Chapter 16 – Supply and Demand

Shaelith stood in the guest quarters and looked at the motley crew standing before her with exactly the same feeling she always had when she sent one of the problem students off to take the Sorceress exam. If you were unlucky, you were seeing them for the last time.

“So, once again,” she said in Tulvian, her arms crossed in front of her chest. “You only speak when you are directly addressed. You don’t stare at anyone, especially not the Matriarchs. You don’t make demands, you don’t issue challenges, and YOU-” She fixed Benderast with a piercing gaze. “-don’t hit on anyone unless you want to wake up castrated in the basement of one of the palaces.”

Benderast’s eyes lit up. “I have to say, these constant warnings are quite atmospheric. In terms of worldbuilding, I like it here so far.”

Okay, his problem. When he wakes up in several large chunks tomorrow morning, I can say with a clear conscience that I tried everything.

Grimbart groaned softly and rubbed his forehead with his chronosteel hand. Thaelon looked as if he already regretted ever leaving his forest, and Mirrsoss’ antennae twitched nervously back and forth.

“Benderast,” Grimbart tried, painfully, with almost fatherly patience, “this isn’t a game. These matriarchs could have us all killed, and no one would ask a single question.”

“Exactly!” Benderast grinned broadly. “That’s what makes it exciting!”

Shaelith took a deep breath. Patience. You survived twenty years of Shaeravyn politics. You can put up with Ben for one more day, and then he can go fuck off.

“Listen,” she said with forced calm. “The Matriarchs will ask you questions. Answer honestly, but keep it short. No rambling and no confusing stories about classes or statistics or other worlds or any of the other weird stuff that keeps falling out of your mouth. Understood?”

“Understood!” Benderast saluted exuberantly.

You understand absolutely nothing, doofus.

~

The path to the Court of the Council of Matriarchs led deep into the heart of Myzelemaerlazin, through several guarded gates. As they entered the council chamber after Shaelith, Mirrsoss gasped. Even Grimbart, who usually gave nothing away, sighed briefly.

The circular hall stretched out before them in all its splendor. Seven thrones made of living mycelium rose from the floor, each uniquely shaped, each a masterpiece of mycelium cultivation. The throne of House Vyrnara grew in elegant, upward-reaching, intertwined columns. Rynalazel’s was more angular, aggressive, with sharp edges like poisoned thorns. And Zinvere’s seat seemed ancient, weathered, and fused with the building, as if it had been here before the city itself existed, a bit like their matriarch herself.

Spicy spores hung in the air, scattered from obscenely expensive rare mushroom varieties, and their complex scent settled like a heavy blanket over the entire room.

In the outer ring sat the Matriarch’s daughters, advisors, and other select nobles as observers. As always, the seating arrangement was a political map to the trained eye. House Arazesre and Yndrala formed a bloc leaning toward Rynalazel. Delzyndra kept a cautious distance, but with a subtle inclination toward Vyrnara. Surprisingly, Baerelin and Zinvere had also moved closer to Vyrnara.

The matriarchs themselves were already seated on their thrones. Morvelith Baerelin sat bolt upright, drumming her fingers on the armrest. Xarini Rynalazel smiled as cheerfully as ever, with all the joy of two weeks of diarrhea. Thravilith Arazesre looked up as Shaelith entered the room and her waxy face became even more rigid.

Ixalenre Zinvere, the ancient, blind matriarch, sat motionless, her head slightly tilted, on her overgrown throne, and Shaelith noticed that the gaze of her milky eyes was surprisingly directed in their direction. More precisely, at Benderast.

Strange. Can she even see us? Why is she staring at Benderast like that? I mean, the new body he arrived here with isn’t exactly ugly, and there’s no accounting for taste, but I would have thought she was a bit old… well, what do I care.

Laenre’s gaze briefly swept over Shaelith and they exchanged a tiny, barely perceptible nod.

The audience fell silent. The council meeting would begin at any moment.

Showtime.

~

“The Luminous Shaelith Vyrnara will report to the Council,” announced Morvelith Baerelin, who presided over the Council in times of war, in Tulvian. “The Council has decided by majority vote to conduct the proceedings in Tulvian so that all guests can follow.”

Rynalazel laughed brightly, but Baerelin simply ignored her.

Shaelith stepped in front of the large obsidian table in the middle of the hall and bowed with just the right amount of respect to the assembled Matriarchs. By the time she reached Rynalazel, she was already standing almost upright again.

“Honorable Matriarchs,” she said in a clear, measured voice in Tulvian. “The ambush on my convoy was anything but a normal goblin raid. I saw confirmation of all the reports we have received from our troops and officers in the field since the beginning of the war. The attacking goblins used unusually coordinated tactics, magic-imbued arrows, and, as it turns out-” She activated a glyph near her elbow and used the shimmering spores to project an image above the obsidian desk. “-are being commanded, or rather controlled, by a leader in crimson armor. It is a presumed human warlock, and it is his magic that allows the goblins to penetrate our shields.”

A murmur went through the assembly, but the Matriarchs remained silent. Shaelith would have been surprised if they hadn’t already been informed.

“Those of us who survived were taken to a goblin breeding kennel,” she continued, pausing briefly. There was no reason to go into the details of the breeding kennels in front of the assembled council. Everyone knew what went on there. “There, we were freed by this group of adventurers.”

She pointed to Benderast and his group, who were standing a few steps behind her at the edge of the room. Grimbart had his arms crossed, Thaelon looked as if he wanted to sink into the ground, and Mirrsoss fluttered her wings nervously.

“The warlock himself-”

“-was extremely OP!” Benderast stepped forward enthusiastically. “He had some pretty crazy artifacts! I think that was the main reason he was so hard to take down. His armor had pretty good stats and seemed to have magic resistance, and his huge mace had these strange runes…”

Ben. NO.

“…and anyway, his movement speed was really a bit over the top for a plate wearer, that really didn’t seem well balanced to me.”

The Matriarchs stared at Benderast. Even Zinvere seemed confused, although her blind gaze was difficult to interpret.

Xarini Rynalazel cleared her throat with a smile that did not bode well. “How… fascinating.” Her voice dripped with feigned politeness. “House Vyrnara must be so grateful that their most precious daughter was rescued by these… eccentric strangers.”

Sure, here it comes…

“It is only fitting, of course,” Rynalazel continued, “that this hero and his companions be fairly compensated. After all, it was obviously… impossible for House Vyrnara to free their own daughter from the mess she got herself into.”

Shaelith felt the heat of humiliation rising. But before she could react, Laenre’s voice rose slowly.

“Of course House Vyrnara will reward the heroes generously,” her mother said with a smile that could freeze ice. “Fortunately, my daughter managed to turn this misfortune into a triumph. Not only have we gathered extremely important information, but among those rescued is Princess Obelaine, daughter of King Gelsevier, Triarch of Tulvia.”

A surprised murmur rippled through the ranks.

“Misfortune can befall even the best. It is a great virtue,” Laenre continued gently, “and a sign of competence to make the best of a bad situation. It is a skill that not everyone is blessed with.” Her gaze shifted to Rynalazel. “Some have the best starting position, taking over wealthy, respected houses at the height of their power… only to run them into the ground.”

Thravilith Arazesre coughed suspiciously, and Suryenre Yndrala turned away to renew one of her hair braids with sudden great care.

Rynalazel’s eyes narrowed to slits. But she remained silent.

I love you, Mother.

“Let’s put these games aside. If this information is correct, and I have no doubt that it is, then we must launch a targeted attack on this warlock’s fortress,” Baerelin explained. “We need a massive offensive.”

“That’s a waste of resources,” Rynalazel coolly disagreed. “A precise strike against the head of the snake would be much more efficient. My elite assassins can eliminate this maggot without us having to wage a costly campaign with many casualties. The war is already bleeding us dry.”

“I must disagree,” Delzyndra interjected. “This warlock wields a magic we do not understand yet, one that can penetrate our shields and against which we currently have no defense. He must be captured alive so that we can study his methods.”

“Alive?” Baerelin snorted. “And how many of our people are supposed to die trying?”

“It’s a matter of weighing the possible alternatives. If this warlock’s methods can be reproduced,” Delzyndra replied calmly, “and fall into the hands of other enemies, then many more of us will die.”

The debate raged back and forth. Laenre argued in favor of working with the allies to implement all proposals at once and force the warlock to surrender through a targeted offensive and covert attacks or eliminate him if there was no other option.

While the Matriarchs debated, Shaelith noticed that the silent Zinvere was still watching in their direction. The ancient Matriarch was still staring at Benderast with disturbing intensity.

He approached Shaelith from behind and leaned down so close that his mouth was right next to her ear, his breath tickling her. “I’m not very familiar with your customs. That shriveled one… is she flirting with me?”

Shaelith flinched and was about to hiss at Ben to shut up because he was way too loud when suddenly-

Crimson light flooded into the chamber from a point directly above the obsidian table.

Shaelith’s heart pounded and she activated several of her protective glyphs.

That’s impossible.

The protective spells of this hall were ancient and powerful, glyph upon glyph written into the mycelium by generations of the Shaeravyn’s finest sorceresses.

“INTRUDER!” Guards stormed in, swords drawn, and dozens of sorceresses, even Matriarchs, hastily activated their glyphs, causing the room to buzz with mana and the sorceresses to light up one after the other like a suburban street just before Christmas.

However, there was no physical intruder there.

A shimmering, unreal projection materialized above the large obsidian table, as if it had been poured into the room out of nowhere. First, the crown-like helmet was visible, then the crimson armor, and finally he stood before them as an apparition.

The Warlock.

“Good morning, ladies,” said the cultured voice. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

The projection moved to the side, revealing-

Shaelith stopped breathing.

Vyriz.

Her cousin hung in chains from a stone wall, his face swollen and bloody, and his left hand… missing a finger.

“Fortunately,” the warlock continued, “this lover of our enchanting Princess tried to rescue her. As you can see though, he was not quite as successful as he had hoped. Now he is a prisoner himself.”

“By now, you will have realized that yes, it is true, I control the goblin tribes,” said the warlock, as if chatting about the weather. “I could end this war tomorrow. Or let it last a century. I will decide on a whim.”

His projection turned, and suddenly he spoke directly to Shaelith. It wasn’t good that he had such a clear view of the room.

“Princess.” The word dripped with scorn. “You and your… Hero… you caught me off guard. Shouldn’t have started that damn monologue of course, but it creeps up on you. That little cave collapse almost got me.” A soft laugh. “But that wouldn’t have been a good story. Narratively very unsatisfying. Instead, this strapping lad ran into me. Come and get your friend, Princess. I’ll wait for you.”

The projection casually grabbed Vyriz’s already mutilated hand.

“But you and your Hero had better hurry, Princess. He only has a limited number of limbs left.”

Vyriz’s raw, desperate scream echoed through the chamber as the Crimson Warlock squeezed his hand hard before the projection faded and chaos erupted.

“He broke our banishing spells!”

“The deep mycelium is compromised!”

“How did this human worm-”

Shaelith paid no attention. She stood motionless, Vyriz’s face still before her eyes.

Vyriz. My magnificent, courageous, foolish Vyriz. I must get you out of there.

A hand rested on her shoulder and she was about to turn around and snap at Ben, but it was Mirrsoss. Ben just stood there, looking sheepish, and at least managed to keep his mouth shut.

Slowly, calm returned.

“He must die,” said Baerelin with a deadly expression on his face. “By any means necessary.”

“Without him, the goblins are leaderless,” added Yndrala. “The war would be practically over.”

The Matriarchs nodded, united as rarely before.

“I’m going!”

Benderast’s voice cut through the discussion like a sword. He stepped forward resolutely.

“My party and I will take out the warlock!”

His companions behind him looked at him as if he had lost his mind.

“Benderast! Are you crazy?” hissed Grimbart.

“We’ve fought him before,” Benderast continued, without mentioning that they had almost died in the process. “And next time I’ll be even stronger! I’ll farm some XP on the way, maybe do a few side quests, and then I’ll be able to crush this guy easily.”

“You… you want to farm?” Delzyndra sounded genuinely confused. “I’m not familiar with the plant you’re talking about, but I’m not entirely sure that this threat can be defeated with agricultural means.”

“Scholars can discuss his strange choice of words elsewhere,” Laenre interrupted coolly. “The meaning of what he said is clear. This human warrior is offering to eliminate the warlock.” Her gaze was calculating. “And what would be your price?”

Benderast grinned broadly. “What do you have to offer?”

A quick exchange of glances between the Matriarchs.

“Gold,” said Yndrala.

“Nah.”

“Magical artifacts from our treasure chambers,” Delzyndra offered.

“Boring.”

“Lands in the border regions,” suggested Baerelin.

“I don’t need that.”

“Aah, I see.” Arazesre leaned forward, a knowing smile on her lips. “We could arrange a concubine contract. There are certainly suitable daughters from smaller houses. Some houses value interesting bloodlines.”

Benderast weighed his head back and forth. “A concubine would be cool. But not just any concubine.”

Shaelith felt a chill run down her spine.

Surely he wouldn’t-

Benderast turned around and pointed directly at her.

“I want her.”