A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor-Chapter 891: Oliver Patrick - Part 4

With the departure of Asabel, that had come in more spawn of the Silver Kings. Tory Emerson was one such young Princess, of age fourteen. Another was Princess Marble Wyndon, the offspring of the Wyndon House. Both – quite wisely – kept their distance from Oliver, though they never made his life particularly difficult, nor did their retainers.

"…Quite right, my Lord," Verdant said, managing to collect him, albeit barely. He spared his Lord a glance as he managed to do so. "Still, to have you be the one to calm me like this, my Lord… It is quite shameful."

Oliver smiled wryly. "You mean to say that it is strange that I'm not throwing my fists around in anger?"

"Well, I wouldn't quite go that far, my Lord, but I would have expected to see some fragment of discontent, but you seem positively at ease," Verdant said.

"Is that how I seem?" Oliver said, as they passed a group of noblemen in the corridor. One was a particularly tall and lanky loudmouthed individual – one that Oliver recognized as Mills Gargon. The boy recognized him too, and he cut into Verdant and Oliver's conversation without the slightest shred of thought.

"Oh! The priest and the whipped dog – they still walk the corridors together? I thought it was an old ghost story," Gargon said. His party – there must have been nearly ten of them, both boys and girls of the noble standing – laughed along with him.

Oliver turned his head ever so slightly, just enough for his eyes to land on Gargon's. The trace of calm that he'd been managing to keep slipped. Gold enveloped his eyes, and a half smile distorted Oliver's lips.

His aura of bloodlust was thunderous. There was a boy, barely eighteen, who'd killed hundreds and hundreds of men. There was a boy, barely eighteen, so accomplished in the Third Boundary of the Gods that even the Fourth beckoned to him.

A youth that had learnt how to wield Command before any other youth in history – a youth that had even wielded it to force others through the Second Boundary, just as he had forced himself through it, at the impossibly young age of sixteen.

To stand before such a man was a risk.

To speak to such a man was a daring manoeuvre.

To openly insult such a man was a death wish, and to make that insult when his mood was already low was a suicide attempt.

Gargon's breath caught in his throat. He felt as if there was a knife against his neck. He didn't see a boy like himself, he saw something primordial and overwhelming. The finely honed edge of Ingolsol's malevolence cut into the youth like a true blade would.

The Lordling collapsed. He'd forgotten to breathe. Tears were running down his face.

He hadn't spoken to Oliver in well over a year, and even then it hadn't been to insult him. Whenever he saw Oliver in a corridor, he would wait, and go the other way. He'd never given his actions any thought before. He assumed he was merely avoiding a man beneath him, but now he understood what his body already had.

He'd walked in front of a Tiger, and prodded it with a stick, and now he was going to die for that insult.

Now he knew the reason why Oliver's name was no longer spoken with mere distaste, but with reverence. Amongst the students – especially those that were younger – he'd become the secret object of admiration. How could they help but admire someone so close to them in years who'd achieved so much?

"L-Lord Gargon?" A girl said in alarm, reaching for him on the floor.

'Leave me,' Gargon thought to himself hopelessly. 'I'm already dead.'

But when he'd cracked his eyes open just a little bit, he saw that Oliver was nowhere to be seen. So too did he see that the floor where he lay had taken on a strangely warm wetness.

"That was cruel, my Lord," Verdant said as they left towards the inner courtyard, though he was smiling. "Cruel, but reassuring."

"It pleases you to know that I still retain my anger?" Oliver said.

"It pleases me to know that we are on the same page of understanding. I feared that I was missing something," Verdant said.

"You ought not to doubt those eyes that have brought you so much success," Oliver said.

"These eyes that have struggled in the past to see even your outline can no longer make out even that. In all the world, you are my greatest enigma," Verdant said.

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It was another one of Verdant's strange lines. Oliver didn't deign it with a response. Sometimes, when a comment was so strange, it was better to leave it to dwell in silence. Even an attempt at acknowledgement would diminish it.

Their destination was the Advice House that Verdant had once kept. Once the priest had left the Academy, Oliver had bought it for himself. These days, it was in a state of relative disuse. Oliver's retainers in Jorah, Karesh and Kaya had long since graduated. The three of them were stationed in Solgrim, along with the rest of Oliver's men.

Verdant had continually pestered Oliver to replace them, but Oliver never had. He did not see much point. These days, he didn't have much use of purely Academy-dwelling retainers. Not when he had an army at his back.

"Tea, my Lord?" Verdant asked. He still knew where everything was. Nothing had particularly changed. Once a week Oliver would toss a silver coin to a Serving Class student to see the place clean, and that was about the only activity the little house saw.

"Please," Oliver said. He had quite the thirst. He watched as Verdant made up the fire, and then filled up a teapot full of water, considering his position.

"I suppose you'll want to send crows to Greeves, no?" Verdant asked.

"I ought to," Oliver agreed. "Change is to come, and Greeves supposes that a merchant makes his coin off change."