Martius 10th, 1754.
A two-day journey by horse-drawn carriage is a calculated exercise in tedium. Nine gold gryn coins, an outrageous price for accommodations that were not included, became my first investment in this mission. I departed from Clockthon on the 8th of March, leaving the bustling city behind. The 212-kilometer trip took me away from the heart of the kingdom, toward the wilder, mist-covered hills where the old noble families still held dominion.
I arrived at the gates of the de Montfort estate precisely at dusk, around four o'clock by my watch. The castle stood atop a cliff. Thick mist cloaked its base, giving it the illusion of floating. The structure, built from damp black stone, rose with spiked towers that looked like a skyline. Its main gate, made of iron-reinforced oak, bore symbolic carvings worn down by time.
I stepped into a grand banquet hall. The luxury within starkly contrasted the grim exterior. A thick blood-red carpet muffled footsteps. Gigantic crystal chandeliers cast warm light across the chamber. The guests, nobles from surrounding lands, had already gathered. Their polite conversation and forced laughter filled the air. I could feel the mix of emotions in the room, a blend of pride, envy, ambition, and boredom.
I stood near the door, letting myself become part of the background, merely observing. This was where I would perform as the Jester.
"Are you the Jester that Saldo Rabbins spoke of?" came a commanding voice from behind me.
I turned. A man with an ideal frame, glowing green eyes, and ginger hair stood there. He was slightly shorter than I, but his presence radiated undeniable nobility. Count Gustaf de Montfort. The father of the birthday girl.
"Well, well, if it isn't the honorable Count Gustaf de Montfort," I replied with the Jester's cheerful tone, bowing theatrically.
He laughed, a genuine and booming laugh. "Indeed!" He patted my back, a gesture of friendly force. "Welcome to our estate, Mister Motley. We've been eager to see your performance."
"The honor is mine, Count," I replied.
"Then have something to eat first. The event begins at five o'clock," he said warmly before turning to greet other guests.
I walked toward the banquet table, brimming with a wide variety of dishes. I wasn't hungry. I was on duty. I took a glass of wine and stood in a corner, continuing to observe. I mapped the guests, identified key players: the nervous Baronet Willowmantle, the arrogant Lady Thalia of House Valerius, and a few wealthy merchants trying to curry favor with the nobility.
At exactly five, the music ceased. Count de Montfort stepped onto a small platform. After a short speech filled with praise for his daughter, Kivana de Montfort, he introduced me.
"And now, to entertain us all, a mysterious artist from afar, Mister Motley."
I stepped into the center of the room. Every eye turned toward me. I could feel their expectations. They anticipated juggling, jokes, perhaps a bit of cheap magic. But I would give them something else.
I began with Shadow Sculpting. I did not use the wall. Instead, I chose the polished marble floor as my stage. I raised my hands, and my own shadow stretched, lengthened, then detached from my feet. It rose as a second figure, a shadow duplicate of myself.
The crowd gasped.
The shadow double bowed, then began to dance. I followed its lead, our movements perfectly synchronized. One could call it a duet between flesh and darkness. Then I summoned more shadows. From the pillars' silhouettes in the room, I drew out other shadowy figures: musicians with instruments, dancers in flowing gowns. In moments, I had created a shadow-ball within their real party.
The guests were spellbound. They had never seen magic like this. Understandably so. This type of artistry wasn't meant for combat. It was a magic of expression and subtlety.
Next came audience participation. I didn't choose children. I chose adults.
"Now," I said, my voice echoing in the silent room, "I need a secret."
I looked directly at Baronet Willowmantle, who appeared increasingly anxious. "Baronet, you seem like a man with burdens. Would you share just one small burden with us?"
He hesitated, but the weight of every eye upon him made refusal impossible. He stepped forward.
"Whisper a small secret into my ear," I said. "Something your wife won't be angry about."
He whispered something, his face flushing red. I nodded. "Thank you."
I pretended to catch his whisper in my hand, then threw it toward a female opera singer seated in the front row.
"Madame Beatrice," I said. "Would you sing the Baronet's secret for us?"
The singer, a dramatic-looking woman, looked confused. She stood, took a deep breath, and opened her mouth.
What came out was melody, not words. A beautiful tune rich with melancholic minor notes.
I had not told her the secret. What I had done was channel the emotion of it into her through a faint touch of Void Essence.
The audience was mesmerized. They did not understand what had happened, but they felt it. They sensed the hidden sorrow of Baronet Willowmantle, without knowing its contents.
Now for the finale. Something directed at our host himself.
I walked toward Kivana de Montfort, seated in her place of honor beside her father. She looked pale and slightly short of breath, exactly as described in my reports.
"Happy fifteenth birthday, Lady Kivana," I said gently, with a sympathetic voice. "I have a special gift for you."
I took a small silverwood music box from my pocket. I had crafted it myself, with a delicate mechanism powered by a small Essence crystal.
I opened the box. A soft, haunting melody flowed out, soothing and almost lulling — a sound that could put the average person to sleep if heard for too long. But in this world of might and magic, it served as respiratory medicine.
"This is a song from the Erebelle Valley," I said. "Legend says the air there is so pure it can heal even the frailest lungs."
As the music played, I subtly released a modified Laughter Curse. I had no intention of making the girl laugh. My aim was to relax the muscles around her lungs.
Gradually, Kivana's breathing grew deeper and more regular. Color returned to her cheeks. She looked at me with eyes full of gratitude and wonder.
I had not healed her for free. I am no naive hero. I need money to live, not hope. That is life. It runs not on joy or belief, but on coin.
I ended my act with a deep bow. Silence held the room, then erupted into the loudest applause I had ever heard. Perhaps this was the first time they had seen what they called a "miracle" in this world. So perhaps now was the right time to market myself, without advertising directly.
That night, after the banquet ended, Count de Montfort found me in the castle's misty garden.
"Mister Motley," he said, his voice a mixture of hope and suspicion. "What did you do? I know that wasn't ordinary magic. My daughter feels better than she has in years. Tell me, what do you want? Gold? Land? Name your price."
I looked at him beneath the pale moonlight. The hook was completely swallowed.
"I don't need gold or land, Count," I replied. "I only want one thing. A story."
"A story?"
"Yes," I said. "I am a collector of stories, especially forgotten ones. I heard that House de Montfort has one of the finest private archives in the region, containing records from the Era of the Fractured Moon. I only want permission to read them. That is all."
Count de Montfort stared at me for a long time, trying to discern my motive. My request was strange, unworthy of the so-called miracle he had witnessed. But he was in a position of weakness and desperation.
"You may read them," he said at last. "For as long as you wish."
I had obtained the key.
As I turned to leave, he stopped me. "One more thing, Mister Motley. After what I saw tonight, I believe you could have anything in this world. So let me ask. What is your real goal?"
I turned back, my jester mask catching the moonlight.
"My goal?" I chuckled softly. The cheerful voice of Motley now sounded a little hollow in the night's silence. "I am just a clown, Count. And the purpose of a clown is simply to make sure the show goes on."
I bowed once more, then walked away, leaving Count de Montfort alone in his garden, filled with newfound hope and a thousand unanswered questions.
As I made my way back to my inn in the village below the castle, I felt satisfied. The performance had been a resounding success. I had strengthened the legend of Motley, planted a seed of dependence within Count de Montfort, and secured access to archives that might contain clues about the Primeval Forger or the Salvation of Chronos.
But just as I passed a crowded tavern, I caught a snippet of conversation that made me freeze.
"...they say Barthalzan isn't moving north. He was spotted near the border of the Republic of Zarovgard. Apparently he's looking for something in the ruins of an old temple there..."
Zarovgard. A republic neighboring Eastern Cledestine. A place where the Path of Allmanship is everything.
I stood in the dark, the new information spinning in my mind. My plan to lure him north had failed completely. Barthalzan was doing the unexpected. He was heading south.
I gazed in that direction, toward distant Zarovgard. I had a feeling that my next journey would not involve noble parties.
Of course I would not stop here — at least not until I reached "Him" mentioned in my dreams. I was still curious who "They" were. It could not possibly be one of those so-called Outer Gods from fiction. It didn't match the descriptions.
Whatever it is, I will reach it. Reach that "Him" and become a sovereign seeking the true meaning of this world and its reason for being. And for that, I will need immortality.