12 The father

Luka, an old servant, and gatekeeper in the Marsters' house could not find a place for himself this evening. The estate belonged to a former head of the Green Castle and situated on the southeast side of the inner hexagon of Arilla.

And although this district was noisy and densely populated, in the estate today was very quiet. It seems like everyone tried to talk in a half-whisper feeling the strange atmosphere in the air.

In the morning the messenger arrived with the letter about the attack on the fortress of Khail-hold. In the beginning, when the young master was appointed as a captain of the hundred to the garrison of this unknown fortress, the whole house was buzzing with dissatisfaction. The young man was smart a skilled enough to have a great carrier, and they shoved him into this hole.

But everyone calmed down, when Lord Lestor, the father of Paris, explained that it would be even better. The guy will at least be out of trouble. Of course, who, pray to tell, will attack this godforsaken fortress?! Nobody even knew why of all places someone thought of building a fort in the middle of nowhere.

And now? Mr. Lestor locked himself in his workshop immediately after the messenger left. Butler Ezra and the housekeeper Olivia tried to get to him, but it was all in vain. Although it is unlikely at least one of them could find the words to appease the master.

Six years ago, he lost his daughter, then his wife ran away, and now he could lose his last son. There are no such words in the world to calm the heart of a suffering parent.

Luka sighed sadly as he settled himself in his chair in the gatehouse. If only the new day brought good news, this house has not heard them for a long time.

When the eyelids of the old man had already begun to descend under the pressure of drowsiness, and the gate shook under a number of strikes. The old man at first thought that he was only dreaming about it, but again loud bang sounded from out there.

"Open up, Luke! Quickly!" - He heard an impatient shout. Luka immediately recognized the voice of the young master's best friend. Not yet fully aware of what this could mean, the old man was already rushing to the door.

"Mr. Kirk, how are you here? What about our young master?" - He rained questions at the guy, letting him in along with the horse into the courtyard. The young man looked very tired, there were several scars and bruises on his face, and a thick layer of road dust covered his clothes.

"No time, Luke! I will tell all later. I was sent by Paris. Immediately wake the whole stuff. We need to prepare rooms, hot water, rags for bandages and so on." - a young man hurried to convey his master's order.

" Oh My! Did the young master got hurt?" - cried the old man, clutching at his head.

"No. The Captain is fine. But he will be here any minute along with ten severely wounded ... people." - Kirk hesitated for a second, but still finished the sentence as confidently as possible.

"Why would he bring them here? The hospital is close ..." - the servant was perplexed.

"Do what they say!" - barked Kirk at him and went to the house, to report on his arrival to Lord Marsters.

The owner of the mansion was found in his studio, which was tightly barricaded from the inside. It took Kirk a full hour to finally pull the lord out with threats and exhortations.

At first, old man flatly refused to believe that Paris was already in the capital, then he was indignant why he should drag some wounded to their house, then Count began to suspect that he was being deceived. But apparently, the noise and commotion downstairs forced the owner to get out of his shelter.

At the sight of Count Marsters, Kirk was slightly taken aback. He knew the family of Paris from childhood, his own house was very close to the border with the yellow district. Once an outstanding, proud man, Lestor El Marsters, in just six years, turned into a hunched gray old man, although he was only about 50.

His face was full of wrinkles, dark spots lay under his eyes, his cheekbones sharpened, and his eyes seemed to lose color. The clothes on him, though good-quality, hung like a bag all crumpled.

"What is going on here?"

"My Lord, Paris ordered me to call you. He will be here soon, and he will need your help." - stated Kirk, pointing outside.

"My help? What for? What is going on? Have you fled from the battlefield?" - Snapped the owner of the house, pounced on him. He apparently had not slept well for some time and had not eaten. His eyes burned with a nervous sheen, and his right eye was twitching every now and then.

"Master Lestor, please, you need to calm down. Paris really needs your help now. We have not fled from anywhere. The siege is over, we won. You will understand everything later. And now you need to clean up and go down." - The appeasing voice of a young lieutenant gradually became patient but persistent. Lester carefully peered into the guy's face.

Finally, having decided for himself, he nodded and headed towards his room. A maid already awaited there for him with fresh clothes and accessories for washing.

In the courtyard, the owner of the house appeared just in time. As he went down the stairs, the knock sounded again at the gate. Luka and Kirk were already in a hurry to open the doors.

The first one to enter was a young master. He flew into the courtyard at full speed and jumped down from his horse. His appearance was even more disheveled than Kirk. Behind him, one by one, seriously shabby carts drove in. Paris found his father with his eyes and no longer paying attention to anyone, went straight to him.

"Father, I don't have time to explain everything now. But I want to ask you to control yourself. I really need your help!"

Paris words made Count's eyebrows crept upwards.

"What's going on, Paris?"

The son only gently took the father by the hand and led him to the first cart.

"Father, listen, please. A lot has happened in the last few days. And I will tell you everything later. But now we have to help her."

"Her?" - asked Lester dumbfoundedly, staring at his son's face with worry.

Paris didn't answer. He led the count closer to the wagon and silently threw back the coarse rug that covered what was inside. Lestor initially could not understand what opened to his eyes.

Inside on a bed of hay and blankets lay four figures. The first was a young guy with a burned face, then the terrible face of the shifter was visible, and behind him lay a young girl almost half the size of those two. In the dark, it was hard to see her face.

But at the sight of the hair of a soft wheaten color, the count felt pricked in the chest. Lester looked blankly at his son, but the boy had already begun to order the servants around. Someone brought a hastily erected stretcher, and the first two wounded were carried away.

Paris jumped onto the cart and carefully picked up the girl. Lester, still couldn't get what his son wants from him. He stood at the cart shifting from one foot to another. For some reason, his heart was pounding like mad. One of the helpers brought a torch to better light everything around.

From the side of the second cart, which the other workers of the manor had already unloaded, sounded a few voices full of wonder and horror.

Paris finally jumped off the cart with the girl in his arms and silently approached his father. Lester looked at his son with the question, wondering why he stopped and not taking the girl to the house.

A sharp cry made him snap from an incomprehensible stupor. It was Valeria. His younger sister, the widowed Duchess of Davenport, who had been living with him for some time. She was awakened by a commotion in the house. Seeing Lester and Paris, she went to inspect what was going on. But as soon as her eyes fell on the figure of the girl in the hands of Paris, the duchess could not hold back a yell. Covering the lower part of her face with her hand, she reeled in place.

"Gods, how has this happened? Cali, my girl!" - She vailed.

Lester turned to his sister in confusion, then followed her gaze to the girl's face. Suddenly, his eyes started to pick up familiar features. This cute nose, which Cali so loved to stick up for her father's goodnight kiss. Those plump lips she so often pouted when she wanted something. An elegant arch of light eyebrows, long eyelashes, haughtily upturned cheekbones, so much like her mothers.

Lester could not believe his eyes. It was Cali. A sigh of horror stuck somewhere in my chest. He clutched at his heart, unable to endure a sharp pain. His little girl was mutilated, beaten. Hair was soaked in blood and dirt. There were almost no clothes on her, only some rags barely covering the body, all in bandages. The right hand hung like a lifeless whip.

Lestor held out a shaking hand but did not dare to touch her cheek.

"Cali?!" - he could only squeeze out.

Paris clenched his teeth, unable to look at his father in this state.

"Father pull yourself together. I repeat I need your help. Once we lost her. I will not let this happen twice."

Son's words sober the father up. Lester shook himself. It took him a few more minutes to recover and wipe away the tears. Indeed, now is not the time for hysterics. He already once lost a daughter because of his weakness. Shame made him pull himself together.

"What should I do?" - he asked in a firm voice.

"I'll take Cali to her room myself. But in the cart lies Konrad." - Paris paused to see his father's reaction. At the name of his former student, Lestor had already responded more calmly. - "Father, Konrad has been with Cali all this time, so everything should not be as we suspected. Therefore, we must help him too."

Lestor nodded discreetly, unable to find the words. The betrayal of his pupil, whom he perceived almost as a son, was not so easy to swallow.

"Since you are his teacher, you must understand his mechanisms. We could not unhook his sword from his hand. We need to do this before raising him up."

Having received a willing nod from his father, Paris went to the manor without stopping.

Lester hurried to climb the cart. The view of his student was not much better than the rest. Trying to ignore wounds, bruises, and cuts, the count proceeded to examine his hands.

One was relatively fine. But the second ...

Earl slightly recoiled, realizing that the wrist was utterly absent, and an unknown mechanism was fixed to the elbow and to the remaining part of the limb by steel braces.

Unable to restrain himself, Lester carefully looked at the face of the young man. Now, this boy was hardly recognized. When that quiet, forever thoughtful guy who shadowed behind him like a ghost, turned into a man? Even now, when he was in this state, Lestor still could sense a new acquired straight in Konrad.

For some time, Lestor looked at the face of his pupil, as if trying to read what had happened. But there was little time, and he again lowered his eyes to the guy's hand.

The complexity and the integrity of the mechanism at the same time made Lestor whistle. If Conrad himself made it, that's meant that over the past six years, he has grown very much as a master.

The mechanism was monolithic from the side of the hand. The count could not immediately grasp which particular part should be disconnected. But this guy surely could not always walk with the sword.

The hinge was not only soldered to the base but was also attached to the movable metal pins extending from inside of the steel nozzle on the stump. Pulling back here and pushing there to no avail, the count finally gave up and tried to think.

Konrad probably designed the prosthesis to remove it with one hand quickly. Lestor moved to the side and extended his hand in the way in which Konrad's left hand should have been positioned had he reached to remove the prosthesis. A few more minutes passed, but finally, his efforts paid up.

One of the inconspicuous plates in the nozzle sank slightly inward and released the prosthesis.

Lestor, barely holding down a terrible desire to examine everything in detail right now, put the mechanism with the sword aside. Behind him, one of the tall footmen already waited to help with the wounded.

But Lestor submitted to a sudden impulse, and lifted the former student up himself, crouching slightly under the considerable weight of a grown-up guy, headed for the estate without listening to the protests of the servants.