The Ghost of Vermil-Chapter 29: Marco XVIII

As Lucas's friend hurriedly left, Marco figured something upsetting must have happened. His brother was sitting on the floor, staring peacefully at the leather of a closed book.

"Did the two of you fight?" It was Lucas's first quarrel with a friend.

His brother wrung his head slightly, saying, "She did not like what I told her."

"Uh-huh, well, what did you tell her?" Marco pulled a chair from under the desk and straddled on it, resting his arms and chin on the backrest.

"Just something she needed to hear."

"You did not comment on her weight, did you?" Catherine turned apoplectic whenever he teased her about it. Girls detested the very mention of it.

Lucas regarded him, puzzled, "Why would I do that?"

Marco laughed, "You should be careful of the things you say to ladies, Lucas. They do not always fancy the truth. Anyway, how are you doing now?"

"I can manage," he replied, standing up and performing a few stretches. His body was lanky for a lad of his age. He needs more nutrition and muscle training.

"I'm really amazed how these injuries don't seem to bother you, brother. A normal person would have been trembling with pain without a healing spell or a phial of opium. They might have even bled to death." Yet Lucas refused even the simplest healing spell.

Lucas's face always became an open book whenever he wanted to dodge a subject. His expression would turn vacant then he'd turn away. Marco made no effort to press him about it.

He said, "Ser Gerald has prepared a pot of pork curry. It's the one meal he serves to his soldiers who are weary from battle. And we've just returned from one. Come, we deserve it."

Lucas sat on his bed. "I'll eat in my room."

Marco sighed. "You always eat in this room. I'm here, so you don't need to feel so lonely. I'll drag you to the table if I have to."

The clinks of fork and knife compensated for the quiet that hovered over the dining table. The soldiers of Vermilon lost the gaiety they usually had when Marco dined together with them. Suddenly, they were not so eager to impress him with their tales of training and patrolling in Gallagher. Ser Gerald, in particular, had been a veteran of two major battles and was even drafted to join the Fifth Crusade, if not for Earl Wolfram's intervention to send five more holy soldiers in the old knight's stead.

As Lucas looked like he was trying his best not to make the tiniest sound on one side of the table, the three soldiers opposite him still seemed very much aware of his presence, and they appeared put off by it. They rushed to finish their plates, without asking for seconds. Well, there's a first for everything.

Even the servants who poured Lucas water kept a careful distance from him, as though they would catch his infection if they even brushed him.

"So, I have been ruminating," Marco announced from his seat at the end of the long table, putting down his cutlery. Everyone turned their heads toward him, except Lucas beside him who pretended he was invisible. "In light of the incident with the Ruperts, I believe it's better if Lucas is able to protect himself."

Lucas swirled to him, wide-eyed and pallid. "Marco, I did not ask for this."

Marco paid his reaction no mind.

Ser Gerald, a man of a large build, seemed to shrink in his seat. Dunce stole a glance at Lucas from the corner of his eyes. Felix played with his food, bracing for Marco's next words.

"Ser Felix," Marco addressed the man, "I am aware that you are only freshly knighted. Please take this opportunity to teach my brother, and in doing so, your own skills should improve."

The young knight was frozen for a moment before he answered blankly, "It is my pleasure, my lord." The Light of Truth told Marco it wasn't.

"You'll start as soon as Lucas has fully recovered."

In their reverence towards the angels who descended on earth by god's command, the kings of the past had deemed it fitting to rename their days after the angel hierarchies, signifying each day as a time of worship for them. On the day of the Cherubim before classes resumed again in the morning, Marco, together with Ser Gerald and Lucas who needed coercion, paid a visit to the Altare Angelorum — a massive cathedral of three spires lined with gold plates, on its facade a gold-tinted glass window in the shape of the Star of Michael.

On the sprawling church grounds, worshippers flocked to the statue of the Cherubim to offer their prayers. Marco and his company joined the crowd there, clasping a simple bouquet of white roses. The image of the Cherubim was said to be a four-faced angel: a human, a lion, an ox and an eagle. The white marble statue's two sets of wings spread wide behind it, casting a shadow on the mob of believers. The Cherubim were second in celestial hierarchy, just below the Seraphim. They were said to have guarded god's throne and the Lignum Vitae with their flaming swords. When they appeared on earth, they granted the holy blessings of Laws. Lumen Veritatis was speculated to have come from them too.

Marco had never laid eyes upon the actual Cherubim before, nor any angel for that matter, but their statues on the Altare seemed bizarre beyond imagination.

Among the worshippers, he recognized some lords and their knights as well as a number of Demach attendees. They all carried white roses in their hands although some brought perfumed candles instead.

Laying the flowers on the foot of the angel next to a bunch of the same, he caught Lucas intently looking up at the Cherubim with an expression that was not of reverence. While Marco bowed and clasped his hands to pay respect, Lucas did nothing of the sort. What is on his mind? Marco wondered again.

There was a sudden stirring in the crowd. The mob obstructed Marco's vision but he heard the clank of a carriage's wheels. Then the flapping banner of the three-pronged Star of Michael loomed from over their heads.

With Ser Gerald paving a path for Marco and his brother by shouting "Make way for Lord Vermilon", Marco jostled his way out of the crowd to lay eyes upon the royal carriage — a coach adorned with intricate holy symbols of protection, pulled by two white-maned horses and flanked by a retinue of guards that raised the Araian banner.

"You are in the presence of the King Azrael II Araia," a knight bayed, silencing the church grounds, "The Ruler and Protector of the Kingdom of Araya, and the Master of the Scales."

The carriage's door was opened by another soldier, and King Azrael stepped out. Atop his bright golden hair sat the royal crown with three spires. He gripped the Scales of Retribution on his right. The scales held up by the statuette of a lady clinked as he moved, its golden halo glinting in the afternoon sun.

It was not imperative for the King to visit the Altare Angelorum to show devotion to a different order of angels each day. At times, he would send a prince or the princess or some lord. Once in a while, he would do it himself.

On this day of the Cherubim, he was accompanied by his daughter, the Princess Sarfiel who was named after another angel — a privilege granted only to children of royal blood. She carried an elegant bouquet studded with white roses and other cream blossoms of elderflowers, jasmines and snowdrops.

"Your highness, Princess, the Cherubim''s favour be upon you" Marco bowed when they approached, dabbing a kiss on the Princess's hand. Lucas and the other subjects around him bowed in respect as well.

"Ah, Lord Vermilon, we meet again," the King said, lips arching to a warm smile. King Azrael had only come to power thirty years ago, but he was the only King that Marco had ever known. Up close, his gallant face suffered wrinkles and blotches of dryness, although they did nothing to dim the brilliance of his visage. His eyes radiated untold wisdom gained from revelations and three decades of rule. Even though weaker in raw holy power than Marco, there was an air of unyielding dominance about him that seemed to demand veneration. To Marco, King Azrael's blessing seemed peaceful and vast, yet there was a hint of fatigue in his energy.

The Araians were said to be closest to angels. But whenever Marco met them in person, he learned that they were as human as he was.

"It is my utmost pleasure, my King," he replied.

"Your achievements in the Delta deserve praise."

"I am deeply honored, my King. It is only my duty to defend Araya against threats that seek to dismantle it."

King Azrael smiled wistfully, "I hope there will be more blessed children like you, stupendously talented and filled with a great sense of duty and honour."

As he uttered that, the halo of the Scales of Retribution suddenly gave off an intense light. The crowd gasped. Everyone braced. The Scales were known to mete out chastisement in the form of pain. Yet as they glanced around at each other to find out who the target was, the grounds in front of Altare Angelorum remained still and quiet.

Princess Sarfiel broke the silence, "The Scales reacts to a similar angelic power. It shines when a penalty is thrown but it also gives off light in the presence of its two other counterparts — the Cage of the Tribunal and the Shield of Virtue. But the Cage is at the castle, we saw."

Her words simply added more layers to the mystery of this unbidden behaviour of the Scales. The Cage of the Tribunal should be sitting somewhere safe in the Royal Keep. The Shield of Virtue was long lost, stolen.

The King ordered to a knight, "See to it that the Cage is safe." To his subjects, he smiled to pacify them, "It is no worry. Holy powers are a mysterious thing, the Angels even more. One could be standing among us right now, observing our ways, living the same mundane life."

* * * * *

To prepare for his presentation on Intermediate Artifact Studies, Marco entered the Bibliotheca after the first class to comb through books and moth-bitten parchments for interesting artifacts, preferably one any student had never chosen before. Oliver walked alongside him, palpably less interested in the books and more on the bespectacled ladies spending their leisure there.

"I should be visiting the Bibliotheca more often. My, look at these tomes," he remarked, eyes on a table of juniors.

Marco slowly paced the isle, scanning the titles. Each literature was placed on a podium so that the cover and title could be seen. "Stop ogling," he told his friend, "And help me find a good book on artifacts."

He read the titles.

The source of this c𝓸ntent is frёeweɓηovel.coɱ.

Spells of Providence. A book on enchantments that derived directly from god.

Curses of Katay. A delve into the illnesses and plagues that one demon, already exterminated, had inflicted on the corner of one kingdom in the Handilen continent.

Hymns and Songs. This book should contain the SONG OF CREATION that Apple and Ingryd used.

"Nothing on artifacts here," Oliver said.

"Let's climb up."

The Bibliotheca had several floors connected by a spiralling staircase that wound around a massive unmoving golden pendulum. It glinted with the light filtering in through the huge arching windows of the spire. Each floor boasted close to two hundred books collected from inside and outside of Araya, its walls lined with scrolls of languages present and lost. Scholars and lords would visit Demach just to read titles that could only be found in the Great Library.

He perused through the books on the podium on display, dejected that they too were unrelated to his needs.

"Found one!" Oliver blurted out, waving a massive volume of a book. He laid it on a table as Marco walked over, dust spewing from within its pages.

"Artifacts of Wisdom and Knowledge," Marco read.

"Maybe I can select one from here too." Oliver watched as Marco flipped the first pages open. As they studied each artifact listed, Oliver started commenting while pulling on his already dishevelled hair, "Eh, they sound unbelievably unreliable and worthless. Why would I drink from a chalice that will give me nightmares about my trauma? And this one, gives you an answer that might be true half of the time. How can you even trust it?"

"Maybe, you ask it twice, or thrice?" Marco answered, wondering if it was possible.

"Aye, that can work."

"But you can only ask again after a year," Marco added after reading the proceeding passage, "The Mirror of Truth enters hibernation for sixty and three hundred days, at which time it is but a plain mirror."

"Well, how useful is that," Oliver sighed in frustration. On the next page he exclaimed, "A dagger that grants audience with an angel if stabbed through one's heart!"

"Shush, Oli, we're in the Bibliotheca," Marco said to him, with rounded eyes. All his friends were raucous, he wondered why they even became close in the first place.

"But it's crazy... that's almost like a punishment for your desperation," his friend said in disbelief.

"It's a test of faith," Marco read, "By stabbing oneself with the Dagger of Faith, unimaginable pain will follow. One's faith shall not wither until the last waning seconds to death. An angel will appear before you. That means the test is passed, the angel has come to speak to you, and you shall live on. But if one's faith even dwindles at the slightest, only certain death awaited."

"Ahh," Oliver's mouth was agape, "That's cruel."

"Only one successful attempt — in the person of Father Darmien — has been recorded. In the light of the failures that followed, the clergy has prohibited its use."

"The clergy? They own it?"

Marco nodded. "It's probably a priest of the Michael's order who used it successfully first; and it's probably also their priests who died to it."

The artifacts of wisdom and knowledge seemed absurd with limited use and very particular and targeted purposes. Marco believed it to be by intention since knowledge granted a powerful advantage, easily abused. Even Lumen Veritatis required a hefty price. The holy power alone required to activate it was burdensome. And it could only succeed after three specific conditions that prevented it from being used as a tool of harm.

He flipped the tome to the next one.

Oliver read, hunching close, "Quill of Melancholy and Longing. A quill that never runs empty, but can only write the names of people familiar to oneself. When they are distant and one feels the need to know of their well-being, one can use the Quill of Melancholy and Longing to write their name on parchment while recalling the face of one's distant company. The glow of the ink runs the gamut of golden to pitch black to mean wellness or death. Hm, that doesn't sound so terrible. At least it does not siphon the blood from your hands for the ink. I expected it to be as demanding as that dagger."

Marco realized, "And it's useful, very much so."

"How?"

"It would tell you how they are doing, if they are alive, sick or dead. I'll use this for my material," he decided.

"But that seems so..." Oliver shrugged and frowned, "...middling, especially for a high ranker of your calibre."

"It makes no matter, Oli, it's a mere presentation. I might be able to bring it to class instead of a mere sketch or illustration." And make use of it too. He had already something in mind.

Oliver furrowed his brows, "How so?"

Marco pointed to a line on the paper. "Currently in the possession of House Corlissen. The second rank, just above me, is a Corlissen."