Chapter 66: The Tender Sweetness

Sylvia lounged languidly upon a reclining chair of scarlet willow, a captivating smile blossoming upon her resplendent face. Her long, slender legs were elegantly crossed, one fair, delicate hand supporting her cheek, while the other idly played with an exquisite cup of purple-gold. Her lithe, graceful figure, draped on a flawless alpaca-skin cushion, exuded sensuality and allure.

Such a casual pose hardly conformed to the etiquette of noble receptions, yet in Sylvia it radiated a natural nobility and poise, making any thought of irreverence unthinkable.

“This so-called purplecane wine is utterly lacking in merit,” she said. “The liquor is muddy and tinged with red, flecked with fibrous impurities. Its sweet-sour flavor masks any true bouquet—anyone with the slightest knowledge of spirits would recognize it as a crude, peasant brew of poor quality. Such wine could never earn the approval of the nobility.”

“However, the raw materials are of the finest grade. If I were to use such ingredients, I would select the fourth method from the White Tower’s distilling arts: steam the base, gather dew from silver fern leaves, add marigold petals, and cellar the blend for a year. The result should be a golden-hued liquor, mellow and smooth, worthy to rival even the famed Dume wine of the Boryan United Kingdom.”

A well-dressed gentleman, Anthony York, was expounding enthusiastically to Sylvia; he was the York family’s steward and an academic of the White Tower.

“A pity these coarse freemen have no true knowledge of vinting, squandering such premium material,” Anthony lamented, examining the purplecane wine in his hand with a sigh.

“Then tell me, Anthony—our family has been developing the Centaur Hills for three years now. Why did none of you discover that purplecane is a top-grade vinting ingredient?” The question came coldly from Master Edwin, seated nearby.

Anthony paused at the rebuke and bowed to Edwin. “Master Edwin, from the moment our family entered the Centaur Hills, I experimented with making wine from purplecane—five methods, in fact. But what resulted was mere sweet water. So I concluded purplecane could not produce wine. I never imagined the residue—the pressed pulp—was the true treasure.”

“And yet those very freemen you disparage realized purplecane pulp could be fermented. Does this not convince you that the wisdom and skills of the freemen are also worthy of recording?” sighed Edwin, pained that his former history student refused to support his view.

“Master, knowledge is about inheritance and refinement. The freemen may possess a measure of cleverness, but they lack an understanding of the essence of things. Their inventions are piecemeal and disordered, of little real value. The knowledge we gather and study at the White Tower is systematic. Besides, our capacities are limited—even the current White Tower corpus is too vast for any one scholar to master. Who would abandon pearls for a handful of sand?”

Though Edwin was a scholar Anthony respected, he could not agree with the old man’s fanciful, impractical ideas.

“Moreover, to my knowledge, the freemen’s use of purplecane pulp was entirely serendipitous. Baron Victor has a fondness for purplecane juice; his people happened upon the idea of fermenting the leftover pulp, which resulted in this wine. As for Victor’s less-than-dignified taste for purplecane, I’ll withhold judgment,” Anthony added.

At this, Edwin could not help but roll his eyes. Was this what you called withholding judgment?

“The real issue is not the wine itself, but that doctrine and authority have blinded us. Because the lords trusted your conclusion, the purplecane of Centaur Hills was all but eradicated. You must know, we of the Silver Tower have produced no new academic findings in nearly two centuries, while the Church’s monasteries continue to advance. They’ve recently developed a feed formula to enhance a mount’s endurance, allowing their cavalry to march a quarter farther than ours each day…”

“All right, Uncle Edwin, what I want to know is: can we cultivate purplecane?” Sylvia interrupted the old scholar’s impassioned speech. The inner disputes of the White Tower interested her less than the purplecane itself; after all, a single bottle of Dume wine from Bory fetched twenty silver sol, and the finest vintages could reach fifty gold sol—a fortune not easily ignored.

“Cultivation is possible, but purplecane seeds are extremely slow to mature. Our studies show it takes fifteen years for a plant to reach full growth. However, purplecane also spreads by rhizomes—a single mature plant can colonize an area within its root system. Another interesting trait: if a mature stalk is cut down, it will regrow to three meters within a year…”

Edwin paused, recalling how Victor had once consulted him on the proper method for harvesting purplecane and had strictly instructed his people to follow that method. Could the boy have understood its value all along?

“Therefore, to restore purplecane to a renewable scale, I estimate it would take forty years,” Edwin continued, setting aside his doubts.

“In that case, Anthony, tell me—do the purplecane wines from Victor’s domain still have value?” Sylvia nodded, turning to the steward.

“My lady, though these wines are unrefined, with filtration, distillation, and at least three years of cellaring, I am confident I can create a new top-tier variety. The new spirit would lose its sourness, retain a gentle sweetness, and bear a faint purple hue. If accepted by high society, it could fetch Dume wine prices,” Anthony replied deferentially.

“My lady, I suggest we purchase purplecane directly from Baron Victor—our profit margin would be much greater,” the steward added.

“As for Baron Victor’s fief, I have my own plans. You may withdraw, Anthony,” Sylvia said coolly.

“Yes, my lady.”

Anthony bowed to the countess and to Edwin, then turned and departed.

“My lady, Lord Shax has arrived.”

No sooner had Anthony left than a servant announced from outside.

“Sylvia, I shall take my leave. I hope you’ll give young Victor some time—he is the most in-touch lord with his people I have ever seen. Perhaps he will bring us even more inspiration,” Edwin said as he prepared to go, seeing that Sylvia was about to receive the sheriff.

“I will, Uncle Edwin,” Sylvia replied with a smile.

Led by the servant, Shax soon stood before the mesmerizing countess, who still reclined in her casual, languid pose. Yet her words made sweat bead upon his forehead.

“Shax, you have greatly disappointed me! Even such a trivial matter you cannot handle?”

“My lady, I…” Shax wiped his brow, searching his mind for any oversight, but found none.

“Are you brainless? Victor’s guards had barely arrived in Blackcastle Town when they caught you arresting his agent. Such a coincidence—do you not fear others will see through it?” Sylvia’s face was cold as frost.

“My lady, I was careless. Still, they don’t suspect me. I’ve received word that old John is inquiring about Barol—they must be preparing to act,” Shax replied, dropping to one knee.

“Hmph! Consider yourself lucky—the Baron’s guards are but mercenaries, unskilled in intrigue. Just make sure there are no more mistakes, or you’ll be stripped of your post!” Sylvia’s mind quickly grasped the crux of the matter.

“Rest assured, my lady. The steward of House Villepan is in Blackcastle Town, and I’ve already taken care of the gang leader Barol. When the time comes…”

“Enough! I don’t care about the details—I want results. Go and see to it!” Sylvia said impatiently.

“Yes, my lady. I’ll take my leave,” Shax said, relieved, and rose.

“And one more thing—the purplecane wine from Victor’s lands, I want half. Understood?” Sylvia added.

“I understand!”

Shax bowed and backed out of the room.

“Sylvia, is a trifle like this truly worthy of your personal attention?”

After Shax left, a cool, delicate female voice drifted from behind a curtain. A woman emerged: her lustrous black hair fell freely over her shoulders, her figure petite but perfectly proportioned, her features exquisite yet youthful—she looked scarcely sixteen or seventeen. Her skin was fair and dewy, but her bearing was icy, forbidding intimacy. Yet the magnificent mithril armor she wore marked her as at least a Silver-ranked knight.

“Trisley, at first I was merely curious. But now the unripe fruit is sweetening—I can hardly resist sampling him myself,” Sylvia replied, stretching lazily, her laughter musical.

“All this over purplecane wine?” Trisley’s eyes flashed with envy as Sylvia’s silken spiderweb gown traced an enticing curve with her movement.

“You’ve been waiting here to speak about Nicole, haven’t you?” Sylvia said softly, clearly unwilling to discuss Victor further.

“Nicole is my retainer knight now, and she’s achieved her knighthood through the Trial of Life and Death. In that process, she must have sensed the Elemental Sea. Even if her knightly bloodline is impure, she should have no trouble advancing to the Silver rank,” Trisley nodded.

“Therefore, I hope you’ll grant her the status of a family knight—an estate, five thousand acres of land, a village, and an annual stipend of three thousand gold sol. I’ve already chosen a new name for her: she shall be…”

“She refused,” Sylvia interrupted coolly.

“Nicole only asked for the position of personal maid for her mother’s sake, and is willing to serve the family as a squire-knight for ten more years. After that, she intends to leave.”

“Why?”

“You can ask her yourself.”

After Trisley stormed off, Sylvia picked up the purple-gold cup. Staring into the steaming coffee within, she seemed to see Victor’s elfin, handsome features reflected there. Sylvia’s lips curled in a beguiling smile as she took a sip.

“Purplecane, coffee, and swiftbirds—Victor, I await even greater surprises from you! And as for stealing away my knight, it won’t be so easy!”

————————————————————————

Outside the Blackcastle Town constabulary, a gaunt, plainly dressed old man with a weary expression kept a careful watch on the building. He was none other than Barol, the town’s underworld boss.

Barol waited anxiously for Sheriff Shax to summon him.

A guard approached, gave Barol a knowing glance, and the gang leader followed him inside.

“Good day, sir!”

In a secluded room, Barol bowed before the powerful sheriff of Blackcastle Town.

“Barol, how is the matter I assigned progressing?” Shax asked coldly. In this town, all such jackals depended on him; there was no need for courtesy.

“Sir, the steward from House Villepan is lodged in a private residence I arranged, but I can’t keep him there long. He paid me a hundred gold sol to eliminate Victor’s agent, but after I failed, he’s demanding I repay four hundred gold sol. I suspect the bastard pocketed the reward from Baron Villepan and now wants to return it, making up the difference from me. I’ve managed to stall him for now—he insists I pay within two days, as he’s returning to Villepan in three,” Barol whispered.

“In a day or two, Victor’s people will make their move. Make sure the Villepan steward doesn’t leave that house—if you fail, you know the consequences,” Shax said, his voice chilling.

“Don’t worry, sir. He won’t leave in two days—I’ve arranged twin sisters to entertain him, and he’s thoroughly enjoying himself. However…”

Barol hesitated, then added, “Sir, the steward claims his lord is the Queen’s cousin—powerful connections. Won’t there be trouble if I scheme against him?”

“Relax—you’re not the killer. No matter what happens, no blame will fall on you. Once this blows over, lay low for a spell—who will remember a small fry like you?” Shax sneered.

“These next two days, make frequent appearances at that house, station extra men, let people believe you live there yourself—understand?”

“Yes, sir, I’ll do exactly as you say.”

“Remember, I’ll offer you no reward—but you’ll keep your life. So don’t get any ideas. Now go.”

Barol left the constabulary in dejection. Yet after turning into a narrow alley, his muddy eyes grew deep and calculating.