Caster of Nets

[Daniil]

The 3rd Age

Lugard, Murandy 

The Forsaken, Bel'rik 

---

The screams did not carry far in Lugard anymore.

A crowd had gathered in the southern amphitheater of the city, a great open bowl carved into the stone of the hills where once, it was whispered, the kings of Murandy had been crowned beneath the stars. Now, the stars bore witness to other things. Bloodier things.

The night air hung heavy with smoke and perfume, sweetened by the scent of burning oils and roasted meats, yet undercut by the copper tang of blood. Torches lined the stepped terraces, their flames whipped by the wind, casting shadows across the faces of hundreds of citizens, merchants, and low nobles. They leaned forward, some cheering, others grimacing, as the duel below reached its end.

One man knelt, his arm severed at the elbow. The victor stood: a woman with shaved temples and blood spattered across her bare chest. She raised her cudgel high, and the crowd screamed as it came down.

From the highest terrace, beneath a gilded awning, Lord Dmitry do’Bourdeau a’Marucci of House Marucci, High Seat and Patron of the Arena of Binding Grace clapped once. Slowly. Lightly.

"Poetic," he murmured, voice as smooth as silk soaked in wine.

He reclined, lounging like a cat amid the cushions of his viewing dais. His coat, Murandian cut, was of black-and-violet brocade, embroidered with wisteria vines that trailed down the sleeves in silver thread. His fingers, long and adorned with rings of lapis and emerald, toyed with a glass of red wine that he had yet to sip.

"She showed restraint, at first," he said, to no one in particular. "That made the ending so much more entertaining. She is a natural."

Around him, attendants murmured soft affirmations. One woman, a Domani, leaned in to refill his goblet. Another, a broad-shouldered man in Seanchan livery, waited quietly with a lacquered scroll tucked under one arm.

Bel'rik did not look at either of them. His eyes remained on the arena floor, where the victorious woman was escorted away by guards in black lacquered masks. Her opponent lay unmoving.

"The illusion of mercy breeds deeper despair when it is stripped away," he said. "Let that be tonight’s lesson."

He finally turned to the Seanchan messenger. "You’ll make sure the king receives my request for a levy of new laborers from the outlying villages."

"Yes, my Lord. Selection has already begun."

"Tell him not to select the strong. I want the desperate. The broken. The ones who would sell a sibling for a crust of bread. They fight best when they believe in hope."

The messenger bowed. The Domani woman smiled faintly, though her eyes were far away. Bel'rik studied her for a heartbeat longer than was comfortable. He said nothing.

---

The night ride to the Marucci estate was not far: less than a league through Lugard's eastern quarter, but Bel’rik insisted on the full procession each time. It was spectacle, yes, but also a signal. The Seanchan might have cowed the city, but Lord Dmitry do’Bourdeau a’Marucci was the one who offered it up on a silver platter.

A dozen lanterns hung from silver poles, carried before his palanquin by mute servants in robes. Seanchan soldiers, impassive and austere, rode flanking him on both sides, their insectile helmets gleaming in the torchlight. Behind, a tail of House guards in dyed crimson and black formed a second, more theatrical escort. The contrast was not lost on anyone who watched.

Children watched from allies. Merchants stilled their hands. The streetwalkers bowed low. Inside his litter, Bel’rik reclined amid velvet and silks, his gloved hand absently tracing a carved armrest. The wheels beneath him jolted slightly at a stone rut, and he sighed.

“Wooden axles and horse sweat,” he spat. “And yet they call this a capital.” The Seanchan officer to his left inclined his head. "Your pardon, my Lord. Had we known you would ride tonight, we would have paved the route."

"Yes, yes. Perhaps next time, with ivory," he rolled his eyes, recalling the glass roads in the Courts of Relketh. But they wouldn't know of such things.

The officer said nothing, as expected. He appreciated that about the Seanchan. Loyal. Controlled. Efficient.

When the gates of the Marucci estate opened, Bel’rik’s procession rolled into a manor illuminated by a hundred lanterns. Slaves noted his arrival, holding aloft flowering branches from the estate's groves. The air was thick with the sound of strings plucked in minor keys and fountains bubbling away. The whole façade was as much prison as it was palace: a monument to beauty crushed beneath a time that did not deserve it.

He paused only long enough to let his boots be changed (not cleaned, changed) and his outer cloak taken. The bloodied elegance of the pits still clung to him like a second skin, and he wished to wear it a moment longer.

"Is the east wing prepared for tomorrow?" He asked his manservant who met him at the door. "Lord Othram and his Seanchan bride will require distraction. Perhaps another duel. Lovers, this time. One must weep."

"Yes, my Lord."

He passed through the frescoed halls, works commissioned in his image, of course, and down the steps into the conservatory, where the torches dimmed and the air cooled.

Lanterns hung in brass cages above a small, enclosed garden. Mist hissed gently from pipes in the floor, keeping the humidity perfect. Dozens of glass cases lined the walls, each housing a different bloom. He stopped before one: a deep violet blossom, its petals striated with crimson, like veins in marble.

"Callica moralis," he said aloud. "They used to say these only bloomed in the Terranean heights. A miracle they survived this long on such uncivilized lands."

He plucked a small silver knife from his belt and delicately trimmed a curling stem.

Durrick Ladei was millennia gone. That man had died before the War of Power, speaking truths no one listened to. Bel'rik had been born in his place, sharpened by failure, honed by centuries of bitter clarity. The world had not been saved by the Light. It had only been delayed in its dying. Still. There was elegance in decline in all things. All things except his blooms.

The door behind him opened without a knock. That alone was enough to make him turn, slowly. His attendants knew better. A lean man in courier's garb stood there, face shadowed by the torch behind him. He bowed.

"Apologies, my Lord. He would not wait. He has a message for you. Says it is urgent."

"He?"

The messenger stepped aside.

Beyond him, in the hall, stood a figure cloaked in dust-colored robes. Not Seanchan. Not local. And not expected. At first he thought it was someone else, but there was enough gleam of the jaw to discern it was not who he imagined.

Bel'rik's hand tightened on the orchid stem until it split in two. Then he slipped the bloom into his lapel.

"Let him in," he said.