Penitent-Chapter 225 Book 4 Ch 6: When it Tains

Michael considered the obvious solution, but didn't reach for his blade.

"Tain. It's been a while. Would you like to come in?"

The young man hesitated, his eyes still wide, then he nodded and stepped inside letting Michael close the door.

"Why are you here?" he asked, then he looked around the room noticing Marcus, Ollie, and Pyotr.

"I'm afraid we'll need you to answer that same question first," replied Michael, standing in front of the door and blocking Tain's only means of escape.

Tain, surprisingly, relaxed his shoulders. He had a terrible kind of acceptance in his eyes that wrenched at Michael's heart. He had been cruel in the academy, and contemptuous of takers, but so had many. He had no signs of cruelty or arrogance anymore, just defeat. Below that though… Michael could swear there was something else. Something of a divine spark.

"I had heard that an ambassador from Old Hume was here. I had hoped to volunteer to fight the rifts."

"Why?" asked Marcus.

He shrugged. "The only thing I have left is fighting, and the war against Tusinya isn't worth fighting for anymore."

Michael frowned. "That's not all, is it?" he asked.

Tain shook his head. "I had a dream. I was told there was always a fight worth fighting. I heard a name at the end of it. Durand."

Michael put a hand on his shoulder, allowing himself to hear the whispers of the gods again and hearing Durand's roaring approval for the young man in front of him.

"Durand was right. Our fight is worthy, and it would benefit from a young man like you being a part of it."

As he spoke Michael healed the young man. He left the superficial scars, but he could sense dozens of places where he'd been permanently damaged in battle. The fact that he was even standing and walking normally was incredible. When he was done Tain was flexing his hands and taking a full deep breath for the first time since his lung had been punctured.

"I don't remember your healing being this good before."

"It wasn't."

"Who, or what, is Durand?"

"The god of strength. One of the six that was once one as the divine. It seems he's taken an interest in you."

He shook his head. "I'd been hearing about gods. Some of the men have been praying. I considered it a waste of time."

"Even if the only purpose it serves is to make you feel better, then it's not a waste of time."

Tain's eyes narrowed. "Wait, so you're all serving in Old Hume now? And why are you here?"

"Yes, we serve Old Hume. It's safe for takers there as long as you fight against the rifts," said Marcus. "As to why we're here, the ambassador wanted people who've fought the rifts up close to be with him when he talked to the King. Though… we're not here as takers."

Tain nodded. The explanation made sense to him, but then Michael had never thought the boy was very bright. Given the deadness in his eyes and his new attitude it was possible he may have actually been on their side if they told him their real reason for being there, but there was no reason to risk it.

"Let's talk to Shreve. Maybe when our business is done here he can arrange to have you join us on our ship back to Old Hume where you can join the fighting."

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He nodded, and they all made their way to the parlor where Shreve was waiting, a fresh pot of tea ready. Bayle had vanished somewhere during the conversation, which was wise given what his presence would represent. Shreve handled Tain masterfully, asking about his current rank, his family status, and discussing ways both legal and less than legal that they might be able to take him with them. He was on extended leave for his injuries anyway, which was likely only given due to his status as the son of a Duke.

After it was all done, he and Shreve had made a plan and he left with his head a bit higher than when he'd arrived.

Bayle emerged from a nearby cabinet, brushing dust off himself and straightening his coat.

"The son of a duke who wants to flee the country," he said as he returned to the table. "That's certainly something we could use."

"No," replied Michael simply. "He wants to help, the gods have reached out to him. I won't let you take advantage of that."

Marcus shook his head. "Come on Michael. Tain was an asshole. Don't you remember him activating our brands to kill that stag? Fuck him. This could be more useful to us than just as another body to throw at the rifts."

Michael sighed, and looked at Bayle. "I won't allow you to take advantage of him in a way that harms him or keeps him from preventing his goals." He looked at Marcus. "How's that?"

"More of a compromise than I expected."

Bayle frowned. "The smartest thing would be for me to kill him, but I have a feeling you'd offer up consequences involving golden flames."

Michael nodded.

"I will work within these constraints then." Bayle reached into his coat and began pulling out the maps and diagrams he'd had on the table before Tain had arrived. "Shall we get back to it?" he asked, businesslike.

…

After several hours going over planning and a nights sleep that primarily consisted of Michael tossing and turning in bed only occasionally drifting off to sleep where his dreams were filled with disjointed memories of Sara, Victor, Gabriel and Laura. He saw Gabriel as a teenager holding a child without a face and felt Sara squeeze his hand as they looked at him from the porch. By the morning he was feeling emotionally raw, but physically even that small amount of sleep had been enough for him to feel hale and hearty with his absurd levels of recovery.

He had a feeling he'd be struggling with his high energy levels the entire week. He could justify some sparring in his position based on his status as a knight, but if he actually did then his style would clearly show Stent influence. He still practiced the same basic strikes he'd learned at the academy after all. Pyotr could likely get away with it, as his own style had grown far more unique, but that led to other problems when they saw his skill and started asking questions. Even if his style wasn't suspicious, once Michael was out training at full tilt for the hours it took to exhaust himself, he would certainly draw more attention than he should.

He had asked whether or not he'd be able to train in the parlor or atrium, but Shreve had told him it was a bad idea. There were eyes everywhere, and the ambassador quarters were always under surveillance of some kind and there would be servants starting to attend them the next day. Their own countermeasures of silence spells and barriers were expected, but if used too much it would raise more suspicion then necessary. No, Michael would have to constrain himself as much as possible.

He forced himself to stay in bed for another hour. He spent most of the time praying to steady himself, but once he heard Shreve leave his room he got up, cleaned up as well as he could in the provided basin of water, got dressed, and went downstairs.

He found Shreve in the parlor being served by a servant he didn't recognize. He bowed to Shreve, remembering his assigned role as his assistant.

"Michael. Please, join me."

"Thank you sir," he replied, sitting across from the physically older man.

"How'd you sleep?" he asked.

"Not well. I think I got used to hammocks on the ship."

Shreve chuckled at that.

"Unfortunately with the Gala today I don't believe you'll have much opportunity to rest."

"That's fine sir, I'm here to work."

"Good. I've already requested that the servants provide the necessary paper to begin sending messages and requesting audiences with several figures here before we meet with the King at the end of the week. I'll need you and Marcus to take my dictations and personally deliver them."

"Of course sir," said Michael.

This was all for show. Very basic deception of Michael playing the dutiful assistant and Shreve the savvy diplomat. They'd reviewed it on the ship, and the previous day before the servants arrived when the only eyes watching them were those already loyal to Bayle.

The rest of the morning and afternoon passed with everyone maintaining their fictions. Michael and Marcus performed clerical work, much of which involved running messages to other parts of the castle. This let them start to develop a mental map to match the ones Bayle had reviewed with them. It also let them hear more whispers and snippets of conversation about the state of things. In the castle everyone was doing their best to put on a brave face, but it was clear that things were dire, even to foreigners that they'd likely be doing their best to show strength around.

By dusk Michael could see why Bayle had devised such a risky plan to shift Stent's fortunes. Based on what he'd heard whispered everything was already on the brink, and at this point salvaging what they could was the only option.