2 | Archon
***
My own abilities may be inadequate for what’s to come. The thought sends a shudder through me.
As I exit that split-second fugue, I allow my expression to smooth over. My breathing reins itself back in, the manic light in my eyes dims. Thankfully, it seems that the others were too busy reacting to the sight before them to notice- the last thing I need is getting
myself mistaken as a suspicious figure.
I feel a smile tug at the corners of my lips, one that I have to consciously repress. The feeling is impossible to fully describe, a sort of childlike elation that I have to push down. Keep a level head, Rengard. This is not a trivial game. You are against a group composed out of your equals, and among them, one is responsible for the death of a man who was undoubtedly your superior. Getting caught up in the thrill of the fight will lead to failure, if not worse.
...yes, even monotony is preferable to failure.
“Where the hell’s the mystery? Just use Residual Thought Playable on him!”
The first to speak up after the will had been dictated is, of course, Hela. She strides forwards, gesturing towards the corpse with all the elegance of your average feral boar. I bite back a groan, but as I open my mouth to speak, Roose beats me to the punch.
“Are you playing dumb, or did you really forget? He set up protections for that sort of thing. Weren’t you the one who helped him design those in the first place?” He snaps dryly, rolling his eyes a bit as he speaks. Hela’s expression, in response, shifts from irritated, to confused, to embarrassed.
...she genuinely forgot? Even by Hela’s standards, that’s just abysmal. That consciousness of hers can’t have stabilized by much, if her memories are that spotty.
Still, that absolves one of my worries. For a moment there, I’d been concerned that she might have built some sort of backdoor into the spiritual protections she assisted Cerridwen with- if she had, and she was actually capable of accessing his memories with some variant of Residual Thought Playable, the whole affair might very well be over already.
“It looks like we will have to do this the old-fashioned way. If the full protections are enabled, even a genuine Ancestor would not be able to break out of here within twenty-four hours.” I interject, trying to disguise the feelings welling up in my chest as I do while I glance to the others for confirmation.
Against expectations, the next one to speak up is Alan, who had stepped off to the side after reading the will aloud. “Ah, yes, I should additionally mention this, to place everyone at the same playing field.” There’s a tinge of mischief to his tone- is he having
fun with this? That’s...genuinely impressive, if so. You don’t usually see a human so comfortable in scenarios like this. More and more, I see how he managed to be hired. “The Mystic Locks on each of your rooms, set to only respond to my or lord Cerridwen’s magical energy, were unlocked without my knowledge at some point between the lord locking them last night and the announcement minutes ago. The Mystic Lock on lord Cerridwen’s quarters, however, was not.”
...what?
I lock up for a moment before my eyes flit around- sure enough, everyone seems to have grasped the same notion, with the exception of Jack who looks off in his own world. “...what is the term for this sort of thing? A ‘locked room mystery’, I believe?” Elana chimes in. I confess unfamiliarity with the term, but I can easily grasp the meaning. Someone killed Cerridwen in a room they don’t seem to have gotten inside of. Who among us would be able to accomplish something like that?
Tch, we’ve already began at a rocky start, but I suppose that’s natural. Something like this was never going to have a clear paper trail leading to the culprit. If that’s the case, the first order of business is to-
“We ought to examine the body, no? And Alan, I assume the victor will inherit everything within this manor, including the late master’s corpse. Is that correct?”
Cut off again before I could speak up, this time by Elana. Was that second question really necessary, though?! You could at least wait a bit before you start scheming on how to desecrate his body!
“That is not productive. All of us crowding around one body, we will not get anything done, and doing it one at a time leaves potential for destroying or modifying the evidence. There is no rule against interfering with one another’s investigations, after all.” I cut in, my tone a bit harsher than I intended. It absolutely is not because I am frustrated at others stealing my lines, certainly not.
...regardless, I believe it is a valid point. This is the issue with a ‘competitive investigation’, so to speak, as I see it. We have the same sites to investigate, but if we do so in isolation, we risk sabotage. If we do so in coordination, then we suffer reduced productivity, not to mention that others will be able to see the results of our investigations firsthand. Troublesome, how troublesome.
My initial euphoria is still present, but as the seconds pass, the cold hand of realism begins to temper it. I am no detective, something like this is certainly out of my depth. I can only take solace in the fact that this is true for all of us. We are all incompetent in this matter, and so, we are all on an equal playing field.
“In that case, why don’t we break into two groups for examining the body? A group of three and a group of two- since it’s less convenient to them, the group of three can go first.” Roose interjects with a proposal, the others and I going silent in contemplation before agreeing, offering simple nods. It seems the atmosphere of this contest is starting to get to each of us- this is the quietest that I believe I’ve ever seen Jack be.
Regardless, it’s difficult for me to hold myself back. I am quick to volunteer myself as a member of the first group, however…
“So, the first group will be Rengard, Jack, and Hela, while the second group will be Elana and myself. Well, good luck to you all.”
The one who I most considered a friend among this motley group flashes me a chiding grin as he takes his leave, and I look to the two who remain in the master bedroom.
I can’t help but feel that this is the ‘idiot’s group’. Perhaps I should have been less eager.
***
After a few seconds looking at one another in silence, the one to break that air is, surprisingly, not Jack but Hela. A flicker of concentration crosses her face as I feel the magical energy of the surroundings start to move, impulsively opening my Circuits in response.
Her hair, stretching down to the middle of her back, comes to life. It rises from her head, reaching out and lengthening like monstrous tendrils as it starts to run over every surface of the room that it can reach. I admit, the sight surprises me for a moment- the fluidity of those movements is far beyond what I am used to by Hela. That thought experiment she mentioned certainly seems to have done the job, if her spirits are capable of working in coordination to that extent now. I wonder if she had to weaken the spirits to pull something like that off.
-Wait, what am I thinking? I can’t just stand here and let her run over all of the evidence. I step forwards, ducking under a few strands of hair to make it to my late master’s
, peering down at it even as some strands of Hela’s hair run over it.
“...Hela, have you found anything?”
Why did I even bother asking? If it was Jack, I’m sure he’d have answered- though, maybe not, given how silent and still he’s been these past few minutes- but Hela? The idea itself is-
“No signs of a struggle, looks like he got killed in his sleep.”
“Sorry, poor question, I shou-...huh?”
My mouth flaps open for a moment as I process that I just received an actual response from her before I recompose myself, rounding about to face her. She flashes a brusque grin my way, cocking an eyebrow up as she notes my surprise. “What, didn’t expect an answer?” No, no I did not, but she goes on regardless. “Look, Ren, we’re competing here, but the way I see it? Roose was the shoe-in until today. And you saw how sure of himself the guy was- he’s probably going to be the one to figure this out…
unless the underdogs help each other out to even the odds, get it? Little quid pro quo.”
If before I was surprised, now I’m nothing short of awestruck. Hela Belvarien is an antisocial brute whose talent I begrudgingly acknowledge, but now she’s actually using her head? Is this how she is when she takes something seriously? As if to cut that thought off, she bursts out into a round of throaty laughter a mere moment later. “Or I’m just giving you false info to put you on the wrong track, who knows?”
I roll my eyes slightly, before giving a quick glance to the surroundings. At a casual glance, I would agree with Hela’s assessment- it does seem like there was no struggle here. That or it’s been incredibly well-hidden. “Fine, we can cooperate while we are in this room.”
Another laugh leaves her as she claps her hands together. I’m tempted to cancel the deal from that alone, but manage to refrain as she looks to our third party. “Great! How about you, Jack?”
Being directly addressed seems to snap him out of whatever daze he’d been in. He straightens up as I turn my head slightly towards him, watching him blink a couple of times before he returns to reality. He strides forwards like nothing was wrong, throwing an arm around my shoulder without so much as a moment’s pause. “Sorry, was thinking about stuff! Sure, that sounds good, let’s do it!”
Attempting to ignore the man now pressed up next to me, I lid my eyes shut and focus on the facts. Cerridwen was apparently killed in his own room without being aware of it, if that was the case, then… “So, the murderer would have needed to bypass the Mystic Lock, as well as whatever personal alarm systems and defenses Cerridwen had here. The Mystic Lock is the real trouble there, since it was still locked in the morning.” I muse aloud.
“What if it was Ally?” As usual, Jack makes me pause- Ally? That must be the nonsense nickname he’s given the butler. That’s a good point on paper, I suppose. The Mystic Locks responded to both his and Cerridwen’s magical energy, so he would have been capable of both unlocking and locking them. However, that’s…
Hela’s groan breaks my concentration. “What kinda sense does that make? Did you see the guy? He’s a human, barely even a magus. He couldn’t kill a damn newborn Dead Apostle.” I follow up her comment with a nod of agreement- the thought that one of us has the ability to kill Cerridwen is shocking in its own right. That butler, a normal human who’s been under Cerridwen’s watch for two years, managing something? Unthinkable.
An airy “Hmmm” slips out of Jack as I feel him rock back and forth, nearly dragging me along for the ride. “Well, what if he wasn’t the killer? What if he just got forced into messing with the locks by the real killer?” An incredibly basic idea, but one that I confess hadn’t occurred to me- I really am amateurish at this.
Hela and I both go silent, no doubt considering similar lines of thought. It’s certainly a possibility, but how would one of us have done that without Cerridwen noticing? Not only that, but the butler was the one to inform us of the Mystic Locks on our rooms being undone and the one on the master bedroom being locked- wouldn’t it be in his interests to not say that for fear of implicating himself? And, beyond that, why were the locks to our bedrooms all unlocked overnight? I shouldn’t rule it out entirely, but that sort of explanation leaves too many unanswered questions.
For now, I turn my attention to the most relevant subject in the room, the corpse of Cerridwen Valdyrius.
At some level, I still can’t help but deny it. I can’t help but deny the idea that he is not dead, that there is some trick, that the ruined body before me is merely sleeping. And so, I test it.
ילדאבהות
”The dim ruler bears three names.”
My Choir fills the air without warning. Jack and Hela are frozen as the song takes effect- I can’t help but feel some pride there. However, they are not my focus. My focus is on the corpse before me, attempting to find something there. Like a bat using echolocation, my Choir’s song of ignorance bounces off those
it seeks to blanket. If there is any trace of life, I will find it.
...there is not. The only ensouled beings within this room are the two at my side. Granted, the corporeal spirits lurking in Hela’s being are no doubt present as well, but my art does not focus on such base existences. The obvious conclusion confirmed, I allow the song to end.
No sooner than I have done that, though, than do I find a strand of hair lined up between my eyes, leveled like the barrel of a gun.
Ah, Hela broke free far quicker than I had expected. Did she actually manage to beat Jack to that? That’s astoundingly impressive.
“Give me some warning the next time you’re about to do something like that. You
know I hate how it feels.”
Ah, come now Hela, such an overreaction. With that narrow of a window, I doubt I could have killed you. I consider mentioning that she’s just
shattered her previous record in breaking free of my Choir’s ignorance, but it’s probably best to hold that comment back for now. I have no doubt that I’m safe- she wouldn’t dare to kill me, especially with a witness like Jack present- but antagonizing a would-be ally here is hardly a clever move.
“My apologies, I acted without thinking.” I put a bit of a waver into my tone as I speak. Hela’s always responded well to others seeming afraid of her. Sure enough, the strand of hair moves away, and I let myself go lax once again. “I’ve verified it, either way. His soul isn’t here. This is a genuine corpse.”
It was something of an obvious fact, and even then it isn’t decisive- what if he made arrangements for his soul to be stored in another location, or prepared a spare body?- but it’s a necessary thing to pay some lip service to before we begin. Hela doesn’t seem all that placated by my explanation, but so be it.
Turning my attention to the corpse before me, I finally begin my own examination. The body is...not in a good state. Every surface of it seems to be charred, thin cracks of ash flaking off of it into the coffin- if it was any worse off, even identifying it as Cerridwen would have been difficult. The odd thing, though, is his clothing. While scuffed by ash, his clothing is otherwise immaculate, not a tear or burn on the articles themselves.
“Whatever burned him like that had to’ve done more damage than his healing could dish out.” Hela cuts in, her hair retracting back into place as she speaks and turns her eyes towards the body. “I never saw the old man’s curse in action, but it had to have been pretty up there. Would need some serious damage to beat that, ‘specially in his workshop.”
Jack straightens up in response, crossing his arms behind his head as he looks towards the ceiling. “I gueeeess, but then why are his clothes fine? You guys can tell that isn’t Formal Wear, right? His clothing should be toast.”
I scowl- it’s a valid point, but at the same time, it’s a significant hint to the method of death. Unless the murderer did something like re-dress the body after killing Cerridwen- I’d prefer to dismiss such strange situations unless I have no other option- the form of attack was one that only damaged Cerridwen himself, but not his clothing. Of those means, the one that first comes to mind, especially given his Curse of Restoration, is…
“Some sort of a curse? A spiritual attack, perhaps? That would be able to affect the lifeform without anything else, and it’s vague enough that it does not specifically implicate any of us- no doubt that would be a concern of the killer.” It’s a reasonable assumption, I think. Out of us, the one most versed in cursing would be Hela, but all of us are at least capable of
something.
The culprit logically would have used a method that ones other than they could have used. A curse is vague enough that it could be the root cause, but the issue there is still
how. Ignoring the obstacles of the Mystic Locks and the alarm systems, this isn’t the murder of some simple human. Cerridwen Valdyrius was no less than a god inside of his workshop- the idea that one of us has a curse that could kill him without a fight, even if it was while he slept, is a block I cannot get past. Perhaps if they invested copious amounts of time and resources into it, but still…
My thoughts are cut off, though, as I see Jack step towards the body, retrieving a small bean from one of his countless pockets and bringing it down into the coffin. My eyes dart down to follow it, just in time to see a thin vine crack out of it, tearing a small chunk of ash from the body before retracting back into the bean.
I jolt around to face Jack, incredulity smearing across my face. Hela soon realizes what had happened and does the same, but unlike me, decides to actually speak up about it. “What do you think you’re doing? We’re not supposed to mess with anything.” She hisses out. It’s always so
refreshing to have that attitude of hers cooperating with one’s thoughts instead of fighting them.
Jack pauses in reply, looking at the two of us as though we had just asked him why he had a face. “Oh, I’m just taking some samples! Don’t worry!” He eventually offers something that resembles a reply, and Hela and I begrudgingly relent.
...Damn it. In my haste, I’d forgotten he was capable of that. His beans aren’t ideal storage vessels like jewels are, but unlike a jewel, a bean is a ‘seed that will germinate’. He’s essentially using it as an incubation chamber for that piece of Cerridwen’s body, to see if he can derive any information from it. It’s a method of information gathering that only Jack is capable of.
The fact that I feel I’ve just been outsmarted by him is perhaps what stings the most, and lights the fire in my chest once again. I refuse to be outdone, and so I turn my attention back to the corpse.
***
We don’t manage to find much more in the way of notable results. It’s not that there are secrets layered on secrets, so much as that there’s just...nothing. The body is so damaged that things such as alchemical analysis will come up blank, and other than the body itself, we can’t find a scrap of something that resembles evidence. My Choir and Hela’s hair haven’t found a damn thing. Of course, Hela may have found something and is just lying to me, but I choose to not give that thought more weight than I have to.
The one thing of note that I myself worked out was around the Bounded Fields set up in the master bedroom, but they only verified what I had expected. The alarms and protections surrounding the room were flawless, and the density and quality of magical energy circulating within it were similarly excellent, drawing in ‘power’ from the rest of the floor like a funnel. I couldn’t for the life of me theorize about how the murder had occurred.
Regardless, it’s not productive to stay in the master bedroom for any longer, and so the three of us depart. Roose and Elana enter shortly after; I can only hope they don’t manage to uncover anything that we had missed. As Jack and I start off in separate directions, however-
“Hey, Ren. How about we keep working together for a bit longer?”
I pause at Hela’s offer, as does Jack despite him not having been extended an invitation. I suppose something along those lines will benefit me more than it will hurt. Even if Hela seems to actually be using her head for once, I’m not some fool who can be outwitted by her. “I suppose we can extend our cooperation to some extent.” I eventually reply, rounding about to face her.
“Oh! Yeah, let’s keep the team together!” Seizing on that opening, Jack rushes back into the fray, throwing one arm around my shoulders and the other around Hela’s. Another murder might happen sooner than we thought given the glare Hela’s leveling at the buffoon.
...regardless, we can’t exactly keep Jack from following us, and so we begin our investigation as a begrudging trio.
Exiting the master bedroom, there’s simply the bathroom opposite it in addition to the hall that leads towards the foyer. The bathroom hardly merits mention- a quick entry, a run over the details, Hela’s hairs comb every surface, Jack takes a ‘sample’ from the wall, we agree that there’s nothing of note here, and we exit. Annoyingly, that becomes something of a pattern. From the foyer to the salon, from the salon to the kitchen and dining hall, we’re doing little more than looking around for ‘anything that seems odd’. Our inexperience is undoubtedly showing itself, and I feel myself grow more frustrated as time passes. I have nothing, but Hela might be picking up scraps of information she’s withholding, and Jack’s ‘samples’ may provide valuable insights.
I refuse to be beaten so easily, and so, as we step into the art gallery, I start to wrack my mind. There are secrets hidden in this workshop. I do not know which ones will be related to the murder, but knowing something is better than nothing.
Focus, Rengard. To understand the murder, you must understand the location. What is the design of this place? The castle of a Dead Apostle Ancestor, yes, but there has to be something else. This is the castle of the Heaven’s Tuner, the greatest mind of comporting heavenly concepts into spaces, the tutor of the Planetary Magic Circle’s creator. What would his workshop take the form of?
“Stop
touching me, already!”
Hela’s outburst to Jack knocks me out of my thoughts, my head whipping around to look at the pair just as Jack is shoved back. Hela is visibly seething, hair writhing like so many snakes, winding up to strike. The cause for her anger, meanwhile, seems completely uncaring, a lazy smile splitting his face. “What’s the problem? We’re friends, right?”
I take a small step back the moment I hear that. The entrances to the theater and library are both right behind me- I could fall back into either, if things take a turn for the worse.
“No, we aren’t! You’re a grown Dead Apostle! You’ve lived for a thousand goddamn years! You shouldn’t be running around like a little kid looking for attention, you should be fucking
focusing.”
The situation is becoming increasingly unstable, not that Jack seems to even notice, much less mind. The idiot just cocks his head to the side a bit, seemingly oblivious to what might happen. Yes, he does have the edge if a fight breaks out between the two of them, but it’s still not anything trivial.
“I am focusing! I’m just also spending time with my friends! Even if this is a game, it’s boring when you’re just stuck playing alone, y’know?”
I bite back the groan that rises up in my throat when I hear those words. ‘All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy’, is it?
...I despise that I just said that, even to myself.
More importantly, Hela may be about to-
“...enough.” Hela hisses that word out as her tone drops from fire to ice. I just barely manage to disguise my sigh of relief as I feel the magical energy around her become still. While I’m happy things haven’t come to blows, this is still...less than ideal. This feels like it runs deeper than just a basic argument over Jack being overly touchy, though. The abruptness of that outburst, the strangeness of that talk. Have these two had some sort of conflict recently? I’ve never known them to have an argument like...this.
“Ren, good working with you, but I’m gonna check the rest of the place on my own.” She mutters out while I muse on that, shoving her way past Jack and back towards the way we came. The inciting factor for this incident, meanwhile, looks to me with an embarrassed smile.
“Ha, guess I accidentally broke the team up, huh? Sorry Renny! I’ll go do my own stuff now!” He chirps out eagerly, looking almost...proud of himself before taking his leave as well, slipping past me to dart into the library.
What exactly just happened?
***
After that...incident, it’s probably best that I take a break from this level for the time being. However, when I ascend the stairs to the second floor, my next place of investigation, I’m met with the sound of a clicking tongue.
The culprit soon reveals himself. Standing by the billiard table in the center of the floor, evidently playing a game with himself, is a mister Alan Giacosa. The table is set up differently than in English Billiards- one of the American derivatives, perhaps? He seems a touch dissatisfied with his playing. How lovely. I’m not the kind to mire myself in schadenfreude, but he hasn’t shown so much as a chink in his armor thus far.
Just as I think that, he seems to notice my presence, his expression immediately smoothing over with the practiced grace that I’ve come to associate with him. “Sir Schvieglot. How does your investigation fare?” He asks, dropping into a momentary bow as he leaves his game.
I, of course, give a dismissive wave in response. I hardly mind what he’s doing, so long as it does not interfere with me. “It is progressing.” I reply simply, not wanting to disclose any more information than that. I don’t believe anyone else is on this floor currently, but that doesn’t mean others cannot eavesdrop. Besides...if this butler truly is related to the murder, the less I give away to him, the better.
With that, I leave Alan to his game as I begin examination of each of the guest bedrooms. They are expectedly barren. What personal affects the others had brought are likely being carried on their persons, and sure enough…
“Eye of flame, envelop the world.”
...what analysis I’m capable of doesn’t turn up anything of note within those rooms either.
Ah, frustrating, how frustrating. I’m hardly any closer to solving this issue than I was when I first learned of the murder. The thought that the others are almost certainly ahead of me, that I could very well fail here, is enough to make me come alight once again.
My eyes clear up. I cannot afford to mull over my own circumstances here- if I falter for a moment, I could lose. The threads of my consciousness fan our, covering the second floor as a whole.
”Athoth, Eloaios, Astaphaios, Yao, Sabaoth, Adonin, Sabbataios.”
I feel a flicker of pain lance through my form as I strain my consciousness. There has to be something here. This is not a theory I do not understand- this is simply examining Bounded Fields. I do not require some profound revelation to do this, I simply need to act. Act, you fool, or that prize will be snatched away.
Gradually, as my mind dives into the myriad wards and barriers layering the workshop that I cannot grasp, a shape becomes clear.
Yes, this floor as a whole seems to have a different set of magical foundations bound to it as a workshop. If the first floor is one world, this is another. A harsher world, a crueler world. Did Cerridwen use different celestial bodies as the basis for the two floors? He certainly must have.
I can’t imagine that knowledge will be of much use, but it has accomplished something, in that it has helped me clear my head. The pain washes the fog away, and with it, I can shove that self-pity and frustration to the side for a time.
Obviously, the butler should be questioned. I was so focused on avoiding him and searching for ‘clues’ that I forgot such a basic thing. Resolving myself, I exit the farthest guest bedroom and approach him.
“Alan, I would like to speak to you briefly.”
He jolts up in place a bit at my voice striking him from behind, his cue veering to the side slightly and missing its mark before he patches himself up, recomposes himself, and turns around to face me with a fluid flourish. “Of course, sir. How can I be of assistance?”
Now, Alan most certainly had the ability to unlock the doors and permit the murder to occur. He would have needed to be approached for this before our rooms were sealed last night, for a plan to be made. But, why would he do that? Coercion makes no sense- while Cerridwen drew breath, Alan had perfect protection, so then if he’s responsible, he must have had something to
gain from the murder.
“You’re a magus, correct?” Something simple to start things off, but to my surprise, the question seems to make Alan uncomfortable.
“I would...not say that exactly, sir. I’m familiar with magecraft, but I scarcely make use of it myself. It never interested me, truthfully.” He explains, tone perfectly level even as his composure cracks just slightly.
An interesting answer, but not one I have a need to probe on. “And your contract with my master, what was its length?” I’m hardly being subtle about it, but the two possible motives I’ve thought up for him are either being after my master’s wealth and power, or being to break out of his contract early.
“Eight years remain, though we were in talks to extend it by another decade, if he was satisfied with my performance. As I’m sure you know, the late lord was...quite a generous employer.” He says without so much as a hitch. I can’t help but curse internally. Is he being truthful, or is he just telling me the answers that paint him as having no motive? Ah, dammit- why did I never learn those methods of forcing one to say the truth? My Choir would just make him a drooling idiot, that’s certainly not a solution here.
With a groan of exasperation, I lean back against a wall, ignoring Alan’s look of confusion as I do. I wrack my brain for something, something without an obvious ‘correct’ answer, something that can give me some insight into how the man named Alan Giacosa thinks. He’s the closest thing to a lead I have currently- I will not let myself falter or delay here.
“This may be a bit too personal,” My mouth has started moving before I’ve fully processed the words I’m speaking, impulse taking me over. “but, why are you not participating in the investigation? I assume you noticed, the will merely said that whoever finds the killer is the victor, not that it had to be one of us. You are just as much a competitor for the title of Dead Apostle Ancestor as the rest of us, why are you not competing?”
The air freezes. Alan’s eyes widen, as do my own once I realize the words I’ve just spoken. What sort of-
“...permission to speak freely, sir Schvieglot?”
It’s all I can do to nod dumbly in response, at which point the human sighs. His cue stick rests against the table, his posture slackens slightly, and he speaks up with a tone that betrays the crisp official nature he’d retained before now. “Why would I? I don’t have the power to defend that title. If I did somehow win, I’d be assassinated within a week. But, besides that…” He pauses for a moment, a flicker of unease dancing across his face, as if he’s afraid of what he is about to say. “...being a Dead Apostle just doesn’t interest me.”
The first part of the answer, I had expected. No, ‘expected’ is too generous a word, given how impromptu that question of mine was, but if I was in his position, that would have been my response as well. To understand that a power is outside of your station is admirable. The second part, though, causes me to freeze for a moment. Confusion gradually shifts to incredulity- is he
mad?
“And why is that? The consumption of blood, the issue of sunlight, the Church, they all
sound far worse than they are to deal with. And the benefit you gain is...rather significant.” That’s an understatement. Even setting aside power, a Dead Apostle is an elevated existence- the Elder Titles have lived since the days when
gods roamed the Earth. Why would you ever-
“Well, I like being mortal.”
My mind screeches to a halt. What does my face look like at this point, slackjawed incredulity at the words that were just uttered? “I do not understand. You’re aware that you can still die if you desire it, yes? This is not some monkey’s paw where you cannot die even if you wish to.”
In response, Alan Giacosa merely shakes his head. His expression is tight, eyes flitting off to the side as he fumbles over his own words, a far cry from the composure of his usual persona. “That’s not it. It’s...yes, a Dead Apostle is still
capable of dying, but...how do I put this- when was the last time you
feared death?”
Each passing second only confuses me further. What sort of lunatic am I speaking to? “At no point in recent memory. Do you not consider that a good thing? A human lives in constant fear of death from all sorts of causes within and outside of their control- why would you not reject that?”
He seems to struggle with his explanation every bit as much as I struggle to comprehend it, trying and failing to start a new sentence several times before he slumps in place slightly. “...never mind, it’s...not the sort of thing I can put into words. Apologies for wasting your time, sir Schvieglot.” And with that, he’s straightened back up, tone leveling out towards the end of his words.
I feel that I’ve just learned something important about the man named Alan Giacosa, haphazardly tossed into my face, but for the life of me I can’t make heads or tails out of it. It’s all I can do to murmur out a simple word of thanks and depart back to the guest bedrooms. I need a moment to clear my head, and so I enter my own bedroom and shut the door behind me, resting my back against it as I let out a sharp breath.
‘I like being mortal’, it’s a sentiment I can’t grasp. At the same time, I can’t let myself hang on that for too long. If I stand here tearing my hair out over those words, the others will solve this case before I’ve even left this room.
That thought alone lights a fire in my chest, forcing me forwards.
Now, think, Rengard. That talk cannot have been entirely pointless. What have you learned from Alan Giacosa?
If the words he spoke were true, then he likely does not have a reason to betray Cerridwen Valdyrius. He could have been lying, but start with that premise and work forwards. Consolidate the information you’ve gained thus far.
Let us start here, in these very guest rooms. The suspects were each also inside of rooms that only Cerridwen Valdyrius and his butler could unlock, but that were all unlocked through some means.
Cerridwen Valdyrius has no possible reason to unlock the rooms- he was the one who locked them in the first place. If Alan Giacosa was not responsible for undoing the locks, then it means that one of the suspects did.
A suspect exited their room during the night, and killed Cerridwen Valdyrius.
...but, that’s off. If that’s the case, why were all the guest bedroom locks undone? If it was me, if I could undo the Mystic Locks, then I would simply exit my room, carry out the murder, and then return to my room and lock-
-...Ah, that’s it.
I would not be able to lock the Mystic Lock from inside of the room. Even if I had the suitable magical energy and could output it in a ‘wave’ to unlock the door from within, the same will not let me lock the door from inside. I would need to be outside of the room to lock the door.
So, I cannot lock my door once I have unlocked it. When morning comes, my door will be unlocked. What do I do, if that is the case, to cover up that I left my room? My eyes widen as the realization finally clicks.
I undo all of the Mystic Locks. It’s such a childlike conclusion that I’m embarrassed it took me this long to reach it. If I unlock every lock, it is clear that
somebody was able to leave their room, but not who it was.
In other words, the question is: who among us is able to undo the Mystic Locks without being Cerridwen Valdyrius or Alan Giacosa? None of us are such geniuses with Mystic Code creation to the point where we could ‘crack’ locks designed by our master, especially within his own workshop. If any of us were capable of that, I might as well give up now, as I wouldn’t be able to catch such a figure.
In other words, the only way one could open the locks is by having the magical energy of Cerridwen Valdyrius or Alan Giacosa. If one had access to that energy somehow, it would be possible to open the locks. And, out of the apprentices, the only one with the aptitude to make use of the magical energy of others is-
-...that’s it. A lead. It’s not sufficient evidence, it’s nothing beyond a theory, but it’s
something. Heat burns through my body, a glorious rush of
life as I come to that realization. I’m a step closer. I’m accomplishing something.
I can win.
***
I’m not at the point where I can level a formal accusation yet; I still haven’t resolved the method of the murder itself, I still don’t have genuine
proof. Still, my mind is clear. I’ve made progress, no doubt that the others have as well, so I simply need to keep up the pace.
If the murderer is who I suspect, then there must be something I can learn to prove that as the case. With that in mind, I make my return downstairs. I hear footsteps behind me as I descend, Alan Giacosa seeming to come down as well. He must have finished his billiards game.
Of the places on the ground floor I’ve still not explored, there are the theater, the library, and the veranda. Not to mention, with my new perspective, it’s likely worth reevaluating everything I’ve already seen. Yes, that makes enough sense. I decide to start with the theater and library- they’re close to one another, and it’ll be a simple matter to cross them both off.
...naturally, it doesn’t work quite that simply. There’s nothing of note that I can find in the library, but when I enter the theater, someone is already present. Or rather, multiple “somebodies”.
“Check underneath the chairs as well-...oh, Rengard. Hello, how have you been doing?”
Turning to face me, while her motley crew of a few skeletons attend to grunt work, is Elana vor Enkicen. I should have expected others would be combing the first floor over, I suppose; if I was the only one investigating the second floor just now, naturally everyone else would be here. “Quite well, Elana. Yourself?”
An airy laugh leaves her in response as she flashes a smile that is either meant to be reassuring or threatening. “Well enough, I suppose. They are not the most suited for this sort of work, but they are doing their best. Are they not just
incredible? They are not just carrying out orders, either- that is genuine, long-term sapience.” She pridefully gestures over at the skeletons as she speaks, and I let my eyes drift back over towards them.
At first glance, I’d assume they were normal skeletons, simple necromantic familiars, but this is Elana we’re speaking about. Beyond simply being made of first-rate materials, the spiritual makeup of these things must be stellar if she’s letting them out here. The self-proclaimed ‘graveyard queen’ wouldn’t settle for something subpar. At the same time, it’s something of a message, a silent warning to anyone who tries to get her alone. One of them even seems to be carrying her suitcase, how quaint.
I glance around the room in turn- I’m tempted to make use of my Choir here, but that would hardly be well-received with Elana present. There doesn’t seem to be anything of note here, not that I’d expected anything. I’m not sure what I’m trying to find- that’s the fundamental issue. If Jack has some sort of conceptual weapon he used for the murder, then he wouldn’t have made it so easy to find. And if the murder was carried out through something he had stored in a bean, there wouldn’t even be a murder weapon to find.
...hm, I’ll need to refine my thinking here.
“I was going to examine the veranda. Would you care to join, Elana?” I feel more secure investigating with others now that I have something of a lead. It’s also as Hela said- if the ‘underdogs’ cooperate, that is our best chance of defeating the favorite to win. I am sorry, Roose, but for now, we are very much opponents.
Elana, true to form, simply offers a cordial smile in response. “I was just about to look there myself.” I can’t be sure if that’s the truth or not, but I won’t be expressing that outwardly. “Of course, Rengard. Let’s.”
The veranda is a rather quaint thing, almost ‘rustic’ in its design, I suppose. I am the first to step out onto it, with Elana following closely behind, as do her familiars. I let out a breath I’d been holding in as we step outside, peering over out at the empty space that exists outside of the borders of this manor, sealed off by Cerridwen’s Bounded Fields. Even the sky above is empty- after all, this place is ‘another world’, a place where the Sun is not permitted to shine, while its maker pursued the creation of an eternal red moon.
Nothing is here, and yet we find ourselves speaking.
“It feels odd, doesn’t it? Our master dead, each of competing so much more directly than usual. Everyone seems to be taking this quite seriously.” Elana chimes out, stepping forwards to rest her back against the rail. I can’t help but agree with her sentiment- this is very much a departure from the norm.
“You should have seen Jack earlier; he was the quietest I’ve ever seen him.” A laugh works its way out of me as I recall the wholly uncharacteristic sight. “Even Hela’s taking this seriously from the look of it. She was the one who broached the topic of cooperation, actually- the rest of us working together to keep Roose from winning on face.”
At that, Elana quirks an eyebrow up. “You as well? She approached me for the same thing, after Roose and I had finished examining the body.” I see a flicker of something in her eyes as that last word leaves her, but she conceals it with practiced ease a moment later. “Roose has mostly been his usual self. With master gone, he seems to be focusing on examining the workshop itself. I haven’t seen much of Jack, however.” As she speaks, she leans over for a moment, brushing some dust off of one of her familiars.
My expression tightens a bit at that remark. It seems that Roose may be ahead of me in working out the nature of the celestial concepts here- the thought nearly makes me burst back inside to return to work. I try to keep that feeling from showing. “Well, that’s only natural. Out of all of us, Roose is the most genuine successor to the master. If any of us are able to decipher the workshop’s true nature, it will be him.” Not that I’m going to let him have that without a fight. “I wonder what he thinks that will do, though. He should be focusing on looking for evidence left by the murderer, not the foundations of the workshop.”
Elana merely shrugs in response. “It’s hard to say. All of us are grasping at straws, no? For a murder committed with magecraft, such a thing as the ‘method’ is nearly impossible to pin down. Common detective logic ceases to function. We know one another’s abilities roughly, and within this workshop, we are all rather limited, but even then it’s not a simple task. Understand the playing field to understand the game, maybe that’s his thought process.” Another laugh. “Or maybe following in master Cerridwen’s steps is just all he knows how to do.”
She’s struck at the heart of my difficulties, enough that I nearly stagger back in place. The smirk at the edge of her lips is all I need to verify that she noticed my reaction, damn it. “Well, that might be the case, but what do we have to work off of, then?”
The trace of a smirk on her face becomes a full-blown one. Ah, she’s enjoying herself with this now. “The motive, for one. You had to have at least
considered that, Rengard. What reason would one of us have for killing the master? From your perspective from the night before, for instance, killing him is a risky act that might lead to your death, and if you succeed, then what? A successor is decided postmortem, which- no offense, Rengard- is not likely to be you. You have everything to lose and nothing to gain. Trying to loot the workshop in the ensuing chaos? Equally ridiculous; we all know how capable this place’s protections are, even in his death. The only reason I could think of for you doing this, is if you somehow knew of the game before it was announced.”
I pause, silently cursing as I do. I’d filed away the motive as a consideration in the back of my mind, yes, but I haven’t given it nearly as much thought as Elana seems to have. “...if that’s the case, I would say you’re one of the more suspicious ones. You never cared much about being the successor, did you?”
A dangerous light enters her eyes, teeth slightly bared as she grins at me in response. “Oh, Rengard, please. I don’t have a motive either, unless you count getting my hands on the late master’s body as one. If that was the case, though, why would I pretend? I’d approach one of you, offer to confess being the murderer in exchange for being given the body, and call it a day. Besides, if it was me…” Her grin momentarily shifts to a scowl. “...the body wouldn’t have
ever been left in such a deplorable state. What a damned waste.”
This time, I am the one to laugh. Elana is an ‘artist’ through and through, an eccentric creator. It’s true, I can’t imagine her damaging her own ‘materials’. In the meantime, though, there is something that I’d like to say, while it’s just Elana and myself present.
“...I suppose. But speaking of, do you not think you were being...garish earlier? You didn’t show our late master much respect, talking about ownership of his corpse in such a manner. Not to mention now.”
Elana’s glass-like expression cracks with a light embarrassment, another laugh slipping out of her in response. “Oh, Rengard, you must understand, the
things I could do if I managed to get ahold of his body in the long-term. I can’t simply be patient about that when it’s right in front of me, already dead.” She begins to explain, a crazed light gradually entering her eyes. I have to bite back a sigh as she goes on. “Granted, this place doesn’t count as a
, so the spiritual remnants in the body, if any, must be nil, but still, imagine it! The corpse of an
League of the Age of Gods
Elder Title
, even that damaged, has a level of value on par with this entire castle combined, if you know what you’re doing.”
I look at her with incredulity, even if I must admit that I’m impressed by that sort of philosophy. Of course, leave it to Elana to see an opportunity like that. “You would truly use the body of our master as materials for a familiar? How shameless is that?”
Another laugh leaves her, but this time it bears a manic air to it, a weight that refuses to be cowed. “That’s exactly it! Have you ever heard of a Dead Apostle Ancestor being made into a familiar? The closest thing is the fate poor Refraction’s under, and that’s one of the Church’s strongest weapons! This is something that’s never been done before, Rengard- disposing of his corpse would be such a waste!” As she speaks, her skeletons move to her side, ants to their queen.
...she’s actually showing this side of her. I’m surprised by just how abruptly she abandoned that pretense of hers; it seems that I’m not the only one who’s gotten excited by the circumstances. I can’t deny that the enthusiasm of her little outburst just now was somewhat infectious, though- I suppose that’s just a sign of my own state.
This is...fun, I’ll admit. It’s surely not an issue if I spend a few minutes longer here.
“How would you even make heads or tails out of that, Elana? The body’s practically destroyed. You’d need to reform it into a new familiar, and when you do, it would lose all of its accumulated years.”
“Are you expecting me to sell my secrets that easily? Think about the matter on your own a bit- that would only be an issue if you combine the broken pieces together into a new whole!”
And so we go on, the empty sky watching us from above.
***
“Sirs and madams, please report to the bottom of the main staircase immediately. I repeat: please report to the bottom of the main staircase immediately. Do not attempt to move to the second floor.”
A panicked announcement breaks us out of our conversation some time later, both Elana and I seeming taken aback at just how long we’d gone on for, before realization sets in. An announcement made through the manor, with every bit the same urgency as the one of Cerridwen’s death. We’ve barely so much as exchanged a confirmatory glance before we’ve exited the veranda.
By the time we arrive at the base of the staircase, Alan is already present, as are Roose and Hela. Elana’s skeletons scramble into formation behind her, the four of us looking at each other with confusion.
“Thank you all for being present.”
...but before any of us say anything, Alan speaks up. We’re still missing one, but he’s talking as if we aren’t.
Jack isn’t here. That can’t mean- has he been caught? Has the case already closed? Was I not quick enough? A cold pit forms in my stomach, only to twist into a knot as the butler goes on.
“A situation has arisen on the second floor. Please, everyone follow me, but do not move ahead. I am unsure as to the nature of what has occurred, but it is dangerous.”
There is a waver to his voice that was not present, even when announcing Cerridwen’s death. The coy sureness I saw in his eyes earlier is nowhere to be seen. Looking around, each of the others are wearing similar expressions of confusion and concern, and so, we scale the stairs behind the butler.
“Please brace yourselves, all.”
Alan stops us before we’ve reached the top step- I see a flicker of genuine fear in his face as he does, before closing his eyes. As I turn my attention to the second floor, what we can see of it from over those last few steps of the staircase, I understand why.
“What- What is this?”
I do not know who spoke those words. The faculties of my mind that allow me to process such things as voices have shut down.
Crystals, a thick film of blue-green crystals cover the second story. The walls, the floor, the ceiling, the doors to the guest bedrooms. It’s as if the entire story itself has become the inside of a geode, with countless larger chunks and spires jutting out from those surfaces.
-But there is something else. Those crystals, grown in strange masses, twisted unnatural formations, send a shudder through my body. They thrum with an unnatural light, pulsing as if alive.
Nine points pierce the void.
What is this. What is this. What is this.
Declaration.
It is beautiful.
Sentence.
It is disturbing.
Simply looking at the sight makes my head begin to pound. My existence itself rejects the sight before me, an instinct primal to everything I am screaming out in warning. I clutch the rail so that I don’t collapse. In the back of my mind, I register that Alan Giacosa has fled back down the stairwell, but my conscious mind lacks the ability for such complex thoughts.
What is "wrong"?
If you ask a group this question, you will receive a variety of answers. Wrong is incorrect, wrong is impossible, wrong is disgusting or disturbing or foolish.
And this sight, these crystals, these
things are wrong.
The fear of a stronger being, of something within comprehension but merely outside your reach. The fear of a natural disaster beyond your control. The fear of a monster you cannot understand. The fear of a god you are nothing before. This is none of those.
Plot. Scheme. Make your preparations. Cast your spells. Perform your calculations. Create. Destroy. Ask why. Slit your throat. None of it will do you any good.
Not the fear of man or process or god or devil. It is all useless because this is the most primal fear.
This is the fear of
wrong.
None of us could move. None of us could breathe. That feeling pressed down on us like a weight.
How long was it before we regained our senses, before we were able to turn our heads away or clench our eyes shut?
How long was it before we looked back at that impossible nightmare which terrified us for reasons we could not process?
How long was it before we finally noticed that there was a body trapped within one of those great spires of crystal, its life snuffed out, its expression frozen in genuine rage from those moments before it died?
...Ah, so that’s where you were, Jack.
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Originally Posted by Arashi_Leonhart
