit à
marcher autour de moi : je ressemblais à un homme ivre qui voit
tourner sa maison. Je fermais les yeux : le bruit cadencé du pas
militaire me fatigua bientôt le tympan. « Au moins, pensai-je en moi-
même, si ces quatre guerriers daignaient causer avec moi ! Je vais
leur parler grec : c’est un moyen de séduction qui m’a toujours réussi
auprès des sentinelles. » J’essayai, mais en pure perte. Les murs
avaient peut-être des oreilles, mais l’usage de la voix leur était
interdit : on ne parle pas sous les armes ! Je tentai de la corruption.
Je tirai de ma poche l’argent qu’Hadgi-Stavros m’avait rendu et que
le capitaine avait oublié de me prendre. Je le distribuai aux quatre
points cardinaux de mon logis. Les murs sombres et renfrognés
prirent une physionomie riante, et mon cachot fut illuminé comme
d’un rayon de soleil. Mais, cinq minutes plus tard, le brigadier vint
relever les sentinelles ; il y avait juste deux heures que j’étais
prisonnier ! La journée me parut longue, la nuit éternelle. Le
capitaine s’était adjugé du même coup ma chambre et ma couche,
et le rocher qui me servait de lit n’était pas moelleux comme la
plume. Une petite pluie pénétrante comme un acide me fit sentir
cruellement que la toiture est une belle invention, et que les
couvreurs rendent de vrais services à la société. Si parfois, en dépit
des rigueurs du ciel, je parvenais à m’endormir, j’étais presque
aussitôt réveillé par le brigadier Lanni, qui donnait le mot d’ordre.
Enfin, vous le dirai-je ? dans la veille et dans le sommeil, je croyais
voir Mary-Ann et sa respectable mère serrer les mains de leur
libérateur. Ah ! monsieur, comme je commençai à rendre justice au
bon vieux Roi des montagnes ! Comme je retirai les malédictions
que j’avais lancées contre lui ! Comme je regrettai son
gouvernement doux et paternel ! comme je soupirai après son
retour ! comme je le recommandai chaudement dans mes prières !
« Mon Dieu ! disais-je avec ferveur, donnez la victoire à votre
serviteur Hadgi-Stavros ! Faites tomber devant lui tous les soldats du
royaume ! Remettez en ses mains la caisse et jusqu’au dernier écu
de cette infernale, armée ! Et renvoyez-nous les brigands pour que
nous soyons délivrés des gendarmes ! »
Comme j’achevais cette oraison, un feu de file bien nourri se fit
entendre au milieu du camp. Cette surprise se renouvela plusieurs
fois dans le cours de la journée et de la nuit suivante. C’était encore
un tour de M. Périclès. Pour mieux tromper Mme Simons et lui
persuader qu’il la défendait contre une armée de bandits, il
commandait, de temps à autre, un exercice à feu.
Cette fantaisie faillit lui coûter cher. Quand les brigands arrivèrent
au camp, le lundi, au petit jour, ils crurent avoir affaire à de vrais
ennemis, et ripostèrent par quelques balles, qui malheureusement
n’atteignirent personne.
Je n’avais jamais vu d’armée en déroute lorsque j’assistai au
retour du Roi des montagnes. Ce spectacle eut donc pour moi tout
l’attrait d’une première représentation. Le ciel avait mal exaucé mes
prières. Les soldats grecs s’étaient défendus avec tant de fureur,
que le combat s’était prolongé jusqu’à la nuit. Formés en carré
autour des deux mulets qui portaient la caisse, ils avaient d’abord
répondu par un feu régulier aux tirailleurs d’Hadgi-Stavros. Le vieux
pallicare, désespérant d’abattre un à un cent vingt hommes qui ne
reculaient pas, avait attaqué la troupe à l’arme blanche. Ses
compagnons nous assurèrent qu’il avait fait des merveilles, et le
sang dont il était couvert montrait assez qu’il avait payé de sa
personne. Mais la baïonnette avait eu le dernier mot. La troupe avait
tué quatorze brigands dont un chien. Une balle de calibre avait
arrêté l’avancement du jeune Spiro, cet officier de tant d’avenir ! Je
vis arriver une soixantaine d’hommes recrus de fatigue, poudreux,
sanglants, contusionnés et blessés. Sophoclis avait une balle dans
l’épaule ; on le portait. Le Corfiote et quelques autres étaient restés
en route, qui chez les bergers, qui dans un village, qui sur la roche
nue, au bord du chemin.
Toute la bande était morne et découragée. Sophoclis hurlait de
douleur. J’entendis quelques murmures contre l’imprudence du Roi,
qui exposait la vie de ses compagnons pour une misérable somme,
au lieu de détrousser paisiblement les voyageurs riches et
débonnaires.
Le plus valide, le plus reposé, le plus content, le plus gaillard de
la troupe était le Roi. On lisait sur son visage la fière satisfaction du
devoir accompli. Il me reconnut tout d’abord au milieu de mes quatre
hommes, et me tendit cordialement la main. « Cher prisonnier, me
dit-il, vous voyez un roi bien maltraité. Ces chiens de soldats n’ont
pas voulu lâcher la caisse. C’était de l’argent à eux : ils ne se
seraient pas fait tuer pour le bien d’autrui. Ma promenade aux
roches Scironiennes ne m’a rien rapporté, et j’ai dépensé quatorze
combattants, sans compter quelques blessés qui ne guériront pas.
Mais n’importe : je me suis bien battu. Ces coquins-là étaient plus
nombreux que nous, et ils avaient des baïonnettes. Sans quoi…!
Allons, cette journée m’a rajeuni. Je me suis prouvé à moi-même
que j’avais encore du sang dans les veines. »
Et il fredonna les premiers vers de sa chanson favorite : « Un
Clephte aux yeux noirs… » Il poursuivit : « — Par Jupiter ! (comme
disait lord Byron) je ne voudrais pas pour vingt mille autres francs
être resté chez moi depuis samedi. On mettra encore cela dans mon
histoire. On dira qu’à soixante-dix ans passés je suis tombé à grands
coups de sabre au milieu des baïonnettes, que j’ai fendu trois ou
quatre soldats de ma propre main, et que j’ai fait dix lieues à pied
dans la montagne pour revenir ici prendre ma tasse de café.
Cafedgi, mon enfant, fais ton devoir : j’ai fait le mien. Mais où diable
est Périclès ? »
Le joli capitaine reposait encore sous sa tente, Lanni courut le
chercher et l’amena tout endormi, les moustaches défrisées, la tête
soigneusement emmaillotée dans un mouchoir. Je ne sais rien de tel
pour réveiller un homme qu’un verre d’eau froide ou une mauvaise
nouvelle. Lorsque M. Périclès apprit que le petit Spiro et deux autres
gendarmes étaient restés sur le terrain, ce fut bien une autre
déroute. Il arracha son foulard, et, sans le tendre respect qu’il avait
pour sa personne, il se serait arraché les cheveux.
« C’est fait de moi, s’écria-t-il. Comment expliquer leur présence
parmi vous ? et en costume de brigands, encore ! On les aura
reconnus ; les autres sont maîtres du champ de bataille ! Dirai-je
qu’ils avaient déserté pour se mettre avec vous ? Que vous les aviez
faits prisonniers ? On demandera pourquoi je n’en avais pas parlé.
Je l’attendais pour faire mon grand rapport. J’ai écrit hier soir que je
te serrais de près sur le Parnès, et que tous nos hommes étaient
admirables. Sainte-Vierge, je n’oserai pas me montrer dimanche à
Patissia ! Que va-t-on dire, le 15, au bal de la cour ? Tout le corps
diplomatique s’occupera de moi. On réunira le Conseil. Serai-je
seulement invité ?
— Au Conseil ? demanda le brigand.
— Non ; au bal de la cour !
— Danseur ! va.
— Mon Dieu ! mon Dieu ! qui sait ce qu’on va faire ? S’il ne
s’agissait que de ces Anglaises, je ne me mettrais pas en peine.
J’avouerais tout au ministre de la Guerre. Des Anglaises, il y en a
assez. Mais prêter mes soldats pour attaquer la caisse de l’armée !
Envoyer Spiro contre la ligne ! On me montrera du doigt ; je ne
danserai plus. »
Qui est-ce qui se frottait les mains pendant ce monologue ?
C’était le fils de mon père, entre ses quatre soldats.
Hadgi-Stavros, paisiblement assis, dégustait son café à petites
gorgées. Il dit à son filleul : « Te voilà bien embarrassé ! Reste avec
nous. Je t’assure un minimum de dix mille francs par an, et j’enrôle
tes hommes. Nous prendrons notre revanche ensemble. »
L’offre était séduisante. Deux jours plus tôt elle aurait enlevé bien
des suffrages. Et pourtant elle parut sourire médiocrement aux
gendarmes, nullement au capitaine. Les soldats ne disaient rien ; ils
regardaient leurs anciens camarades ; ils lorgnaient la blessure de
Sophoclis, ils pensaient aux morts de la veille, et ils allongeaient le
nez dans la direction d’Athènes, comme pour flairer de plus près
l’odeur succulente de la caserne.
Quant à M. Périclès, il répondit avec un embarras visible : « Je te
remercie, mais j’ai besoin de réfléchir. Mes habitudes sont à la ville,
je suis d’une santé délicate ; les hivers doivent être rudes dans la
montagne ; me voici déjà enrhumé. Mon absence serait remarquée à
toutes les réunions ; on me recherche beaucoup là-bas ; on m’a
souvent proposé de beaux mariages. D’ailleurs, le mal n’est peut-
être pas si grand que nous le croyons. Qui sait si les trois maladroits
auront été reconnus ? La nouvelle de l’événement arrivera-t-elle
avant nous ? J’irai d’abord au Ministère ; je prendrai l’air du bureau.
Personne ne viendra me contredire, puisque les deux compagnies
poursuivent leur marche sur Argos… Décidément il faut que je sois
là ; je dois payer de ma personne. Soigne tes blessés… Adieu ! »
Il fit un signe à son tambour.
Hadgi-Stavros se leva, vint se placer devant moi avec son filleul
qu’il dominait de toute la tête, et me dit : « Monsieur, voilà un Grec
d’aujourd’hui ; moi, je suis un Grec d’autrefois. Et les journaux
prétendent que nous sommes en progrès ! »
Au roulement du tambour, les murs de ma prison s’écartèrent
comme les remparts de Jéricho. Deux minutes après, j’étais dans la
tente de Mary-Ann. La mère et la fille s’éveillèrent en sursaut. Mme
Simons m’aperçut la première et me cria :
« Eh bien ! nous partons ?
— Hélas ! madame, nous n’en sommes pas là !
— Où en sommes-nous donc ? Le capitaine nous a donné parole
pour ce matin.
— Comment l’avez-vous trouvé, le capitaine ?
— Galant, élégant, charmant ! Un peu trop esclave de la
discipline ; c’est bien son seul défaut.
— Coquin et faquin, lâche et bravache, menteur et voleur ! voilà
ses vrais noms, madame, et je vous le prouverai.
 — Çà, monsieur, qu’est-ce que la gendarmerie vous a donc fait ?
— Ce qu’elle m’a fait, madame ? Daignez venir avec moi,
seulement au haut de l’escalier. »
Mme Simons arriva juste à point pour voir les soldats défilant,
tambour en tête, les brigands installés à leur place, le capitaine et le
Roi bouche à bouche, se donnant le baiser d’adieu. La surprise fut
un peu trop forte. Je n’avais pas assez ménagé la bonne dame, et
j’en fus puni, car elle s’évanouit tout de son long, à me casser le
bras. Je la portai jusqu’à la source ; Mary-Ann lui frappa dans les
mains ; je lui lançai une poignée d’eau par le visage. Mais je crois
que c’est la fureur qui la fit revenir.
« Le misérable ! cria-t-elle.
— Il vous a dévalisées, n’est-il pas vrai ? Il vous a volé vos
montres, votre argent ?
— Je ne regrette pas mes bijoux ; qu’il les garde ! Mais je
voudrais pour dix mille francs reprendre les poignées de main que je
lui ai données. Je suis Anglaise, et je ne serre pas la main de tout le
monde ! »
Ce regret de Mme Simons m’arracha un gros soupir. Elle repartit
de plus belle et fit tomber sur moi tout le poids de sa colère. « C’est
votre faute, me dit-elle. Ne pouviez-vous pas m’avertir ? Il fallait me
dire que les brigands étaient de petits saints en comparaison !
— Mais, madame, je vous avais prévenue qu’il ne fallait pas
compter sur les gendarmes.
— Vous me l’avez dit ; mais vous me l’avez dit mollement,
lourdement, flegmatiquement. Est-ce que je pouvais vous croire ?
Pouvais-je deviner que cet homme n’était que le geôlier de Stavros ?
qu’il nous retenait ici pour laisser aux brigands le temps de revenir ?
qu’il nous effrayait de dangers imaginaires ? qu’il se disait assiégé
pour se faire admirer de nous ? qu’il simulait des attaques nocturnes
pour avoir l’air de nous défendre ? Je devine tout à présent, mais
dites si vous m’avez rien appris !
 — Mon Dieu, madame, j’ai dit ce que je savais, j’ai fait ce que je
pouvais.
— Mais, Allemand que vous êtes ! à votre place, un Anglais se
serait fait tuer pour nous, et je lui aurais donné la main de ma fille ! »
Les coquelicots sont bien rouges, mais je le fus davantage en
entendant l’exclamation de Mme Simons. Je me sentis si troublé que
je n’osais ni lever les yeux, ni répondre, ni demander à la chère
dame ce qu’elle entendait par ces paroles. Car, enfin, comment une
personne aussi raide avait-elle été amenée à tenir un pareil langage
devant sa fille et devant moi ? Par quelle porte cette idée de mariage
avait-elle pu entrer dans son esprit ? Mme Simons était-elle vraiment
femme à décerner sa fille comme récompense honnête au premier
libérateur venu ? Il n’y avait pas apparence. N’était-ce pas plutôt une
sanglante ironie à l’adresse de mes pensées les plus secrètes ?
Quand je descendais en moi, je constatais avec un légitime
orgueil la tiédeur innocente de tous mes sentiments. Je me rendais
cette justice, que le feu des passions n’avait pas élevé d’un degré la
température de mon cœur. A chaque instant du jour, pour me sonder
moi-même, je m’exerçais à penser à Mary-Ann. Je m’étudiais à
construire des châteaux en Espagne dont elle était la châtelaine. Je
fabriquais des romans dont elle était l’héroïne et moi le héros. Je
supposais à plaisir les circonstances les plus absurdes. J’imaginais
des événements aussi invraisemblables que l’histoire de la
princesse Ypsoff et du lieutenant Reynauld. J’allais jusqu’à me
représenter la jolie Anglaise assise à ma droite au fond d’une chaise
de poste et passant son beau bras autour de mon long cou. Toutes
ces suppositions flatteuses, qui auraient agité profondément une
âme moins philosophe que la mienne, ne troublaient pas ma
sérénité. Je n’éprouvais point les alternatives de crainte et
d’espérance qui sont les symptômes caractéristiques de l’amour.
Jamais, au grand jamais, je n’avais senti ces grandes convulsions
du cœur dont il est question dans les romans. Donc je n’aimais pas
Mary-Ann, j’étais un homme sans reproche, et je pouvais marcher la
tête levée. Mais Mme Simons, qui n’avait pas lu dans ma pensée,
était bien capable de se tromper sur la nature de mon dévouement.