Author's Note: Sorry for the late update. I was away all week at camp, working eighteen hour days. It was all menial labor, but the food was delicious and I made many friends. Onto chapter nine!
"Heady History"
They were brought to the library, yet another of Rinae's lavishly decorated chambers that served little purpose and even less company. The ceiling reached gargantuan heights, with dusty tomes clamored and stuffed into the towering shelves. The carpet was lush and intricately woven, which made Drenne want to spit on it more than admire it.
They were escorted to the center and allowed to sit in very plush leather chairs. The notion of comfort was rather ironic, considering their accompaniment of imperial guards stationed at either side of the recliners.
Rinae cleared his throat, pacing languorously around the reading table before stopping. A sense of purposeful pride seemed to ooze from him, and Balthier felt as if he could choke on the mere arrogant air the man secreted. A wicked grin split Rinae's lips open and he began, "Well, let's not dance around formalities, shall we? I'm sure you've each heard the tale of this dagger, have you not?"
When neither Balthier nor Drenne said a word, a quick smack to the head by an imperial brought them about their manners. "Yes, death and wickedness and beauty and all that fabled nonsense," Drenne said, shooting a glare at the guard that had hit her. "It's a very pretty tale that I don't quite believe, but I'm sure you're intellectually stunted enough to be vexed by it, Rinae."
Rinae chuckled. "Hardly, my dear." He became silent then, his voice purposeful but eyes still doing a bewitching tango. "So, I'm to assume you've heard the iteration where the scholar is the first to be slaughtered?"
"How many iterations are there?" asked Balthier sarcastically. "Do you intend to keep us here for story time, mother?"
"Actually, yes," he admitted, placing the dagger on the table. Balthier could hear the guards' armor clink reflexively, a sound that told him to think twice before lunging for it. He glanced over at Drenne and supposed she'd drawn the same conclusion, though he could see her fingers itching for the blade as they clasped the leather until it nearly tore.
Rinae broke the silence, arms gesturing emphatically. "You see, in complete truth, the scholar was not killed by the craftsman. In fact, he was so intrigued by his reaction to it that he allowed him to keep the dagger and left Bhujerba. For the scholar had expected such a reaction and had, in actuality, carved out four sets of shards, only one of which originated from the Lhusu mines. The others he acquired from undisclosed resources and gave to three other craftsman, whom he paid and received the shards from in turn."
"That's terribly interesting," Drenne drawled, completely bored. "Do you intend to dull us to death?"
"One more quip of your tongue," Rinae warned, his tone sharp, "and you'll see it lying on this table."
Drenne glowered but said nothing, and Rinae assumed his airy tone. "The rest of the story from the craftsman's death to the raid on the Sylver Syndicate is true, however."
"Sylver Sindicate?" Balthier wondered, only remembering bits and pieces of the tale Drenne had woven that night at dinner.
"The company of thieves that last had this dagger in their possession," the lord explained as if Balthier should have known. "As for the other three shards, the scholar kept them and studied them his life over. Upon his death, he presented them to his son and told him that they were stones of great power. For you see, the shards he carved actually came to be known as the Dawn Shard, the Dusk Shard, and the Midlight Shard. And his son, you may ask?" Rinae snickered again, happy to bestow the knowledge. "The Dynast-King himself."
"Oh, please," Drenne said, slicing the air of seriousness that had befallen them. "The original story was ridiculous enough, but you expect us to believe this farfetched flight of fancy? You might as well be recounting a nursery rhyme to Archadia's Emperor!"
She was about to continue but was silenced as Rinae crossed the room with unexpected quickness, his hand flying across her face. Recoiling from the slap, Drenne seethed and motioned to rise from her chair when the guards grabbed hold of her shoulders and held her down firmly.
"The tale is not done yet, dearest," he said, his voice dripping with venomous intent. "Another interruption and I'll slit your paramour's throat."
Drenne's eyes wandered to Balthier, who, despite his serious eyes, looked skeletal in the bright light of the library. She leered at Rinae but fell silent.
The lord resumed his post in the center of the small semi-circle and continued, "You see, while the dagger's beauty is said to vex all, there is but only one who can wield its true power. That is why the scholar left the dagger with the craftsmen, for even though its beauty would provide a deadly lesson to those selfish enough to steal it, it could do little harm to others.
You see, the dagger's true power of destruction can only be wielded by those descended of the blood of the man who carved it. That is to say the scholar himself, King Raithwall and all those who are his blood kin. The blade, in fact, is formally known as the Genocite Dagger, and is in truth incredibly concentrated nethicite."
At the last word, Balthier barely resisted grimacing. He had so hoped to be rid of the ghastly substance forever.
"Then why would you want it?" Drenne asked, trying very hard to keep her speech eloquent and formal when acid laced her voice. "If only descendents of the Dynast-King can wield it, then Queen Ashe is its rightful owner."
Rinae's lips again curled into a malicious grin, the widest she had ever seen hims sport. "Because I am his descendent as well."
Drenne's eyes narrowed. "That's blasphemously impossible, Rinae."
Rinae shook his head and sighed. "Not so, my love. As it happens, Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca and her brothers were not the only children of her country's former ruler. In truth, he bore another before them: a son. However, it could not be known, for he was not the child of the queen."
"A mistress?" Balthier asked.
The lord nodded, and his voice was dark. "The damn woman who gave birth to me was of little worth and lesser title. Raminas could not have his people knowing about an affair, so he had to cease relations with mother and child. She fled to Archadia and built a life here instead, where she married the then lord of Mirane."
"What happened to her?" Drenne wondered, for she had never heard Rinae speak of his mother to anyone.
"After the lord died, she stood in the way of my title." He grinned again, a sight both Balthier and Drenne were physically sick of seeing. "She fell ill. Healers suspected poisoning, but nothing could be proven."
Drenne's eyes flew wide. "You killed your own mother?"
Rinae shrugged. "As I said, no proof could be found. Her death was a tragic affair, quickly superseded by my acceptance of my duties as ruler of Mirane. Unfortunate, but what's done is done."
Balthier felt ill out of pure disgust – something that had not happened in quite some time. If he had disliked Rinae Dimarcus before, he was utterly repulsed by him now. "No manner of man kills the woman who gave birth to him."
Rinae rolled his eyes. "Again, you should not spout allegations when there is no evidence to support them. May we move on?"
He did not wait for an answer before continuing, glancing wistfully at the dagger resting on the table. "Alas, there is a bittersweet irony in the tale. I can never wield the dagger in battle, for if even a drop of royal blood should touch the blade, then it shall fade into nothingness. I can only use it from afar, willing others to do the menial work in my stead." He smiled. "Most unfortunate."
"What do you intend to do with it?" Drenne managed to hiss between clenched teeth.
Rinae approached her, gliding smooth fingers down her jaw and grazing her lips. "I intend to overthrow the emperor of Archadia."
"That's madness!" she protested, shaking off his touch. "You cannot hope to defy his Majesty and live!"
"You always were very simple, Drenne," droned Rinae. "You underestimate the power of the Genocite Dagger."
"No," she spat, "I underestimate your power, and rightly so for there is so little of it to speak of!"
A crack rang crisply through the air, the sound of Rinae's palm fluttering violently across Drenne's cheek. "When you are my wife you will learn there are harsher punishments for not biting your tongue!"
"I would sooner die than be your wife!" she said.
Rinae withdrew his sword, pressing the resplendent blade against Balthier's neck. "Would he?"
"I appreciate the offer," Balthier said, voice smooth and calm despite his current predicament, "but I'm afraid I've only an eye for women."
Rinae's eyes glowered and he pressed the steel until a drop of blood trickled down Balthier's neck, disappearing behind the fabric of his shirt. "Hold your tongue or lose it."
"Enough!" Drenne said and stood, though her arms were soon seized by imperial hands. "Lower your sword."
"A tempting offer," Rinae droned, "but not so tempting as the sight of his head rolling across the floor."
Another drop of blood dripped slowly down Balthier's skin as Drenne interrupted, "What do you want?"
He looked at her, grinning wildly. "I want you to let the seamstress take your measurements so that you may be prepared for our wedding in three days' time."
"Three days?" she asked with constrained panic.
Rinae nodded. "Do that and I'll let him live. In fact, he can even watch the ceremony."
Balthier glared as Drenne sighed. Having little choice in the matter, she conceded. "Very well."
Rinae smirked and lowered his blade, and Balthier was once again overtaken by a pair of guards. He was escorted from the room, while Drenne was forced to stay.
Her makeshift fiancé strapped the dagger around his waist and looked at her with little remorse. "I'm sad to say that I shan't be seeing you very much in the days preceding the wedding. So I leave you now and eagerly await the delightful sight of you in a wedding gown." He bent and kissed her hand, though it was clasped in a fist. He motioned to the imperials and they each took hold of her arms, leading her out.
"And I eagerly await the delightful sight of you in a casket," she muttered under her breath.
