The Second Letter

It would have been nice to spend more time in the village getting to know the kind and welcoming people who lived there, but we had more to do on our mission of good works. So after resting for the night in a bed for the first time in a while, my party and I geared up to head out at sunrise.

Most of the village came out to see us off. Children surrounded Pira, eager for one more glimpse of her technological “magic,” and she didn’t disappoint them, producing a bit of sparkle from her fingertips that made them all squeal with delight. Andra was busy giving last minute hunting and gathering tips to her acolytes, while Estelar was finishing one more cup of tea shared with the aging farmers. The atmosphere was warm and cozy, like a family gathering. Despite our short visit, we had been made to feel remarkably welcome.

As we took our leave, I shook the chief’s hand one last time. He offered a half smile, his manner stoic as ever, but his daughter hugged each of us as if we were old friends. I took a moment to enjoy the positive feelings: We had done some good here. We had made their lives better, and there had been no clandestine operations, no hurting anyone, no lying. It felt good, and I smiled with enthusiasm as we waved goodbye and set out for our next destination.

This journey would have been pleasant if this was all we had to do. I could almost have enjoyed this place if we could have simply focused on improving the world. Unfortunately for me, I was back to suffering through sleepless nights while I awaited my next orders from the prince.

Hours became days as the routine started feeling normal to me. The wilds were rough, with more carnivorous plants than I could have counted, but we survived and kept moving forward step by step, mostly thanks to the guidance of my teammates who kept me out of harm’s way. Andra in particular was frustrated at what she saw as my lack of common sense, but I had a steep learning curve. Many of the survival tricks I had learned in my world were at least partially wrong here, if not outright dangerous.

At one point, I decided to refill my water skins at a flowing stream near our path. Flowing water was clean, or so I had been taught, and it appeared to come from the direction of the mountains. It all seemed safe to me, but as I approached the rippling water, a large, slightly furry mass tackled me sideways.

“What the -” I coughed, rolling to my feet. It was Andra, brushing herself off and scowling at me.

“What the hell were you doing?” she asked.

“I was going to get water!” I replied. “What could possibly be wrong about that?”

“THAT's what’s wrong,” she said, pointing. I followed the direction of her finger and saw a small group of what looked like large, flat amphibious creatures. They were the color of sand, almost invisible in the silt, and they gathered in the shallowest part of the stream just a few feet from where I’d been aiming. They stayed almost completely still, their snouts turned toward the running water.

“Those,” Andra snapped at me. “They’re completely blind and read the flow of the river to hunt. If anything, or anyone, messes with the flow by trying to drink or gather water, they strike. They woulda gotten ya for sure if you’d stuck your hands in that stream. You have to move like this, at a distance, to gather water from rivers here.”

She tried to show me how to properly approach the water, limbs out, watching for more fishlike creatures and anything else that could hurt us. As well versed as she was in survival, though, her teaching could have used some work. I had no idea what she was attempting to convey with her exaggerated arm movements, and I resigned myself to letting her fetch the water from then on.

We camped that night as we always did, retreating to our cots after a long day of walking. But after another night of nightmares, I awoke to the thing I had been dreading. A plain letter had been placed directly inside my tent door.

Dread is all I felt as I realized the time had come.

“To my dearest proxy,” the letter began, a chill curling across my senses as I read. “I do hope you’ve settled well into your journey and are enjoying your travels with all your new friends.”

I hate him.

“The time that you have been waiting for has finally come. My maid will guide you tonight for your next task.”

I hate him.

“The instrument for this mission will be provided by the maid upon her arrival. Inside this envelope is a small letter to be left at the scene. Do not open it unless you wish to be caught and executed.”

I hate him.

“Best of luck to you. I have every faith that you’ll succeed. P.S. As they say in your world, the training wheels are off going forward.”

I hate him.

With this one letter, my mood plummeted. For a moment, I just stared at the paper, but then I felt a jolt of motivation that pushed me into action. I stuck my head out of my tent; no one else was awake yet. With slow, deliberate movements, I crept to the cold firepit to grab some charcoal, carrying the lump back to my tent. I looked at the letter again, and as I watched, the ink magically vanished into thin air just as it had before.

Moving as swiftly as I could, I got down to business with my task, then finished sewing some repairs into my underclothing. Satisfied, I took several deep breaths, stretched, and geared up for the day, ready as I’d ever be to face my party.

I tried to act normal, but I could tell from their slightly concerned expressions that my party knew I wasn’t operating at full capacity. They exchanged glances but opted not to ask me point blank what was up. If they made any indirect attempts to figure out what was going on with me, I was too distracted to notice.

If I had noticed their distance, I would have appreciated it. Instead, I focused inward, strengthening my resolve over and over again, hoping the second time would be easier than the first.

As the sun began to dip in the sky and we had finished setting up camp, my anxiety rose. Soon after dinner, I wished my party members a good night and ducked into my tent. They made no attempt to stop me.

I didn’t even try to sleep. I simply sat on my cot in the dark, fully dressed down to my boots, and watched the closed flap of the tent door, waiting.

The only way I could be sure time was still moving was from the sounds of the world that surrounded me outside the tent. I heard the wind pushing through the leaves of trees, the chitter of night creatures seeking their food, the occasional hoot of an owl. Without a clock, I had no idea how long I sat there, accompanied only by the darkness of the night and the cacophony of the emotions inside me.

Through the darkness, a shadow passed over the entrance of the tent.

“Let’s go.” The maid’s voice pierced the fabric between us.

My fists tightened as I picked myself up and stepped out of the tent. She stood there, blank as ever, and the minute I emerged, she turned and began to walk. I fell into step behind her; we left camp in silence.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding as the camp receded, becoming completely obscured by the forest behind us. My emotions were roiling into a gordian knot, and rather than try to pick it apart, I decided to attempt to pry more information from the maid.

“Who are we going to… y-y’know?” I stuttered at the end, unable to verbalize what we were doing.

“The proxy of Princess Gwenn, the 6th child.”

“Why?”

She cast a disapproving glance at me, but if she objected to my lack of tact, I didn’t care.

“‘Fuel for the fire’ according to Master Elias.” Her answers were succinct as always.

“What fire is this fueling?” I pushed.

“Tensions between the third and fifth royals against the fourth and sixth have been heightened ever since the first kill.” Her tone was as blunt as ever. “By assassinating the proxy of Princess Gwen, the sixth, the balance will crumble and a conflict will be put into motion.”

“But… wait,” I said, weighing what she’d said. “Why are we killing both proxies on one side? What sort of revenge or conflict could come of that?” I asked.

“To once again quote Master Elias, ‘Grudges are not so logical as to be dropped in the face of sheer strength. Enough cornered mice can kill a cat, even if it costs their lives.’”

“So… He’s hoping that their rage will lead the fourth and sixth successors to throw all their resources into disrupting the third and fifth?”

“Correct.” She kept walking and I stumbled to keep up. “They aren’t the most intelligent pair and can be quite sensitive emotionally. Losing their proxies will make them furious, and furious people don’t think clearly.”

I was never good at politics back in my world, but now that I was in the midst of a political intrigue this complicated, I felt even more hopelessly overwhelmed.

“So those four royals will deal with each other, and the only ones left on the board will be the first, second, and seventh royals, correct? Elias is the eighth and last child in contention?”

“Master Elias is in fact the last child.” Her emphasis, combined with a glare that was surprisingly hateful, illustrated what she thought of my lack of respect. So that’s what it took to get an emotion from her, I thought. It didn’t matter; I would never bow to him, so I ignored her censure. “You are correct, except for the seventh being on the board in the first place. He is a nonissue.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

“He lacks ambition. No interest in ascending to the throne. Instead, the heroes and proxy under his command are being used for personal pleasures.”

I spent the next few moments walking in silence and digesting this new facet of the disgusting family Elias belonged to. Such an assortment of reprehensible monsters. Who even cared which of them took control of this miserable place?