Chapter Forty-Two: Rescue

The ambassador led Kevin and the others out the door. With a flick of his staff, a bolt of lightning shot from its tip, passing straight through the camp gate nearby and striking a mat on one of the beds. The mat leapt up on its own and unfurled itself neatly in front of the group.

“Borrowing your mat,” the ambassador said as he stepped onto it with Kevin and the rest. Without any visible gesture, the mat lifted off the ground, carrying everyone high above the soldiers’ heads, flying off into the distance. The soldiers could only gape wordlessly; none dared utter a single protest, let alone try to stop them.

The art of Divided Spirit—a high-level spell typically mastered by eighth-level magisters, though on occasion a seventh-level magister might wield it ahead of their time. The hierarchy of mages is determined by both the strength of their magical power and the variety of spells they command; generally, one cannot advance without fulfilling both criteria. Thus, even if someone’s magical strength reaches the eighth level, a lack of breadth in spell knowledge may prevent their promotion. Exceptions, of course, exist.

Though the ambassador’s attire identified him as a seventh-level mage, it was obvious he had already half-stepped into the ranks of the eighth. The so-called Divided Spirit Art allowed one to split off a fragment of their will, imbuing it into an object and making it act with a life of its own.

In many tales, mages are seen finishing a meal, waving a hand so that plates and bowls float away, dump the scraps, wash themselves clean, and return neatly to place. Or, if the floor is dirty, a tap of the staff sets mops and brooms to sweeping, all while the mage lounges contentedly in a chair, seeming utterly at ease.

In truth, these are applications of the Divided Spirit: a temporary projection of one’s will into cleaning implements, commanding them to act as extensions of oneself. It may look effortless, but the mage is laboring through the exertion of will, and there is a cost to their mental energy.

Simple remote control of objects can be achieved by telekinesis, of which there are many forms. These generally require close attention and, often, direct sight or supplemental gestures with hand or staff. By contrast, Divided Spirit allows the mage to focus elsewhere, granting a significant advantage.

Necromancers, on the other hand, can animate objects using spirits without expending their own will—though such practices are forbidden across the continent and have not been seen in centuries.

In battle, the Divided Spirit can have myriad uses. A mage might easily bend an enemy’s weapon, turn it against its wielder, or, if powerful enough, wrest control of an enemy’s arm to make them strangle themselves. The battles of master magicians are ever-shifting, ingenious, and bizarre.

The ambassador’s display of Divided Spirit was a show of strength—had he used a lesser means of flight, the witless soldiers might have loosed their arrows. With a show of high magic, they were left with no thoughts of resistance.

The flying mat hurtled through the skies, and in moments arrived at the city’s Cathedral of Light. Healing Laulu’s wounds was the immediate priority, and the embassy was too far—the trip would have delayed treatment.

The mat landed smoothly as dawn was just breaking. The ambassador strode to the door and knocked, calling out, “The ambassador of Lowbore requests an audience.”

Within moments, the priest himself opened the door, offering a warm welcome.

The ambassador wasted no words, entrusting Laulu at once to the priest’s care. The priest, not daring to delay, had Kevin and the others carry Laulu to an inner chamber, shut the door, and began the baptism of holy light. Kevin and his companions waited outside, finally able to relax their long-held tension.

“Thank you, Ambassador, for saving our lives.” Kevin stood and bowed slightly, the others following suit. Had the ambassador not arrived, the ending would have been far grimmer.

The ambassador only smiled serenely. “Be seated. Let’s wait until the priest is done. This matter won’t be so easily resolved.”

“Ambassador,” Jack ventured, “did you come because my parrot called for help?”

The ambassador was silent for a moment. “Let’s discuss that when he wakes.”

Kevin nodded in understanding. Neither he nor Jack had been involved in the assassination, and the ambassador must have known something of the truth. Until Laulu awoke, it was best not to speak out of turn; after all, the ambassador was new to the situation and perhaps not yet fully informed.

“Tell me how the interrogation went before I arrived,” the ambassador asked. “The more detail, the better.”

Kevin alone could answer this, and there was nothing to conceal. He was careful with his words—repeatedly emphasizing that they were falsely accused, and that he argued for their innocence. He also apologized for pretending to be the son of the Lightning Knights’ commander; the situation was too sudden, and he’d had no choice. He mentioned the aged voice behind the portrait.

Kevin admitted that when he claimed the old man was a general of the Empire of Haetland, it was mere conjecture. The man was likely from the Empire, but the empire was vast, full of talented people; to identify someone by a single aged voice was rash.

At the time, Kevin reasoned, even if he slapped the label on the man, there was little the man could do. He could neither confirm nor deny it without risking exposure. Even if he did deny being a general, Kevin could retort, “You say you’re not? Step forward and prove it.” The hidden hand must remain hidden; once revealed, matters would quickly escalate, possibly into a diplomatic incident.

Only now did Little Spoon and the other assassins realize that Kevin had been bluffing. At the time, his confidence made it seem he’d seen through everything. Regardless, his delay bought them time and led to the ambassador’s rescue—a success by any measure.

For the assassins, it was a lesson unlike any they’d had. Their training brooked no thought of surrender: either die in battle, or succeed; never be captured. Thus, when surrounded, Little Spoon fought to the last, and was upset when Kevin spoke of surrender. But this only proved she was a true, if still inexperienced, assassin.

The ambassador said little, nodding now and then to show he understood.

The healing continued until nearly noon. Together with the ambassador, all waited on the church benches. Occasionally, others came in wounded, but only the nuns could receive them.

Destruction is always easier than repair, especially with intricate things. A building can be toppled with ease, but takes much time to raise again. The human body is the most intricate of all; injuries require varying degrees of care, sometimes of daunting complexity.

Burns, frostbite, broken bones, internal bleeding, parasitic infestation—each demands its own remedies. The Church of Light boasts that even the gravest wounds can be healed with a single spell, restoring the patient as if reborn. But this requires meticulous preparation: bones set, blood clots cleared, and so forth—not to mention residual enemy magic or curses.

Many bards, believing such boasts, extol the miracles of holy magic in their songs: any wound, a flash of white light, and all is well. Yet this is laughable. Imagine a brutal battle: heads broken, bones shattered, entrails spilling out. Would a priest’s spell snap bones back into place? Would every fragment align itself? Would intestines slither back inside?

If so, it would not be holy magic, but a reversal of time itself.

Of course, battlefield priests sometimes use telekinetic magic to maintain hygiene, guiding entrails back into place from afar. To outsiders, it may seem the priest heals with a gesture, but more than half the work is done by telekinesis, a painstaking and draining task.

Holy magic does accelerate healing and restore strength and spirit, but must be used with care; misuse may see flesh and gut heal together, or bones set forever crooked. When Start received a cut on his thigh, the bone was fortunately unscathed and Kevin had treated it beforehand, so a little holy water sufficed. Laulu, however, was gravely wounded; his treatment would be a true challenge.

Luckily, the priest here was clearly skilled. In a war-torn small country, injuries were a daily affair. Even if not powerful in magic, the priest’s experience was vast; who knows how many he lost, how many he saved.

Around noon, the priest finally emerged, wiping sweat from his brow. A nun wheeled Laulu out. The group rose in haste and, seeing Laulu’s head uncovered, finally let out a sigh of relief.

“This one is strong—he’s survived,” the priest said with satisfaction.

“Thank you for your efforts,” the ambassador stood and offered a sack of gold coins. The priest accepted it without protest, then said, “He’s out of danger, but must rest for half a month. After that, he should be able to walk, but no battles for at least three months.”

“Understood,” the ambassador nodded. “Thank you.”

Examining Laulu, they saw he had not yet woken, but looked far more peaceful. Little Spoon and Little Nine were both somewhat ashamed; Laulu had been injured saving them.

“You haven’t eaten, have you?” the priest asked kindly. “You’re welcome to dine here.”

Indeed, they had not eaten since the previous night. Now that the tension was gone, hunger set in. The ambassador voiced no objection, and all stayed to eat as they pleased.

After lunch, the sound of armor clattering in unison rang from outside—the arrival of troops, as expected on another’s territory. Kevin was only surprised they had come so late, not until the afternoon.

The ambassador led everyone out to greet them. The opposing force was arrayed in neat ranks, spears bristling down the avenue as far as the eye could see. Under the blazing afternoon sun, it was impressive they maintained such order.

At the center, a fat man sat in a carriage, a bejeweled sword at his waist, dressed in formal wear and a top hat—every inch the gentleman. Beside him rode the commander from the security office the day before.

“Oh? Lord Solutam, the city master,” the ambassador greeted with a slight bow. “Such a hot day for a personal visit—thank you for your trouble.”

The fat man jumped down, returning the bow, “Greetings, Ambassador of Lowbore.”

“Yesterday you visited my city’s security office without advance notice?” the city lord smiled.

“Oh, I heard the sudden activation of the city’s defensive array and came to investigate. I followed proper procedures—had the guards announce me and waited for permission before entry,” replied the ambassador.

The city lord nodded. “But as I understand it, last night several intruders were arrested at the city gates and were being interrogated when you took them away without cause. Is that so?”

“I don’t know what interrogation you refer to, but when I arrived, I found a man gravely wounded, denied treatment and still under questioning. That is inhumane, and as ambassador of Lowbore, I must protest in the strongest terms!” The ambassador wielded diplomatic rhetoric with practiced ease.

“There were some rough actions in the security office, which I have already addressed,” the city lord said lightly, “but their trespass is a fact. I have come today to insist they be returned for interrogation.”

“No! The wounded have not regained consciousness. Interrogation must wait at least until he’s recovered,” the ambassador replied.

“He may be treated in our security office; the others are uninjured and can be interrogated now,” the city lord insisted.

“Interrogation is acceptable,” the ambassador responded, “but as this occurred in your official institution, your nation’s officials must recuse themselves from the process.”

“Agreed. I can invite a judge from the Empire of Lyon to arbitrate,” the city lord countered.

“The Empire of Lyon is far away. Why not have an elf as judge? As non-humans, they can better guarantee fairness and impartiality!” the ambassador pressed.

Thus, the two of them sparred at the cathedral door, arguing back and forth. Suddenly, a loud crash sounded behind them. Turning, they saw a soldier collapsed on the ground, apparently unconscious.

“What happened?” the city lord shouted, drawing his sword, thinking it an attack.

“Sir, he’s suffered heatstroke,” a guard said as he hurriedly lifted the man.

The city lord was speechless.