House Citrine
Brandon and the rest of the group followed Theoderic up the stairs and out of the chamber. This waystation was an even more unassuming pile of rocks—Brandon would not have been able to identify it as a ruin if he didn’t already know better. They headed off southwards down the wide dirt road.
Within the hour, they were able to see the Golden Hold.
Brandon had been here once, as a child, perhaps 8 years old. The journey had seemed to take forever, but had probably truly only been a few days by carriage. He only remembered bits and pieces, but the most vivid memory was the sight of the Hold rising above the trees. It was as impressive of a sight as he remembered.
The Golden Hold was still the largest building Brandon had ever seen. The walls alone towered at least three stories high, and the tallest parapets of the towers seemed to stretch higher than Brandon would have thought possible. The castle itself was situated on a high hill, encircled by a large, sturdy curtain wall made of a pale sandstone. The various buildings inside the walls were made of the same sandstone, roofed with dark slate tiles that gave the entire castle a sense of being under a stormcloud. Brandon felt dizzy as he looked up at the peaks of the towers, and he felt a familiar panic threaten to rise in his throat. He swallowed hard past it, and forced himself to keep walking.
Theoderic slowed his pace to fall back even with the rest of the group.
“Right then,” he said gruffly. “You all remember the cover story, yes?”
Brandon winced, but nodded. The group was to pretend to be a ducal entourage of sorts for Brandon. He would pretend as though he were still, by rights, heir to the Vermillion Keep, and the rest of the group would be his retainers.
Brandon’s mother had kept his flight from the Keep a secret, for now—by rights, his likeness should have been plastered across every noticeboard across the Houses. Except for Sir Kieran’s search party, though, the Fifth Law’s agents were confident that Philodora was keeping this secret as tightly as she could.
Brandon, worryingly, had no idea why. Perhaps she worried for the House’s reputation, or perhaps she hoped to sweep the whole incident under the proverbial rug.
Or, perhaps, Brandon thought darkly. She hopes to bring me in before word ever gets out. He winced again at the twist in his gut at the thought of throwing himself harder into the role of the Prince-Adept.
“Indeed,” Liana answered Theoderic, startling Brandon out of his train of thought. “Though, I must ask,” she continued. “Why must we be retainers of the Prince-Adept? Surely the reputation of a pair of former Magister-Adepts could carry us to the ball.”
Theoderic grimaced. “Emphasis on former,” he answered forcefully. “Your defection from the Magisterium caused quite the stir, you know.”
Liana scoffed, and Brandon noticed the barest hint of red rush to her cheeks. “Yes, I am aware,” she answered indignantly. “But House Citrine has had a fraught relationship with the Magisterium of late. Could we not play off of that to gain entry?”
“Perhaps,” Theoderic replied. “But it may be just as likely that they’d arrest you and turn you in, just to smooth that wrinkle over. Not a chance worth taking.”
Liana scoffed again, but quieted. Brandon was surprised at how bluntly Theoderic could speak to Liana and not be met with an immovable wall of mean-spirited sarcasm. It almost seemed as though she respected him—perhaps a great deal. Brandon wondered if it had something to do with Theoderic’s low birth.
Theoderic met Brandon’s gaze.
“You alright to do the talking here, kid?” Theoderic asked, gesturing vaguely at the Hold.
Brandon nodded. “I am,” he answered quietly, glancing at Liana to make sure she was too far to hear him. “All I must do is continue to pretend, after all.”
Thoeoderic grimaced, but nodded. “I’m sorry you have to do this, lass,” Theoderic replied, matching Brandon’s low volume. “This really could be our best shot.”
“I know,” Brandon answered. “‘Tis alright. As I said, I am already pretending. Why not make use of it?”
Theoderic’s mouth formed a thin, pressed line, but he nodded again. “Just take care of yourself, yeah?”
Brandon felt a shadow of pain on his arm, but he nodded silently.
Before long, the group was within sight of the Hold’s front gate. Plum stepped up to Brandon from where she’d been walking with Willam. She looped her arm through his and gave Brandon a small smile. Her presence at his side reassured him, and he took a deep breath before approaching the gate.
The gate itself was a massive wooden door, reinforced with bars of dark steel. A small group of guards stood watch around the gate. They each wore layered leather armor and a sturdy-looking steel helmet, and a tabard in the brilliant yellow of House Citrine. House Citrine’s flaming sigil was proudly emblazoned across the front of their tabards. Most held long, wicked-looking polearms.
One of the guards had steel half-plate instead of the layered leather armor, and had a wand at his belt in addition to the long polearm. Brandon guessed he was the senior officer here.
“Hail, travelers,” he called as Brandon approached. “What business have you at the Golden Hold?”
“Hail,” Brandon replied. “I am Prince-Adept Brandon Vermillion, of House Vermillion. My entourage and I are here for the Marquis’s ball.”
The guard captain narrowed his eyes. “We did not receive word that House Vermillion would be sending a delegation.”
Brandon forced his eyes to go wide, feigning surprise. “What?” he answered incredulously. “Our messengers never arrived? That is most concerning to hear. My mother sent word ahead, they should have arrived yesterday.”
The captain shifted uncomfortably. “We received no such messenger, milord.” He hesitated. “This is… unusual. The Great Houses usually arrive with more pageantry-” He stopped, and his face reddened as he recognized how casually he was speaking to a noble. “M- milord,” he stammered hurriedly.
Brandon floundered. He did not expect to get this much resistance before they even entered the castle, and he racked his brain for a response.
Before he could get one out, Plum scoffed.
“What is your name and rank, soldier?” she asked sharply. The guard captain flinched as if struck.
“A- Andar,” he stammered. “Captain Andar.”
“Captain Andar,” Plum repeated. She turned each syllable over in her mouth, rolling it around as if she were tasting a particularly rich vintage of wine.
“Y- yes, milady,” Andar said. “I apologize, milady, but I can not just let you in, you understand. The Marquis would have my head.”
“Of course,” Plum answered, waving her hand flippantly. “I would not expect you to. Perhaps instead you should summon the Marquis himself, and the Prince-Adept and I can explain exactly why we had to wait outside his castle after such a long and arduous journey…” she trailed off and raised an eyebrow at Andar, who paled.
“No!” he exclaimed, eyes going wide. “No, milady, that will not be necessary. The Marquis would never expect me to withhold entry from a member of a Great House. I… do you have any way to prove your identity?”
Plum sighed. “Of course we do,” she said, reaching for the wand at her hip. She flourished her wand in second position and quickly drew a complex sigil in the air. Brandon tried to follow the red afterimage, but her movements were too quick and complex. The guards seemed equally overwhelmed by her dizzying movements.
Plum closed the sigil with a flourish, and Brandon felt his body grow heavy for a brief moment as Plum drew red mana from his body.
Brandon felt, rather than saw, Plum’s mana rush into the soil around them. He felt a pressure as dozens—no, hundreds—of flowers burst through the soil. Red and white petals blanketed the ground in heartbeats, and Brandon felt a surge of admiration. Plum’s command of her mana was characteristically perfect. He heard a whistle of appreciation from Willam behind him.
Andar gaped at the blooms as they spread, at least 15 feet in any direction from Plum. Roses, poppies, orchids—countless flowers sprouted, and within a few seconds they formed into the familiar sigil of House Vermillion.
“Is that proof enough for you,” Plum asked derisively. “Captain Andar?”
Andar met her eyes and swallowed hard. “Yes- um, yes, milady, I think that is proof enough. Open the gate!” He shouted the last part over his shoulder to a small knot of guards at the entrance to what Brandon assumed was the gatehouse. They did not move, wide-eyed as they were, until Andar barked again at them and they jumped into action. “And send a runner to the Marquis!” he added.
The massive wooden door soon creaked open, and Andar made to move. He stopped as his foot did not move. He glanced down, and Brandon saw that Plum’s flowers had grown over his feet, tangling them in place. Liana snickered at his struggle as Plum strided forward, pulling Brandon with her.
“Thank you very much, captain,” Plum said casually, as the group moved through the door and into the courtyard of the Golden Hold.
Once they were through, Brandon leaned in close to whisper in Plum’s ear.
“Was it truly necessary to tie his feet down, too?” Brandon asked.
“No,” Plum answered conspiratorially. “But ‘twas rather funny.”
Before long, a flock of servants descended on the group. A butler, an aging man in black-and-white clothing, approached Brandon with a deep bow.
“Prince-Adept Vermillion?” the butler asked. “If you would please come with me. The Marquis wishes to speak with you.”
Brandon glanced at Plum. “Very well. Plumeria?” he asked, offering his arm. Plum took it, and the butler hesitated, but said nothing as gestured for them to follow.
“The rest of your entourage will be shown to their room,” the butler said as Brandon and Plum followed him towards the main keep. “You have my personal assurance that they will be well cared for.”
“I thank you, sirrah,” Brandon said. “And I do apologize for the… inconvenience our arrival must have brought you and your staff.”
The butler tutted. “‘Tis no inconvenience at all, my lord. We are honored to serve.” Brandon’s mind flashed unbidden to his own House’s servants, and he shuddered.
The butler led them to a lavish solar in the upper reaches of the keep. Brandon found himself winded after the climb up at least twelve flights of stairs, and the butler bowed again as he ushered Plum and Brandon into the room.
“Please make yourselves comfortable,” he said amicably. “The Marquis shall be with you shortly.” With that he closed the door, and Brandon found himself alone with Plum in the Marquis’s solar.
He sat heavily on a large, soft chair near the center of the room. The room itself was ornate, made of the same yellow sandstone as the rest of the Hold, but inlaid with swirls of yellow jade and gold. The furniture was comfortable and made of pale, finely carved wood and padded with deep golden cushions, and a massive writing desk sat in front of a large window that looked out over the courtyard of the Hold.
The ceiling of the room was domed, and there was a beautifully painted mural on the underside. It was a familiar depiction of the First Radiance, star of the Sovereign bright on his forehead, as he placed a golden crown on the head of an equally golden-eyed woman. The woman knelt before him, wearing a shining suit of armor, and an ornate coiled wand sat at her hip. Brandon recognized the scene as the Brightening of Ceara Citrine, the first of the founding members of the Great Houses to swear fealty to Radiance during the First Darkening.
Plum glanced up at the mural as well, and rolled her eyes.
“Ostentatious,” she said derisively, and then sat in the chair next to Brandon. “How long do you suppose we shall have to wait?”
“I suspect just long enough to become uncomfortable,” Brandon answered sardonically. Plum laughed and nodded, then leaned her head on his shoulder.
“Are you doing well, love?” she asked softly, and Brandon felt a tension release from his shoulders that he hadn’t even realized he’d been carrying.
“I am well, Plum,” he said, forcing a smile that Plum could not see. “This is going well!”
“Indeed,” Plum responded slowly. She squeezed Brandon’s hand and straightened in her chair. She blessed him with a small smile, and then jumped at a knock at the door.
“‘Twas fast,” Brandon said quietly, and then, louder: “Come in!”
The door opened, and Brandon was greeted by the sight of the largest man he had ever seen.
Marquis Dolamn Citrine towered in the doorway. He was at least seven feet tall, and wide enough that Brandon was shocked as he stepped through the doorway without having to turn sideways. His golden hair was cut short enough that it was hard to see, and equally golden eyes peered out from underneath his heavyset brow. Those eyes betrayed a keen intelligence that his size might cause some to underestimate, but Brandon was well aware of his reputation. They’d met a handful of times, years ago, but even still, the man was intimidating.
Brandon and Plum both rose to their feet as the Marquis entered, the habits of courtly life taking hold before their thoughts caught up. Dolamn waved a hand at them, gesturing for them to remain seated, as he seated himself at the far side of the massive desk. In front of his massive frame, the desk looked barely larger than average.
Dolamn leaned back in his chair and regarded the two magicians. Silence reigned in the room for a few moments, and Brandon felt sweat beading on the back of his neck. Radiance, ‘tis warm in here, he thought tensely.
“This is… irregular,” Dolamn said after what felt like an eternity. His voice was deep and resonant, and Brandon imagined he could feel it rattling the bones in his own chest.
“Indeed, Your Grace, and I do apologize for the intrusion-” Brandon began.
“The intrusion is not at issue here, Prince-Adept,” the Marquis interrupted, waving his hand dismissively again. “The invitation to the ball to celebrate the engagement of my son was an open one, and members of the Great Houses are always welcome at the Golden Hold.” He paused, just long enough for Brandon to think that he was expecting a reply.
“Then-”
“What is at issue,” he interrupted again. “Is the letter that I received from your mother.” Brandon’s heart threatened to fall through the floor as the Marquis opened a desk drawer and pulled out a letter, rummaging briefly to find the correct one. He unfolded the letter with one hand, his other retrieving a pair of spectacles from the desk and putting them on. The lenses seemed miniscule on his enormous face.
“‘To His Grace, the Marquis Dolamn Citrine,’” he began to read. “‘It is with my deepest regrets that I must inform you of our inability to attend your son’s engagement ball. I, and my House, shall unfortunately be indisposed in regards to all social events for the foreseeable future. I wish your son and soon-to-be good-daughter the best, and may their union shine under Radiance’s light.’” He put the letter and spectacles down and looked back at Plum and Brandon.
“There is more, but naught else relevant. You see my dilemma, yes?”
Brandon’s head swam. Indisposed? he thought. That is her story?
“Your Grace, I-” he began.
“I see three potential ways to reconcile this,” Dolamn interrupted. Brandon stuffed down a surge of irritation. He wants me to get angry, he thought. I am better than that.
“Either you, or this letter, could be a fake,” Dolamn continued. “”Tis unlikely the letter is fake, considering the channels it came through, and the mana seal she placed on it. If ‘tis a fake, ‘tis a very good one.
“As for you, the display from young Miss Plumeria was quite convincing, according to Captain Andar. I choose to trust the judgement of my men and mine own eyes in this matter.”
“‘Convincing,’ was I?” Plum asked wryly, and Brandon shot her a glance.
“I assure you-” Brandon began.
“Alternatively,” he continued, barging over Brandon’s words yet again. “Philodora changed her mind.” He smirked wryly. “I have known that woman for nigh on four decades, and I have never known her to change her mind.
“That leaves option three.” He leaned forward, and Brandon shifted in his seat, uncomfortable under his gaze and still suppressing frustration. “You are here against your mother’s wishes. Now that could be interesting.” His lips curled from a smirk into a smile, and Brandon felt like a specimen under a looking glass.
“So tell me, young Master Vermillion,” Dolamn said, almost casually. “Why are you truly here?”
Brandon floundered. He hadn’t expected anything like this, but in hindsight it was obvious. Of course she would cut off my avenues for refuge, he thought. Why would she let me go that easily?
I have to think of something, he thought, his mind racing. Plum had tensed like a coiled spring, hand at her hip. She glanced back and forth between the Marquis and Brandon, and Brandon subtly lifted a hand to signal her to calm down. She relaxed fractionally, but her hand stayed at her hip.
“Your Grace,” Brandon began carefully. “Might I be truly honest with you?”
“I should hope you would be, Prince-Adept.”
Brandon took a breath. The best lies are closest to the truth, he thought, remembering his last conversation with Laszlo in the courtyard of Keep Vermillion.
“My mother has cast me out,” Brandon said eventually. Plum glanced at him sharply, but Brandon smiled at her gently to reassure her.
“She has cast me out,” he said again. “Because I had the spine to disagree with her. She has disinherited me and cast me from her House, and I have come here seeking refuge from your House.”
Dolamn was silent for a moment. He regarded Brandon keenly, as if searching for something in him.
This was a gamble on Brandon’s part. He hoped that Dolamn would see the political use of harboring a disinherited scion of his great rival, and would let him stay purely for his own gain.
He feared that Dolamn would send him back to Philodora.
Dolamn sniffed and leaned back in his chair again. Brandon felt ready to explode with tension.
“I am grateful for your trust, Prince-Adept,” Dolamn said eventually. Brandon felt the tension release from him like a string that had been cut.
“Houze Citrine shall shelter you,” Dolamn continued. “I suspect that there is more to this disinheritance than you say, but the Golden Hold has long been a place of refuge for those seeking shelter from the other Houses.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Brandon said, relieved. “I hope to repay your generosity one day.”
Dolamn sniffed again. “Indeed. For now, you shall have access to all the comforts and privileges of a life under my roof.” He paused. “Though, naturally, my guards shall have to keep a close watch on you. For your protection, of course.”
Brandon felt a surge of panic, but nodded. “Of course, Your Grace, and ‘tis greatly appreciated.”
Dolamn nodded. “My butler shall show you to our guest chambers. I shall have more permanent lodgings prepared for you after the ball—I fear we are rather tight for space at the moment.”
Brandon nodded, and made to stand.
“And Prince-Adept?” Dolamn added, and Brandon froze.
“We shall see you at the upcoming ball, yes?”
Brandon relaxed. Of course Dolamn would wish to show off his new prize.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Brandon answered. “We are looking forward to it.”
“Good,” Dolamn replied. “Now please, go seek some rest. I am sure your journey here was no small feat.”
Plum snorted, but Brandon glanced at her sharply.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Brandon said again, and turned to leave.
Well, he thought, as he left the room to meet the butler again. This just got a lot more complicated.
A few hours later, Brandon found himself atop the tallest tower of the Golden Hold with Plum. They’d explained away their lack of luggage to the servants, and had quickly gotten settled into their temporary lodgings. He’d needed some fresh air, and figured that the height of the keep would make a stunning view.
He’d been right. From atop the Hold’s keep tower, he could see miles in any direction. He found himself looking to the west, towards the blossoming sunset and the distant Keep Vermillion. Would his mother act in earnest against him? News of his arrival at the Hold would spread fast—would she take action? Try to bring him home to face her?
He sighed deeply. Those questions could be for another day. Plum leaned against him to his left, and he leaned his head to rest on top of hers. She hummed softly, and Brandon closed his eyes. He let the gentle breeze wash over him. He thought he could smell the barest hint of an oncoming rain, and he let himself pretend, just for a moment, that it was just himself and Plum again.
“So ‘tis true, then,” came a voice from behind them.
Brandon jumped, and Plum whirled, hand already reaching for her wand. Brandon felt his face grow pale, but he put a hand on her arm to stop her once he recognized the speaker.
Prince-Magician Caliburn Citrine stood across the tower from them. He was much smaller than his father, barely taller than Brandon, and wore a perfectly tailored, silky tunic in the vibrant yellow and sable of his House. A long ribbon, gold and shimmery, flapped from his waist, and an ornate ivory wand sat languidly at his hip.
He stepped closer to Brandon and Plum, throwing his arms out as if he were speaking to a crowd.
“The Prince-Adept of House Vermillion himself, running to my father with his tail tucked between his legs, begging for shelter.” He laughed, a sound that made Brandon think of rich wine being poured into a glass. “You have truly stepped in it now, Vermillion.”
As he stepped closer, Brandon got a good look at his face. It was narrow and delicate, but with cheekbones that seemed sharp enough to cut glass. His face was perfectly clean-shaven, and his hair—wavy and a vibrant blonde that was perhaps closer to yellow—flowed down just past his chin like cashmere curtains. His eyes were the same shade of gold as the ribbon at his waist, and looking into them, Brandon felt, rather than saw, the contempt and arrogance that he remembered.
Brandon had met Caliburn only a handful of times before. They were about the same age, and the most memorable was when they couldn’t have been older than twelve. Caliburn and his father had come to Keep Vermillion for a mid-summer ball that Philodora had staged. She’d then proceeded to spend the entirety of the ball acting as though Caliburn was the ideal prince, and ceaselessly commanding Brandon to be more like him.
And even then, he’d been insufferable.
“Caliburn,” Brandon answered stiffly. Best to not let him rile you, he thought.
“And to think,” Caliburn continued, as though Brandon hadn’t even spoken. “I once looked forward to the two of us sharing the next generation of power in this country.” He scoffed. “A shame, really.”
“I suppose that means you have one less rival to worry about,” Brandon replied carefully.
“Rival?” Caliburn scoffed again, louder this time. “I hardly considered you a rival, Vermillion. Perhaps more of an… example.”
“An example?”
“Yes,” he answered, an infuriating smirk sneaking its way across his face. “Of how not to be princely.”
Plum’s lip curled, and she made to take another step forward, but Brandon stopped her again with a hand on her arm.
“And who is this?” Caliburn asked, raising an eyebrow in Plum’s direction. “Your bodyguard?” He smirked again. “Or perhaps she is a rather more… unsavory sort of companion.”
Brandon felt his face grow hot with anger. “Do not speak of her that way,” he said, surprising even himself with the intensity of his tone.
Caliburn raised his eyebrow fractionally farther, and then chuckled, falling into a deep and mocking bow.
“Prince-Magician Caliburn Citrine, at your service, my lady,” he said, his eyes never leaving Plum’s. “And you are?”
“Plumeria,” she answered tersely.
“Plumeria,” Caliburn repeated. “A pleasure, I am sure.” He straightened, turning back to Brandon.
“So, Vermillion,” he said casually. “Have you formal clothes for the ball? I heard you arrived with naught but the clothes on your back.” The mirth in his eyes was almost palpable.
With no small effort, Brandon pushed down his anger and irritation. Is that truly all it takes for him to infuriate me? he thought. Thirty seconds of conversation? He shook his head. Come on, Brandon, you have a job to do.
He took a quick breath and met Caliburn’s eyes again.
“Caliburn,” he said slowly. “There is another reason why we are here.”
“Oh, I am sure,” Caliburn replied, waving a hand. “But surely it can not be as pressing as your…” he trailed off, glancing down at Brandon’s tunic. “…fashion choice,” he finished eventually.
“Much more,” Brandon answered, willing his teeth not to clench. “May we speak somewhere more… private?”
Caliburn raised an eyebrow again, and then laughed. “Later, perhaps,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “I only came to gloat.” He said the last part with infuriating bravado.
“This is important, Citrine.”
Caliburn sniffed. “Fine then,” he replied. “This is as good a place as any. Say your piece.”
Brandon hesitated, suddenly doubting himself. Is this truly a safe place? How should I even bring this up? He opened his mouth, and then shut it, and then opened it again.
“Oh, Radiance,” Caliburn muttered. “Spit it out, Vermillion.”
“Alonzo,” Brandon spat, and then felt a surge of pleasure as Caliburn’s face turned ashen.
“I- you- where did you hear that name?” he hissed, stepping closer. He stopped as Plum’s hand went to her wand again.
“Now can we speak in private?” Brandon demanded.
Caliburn hesitated, and then nodded.
“Fine,” he said. “Meet me in my father’s solar in twenty minutes. ‘Tis the safest place to talk.” He turned to go, but paused. “And do not speak that name anywhere else in this castle.” He was gone before Brandon could reply.
“I want to kill that boy,” Plum said tartly once he was gone. Brandon snorted, and took one last glance at the western sky before heading for the stairs back down into the Hold.
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