Chapter 4
Copyright J.B. Norman
“And this,” Roland says, concluding the tour of the Duke’s palace, “is my alchemy lab.”
“Our lab,” Alda insists. “I made a volcano last week.” She puffs up with pride. “All by myself. I only needed Agricola to reach down some stuff from the shelves.”
“Our lab,” Roland says. “You know, the lab. Well, really, Uncle Chuck’s lab. But, like, he never uses it for alchemy. I think the last Duke had it built as a torture hole, or something.”
“I did not need to know that,” Lucia says, edging back towards the door while suspiciously eyeing an unsettlingly dark splotch on the stones of the floor.
“Don’t worry about it,” Roland assures her. “Uncle Chuck never tortures people, either.”
“How does an orphan develop such an interest in alchemy, Roland?” Apolline asks, peering into a bubbling cauldron of something.
“Uncle Chuck wanted to make sure we got a well-rounded education. He found us all kinds of tutors and instructors. Most of it was boooo-ring — I can’t really stomach just sitting around reading books, you know? I’d rather to doing something. The only thing I ever really enjoyed learning other than combat training was alchemy. That ended up being a lot of fun.”
“Roland had a crush on our tutor!” Alda notes eagerly. “He still does!”
Roland blushes and turns bashful. He glances down at his sister. “This is because I made fun of you about that Turboshark thing, isn’t it?”
Alda grins and nods.
Roland turns back to the three adventurers. “Well, yeah. It’s true,” he mutters. “But — in my defence, she’s gorgeous.”
“Uh huh,” Lucia says, surveying the alchemy lab’s equipment.
She assumes it’s an impressive collection: a panoply of flasks and beakers, tubes, ground-up powders in jars, strange liquids in vials, ovens, cauldrons and bowls, and a whole bunch of other stuff she’s never seen before and doesn’t even have the words for.
A middle-aged Elf in fancy clothes and an eyepatch steps into the alchemy lab. “Dinner is served, Master Roland,” he declares. “And Duke Charles is quite looking forward to meeting your new companions.”
He turns to Lucia, Petra, and Apolline and bows low.
“Allow me to introduce myself. I am Martinus Agricola, the Duke’s valet. If you would be so kind as to follow me, ladies.”
Agricola leads the group to a dining room with marble floors, a tall ceiling held up by elaborate pillars, sunlight filtering through frosted windows, and tapestries and paintings adorning every inch of wall space. Poor, simple farmgirl that she is, Lucia has never been in a room this fancy. This one room is probably bigger than her entire house back home — and probably worth more than her parents’ whole farm.
Enraptured by her sumptuous surroundings, Lucia blunders right into the Duke’s dining room table.
“Ow,” she groans as she catches the corner of the table. She leaps back, hisses furiously at the table, then blushes just as furiously when she notices the Duke staring right at her.
Her ears droop and she bows apologetically.
“Sorry,” she mutters, “Your, uh, Duke…liness.”
“Quite alright, my dear,” the Duke says from the head of the table. “It’s only a table.”
The reigning Duke of Middlesbrooke is a man in his mid-fifties, maybe a little older than Lucia’s own parents. His long hair and full beard are both snow-white, though he remains tall and strong and looks like he could take on a man half his age, maybe even two or three of them at once. Though Lucia can’t help but idly wonder if he goes around every mid-winter sneaking down chimneys and cramming presents into socks.
Agricola moves beside the Duke and turns to the three adventurers. “May I present His Serenity, Charles the Ninth, Duke of Middlesbrooke,” the Elf declares. “And Her Serenity Duchess Sofia.”
The Duchess is a maybe a few years younger than her husband, a beautiful woman whose long dark hair is not quite halfway to grey. The fur trim of her long dress makes Lucia a little uncomfortable — she just hopes the Duchess isn’t wearing somebody she knows.
Lucia looks down hopelessly at the dizzying array of spoons before her. “Apolline, help!” she whispers across the table.
“Start on the outside and work your way in, Lucia,” Apolline explains.
Lucia points at a spoon.
“No. That’s a coffee spoon.”
Lucia points again.
“That’s an egg spoon.”
Lucia continues pointing frantically.
“No. No. No. Not that one, either.”
“This one?” Lucia asks, just picking up the closest utensil.
“Lucia,” Apolline says with a sigh. “That’s a fork.”
“It’s this one, dear,” the Duchess tells her, leaning in close.
Lucia has already opened her mouth to respond before she realises that the Duchess is speaking in Natalian.
“Your accent,” the Duchess says. “You are Natalian, yes?”
Lucia nods. “Y-yeah. I’m just a little surprised. I didn’t realise a lot of people in Middlesbrooke spoke Natalian.”
“Not so much in Middlesbrooke, it’s true,” the woman says in Gardian. “But I’m from Natalis myself, after all. I’m sorry if I startled you, but it’s just been so long since I’ve had the chance to talk to someone in Natalian.”
Lucia chuckles nervously. She’s never been this interesting to someone this important before.
“Where are you from, dear?” the Duchess asks.
“It’s a small village called Galgano,” Lucia answers. “You’ve probably never heard of it.”
“There is a sacred well there, isn’t there?” the Duchess asks.
Lucia almost drops her spoon. “Barba di Quinto!” she exclaims in Natalian, looking up at the Duchess in amazement. “I’ve never met anyone outside of the town who knew that!”
“I read whatever I can about Natalis. Especially when I feel homesick,” the Duchess says with a smile. “Perhaps one day, I’ll pay a visit to this sacred well and maybe you could show me around town.”
Being recruited as a royal tour guide is a new experience for Lucia. She isn’t sure what she’s supposed to do at this point. She settles for hoping that the earth will open up and swallow her.
The Duchess gently pats her hand. “I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t mean to impose.”
“Nessun problema,” Lucia mutters.
As the meal progresses, Lucia becomes marginally more comfortable wielding the fancy forks and spoons. She still has to glance over at Apolline for reassurance, but finds herself getting more and more nods of approval from the Aurorean sorceress.
“So,” Duke Charles says to the three adventurers after the course of mushrooms stuffed with other, smaller mushrooms stuffed with cheese. “I understand that Roland was quite eager to hire a group of adventurers.”
“Yes,” Apolline says. “And we’re quite grateful for the opportunity. We do hope that we can be of assistance to Middlesbrooke and its people.”
“Hmfy t’hlmf,” Roland says, speaking through the roast duck he has managed to cram nearly whole into his mouth.
“Roland says he’s happy to help,” Alda explains.
“You understood that?” Lucia asks.
The girl nods. “He talks with his mouth full a lot,” she says.
“Idn’ott!” Roland protests — with his mouth full, Lucia notes.
“I must say, I’m quite pleased that Roland was able to join up with your group,” the Duke says. “I think it will do him good to get out into the world and take on some real responsibilities. Idle hands, and all that.”
“I’m sure we’ll work well with him,” Apolline offers.
Watching him cram another roast duck down his gullet, Lucia very much doubts that. She must be learning how to do diplomacy from so much time spent with Apolline, though, because she decides to say nothing.
“Me, too!” Alda insists. “Roland’s not going anywhere without me!”
Duke Charles raises his glasses. “Well, here’s to what I hope will be many successes for you here in Middlesbrooke,” he declares. “I look forward to hearing all about them.”
“Hey, look!” Alda exclaims. “Here comes Agricola with dessert!”
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