CHAPTER EIGHT
The Contract
Gilgamesh is feeling a mixture of emotions, most of them unpleasant.
He had forgotten how dull mages are.
"The Edelfelt heir has started preparations," Leilani says, tracing a line on the map of Fuyuki sprawled across the table. "His base lies here, at the temple. He has access to a ley line, and our sources say he's already successfully summoned a Servant. We need to dispatch him before the war begins, while the odds are still in our favor."
"What are his defenses?" Sobekneferu moves closer to the table. Gilgamesh watches her indifferently. The other Servant has an impressive presence even without her swirling cloud of mana. He was unsurprised to find out that she was a powerful queen during her lifetime. For not being a mage herself, she certainly thinks like one, tiresomely so.
Leilani moves a tiny wall across the map. "He has a barrier constructed on top of the ley line. My familiar couldn't spy what other defenses he's prepared, but he's certain to have more. The Edelfelt line is infamous for their fortification spells. Our best chance is to lure him outside of his defenses and attack when he has only his Servant to guard him."
"What news of his Servant?"
"Rider or Saber class, we assume. He's our strongest opponent in this war."
We. Gilgamesh curls his lip. The hive-like mentality of most mages from old families has always annoyed him. Leaders do not need to concern themselves with the opinions of the crowd.
It also annoys him how neither of them have thought to ask him what he thinks of their plans. If Leilani thinks of him as her personal attack dog, she is sorely mistaken. He will see to it that she regrets that mistake.
He stares out the window at the rain pattering down the pane. The mansion the Iselma are using for their base of operations is even bigger than the old Tohsaka residence, but the dusty taste of old magic is the same. Old mages and their old traditions and old ways of thinking.
How dull.
He sees little point in reminiscing about the past, but he allows the sentimentality for a moment. His former Master, for all her flaws, had understood her role, at least. She had accepted his rightful place as king and had obeyed while simultaneously challenging her own designated place as a subject. She had never won, of course, but he had enjoyed the game. He had even grown fond of her. It was a pity, what had happened. She had never stood a chance. Too young and inexperienced, too insensible of her own abilities. Perhaps he should have told her, after all. If she had known...no, it would not have changed things. He does not regret his choice, only his misfortune to end up with such a boring Master.
Despite what Gwenhwyfar had seemed to think, he does not know the future. What he does know is that very little changes under the sun, and that patterns the conscious mind does not see are still seen. He has learned to trust his instincts. And his instincts had told him to leave his little Master alive, and with her Command Seals.
Now that he has time to ponder that instinct, he remembers certain things from fifty years ago, and certain things from the present. Most importantly, he knows that Command Seals will allow a mage to summon a Servant, and that Fate can be interesting.
If only she lives.
But that, he does not know.
Hope is not something he cares much for. It is, in his opinion which is naturally the right one, only a better word for blind faith. This small, tentative feeling, then, is dubious at best. Still…
Little Master, he thinks, watching the rain stream down the glass as Leilani drones on behind him, If you have survived, it is time for you to grow up.
"Are you ready?" Gwen asks.
Diarmuid nods.
There is no summoning circle. She's sitting cross-legged in the courtyard, right on top of the rusty stain on the asphalt. Diarmuid sits across from her, close enough that their knees brush. She doesn't think she needs a relic, since this isn't a proper summoning, but just to be sure, she has one of his hands on her collarbone, palm flat against her Command Seals. They glow faintly as she takes a deep breath.
It's almost dusk. Once the contract is complete, they'll have to move quickly before the mana drain kills her. The dark will help hide them.
Gwen exhales and takes another long slow breath. "You know what to do," she says.
Diarmuid nods again.
Gwen closes her eyes, reaches deep into herself, and finds the words she had memorized years ago.
I hereby propose," she says. "You shall serve my will. My fate shall be your sword. Submit to the call of the Holy Grail."
The Command Seals grow hot on her skin. She feels her mana reserves straining empty. She takes a shuddering breath and digs deep, deep into her reservoir. She raises her voice. "If thou dost accede to this will and reason, answer me!"
A shiver runs through Diarmuid.
I hereby swear. I shall be all that is good in the eternal world. I will be the disposer of evil in the eternal world." She struggles to take a breath. Memories are crowding her. She can almost feel the icy floor under her, the blood smeared on the stone and staining her fingers, the race of power flooding through her.
"Thou, the seven days clad in the great Trinity, come forth from the circle of constraint!"
Her Command Seals blaze with blue fire. Gwen gasps for breath. The final words come ringing out." Come, Guardian of the Heavenly Scales!"
The world trembles.
And goes black.
Diarmuid catches her as she crumples. She's hot to the touch, breathing shallowly, unconscious, but alive. He takes a shuddering breath and feels it fill his lungs, feels his chest expand, feels alive again.
He holds out a hand. His red lance materializes in his grip in a swirl of mana. He squeezes it tightly. It is good to wield a weapon again. He feels like a proper knight again, no longer a ghost. No longer trapped in this purgatory.
But there is no time to reminisce. He has to move quickly.
Letting the spear vanish again, he gathers up the unconscious girl in his arms and carries her upstairs, this time to a different, slightly less dirty mattress. Gwen had been insistent on that. She had also insisted on going without a blanket, but he finds the scratchy grey one from the other room and covers her with it anyway. The nights can grow chill here, and he worries she will not survive another fever.
"I will return soon," he promises, and takes her small hand. Gwen stirs, her face tilting up. Her eyes move restlessly beneath their lids. A tear glimmers in her lashes. He gently brushes it away. He does not know if it is the bond between them now, but he wants to protect this small fragile girl with all his might. "Do not worry, Master."
Gwen sighs. He releases her hand and straightens up. He has been given a mission. He will not fail her.
It feels strange to dematerialize after all this time. He hesitates at the border of the compound.
Fifty years, he thinks. And finally free.
He takes a tentative step. His foot moves easily. The fear evaporates. He breaks into a run.
It is easy enough to slip, immaterial, into the first convenience store he sees. Once inside, he takes water bottles and protein bars and whatever clothing he can find. He also takes some soap, and a few feminine articles. Grainne had taught him awareness of such things.
He finds a bag, fills it to the brim, and fills another with green tea and water. Once he can carry no more, he breaks the glass door with the handle of his lance and slips quickly outside.
Gwen is still unconscious when he returns. He uncaps a bottle of water, props her up, and holds it to her lips. Her throat works. He tilts her head farther back and painstakingly shifts the bottle until she has swallowed every drop. Once that is done, he checks her forehead for fever. She's cold, her face pale, her skin a little clammy. He gathers her up and holds her against him, rubbing her arms to coerce warmth back into them.
"I did as you said," he murmurs. "There is food and water for when you wake. You need only to live."
Her eyes flutter open. Her voice is weak as she says, "I'm surprisingly good at that," and her smile is trembling as she adds, "Um, you can, um, put me down now."
"So here's the plan," Gwen says through a mouthful of protein bar. Diarmuid looks politely away as she gulps. Food has never tasted so good. She practically inhales the second bar. "We need a way to fight. There's money and grimoires back at the manor, and more food and clothes. The illusion spells around it should still be holding, since they were laid down ages ago by the original owners, so sneaking in should be easy." She wipes her fingers on her oversized T-shirt that says Welcome to Fuyuki in bouncy English and hiragana and pushes her hair back. She was able to wash herself off with some of the water and soap, and even though she still has to wear the stained and torn nightgown underneath the new clothes since Diarmuid couldn't find pants at the store, she feels alive for the first time in days. "The problem is if Leilani put a familiar to spy on the place."
Diarmuid nods. She's already filled him in on what happened during the fight. He had listened with solemn sympathy to the story of the attack, had grimaced when she explained the mage fight and her injuries and shaken his head with righteous anger at Gil's betrayal. "What if she has?" he asks.
"Well, I doubt she has." Gwen swallows the last of the third protein bar and starts on the chips. "She didn't exactly think of me as a threat when I fought her. She's probably busy focusing her efforts on the other Masters. There's at least two more in the city, and she'll want to take out as much of the opposition as she can before the others arrive to complicate matters. Even if there is a familiar, I want to move quickly enough that we'll be gone before it can alert her. Worst case scenario, there will be another fight. That would be bad."
"I have seen the King of Heroes fight before," Diarmuid says gravely. "He is a challenging opponent."
"The cat lady was hard, too." Gwen pops a chip into her mouth. "I've never heard of a Servant who fights like that. Both she and Gil have ranged arsenals, so they're a bad match for Lancers like you. We need to avoid fighting them."
"I do not like the idea of hiding in the shadows and fleeing like a coward, but I agree that it seems the best course of action. We cannot avoid a fight forever, though."
"No," Gwen agrees. "But we're not going to take them on alone. I'm going to pull a page from Leilani's book. The rules of the Grail War don't prohibit stealing another Master's Servant." She waves a chip. "There's three other Masters in Fuyuki right now, that I know of at least. Leilani will be focusing on the Edelfelt Master. He's got a Saber. The other mage, Barthomeloi, has a Lancer. He'll be our target."
"How do you know of the other Servants?"
"The Einzberns have scrying spells lost to the other mage families. Elder Ulrich is the only one who knows how to use them. He's been spying on the other families for the past decade. Thanks to him, I know all the other Masters." She holds up a finger. "Leilani is an Iselma. They're a branch of the Valuayeta, one of the three great noble families of the Clock Tower Association. All three traditionally compete in the Grail War, but the Trambellios lost their heir recently and the family is still recovering. The Valuayeta have had a bad run of weak mages, so they must have adopted the Iselma heir, Leilani. She has Caster." She holds up another finger. "Byron Barthomeloi is another of the Clock Tower mages. He's got Lancer. He and Leilani might have an alliance —there's been discussions among the noble families. Their major opponent, Algar Edelfelt, has Saber. The Edelfelts have a long-going rivalry with the Clock Tower, so Leilani will probably be going after him first."
"There's politics involved, I see," Diarmuid says.
Gwen shrugs. "They're mages. Mages always have complicated politics." She tips her head back and lets the fragments of chips fall into her mouth. "The others are from lesser families, but still pretty strong. I don't know what their Servants are. When I was still in Germany, none of them had been Summoned yet, although there was talk that the Reidenflaus family had a relic of Atilla the Hun. If they summoned him, he's probably Berserker class, or Rider. I don't know who has Assassin. The last two Masters, Astrella Nuada-Re and Gregory Weins, are still in their home countries. They won't arrive until the onset of the war." She crumples up the chip bag and tosses it into the corner with the other wrappers.
"I have a plan," she says. "But I don't know if it will work."
"The plan seems straightforward enough," he says. "I will defeat the other Lancer in battle. We will force his Master to hand over his Command Seals. With two Servants, we will be able to battle Archer and Caster."
Gwen shakes her head. "I've weighed the odds," she says. "It's too risky. Even if Barthomeloi doesn't have an alliance with Leilani, he's a powerful mage in his own right, and I — I can't handle my own in a mage fight. I don't have the experience." She fiddles with a scorch mark on her nightgown. "I thought I did. I thought I could beat anyone if I just knew enough spells and had enough mana, but that fight —Leilani was so much faster than me, she knew exactly how to handle everything, even when I caught her off guard. I just...the moment things went wrong, I didn't know what to do. If Gil hadn't been there, I would have died just trying to hold onto the barrier. I couldn't think fast enough, or react in time. I just threw spells at her and hoped they worked." She twists her hands in the blackened fabric.
"No amount of training can fully prepare a warrior for his first battle," Diarmuid says gently. "Experience is something that must be earned. You were fortunate to survive, but that does not mean you must depend on fortune from now on. We learn from our mistakes."
"You don't understand." She knots her fingers in the fabric. "Ever since I was little, I was raised for this war. The Einzberns gave me their crest, taught me spells, forced me to learn how to fight, all for this. And I still lost. Years of having it beaten into me, and I still lost. It's like...like it was all for nothing. All those years of being trapped in that castle, the pain and the isolation and the scars, for nothing. I still lost. I'm still weak."
If Gil heard the self-pity in her voice, he would yank her hair so hard her head would hurt. But Diarmuid only nods, his bronze eyes sympathetic and a little sad. "I spent my life training to be a knight," he says. "It was all I'd ever known. When I betrayed my king and lost my honor and my home, life felt as though it were not worth living. I understand what it is to feel lost. But it was not for nothing. The skill and experience you gained from are yours now. You have already survived this much." His smile makes her stomach flutter. He leans forward. "You are certainly not weak, Gwenhwyfar. I can sense it through our bond."
She swallows. "Thanks," she mumbles, not looking at him. "I won't let you down."
"I do not doubt it." He settles back down. "So what is this plan, then, if we are not to attack?"
Gwen reaches for another protein bar. "I've been thinking," she says, unwrapping it. "A Master can have multiple Servants. And I didn't technically summon you, which means I still have a connection to the Throne of Heroes."
Diarmuid's dark brows draw together. "You are thinking of summoning another Servant?"
"Once my mana is back to full capacity, I could handle it," she says. "The mana drain, anyways. I don't know if it's possible, but I've been thinking a lot. And there's a spell I found, in a book back at the manor. It's supposed to let you draw mana from a major ley line, but if I tweaked it a little, I could use it to summon a Servant without draining my own mana supplies. It's an old spell though, so I'm not a hundred percent sure it will work. And there's a chance that the other Masters have already summoned all the classes. But it's worth a shot. And it's our best chance."
"I did not know a Master could summon multiple Servants," Diarmuid says cautiously.
"They shouldn't be able to, for two reasons. I'm sure someone's tried it before, but the Grail prevented it. But reports from the last war say the Grail is degrading. And you prove it. You were never recalled to the Throne." She touches her chest. "The Command Seals are a connection to the Throne. If I'm right, I should be able to use them to open a gateway."
"And the second reason?"
"Summonings take tremendous amounts of mana," she says. "It's almost impossible to summon a Servant while already supporting one. That's where the spell comes in. If I can transfer mana from a ley line, I'll be able to pull it off. It'll be risky, but this whole thing is a gamble." She leans forward. "I'm going to win this war," she says fiercely. "One way or another, I will win. I'm going to show them that. Will you help me?"
Diarmuid gets to his feet. "You are my Master," he says, and offers her a hand. She clasps it and finds herself deposited lightly on her feet. "We shall win this together. I believe it."
Gil would have laughed at her ambitions. It is a long way across the chess board, little Master. It takes time for the pawn to become a queen.
She looks up into Diarmuid's warm amber eyes. Her stomach does another happy little twist.
This is a step.
"Now," she says, "We need a relic."