The Ghost of Vermil-Chapter 44: Apple XIII

Inside the grand coach where Raphael and Apple rode to the Royal Keep, the foulness of Gallenport was masked under the fragrance of incense and ambergris on leather and of Raphael's musk. Outside, a retinue of half a dozen knights and soldiers trotted alongside it, holding poles where the golden banners adorned with the white Star of Michael sagged under the rain.

"Do you know of the Scales of Retribution?" the second prince spoke.

Apple nodded. "The king's staff. The symbol of Arayan rule and justice."

"It was the warrior Archangel Michael who bestowed the Scales in the hands of House Araia, to ensure that the Crown is always fair. But as of late, the staff had shown an erratic behaviour. It would flicker with a faint light on occasions. We want your help."

"How can I possibly be of service?"

"Director Garren had informed me that you possess a very sensitive perception. He praised your involvement that resulted in the swift capture of the cursed being in the Delta."

The rat who transformed back into a little boy right in Lucas's arms. It was more than likely now that it was him who defeated it. The creature that they had painstakingly tailed for a day only to fall in the hands of Lucas who happened to be in the forest. Diana was chasing after him but that did not explain his presence in the forest. Apple suspected that he was after the cursed being in the first place. It seemed too convenient for a coincidence.

Apple replied, "I'll see what I can do."

In the courtyard of the Araian castle, Apple spotted a carriage decked with a familiar sigil — a red salmon leaping out of a river. What is she doing here? It was not rare for the castle to receive noble guests, but Apple's gut feeling told her that Rupert was in the Keep for more than a visit.

The Araian Keep was an imposing edifice of white stones that would gleam blindingly under the sun, but under an overcast sky, it looked drab and grey, its flags hanging soggy on the top of its spires. Miraculously, the rain had stopped.

Apple followed Raphael Araia up the front steps into a voluminous hall where the king received his subjects. On the day of the Seraphim, it was packed and bustling, making her wonder if it was usually this busy. She could not even see past the crowd.

The second prince grabbed her hand and led her up to a viewing gallery. "You can better appreciate it from here."

The hall flaunted massive windowpanes tinted in gold and red, blue and green. The dim lighting from outside filtered in with a rainbow of colours that splashed the nobles and farmers, merchants and priests in a faint glow. Flames crackled from iron cressets studding the walls and pillars. A draft of air wafted from intricate vent slits, stirring the fires, cooling the spacious hall before drifting up to the ceiling.

From her view, all the people below looked so small they could all fit in her cupped hands, even the king. As her eyes wandered through the hall, she spotted someone familiar.

"Yuri!" She called. He was passing below her, with a retinue of guards around him.

The young man gazed up to her, face aghast. Hurriedly, he covered the sigil on his chest. "What are you doing here, Apple?"

"The Second Prince wanted me. What are you doing here?"

Yuri regarded Raphael strangely. "For a visit."

She saw Diana's carriage. Now, Yuri was here too.

"I'll see you at the Academy," he said, before disappearing below her.

King Azrael Araia held the staff in his hand, the scales dangling and clinking as he shuffled in his high seat. Unlike the Scales of Retribution that looked dazzling and pristine, Azrael was old and tired, with wrinkles permanently lining his skin, his long flowing hair of gold frazzled and thin. Next to him stood the Heir to Araya, the first prince Gabriel donned in a gold cape pinned together by a three-pronged star.

It was Prince Gabriel who called onto the subjects. "Come forth."

A merchant dressed in fine satin dragged a man by the hand. Gaunt and pale, he looked as though he had not eaten a proper meal in days. There were also lacerations on his arms where the sleeves had not covered it. A woman ran to his side, clutching his hand desperately.

"What is your concern?" King Azrael addressed them in a gentle tone, one that must not be mistaken for kindness.

"Your highness," the merchant began, "I am Lithor, a travelling merchant from the land of songbirds, Onistheril, across the Pearl Sea. I trade silks and linens and dyes. I have come to ask for the king's judgment. This farmer had bought a roll of fabric from me with a bag of seeds that he said were the finest quality. I did not ask for much for I saw how poor they were."

"You lie!" The woman dressed in old sallow clothing blurted out. She must be related to the farmer.

King Azrael flashed her a firm hand, stilling her outburst. "You speak when you are spoken to. Go on, Lithor of Onistheril."

The merchant recalled his tale, "I thought of selling the seed stock to the next town. But when I opened the bag, they were all rotten, eaten by worms. When I asked them for the fabric back, they attacked me." He rolled the end of his trousers up to reveal a bandage stained with red. "So, I hired some soldiers to punish them. Then they threatened to kill me. I plead your majesty that I be compensated for the harm they had done to me and my business."

"Do you refute his claim?" The king asked the farmer.

"He speaks of lies, my king," the farmer wept, "I offered him silver for the linen but he asked for my seed stock instead. I thought he was being kind and charitable but he is a devilish man with dark motives."

"You dare call me devilish!"

"Cry out of turn and a tongue shall be fed to the dogs tonight," the king warned. The merchant, though seething, kept to himself. "You may continue."

"He poisoned the seeds, your majesty, he did," the woman cut in, "Then he came back and demanded for more than what the fabric was worth or else he would bring us to justice. Thirty gold coins, he asked, which we could not have. Then he demanded for a piece of our land, instead. Outrageous. And when we did not submit to his demands, he brought soldiers to hurt my dear husband. We could not fight back, your majesty. We are powerless..."

The king turned to the merchant. "Did you poison the seeds?"

"I would not ever dare lie to your majesty."

"We shall find out." King Azrael infused the staff of Scales of Retribution with his holy energy. From afar, Apple smelled the same earthly scent that Raphael had. It was akin to a quiet vast lake, teeming with unknown creations.

"SCALES OF RETRIBUTION," The king mouthed softly. The staff clinked as the scales tilted and gave off a warm glow.

A giant white spectre in the figure of a lady appeared before them, eyes blindfolded, a sword in hand. She clasped the blade in front of her and swung it down in the direction of the merchant who screamed. "NO!" The blade only grazed him, leaving no cut yet making him writhe in pain. He dropped on all fours, breaths heaving.

"Thank you, your majesty. You are truly right and just," the farmer wept with joy.

"Onistheril is a land blessed with riches. I wonder why you would traverse the Pearl Sea just to swindle farmers in my kingdom. As an alien, you must not have known the power of the Scales," Azrael Araia said, staring down at the convulsing figure of the merchant. "Throw him in the dungeon. As for you, all his earnings must be more than enough to compensate for the trouble and hurt he had caused."

"It is more than enough, my king," the woman sobbed.

A knight walked up to King Azrael and whispered in his ear. He glanced at Apple's direction. Prince Raphael waved at his father and brother curtly.

"It seems a pressing matter is at hand," the king announced. "I shall see the rest of you in a while. For matters that do not require the deliverance of justice, the Crown Prince shall entertain you."

He tentatively rose from his throne and headed to a wide arching door near the end of the hall, bringing the staff along with him.

"Let's meet the King at the garden." Raphael tugged on her hand.

The Keep's pleasure garden was a delight to Apple's senses. The citrus and sugary scents of daisies and roses and tulips lingered in the air, mixing in with the petrichor from the damp soil. Hedges of white hydrangea lined the edges and formed a small private space inside, away from prying eyes.

A servant served tea, placing a plate of sweets in the middle of a round table. The king, though seemingly exhausted, had not sat down and instead sniffed the white roses hanging from an arch.

"These are flowers the queen has grown," the king said out of the blue. "She said it was a tribute to the angels but now it has become something to remember her by. I believe we have not really met before, although we claim to support you."

"I am Apple of Heinstead," she introduced. "It's a pleasure to meet you, your majesty."

Raphael grunted. "So, you pay deference to the king and not to anyone else, huh?" he whispered behind her.

The only reason she did so was because he looked old, a man whose years of toil must be worthy of respect at least. There was simply an air about him that required reverence. And secondly, she feared for her head.

"The pleasure is mine, Apple of Heinstead. I believe Raphael had informed you of the gist of it. We have asked our experts what had been happening to the Scales, but none of them could give an answer, nothing but mere speculations. I do not seek to burden you but just do what you can."

It seemed an utmost concern. Apple knew that if the Scales of Retribution was rendered broken, it would leave a huge dent on Araian rule. It was the symbol of the populace's confidence, an unbreachable trust in the king's capacity to always pass on a sound judgment.

"If I may?" Apple stepped closer.

King Azrael handed her the staff gently. "She's all yours."

Apple held the staff in her hand. At its tip was a lady statuette that looked like the blindfolded spectre from before, but instead of the blade, it held the scales — two pans that seesawed clinking with the slightest movement. Around it was a shining halo.

It must have been crafted out of pure gold for the staff was cumbersome. No wonder King Azrael looked so spent holding onto it the whole day.

Suddenly, the halo glinted sharply, though only for a spit second. During that fraction of a moment, the scent of the holy energy contained within became much more vivid to her nose. She had smelled it before. The power inside was minute in comparison, like a rivulet that sought the sea to join it. A vast unending sea with the fragrance so overwhelming it could overpower every scent around it. It was unmistakeable. It's the same as Marco Vermilon's, she realized.

"Did you find something unusual? Has it weakened?" The King asked.

"It has not grown weak, my king. The staff could be reacting to a similar power, that is what I think."

"We know it does that sometimes. But the Cage of the Tribunal is in a different chamber. And the Shield of Virtue is lost. Its sister artifacts are not close by. What could it be reacting to?"

The halo glimmered once again. This time, Apple sensed the power lingering in the air, as though it was scattering its power into the world, sending it far and wide.

"It wants to be found," she uttered.

"What do you mean?" Raphael said, puzzled.

"Like a beacon. The staff beacons for someone."

"I don't understand."

"The Cage of the Tribunal must be doing the same, after all they are part of a trinity," Apple surmised.

"We have not seen it behave the same way, but it has been stored with no one to observe it."

"Father," a different voice sounded, interrupting their conversation. Apple turned to lay eyes upon Prince Gabriel standing by the hedge. He regarded Apple with intrigue, eyeing the staff in her hand. "Someone had come to speak to you."

Behind Prince Gabriel approached a figure in a black billowing robe like a huge ominous shadow, face veiled by a black fabric draping off the brim of a tall hat, on the back a white sack adorned by a string of shells and stones. The Lady in Mourning. She had come. It means the Gabrielic Order is officially making its move.

"Your Majesty," she greeted, lowering to a curtsy. Her every move was accompanied with the percussion of shells and stones.

"Perhaps, I'll see Apple out first," Raphael suggested. "Come, Apple."

The Lady spoke, "There is no need, your highness. I believe the little girl is tight-lipped, are you not?"

She nodded. "I am."

The King took the Staff from Apple's hand and addressed the exorcist. "Speak your concern."

"I am Gennevah, an exorcist of the Gabrielic Order. We have been informed of a demonic presence in Gallenport. We seek to exterminate it with your permission."

Although of a different sector than the ruling order in Araya, the Gabrielic exorcists made it a point to make the rulers aware of the mission before they commenced it. Their work often resulted in damages to homes. One of their excursions obliterated a whole village, killing hundreds. Fatalities would be avoided if the rulers were aware.

"If you speak of the demonic monster in Demach, it has been taken care of."

"I refer to a different entity, my king. I'm afraid this is a sly one, with the ability to deceive and hide its power."

"You speak of nonsense," Raphael cut in. "If there is a demon or demonic monster, don't you think we would have noticed by now?"

Her head turned to Apple's direction. And though she could not see it, she felt her eyes boring into her. "It resides in Demach, masquerading as a scholar. Even the old runes are being fooled. But we, we are certain now."

Follow current novℯls on ƒгeewёbnovel.com.

"I assume you have its name, for you to be so bold as to accuse the Academy of harbouring a demonic entity."

"I do, my king."

Apple swallowed a nervous lump in her throat. The favour has been repaid, she tried to convince herself. I owe him nothing. A demon smells like a demon. That is the truth. I must not be blinded by his timidness, not by his heroism, not by his supposed innocence. Yet until now a sliver of doubt nagged at the back of her mind, together with the question, what has he done that makes him a demon?

* * * * *

In the morning before Professor Cosser's class, she noticed that Aleph was in an uproar. Lucas was yet nowhere to be seen. He always came earlier than her, or anybody. Then, he would slump on his own corner quietly and pretend to sleep until the period began.

Yuri came up to her, asking, "Apple, have you heard?"

She glanced at him with heavy eyelids, deprived of sleep but beleaguered with endless skepticism.

He said, "You would not believe. Word is that he's a murderer."

"Who?"

"Lucas, Lucas of Vermil. He's killed people, Apple. Not just once. They're saying he's Vermilon's brother. Now it makes sense why Lord Marco came to the infirmary that time. And you know what else they call him? A ghost. Ghost of Vermil."