A Mage Reborn: Legacy of the Fallen Emperor
Chapter 82: Gula’s Flavor

Chapter 82: Chapter 82: Gula’s Flavor

Count Mereloff glared down at the table, his brow furrowed in displeasure. A small, worn pouch lay open, revealing the plump Gula seeds within. Barely fifty of the things, all told.

"Fifteen gold coins for these?" he muttered, his voice laced with disbelief.

The Count’s mind, ever a ledger, began to tally the cost. Was it worth it?

Clark, like Rien, had been bought from a slave caravan passing through his lands. Strong, young slaves were a precious find, and he’d paid a hefty fifteen gold for the man.

Slaves depreciated over time; the Gula, however, was a long-term investment, and a far better one at that. Especially with famine on the horizon.

"They claimed they wouldn’t sell for less than fifty coins a bag. But, citing humanitarian concerns" — the steward’s voice dripped with sarcasm — "they offered us this pittance to, shall we say, tide us over."

"Preposterous."

Was the old miser scoffing at the meager quantity, or at the very concept of purchasing Gula? The steward, unable to decipher his master’s meaning, simply bowed his head. The Count was a creature of coin, through and through. Pleasing him was a fool’s errand.

Countess Mereloff lifted the edge of the pouch with her long pipe, a thin plume of smoke curling towards the rafters.

"The slave papers," she inquired, her voice smooth as silk. "Were they drawn up?"

"Only a temporary agreement, my Lady. The matter was urgent; the notarization will follow in due course."

"Hmph. Young and foolish. Who in their right mind delays the transfer of ownership? Anything could happen."

"Be that as it may, we have the Gula now, which is certainly to our advantage."

The Count said nothing, his gaze fixed on the Gula seeds. He’d only been vaguely aware of their existence before; this was his first close inspection, despite his many years. Seeds of what, exactly?

"So," he began, his voice a low rumble, "how does one eat this... Gula?"

"Raw, boiled, baked, steamed, stir-fried. The possibilities are endless, my Lord. Shall I send them down to the kitchens?"

Fifteen gold coins. Worthless weed or not, now that he’d paid such a price, he wouldn’t let it all go to the commoners. Two for the kitchens, he decided. Two for himself and Rienne.

"Two for the kitchens, and see the rest are planted in the garden."

"At once, my Lord."

The order clearly meant two portions: one for the Count, one for the Countess. The steward bowed low and took the pouch. Countess Mereloff exhaled a plume of smoke, the scent of fine tobacco mingling with the anticipation in the air, and leaned closer to her husband, her voice a conspiratorial whisper.

"But I’ve heard whispers that they’re consuming a great deal of Gula in the capital?"

"Nonsense. A fabrication spread by that cur, Ian, to keep his miserable people from starving."

"Is that truly the case? Romandro didn’t display any particular aversion to it, either."

Rumors were already rife throughout their lands. But one persistent whisper seemed undeniable: Gula was delicious. Otherwise, why would the common folk of Bratz be so enthusiastic about cultivating it and making it a staple of their diet?

A sharp rap at the door.

"A humble Gula dish, my Lord."

"Enter. Hmm. What is that intriguing aroma?"

"A recipe gleaned from Bratz, my Lord. I pray it meets with your approval."

"If it doesn’t..." The Count’s voice was a low growl, leaving the threat unspoken but clearly understood.

The servant, backing away a step, swallowed nervously.

"It looks... surprisingly appetizing," the Count conceded, his eyes narrowed.

"Indeed," the Countess agreed, her voice a silken murmur. "One wouldn’t know it was a mere weed without being told."

The Gula baked with a sugar glaze emitted a sweet, tantalizing fragrance, its edges a perfect, crisp brown.

And the boiled one? Plump as a pudding, it jiggled

invitingly, promising to melt in the mouth with a delicate sweetness.

The servant sliced it with a knife – a rather unnecessary gesture, given its diminutive size – and presented a portion to both the Count and Countess.

"My dear," the Countess urged, "Try it."

The Count hesitated, his nose wrinkling slightly. His preconceived notions of Gula, that vile weed, made him feel queasy, but what choice did he have? Fifteen gold coins! He’d paid good money – far too much, likely – and he had to at least sample the blasted thing.

"Hmm?" A low sound, almost a growl, rumbled in his chest.

The Count, who had been frowning and chewing with undisguised distaste, suddenly stopped. A taste he’d never experienced before, surprisingly subtle and sweet, lingered on his tongue. The Countess smiled, a knowing glint in her eyes, a hint of triumph there, perhaps?

"It’s... rather good, isn’t it?" she purred, her voice soft.

"...Better than I anticipated," he conceded grudgingly, his words clipped.

"It seems the rumors of its popularity in the capital are not unfounded after all," she continued, pressing her advantage. "I eagerly anticipate the day we can enjoy a proper Gula dish, prepared with a full complement of ingredients and spices."

The Countess neatly scraped up the last of her portion with her fork, savoring every morsel, and the Count stroked his mustache thoughtfully, his mind already racing. He was loath to admit it, but the truth was undeniable. It was a delicacy, unlike any he’d tasted before. He cleared his throat, a calculated glint replacing the distaste in his eyes, and turned his attention to the hovering steward.

"See to it that word of this doesn’t spread beyond these walls. And post guards in the garden – rotating shifts, and make them reliable men. Discreet ones."

"At once, my Lord."

Others would undoubtedly covet it. Even his own wife, the Countess – and he eyed her with a newfound suspicion – believed the rumors. It was obvious what the uneducated rabble, with their coarse palates and grasping hands, would think of this... this treasure. This fifteen-gold-coin crop demanded the utmost care, the strictest secrecy.

"And, steward," he added, a sharp edge to his voice.

"My Lord?"

The Count dabbed at his mouth with a linen napkin and issued his next order, a hint of greed – no, more than a hint – now coloring his tone.

"Have two more brought up this evening. Prepared differently, if you please."

"Two more, my Lord?"

"Gula, of course, you blithering idiot." He nearly spat the words.

"Ah. Yes, my Lord." The steward bowed deeply, masking his own apprehension.

The steward sighed, a sound like escaping air, and exited into the hallway, the other servants melting away behind him. A suffocating silence, thick and heavy, descended upon the Count and Countess.

"Shall I pour you some wine, my Lord?" Her voice was a silken caress.

"What was discussed?" His voice was sharp, a shard of ice.

"As you can see," she replied smoothly, a hint of a smile playing on her lips, "our conversation was most fruitful. Most illuminating."

The Countess rose, a graceful, sinuous movement, and retrieved her husband’s empty glass. As she opened the wine, a servant approached, but she dismissed him with a curt, almost imperceptible glance. She poured the wine herself, a thin stream of crimson filling the glass, then began recounting the events that had transpired in Bratz, her voice low and measured.

"...So, I checked Lady Mary’s room as well. It wasn’t there, of course. Lost, no doubt, in the chaos. A pity, really." A flicker of something unreadable crossed her face.

"What use do you have for the trinkets of a dead traitor?" His voice was laced with suspicion.

"Nevertheless," she said, her voice hardening slightly, "it was mine originally." A possessive gleam, sharp and dangerous, entered her eye.

The Count was troubled by her unusually cheerful demeanor – too cheerful, perhaps – but the acquisition of the Gula seemed to have placated him, for now. Before her return, he’d been consumed by the almost uncontrollable urge to strangle her; now, he calmly savored his wine, the rich, heady aroma filling his senses. A temporary reprieve, he knew.

Clink. The sound was jarring in the stillness.

"Oh, pardon me, my Lord."

"Tsk."

A servant, entering to clear the dishes, apologized and quickly withdrew, sensing the intimacy of the moment – or perhaps, sensing something else entirely. The moment Count Mereloff’s gaze shifted to the door... the Countess, with a swift, practiced movement, sprinkled a fine, almost imperceptible powder into his wine. It dissolved instantly, leaving no trace.

"Rien."

"Yes, my Lord?" Her voice was innocent, the picture of wifely obedience.

"Let there be no repeat of this. Return after sunset again, and I’ll have your ankles broken." The threat was brutal, delivered without a flicker of emotion.

"...And will there be a next time?" she purred, her voice a silken whisper. "I have no further business in Bratz. If I were to return, it would be at your side." A subtle, chilling promise – a threat – hung in her words, masked by a veneer of subservience.

And you’ll be a corpse by then, she thought, a dark, cold satisfaction settling over her like a shroud.

"Answer me," he demanded, his voice rough.

"As you wish, my Lord."

The Count nodded, satisfied, completely oblivious, and raised his glass. The Countess mirrored his action, a perfect imitation. Their glasses clinked softly, a delicate counterpoint to the deadly game afoot, and they exchanged smiles – his, smug and self-satisfied; hers, a chilling mask of triumph, hiding the venom beneath.

* * *

"Hmm...." A low groan, ragged and weak.

"How is he, Doctor?" Ian’s voice was tight with concern.

Ian had summoned a physician to examine Beric. He’d been muttering in his sleep intermittently, thrashing occasionally, but showed no signs of waking. No matter how much Ian shook him, how desperately he called his name, Beric remained unresponsive, lost in some drug-induced slumber.

"He’s deeply asleep, undoubtedly. Sunk in a slumber so profound, it’s as if he’s been enchanted. What was that drug called, again?"

"A new concoction from Hawan, my Lord; I don’t know the exact composition. But it seems to be a potent sleeping hallucinogen. Reportedly, overdosing for a month can cause death from apnea, but Beric merely inhaled the fumes before collapsing – a testament to its potency, I’d say."

"Some individuals are constitutionally intolerant of certain substances. This is a rather extreme reaction, to be sure, but since he didn’t ingest the poison directly, I don’t believe there’s cause for significant concern. However," the doctor paused, his brow furrowed in thought, "given its nature as a sleeping hallucinogen, there’s something you should be aware of..." He trailed off, tapping a finger against his chin.

With practiced ease, he inserted an IV into the back of Beric’s hand, the needle sliding smoothly beneath the skin.

"Be aware that it also possesses potent anesthetic properties."

"Could you elaborate, Doctor?" Ian leaned forward, his concern evident.

"Until he regains full consciousness, he might experience somniloquy, unusual sleep behaviors, or even somnambulism. He could be quite... active." The doctor’s understatement was clear.

Romandro, who had been listening with growing unease, his eyes wide, started in alarm. Others he could handle, perhaps, but a sleepwalking Beric... that was a truly daunting prospect, a nightmare made flesh. Beric was formidable in both personality and raw strength, a force of nature even when fully aware.

"Ian," Romandro’s voice was a strained whisper, "shouldn’t we restrain him? Secure him, somehow? Perhaps with chains?"

"A reasonable precaution, Romandro, but I’m not certain it will prove effective. Chains might chafe, and..." Ian hesitated, unwilling to voice his true fear: that even chains might not hold Beric.

"Better than inaction, surely! And Beric, for all his formidable strength, is still mortal. Flesh and blood. Surely he can’t break iron chains with his bare hands?" Romandro’s voice rose in pitch, bordering on hysteria.

Needing no further prompting, Romandro dashed out to find the servants, his footsteps echoing in the sudden silence. His shouts for a "large, sturdy chain! And be quick about it, you laggards!" echoed back into the room.

"Heh, hehehe...."

Oblivious to his predicament, to the fear he inspired even in his unconscious state, Beric grinned foolishly and smacked his lips, lost in some pleasant dream, no doubt. A cruel irony, that. The doctor secured the IV with a bandage, his movements precise and efficient, and rose to his feet.

"This IV will replenish his strength, his vital humors. If he doesn’t awaken by noon tomorrow, send for me again, without delay."

"And the wound on his side, Doctor? Is it healing as it should?"

"Ah, yes, the wound."

The doctor chuckled softly and shook his head, a hint of professional pride – and perhaps a touch of wonder – in his voice.

"It’s healed remarkably well. Superb work, if I may say so myself. However," he added, his tone becoming more serious, "the internal tissues might not be fully mended, so he should exercise extreme caution. No strenuous activity, no sudden movements."

"He’s hardly known for his caution," Ian said dryly, a hint of a grim smile touching his lips.

"Even so, my Lord. Please contact me – or rather, send for me – if there are any concerns whatsoever."

"Thank you for your services, Doctor. You may go." Ian gave a slight bow of his head.

Creak.

As the door closed behind the departing physician, Ian returned to his desk and his waiting documents, the weight of responsibility settling heavily upon his shoulders. The room was filled with the crackle of the fireplace and Beric’s quiet, even breathing – deceptively peaceful, given the potential for chaos that lay dormant within the slumbering warrior. After focusing on his work for some time, Ian, ever vigilant, his senses honed by years of conflict, sensed a subtle shift in the atmosphere, a prickling on the back of his neck, and glanced towards Beric’s still form. Something was about to happen. He could feel it.

"Ah." A soft exhalation, barely a sound.

Startled, Ian jumped. Beric was staring at him, eyes wide and unfocused, too wide, perhaps. Ian flinched, a frown creasing his forehead. A prickle of unease crawled up his spine.

"The IV seems to be working," he said, forcing a calmness he didn’t quite feel.

"...Why... am I lying here?" Beric mumbled, his voice thick with sleep, his words slurring together.

"You collapsed after inhaling the fumes from Rien’s compact. A potent concoction, it seems. I should summon the physician again. Are you feeling unwell? Any pain?"

Beric slowly rose, his movements stiff and uncertain, and walked to the window, his expression distant, lost in some other world. He let out a low sigh, a sound of profound weariness, followed by a softly muttered curse.

"Ah, damn it all to the abyss."

"Beric?" Ian’s voice was laced with concern, a thread of steel running through it.

"Am I... dreaming? Is this... real?"

"No. You appear to be awake, though..." Ian hesitated, his gaze fixed on Beric’s face. "...not entirely yourself."

His blinks were slow, unnaturally so, his eyes lacking their usual sharp, intelligent spark. Could this be some form of somnambulism? A lingering, insidious effect of the drug? Beric pressed his forehead against the cold windowpane, the condensation fogging around his skin, seemingly trying to shake himself awake, to dispel the fog that clouded his mind, to banish the phantoms that haunted his vision.

"Beric," Ian said, his voice firmer now, "what’s wrong? What is it you see? Describe it to me."

"I’m seeing... things. Strange things. Impossible things. Things that... shouldn’t be." His voice was a low, strained whisper.

"It’s the drug, Beric; you’re hallucinating. It’s not real. Try to calm yourself. Focus on my voice. Take a deep breath, slow and steady."

Ian wondered, for a fleeting moment, what was taking Romandro so long with the chains. Cowardly fool, he thought, but the thought was tinged with understanding. Fearing Beric might become agitated, might lash out with that terrifying strength of his, Ian slowly approached and took his arm, a gentle but firm grip, a reassurance, a restraint.

"If you can’t distinguish between reality and hallucination, Beric, it’s best you rest further. Close your eyes. I’ll summon the physician..."

"No." Beric’s voice was surprisingly firm, cutting through Ian’s words. "I can tell the difference. I know it’s not... real."

He pressed his temples with his fingertips, a flicker of annoyance – and perhaps something else, something deeper, a profound sadness – crossing his face.

There wasn’t any real problem, not in the grand scheme of things. Not compared to the battles he’d fought, the wounds he’d endured, the horrors he’d witnessed. It was just that his family, long dead and turned to dust, their bones scattered to the four winds, were standing there, across the room, staring at him with vacant, hollow eyes. Silent, unmoving, frozen in time, just as he remembered them from that last, terrible day, the day his world had shattered.

Beric sighed, a shudder running through his powerful frame, a tremor that belied his outward calm.

"This... is unsettling," he muttered, the words barely audible, a profound understatement. "Deeply unsettling."

Clatter. The sound of metal on stone echoed through the room.

Romandro burst into the room, a hapless servant trailing behind him, burdened with heavy iron chains that looked strong enough to bind a troll. But upon seeing Beric standing there, seemingly unharmed and disconcertingly lucid, he recoiled, his eyes wide with alarm, his face draining of color.

"You’re... awake?" he stammered, his voice trembling, a pathetic squeak.

"What?" Beric tilted his head, feigning confusion, a spark of devilment flickering in his eyes.

Beric had intended to ask about the chains, to play the innocent, but Romandro’s reaction was far too entertaining. The nobleman’s face had gone ashen, his words tumbling out in a panicked, breathless rush.

"D-d-don’t you recognize me?" It was less a question, more a plea.

"Should I?" Beric asked, a sly, predatory grin playing on his lips. He took a deliberate step forward.

"Ian! Ian! Do something!" Romandro cried, his voice cracking with fear, all pretense of composure shattered.

"Calm down, Lord Romandro," Ian said, his voice calm and measured, though his eyes betrayed a hint of wry amusement. He made no move to intervene.

He was about to reassure the terrified nobleman, to explain that Beric was, for the most part, harmless, but a mischievous, almost cruel grin spread across Beric’s face as he fully grasped the situation, as he savored Romandro’s terror. With a playful flick of his wrist, a deliberately exaggerated movement, a theatrical flourish, he advanced on Romandro, stalking him like a wolf cornering a particularly plump sheep.

"What have we here?" Beric purred, his voice a low, menacing growl. "A talking pig, wandered in from the sty? Or perhaps a squealing boar, ripe for the roasting?"

"Eek! Lord Ian! Help me! He’s gone mad!" Romandro’s voice was a high-pitched shriek.

"I’m going to eat you!" Beric roared, throwing himself into the performance with gusto. "I’m famished; I’ll have you roasted and served with a side of applesauce and a sprig of parsley!" He punctuated the threat with a wild, exaggerated lunge.

"Th-Th-Thousand-Mile Warriors! Where are you? Protect me from this... this lunatic!" Romandro’s desperate plea echoed through the halls, a testament to his utter terror.

Beric’s rapid recovery, his ability to so quickly turn the tables, to transform from victim to tormentor, was evident in his playful, if somewhat sadistic, taunting. Romandro, abandoning all pretense of dignity, threw down the chains – a clatter that echoed the earlier sound, a bookend to his foolish bravery – and fled, scrambling away like a startled rabbit, Beric in hot pursuit, deliberately staying just a hair’s breadth behind, prolonging the chase, relishing every moment of Romandro’s fear.

"Oink! Where do you think you’re going, little piggy? Come here! Come to Papa Beric!"

"Eek! W-w-warriors...! Save me! He’s going to eat me!" Romandro’s terrified squeals faded down the corridor, punctuated by the sounds of his frantic flight.

Thump! Thump! Crash! The sounds of a chaotic, utterly ridiculous pursuit reverberated through the manor, a bizarre symphony of fear and amusement.

"My Lord," the servant asked, his voice hesitant, his eyes darting nervously towards the doorway, his entire body trembling slightly, "is... is Lord Beric alright? Should... should I fetch the physician again?"

"Huh? Oh, yes. I believe so," Ian replied, a wry, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. He doubted the physician could do anything for Romandro, at any rate.

Beric might be seeing things, phantoms of a past trauma, but his awareness that they were mere hallucinations, figments of a drug-addled mind, indicated a return to sanity, or at least, a tenuous grasp on it. His mental fortitude, his ability to compartmentalize, to function even amidst the chaos of his own mind, was undeniable.

He’s a Spellsword for a reason, Ian thought, a touch of grim pride, and perhaps a hint of relief, in his voice. And a damned good actor, too.

The servant, oblivious to the unfolding drama, to the complexities of Beric’s condition and the twisted game he was playing, could only fiddle nervously with the discarded chains, the cold, heavy iron a stark contrast to the heat of the chase, the ludicrousness of the situation.