Very little was capable of knocking Celene off of her pedestal of calm composure, simply because there was very little that could reasonably catch her off guard. Not only did she influence and control her surroundings such that she was prepared for anything, but she also had the keen sense to think ahead and either mitigate problems before they happened, or solve them promptly if they did come to pass. For someone of her standing, and in a place such as Mollengard, at that, keeping cool was imperative to maintaining respect. However, despite her skills and cunning, Celene Ardane was still human (or as human as a Master Alchemist could claim to be), and there was only so much news she could take before her composure wavered.
For one… Nia. Her sister, whom she had known had survived her family’s massacre and had been alive all this time. Knowing this had been enough, and she had never really desired a reunion or further involvement in her sister’s life. Yet all of a sudden, through some bizarre string of coincidences, Nia had managed to find a way back into her life, without ever knowing that she was still alive. Was this some sort of sick, divine intervention? For what were the chances that her only surviving sister would wind up romantically involved with the brother of the only person in Mollengard who was remotely capable of assisting her sufficiently? What were the odds that she and her lover had been assisted by yet another Master Alchemist, completely unrelated to the Ardanes?
And what were the chances that that very Master alchemist had made his way to Mollengard to steal her resources and prestige?
It wasn’t the best or safest move to leave Casimiro and his golem companion to their own devices upon returning to the fortress, but between the fasting she had undergone for the past few days, on top of this outrageous news for which she evidently hadn’t been prepared, Celene Ardane was left feeling too ill to properly deal with any of it. The moment the Master Alchemist exited the carriage, she hurried inside, downed a tonic for her nausea, and retired to bed that afternoon without another word until the next morning.
Casimiro better have enjoyed the single free evening he’d had to himself since being captured by Mollengard over a year ago, because it certainly would not become routine. After an afternoon resting in bed and an evening parsing through everything she had learned, turning over possibilities and perceived outcomes, Celene was finally feeling like herself again by the next morning. When her assistant arrived to break his fast the next morning, accompanied by the impossibly beautiful golem creature that curiously brought him obvious dismay with her appearance, Celene was just finishing up her own light meal, delicate teacup in hand. From time to time, she still had to eat purely for survival purposes.
“Sit. I have an assignment for you today, of different sorts.” Celene said to Casimiro first, before eyeing the golem. “You, as well. Considering your knowledge and coincidental connections to my family and your master’s, it would be beneficial for you to accompany him.”
The Ardane woman set down the teacup and folded her hands, and expelled a quiet sigh. “For once, I have to admit that an inconvenience has indeed turned out to be a blessing. Funny how sometimes you think things are not working out in your favour, when in reality they are, in fact, unfolding beautifully. Just not in the fashion that you had hoped. You see, I had planned--and hoped--that Isidor Kristeva would no longer be a direct or indirect concern of mine, and continue to access the resources here to which I had laid claim long before his arrival. After some preliminary investigation, however… despite my efforts, it seems as though this is not currently the case. Zenech’s boy continues to reside in his own, protected fortress, with the underling I’ve given him. Although, I suppose I only have myself to blame for underestimating Kristeva, and overestimating what the homunculus is capable of.” The corners of her mouth turned down ever so slightly upon a glance at the homunculus child who was currently attending her, quietly standing off to the side with her blank, emotionless stare. As if the young girl, who had likely never seen beyond cold, stone walls of Celene’s fortress, had anything to do with the failure of her brethren who had gone to live with Isidor Kristeva.
“However, in this case--and only in this case--can I find it in myself to forgive this failure. For if what I’d planned had come to pass, then I would never have answers to questions now stirring about in my head. And neither would you, Casimiro.”
The Master Alchemist’s cool gaze settled on her assistant as she straightened in her seat. “You are a smart man. I’m sure I don’t have to spell it out to you that Isidor Kristeva has effectively made a fool out of both of us. He knows my sister, and your brother. And when we spoke, he knew all too well that we were entirely ignorant to this. He made a power move without having to act at all; but as of the arrival of your golem, he’s lost the power he holds over us. The power of information unbeknownst to us. Yet, there is still more I’m onto which I am sure he is holding on. More about my sister… and your brother. And about the reasons for which Isidor left to settled here in Mollengard in the first place.”
Celene drained what was left in her teacup, before pushing away from the table and standing. “I think you and I both know that we have a far better chance of siphoning information from him if I am not the one asking. He is loathe to speak with someone he perceives to be a competitor and rival, and has already made it clear he’d rather not waste daylight humouring a conversation with me. Knowing what I do now, I wonder if his animosity towards me is a projection of his feelings toward my sister. Laz, if you don’t mind me asking,” She turned her head ever so slightly to acknowledge the silent golem, “What was Kristeva’s relationship to my sister? On one hand, if he saw her in the same light that he sees me--a rival and competitor--then that explains a lot. Yet, you mentioned he helped her to save the life of Casimiro’s brother, which leaves me with more questions than answers. Unless he found himself close enough to the latter that he was more concerned about saving a life than a grudge against someone who might show him up.”
If Laz was to be believed, then indeed, Isidor had found himself relatively close to Casimiro’s brother. However, what she shared about Kristeva and her sister… well, the account seemed somewhat lacking. Or, rather… edited. The golem simply stated that, to her ‘limited’ knowledge, his relationship to Nia Ardane was indeed complicated, but in the end they had come together briefly for a common cause, that being Casimiro’s brother. However, she claimed she couldn’t really speak to the details, as she reiterated Nia got on her nerves too easily, and as such, she made an effort not to pay close attention to the woman’s affairs beyond Aristide Canaveris. “I see.” Celene said, but it was obvious in her tone and body language that she was already onto Laz for not telling the whole story. Still, she didn’t pry. The details would find a way to her by some means or another.
“Perhaps I should have prefaced this with the insight that the more you are able to tell me, the less work you will have today. But no matter. I have one more question that I wonder if you can answer. Your anecdotal appraisal of Isidor and Aristide’s relationship suggests that they were, in fact, rather close, and that he did succeed in helping to save his life. If his terms with my sister were so… complicated, as you say, I cannot come to believe that the reason he left for Mollengard of all places was because of any resulting emotional distress. Why, then, is he here? Why come to a place like this? Not even desperate people seek out Mollengard.” Only people with a plan do. So what was Isidor Kristeva’s plan for this place?
This time, Laz hesitated before providing an answer, which was little more than another ‘I don’t know’. The golem made some vague allusion to the young Kristeva man’s struggle to fit in among society, after spending the majority of his life locked away in a tower by Zenech, and then choosing to reside in the only place he had ever sadly called home long after his mentor’s death. But since she had never pried too far into his business, she insisted that she couldn’t speak on the other Master Alchemist’s plans or intentions, aside from the possibility that this was just the whim of a runaway who just couldn’t deal with living amongst real people.
But Celene wasn’t convinced that this was the whole story, or that it was all Laz knew. The Ardane woman’s gaze flickered from Laz to Casimiro and back again, as if to quietly ask her assistant, Who is really in charge of whom, here? She was not convinced of Casimiro’s hold over his creation; not to the same magnitude that she had a hold over her’s. Although, considering one of her own had failed to carry out very clear instructions, she couldn’t help but wonder if she, too, was somehow losing her touch. A detail she wasn’t apt to ignore, but would have to be dealt with later.
“In any case. Today I will have you pat a visit to Mr. Kristeva, Casimiro, to gather the answers to some of these questions. Do take note, because some questions take priority over others. First, I want to know the details of the feat that he accomplished alongside my sister. How they did it, and how Anetania seemed to be faring when he left. Moreover… I want to know his reasons for being here. Clearly, he seeks resources that he cannot find anywhere else for a purpose that he keeps close to his chest. Beyond those, any other details you can glean are of course helpful, but my interest is mainly rooted in those first two questions.”
Celene handed her empty plate and teacup to the quiet homunculus girl, who then took the dishes without a word, and disappeared to the kitchen. “As I mentioned before, if Isidor Kristeva took to your brother as a friend--and rest assured, I’m sure he had made the connection between familial relations--then he is far more likely to talk to you than to me, as I’m related to someone with whom he shares a rather complicated history. My presence, I fear, will not yield favourable results. But if he recognizes your golem as a companion of a friend, at the very least, then he may be persuaded to open up. Do not think that I haven’t noticed your way with words, Casimiro. I’m sure if anyone can get him to talk, then it is you, especially if you frame your visit as being on the terms of your own self-interest, given Isidor’s tie to your brother.”
With her terms set, Celene nodded to the plate that Casimiro had been afraid to touch as of yet, concerned that partaking in the food in front of him might give his current employer the impression that he was not fully engaged in what she had to say. “Finish your breakfast, and rest assured, I’ve already given notice to officials that you will be taking leave of this fortress unsupervised for the afternoon. And that you will return no later than this evening.”
Her parting words were less of a reassurance, however, and more of a subtle threat: the ‘or else simply wasn’t spoken, but surely even Laz could detect it through the layers of abject authority in Celene’s voice.
True to her word, Celene had already arranged a carriage prepared to take Casimiro and his golem underling to Isidor’s own gloomy abode, approximately an hour’s distance away. She did not mention whether or not Isidor was aware that he was to have visitors on this day, but it was highly unlikely she’d sent any prior notice, in anticipation that the reclusive Master Alchemist would use that information to make certain he was not present for any unprecedented visitors. In fact, it was still uncertain as to whether he would even choose to answer the door, regardless, but Celene was not about to throw in the towel so easily. She might have been annoyed, upon learning that another Master Alchemist tread upon her territory, but knowing now that this intruder had information concerning her own living family to which she was not privy… well, annoyed could no longer describe Celene’s feelings toward Isidor. A more accurate depiction might have been something along the lines of ‘quietly incensed’.
“Oh--one other thing,” the Ardane woman mentioned, before Casimiro shut the carriage door. “Find out what has become of the homunculus boy. If Isidor is still alive… then I can only assume that his ‘help’ is not.”
Fortunately for Celene, even if Casimiro and Laz were not successful in discovering the answers to those questions she deemed most important, at the very least she would receive an answer to that final inquiry. When Casimiro and Laz approached the solid, iron-enforced oak doors of Isidor’s small fortress, it was not the Master Alchemist himself who answered their call, but instead, the homunculus boy whom Celene had so assumed was dead. “Master Kristeva is neither expecting, nor prepared for guests.” he said, in a childlike tone that was as oddly firm as it was ghostly. He even went so far as to have the gall to begin to close the door without question, but just as Celene had hoped, Casimiro managed to come through with a pitiful plea to connect with the man who he believed to know his brother, whom he had not seen in years. The boy paused, and his brow furrowed, but the pause was long enough for a much taller figure to sidle up behind him and take up the burden of holding open the heavy door.
“Thank you, but I’ll take this. You’re dismissed. ” Isidor Kristeva said to his ghostly, young assistant, who merely nodded and quietly took his leave upon his new master’s request.
Eyeing first Laz, then Casimiro, the Master Alchemist did not appear convinced at the latter's plea, however genuinely he seemed to want to know about his brother. “Why come to me when you clearly have a far more accurate source for information?” he asked rather tonelessly, indicating Laz. “Or is there another reason you are here? Evidently the alchemist stone was not enough to buy off Celene’s probing. If you are here on her behalf, please understand--and do make it clear to her--that I am too busy to entertain her whims. And if her continual pestering is a tactic to try and convince me to uproot and seek resources elsewhere… then have her understand, and accept, that I am not going anywhere.”
It was something of a novelty to witness Celene all bothered and out of sorts, and Cas found the experience rather pleasant. Not only because she’d neglected to assign him duties for the day, a detail of which he’d taken full advantage, but because he now knew exactly what caused her near-perfect veneer to slip. He’d long suspected the source of her malaise, but he all but confirmed it after their last conversation. Isidor Kristeva somehow fueled her feelings of inadequacy, bringing to the surface fears and uncertainty about her position as redundant fodder among Mollengard’s ranks. If Isidor Kristeva provided exemplary service, then Mollengard, who valued efficiency, would find little need to fund two Master Alchemists when one sufficed. Celene Ardane’s fraying desperation was showing, and Cas would happily prey on it for the furtherance of his goals.
If nothing else, tracking Celene’s weaknesses granted him the perfect distraction, away from the gleaming, statue-sized one currently sharing the minuscule space in his bedchambers, competing for his attention by existing too much, and in entirely the wrong direction.
“I take it you object to our sharing a bed?” An innocent enough question from Laz, but it caused Cas to bite his tongue in revulsion, clamping hard enough to draw blood.
“Yes, Laz, that is out of the question. And wildly inappropriate,” he spat, flecks of blood spraying his lips. “Surely you do nothing of the sort with Ari?”
“No. He never utilized me in such a way.”
Cas didn’t miss the slight twang of passive aggression in Laz’s uplifted, feminine timbre. Where had the golem learned such disrespectful behavior? Certainly not from Ari, the paragon of good manners. The more he learned about this new, “liberated” version of Laz, the more he wanted to smash the reprehensible creature into a wad of clay and fashion a pot out of her remains. At least then he’d be in control of what he found beautiful. Desirable. Not this abomination parading before him like she understood the mechanics of humanity.
“Laz, tell me the real reason you have ‘chosen’ this form.” Cas sat on the edge of the bed, turning his back on the golem’s unsettling combination of womanly curves and lean musculature. Even from his obscure vantage point, he could sense the crossing of her arms as she leaned against the wall, her posture a perfect mimic of affront. “What do you gain? Nothing but unwanted male attention, I wager. If Ari pressured you to change to fit his aesthetic or because he fancied practicing his craft on an animate object, it would behoove you to answer me truthfully.”
“What I had before did not complete me,” Laz fiddled with the ends of her silvery hair. “Essential components were missing. Other components were…out of place. Ari merely rearranged what was already there and molded me until I decided where I would perform most optimally. This is, at present, my most optimal form.”
“So that means your definition of optimal is subject to change,” Cas mused aloud. He rubbed his thumb and forefingers together, prying out the residual dirt under his fingernails. “Especially as your ‘optimal’ depends on what your current master considers optimal. And your current master—me—finds your present, ah, ‘condition,’ not only inefficient, but unacceptable. Once I obtain the resources, Laz, I shall fix you up, as you were, end of story. We will be better for it, to leave this dark period behind and strive for a more agreeable future.” He curved one edge of his mouth into a smile, eyeteeth appearing sharp and jagged at the angle. “Just the two of us.”
Laz shifted against the wall, willing the stone masonry to swallow her. She said nothing. Cas delegated, but he never listened, no matter how much she assured her choices came of her own volition, that it opened her to channels of greater power. But he would refuse to hear reason. Her existence not only displeased him, but created great distress and offense. Any golem would scramble to correct their mistakes, tear themselves apart for their master until they were met with approval. And yet… Laz raked her fingers against the course gray-granite walls, bolstered by the abrasive texture. She resisted the shiver in her core that yearned to satisfy his commands, even if the insubordination would destroy the soul the Canaverises had cultivated in the ground for generations to give her life. Upon her birth, they imbued her with intention, granted her instruction: obeisance. Unquestioning loyalty. If she should err in her one purpose, she would return to the earth, a pile of decentralized clay and her soul smashed like a fine pottery fresh out of the kiln. Yet, who determined insubordination, a golem’s defectiveness and defection? The individual in charge, or the generations-ago contract engraved beneath her skin? If she broke the skin, would her bindings break? If she destroyed herself before Cas destroyed her, would she find freedom, or just another avenue leading to her demise?
“I am saving your life, Laz. The more you drift, the sooner you will fall,” came Cas’s sleepy, yet threatening words before he closed his eyes and succumbed to sleep on the bed.
I despise him. It was the last thought she allowed before she silenced her mind and became one with the rock wall holding her steady, and supportively.
Laz drifted down the stairs with Cas the following morning where they met Celene for breakfast in the dining hall. The eldest Ardane sister had gained her bearings from the previous day, all signs of overwhelm vanished from her porcelain features. The way she sat, as if inching into a keel or slouch would court failure, resembled a marbleized bust on the front of a mausoleum, but unlike a master sculptor like Ari to breathe her to life, she presided over a graveyard, dead as the corpses she oversaw. No light occupied the sky in her brown eyes–a departure from Nia, who Laz often criticized for having too much, a greedy spark ready to set an entire forest ablaze.
The only time Celene showed a hint of emotion during her lengthy speech was when she singled out the fay child beside her who had done nothing wrong. She’d seen her like scuttling the halls and nary treated better than rats, disowned by their creator as barely competent at best, a disposable nuisance at worst. Laz offered the albino girl a nod of sympathy. A benevolent creator would celebrate their creations, or at the very least, show them a modicum of civility. Laz was fast learning the caliber of person Celene Ardane represented. So far, she painted an unfavorable first impression.
Laz’s discerning assessment was placed on hold when the conversation unexpectedly veered in her direction. Normally the quiet observer, content to watch from the corner of the room, Laz was taken off guard to have earned an active role in the proceedings, given Celene’s attitudes toward her homunculus creations implied their abject inferiority.
Celene asked questions with answers she hoped to weaponize against Isidor Kristeva. Unwittingly, Laz glanced at Cas, parsing his mind for instructions on how to proceed. Through their psychic connection, she received general indifference. If she lied, or withheld information, as long as it did not reflect poorly on her master, she could handle her response however she liked. If she had a say-so, she would protect the man who saved Ari’s life. Unfortunately, she did not understand how to deceive, so she chose the next best strategy.
In truth, she hadn’t had many interactions with Isidor Kristeva. Never a solo conversation. A few staid greetings, and little else. What Laz knew of the reclusive Master Alchemist she learned from Ari and silent observation from afar. Even then, her field of reach extended only to the boundaries of the Canaveris villa.
She relayed as much to Celene and Cas. “At first, Ari despised Isidor Kristeva and wanted little to do with him,” Laz said. All truth! Never a lie wandered out of her mouth. “As a result, he posed little concern to us until Nia and Alster Rigas proposed we recruit his aid for Ari’s procedure. Ari paid better attention to him, out of necessity, but Isidor’s hostile treatment toward Nia rankled him, and he would not allow further aspersions to persist while Nia remained his guest of honor. I would not define Isidor and Nia’s relationship as a rivalry. Part of her infuriating nature required that she befriend every soul who crossed her path and Isidor was no exception. I daresay she wanted to befriend him above all precisely because of their shared profession. He loathed her, though. For a time, at least. I believe they set aside their differences, in large part due to Ari and Alster Rigas, both of whom advocated for harmony above all. At present, they are not friends, not exactly, but Isidor no longer holds Nia in contempt.” Laz decided to withhold a few unnecessary or extraneous details, chiefly the salacious tryst they shared one ill-fated evening. Such a matter was private and deeply personal. All of Galeyn knew, no thanks to Rowen Kavanagh’s dispersal of information. In that sense, it had migrated to the public’s domain, but Laz needn’t migrate it outside the borders of the kingdom, as well.
Cas snorted, breaking Laz’s concentration. “Why you allowed a Rigas to delegate our affairs at all simply astounds me. My brother is indeed weak. And here I thought he would act in my stead as an insightful and inspiring leader. Ah,” he waved a dismissive hand, “but my concerns are neither here nor there. Do go on with your inquest, Miss Celene.”
Celene, who didn’t seem convinced of Laz’s innocence (although she hadn’t lied!) asked another question, which gave Laz pause as she considered how to finesse an adequate reply without arousing suspicion. How did Ari manage to thwart such inquiries with effortless elegance? He is a far better leader than you ever were, Cas, she wanted to spit aloud. Their psychic connection, newly established, was weak, so it was likely he heard nothing of her seething inner vitriol. He didn’t react.
“As that is a purely speculative inquiry, I cannot guarantee you will receive an accurate analysis,” she said after some thought. “I am no expert on the human experience. Emotions and intentions often elude me. I am afraid the only person who will provide the specific knowledge you seek is Isidor himself, and only if he feels comfortable to share it.” If no answer satisfied Celene, Laz wouldn’t generate a storied history on her persona non grata if every effort was met with suspicion.
“Laz is correct,” Cas rested his elbows on the table and leaned closer, his interest renewed. “A golem, even of Laz’s excellent caliber, would have little bearing on Isidor’s state of mind at the time of his departure unless she was present for the interaction. It would amount to hearsay on her end. Besides, she is not working at optimal capacity. She has limitations.” Laz felt her empty insides twist like she was being spun on a pottery wheel. “Rest assured, we will gather the information you desire,” he continued, blissfully oblivious of the impact of his words, which made a mockery of Laz’s statement from last night. “This task you have assigned me I will tackle with relish. You are correct in assuming I am most able and fit for this specific job.”
After breakfast, Cas and Laz waited in the foyer while Celene prepared the carriage for departure. When it was time to leave, the homunculus girl opened the door and held it out for them to step outside. Cas trotted through without a word of acknowledgement, but Laz bowed her head again, stopping briefly to voice her appreciation.
“Thank you. Do you have a name by which I can call you?” At the girl’s silence and blank stare, Laz’s frown deepened. Celene had never named her. “How about…Opal? My name is Lazuli. My family has a long tradition of using gemstones to denote someone’s worth. The more precious, the better, and an opal is quite precious. Milky white on the surface, but if you hold it to the light, its flecks shine with the colors of the rainbow; orange and blue and green. It is something to see.”
“Laz.” Cas stood at the threshold, tapping his foot with impatience. “This is no time to dally. Play with your friend later. We must go now.”
Waving farewell to the girl named Opal, Laz followed Cas wordlessly into the carriage, and remained wordless for the one-hour trip through the dusty, wind-ravaged landscape.
Together, they marched out of the carriage once it stopped at their destination and knocked at the doors to Isidor’s smaller, yet no less imposing fortress. The homunculus boy answered the call, and Laz’s shoulders relaxed. Celene’s sources had indeed been correct. Isidor Kristeva was faring fine, and apparently, so was the homunculus tasked to kill him. “Hello,” Laz nodded at the boy, who enjoyed status as an attendant of some sort. “We are here to see your master.”
Cas, halfway expecting to be turned away at the door, lodged his foot into the opening before the homunculus closed it all the way. “Please wait,” he said, adopting his most courteous tone of voice, a perfect mimicry of his genteel brother. “You must forgive us for arriving without prior notice. I only wish to connect with the man who saved my brother’s life. Would you be so kind as to allow me a moment to extend my gratitude to your master in person? This won’t take but a moment.”
Whether his request was well-received, it at least succeeded in drawing out the reclusive Master Alchemist. Laz observed the man who stepped forward into the hazy sunlight, her brows knitting in confusion. She couldn’t quite understand what had changed about him other than his demeanor, but he seemed to behave like an entirely different person. Like a slate wall, cold and unreadable. Was this the inevitable fate of all Master Alchemists? Somehow…Laz could not fathom such a transformation befalling Nia.
“Ah, you do not mince your words, Master Kristeva. Very well; I will not belabor the point.” Cas rested a companionable hand on Laz’s shoulder. She stayed firm. “First thing’s first, I must preface my arrival here by explaining why I am not dead, as Ari and my family no doubt believe. I was captured by Mollengardian forces as I—shamefully—fled from the conflagration that destroyed Stella D’Mare’s camp during Prince Messino’s dishonorable war. They confiscated my tourmaline ring, which I used to contact my eldest daughter as a way of keeping in touch from afar. Sweet Sylvie, you know her. My precious briolette,” he paused, letting the weight of his lamentations sink like tenterhooks into the meat of his captive audience. “I was sent to Mount Simiya, where I would have surely died in the mines if not for Miss Ardane selecting me to work as her personal assistant. Color me surprised when I discovered that Celene Ardane and I have been brought together by some sort of divine providence, given how closely and most coincidentally connected we are through our kin. And apparently,” he tilted his head, “through you, Master Kristeva.”
“Laz followed my barely extant lifeforce into Mollengard as a direct result of the procedure you, Nia, and,” he twitched, “Alster Rigas performed on my brother. He fell into near-death, and it broke the bond Laz and my brother shared. As a result, she left the kingdom before you did, and does not have the latest information to relay. Namely—what became of my brother and his, ah, consort, Nia? Are they well? What of my daughter, my family? If you fled Galeyn shortly after the procedure, I worry something terrible has befallen them. Is the area no longer safe or livable? That is the only reasoning I can conjure as to why you have come to Mollengard willingly, if you would forgive my rude suppositions. At any rate,” he smiled his patient, affable smile, “I would appreciate it if you allowed Laz and me entry, for a little while. If only to thank you more thoroughly, and to ask how you managed the impossible in saving my little brother’s life when no others came close. That, indeed, is a miracle I cannot see go unrecognized.” He placed a hand over his chest and bowed deeply at the waist. “Please understand, Mister Kristeva, you have my utmost respect, and on behalf of the Canaverises, my loyalty. Seeing my lowly status as a slave, there is not much I can provide, but one day when I am free, I intend to return the debt I owe.”
“Thank you, Mister Kristeva,” Laz added, independent of Cas’s whims or whatever game he intended to play between the two powerful Master Alchemists. She bowed, but her bow did not reflect Casimiro’s precision and disciplined form. It flowed like a paintbrush across a canvas, brushstrokes that followed their own natural pathway, sincere in their intention, and unmoored by societal protocol. Laz thanked Isidor not for Cas, or at his behest, but for Ari. “I never found a moment to tell you, or Nia, or Alster. Ari…is most dear to me. I know he is worried for you, but perhaps his worries would be allayed a little to know you are faring well. As well as can be expected, given everything.”
There was no denying that clear parallels could be drawn between Mollengard’s two Master Alchemists. Both Isidor and Celene made it clear they had their eye on goals, known to Mollengard or not, and business came before favours. Both maintained excellent composure, supported by the professional air of someone who was assured of their competence and knew they knew what they were doing. Perhaps Isidor gave the impression of having moderately more stable composure and an unruffled (or entirely untapped) feelings, simply because his very presence had managed to hit what few nerves Celene had. Everyone had their breaking points, their sensitive spots that threatened to set them off balance; Casimiro and Laz simply had yet to learn what would break Master Kristeva. That is, if they ever found the opportunity.
And, considering Isidor’s clear distaste for his current company (or any company, as it appeared), there was no guarantee they ever would. Even after allowing them entry, the Master Alchemist literally kept the pair at a little more than arm’s length, making it very clear that trust was not part of this particular exchange. “Please, don’t be mistaken. It was Alster Rigas and Nia Ardane who performed the experimental procedure that ultimately saved your brother’s life; the work of a single Master Alchemist and a powerful mage. My role was merely to stand in and monitor Nia Ardane’s vital signs during the process, although in hindsight, I’m not sure why.” Isidor brushed past the earth mage and his golem companion on his way to the door. He pulled the handle to ensure it had latched, and then paused, as if listening for anyone else who might have been eavesdropping on the other side of the door. His suspicion wasn’t unfounded; Celene Ardane had proven relentless in her pursuit of whatever it was she wanted at any given time, and at this point in time, she seemed to want any answers he could provide. “She insisted on completing the procedure, regardless of the risk to her life. Even I couldn't have stopped her, so my role was futile.”
Seemingly convinced that Casimiro and Laz had, in fact, come without any form of ‘chaperone’, Isidor moved away from the door. “I’m afraid I don’t have the depth of answers you seek, Mister Canaveris. Your brother awoke from the procedure sickly, but I expect he’s recovered by now. Nia Ardane awoke some time after. As to their condition at the time of my departure, I cannot elaborate beyond telling you they survived the procedure. And I can say little more about your daughter and the rest of your family, aside from that they have been adapting well. It doesn’t serve me to involve myself in the lives of others when I have business of my own.” Of course, only Laz would be aware that this stance was a relatively new development for the younger Kristeva brother; after all, he had very much been involved in Ari’s wellbeing, not to mention his younger sister’s. And nevermind the fact that the reason he had departed from the dense and unpopulated forests of Nairit had been for the sole purpose of assisting a stranger.
The following question in Casimiro’s deluge of inquiries did bring the slightest frown to the corners of Isidor’s mouth, suggesting the uninvited guests were very close to nearing the limits of grace the Master Alchemist had provided them for their intrusion. “Ah--there it is. Curiosity that I am sure Celene shares with you, Mister Canaveris. I will tell you this much: nothing tragic had befallen Galeyn at the time of my departure. If anything, the small kingdom of once-legend has been on the path to happiness in the past several months. Its state of affairs has nothing to do with the fact that I am here.”
“Master Kristeva.” At some point unbeknownst to anyone in the room, the young homunculus boy from before had set food into the scene once again, having moved with the ever uneasy silence of which Celene Ardane’s creations were eerily capable. His small voice, however unintrusive, was still enough to startle anyone who hadn’t been aware he’d reappeared. “One of the elements has been sufficiently prepared. But the other requires more time.”
Without so much as an excuse me, Isidor turned and followed his ghostly assistant out of the room, continuing down a long corridor until he disappeared into darkness. Having provided no directions to his guests to either follow or wait, he couldn’t blame Casimiro for taking it upon himself to trail the Master Alchemist after a moment of waiting, followed by his golem companion. The earth mage did have the good sense, however, not to enter the workshop at the very end of the hall, where Isidor and his young assistant assessed whatever works in progress were taking place.”I agree; it needs another day. Leave it for now for further exposure to moonlight.” He could be heard saying to the homunculus boy from behind the door.
“Understood. The obsidian is ready for transmutation.” Came the boy’s reply. His years of existence certainly did not surpass more than a decade given the timeline of Celene’s work with Mollengard. Yet, like all of the homunculi into which Casimiro and Laz had come into contact, when he spoke, the words belonged to someone seemingly twice his age. He was at once a child and an adult, and yet neither of those things. An anomaly which, should the laws of nature have any say… shouldn’t exist.
It was at that point that the Master Alchemist and his assistant pushed open the door and excited the room. Neither of them paid much heed right away to the guests who patiently awaited to resume the previous conversation. Isidor acknowledged the boy’s comment as he pulled the door tight to latch. “Then we shall reassess the obsidian tomorrow and decide accordingly.”
“But it is ready now, Master Kristeva.” The boy reiterated and furrowed his pale brow in confusion. “I can--”
“You can’t. You are depleted, and of no use to me in your current state.” Isidor frowned, his dark eyes looking the boy up and down. His assistant bowed his head, as if ashamed, but his master was not wrong. The boy, impossibly skinny, also appeared exhausted and relatively weak. “For now, you will retire to your chambers to rest for the remainder of the day. You’ll have a meal later this evening, and I will put together something to expedite your recovery of strength and energy. You are dismissed.”
The boy, knowing better to argue, simply offered a shallow boy, and retreated down another corridor. Isidor’s guests would not see him again for the remainder of the day. “I understand Celene’s frustration with her projects. To rapidly mature to have almost the full ability of a practiced Master Alchemist at a young age means nothing if they still maintain the fragility of a child, and then some. I do wonder if she’ll find the solution to working out these important details.” Isidor remarked aloud to himself, and also to whomever was listening. “Yet I understand, Canaveris, that you, like your current employer, are unlikely to take your leave until I provide you with some semblance of answers you seek. So I will tell you this much: surely, you can see that I, unlike you, am not a prisoner of Mollengard. My involvement here is voluntary, and my relationship with this nation--much like Ardane’s--is symbiotic. It provides me with what Galeyn cannot. But beyond those details, kindly accept that I will say no more.”
Not once did he dignify Casimiro with eye contact. However, Laz’s thanks had not fallen upon deaf ears, and he, at the very least, had the decency to acknowledge the golem’s king words. “While your gratitude is appreciated, Laz, I must reiterate that I had very little to do with your master… well, your former master’s well-being. And at this point, I am certain he has no need of me, now that he has everything he has ever wanted: a curse-free life, his health--or so I assume--and the woman he loves. I’m afraid that reaching out to someone beyond these borders for purposes unrelated to my business here may jeopardize my relationship with Mollengard, so I’m afraid that communication with Aristide is for me, at this point, impossible. Additionally, Laz, I hope you realize the implications of willingly walking into Mollengard.” the Master Alchemist flexed and gingerly rubbed his left wrist. At this point, the dull pain of poorly-healed bones was little more than brown noise at the back of his mind. “Particularly if you are the property of one of its prisoners… it is highly unlikely that you will ever have the freedom to cross these borders again.”
Isidor let those words hang, as if to allow them time to sink in, before finally turning his dark eyes to Casimiro. “I should say the same for you. I take it your benevolent employer has not provided you with your confiscated tourmaline ring as it does not serve her to do so. So you come to me instead, and mention it in passing in hopes that somehow I will find value in it. Perhaps you thought my ties to your brother would soften me to your cause?” He arched a single eyebrow and cupped his elbows. “My desire upon coming to Mollengard was to remain unbothered while I go about my private business. Mollengard has given me freedom to go about any business I see fit in exchange for providing their ordinary alchemists with alchemist stones. I am not here to perform favours. However…” He sighed slowly through his nose and shrugged his shoulders once. “I may be able to put in an inquiry for certain confiscated materials if you can convince your employer to cease her unyielding interest in me and the fact that I am here. Why she thinks for one moment that her homunculi are capable of assassination is beyond me. But do pass on my thanks for the assistant, however fragile he might be. Now, I’m rather busy, so if there is nothing else I can help you with,” he unfolded his arms and gestured down the corridor from which they’d come, “I am happy to show you out.”
Have you ever thought of enlisting Ilandria’s help?
Such a thought hadn’t once crossed Caris Sorde’s mind… until Tivia Rigas suggested it. At which point he couldn’t get it off his mind. With or without Vega, he truly believed that Eyraille’s army remained strong. The skyknights were some of the best trained warriors around, and the ground infantry was no less skilled in swords, spears, bows, and cannons. In the kingdom’s written and anecdotal history, there was no record of losing battles or wars, but there was also little record of another nation daring to threaten Eyraille, under its tyrannical Sorde rule at the time. And the majority of conflict Eyraille had encountered in its history had been self-imposed; they had been the aggressors, not unlike Mollengard. But the kingdom of mountains and rocs had since departed from its bloody history to reinvent itself, and hadn’t presented itself as a threat to anyone other than itself since his father’s reign.
So of course Mollengard would take notice. It was likely they had settled to target Eyraille years ago, long before they had even set out to conquer Stella D’Mare, yet only now did Caris take heed of the very real threat facing his home. And with the acknowledgement of impending war, he had no choice but to consider something that Eyraille hadn’t been known for in all its time as a kingdom: and that was establishing an ally in another kingdom, and then enlisting their help.
Eyraille, as far as anyone understood, had never had true allies, unless you counted the small, complacent nations willing to cooperate in order to keep the peace (such as Nairit), or the equally powerful nations that reciprocated a silent, understood truce of: you don’t touch me, I won’t touch you. Ilandria, as things stood, fell into the latter category, and had been there for as long as most of Ilandria could remember. Their southern neighbour was likewise ruled by a notoriously strong bloodline that had managed to keep the people under their thumb through strict and careful governance, even turning to bloodshed and arrest over a decade ago in their culling of the population of Master Alchemists. Not so unlike Eyraille had done with its magic users many years ago. But before even that event, which most of Ilandria quietly considered tyrannical and a tragedy, it had been the pinnacle of apex weaponry for centuries, and its connection to weapons did not end with its elite craftsmanship. Ilandria made the weapons it wanted to use, and some of the world’s best archers, swordsmen, and lancers were known for their Ilandrian heritage. And, unlike Eyraille, there was never a point in time when it had outlawed magic. So when you suddenly faced a weapon-wielder who also happened to have a magical advantage… your odds were not good.
On that note, before Eyraille could even consider reaching out to Ilandria, they needed to figure out exactly what their standing was with their southern neighbour: or, more specifically, how the lineage of the Sorde monarchy was perceived in the eyes of Ilandria’s House of Vallaincourt, and more importantly, its infamous Prince of Blades, who now ruled in his sick father’s stead. So when Caris, early the next morning, ordered an emergency summons of those most closely affiliated with the kingdom’s decision-making, the council that had gathered in his business chambers were coloured surprised that the young king’s opinion of their unexpected visitor’s news had changed overnight.
“I know what most of you are going to say. That if Vega and her post-Forbanne husband were here, we would stand a better chance.” The young king’s sharp blue eyes scanned the faces of everyone in the room--all his senior in age--for signs of confirmation. Tivia Rigas included. “But I disagree, and this is not the conversation I intend to have today. Our skynights remain our best offense and defense, with or without my sister. Yet even with her… if Mollengard strikes, then Vega, Haraldur, the skyknights won’t be enough. Eyraille, in all its history, has never prepared to be infiltrated or attacked. Our warriors and knights have never been trained to have to fight for their lives, or the life of their kingdom. They were trained to take lives; they were trained to win. Mollengard outnumbers us by thousands. So what will our winners do when they are suddenly faced with losing?”
Everyone in the room exchanged confused glances, unsure as to what their king was implying or what point he was trying to make. Someone, in their meek bewilderment, voices that confusion and sought clarification with a quiet, “Your Majesty…?”
“Ilandria.” Caris turned his head to address the handful of diplomats in the room, along with Eyraille’s head of trade relations. “Tell me about our standing with the southern neighbour.”
“Oh--well, we have never encountered problems in purchasing Ilandrian weaponry,” replied the head of trades: an older man who had held his position since the days of Eyraille’s tyrannical rule under Caris and Vega’s father. He had seen enough of how this kingdom had changed to offer a valuable perspective, in Caris’ eyes. “Simply give me your word, Your Majesty, and a budget, and I can have our armies equipped with--”
The young king raised a hand to interrupt, and the old man ceased speaking immediately. “I’m not interested in weapons right now. What do you know of His Highness, Safir Vallaincourt of Ilandria?”
The elderly head of trades seemed to shrink in his seat as a hush fell over the remainder of the room. No one dared provide an answer. “Allow me to elaborate.” Drawing a calming breath, Caris relaxed his shoulders and clasped his hands in front of them. “What are the chances of securing alliance with Ilandria--and therefore of Prince Vaillaincourt--before this coming spring?”
The head of trades scratched the top of his bald head and shook it gently, staring down at the table. “Forgive me, Your Majesty, but I have never had direct dealings with Prince Vallailcourt. It has never been recommended to me to have an audience with that man, or his father, when he was still well and strong…”
“Understandable.” Caris nodded, then averted his gaze again. “Diplomats? Tell me the details of our dealings with Safir Vallaincourt of late. Within the past decade, at least.”
One of the diplomats, a middle-aged woman, shook her head slowly and bowed her apology before voicing it. “Prince Vallaincourt… has not once agreed to grant us an audience, Your Majesty. But we do have confirmation from several years ago that Ilandria wishes no ill upon Eyraille. We still trade freely, and it is highly doubtful that the House of Vallaincourt would ever seek to provoke Eyraille or the House of Sorde.”
Caris heaved an impatient sigh. “Clearly, I am failing to make myself clear. Forgive me this shortcoming and allow me to be frank. I am not asking about our safety with regard to Ilandria and the House of Vallaincourt. I want to know the extent to which you lot, in all your expertise, think that Ilandria would be willing to step in for us, in the event that Mollengard attacks. And, I want to know what it will take to convince them to fight on our behalf, should the worst come to pass. Whether or not Miss Rigas’ premonitions will come to fruition,” he flippantly indicated Tivia, to his right, with an idle hand gesture, “Eyraille has reached a point it has never once experienced. As a kingdom free of tyranny, we can no longer ward off perceived threats with fear. Whether Mollengard attacks us this very year, or one hundred years in the future, we cannot stand against them alone.”
“I cannot say for certain, Your Majesty, but if I had to guess…” One of the other diplomats spoke up, “It is… in my opinion, at least, I find it highly unlikely that Ilandria would agree to brandish their weapons for Eyraille. We might be friendly in our trade, but otherwise, we have little to offer them in return.”
“If that is the case, then they are either ignorant to the threat of Mollengard, or overly confident to a fault, and at risk of falling to hubris. Should Mollengard succeed in conquering Eyraille, where do you think they will go next?” Caris raised his eyebrows, before finally addressing the celestial ‘elephant’ in the room. “Miss Rigas, you certainly succeeded in instilling fear and caution in the minds of some of the people in this room, and you’ve succeeded in obtaining my tentative trust. What are the chances you can be just as persuasive with Ilandria’s Prince of Blades?”
The more time spent in the Master Alchemist’s elusive company (if one could call his threadbare tolerance and nonexistent hospitality company), the more Casimiro came to several reliable conclusions. One; the man presented as a being of pure logic, unswayed by loyalty and past affiliations. Two; as he appeared now, and compared to Laz’s scarce account of his disposition, Cas suspected Isidor Kristeva had undergone a dramatic transformation of character, a transmutation of the self...unless he had connived and manipulated his way through the ranks to enjoy a position of high honor. However, that did not explain his sudden departure from a favorable appointment in Galeyn to pursue employment in volatile Mollengard, leaving behind his gains. Perhaps he had been a spy for Mollengard, a double agent, or an opportunist, thriving on the conquering nation’s resource-heavy hand-outs. Three; the conversation would not proceed further if Cas continued to employ the same strategy. And, four; changing strategies did not guarantee a dram more of cooperation. No wonder why Ari took to this oil slick of a man. In some respects, he resembled…Cas. And wasn’t it so like his impressionable brother to fall prey to exploitative individuals who cared little for his well-being, but appealed to his strict code of honor, which obligated him to pursue a working relationship?
It made him second-guess the intentions of Nia Ardane. What was her angle? Was it worth near-death to achieve?
Of course, Cas floated another possibility concerning Isidor Kristeva’s imperious and baffling nature. He all but confirmed it when he witnessed the exchange between him and his unnamed servant outside the workshop down the hall.
An apprentice to Master Zenech would not show such concern to an inferior underling, too unimportant to be given a name or a designation beyond one of Celene’s throwaway slaves. It took a reasonable amount of empathy to treat a homunculus child as a respectable human who required rest and a meal to recharge. Did this explain why the homunculus failed in his mission to assassinate Isidor Kristeva? Because the child was weakened by someone offering them a shred of decency?
Laz seemed to think so. While she watched the interaction in silence, a twitch of approval lifted the corners of her mouth, and her eyes softened. Cas made a mental note of the golem’s microexpressions in relation to her approval of what she deemed as a master-servant relationship done right.
When the homunculus boy retreated and Isidor returned to their conversation, albeit with more disinterest than what he initially displayed, Cas decided to drop the pretense–part of it–and elected for a touch of raw honesty. “Oh, she is not my employer, I assure you, Master Kristeva. For the sake of keeping appearances, however, the euphemism is sufficient, I suppose. Be that as it may, I will relay your message and add several flourishes to better satisfy her biting curiosities lest she respond with…dissatisfaction, which, inevitably, will prompt her to continue knocking on your door in want of answers. Let it be known that I do not wish to disturb you, but as her lowly envoy, I may have little choice in the matter.”
“Respectfully, Master Kristeva, I disagree.” Laz said as she followed the two men through the corridor to the foyer, lowering her head so as not to hit any low-hanging ceiling beams. “Nia might have drafted the proposal and done the brunt of the legwork–I am not dismissing her efforts—but you revised and refined her plan, and you also monitored Ari’s condition in the weeks leading up to the procedure. You might have played a more advisory role, but Ari does not take what you’ve done for granted. I do not like to make baseless conjectures, but I guarantee Ari and Nia miss you dearly and think of you often. I am, however, fast beginning to understand why everyone regards Mollengard as dangerous and recognize your vigilance. I will heed your advice, and take every precaution as I navigate this place. We,” she hesitated, as if Isidor’s words had shaken her more than she understood how to properly express as an artificial being modeled to mimic human nature, “we shall carry forth, Master Kristeva, in spite of hardship. That is the Canaveris way.”
“Indeed. If I had a vessel, I would drink to that,” Cas said, a subtle jibe at Isidor’s lack of hospitality, but Mollengard seemed to lack manners in general, as did its assorted and appropriated company. "Sounds like nothing gets past you, Master Kristeva,” he chuckled in reference to his confiscated ring. “To respect your intelligence, I will grant you my transparency. Rather refreshing, really, to shed my Canaveris frock-coat of false gentility. It was beginning to stifle me with its unbearable heat. Ari was always better suited for it than me, anyway.” He made a show to shrug an imaginary heap of fabric off his shoulders. “Yes, I want the ring. If you are able to procure it for me, I will see to it that Miss Ardane finds a new obsession. Granted, you have piqued her interest, so it will create some difficulty for me at first. Wearing the shroud of mystery as you do, it will take a deal of demystification to not only write you off as dreadfully boring, but also as not a threat. Please note that I can’t work miracles, but I’ll do my best to reroute her attention.”
Before they piled out the door to Isidor’s dreary quarters, Laz stopped midstride and looked over her shoulder, her lips pressed into a thoughtful line. “Master Kristeva, have you considered giving your assistant a name? If you are at a loss, may I offer one for you? Mica. I realize it is more in line with Canaveris naming convention, but as an alchemist, you work extensively with ores and stones. The boy might appreciate the association, and honor your gift. Golems do not receive names of worth, but Ari shared his crystal name with me—Lapis—and so it is why Lazuli is so precious to me. But I digress. Do take care, Master Kristeva. May you too find the freedom to willingly cross Mollengard’s border when you are done here.” With a nod of farewell, Laz exited Isidor’s abode in tandem with Cas and returned to the carriage waiting out front. After piling into the cramped space, made even more cramped with Laz’s statuesque height, Cas instructed the driver to head for Celene’s fortress. As the carriage jerked and the horses’ hooves clomped against the dusty earth, Cas regarded the golem sitting across from him, curiosity alight.
“Laz.” Casimiro initiated their psychic link, pressing the message into her head. “You seem convinced that Isidor Kristeva is, or was, a reasonably upstanding man. Aside from my brother, what other relationships did he foster while he lived in Galeyn?”
A pause, a hesitation lingered in the air between them.
Cas loosened his stance and invited a soothing atmosphere to pepper his transmissions. “Oh come now, Laz,” he cajoled playfully. “I know I might have been harsh before, but only out of concern for you. Please realize our position in Mollengard is precarious. Any information you can share about this man will only contribute to our longevity in the future. If I die, for instance, you are too far from a Canaveris to retain your sapience and sentience. You will ultimately die with me. Lazuli,” he enunciated the full syllables of the name she preferred but he despised, despite the meaningful association she shared with it. “Isidor said it, himself. While we remain in Mollengard, we are not free. If we must bounce between these two Master Alchemists to secure the barest hint of freedom, then so be it. We may have had our differences, but I am here to reiterate that we must stay loyal to each other–and only to each other. That is how we will survive. I am willing to overlook certain…aesthetic choices if it will foster trust between us. So,” he reached forward and landed a hand on her arm, “tell me what you know about Isidor Kristeva.”
Casimiro and Lazuli hardly took two steps through the door to Celene’s fortress before she appeared around the corner and demanded they spill out the entire exchange with Isidor, word for word. Casimiro happily obliged and gave a thorough overview of the visitation–slightly edited. He said nothing about their deal or his underhanded acquisition of the tourmaline ring, and he filled in the fallow, uninspired areas using supplementary information Laz had provided on the carriage ride home. As promised, Cas would deemphasize Isidor’s genius and alchemical prowess–by highlighting the impressive feats of her younger, untrained sister.
“From what I gathered, it sounds like your sister was by and large responsible for removing my brother’s curse,” he said in his concluding remarks. “She transfigured the majority of it into manageable virus cells, while Alster Rigas siphoned out the rest through his unholy magic,” he grimaced. He abhorred giving Serpent Bane a lick of credit, but it had to be done. “Isidor merely monitored the procedure. Your sister is doing well, by the way. She and Ari recovered and seem well on their way to a full bill of health. If what Isidor says is to be believed, your sister has well and truly achieved the impossible. There is no stronger motivator than to save a loved one–or some would argue.”
“Oh,” he deftly shifted the focus before Celene lost her patience or composure, “I cannot say how Isidor managed to thwart your homunculus’s assassination attempt, unfortunately. He did not appear tampered with in any form, but it seems as though Isidor offered him clemency and now the boy works with him of his own accord. It makes a twisted sort of sense,” he shrugged, but didn’t elaborate any further–though it certainly explained why Laz fancied Ari above him…and quite possibly always would. “Isidor has some grander ambitions in mind, that only Mollengard can provide him. Unfortunately, that is the extent of what he would tell me. He seems like a decent fellow. Or was a decent fellow. Not many would abandon their trusted friendships and confidantes in a kingdom of plenty to pursue a fool’s errand with Mollengardian aid unless they were rightly mad and not operating within the sphere of reason. That would explain why he refuses to properly deal with his crooked hand. The man is a kook, riding on the wave of success provided by your sister, might I add. Take my assessment however you will, but he looks two steps away from keeping bats in the belfry, if you understand my meaning.”
With the meeting adjourned, it was decided that Tivia Rigas would travel to Ilandria with a small entourage encompassing four Skyknights and Eyraille’s most seasoned diplomat. They set out to depart the following morning, taking advantage of the fair weather before Eyraille’s autumnal season began in earnest, bringing erratic winds and sluicing rain in preparation for the winter snows.
By roc, the voyage to the neighboring kingdom took about two hours, shorter on a favorable updraft, which their good fortunes drifted in their direction–helped along by a clandestine burst from Tivia’s celestial magic when no one else was looking.
With good timing, they arrived at Ilandria’s crown city, a lowland valley surrounded by Eyraille’s craggy, snarl-toothed mountains in the distance. Due to Eyraille’s trade agreement, both nations had agreed to maintain open borders for the purposes of the easy flow of goods to and from the established route of travel. They also did not require a formal invitation for an audience, as the rocs touched down in the open space before Ilandria’s palace. Tivia allowed the diplomat to negotiate an appointment with the Prince of Blades as she disembarked from the roc’s feathery mount. After some back and forth, the palace envoys agreed to arrange an emergency meeting in the coming hour. In the meantime, the retinue was escorted into a parlor room to freshen up and partake in some light refreshments.
As they waited, the subject of how they would convince the acting monarch for aid in defending Eyraille against Mollengard’s inevitable date of conquest floated around the small group. Glaringly out of place sat Tivia, who the Eyraillians accepted by order of their king, but did not entirely trust to broker a deal with the House of Vallaincourt, so they politely left her out of the discussion. And who could blame them? They were being asked to rely on a stranger to mediate on their behalf for an alliance never conceived of in all their storied history as acting sovereignties. A foreigner could not hope to understand the nuance involved, the wounded pride of a warrior nation requesting a battalion of soldiers from a trade neighbor for whom they shared the barest hint of cordiality. Tivia did not understand, but she had no need. Equipped with prescient information, she had a way to bypass the aggravating protocol and egoistic fisticuffs and strike to the heart of the matter–the guilt-ridden, bleeding, shaky mess of one.
With their hour spent, envoys collected the delegation and herded them to the throne room, an impressive hallway that resembled an armory rather than a gathering place. Yet, she understood the appeal. Ilandria boasted weapons as its main export. Why shy away from their claim to fame when they could point their swords, spears, halberds, and lances in the direction of unsuspecting querents walking the long, curiously crimson-spotted carpet to the throne as they steadily lost their nerve? Why choose a welcoming atmosphere when an intimidating one wefted the bloodless from the blood-ready?
The Prince of Blades awaited their approach at the end of the hall, sitting straight on his throne like a commander on his pulpit, calmly dispensing orders in the thick of battle. But that wasn’t what made him so striking a personage. Tivia heard-tell of the proxy king’s fame and popularity, not due to his ruthlessness and poise, but for a completely different reason. Tivia wasn’t immune to his length of blonde hair, like barley fields rippling in the summer sun, or his eyes, the color of leaves in springtime bloom, nascent and eager to mature. Nor to the slope of his nose or the fold of his brow, fair and shapely and in perfect complement to the height of his cheekbones and the curves of his jaw, his mouth. Viewing Safir Vallaincourt in person did not do the rumors justice; he obliterated the rumors. No, Tivia was not so disjointed from the world and its pleasures that she couldn’t admire beauty when she saw it. Pity she could only admire it, though.
The diplomat before her had already stated their case in succinct terms. They did not come to trade for arms, but to find wielders for those arms. The wizened diplomat explained their urgency, their dwindling timeframe before Mollengard’s suspected invasion, and the call to action for assistance. When he finished his speech, he turned to Tivia. She stepped forward and swept into a customary bow.
“Your Grace,” she began. “Let me preface my presence here by first pointing out the obvious. I am not Eyrallian, nor do I hail from Eyraille. My name is Tivia Rigas. From the name, I am sure you can glean my whereabouts. Stella D’Mare is currently under Mollengardian occupation. Despite our numbers, our aid, and our magical might, we succumbed to the conquering nation’s sheer numbers and fierce Forbanne-led forces. The same, I fear, will befall Eyraille and as you are en route to Eyraille, there is no doubt they will come for you, as well. This is a fight for preservation, not only for Eyraille, but for your kingdom, as well. We humbly beseech that you lend your elite forces to defend the kingdom of rocs and mountains from widespread and most assured annihilation. How do I know this, might I ask? I am a star seer.” Her hands, which never stopped moving into shapes and symbols, a force of habit as she often signed as she spoke, pointed overhead, the gesture to indicate the sky, the heavens, and the celestial bodies that littered the cosmos in perpetuity. “I have seen Eyraille’s destruction and I seek to reverse this fate. I understand you would require more incentive for putting yourself in harm’s way by making an enemy of Mollengard prematurely and we are more than willing to negotiate terms. On my end, I do not come empty-handed.” At this, she raised her hands, palms facing outward, which seemed to the layperson a representation of nothing. But what she shared was knowledge, and knowledge did not require fingers to grasp.
“If you agree to lend your aid, I can put you in contact with an old ally.” She spoke in vague terms, not wanting to alert Prince Safir’s council or cause him to lose face among them. “An old, powerful ally.” Anetania Ardane, came the whisper that no one else but Prince Safir could hear. I know where she is. Tivia’s one eye glinted luminously.
“Mica.” Isidor repeated the word, the name that Laz had suggested he give to the homunculus boy. The Master Alchemist’s expression remained impassive, betraying nothing of his feelings on the matter. All he said in response was: “There hasn’t been any indication of need for providing the homunculus with a name thus far. But I’ll be sure to mention your suggestion.”
With their conversation mercifully coming to a close, Isidor did have the decency to see the duo out the door, but less out of a sense of hospitality, and more to ensure that they would, in fact, leave the premises. “We will not be in touch, Mister Canaveris. However, you will hear from me, if I am successful in obtaining what it is you seek from Mollengard. And, if you honour your promise to redirect Celene Ardane’s attention away from me and my affairs. Good day to you both.”
Who had the easier task, however, remained to be seen. Requesting confiscated materials from Mollengardian officials without rousing suspicion would be an ordeal, in and of itself. But convincing Celene to avert her attention when her mind was already made up that Isidor Kristeva was both a threat to her resources, if not her standing in Mollengard, was almost outside the realm of possibility. Almost--but Casimiro and his way with words was enough to give Isidor some semblance of confidence in the man that he could get the obstinate Ardane woman off his back.
The very woman in question was eagerly awaiting her assistant’s recount of his discussion with her perceived rival. Casimiro and Laz were no further than the doorstep when the fierce Master Alchemist hauled it open with more strength than what appeared to be possible for her thin frame and arms. “Well?” That was the only prompt Celene provided, fully expecting Casimiro to divulge everything he’d learned, and to know exactly what kind of information she was looking for. To her surprise, he did not disappoint.
“My sister. Did Isidor say as much? Or is this the conclusion you deduced?” Celene closed the door and secured the latch behind the two after they crossed the threshold. Her cool, brown eyes were bright and hungry for information. “On one hand, I find it difficult to believe that my sister, who did not even complete her formal training as a Master Alchemist, would be capable of something that has otherwise been understood as impossible. But she did have the help of a powerful mage…” Her brow creased as she crossed her arms, clutching her elbows in her palms. “This is, as you said, if what Kristeva divulged is to be believed. But if he wanted to move you along, he could have easily denied knowing anything. So not only is Anetania alive, she is somehow successful far beyond her years.”
Celene paused then, the click of her heavy footsteps ceasing as she ceased her pacing and pondered with her back to Casimiro and Laz. It was a pregnant moment full of tension, where she mulled over the words, weighing them for validity while her assistant and his golem held their breaths (well, the assistant did, at the very least), hoping she would not detect deceit. Perhaps concerned that given too much time to think, Celene would pick apart the words and somehow identify truth from untruth, Casimiro broke the silence and went further into detail regarding what he perceived to be the rival Master Alchemist’s incompetence. Lacing just enough truth with lies, along with careful, purposeful omission, and finishing with playing to Celene’s ego and knowing just what she wanted to hear ultimately placated her enough to feel satisfied with his short expedition.
“There is no shortage of oddity among brilliant people, that much I’ll admit. But if Isidor Kristeva had nothing to show for it, aside from affiliation with my sister… then perhaps that is precisely why he left for Mollengard.” Celene mused. Her shoulders seemed to relax a little. “No wonder he was so irked to learn that he is not the only Master Alchemist, here--among yet another Ardane, at that, if he was hoping to be the big fish in a small pond. And befriending homunculi, at that…”
She shook her head slowly, as if the idea of treating the ghostly children as any more than things was as ludicrous as keeping a pet rock. “Nonetheless, he is still a threat to the resources I require. I’m going to keep Kristeva in my peripheral vision going forward; I expect you to do the same, Casimiro. Now,” Celene unfolded her arms, relaxing her fingers and releasing her elbows. “Several crates of earths and geodes arrived in your absence. I need them first sorted by quality. Then, those of mediocre or poor quality need to be purified and ready to use, no later than morning. Start now, and you may finish before dawn.”
While the two north-eastern kingdoms had long since maintained amicable trade relations, Ilandria and its Prince of Blades were not known for guaranteeing last-minute audiences, especially not those pertaining to international relations. Had Eyraille reached out a month ago, its southern neighbour would have been happy to write them in for a formal audience in four weeks’ time (and that was considered fast-tracked). Even the seasoned diplomat, who had accompanied Tivia Rigas on this mission of pure faith, had made it clear to King Sorde that while they would give it everything they had, they could make no guarantee that Prince Vallaincourt, in his father’s kingdom of logic, reason, and order, would see them long enough to hear them out so soon. Even if Safir himself was happy to make a personal exception, it was unlikely he could summon enough Ilandrian stakeholders and council members to warrant an “official” audience that could authorize decisions that were to be hastily put into play.
Unfortunately (but unsurprisingly), that “official” audience was not possible after all in such a short timeframe, but the diplomat reiterated the heart of importance of this meeting remained that His Grace simply heard them out--if not for the wellbeing of Eyraille’s future, then for the wellbeing of Ilandria’s. After further consideration and consult, it was agreed that the Eyraillians would be granted an informal audience with Prince Safir Vallaincourt within the hour. An Ilandrian envoy made it clear to the small party that no major decisions could be agreed upon as a result of this meeting, as not enough council members were able to attend on such short notice. Unlike other nations, while the monarchy ultimately had the final say, it was not without the discussion and input of trusted denizens of the kingdom. There was never a point in recorded or anecdotal Ilandrian history when kingdomwide decisions had been made without considering the people--and that was not about to change today, on some Eyraillian whim.
In an hour’s time, Tivia and company were permitted access to the throne room, where they were met with three skeptical faces seated upon raised chairs to the left, two to the right, and in the middle, upon the throne, Prince Safir himself. The Prince of Blades, for all he had been summoned at the last minute, was in every way dressed to meet with foreign diplomats. Clad in shades of grey and silver--predictably, the best colours for a nation of weapons crafters and wielders--the young sat tall upon his father’s seat, pale blonde locks pulled carefully back away from his face and gathered at his neck. His adornments were otherwise minimal, save for a thin, coiling circlet that sat atop his brow. He observed his unexpected visitors with intelligent, cool green eyes that did not invoke malice, but neither did they invoke warmth. His was a presence that commanded respect, but not as a result of fear, but rather, of trust.
“Welcome, visitors from Eyraille. I’ve vaguely come to understand the reasons for your sudden arrival, but now that you are here,” he extended his hand openly to those who stood before him. “I invite you to elaborate.”
That was where the woman called Tivia Rigas stepped in, and voiced their plight, as well as explained why he should listen to her, and what stakes Ilandira had in the concerning problem approaching Eyraille. True to his rumoured nature, Safir sat quietly and listened without interrupting, letting her say what she felt she needed in order to be heard. When she finished, it was not Prince Safir who responded first, but instead one of the council members.
“Eyraille seems to have been in a state of flux and uncertainty ever since the Princess’s abdication.” One older man commented from a side seat. “With all due respect, its King has yet to display any good deal of competence, and there is no evidence that he has earned his own kingdom’s respect. And now, when faced with imminent danger, he desperately seeks aid from a kingdom which he would otherwise entirely fail to acknowledge, were it not for our trade agreement. This does not come across as a symbiotic exchange. Even with the threat of Mollengard, I personally fail to see what it is Eyraille has to offer us.”
“An inexperienced King--and not much else, it seems.” Another council member--a woman this time--added from across the room. “Ilandria has never been fool enough to let down their guard. It has kept a pulse on Mollengard and its exploits; what makes you, a group of foreigners, think that we would not be successful in thwarting a foreign nation’s attack? Just because Stella D’Mare was ill-prepared and Eyraille may not have what it takes to thwart a threat is no reflection upon us.”
These comments spurred an open discussion among council members, the majority whom agreed against lending forces to Eyraille, with only two of the five not necessarily opposing the popular opinion, but beseeching more careful thought before coming to the decision. Safir let the discussion unfold for a few minutes, before silently and calmly raising his hand. The discussion lessened and died down within seconds.
“I’m afraid it’s a moot point, regardless; as you are already aware, guests from Eyraille, that without a full council, I cannot give you an answer today. Furthermore, I cannot guarantee that I can summon the entirety of my council members for an official meeting anytime soon. However, as the main concern seems to be centered around your young and impulsive Eyraillian King, I can offer this much.” Prince Safir lowered his hands back to the arms of the throne. His placid expression hadn’t shifted in the slightest--not even when he’d mysteriously heard something contraband in his ears alone. “Please relay to your King that I hereby offer him the opportunity to prove himself to me, my council, and my kingdom. Witnesses;” he addressed the room, meeting each pair of eyes individually. “Know that I hereby challenge His Majesty, Caris Sorde, to an honourable duel of blades. Should he win, I give my word that Ilandrian will support its northern neighbour in thwarting Mollengardian threat. Should he lose, Ilandria will not lend its forces to Eyraille. And, should the duel result in a draw, the decision will be subject to the vote of spectators; and if it is decided by the majority that His Majesty, Caris Sorde, has fought well, then I will hereby lend Eyraille aid against Mollengard. Deliver the offer to your King, Eyraillians, and provide me with an answer no later than within twenty-four hours. This assembly is hereby dismissed.”
On their King’s word, the council members rose from their seats and departed the throne room, along with the dejected Eyrailian diplomat. But as Tivia Rigas turned to follow, the Prince of Blades stood. “Tivia Rigas. A word, if you don’t mind.”
When the room was vacant, aside from its monarch and the star seer, Safir approached Tivia and offered a solemn nod. “I apologize that there is not more I can promise you or Eyraille at this time, Miss Rigas. But if my decision was the only decision that counted, it would go against all that Ilandria has built. No decision can be made without the peoples’ voices being considered. As for what you know…” Something finally changed in the Prince of Blades’ expression. Hope and fear conflicted in his green eyes, along with a sort of painful longing and familiarity. He lowered his voice when he spoke again. “Even if you won’t tell me now, because you do not yet have the outcome that you hoped for… then you mustn’t tell anyone. Not a single soul in Ilandria can learn that information. Do you understand, Miss Rigas?”
Tivia and the small party of Eyraillians returned to the kingdom of mountains and rocs later that evening and delivered the details of their short trip to King Caris and his own room full of council members and advisors. With Prince Safir’s conditions spread out on the table, it took little to no time for the majority of that room to unanimously agree against Ilandria’s offer.
“How disrespectful. Prince Vaillaincourt could have at least had the grace to simply refuse.” One of the older advisors spat. “Instead he made a mockery of our plight…!”
“Please, Your Majesty, accept my deepest apologies.” The diplomat who had accompanied Tivia Rigas bowed low, clearly remorseful and disappointed that she couldn’t deliver better news. “We were not able to secure an official audience with the Prince and all of his council on such short notice. He was therefore unable to make a solid decision or pledge any sort of promise for lack of--”
“So I accept the terms. Is that all?” Much to everyone’s astonishment, the young Eyraillian King did not appear even slightly put off by the terms laid out before him. Unlike the collection of far older adults in the room, all who wore expressions of anger, hopelessness, or bewilderment, he seemed almost uncharacteristically… calm. In fact, that the others did not seem to share in his placidity seemed to irk him. “All of you, what is the source of your doubt? Prince Safir has offered us an opportunity to secure Ilandria’s aid. Yet you all act as though he has refused--or that we’ve already lost.”
Some of the members of the council, his advisors, exchanged worried glances. “Prince Safir is several years your senior, Your Majesty… even older than your sister. And he has earned the title of Prince of Blades for a reason.”
“And you doubt that I know my way with a sword well enough to stand a chance? Come, now.” Caris scoffed and rolled his eyes. “I am not Vega. I can hold my own.”
“Please--Your Majesty, recall when you fought Prince Haraldur--”
“Haraldur is no longer a Prince of Eyraille. He now fancies himself a Commander of otherwise mindless soldiers--and, he learned to fight as a brute. A barbarian. He caught me off guard when I fought him first, and I’ll admit, I was careless.” Caris linked his fingers together on the table in front of him; far calmer than anyone would have anticipated the hotheaded Eyraillian king to be when his skills were called into question. “Safir Vaillaincourt is of noble blood, and learned to fight like a nobleman, accordingly. What: you think he’s going to kill me? Now that wouldn’t be a good look at all for Ilandria. Is it not known for its fair play? Relax, all of you. If this is our best chance to secure the help that we need to prepare for Mollengard’s threat, then we will oblige.”
The Eyraillian King stood from his seat and nodded to the diplomats and envoys. “Please relay to Prince Safir Vallaincourt of Ilandria that I accept his terms, and his challenge. This is my final decision.”
With the late meeting adjourned, Caris nodded toTivia, who lingered after the rest left. “You’re coming through for me so far, Rigas. I’ll give you that. I don’t know what you did to convince Ilandria to give Eyraille a chance, but I don’t care. The fact we still have a chance is all that matters. And unless you happen to have any visions of my imminent death at the hands of Safir Vallaincourt, I do intend to win.”
A week after he paid the dour Isidor Kristeva a visit, Cas focused solely on his work, a tedious overhaul of geodes to sort and purify with no conceivable end in sight. The process was pure drudgery, a chore to sit through with eyes in open concentration. A step up from the mines, at least, Cas couldn’t complain, as he volunteered to organize the crates of continuous materials of which he never seemed to make a dent. Fortunately, Laz, who never needed to sleep, possessed enough latent terrestrial magic to assist alongside her master and carry the slack when he retired for the night. Another unintended consequence of the job, a pleasant one, was that with every successful geode purified, Cas’ magic strengthened. He had a long way ahead before it would be restored to its former glory, but already, he’d noticed how his magical channels, which began as a drip from a leaking rock face, volumized into a trickle, and then a stream, all in a few short weeks. If he kept his arduous pace, perhaps he would regain his formidable abilities sooner than later.
He’d since lost count of the crates he sorted through, but when he reached the next one in the sequence, he automatically sensed how it differed from the rest. When he removed the lid, the geode resting on the top of the pile lay, a slightly off-color contrast from its brethren. Lifting it in his hands yielded the answer; it was hollow, and something inside rattled in the transfer from crate to hand. An easy flex of his fingers crumbled the brittle layer of stone, revealing a gold ring beset with diamond rosettes. And in its center; a pink tourmaline, cut into the shape of an eye.
“I can’t believe it, Laz. The bastard actually came through for me.” Cas held up the ring in the dim lantern hanging overhead, checking and double-checking its authenticity and if it had been tampered with. Assured of its stolidness, he slipped it on his finger. Dust-encrusted and in serious need of a good clean and polish, the ring winked only in bare flickers as Cas twirled and repositioned it. “I was beginning to believe he was making false promises in an attempt to chase us off his property.”
Laz regarded the ring, expression inscrutable but for the slight furrow on her brow. “And you will use this ring to inform Ari of your whereabouts and receive help?”
“Heavens no, Laz. Have you been paying attention?”
Laz’s furrow deepened. “Have I not?”
Cas grabbed a rag off the lower shelf of the work room and scrubbed the lingering detritus off his hands.“We are in Mollengard, remember?” He sighed, second-guessing Laz’s viability as a creature possessing even a modicum of intelligence. “One cannot waltz out on a whim, especially if accompanied by the leader of a sovereign nation protected by a larger sovereign nation, which in turn is populated by powerful figures happy to see this ever-growing blight on the land burn. No—for the time being, Ari mustn’t know we are here, and that I am alive. We must earn our freedom from the ground up, using whatever we have at our disposal. Tonight, I will initiate contact with my eldest, and collect whatever information will benefit us most in our present circumstances. I trust her discretion implicitly. What I need you to do, Laz,” he waved the dirt-encrusted rag at his hesitant but obliged-to-obey golem accomplice, “is to keep your homunculi companions occupied. They have taken quite a shine to you, I’ve noticed, so it should be no trouble to disrupt their nightly patterns, prevent them from listening in at the door, or redirect them from stumbling into something that they shouldn’t,” he indicated the ring, “during their scheduled sweep of my room. Can you do this for me?” The question was just a courtesy, offering the illusion of control when only one correct answer was viable for the golem.
Lazuli nodded, understanding the prompt. “I will make certain that Opal, Jasper, Flint, Silver, and Gypsum are well looked after.”
Cas rolled his eyes at the deliberate and painstaking rehearsal of names she’d given so liberally to Celene’s ghost children. “You needn’t remind me of their names every single time we discuss the homunculi, Laz. But very well. I acknowledge your crystal children. Just make sure to acknowledge my needs—our needs—and put them before your darling little crusade to name every object you see. We have work to do.”
Despite countless setbacks and unpleasant surprises, life carried on for the people of Galeyn. The scorched land created by Hadwin’s madness-induced arson was beginning to heal, the furor involving Teselin’s mysterious dissemination and Isidor’s enraged flight was settling, and most importantly, Uncle Ari, reeling from Laz’s disappearance, had rediscovered his passion for life with Nia Ardane blissfully at his side. The ingress into autumn proper arrived in gradual waves, dipping the leaves outside into their first layers of gilt and copper paint.
Sylvie should have felt relief for the quietude, the departure of chaos, but it rolled and quaked in her chest louder than thunder, for with quietude brought idleness, and idleness fostered uneasiness like a persistent tap on her shoulder, a reminder that nothing had been resolved. Not for her, anyway. Ari lived and she thanked her ancestors every day for the blessing, too grateful to leave her exultations unsung. He had found his path, happy and with the woman he loved. She dared not intrude and interfere, as she’d done in the past, as a desperate attempt to remain relevant. Nia had already shown her disinterest in forging a relationship beyond Ari, and Sylvie didn’t blame her, not when she had been so incredibly rude to the woman who wanted only to help, and help she did. So why not reap the rewards her help had gained?
Loneliness crept in like a thief in the night, dampening Sylvie’s ability to enjoy the uplifted mood that nowadays pervaded the Canaveris villa, but her melancholic episodes were nobody’s problem to address but her own. More often than before, whenever afforded free time, she holed up in her room. Too bereft of energy to engage in her favorite pastime—reading—she would lay in bed staring at the plaster ceiling, or trace the contours of the tourmaline ring on her finger, which for years had been silent of her father’s reassuring voice. She spoke to it nightly, but long abandoned the hope that it would answer back.
That evening, her thoughts led her to a dark, impenetrable place. While sitting at her vanity to comb her long, wavy tresses of black hair, she dropped her brush. Bending over to retrieve it, she spotted a shard of glass wedged into the corner behind the table. The attendants must have failed to notice it when they cleaned the mirror fragments from the floor following the accident that preceded her frightening near-death experience at the masquerade. Plucking the forgotten thing from the corner, she turned over its wicked edge and wondered how much it would hurt to slice it across her throat.
If not for Tivia Rigas’s interference, Teselin’s violent burst of magic would have killed Sylvie. Was it not reasonable to conclude she was living on borrowed time? That she was meant to die? Should Sylvie fail to extirpate herself from the world, then certainly, her curious affliction would do it for her. She wouldn’t even have to wound herself grievously; as long as blood made contact with the air, she would crystallize, and as long as she sought no treatment, the crystallization would petrify her from the inside out, transforming her into a ruby-encrusted, human-shaped geode. A pretty bauble to look at, but nothing substantial. Nothing living, or sentient. Her outer carapace would rot, but the rest of her would persist, a lasting testament to her final days. Ari wouldn’t even need to craft her an effigy; her calcified remains memorialized and immortalized her better than a statue would. Better than a smiling, effulgent girl, ignorant of the realms outside her fanciful stories. Mistaken as content and happy because her family demanded content and happy, so she played the role without complaint because she could ill afford anything different.
What would they think of her after wandering in on her cheerless corpse, the farthest thing from sanguine—so much so that her body refused to bleed?
Of its own volition, the shard traveled to her throat, shivering from a hand lacking the conviction to stabilize. She swallowed, her saliva burning down her esophagus, bringing hyper-awareness to her insides. Her racing heart, the core of her stomach. A terrific weight pressed, crushing her lungs, and for one panicked moment she believed she had done the grisly deed and her organs were freezing into stone. Gasping, she threw aside the glass shard and doubled into herself, forcing herself to breathe. Breathe, she encouraged, grasping her throat, feeling for a gash that didn’t exist. Breathe, she repeated. You are not dying.
When she regained her composure and assured her lungs hadn’t collapsed or hardened, she slumped in her chair and brought the ring into position before her eyes. In the blur of her unfocused vision, it resembled a red sun from afar, blinking into the horizon before it took its final plunge into the underworld.
“Papa,” she confided, her voice a desperate tremor, “I fear I am slipping. You are not here and I can no longer wait for you.” Tears slipped down her face. “I thought I could be strong, but I miss you so dearly and every day hurts. It hurts so much!” she choked, stifling her outburst by pressing her thumb against her mouth. “I realize I need you here, and my needs have made me blind to the truth. That you are gone, and will never return. I have held on for years, but it is time.” She slipped the ring from her finger. “It is time to finally say goodbye.”
“Sylvie. Syl. My briolette, my Amethyst.” Sylvie blinked through her tears. Did the ring just—?
“I am delusional,” she said aloud, smiling pitifully at the ring and its crackling voice. “Please, I beg of you, your illusory existence will only devastate me. Let this facade end so I might move on. I cannot survive like this. I simply cannot.”
“I am not a delusion, briolette,” the voice soothed, despite the unclear reception. “I am real, and I am here, and I am reaching for you. Will you believe in your father once more, Sylvie?”
Tivia learned, the hard way, that the best strategies often involved keeping one’s tongue to themselves. It helped her odds immensely to have lived elsewhere for the past twenty-five years. Even if the two worlds shared commonalities—both Ilandria and Eyraille existed there, for instance—Tivia felt too distanced and disconnected to take offense from the not-so-subtle insult of Stella D’Mare’s failure to prevent their city from Mollengardian occupation. Any proper D’Marian would bristle from the implication; “You cannot keep your city safe from foreign invasion for longer than five minutes.” Judging by Stella D’Mare’s three-thousand-year history and the four marauding groups that forcibly held its lands, Tivia would have to agree. D’Marians were notorious for living as tenants in their own territory. Not until Andalari annexed the land did Stella D’Mare even have a standing army. Such matters were beneath the wealthy, cosmopolitan port city and its spate of powerful mages who cared more about maintaining their power and notoriety than wasting precious resources and energy on an enemy they could simply bribe into coexistence. Mollengard, however, made no compromises. They either took you, or they brokered a deal to take you for later. If Ilandria did not understand the importance of making alliances now, they had better enjoy their sovereignty while it lasted, because Mollengard would absorb them next, after Eyraille.
The Prince of Blades seemed to understand the severity of the situation, even if he was not allowed to act upon it in front of his lesser council. Whether he genuinely heeded the warning or because he desired a reunion with Nia Ardane, it was hard to judge. The Vallaincourt monarch was notoriously difficult to read; moreso when Tivia’s access to the stars remained limited the more she stepped forward to influence a specific outcome.
Nonetheless, her gamble paid off. After agreeing to relay the message to the unpopular King Caris, the dismissed Eyraillian delegation turned to leave, with the exception of Tivia. Left alone in the cavernous throne room with the prince, she knew she made the correct decision.
“Stella D’Mare operates the same,” Tivia commented, adjusting the strap of her eyepatch so it did not cut a line across the unmarred half of her face. “In fact, the current leader strives toward a representational democracy, but that is neither here nor there. About our other matter; you needn’t worry, by the way.” Lowering her hands, she switched communication from oral to telepathic, again broadcasting the message to his head alone. “Discretion is in my nature. But depending on the outcome of the duel, your Grace,” she gave him a significant look, so he would know full well what she meant, “I will not only tell you where she resides, but will personally see to it that you meet with her, with no one else the wiser.” Considerate of the prince’s sensitivity to the subject matter, her eye softened slightly. “She is doing well, by the way. She has found a modicum of stability, under the loyal service and protection of another. In other words, she is safe, and content. She owes me a favor, of a sort, so as long as you don’t rendezvous in Ilandria, I can make the proper arrangements.”
“Good day, your Grace,” she said, switching back to oral speech as she bowed her head. “On behalf of Eyraille, I am grateful to you for hearing our dire request, and granting King Caris a chance to prove himself in battle.”
On the delegation’s swift return to Eyraille, King Caris arranged for a meeting to discuss the terms Ilandria’s Prince had posed. While Caris’ advisors argued, slinging their displeasure at Ilandria’s blatant disrespect toward the immature Eyrallian king, Tivia stood by in silence, reflecting the king’s calm and equanimity.
When at last the council, frustrated by Caris’ agreement to the terms, departed from the chamber, to begrudgingly convey the message to Ilandria to proceed with the ill-conceived duel, Tivia remained. For the second time that day, she was left alone in a room with a monarch. Did she appear so trustworthy to them that they were willing to let down their guard near her? Or did they trust their strength could overcome the existential threat her existence betokened? In a battle versus fate, you would always lose, she thought. Then again, aren’t I, too, over-relying on my strength to thwart fate?
“Wisdom can come from many places, your Majesty. Do not discount the lessons Haraldur has taught you just because you’re angry and have a vendetta against him,” she admonished, taking none too kindly how he publicly besmirched his character in front of a council who had learned to respect the once Forbanne soldier of Mollengard. “If you want to win, it’s important not to draw your power from a place of resentment or entitlement. ‘I deserve victory, so I will win.’ Rather, tell yourself, ‘Why do I deserve to win?’ Use your answer to strengthen your resolve, and thus, your sword. And if you should need further advice on the art of war, consider me a free resource. I may not look like much now,” she indicated the missing eye, the burn scars, the profoundly deaf ears, “but starting from a very young age, I was trained as a war mage. My specialty is weapons. I can conjure any weapon out of pure light, but in the event I would be separated from my magic, my training required proficiency in corporeal weapons as well. If you need an opponent, a sparring partner, I am ready and available.”
There was no denying that His Majesty, Caris Sorde of Eyraille, had matured since he’d first come into contact with Haraldur. Or at the very least, had better come to terms with his position as Eyraille’s leader, and the vast responsibility that accompanied it. Exiling his sister and her husband on the basis of their vast negligence regarding the very kingdom that they represented had been perhaps his most impulsive power play, but it had also been his last. The energy it had taken to stew on the decision, and the hurt it required to actually execute it, had left the young king feeling raw and empty… but not so much that he was willing to backpedal on his decision. However, it did elucidate the fact that without them, he and Eyraille were otherwise alone--and he already knew that standing alone meant he had to stand stronger, and more capably.
None of that lessened the resentment he felt toward Vega and Haraldur, but neither did he discredit the Forbanne Commander for his skills, or what he learned in fighting him. “Correction: I had a vendetta against my sister. Haraldur Sorde just happened to be an extension of it. Now, neither of them are worth my thoughts, let alone the mental energy maintaining a vendetta requires. They are nothing and no one to me or Eyraille at this point.” Caris shrugged and straightened the cuffs of his coat sleeves. “But I’d go as far as to say fighting Haralur back then made me aware enough of my shortcomings as a swordsman to know where to improve--and I have improved. It’s obvious that not a single soul in this room this evening has much faith that I stand a chance against Safir Vallaincourt,” he motioned to the now closed door, “but I’m not offended. I haven’t given them ground to believe me, or to believe in me. And I can only assume that His Grace, Prince Safir Vallaincourt of Ilandria, shares in their opinion. Otherwise, I can’t imagine he would have extended this offer, thinking there would be any other outcome for him save for victory. Well… let’s let him think that. As for everyone else,” Caris made a sweeping gesture of the empty room, as if the people who had stood here before left behind their utter lack of confidence as a reminder to the young king that he was making a mistake for accepting Prince Safir’s conditions. “I suppose I’ll have to believe in myself, until I can convince them otherwise.”
It was clear the young king had no shortage of confidence in his skills. Whether it was hubris or informed confidence had yet to be seen. And, whether or not Tivia Rigas believed in his prowess with the sword also remained unclear. Her offer to put herself up as a sparring partner rather took him aback, such that he didn’t provide an immediate answer, and instead stared at the star seer as if wondering about whether or not she was being serious. Finally, he shook his head slowly, and cleared his throat. “Don’t misinterpret this as my doubting your capability as a warrior; for one, you’re a Rigas, and while you might look just a few years my senior, I’m not so foolish as to think you don’t have decades of life experience that I don’t have. I take you as being a formidable opponent… although I’m not sure how my court would feel about not only sparring with a guest, but one who is capable of wild magic.
“My father might be long dead, Miss Rigas… but not all of his ideals died along with him. Some took longer to die. And there are still many, who followed my father when he was alive, who continue to quietly maintain those ideals, and still look for opportunities to validate them.” In so many words: should the young king get injured in a practiced-duel with a magic user (and a non-Eyraillian, to boot), there were some who would cry foul to Tivia’s tactics, and accuse her of secretly intending to take out their monarch. “If people can find it in them to leave me alone for all of one minute, perhaps more clandestine sparring can be arranged… but, since I’ve already publicly called into question your intentions here and Eyraille, people might draw the wrong conclusions in the event that I find myself injured as a result of practicing with you. However… perhaps there is another way you can be of help.”
Caris finally stepped away from his desk and crossed the room. “I trust you as someone who is rather a good judge of character, considering how the stars speak secrets to you. If there is anything you can tell me about Safir Vallaincourt that I don’t already know that could benefit our pursuit of Ilandrian’s allyship in any way, I’m all ears.”
As per Caris’ directive, Eyraillain envoys sent notice to Ilandria the very next day that Eyraille and its leader accepted the conditions. What wasn’t clear was that, despite their speedy response to Prince Safir’s offer, and the Ilandrian Prince’s understanding the urgency that faced his northern neighbour, it was over a week before Ilandria sent envoys of its own it present Caris with the stipulations of what this duel would entail. Perhaps he should have known better; that Ilandria would not break whatever protocol it had in place to accommodate Eyraille, which was barely an acquaintance to it.
If that were the case, then Ilandria--whose envoys had traveled by horse, taking the long way around the cliffs and crags in the absence of rocs--should have foreseen that their envoys would end up a little delayed in their return.
“Your Majesty; Ilandria has sent the details you’ve been awaiting.” One of the guards presented Caris with a letter, sealed with Ilandria’s wax and sigil. “After you’ve taken the time to read the document, I’ve been instructed you need only provide your signature. We’ll then arrange to send an Eyraillian envoy--”
“What of the Ilandrian envoys? The messengers?” Caris interrupted without warning, stranding from his seat and crossing the room. “Are they still here?”
The guard faltered, mildly taken aback--or perhaps unsure as to whether this news lifted or dampened his somewhat volatile young king’s mood. “To my knowledge… yes. They can’t depart until their horses have fed and rested.”
“They won’t be leaving until this document has been read by me and two advisors. See to it that they will not access their horses until I give the word.”
“I… Your Majesty, Ilandria may well interpret such an act as holding their messengers hostage. Should we--”
“Hostages? No, we are merely expediting this unrealistically long process. Offer them a meal and a means to relax before their long journey home. Hells, give them whatever they want, provided they stay put until this document has been reviewed and signed.” Caris tightened his mouth and unrolled the parchments. “We don’t have time for a game of back and forth with Ilandria. We will finalize these documents, and the envoys will bring them back to their king tonight.”
It went against the guard’s better judgement, but it was his King’s direct order, so the guard did as told and relayed the message to the others. With the terms and rules of the upcoming duel at hand, Caris took it upon himself to look it over carefully before handing it off to an advisor, and then finally, Tivia Rigas. The star seer had managed to earn the stubborn king’s trust in a seemingly small amount of time, and all because her knowledge and understanding of situations that had yet to come far surpassed anyone else’s. Perhaps he’d decided it was better to keep her in good graces than to openly oppose her, but it certainly hadn’t been long after her arrival that he’d sought her thoughts on most everything going forward with Ilandria--well, except for keeping the Ilandrian envoys for a solid four hours longer than they had expected to remain in Eyraille, while he and his trusted others went over Ilandria’s proposal.
“They’ll thank me later for saving them another trip.” The Eyraillian king dismissed her concern, when they finally sent the disgruntled envoys on their way. “We did offer them lodging if they’re concerned they won’t make it back before nightfall. They can blame their King and nation for the ridiculous amount of detail and procedure leading up to a simple duel…” Caris shook his head and ran a head through his hair. “But we’ll play by Ilandria’s rules. If this is how they wish to proceed, I will not push our luck.”
With the envoys finally sent on their way, Caris and those involved at the palace could only await the final summons from Ilandria to arrange a date for this challenge to take place. It hadn’t eluded Caris that in making the envoy wait while he and his team deliberated the terms and conditions for this duel that Ilandria might purposely take its time to finalize the details. No peace was to be had for the young king while he hoped with every ounce of his being that Safir Vallaincourt didn’t interpret his actions as a threat or an attempt to bully, but rather, a sign of desperation that the longer they waited to secure allyship, the closer Mollengard got to taking them unawares, and unprepared. But that was the difference between making friends and securing allies; and unfortunately, Eyraille didn’t have time to make friends. If they survived Mollengard’s onslaught after the winter… perhaps, then, they could consider niceties. For now, it was all business.
Perhaps Prince Safir deserved more credit than Caris had initially awarded him. Not two days later, another pair of Ilandrian envoys (not the same as before--perhaps a few bridges had been burned) arrived to deliver the arrangements for the date and time of the duel between the two princes. They promptly left, however, before any questions could be asked, likely for fear of being given the same treatment as their colleagues who had visited Eyraille previously. But the Eyraillian king did not care this time, for he had no qualms with the message. Two days time: Prince Caris Sorde, and whatever entourage he decided to bring with him would arrive in Ilandria and stay overnight at the palace as guests, and the following day, after a good night’s rest, was when Caris would find his opportunity to secure Ilandria’s aid in the upcoming months.
“I’m well aware Ilandria runs systematically on its procedures… but they must recognize the time it takes is a serious deficit.” The Eyraillian king commented on the morning of their departure. “I am as good to get on with this duel today as I will be tomorrow. I don’t need a ‘night’s rest’ or to consult a physician on the day of. So many of these micro-steps are unnecessary.”
“Ilandria prides itself on balance and justice, Your Majesty. It believes in a level playing field for all. And it truly looks as though Ilandrian officials have done everything they can to expedite this. I wouldn’t have expected such a hasty response… especially since we prevented those poor envoys from departing.” Eyraille’s head diplomat commented as the young king secured his flying gear and mounted his roc. “Prince Safir sees it as a courtesy that when you step up to prove yourself to him and his kingdom, you do not lose for lack of rest or ill health. And anyway, you have already signed, greeting to these terms, so please… whatever you do, don’t contest them.”
Caris Tightened his gloves and gripped the reins of the giant avian creature, ready to go and impatient that everyone else was taking so long. “Have a little more faith in me. I’ll play his game; I’m not going to throw our chances when we’ve come this far.”
Minutes later, Caris, Tivia, and the small entourage of palace staff took to the blue autumn skies and were en route to Ilandria. A handful of hours later, they were greeted at the border by awaiting Ilandrian guards and diplomats, many whom Tivia and some of the others had already met during their previous visit, but all which were new to Caris. Prince Safir, however, was nowhere to be seen. “Even my father had the decency to personally greet foreign leaders upon their arrival in our kingdom,” he muttered, as they were escorted into the city proper, en route to the palace.
Caris’ initially dour first-impression did soften when they reached the tall expanse of Ilandria’s palace. Tall, symmetrical, and aesthetically geometric with spires carved into shapes reminiscent of pointed gemstones, smooth and polished in some places, but rough in others. And standing at the doors, with guard on either side, dressed in hues of silver, turquoise, and charcoal, and with a blade sheathed at either hip was Prince Safir Vallaincourt.
Caris’ entourage stepped back to allow the king himself to advance, though it wasn’t without tension and a fear of drawing breath. The diplomat, in particular, worried that the rash young king’s etiquette wouldn’t satisfy Ilandria, or Safir, for that matter. It was to everyone’s great relief that the young king stopped several feet before his host, unsheathed the single sword at his back, and laid it at his feet. It must have been a sign of approval that Safir mirrored the action, drawing both swords from their sheaths and laying them on the ground. The Eyraillian prince evidently wasn’t ignorant of the Ilandrian custom of revealing and laying down arms as a show of no ill intent upon meeting another leader for the first time. At the very least, things were starting off on the right foot.
“King Caris Sorde of Eyraille: I welcome you to my kingdom, and into my home as a guest.” Safir spread his arms. “I hope you encountered fair skies and wind during your short travels. Rooms for you and your entourage have been prepared if you require a short rest; otherwise, please feel free to tour this palace and kingdom at your leisure. I’m more than happy to arrange a guide to show you around if there is something in particular that interests you. And if you’ll join me for dinner, this evening, I’ll be happy to discuss details about what will take place tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Your Highness. I am well aware that my presence and my kingdom’s needs have no doubt thrown your plans array. All of us from Eyraille have come with gratitude.” Caris acknowledged with a nod. “And I hope that one day, myself and Eyraille will have the opportunity to show you the acknowledgement and hospitality that you now show us. Personally, I require no guide at this time, but I’m happy to be shown to my room. I’ll see you this evening, at dinner.”
With a respectful bow, Caris had an attendant collect his weapon, as an Ilandrian attendant simultaneously collected Prince Safir’s. As the Eyraillian entourage filed into the palace, one by one, Tivia Rigas lingered; perhaps she knew that Safir would have taken her aside, anyway. Or if not, perhaps she’d have prompted him for a response to that secretive offer she’d placed on the table, the last time they’d spoken.
“Miss Rigas. I’m glad you accompanied the Eyraillian King, today. I wanted to tell you that what you mentioned to me the last time we spoke was not lost to me.” Safir clasped his hands in front of him and closed the distance between them by a few steps. “Unfortunately… it is with regret that I must decline. My father… well, it’s no secret that he has been quite unwell for quite some time. Hence why I sit upon his throne, in his place. At this point in time, I am unable to leave Ilandria for somewhere as far as the legendary Galeyn, should his health suddenly take a darker turn.”
The Ilandrian prince sighed quietly, and pushed his blonde ponytail over his shoulder. The disappointment in his tone couldn’t possibly be contrived, especially when he added, “But, when you see… her again, tell her that should she ever return to Ilandria, I will see to it that she remains safe.”
“Wild magic?” Tivia raised an eyebrow. “To say I have wild magic is considered a grave insult in my community. You imply I have no control. That at any moment, my emotions might run rampant and manifest as a world-ending storm.” She crossed her arms over her chest, her expression surly and unamused. With inward apologies to Teselin and everyone else of her ilk, she held her stance clear. Not like she wasn’t guilty of triggering events with horrific consequences, but she wanted to elucidate a point, not to muddy the message by listing the few (but significant) exceptions of when she lost mastery of her gift. “You have much to learn about your magically-inclined allies. Consider yourself fortunate you said this to me and not to some proud and haughty Rigas elite.” Someone like her father. It seemed both she and Caris had something in common, then. Problematic parental figures who shadowed every doorway and forced others to live without an option to escape. No freedom, no sunlight. Only pure, unyielding authority. Both fathers were dead, but their pernicious legacies left scars on the land and in the souls of those left especially affected. For her active role in Cyprian Rigas’s violent demise, Tivia felt little remorse. If allowed to live, he would have, like in the other world, played a direct role in destroying everything she loved. It seemed like each iteration of him existed like a tumor, intent on growing until its malignancy demanded attention. So she excised him.
Oh, how he begged to be spared. His frenzied ravings for mercy before her searing yellow spear tip went on deaf ears—literally, because his rapid-fire lip quivering made it impossible for her to understand his plea. Nonetheless, she didn’t ask for clarification and refused to humor his last words or promises to do better as a father, as a decent human being.
For their last, and short-lived, battle, she put his decades of painstaking training to good use and flung his sorry dead weight of a body to the ground, an underbaked, shapeless heap gasping for air. Losing whatever upper hand he would have had two years before, he resorted to groveling, confident his appeal to her sentiments would encourage her to lift the spear from its critical point hovering scant centimeters above his chest, as a gesture of love. Instead, she lowered the ethereal construct, satisfied when the plasmatic tip burned a precise hole through the fabric of his tunic. His mouth twisted in a rictus of pain.
“Oh father,” her shoulders fluttered as though in a chuckle, but no accompanying sound left her throat. “Remember when you lost the bid to sell me as a bride for Alster and decided, since I was a useless pawn now, to leave me in a room, unchaperoned, with your councilman friend who was several decades your senior? While I, a mere child, screamed for your help? What did you do when I told you what happened between us? ‘You were too eager. Now you’ll never marry,’ was it? How did that plan work for you? Not two weeks later, you secured a place on the Rigas council, a position you would hold under one condition; proper recourse for your daughter with loose morals. So you trained her to fight. A dutiful soldier who would go to war in your stead. To die instead of you, for the sins you committed. Because she was too damaged to further your ambitions. Better she die in silence and take the shame she inflicted on the family with her. But you weren’t banking on her survival, were you? And that she would return with a formidable power you could exploit for even further prestige? Lock her in a tower prematurely. That was your solution. Well, I'm glad for one thing, Cyprian,” she spat, forgoing any reference to their relations, which he was hoping would save his sorry life. “I’m glad that mongrel drove you to madness. At the time, I hated him under misplaced loyalty to you, but he did me a fucking favor, destroying your mind and paper-thin reputation and paving the way for my escape. Now, allow me to claim the rest, as is my due. Goodbye, my pathetic excuse for a father. I doubt mother will even miss you. She has moved on, I heard. Die in shame and cinders. Your ill-planned revolution ends here.” And she plunged the humming, incandescent spear-tip into his chest. He screamed and sizzled, his flesh blistering as it crisped into a blackened, gaping hole. Although she didn’t flinch, she reflexively touched the burn scars that spanned the left side of her face. You deserved better. She glanced at the charred husk of a corpse at her feet. You deserved worse.
“I understand Eyraille’s stance on magic, but if you are going to employ my esoteric skills, you will need to do better,” Tivia said, blinking her attention back to her present reality, and the matter at hand. “You can’t afford to hold on to your father’s outdated ideals if you hope to save this kingdom. We are not our fathers, Caris,” she uttered, more emphatically than she intended. Sighing, she shook her head. “Forgive me. We are not on a first-name basis. Nonetheless, my assessment still stands. You will only benefit from my magic if you can respect it, and others like me. Otherwise, this arrangement can not work. I won’t be made victim to the echo of a long-dead man who you and your kingdom pretend still walks among the living. Don’t perpetuate his policies. Show me—show everyone—that you’re better than him. If you can’t do that, then,” she shook her head, “you won’t win against Prince Vallaincourt.”
Not waiting to be excused, Tivia turned from the seedling king who had much to learn and exited the council chambers, disappointment driving her fading footfalls.
Although she did not outwardly express her disdain, Tivia disliked the sluggish pace between Ilandria and Eyraille despite knowing emergency protocol meant their neighbor to the south was operating at an expedited clip. Better to hold her tongue, she exuded patience, granting the long-winded procedure time to unwind organically, understanding that Ilandria considered this their fastest. Well, she would have responded with grace, but short of lording as the new ruler of Eyraille, it didn’t matter how she adhered to the aggravating, multiple levels of unnecessary protocol, when Caris had already decided on how he would handle the proceedings—regardless of his council’s say-so.
Still agitated from their last conversation, Tivia offered clipped responses to the Eyraillian monarch, knowing he would dismiss her—and his entire retinue—just to buy themselves a few days’ time. Besides, she didn’t find his bullheaded tactic entirely wrong. Let him hold the Ilandrian envoys effectively hostage. At the very least, the tactless antics of the king made for a strong case for his unwavering resolve. If Ilandria could laud Caris Sorde for one thing, then let it be for his indomitable will. …Even if it meant bullying messengers and interfering with Ilandria’s blind love affair with staid law and order.
Mollengard’s upcoming invasion would certainly not weigh their crusade according to the scales of justice. Not when every campaign for conquest, to expand their swelling lands, was always just. They paid their coinage not through commerce, but by iron, each droplet of blood a measure of lives vanquished.
Caris’ strategy succeeded, insofar as they sped along the process (at the expense of friendly relations.) A new set of Ilandrian envoys arrived a few days later to set the ground rules for the upcoming duel. The moment they received clearance to depart, Caris’ chosen entourage, which included Tivia, gathered the roc mounts and set off for Ilandria. Upon landing before the grand geometric palace, they were greeted by a small delegation of officials and attendants, who escorted them into the palace proper. While she couldn’t hear him, Tivia correctly inferred Caris’ first impressions of the Kingdom of Blades; not favorable. Judging by the grumble that placed his mouth in a dour position, he had been complaining about the less-than-adequate hospitality.
His opinion quickly changed, however, when Prince Safir Vallaincourt made his entrance. Dressed in a stately attire fit for honored guests, Safir approached the delegation with all the respect due to their neighbor and fellow ally in trade. In a surprising show of tact, Caris stepped forward and initiated Ilandria’s custom of disarmament, withdrawing his sword and laying it at the feet of his host, who reciprocated by doing the same. A hush of respect fell between the two monarchs. If nothing else, Caris had grudgingly earned a dram of approval among the traditional, rules-obsessed Ilandrian cohort.
As Safir invited the Eyrallian delegation inside, either to tour the palace or be shown their rooms, Tivia caught his eye and deliberately slowed her pace until they were the last two left behind. “Your Grace,” she greeted him with a bow. “We meet again. I thank you for allowing our number to populate your halls so soon after our short-notice appointment. Have you given any thought to what we discussed last time?”
He had. Unfortunately, it turned out he wanted to decline her offer. Tivia barely stopped herself from hissing through her teeth. She and Caris had that much in common; their patience had a short attention span. Unlike the rash Eyrallian king, however, she had learned to temper her behavior, run it through a sieve and keep only the refined particles while she dumped the rough and raw components. For this reason, Tivia maintained a level head—at least, before her contemporaries, and earned a reputation as methodical and composed. In truth, she wanted to wring some necks. No matter the comparisons and descriptors, they consistently named her one thing. Ruthless.
“Bold of you to assume I would arrange the meeting in Galeyn, seeing as I never made any mention of it, even in passing.” Tivia retorted, a sly smile tugging at the unmarred side of her face. As before, she transmitted the message to the prince telepathically. “You are rather quick to decline my offer, as if you believe I would allow absolutely no room for negotiation or flexibility. It seems you forget I have access to powerful magic. I can help you bridge long distances as though it were nothing. Conversely, if secrecy is what we require, I can provide that, too. I’m sure, with proper incentive and motivation, I could entice Ardane to cross into Ilandrian territory.”
“At any rate, please give your decision more thought, your Grace,” she pressed her palms together, as if in entreaty, but closer inspection would reveal a gesture a soldier might make when surveying a battlefield and finding the odds of victory utterly hopeless. “You wouldn’t want to act in haste, when winning this duel will net you nothing but the illusion of maintaining the status quo of your kingdom. And how long will your illusion last before it shatters? You might as well get what you want before your empire crumbles between your fingers and you stand amid ashes, alone and friendless. Understand; your father is not long for this world. Out of respect for his legacy, you delay your decision to act, but continue to delay and you will risk securing a safe future for yourself and your subjects. Mollengard will not spare you. And when your time comes, no one will fight for you, because there will be no one left. Not unless…well, you know what.”
“I do not like to catastrophize, your Grace, but through my line of work, I have learned the importance of living in the moment. All we can rely on is the present. The future is far too nebulous to stake as if we are so certain our claim will survive. But there is no certainty. There never is. Act now. That is my advice to you. Take it or leave it.”
With a parting bow, Tivia separated from the prince’s company, doubling her speed to catch up to the Eyrallian delegation, which had disappeared down the hall.
That evening, after dinner, Tivia knocked on Caris’ door, an easy room to find, considering all of Eyraille’s delegation was put up in the same series of chambers at the end of one hallway. When the king answered the door, in muffled surprise to see who called on him at such an hour, she placed a finger to his lips and swept inside once no stragglers in the hall were around to eavesdrop. She closed the door gently behind her.
“I know this is unorthodox, and borderline improper,” she prefaced, but with a hand wave that suggested she didn’t seem all too apologetic, “but I figured I would give you a chance to challenge your inherited biases concerning magic. You said you would be open to sparring in private. Opportunity granted.” Without any preamble, the room around them darkened, winking out of existence. Only the two of them remained, standing in a void black as pitch, but strangely illumined from an unknown light source. They could see each other perfectly.
“You face Prince Safir tomorrow,” she said, pacing in front of the young king with her hands clasped behind her back. “You say you are prepared, and I am inclined to believe you. However, I would like to propose a last-minute session before you retire for the evening. To test your mettle. Your determination—among other things. In this void, no one can see us, hear us, interact with us, until I lift the veil. If I injure you, rest assured,” her one-sided smirk returned from earlier that day, “I will heal you.”
She handed him a sword, his sword, which she picked up from the floor before she plunged their world into darkness. “Now,” she spun two short swords out of ethereal light, one in each hand, “if you can dodge these,” the blades hummed and pulsed and twisted like taffy, elongating to the point where they nearly made contact with Caris’ arms, five feet away, “you can dodge a proper sword.” The blades retracted to their original length, but never ceased weaving and spinning, keeping the observer guessing as to what shape they would assume next.
She threw one short sword into the air and caught it, blade down, balanced on her fingertip. “Shall we begin, your Majesty?”
“My apologies for coming across as invasive.” Realizing his faux-pas, Safir gently bowed his head to Tivia and proceeded to explain. “You made no mention of Galeyn; however, discussions with Eyraille’s assigned diplomat during your previous visit made mention of ties to a place called Galeyn. Upon further research, as no one here has ever heard tell of such a place, we were only able to find that it has been described as a legendary kingdom located near the city of Braighdath in the southwest. Since Stella D’Mare has since fallen to Mollengard, and it is still shrouded in mystery as to where its surviving occupants were relocated. I made an educated guess and pieced together what little information I have to try and draw some semblance of a conclusion. You’re under no obligation to confirm whether or not I’ve drawn the right conclusion.”
Although it wasn’t the first time he’d heard the Rigas woman’s voice in his head, instead of in his ears, a startled look registered on his face. While magic existed in Ilandria, far more liberally than in Eyraille, communicating telepathically was not something widely practiced in a kingdom that valued justice and transparency. “Miss Rigas. I stand by my word that your king--or whatever His Majesty King Sorde is to you--will partake in a fair and regulated duel tomorrow. This is all I am able to promise.” Safir spoke quietly, though audibly… and not without a hint of regret. How did this woman know what Nia Ardane meant to him? That reconnecting and reconciling with someone important to him, someone who he considered his only genuine childhood friend, would help to heal a wound he’d kept hidden from everyone for well over a decade? “If you have any questions regarding rules and procedure, I’m happy to…”
But Tivia Rigas was finished, and already making her way through the gates in following with the Eyraillians. Prince Safir didn’t see her, or any of them, again until later that evening, when he sent notice of gathering for dinner. If ever the Ilandrian Prince had felt conflicted in his life, this current issue overshadowed every other instance of indecision he had ever encountered. On one hand, he shouldered the burden of maintaining Ilandrian law and procedure just as it had always been, which was something the people valued. On the other, procedure did not always lend itself to urgency, which is what their Northern neighbour was currently experiencing in their request for alliance and future aid, and Tivia Rigas had brought up several, good points--all heard by his council--about Mollengard and their patterns of conquest, and how they might affect the neighbouring kingdom to the one they’d recently conquered. And, while both palms were already full with responsibility, he was now tasked with the moral dilemma as to whether to break his word to his own people and throw the friendly duel the next day, or risk never receiving the chance to make amends with an important individual from his past. Tivia Rigas had put him in a situation where, either way, he could not win in alignment with his morals. And beyond the discomfort this brought was also old, compartmentalized pain, whether or not that was her intention (though something told him it was).
Caris and his entourage respectfully gathered that evening for dinner on time and took their assigned seats, before a meal of spiced meat and autumn vegetables. The Ilandrian Prince had distributed this invitation less as a nicety (he was rather hung up on offering niceties since some of his personal envoys had complained about being ‘held hostage’ by the Eyraillian King) and more as an opportunity to clear any lingering confusion or obscurity concerning what King Caris and his entourage could expect the next day. Either the rules and stipulations had been clear enough, or the Eyraillian King did not feel the need to voice any pressing questions or concerns; as a result, much of the meal was conducted in awkward silence, which, at least to Safir, resonated as much worse. Perhaps he shouldn’t have bothered to instruct his personal cooks to prepare such an extravagant meal with Ilandria’s most famous herbs and spices, found only in this region.
“I hope everything is to your liking, Your Majesty.” Safir said at one point, for no other reason but as an attempt to break the shroud of tension in the room. “Regardless of the outcome of our duel tomorrow, you are no less Ilandria’s guests, and I see no reason to treat you as anything otherwise.”
“By everything, are you referring to this meal, Your Highness? It is exquisite. Some of the best Eyraillian cuisine incorporates Ilandrian spices.” Caris replied cordially, only to follow up with: “It’s the timing required of your nation’s procedures where I find fault. Though I do respect and realize you have done everything perceivably in your power to expedite this process for a potential ally who has yet to prove its worth.”
Safir bit his tongue as he processed the rather passive-aggressive remark on behalf of the Eyraillian King. It was far less abrasive than what he had initially expected, to Caris’ credit, and the young king was not entirely wrong, but rudeness was rudeness. “I appreciate your patience and understanding. In the future, I would hope you’d trust me to expedite our processes to the best of my ability without holding my envoys against their will.” The Ilandrian Prince had long since mastered keeping a cool head, a stark contrast to the quick and impulsive temper known to Eyraille’s ruling family. He wouldn’t let words disturb his composure, but neither would he tolerate such disrespect from the nation that was seeking his help. But there was nothing to be won by escalating something that had already come to pass, so he smartly switched to the matter at hand. “Do you have any questions about tomorrow, Your Highness? Now is the time to give them voice. I am happy to answer whatever I can.”
“Your terms and procedures are clear, Your Highness. Unless anything has been left out from the documents you arranged to be sent to me, I have no questions regarding tomorrow.” Caris replied and set down his fork. At least he had the courtesy to finish his meal and not insult Ilandria’s most notable chefs, like he had insulted its Prince. “Since a good night’s rest is written into those stipulations as being recommended, I think I’ll retire for the evening. Your Highness.” The Eyraillian King stood and bowed his respect to the Prince at the other end of the long table, and added: “Let me just say that Eyraille looks forward to working with Ilandria in the near future. For the benefit of both of our nations.”
It wasn’t long after the haughty Caris Sorde took his leave that Safir, also giving into his own mental exhaustion, decided there was no point in further entertaining the Eyraillian King’s entourage. If they’d had anything to say, or any questions, then they’d already had their time to speak. It certainly seemed that Tivia Rigas had said all she’d intended to say, without him giving into her request to throw the match. “Please excuse me. Feel free to enjoy your meals at your leisure, and don’t hesitate to call on my staff, if there’s anything you need. ” Safir spoke quietly and stood, excusing himself from the table. Like Caris, he should have followed the very advice written on the documents delivered to Galeyn and retired to bed. But instead, he climbed another flight of stairs, to the quiet and lonely chamber where his father rested.
Upon entering, he dismissed the elderly king’s attending physician to request a moment alone with Ilandria’s true, albeit incapacitated ruler. Safir’s father lay peacefully upon his grand bed, eyes closed, breathing shallow, but responsive, and alert. Sometimes, he was even still lucid enough to remember Safir’s age. Safir spoke to him often: kept him up to date with Ilandria’s affairs and how he was conducting business. Ullir Vaillaincourt did not always respond; sometimes, Safir was not entirely certain that he understood. And, if he understood, Safir couldn’t be certain that he and his father would agree on conduct. Some years ago, during the last point in his life where Ullir Vallaincourt was still fit to rule, Safir certainly disagreed with his father’s decisions here and there, and he had stepped up to rule out of necessity, not as a result of his father’s request. But regardless of their differences… talking to the old man in his last days (and who knew how many of them he had left?) was the least he could do.
“Good evening, father. Eyraille’s King has arrived to try his hand at earning our alliance and aid in the upcoming months. The kingdom to the north has anecdotally been threatened by Mollengard… it stands to reason that Ilandria would come soon after.” The tired prince took a seat next to his father’s bed. The old man hardly stirred. “King Caris Sorde is young and full of hubris. While I don’t doubt he has handled a sword, I do have my doubts that he will emerge victorious against me. And… if I am being honest, I don’t readily feel that my victory would benefit anyone. Not me, or you, or Ilandria, for so many reasons. You once sought Eyraille’s alliance and friendship. Did you not?”
The old, sickly king finally acknowledged his son by furrowing his greyed brow. “You were engaged to her… the girl. Should be married. Eyraille broke the agreement.”
Safir sighed, but couldn’t help an ironic smile. This old man with limited lucidity and limited memory still couldn’t let go… “Eyraille didn’t, father. Princess Vega chose differently for herself. In fact, she is happily married with children now. I’m afraid that ship has sailed.” The Prince paused and nervously tucked his hair behind his ears. “I had a good friend, once. I haven’t seen her in over a decade. If tomorrow, King Caris walks away victorious, I may have a chance to reconnect with this friend and see that she is alright. If I win… well, I’m not sure anyone truly wins, in this case. I may never say this again, but I don’t know if a ‘fair fight’ is the solution, this time.”
“We are Ilandria.” The old king rasped, suddenly roused and momentarily lucid by a single word. “We are fair. We are just… or we are nothing, Safir.”
The Ilandrian Prince closed his eyes and sighed. Why he thought he should expect any different from a frail king who had long since lost his ability to reason… his own ability to reason must have been slipping. “Goodnight, father.” Safir said softly, briefly covering the old king’s hand. He remembered a time when that pale hand had colour, and felt warm… A time that had long since passed, and would never come around again.
He did not believe Tivia Rgias had spoken out of malice, but her words regarding what remained of King Ullir’s longevity played over and over in his mind for the remainder of the evening.
Safir was not the only one unable to find adequate rest that evening. Just as Caris was preparing to do precisely as he’d claimed, and get some rest in preparation for the next morning, there came a knock at his door. In hindsight (and wasn’t it always hindsight?) he shouldn’t have answered it at all, for no sooner did he open the door did he find himself forced back by Tivia Rigas. “This is not borderline improper, Miss Rigas; this is wholly inappropriate!” The young king seethed at the star seer’s audacity, and then soon after, at her direct interference with his very being. Caris had no idea where he now stood, in nothing more than a sleeping gown that reached just past his knees… and with this woman challenging him. Hours before he was to rise and fight for an alliance his kingdom desperately needed.
“This is what you want? To challenge me now, because you’re sore about my stance on magic? You’ll fight me like this?” He gestured to his wholly inappropriate attire, and then to her, with not one, but two ethereal blades in hand. “Prince Vaillaincourt will only be fighting with one blade, if you’d bothered to read the pile of documents he sent our way outlining the rules and regulations of this duel. If you don’t believe in me now, then there is nothing that I can reasonably do at this point to change your mind. But, if this will permit me a moment’s rest… then I’ll end it fast.” He pressed his lips together in the very determination that Tivia dared to mock. “And if I injure you, I’m afraid you’ll have to take care of your injuries, yourself.”
Unlike Tivia, Caris did not make the folly of counting a foe--any foe, for that matter, her included. She might have had magic on her side, on top of multiple blades, but it wasn’t the first time he’d bought one-on-two. Caris had speed and technique on his side--much moreso than when he’d first fought Haraldur. The young king had trained tirelessly since then and had improved astronomically; training was one of the only things that kept him sane and kept his temper in check. No longer was his body that of a boy’s, but that of a man, and such was obvious in his strength and form. Barefoot and barely dressed, he dodged Tivia’s blades and parried her blows with his own. It wasn’t without close calls, considering Tivia herself had identified as having a warrior’s experience. She knew how to move, and he knew how to counter, even at his single-handed disadvantage. And all of this was in addition to the disorientation of his strange and unfamiliar surroundings, feeling a solid ground beneath his bare feet without being able to see it, and the latent fear at the back of his mind that still lingered regarding the Rigas woman’s true intentions, and the potential that they might not be in his favour.
Fortunately for Caris, he knew how to use adrenaline to his advantage, and he gave Tivia precisely what she was looking for: proof of his skill and merit as a swordsman. A worthy opponent for the Prince of Blades, who had earned his title not only for the kingdom that he currently governed in his father’s stead, but for his formidable skill with not only a sword, but all bladed weapons. First, the Eyraillian king managed to partially disarm his opponent by striking one of her wrists with the exposed butt of his sword--and relatively quickly, at that. Once the playing field was leveled and the both of them wielded only one blade, he focused primarily on deflecting and defending, which was precisely how he would be fighting Safir the next day, since this would not be a battle to the death, let alone one with the intent to injure.
He didn’t have magic on his side; hells, he didn’t even have Tivia’s years of experience on his side. Perhaps the only thing he had on his side then and there was his speed, his determination, and the adrenaline in his veins. But by some divine providence, after careful footwork and by the grace of nimble limbs, Caris managed to knock Tivia’s last remaining sword from her hand, and pointed the tip of his to her neck.
“Are you satisfied?” He hissed, panting. While he had miraculously managed to disarm this woman without inflicting so much as a papercut, he had not walked away entirely unscathed. Tears in his nightdress revealed a superficial gash at his forearm and chest, which by virtue of the fact Tivia’s blades had been made of etherea, were cauterized practically upon contact. Perhaps it was a result of adrenaline, but it still hadn’t stopped him or hindered his performance. “I played your game, and I won’t. Whatever you have done to these surroundings, reverse it now.”
To Tivia’s credit, the star seer complied. Within seconds, his chambers in Prince Safir’s castle reappeared, and he was standing precisely where he had been when Tivia had whisked him away to some otherworldly dimension. However, his tolerance of this spellcaster was exhausted, and such was written on his features.
“Tivia Rigas. While I appreciate the footwork you have put in thus far that has awarded Eyraille and opportunity to ally with Ilandria, your behaviour tonight causes me to second-guess my trust in you. Your refusal to believe in me is not my problem, and I don’t need your approval or your faith to know I stand a chance against Safir Vallaincourt tomorrow. And you will not corner me to prove myself to you again. You are not my people.”
The young king dropped his sword at his feet, wiped sweat from his brow, then pointed to the door. “Out. Now. If I have to repeat myself, I will involve both my guards and Ilandria’s. This is my courtesy to you: I’m offering you the chance not to have to explain your actions against Eyraille’s reigning monarch, which I am beginning to think is more than you deserve.”
Tivia knew she was pushing her luck. One move too far and she would find herself imprisoned or worse, barred from doing what she set out to do and leaving a worse impression of magic-users in her wake. She would set back Eyraille’s progression several decades, endangering the gifted community from coming out of hiding for fear of further persecution.
The possibility existed…if Eyraille survived the upcoming invasion. But with chances of a sure win so abysmal, she had little to lose from forcing her aggressive agenda.
Friends. Allies. A place to call home. A sense of belonging. But it wasn’t like she would lose what she never had, or could keep. Why not start a fight with an underdeveloped king famed for his moods and damaging rhetoric? She didn’t miss what he volleyed at the hospitable Ilandrian prince at dinner, or the tension it created between the two represented kingdoms. Her frustration needed an outlet, but no one in Eyraille—or Ilandria—would ever agree to take up arms against a mage, with the exception of a rash king backed into a corner by her own misguided machinations.
He would fight her, not only because she had given him no choice, but he secretly wished to prove his worth. Not to her, no, never to her. She meant so little in the grand scheme; simply a means to an end. Whatever would save the boy-king’s precious kingdom. Now that she prematurely triggered his thirst to win, she saw the lion unleashed—and heading straight for her.
The first thing she noticed was her inadequacy. How long had it been since she engaged in a proper duel? Years, notwithstanding the final showdown between her and Cyprian. The second thing she noticed was his speed, faster than she anticipated. She hardly had time to dodge his frenzied rush, but paid the price when his hilt rammed her hand, disarming one of her constructs, which disseminated into yellow stardust.
She had trained with every weapon, but never to mastery, preferring ranged over melee, polearms over swords. Her scattered instruction left her wholly unprepared to face an opponent who specialized in one discipline, honed to a sharp, deadly point. Although she could have adapted her technique, switched out her weapons for flying spears, or spinning discs, she opted for a modicum of fairness over random, unmitigated chaos. Their spar served to prepare Caris for a clean duel, not the ravages of an open battlefield.
The fight ended before she even found a foothold. Her stride disrupted by his early disarming of her dominant hand, she launched after him with a flurry of attacks, managing to injure his forearm and lower thigh, but ultimately, it was Caris’ rush that threw her off balance and landed her on the floor. Removed of her weapons and mobility, she admitted her defeat with the bob of her head. A flick of her hand reverted the inky void to the unassuming bedchambers of Ilandria’s guest quarters. Rising to her feet, Tivia schooled her expression to unyielding stone as Caris gave her an earful, scolding her as one would a child.
She allowed him to rant and rail against her questionable character. He had every right to growl his displeasure. Waiting for him to finish, she turned to go, but lingered long enough to deliver her retort. Whatever good it did.
“No, I am not Eyraillian, nor will I ever be. I am a citizen of no one, a mercenary. Even so…I would not put you through this aggravation if I believed it would serve no purpose. You may not trust me, but I am invested in securing Ilandria’s aid, more than a non-citizen of Eyraille should be. It was important for my peace of mind to experience your conviction. Now that I’ve seen it for myself, I have nothing to worry about. Though,” she gave the wrathful boy-king a thorough scrutinization, noting his injuries where her blades cut and cauterized his flesh, “it seems we both have great strides to make in the behavior department. Dinner tonight was…antagonizing. A weak jab at our potential ally and main supporter. That’s why I found it imperative to understand your resolve, and the best way to do that is through weapon-play.”
She tossed aside loose strands of hair that flew free from her tightly woven bun. “I find it bears repeating; I am not Eyraillian, as you so quickly pointed out, but neither am I your subject. I am here as a consultant. It may seem incongruous to you, but I am doing my job, and my job is seldom pretty, or diplomatic. I do what must be done, to ensure your kingdom’s survival.”
Tearing her eye from the king’s shredded night clothes, she reached for the door latch, figuring she wouldn’t have a chance in hell convincing him to undo the damage of his ravaged flesh. “Allow me to tend to your wounds in the morning. It will be the last you will have to see of me, if you so wish it. Thank you for indulging my whims, your Majesty. Good night.”
Sneaking out of his chambers undetected like some harlot of the night, she returned to her private space, a small but clean lodging one hallway over from the king’s opulent space. She didn’t mind the simplicity. Despite living the last twenty-five years in Canaveris grandeur, surrounded by jewels and finery, she preferred a minimalistic approach to life. To satisfy her adopted family, she played the part, donning ornate neckpieces and shrugging into embroidered bodices that flattered her waist. She tolerated the fussing of her hair, oils massaged into her scalp to thicken her golden shafts, and the various creams touting facial rejuvenation (“Great for burns!” an attendant once blithely reported, oblivious to his error). Since her unceremonious return to her home world, Tivia rejected her gold and silver filigreed shackles of the past and settled for practical, unassuming. Black. Black tunics, black gowns, black outerwear, starched too stiff to generate wrinkles. She wore no jewelry, save for a dangling pair of earrings, neck choker, or hair ribbons. The former served a practical purpose, at least, warning her of a sudden draft stirred by someone sneaking up behind her. The longer the dangle, the better the effect. Black-adorned Tivia Rigas, hair tied in a severe bun, eyepatch concealing only part of her burn-ruined face, looked, at best, a perpetual mourner. At worst, a spectre of death.
It suited her, especially of late. She annihilated relationships, sent them to a premature grave. It’s what I deserve–isn’t that right? For being too damn concerned about an outcome I can’t change?
“Why should I care?” she sighed aloud as she flopped on the bed, mussing up the perfectly pressed linen sheets. “I’ve done my part. Any more and it’s overkill. I stand to risk undoing the progress I’ve made.”
And wouldn’t it be like the wicked stars overhead to reveal, that had she kept her head down and passively watched events unravel without interference, she would find the result she most wanted to see?
“After this dratted duel is over, I need a drink,” she muttered into her pillow. “Drinks, drinks, and more drinks. And…”
She closed her eye, shuttering into blackness, similar to the void where she swallowed Caris against his will. A void was too fitting a term for how she felt. No degree of drinking, smoking, or meddling solved the inundations of constant, numbing dread, entrapping her existence like a clamshell drifting to the bottom of the ocean.
She picked the dead skin around her left ring finger, flaking open the scabbed-over flesh. A bead of blood welled–an ephemeral ruby celebrating her engagement to the yawning, turbulent nothing.
Against her better judgment, she fell asleep, and let the stars have her for the evening. Better them than the nightmares. The vicious, heartrending nightmares.
The following morning, Tivia did not approach either King Caris or Prince Safir. At breakfast, she kept to herself, poking at her meal and taking polite bites despite her lack of appetite. Bleary-eyed from less-than-sufficient sleep, she followed the rest of the Eyrallian entourage like a drone bee, unaware of the change of venue until they arrived at the site of the duel, a vast stadium located a short carriage ride from the palace, in the middle of the city. The citizens had been informed of the spectacle and were already filling seats, yammering excitedly, or so Tivia figured.
As they stepped out of the carriage, Ilandrian attendants guided the entourage inside the preparation chambers, a cellar that ran beneath the arena and acted as an armory in miniature, boasting swords and polearms of every type, leather armors, chainmail, brigandines, and metal breastplates. “You’ve an hour to arm up, hype up, whatever will ready you for the undefeatable Prince of Blades,” an attendant said, a polite candor–save for the last bit where he revealed his take on the duel’s outcome, and it did not ride in Caris’ favor. “Good luck; you will certainly need it.” With his biased well-wishes stated, he and the other attendants took their leave, granting King Caris time alone with his cohort.
Tivia noticed Caris’ faltering gait, which favored one leg over the other, while his right arm hung at an angle pointed from his torso, as if in overcompensation for the difference of balance. If she noticed this discrepancy, Prince Safir, paragon of fairplay, certainly would, too.
“Your Majesty,” she transmitted a telepathic message to the king, but only when she managed to catch his eye amid his browsing through the impressive catalog of weapons and armor. Considering what transpired last night, he seemed loath to end up in a room alone with her. Ironically, bombarding his mind with an unignorable susurrus of words and phrases was the least invasive workaround to forcing them into yet another enclosed space, unsupervised. “Your Majesty, your wounds–the Prince will see you are not at your best and he may postpone the duel. Allow me to undo your injuries. It is my mess to clean. Then I will retire to the stands, far and away and out of sight. Please do not deny my assistance. For Eyraille, you must be at your physical peak.”
After a period of a week, Sylvie finally emerged from her bedchambers. Outside, everything appeared sunnier and saturated with color, as if she was seeing her surroundings with fresh eyes. Whether from sitting with her curtains drawn for so long, she didn’t know, but from what she could assert, it had something to do with the tourmaline ring on her finger. Of course, she would never say it aloud. Her father swore her to secrecy. “Don’t tell anyone, briolette,” the gem pulsed with his sweet timbre. “The time will come when I will reveal myself, but it is not yet safe to do so. But perhaps…you could hurry along the process for me. If you are feeling brave and willing, that is. Though…I should not assume anything less of you, my courageous girl. Of course you will help.”
“What has you so full of vim and vigor this morning?”
The sudden and loud presence of her brother startled Sylvie out of her fond reverie. She whirled on him, tongue ready for a verbal lashing. “Oh yes, I have forgotten; you despise sunlight and early risers. In this case, I must ask you the same question, minus the ‘vim and vigor’ component. What has you awake at this hour at all?”
“Touche,” Nico grumbled, rubbing at a nonexistent smudge on his arm. “I’m not looking for a fight, Syl, but I had to ask. You’ve been in your room for days. A ‘fit of high fever,’ was it?” He furrowed a skeptical brow. “This kind of behavior is typical of me, but you are not as capable of adopting the ‘shut-in’ lifestyle without turning a few heads. You should see Uncle Ari before he thinks the worst.” He closed the space between them, lowering his voice so his volume would not cause reverberation in the highly resonant hallways of the villa. “He does not yet know, does he?”
“You know, typically, I would tell you exactly where to take your ‘lecture,’ Nico, but as I am feeling rather charitable today, I shall express my bottomless gratitude for your concern. Anyway,” she shrugged, her shoulders so carefree they floated to her neck and glided down to normal, as if on falcon’s wings, “no, he does not, and I thank you not to inform him. Make sure Miss Nia does not, either.
“I am not Miss Nia’s minder, Syl. I’ve my hands full as it is, with a certain wolf-man you once fancied.”
At that, Sylvie’s eyes softened a bit. “How is he doing?”
Nico blew out his lips, shaking his head. “Some days, it is like nothing is wrong. Others…well, he has it in his head that he is working with the ghost of Locque to expedite Teselin’s return, and it is when he reaches that point of lunacy that I have to…” he stared at the floor, seeming to regret answering Sylvie’s innocent question.
“I understand how it must hurt, not knowing of Miss Teselin’s fate and being constantly reminded of it. You are not alone,” she pressed a hand to her forehead, the same region where Teselin’s unruly magic split her open like a shattered geode. “That is, however, all the clemency I am willing to grant you,” she emphasized with a huff and half-spin on her heel. “Now if you will excuse me, I am indeed about to speak with Uncle Ari. Kindly point me in his direction and we shall continue to tolerate one another on the barest of terms.”
Sighing, Nico pointed down the hallway. “In his study. Syl, I know we haven’t quite left things on a high note, but—“
Ignoring him, she danced off in the direction he pointed, happy to pretend she existed as the only child of Casimiro Canaveris with her six younger brothers as afterthoughts. Spares, not to share the same status as the firstborn. She was tired of seeing to their care and sacrificing her growth and development for theirs. If that made her selfish, so be it, but she hardly thought it the case when her new cause was far nobler. “I’ll do it for you, papa,” she’d promised the ring, kissing it. “So we shall soon reunite.”
“Uncle Ari.” Sylvie slipped through the crack in the door and entered his study. Thankfully, he was alone, penning papers on his desk with an inkwell and quill. When she entered, he lifted his head and abandoned his work, grateful for the distraction.
“Sylvie.” He rose from behind his desk. “To what do I owe your visit?”
“My apologies for interrupting,” she said, sheepishly looking away.
“Nonsense! You could stand to interrupt me more often. Are you feeling better?” His brow wrinkled in worry. “You refused the physician. Nia knocked on your door, as well, but you did not answer her summons. Is anything the matter?”
“Oh,” she tittered, waving her hand like nothing were amiss. “Just a spot of fugue, the feminine variety. An insidious one, I’ll admit, but it has ended and I am feeling energized! In fact,” she sidled to his desk and peered over at his papers, “if you require an assistant, someone to help with your important work, please consider me for the position. I very much wish to familiarize myself with the goings-on of Stella D’Mare, Galeyn, and beyond. To be more politically active in our community, and to learn what…what is to become of us, in the future. I heard,” she glanced out the window, watching the golden-orange leaves detach from a nearby ash tree and make a few revolutions before falling to the ground, “there is possibility of war brewing, up north?”
Caris did not get the good night’s sleep he’d intended. Not only did the superficial cauterized lacerations on his body sting, but it took him hours to wind down from Tivia’s behaviour and the audacity of it all. He tossed and turned all evening, before eventually drifting off unawares sometime just before the sun rose. He couldn’t have slept for more than a handful of hours, however, before there was a knock at this door, summoning him to breakfast. Reluctantly, the Eyraillian King obliged, dressed, and joined his entourage for a morning meal with the Prince of Blades.
Little to nothing was said during the meal. Prince Safir was of course cordial and hospitable, and nothing less would possibly be expected. Just because Eyraille and Ilandria were not allies did not make them enemies in the eyes of the Prince of Blades. Whether Caris mirrored that sentiment was unclear; he remained quiet and impassive, until Safir, upon finishing the last bite of his bread and jam, spoke up. “Your Majesty. If you have any questions or concerns, or require clarification…”
“Respectfully, Your Highness, I can read. I’ve gone over the documents you sent me to sign ad nauseum.” Caris drained what remained of his glass of water and stood. “Consider it a compliment to your policy makers for their impeccable wording that leaves no room for obscurity.”
Safir merely offered a nod, and then a curt, “Well, then. Good luck to you.” You will need it was left unsaid, but not a single person in the room didn’t hear it behind Safir’s disinterested tone.
With the duel drawing close, and knowing that it would look bad on his part were he to delay this event, Caris and his small entourage made for the carriage that would transport them to the duel’s location. The Eyraillian King was led to a room where he was free to choose a weapon of his liking, and there was no shortage of variation in size, weight, and type. He didn’t even hear the Ilandrian official’s off-handed echoing of what Safir had said earlier that morning, too fixated on choosing from a wall of perfectly-crafted elite swords.
It was probably a good call on Tivia’s part to speak directly to his mind, as he might not have heard her otherwise, detached as he was from his surroundings. Her concern, however, garnered a scowl. “They’re hardly ‘wounds’,” he argued, picking up and examining a shortsword. His dominant arm was not injured… although, his leg ached with each step. And if speed was his greatest advantage, then this didn’t bode well for the duel. As much as he’d rather not have any interactions with Tivia Rigas today, she was right; this was necessary.
“...quickly.” He cast a glance over his shoulder to ensure they were alone in the small armory. While removing his tunic was hardly worth concern, his trousers were too fitted to roll up the pantleg. Somehow, removing them, even under necessary conditions, felt like a slight to his dignity. “The last thing I need is some perceived scandal at a time like this.”
Keeping tight to schedule, all parties involved in the duel gathered at the assigned place and time where they were expected. Due to the nature of the event, and that Ilandria was ever so transparent with its people when it came to affairs that would affect the entire kingdom, hundreds upon hundreds of citizens had gathered to fill the seats of the stadium amphitheater that usually served as part of common fairgrounds that were not currently in use. It might as well have been a fair or a festival for all of the attention it had garnered. People had reportedly begun filling the amphitheater hours before it was scheduled to take place, eager to witness a part of Ilandrian history: today would either be the day that Eyraille secured Ilandria’s help as an ally, or found itself humiliated at the hands of Ilandria’s skill Prince of Blades.
The roar of the gathered crowd, which consisted of nobles and commonfolk alike, dulled significantly when an Ilandrian officiant took to the center of the amphitheatre, dressed in Ilandria’s shades of silver, grey, and charcoal. The drop of a pin could have been heard at the hush that came over the kingdom as the middle-aged officiant unrolled and read from a silver-edged scroll on fresh parchment. “Those gathered here upon this hour shall bear witness today to an event with the potential to alter the course of the future for two kingdoms. Without the time to allow Ilandria for its necessary due process, Eyraille has invoked clause seven as recorded in Ilandrian law: that in the event a foreign kingdom should seeks international aid in light of what is articulated as emergency, said foreign kingdom may prove their merit and secure Ilandria’s aid by besting the reigning monarch in a melee duel of sword against sword.” The officiant then lowered the scroll to address the eager audience, off-script. “In addendum to clause seven of Ilandria’s law, the foreign kingdom seeking aid shall instead today challenge not Ilandria’s reigning monarch, but it's necessary proxy and future king, Prince Safir Adonis Vaillancourt.”
Upon this declaration that served as an introduction, Prince Safir appeared at the westmost path through the amphitheatre’s seating, making his way cooly to the center. Ilandria’s prince and acting ruler was dressed in fitted leggings and an ornate tunic, all fashioned in the colours of the very blades for which Ilandria was so famous. If the Ilandrian prince had slept as poorly as Caris, it certainly didn’t show: he stood tall, no shadows beneath his eyes, no lag in his step. Unlike Caris, the weight of the platinum circlet at his brown did not seem like so much as half the burden. The mere display of their prince’s confidence was enough to evoke cheering and clapping from the crowd: as if he had already won by virtue of being the Prince of Blades. There was a good chance that no one expected a different outcome.
“Today’s challenge shall test the skills and merit of King Caris Sorde, reigning monarch of Eyraille.” The officiant went on, which was Caris’ cue to come up the other side of the amphitheater. There was no cheering and clapping as the young Eyraillina King, representing his own kingdom in rich hues of silver and blue, traversed the aisle separating the densely-packed seats to the east of the amphitheater. For all the lack of fanfare, he did not seem particularly fazed: it could have been worse. The Ilandrians had no reason to cheer for the challenger, and he had not yet earned their respect. Although it did occur to him that the amount of love and faith Safir’s people had in him was overwhelmingly positive compared to that of Eyraille’s towards their king. His people looked upon him with uncertainty at best, fear and doubt at worst. For Caris, this was about more than impressing Ilandria and securing foreign aid for the sake of his kingdom’s future; it was about showing Eyraille that he could come through for his home. And that his people--and Tivia Rigas--should feel silly for ever doubting him for a moment.
When Caris reached the center, the officiant went on. “Both parties shall now temporarily surrender their weapons for inspection and transparency, and standby for a final debrief of the rules this duel shall follow.”
On command, both Safir and Caris drew their weapons and handed them to two attendees to look over before the public eye: one was Ilandrian, and the other had accompanied Caris from Eyraille. They would examine both swords to ensure they met the standards of this duel; namely, they would ascertain that neither of them had been magically tampered with. This was a duel of skill alone, and no intervention, magical or otherwise, was permitted.
The officiant went on with listing the rules to which the Prince and the King had already agreed, for the sake of further transparency for the audience. Ilandria’s trust and pride in its monarchy was not simply faith-based, nor did the governing body rest on its laurels of fairness and justice in the past. Nothing about an event like this would occur behind closed doors, where the public couldn’t see exactly what was happening.”
“Your Majesty. I am impelled to inform you that one of your court strongly suggested that I throw this match, with incentive.” Safir spoke only at a volume that his opponent could hear, while the officiant’s voice continued to carry the rules to the crowd. “I think it is only fair to let you know that I declined.”
A shadow of displeasure crossed Caris’ face. “If it was Tivia Rigas, Your Grace, know that she acted of her own volition, and I had no knowledge of this infringement. And know that she is not an official of my court.”
“Apologies, then; I stand corrected in my assumption. That said, it stands that I owe my kingdom a fair and true process. You’ve yet to prove yourself to me or to my people in your conduct and merit as a King.”
“Fair enough. I’ll show you my merit, Prince Safir. But it won’t be for my merit and skill alone that you will ultimately decide to ally with me and my kingdom.
The officiant, oblivious to the conversation that was behind had just feet away from him, went on with the rules: “Participants shall not strike to injure, and if injury occurs, it will be under scrutiny of the match’s observers from either kingdom to ensure that it was not delivered with the intent to harm. Victory will be secured by either disarming the opponent, or rendering them unable to continue by virtue of cornering them into a state of check.”
“Duel aside, Your Majesty, what has you so convinced that you’ve already secured our allyship?” Safir cocked his head to the side, curious at the younger king’s bravado.
“Because I know the challenges of leading completely alone, Your Grace. And I think you understand it, as well.” Something knowing flashed across Caris’ blue eyes as they met Safir’s. “Certainly a kingdom that prides itself for logic and reason must be aware that solitary existence, especially in the face of impending war, is not sustainable. Should Eyraille fall to Mollengard, it will only be a harbinger for Ilandria’s later downfall. If we do not stand together… then, together, we shall both fall. Believe me, you won’t want to face it alone.” A pause, then he added knowingly, “You already don’t.”
“Participants may take their weapons.” The officiant finally announced, satisfied that neither blade had been magically (or otherwise) tampered with, and stepped aside as both swords were delivered to the contestants; both shortswords, although Safir’s boasted a far more ornate hilt. Caris cared a good deal less for aesthetics.
On the officiant’s word, the Ilandrian Prince and Eyraillian King took up their stances, both wearing expressions of confidence and determination. And, on the officiant’s cue, they sprang into action.
Rather, it was Caris who sprang into action, going immediately on the offensive, in what was rather predictable of an Eyraillian. Safir, more composed and just as self-assured, easily side-stepped and parried. But from that first strike, the two noblemen moved as this duel had been choreographed. Such was only to be expected from the Prince of Blades, who had been rumored to have trained with a variety of weapons as soon as he was old enough to hold them. The grace and precision with which he moved was less combat-inclined, and more a dance, although much of that lent to the non-fatal nature of the match. Safir moved with the sword like it was an extension of him, where every movement of his body accommodated the weapon in his hand, and there was no question that were this purposeful combat, he could strike with accuracy.
Caris, on the other hand, fought differently, which was also to be expected, considering the handful of disadvantages. He was shorter in height by just a few inches, and hadn’t been born training with a sword, but had acquired the interest around the time he’d reached puberty. And unlike Safir’s flawless movements, he made mistakes; lunged too soon or parried too late, had to regain his footing on more than one occasion. But what kept the King of Eyraille in the game was not only the reactive speed he’d shown to Tivia the night before, but his adaptability. For every misstep he made, he recovered quickly, sometimes to the surprise of his seasoned opponent.
What started off as a relatively slow-paced match accelerated quickly when it became clear that Caris would not go down as easily as Safir thought. The clang and gleam of silver and steel in the early morning light became difficult to keep track of for spectators, including the handful of observers--some Eyraillian, some Ilandrian--overseeing the match to ensure all rules were abided by. No one, not even most of Caris’ Eyraillian entourage, predicted that the match would continue for as long as it did, let alone the outcome, approximately fifteen minutes from the moment the match had started.
No one went down, and no one was disarmed. There was a moment where Safir thought he finally found his victory, when Caris fumbled a swing and failed to turn in time to avoid the edge of Safir’s blade at his throat.Yet simultaneously, without even a half-second’s difference, the Prince of Blades felt the tip of his opponent’s sword pointed at his throat. And just like that, the two blonde-haired noblemen found themselves at a stalemate: if one person moved, they would surely lose.
Caris surely knew it. Perhaps this had been his plan all along. “What do you think, Your Highness?” The Eyraillian King murmured. “Do we stand together, or fall, one after the other?”
“Draw!” The observers finally called, when seconds had passed and neither the Prince nor the King moved from their position. “This duel… has been declared a draw.”
Safir and Caris lowered their weapons simultaneously as soon as it was declared the duel had come to a finish: an unexpected one, but regardless, it was over. And, unfortunately, Eyraille had yet to hear Ilandria’s decision regarding their plea for alliance. “The duel has been declared a draw.” The officiant announced, the amphitheater carrying his voice over the din of the crowd. “In the event of a draw, the interested public shall be permitted a window of three hours hence to have their voice heard and cast their vote, taking into account what has been demonstrated here today.”
“We leave it to the people to decide.” Safir responded to Caris’ comment, and offered a parting nod. “Your Majesty.”
As Safir walked away for the time being, the subtle change in his tone and the way he held himself was not lost on Caris. For better or for worse, this duel--and his words--had had an impact on the Ilandrian Prince. It was the least Caris could have hoped for.
“What a waste of time.” He sighed upon exiting the amphitheater, sliding past Tivia and the handful of others that had stood at the sidelines. The young king rubbed his temples. “An exhausting waste of time. I need to lie down. Wake me when this inefficient kingdom is prepared to make a decision.”
Conscientious of the king’s need for privacy, Tivia stood in front of him and cast them inside a shroud of shadow. If anyone were to walk in on them, they would notice nothing out of the ordinary; just a natural streak of darkness formed by the subterranean chamber and the light emitting from the evenly-spaced wall sconces positioned above their heads. Despite the compromising position forced upon them, she couldn’t stop an amused smirk from sliding up the unscarred half of her face. “It wouldn’t be the first time I was caught in a scandal, though I’m sure you’re beginning to realize that, now. Far be it for me to sully your ‘stellar’ reputation. Hold still,” she crouched before his exposed thigh, a position too compromised not to garner attention from a gossipy attendant or two. Fortunately, their stealthy, magic-induced position against the wall muddied them from the attention of any random passersby. Acting quickly, she drew her palm over the pink, cauterized scar, effectively scrubbing all traces of it from existence. She did the same to the one on his arm, diligent and methodical in her work.
Technically, she was no healer, nothing approaching Alster’s skill at stitching wounds together with super-fine threads of ethereal silk, but she knew how to manipulate time to a degree. The smaller the dimensions, the greater her ability to affect change. It was why she did not refer to her aid as healing, but rather, ‘undoing.’ Like at the masquerade but at a much smaller scale, she reversed time, but concentrated it only to impact Caris’ injuries. When she finished, nothing seemed amiss from the surface level, but in truth, two tiny strips of his skin were a day younger than the rest of him. Not a huge disparity in the grand scheme of things, considering the body constantly purged and regenerated itself, leaving behind hardly anything original, save for the tooth enamel, proteins around the lens of the eyes, and certain brain cells that may stick around to old age. She had Isidor to thank for this specialized knowledge. The Isidor of the other world, rather, who taught her alchemy. Nothing approaching Master Alchemy, as he never trod down that path in earnest after his rescue from Master Zenech, but she knew enough of the science to strengthen her understanding of the universe, from the micro to the macro. Everything connected, from the tiniest mote of dust in the air to a spiral-armed galaxy in the cosmos. With the building blocks at her disposal, her magic, when not informed by the stars, flowed from her fingertips like an answer to a question she’d been unconsciously whispering under her breath for decades.
Her unceremonious return to her home world dampened the wonder a tad, but when she allowed herself to explore her grief-forsaken curiosities, the euphoria descended on her like a waterfall, its intensity too pure to endure for longer than a moment.
For Caris’ sake, she opted for efficient and detached, as would a surgeon operating on a sleep-induced patient. Brushing her hands together, she rose from her crouch, dispersing the shadowy privacy curtain only when Caris was decent, trousers raised and fastened.
“There. Your speed should no longer be hampered.” As promised, she didn’t linger, but as she walked off, toward the rowdy spectators in the stands, she threw the Eyraillian king a few parting words. “Kick his ass.”
A long time ago, when she was girlish and impressionable, honor and tradition might have spoken to a deeper place in her heart. Ideal-wise, nothing sounded nobler than a chivalrous gentleman upholding his tenets of morality and societal cohesion. But the problem with societal cohesion was that it hinged on maintaining the status quo. If the status quo interfered with necessary progress, then honor was a crutch, preserving a foregone time. Civilizations hell-bent on falling backward into the cushions of the past instead of pioneering into an unknown future were doomed to fail. For these exact reasons, Tivia was not fond of Prince Safir Vallaincourt. Rather, the figurehead fronting as Prince Safir. Sure, he dazzled a crowd with his stately bearing, could walk a straight line and model his tailored clothes for his fawning idolaters. The Prince of Blades represented his kingdom like a wish granted, a fairytale with an implausible ending, trussed up in a happy little bow. Ilandria, therefore, saw no need to alter their fantasy where law, order, and fairness were the edicts of a cultured and superior society.
Except, Ilandria played by the rules when it suited them. They skipped a few essential steps in their dealings with the Ardane family, forgoing a trial and going straight for the culling. Justice painted in blood.
Tivia meant every word. Truly, she wanted Caris to knock the silly circlet off Prince Safir’s shapely head, and then some. If she were aware of what the two muttered to each other in the arena (while the emcee droned on about nonessential drivel that even with two working ears, she would have ignored), her investment in seeing the prince sprawled headfirst in the dirt would have tripled. King Caris was impulsive enough to make her dream a reality. Someone had to; she’d since abandoned her pursuit of strongarming the best possible outcome.
She watched the duel seated in the section reserved for Eyraille, a high-tiered position reserved for honored guests. Like Ilandrian royalty and palace officials, they were afforded the same view from a private balcony overhang. In terms of the view, Tivia could make out hardly anything, angled at a spot disadvantageous to her one working eye and forever barred from the auditory nuances of high-keening steel on steel, grunts of exertion, and screaming gasps from the crowd. Arms crossed, she watched, or tried to watch, two blurs highlighted by flashes of sun-illuminated blades, having the acuity to at least separate the short-statured Caris from the soldier’s physique of Safir’s graceful form.
It impressed her, how long the duel lasted. Caris didn’t come off as one equipped for longevity in battle. She pegged his type as a burst fighter, quick to the hilt, but quick to tire. The fact that he held his own against Safir for so long must have touched on record status for both opponents. Even the audience, majority Ilandrians and staunch supporters of the prince, appeared nervous about the outcome, which before seemed like a sure win.
Finally, she saw it. A glint. Two glints, pointed at each other’s throats. Leaning forward, she shielded her eye and squinted in stunned disbelief. A…draw? The Eyraillian pipsqueak somehow scraped together a draw?
Too far away to read the lips of the officiant as he made his declaration, she looked to others for context clues. No one from the audience erupted to their feet, clapping riotously. Like her, they also responded with looks of confusion.
“What’s happening?” Tivia turned to the Eyraillian sitting next to her, a Skyknight, for confirmation. “What did the officiant say?”
“It’s a draw. They’re giving the public three hours to decide by majority vote how they want to want to deal with us.”
“Did you say three hours?” Tivia had read the Skyknight’s lips correctly. Three hours. “They can’t decide by a round of applause? A show of hands? Do they insist on painstakingly polling every Ilandrian in this crowd? You know, there’s such a thing as being too democratic,” she muttered. Around the same time, Caris appeared on their private balcony, echoing similar sentiments.
For the next few hours, she tried to follow Caris’ model and take a nap or relax, but any attempt was met with a jolting terror as she gripped the sides of her seat for fear of falling. Blessedly, a steward came around to their balcony, offering refreshments and wine, which Tivia greedily snagged, no longer caring about propriety when her back-alley deals and middle-of-the-night ambushes lead to dead-ends and burned bridges. She did everything possible to swerve Eyraille’s course from the jagged rocks of its undoing. The rest was up to fate.
I’m not here to make friends. Wasn’t that Caris’ sentiment, too? Then it shouldn’t matter if I indulge a little. Hailing the steward, she reached for another glass of wine.
The ochre-tinted liquid barely touched her lips when she noticed a stir in the arena. The officiant returned, flanked on either side by Prince Safir and Caris, who must have been roused from his nap in the back room and herded back to center stage.
She was not prepared to receive the verdict, but refused to close her senses. Keeping her eye trained forward, she strained to understand the officiant’s announcement and the flutter of applause from the civilians in the stands. Again, she turned to the Skyknight beside her, whose features were agog with shock.
“They…they’re giving us the alliance,” the Skyknight stammered, shaking her head in wonder. “They said our king fought bravely. Ilandria recognizes his strength and determination, so they support his request for aid. Somehow…he spoke to them.”
Tivia stared at her, dumbfounded. “How did we manage that?!” she choked, the glass thrumming in her overexcited hand.
“Oh,” the Skyknight rose to her feet, inviting Tivia to do the same. “The officiant wants everyone from Eyraille on the floor for a toast and a quick ceremony.”
“Good.” Tivia fingered the stem of the glass she never released. “I was planning on bringing this with me.”
They gathered in the arena, where another set of beverages were passed around to the visitors from Eyraille and to Ilandria’s court: Prince Safir, his council, and the rest of the gaggle responsible for creating a manifold-tiered bureaucratic mud-trap of a process. Hands full with two drinks, the original and a fizzy, foam-dominant spritz that popped like bubbles in a sudsy bathtub and tickled her nose, she upended the latter as their toast to a good alliance and working relationship dictated. She smacked her lips at the beverage’s aftertaste. It hardly contained anything bracing.
Following the toast, other citizens of Ilandria were invited to enter the arena to mingle and enjoy a light celebration to honor the results of the duel and to welcome their new allies-in-arms. Before the influx descended, Tivia made a beeline for Safir, aware of the inevitable inundation of his dedicated fanbase. She found him not far from the apex of the festivities. Attired in a loose-fitting garment to reflect a state of comfort now that he no longer needed to don the trappings of battle, he looked no less regal. This man would give Aristide a run for his money, she thought with an inward snort.
“Your Grace. A word, if I may.” She tossed her head, indicating an area sparse of people. “I won’t keep you from your adoring public for long.”
Once they transferred from the din, she spoke using the channels of his mind, as was becoming increasingly common. It was quickly becoming her preferred method of communication, not only because it prevented eavesdroppers, but because it proved a workaround to the mechanics of opening her mouth and enunciating without slurring. She couldn’t allow for any margin for error, lest no one understand her speech. With this technique, she projected what she wanted to say and sent them on wavelengths to her target audience. No oratory reliance required.
“You fought well,” she prefaced, figuring she’d engage in some lighthearted repartee, however much she despised small talk. “From my tiny vantage point, at least. I’ll admit, it was hard to make out what happened, but I’m glad for the result and the vote in Eyraille’s favor. Though I suppose you had nothing to do with the decision?”
Safir’s expression shifted as he confessed what he told Caris before the duel. “You…” she trailed off, her lips hardening into a thin, white line. “Never mind, then. I came to you believing you were a man of discretion, but I suppose you cannot be trusted with sensitive information. I shall wait to approach you again. Perhaps later, we’ll revisit this conversation. I do have a proposition I would like you to hear, and if you agreed to it, I would honor our previous arrangement regarding Miss Nia Ardane, but,” she shook her head, taking another sip of the too-bubbly, substance-deprived beverage, “it is obvious you are not the sole personage in control. Perhaps if you invoked martial law, but,” she shrugged, “that doesn’t seem likely. Well, you’ve already made it clear you know about Miss Ardane’s location, so it’s not like it will benefit you to propose an off-the-books favor. No reason to sully your honorable britches.” She retreated a step, preparing for departure. “Good day, your Grace. If you see me again, I may or may not be under King Caris’ employ. After today, I suspect he will no longer want untrustworthy snakes like me slithering around.” Draining her glass, she saluted the Ilandrian prince with the empty vessel. “Thank you for the beverage.”
She was not done making waves. Buoyed by the effervescent booze sloshing away in her stomach, she located Caris on the other side of the miniature ceremony. Like Safir, she requested a moment of his time and pulled him aside. With the alcohol finally penetrating her senses, her well-formed and practiced words missed their mark a tad.
“Damn,” she began speaking in his mind, but chuckled aloud. “Here I thought I’d be more eloquent about this. Well, no matter. If you’re looking for a reason to oust me from your court, here’s your chance. I schemed, connived, flat-out assaulted you in your room, and now I’m drunk. What did any of my master orchestrations accomplish, I wonder? You won this alliance on your own, while I almost sabotaged our chances. So,” she threw her arms out to her sides, revealing the two empty goblets still gripped in her hands like lifelines, “I’ll accept whatever decision you make. With grace, this time. No more midnight door-busting, I promise. I honestly don’t know what I was thinking…”
Caris did not have the patience for Ilandria to extend its democracy for three hours. And while he was well aware it might have come across as unbecoming for the challenger to leave the premises while this kingdom was essentially deciding the future fate of his own, the Eyraillian king was exhausted from a night of fitful sleep. “Wake me when this kingdom has made up its mind,” he said to one of the Eyraillian attendees, before he made off for the back room just beneath the amphitheater. Clearing equipment off a nearby bench, he reclined and closed his eyes for what felt like only a handful of minutes, before someone was shaking him awake.
“Your Majesty. Ilandria has come to a decision; you must return to the stage.”
“Three hours… cannot possibly have gone by this fast.” The young king sighed, feeling stuff, but no more rested than before. Well, he might as well bear witness to what was to either be Eyraille’s greatest victory or failure since the death of his father. Suppressing the urge to complain, he followed his Eyraillian attendant out and back to the very center of the amphitheater, squinting against the sunlight after hours of hiding in the dark.
He was not alone as the center of attention. Prince Safir, now dressed down in a loose tunic and fitted gray trousers, with a decorative sword at his hip, vaguely gestured for Caris to join him. It gave the young king a surge of hope, for this could mean only one of two things: either the Prince of Swords delighted in humiliating him before the entire kingdom as he announced that Ilandria would not be allying with Eyraille, or…
“Fellow Ilandrians. Your voices have been heard, and we have the results of your vote. Following the demonstration of King Caris Sorde’s skills and determination… it has been decided that, Ilandria shall be, henceforth, an ally of Eyraille.”
The words didn’t register with Caris until seconds after applause erupted from the crowd. Did it… was it true? Had Eyraille just gained an ally? “Congratulations, Your Majesty.” Safir extended a hand to the young king, with an expression that appeared more defeated than amicable. Caris could see it in his eyes: that the draw had been an embarrassment for him, and that this vote was not a reflection of his personal opinion. Caris, on another day, and at another moment, might have felt annoyed at this, but… right now, it didn’t register. He had what he wanted: there was no point in goading the Ilandrian Prince further.
“I get it. You didn’t choose to stand or fall with me, Prince of Blades. This wasn’t your decision, and I respect that. But…” He closed his hand around Safir’s. “I’ll change your mind. Though I can’t promise that you’ll ever like me for it.”
“I can’t promise I’ll ever like you, either. But for the sake of our kingdoms, I’m sure we can make this work. Please,” he released Caris’ hand and gestured to the serving staff, who toted silver trays of glasses full to the brim of sweet Ilandrian wine. “Let us toast to alliance. There is no reason for this moment to be morose.”
Safir picked up one of the glasses, with Caris following suit, and toasted the event, and took a sip. Though while Caris barely sipped (he had taken to the opposite of Vega’s habits, seeing what alcohol did to his sister), Safir’s vessel came away from his lips almost empty. Moments from now, he would be inundated with questions and conversations pertaining to Ilandria, Eyraille, and how both empires would go forward with this alliance, and he would have to spout reassurances convince this crowd his people (including those who had not voted in favour of the alliance) that this would be beneficial on both sides. But before others could descend upon him with talk that would last the majority of the afternoon without pause, TIvia Rigas took him aside--just to speak to his mind, again. It was less jarring, this time around, but still not something he was used to.
“I appreciate your compliment, Miss Rigas, but I feel impelled to tell you that your King--well, whatever Caris Sorde is to you, since he clarified you are not a part of his court… he earned this result all on his own. You are correct assuming I had no say in it; nor did I throw this match on his behalf. But… he already knows this.” He spoke quietly and nodded to the Eyraillian King, who now spoke with some of his council, holding his head high, but surprisingly, not in such a way that suggested arrogance. Instead, he carried himself with pride.
However, Safir’s transparency did not sit well with the star seer. The Ilandrian Prince soon regretted his words, though, as Tivia was very quick to change her tune. He scrambled to explain, but how much of it fell upon deaf ears (no pun intended), he couldn’t be sure. “Don’t you think my kingdom would have seen right through it? Had I tried to tip things in his favour?” He whispered. Something desperate--or maybe it was just hurt--swam in his verdant eyes. “Don’t you think he would have known, Miss Rigas? Contrary to what you might believe, I did not make this decision out of spite or solely to satisfy the values of my kingdom. King Sorde needed to achieve this on his own. Because if he goes forward in his reign not truly believing in himself… then it won’t matter who Eyraille’s allies are. An uncertain king is all it takes for a kingdom to fall...”
Tivia was already walking away before he could finish, though, with her sights set on Caris instead. The Eyraillian King was entertaining conversation with a handful of Ilandrians when she requested she speak with him in private so she could get the remainder of her secrets off her chest. But Caris looked no more surprised than he did impressed, and instead furrowed his brows. “Are you quite finished?” He asked, after her self-defeating explanations of events that had already come to pass. “If dismissing you from Eyraillian affairs was my priority, I would have already seen to it that you’d be gone by now. Surely by now you’ve adjusted your faith in me, rather than underestimating me like every other waking individual--that prince included” He nodded to Safir, who currently appeared to be entertaining conversations with a couple of noblewomen--both who looked far more eager to be speaking with him than the other way around. “Speaking of--what did you say to him? I didn’t think it was possible for him to look more miserable than when he was speaking with me.”
Eventually, the clamour and excitement died down such that both parties, Eyraillian and Ilandrian alike, were able to retire to Ilandria’s aesthetically geometrical palace for an early dinner, followed by the opportunity later on that evening for Eyraille to debrief exactly what they expected in terms of Mollengardian invasion, and how they thought Ilandria could help. The latter was only attended by Safir himself, as well as Caris… and, Tivia Rigas. The Ilandrian Prince appeared surprised, and mildly annoyed at the star seer’s presence, unable but to help feeling outnumbered, and a little bit bullied. “I thought I recall you telling me that Miss Rigas is not a part of your court, Your Majesty.” Safir commented as he poured an amber-coloured beverage for himself from a crystal decanter and took a seat upon a plush chair before the hearth of a fire that had been lit in the private sitting room. “Regardless, let me know if I can offer either of you a beverage to your liking.”
“Officially, she isn’t part of Eyraillian court. However, she has foresight into Mollengard’s attack, so I thought it only fitting to include her.” Caris explained, and took a seat across from his new ally.
“I see. Well, then, Tivia Rigas,” He sighed her name, like an annoyance he had given up on trying to push away. “Tell me about what it is you predict, and how you foresee my kingdom playing a part in it.”
Contrary to Sylvie’s belief that Nia harboured ill-will toward her as a result of untoward behavior, the Master Alchemist who had been the primary agent in saving her uncle’s life hadn’t stopped thinking of Ari’s niece. While she was fully aware of the awful, untoward words that the girl-turned-young-woman had spouted during that trying time, Nia was not oblivious to the fact that those words had all been born of fear and desperation. Sylvie was close to her uncle, and the thought of losing him had temporarily made her lose herself. Furthermore, after the trauma she had endured following the near-disaster that Teselin had very nearly wrought upon this kingdom that was barely recovered from previous tragedy, it didn’t come as much of a surprise when the Canaveris girl had begun to act differently, shutting herself away in her room such that some wouldn’t see her for days at a time, and interacting sparsely with a chosen few whenever she did.
But while Nia understood the catalyst for such behvaviour, and knew better than to take offense, it concerned her that Sylvie’s reclusiveness had only seemed to get worse. While the majority of the villa’s occupants, Ari included, insisted on honouring her wish for solitude, the Master Alchemist was not particularly keen on allowing her to wither to a shadow of the bright, bubbly presence she once was. If she let her continue to fade into the shadows without intervention, she wasn’t sure she’d forgive herself.
Early one evening, prior to supper, Nia lightly rapped on the door to Ari’s study and stepped inside. He looked to be finishing up tedious paperwork, eager to be done with being hunched over a desk. “Hey, dinner will be ready, soon. Whatever’s left here can wait, right? Take a break.” The Ardane woman grinned and leaned on his desk, but her wide smile faltered.
“Any idea what’s going on with your niece, Ari? I’m worried for Sylvie. Nico doesn’t know what’s up with her, and she didn’t answer when I knocked on her door when she claimed she wasn’t feeling well. She hasn’t been the same since… well, the masquerade. Makes me wonder if it’s time to sit her down and get a few answers, whether she likes it or not.”
Curiously, Ari didn’t seem particularly fazed with regard to the topic of his niece. In fact, he smiled and offered reassurances that Sylvie was, in fact, doing quite well, and had actually come to speak with him earlier that day. Nia listened intently as he detailed his niece’s sudden desire to be of help to him, and her even more abrupt interest in Galeyn and Stella D’Mare’s politics, as well as the trouble stirring in the northeast. In factm she had gone so far as to express interest in traveling to Eyraille, of all places, in hopes that she could take her self-proclaimed knack for diplomacy and possibly help smooth things over, or at the very least establish more favourite relations between the northeastern kingdom, and Galeyn (and, by virtue, Stella D’Mare). Nia could certainly respect his niece’s zeal in wanting to make a bigger impact beyond the walls of this villa, but… where had it come from? Had restlessness finally caught up with her, such that she was desperate to find something that would grant her fulfillment and some relevance beyond simply being related to Stella D’Mare’s aristocratic leader, and being a minder to her surplus of younger siblings?
“That’s… I mean, wow. Sylvie’s a hard worker, I’ll give her that. But does that not strike you as somewhat… abrupt? We haven’t really heard much from Sylvie in weeks. I wonder what had gotten her suddenly so concerned, not just in this place’s political climate, but in Eyraille’s.” Nia’s eyebrows furrowed and creased in the middle. “Does that not strike you as… well, a little strange? And surely, you’re not actually considering letting her leave for Eyraille by herself… are you?”
While no one had made any decisions as of yet, Ari confirmed that the possibility was not entirely off the table--and that didn’t sit well with Nia. Not because she did not think it was a noble pursuit on Sylvie’s part, but because she wasn’t entirely convinced that it was purely for noble reasons that Sylvie sought to leave her family and friends for a foreign nation that she did not fully understand.
But Ari didn’t have all the answers and couldn’t know what was going through his niece’s head, so he couldn’t know all the details. At sinner that evening, Sylvie joined them for the first time in over a week, seeming very much her usual, chipper self, but did not offer much into her future plans or motivations behind them. So Nia waited until afterward, when the table was cleared and Ari’s niece left for her bedroom. Knowing well that expecting to be welcome was ridiculous, she did not wait after knocking to invite herself into Sylvie’s room. She could’ve sworn she’d heard the Canaveris daughter speaking to someone, but when she pushed open the door, Sylvie was sitting at her vanity, adjusting a ring on her finger. She looked surprised, and unsurprisingly annoyed at the intrusion. “Hey; I know this is untoward, but you didn’t answer your door the last time I knocked… and I hoped we could chat, for just a minute.”
Respecting her space, Nia had the courtesy to at least take a seat on the foot of her bed, knowing better than to crowd her. “Sounds like you’ve got some pretty amazing plans in mind. Your uncle said you’ve proposed the idea of going all the way to Eyraille to… get a better feel for the climate and maybe be of help. Damn, that’s ambition, if ever I’ve heard it.” The corner of her mouth quirked a smile. “But we’ve always known you had it in you, Sylvie. I just hope you’re not planning to take off all on your own because you feel the need to prove something, to your uncle or yourself or anyone, for that matter. Just because we sometimes worry for you doesn’t mean we’ve ever thought you weren’t capable of something amazing.”
Nia’s eyes drifted to the intricate patterns woven into the quilt on Sylvie’s bed. Golds and silvers sewn in the shapes of flowers and swirls. This entire room was fashioned to the liking of a feminine girl born into prestige; but what did she hope to encounter in Eyraille, of all places? “Look, I know things have been… I know you’re sour with me. And you have been since I almost gave up: on me, on living, on your uncle… And I only made it worse when we almost lost him, and when I almost didn’t wake up. I’m not perfect, Sylvie; I’m hella damaged, and why your uncle doesn’t seem to see that in me, I’ll never know. But I haven’t forgotten about the first time I attended a party at this villa. Where I was unliked, largely unwelcome by most, and extremely out of place. Throw in that I’d never been invited to such a grand event, and I found it way too overwhelming, to the point where I had to lie down. I should’ve been kicked out at that point.” She chuckled, and the flush of her cheeks even betrayed residual embarrassment from that night that continued to linger. “But instead, a kind girl who had absolutely no reason to show me such kindness and understanding rescued me and took me to a room where I could lie down, instead of passing out and making a fool of myself in front of a lot of important partygoers.”
Looking up from the beautiful quilt upon which she sat, Nia added, “Between you and me, this villa is already way too overrun with men. Laz has yet to return… if you take off, I’m gonna have to contend with your grandmother all alone. Glad she doesn’t hate my guts anymore, but, I’d be lying to say she doesn’t scare me. I’d miss you, Sylvie; in a lot of ways, I already do. I can’t remember the last time we spoke. I just hope you realize you’re more important to everyone here than you give yourself credit for.”
Caris did not have the patience for Ilandria to extend its democracy for three hours. And while he was well aware it might have come across as unbecoming for the challenger to leave the premises while this kingdom was essentially deciding the future fate of his own, the Eyraillian king was exhausted from a night of fitful sleep. “Wake me when this kingdom has made up its mind,” he said to one of the Eyraillian attendees, before he made off for the back room just beneath the amphitheater. Clearing equipment off a nearby bench, he reclined and closed his eyes for what felt like only a handful of minutes, before someone was shaking him awake.
“Your Majesty. Ilandria has come to a decision; you must return to the stage.”
“Three hours… cannot possibly have gone by this fast.” The young king sighed, feeling stuff, but no more rested than before. Well, he might as well bear witness to what was to either be Eyraille’s greatest victory or failure since the death of his father. Suppressing the urge to complain, he followed his Eyraillian attendant out and back to the very center of the amphitheater, squinting against the sunlight after hours of hiding in the dark.
He was not alone as the center of attention. Prince Safir, now dressed down in a loose tunic and fitted gray trousers, with a decorative sword at his hip, vaguely gestured for Caris to join him. It gave the young king a surge of hope, for this could mean only one of two things: either the Prince of Swords delighted in humiliating him before the entire kingdom as he announced that Ilandria would not be allying with Eyraille, or…
“Fellow Ilandrians. Your voices have been heard, and we have the results of your vote. Following the demonstration of King Caris Sorde’s skills and determination… it has been decided that, Ilandria shall be, henceforth, an ally of Eyraille.”
The words didn’t register with Caris until seconds after applause erupted from the crowd. Did it… was it true? Had Eyraille just gained an ally? “Congratulations, Your Majesty.” Safir extended a hand to the young king, with an expression that appeared more defeated than amicable. Caris could see it in his eyes: that the draw had been an embarrassment for him, and that this vote was not a reflection of his personal opinion. Caris, on another day, and at another moment, might have felt annoyed at this, but… right now, it didn’t register. He had what he wanted: there was no point in goading the Ilandrian Prince further.
“I get it. You didn’t choose to stand or fall with me, Prince of Blades. This wasn’t your decision, and I respect that. But…” He closed his hand around Safir’s. “I’ll change your mind. Though I can’t promise that you’ll ever like me for it.”
“I can’t promise I’ll ever like you, either. But for the sake of our kingdoms, I’m sure we can make this work. Please,” he released Caris’ hand and gestured to the serving staff, who toted silver trays of glasses full to the brim of sweet Ilandrian wine. “Let us toast to alliance. There is no reason for this moment to be morose.”
Safir picked up one of the glasses, with Caris following suit, and toasted the event, and took a sip. Though while Caris barely sipped (he had taken to the opposite of Vega’s habits, seeing what alcohol did to his sister), Safir’s vessel came away from his lips almost empty. Moments from now, he would be inundated with questions and conversations pertaining to Ilandria, Eyraille, and how both empires would go forward with this alliance, and he would have to spout reassurances convince this crowd his people (including those who had not voted in favour of the alliance) that this would be beneficial on both sides. But before others could descend upon him with talk that would last the majority of the afternoon without pause, TIvia Rigas took him aside--just to speak to his mind, again. It was less jarring, this time around, but still not something he was used to.
“I appreciate your compliment, Miss Rigas, but I feel impelled to tell you that your King--well, whatever Caris Sorde is to you, since he clarified you are not a part of his court… he earned this result all on his own. You are correct assuming I had no say in it; nor did I throw this match on his behalf. But… he already knows this.” He spoke quietly and nodded to the Eyraillian King, who now spoke with some of his council, holding his head high, but surprisingly, not in such a way that suggested arrogance. Instead, he carried himself with pride.
However, Safir’s transparency did not sit well with the star seer. The Ilandrian Prince soon regretted his words, though, as Tivia was very quick to change her tune. He scrambled to explain, but how much of it fell upon deaf ears (no pun intended), he couldn’t be sure. “Don’t you think my kingdom would have seen right through it? Had I tried to tip things in his favour?” He whispered. Something desperate--or maybe it was just hurt--swam in his verdant eyes. “Don’t you think he would have known, Miss Rigas? Contrary to what you might believe, I did not make this decision out of spite or solely to satisfy the values of my kingdom. King Sorde needed to achieve this on his own. Because if he goes forward in his reign not truly believing in himself… then it won’t matter who Eyraille’s allies are. An uncertain king is all it takes for a kingdom to fall...”
Tivia was already walking away before he could finish, though, with her sights set on Caris instead. The Eyraillian King was entertaining conversation with a handful of Ilandrians when she requested she speak with him in private so she could get the remainder of her secrets off her chest. But Caris looked no more surprised than he did impressed, and instead furrowed his brows. “Are you quite finished?” He asked, after her self-defeating explanations of events that had already come to pass. “If dismissing you from Eyraillian affairs was my priority, I would have already seen to it that you’d be gone by now. Surely by now you’ve adjusted your faith in me, rather than underestimating me like every other waking individual--that prince included” He nodded to Safir, who currently appeared to be entertaining conversations with a couple of noblewomen--both who looked far more eager to be speaking with him than the other way around. “Speaking of--what did you say to him? I didn’t think it was possible for him to look more miserable than when he was speaking with me.”
Eventually, the clamour and excitement died down such that both parties, Eyraillian and Ilandrian alike, were able to retire to Ilandria’s aesthetically geometrical palace for an early dinner, followed by the opportunity later on that evening for Eyraille to debrief exactly what they expected in terms of Mollengardian invasion, and how they thought Ilandria could help. The latter was only attended by Safir himself, as well as Caris… and, Tivia Rigas. The Ilandrian Prince appeared surprised, and mildly annoyed at the star seer’s presence, unable but to help feeling outnumbered, and a little bit bullied. “I thought I recall you telling me that Miss Rigas is not a part of your court, Your Majesty.” Safir commented as he poured an amber-coloured beverage for himself from a crystal decanter and took a seat upon a plush chair before the hearth of a fire that had been lit in the private sitting room. “Regardless, let me know if I can offer either of you a beverage to your liking.”
“Officially, she isn’t part of Eyraillian court. However, she has foresight into Mollengard’s attack, so I thought it only fitting to include her.” Caris explained, and took a seat across from his new ally.
“I see. Well, then, Tivia Rigas,” He sighed her name, like an annoyance he had given up on trying to push away. “Tell me about what it is you predict, and how you foresee my kingdom playing a part in it.”
Contrary to Sylvie’s belief that Nia harboured ill-will toward her as a result of untoward behavior, the Master Alchemist who had been the primary agent in saving her uncle’s life hadn’t stopped thinking of Ari’s niece. While she was fully aware of the awful, untoward words that the girl-turned-young-woman had spouted during that trying time, Nia was not oblivious to the fact that those words had all been born of fear and desperation. Sylvie was close to her uncle, and the thought of losing him had temporarily made her lose herself. Furthermore, after the trauma she had endured following the near-disaster that Teselin had very nearly wrought upon this kingdom that was barely recovered from previous tragedy, it didn’t come as much of a surprise when the Canaveris girl had begun to act differently, shutting herself away in her room such that some wouldn’t see her for days at a time, and interacting sparsely with a chosen few whenever she did.
But while Nia understood the catalyst for such behvaviour, and knew better than to take offense, it concerned her that Sylvie’s reclusiveness had only seemed to get worse. While the majority of the villa’s occupants, Ari included, insisted on honouring her wish for solitude, the Master Alchemist was not particularly keen on allowing her to wither to a shadow of the bright, bubbly presence she once was. If she let her continue to fade into the shadows without intervention, she wasn’t sure she’d forgive herself.
Early one evening, prior to supper, Nia lightly rapped on the door to Ari’s study and stepped inside. He looked to be finishing up tedious paperwork, eager to be done with being hunched over a desk. “Hey, dinner will be ready, soon. Whatever’s left here can wait, right? Take a break.” The Ardane woman grinned and leaned on his desk, but her wide smile faltered.
“Any idea what’s going on with your niece, Ari? I’m worried for Sylvie. Nico doesn’t know what’s up with her, and she didn’t answer when I knocked on her door when she claimed she wasn’t feeling well. She hasn’t been the same since… well, the masquerade. Makes me wonder if it’s time to sit her down and get a few answers, whether she likes it or not.”
Curiously, Ari didn’t seem particularly fazed with regard to the topic of his niece. In fact, he smiled and offered reassurances that Sylvie was, in fact, doing quite well, and had actually come to speak with him earlier that day. Nia listened intently as he detailed his niece’s sudden desire to be of help to him, and her even more abrupt interest in Galeyn and Stella D’Mare’s politics, as well as the trouble stirring in the northeast. In factm she had gone so far as to express interest in traveling to Eyraille, of all places, in hopes that she could take her self-proclaimed knack for diplomacy and possibly help smooth things over, or at the very least establish more favourite relations between the northeastern kingdom, and Galeyn (and, by virtue, Stella D’Mare). Nia could certainly respect his niece’s zeal in wanting to make a bigger impact beyond the walls of this villa, but… where had it come from? Had restlessness finally caught up with her, such that she was desperate to find something that would grant her fulfillment and some relevance beyond simply being related to Stella D’Mare’s aristocratic leader, and being a minder to her surplus of younger siblings?
“That’s… I mean, wow. Sylvie’s a hard worker, I’ll give her that. But does that not strike you as somewhat… abrupt? We haven’t really heard much from Sylvie in weeks. I wonder what had gotten her suddenly so concerned, not just in this place’s political climate, but in Eyraille’s.” Nia’s eyebrows furrowed and creased in the middle. “Does that not strike you as… well, a little strange? And surely, you’re not actually considering letting her leave for Eyraille by herself… are you?”
While no one had made any decisions as of yet, Ari confirmed that the possibility was not entirely off the table--and that didn’t sit well with Nia. Not because she did not think it was a noble pursuit on Sylvie’s part, but because she wasn’t entirely convinced that it was purely for noble reasons that Sylvie sought to leave her family and friends for a foreign nation that she did not fully understand.
But Ari didn’t have all the answers and couldn’t know what was going through his niece’s head, so he couldn’t know all the details. At sinner that evening, Sylvie joined them for the first time in over a week, seeming very much her usual, chipper self, but did not offer much into her future plans or motivations behind them. So Nia waited until afterward, when the table was cleared and Ari’s niece left for her bedroom. Knowing well that expecting to be welcome was ridiculous, she did not wait after knocking to invite herself into Sylvie’s room. She could’ve sworn she’d heard the Canaveris daughter speaking to someone, but when she pushed open the door, Sylvie was sitting at her vanity, adjusting a ring on her finger. She looked surprised, and unsurprisingly annoyed at the intrusion. “Hey; I know this is untoward, but you didn’t answer your door the last time I knocked… and I hoped we could chat, for just a minute.”
Respecting her space, Nia had the courtesy to at least take a seat on the foot of her bed, knowing better than to crowd her. “Sounds like you’ve got some pretty amazing plans in mind. Your uncle said you’ve proposed the idea of going all the way to Eyraille to… get a better feel for the climate and maybe be of help. Damn, that’s ambition, if ever I’ve heard it.” The corner of her mouth quirked a smile. “But we’ve always known you had it in you, Sylvie. I just hope you’re not planning to take off all on your own because you feel the need to prove something, to your uncle or yourself or anyone, for that matter. Just because we sometimes worry for you doesn’t mean we’ve ever thought you weren’t capable of something amazing.”
Nia’s eyes drifted to the intricate patterns woven into the quilt on Sylvie’s bed. Golds and silvers sewn in the shapes of flowers and swirls. This entire room was fashioned to the liking of a feminine girl born into prestige; but what did she hope to encounter in Eyraille, of all places? “Look, I know things have been… I know you’re sour with me. And you have been since I almost gave up: on me, on living, on your uncle… And I only made it worse when we almost lost him, and when I almost didn’t wake up. I’m not perfect, Sylvie; I’m hella damaged, and why your uncle doesn’t seem to see that in me, I’ll never know. But I haven’t forgotten about the first time I attended a party at this villa. Where I was unliked, largely unwelcome by most, and extremely out of place. Throw in that I’d never been invited to such a grand event, and I found it way too overwhelming, to the point where I had to lie down. I should’ve been kicked out at that point.” She chuckled, and the flush of her cheeks even betrayed residual embarrassment from that night that continued to linger. “But instead, a kind girl who had absolutely no reason to show me such kindness and understanding rescued me and took me to a room where I could lie down, instead of passing out and making a fool of myself in front of a lot of important partygoers.”
Looking up from the beautiful quilt upon which she sat, Nia added, “Between you and me, this villa is already way too overrun with men. Laz has yet to return… if you take off, I’m gonna have to contend with your grandmother all alone. Glad she doesn’t hate my guts anymore, but, I’d be lying to say she doesn’t scare me. I’d miss you, Sylvie; in a lot of ways, I already do. I can’t remember the last time we spoke. I just hope you realize you’re more important to everyone here than you give yourself credit for.”
Caris did not have the patience for Ilandria to extend its democracy for three hours. And while he was well aware it might have come across as unbecoming for the challenger to leave the premises while this kingdom was essentially deciding the future fate of his own, the Eyraillian king was exhausted from a night of fitful sleep. “Wake me when this kingdom has made up its mind,” he said to one of the Eyraillian attendees, before he made off for the back room just beneath the amphitheater. Clearing equipment off a nearby bench, he reclined and closed his eyes for what felt like only a handful of minutes, before someone was shaking him awake.
“Your Majesty. Ilandria has come to a decision; you must return to the stage.”
“Three hours… cannot possibly have gone by this fast.” The young king sighed, feeling stuff, but no more rested than before. Well, he might as well bear witness to what was to either be Eyraille’s greatest victory or failure since the death of his father. Suppressing the urge to complain, he followed his Eyraillian attendant out and back to the very center of the amphitheater, squinting against the sunlight after hours of hiding in the dark.
He was not alone as the center of attention. Prince Safir, now dressed down in a loose tunic and fitted gray trousers, with a decorative sword at his hip, vaguely gestured for Caris to join him. It gave the young king a surge of hope, for this could mean only one of two things: either the Prince of Swords delighted in humiliating him before the entire kingdom as he announced that Ilandria would not be allying with Eyraille, or…
“Fellow Ilandrians. Your voices have been heard, and we have the results of your vote. Following the demonstration of King Caris Sorde’s skills and determination… it has been decided that, Ilandria shall be, henceforth, an ally of Eyraille.”
The words didn’t register with Caris until seconds after applause erupted from the crowd. Did it… was it true? Had Eyraille just gained an ally? “Congratulations, Your Majesty.” Safir extended a hand to the young king, with an expression that appeared more defeated than amicable. Caris could see it in his eyes: that the draw had been an embarrassment for him, and that this vote was not a reflection of his personal opinion. Caris, on another day, and at another moment, might have felt annoyed at this, but… right now, it didn’t register. He had what he wanted: there was no point in goading the Ilandrian Prince further.
“I get it. You didn’t choose to stand or fall with me, Prince of Blades. This wasn’t your decision, and I respect that. But…” He closed his hand around Safir’s. “I’ll change your mind. Though I can’t promise that you’ll ever like me for it.”
“I can’t promise I’ll ever like you, either. But for the sake of our kingdoms, I’m sure we can make this work. Please,” he released Caris’ hand and gestured to the serving staff, who toted silver trays of glasses full to the brim of sweet Ilandrian wine. “Let us toast to alliance. There is no reason for this moment to be morose.”
Safir picked up one of the glasses, with Caris following suit, and toasted the event, and took a sip. Though while Caris barely sipped (he had taken to the opposite of Vega’s habits, seeing what alcohol did to his sister), Safir’s vessel came away from his lips almost empty. Moments from now, he would be inundated with questions and conversations pertaining to Ilandria, Eyraille, and how both empires would go forward with this alliance, and he would have to spout reassurances convince this crowd his people (including those who had not voted in favour of the alliance) that this would be beneficial on both sides. But before others could descend upon him with talk that would last the majority of the afternoon without pause, TIvia Rigas took him aside--just to speak to his mind, again. It was less jarring, this time around, but still not something he was used to.
“I appreciate your compliment, Miss Rigas, but I feel impelled to tell you that your King--well, whatever Caris Sorde is to you, since he clarified you are not a part of his court… he earned this result all on his own. You are correct assuming I had no say in it; nor did I throw this match on his behalf. But… he already knows this.” He spoke quietly and nodded to the Eyraillian King, who now spoke with some of his council, holding his head high, but surprisingly, not in such a way that suggested arrogance. Instead, he carried himself with pride.
However, Safir’s transparency did not sit well with the star seer. The Ilandrian Prince soon regretted his words, though, as Tivia was very quick to change her tune. He scrambled to explain, but how much of it fell upon deaf ears (no pun intended), he couldn’t be sure. “Don’t you think my kingdom would have seen right through it? Had I tried to tip things in his favour?” He whispered. Something desperate--or maybe it was just hurt--swam in his verdant eyes. “Don’t you think he would have known, Miss Rigas? Contrary to what you might believe, I did not make this decision out of spite or solely to satisfy the values of my kingdom. King Sorde needed to achieve this on his own. Because if he goes forward in his reign not truly believing in himself… then it won’t matter who Eyraille’s allies are. An uncertain king is all it takes for a kingdom to fall...”
Tivia was already walking away before he could finish, though, with her sights set on Caris instead. The Eyraillian King was entertaining conversation with a handful of Ilandrians when she requested she speak with him in private so she could get the remainder of her secrets off her chest. But Caris looked no more surprised than he did impressed, and instead furrowed his brows. “Are you quite finished?” He asked, after her self-defeating explanations of events that had already come to pass. “If dismissing you from Eyraillian affairs was my priority, I would have already seen to it that you’d be gone by now. Surely by now you’ve adjusted your faith in me, rather than underestimating me like every other waking individual--that prince included” He nodded to Safir, who currently appeared to be entertaining conversations with a couple of noblewomen--both who looked far more eager to be speaking with him than the other way around. “Speaking of--what did you say to him? I didn’t think it was possible for him to look more miserable than when he was speaking with me.”
Eventually, the clamour and excitement died down such that both parties, Eyraillian and Ilandrian alike, were able to retire to Ilandria’s aesthetically geometrical palace for an early dinner, followed by the opportunity later on that evening for Eyraille to debrief exactly what they expected in terms of Mollengardian invasion, and how they thought Ilandria could help. The latter was only attended by Safir himself, as well as Caris… and, Tivia Rigas. The Ilandrian Prince appeared surprised, and mildly annoyed at the star seer’s presence, unable but to help feeling outnumbered, and a little bit bullied. “I thought I recall you telling me that Miss Rigas is not a part of your court, Your Majesty.” Safir commented as he poured an amber-coloured beverage for himself from a crystal decanter and took a seat upon a plush chair before the hearth of a fire that had been lit in the private sitting room. “Regardless, let me know if I can offer either of you a beverage to your liking.”
“Officially, she isn’t part of Eyraillian court. However, she has foresight into Mollengard’s attack, so I thought it only fitting to include her.” Caris explained, and took a seat across from his new ally.
“I see. Well, then, Tivia Rigas,” He sighed her name, like an annoyance he had given up on trying to push away. “Tell me about what it is you predict, and how you foresee my kingdom playing a part in it.”
Contrary to Sylvie’s belief that Nia harboured ill-will toward her as a result of untoward behavior, the Master Alchemist who had been the primary agent in saving her uncle’s life hadn’t stopped thinking of Ari’s niece. While she was fully aware of the awful, untoward words that the girl-turned-young-woman had spouted during that trying time, Nia was not oblivious to the fact that those words had all been born of fear and desperation. Sylvie was close to her uncle, and the thought of losing him had temporarily made her lose herself. Furthermore, after the trauma she had endured following the near-disaster that Teselin had very nearly wrought upon this kingdom that was barely recovered from previous tragedy, it didn’t come as much of a surprise when the Canaveris girl had begun to act differently, shutting herself away in her room such that some wouldn’t see her for days at a time, and interacting sparsely with a chosen few whenever she did.
But while Nia understood the catalyst for such behvaviour, and knew better than to take offense, it concerned her that Sylvie’s reclusiveness had only seemed to get worse. While the majority of the villa’s occupants, Ari included, insisted on honouring her wish for solitude, the Master Alchemist was not particularly keen on allowing her to wither to a shadow of the bright, bubbly presence she once was. If she let her continue to fade into the shadows without intervention, she wasn’t sure she’d forgive herself.
Early one evening, prior to supper, Nia lightly rapped on the door to Ari’s study and stepped inside. He looked to be finishing up tedious paperwork, eager to be done with being hunched over a desk. “Hey, dinner will be ready, soon. Whatever’s left here can wait, right? Take a break.” The Ardane woman grinned and leaned on his desk, but her wide smile faltered.
“Any idea what’s going on with your niece, Ari? I’m worried for Sylvie. Nico doesn’t know what’s up with her, and she didn’t answer when I knocked on her door when she claimed she wasn’t feeling well. She hasn’t been the same since… well, the masquerade. Makes me wonder if it’s time to sit her down and get a few answers, whether she likes it or not.”
Curiously, Ari didn’t seem particularly fazed with regard to the topic of his niece. In fact, he smiled and offered reassurances that Sylvie was, in fact, doing quite well, and had actually come to speak with him earlier that day. Nia listened intently as he detailed his niece’s sudden desire to be of help to him, and her even more abrupt interest in Galeyn and Stella D’Mare’s politics, as well as the trouble stirring in the northeast. In factm she had gone so far as to express interest in traveling to Eyraille, of all places, in hopes that she could take her self-proclaimed knack for diplomacy and possibly help smooth things over, or at the very least establish more favourite relations between the northeastern kingdom, and Galeyn (and, by virtue, Stella D’Mare). Nia could certainly respect his niece’s zeal in wanting to make a bigger impact beyond the walls of this villa, but… where had it come from? Had restlessness finally caught up with her, such that she was desperate to find something that would grant her fulfillment and some relevance beyond simply being related to Stella D’Mare’s aristocratic leader, and being a minder to her surplus of younger siblings?
“That’s… I mean, wow. Sylvie’s a hard worker, I’ll give her that. But does that not strike you as somewhat… abrupt? We haven’t really heard much from Sylvie in weeks. I wonder what had gotten her suddenly so concerned, not just in this place’s political climate, but in Eyraille’s.” Nia’s eyebrows furrowed and creased in the middle. “Does that not strike you as… well, a little strange? And surely, you’re not actually considering letting her leave for Eyraille by herself… are you?”
While no one had made any decisions as of yet, Ari confirmed that the possibility was not entirely off the table--and that didn’t sit well with Nia. Not because she did not think it was a noble pursuit on Sylvie’s part, but because she wasn’t entirely convinced that it was purely for noble reasons that Sylvie sought to leave her family and friends for a foreign nation that she did not fully understand.
But Ari didn’t have all the answers and couldn’t know what was going through his niece’s head, so he couldn’t know all the details. At sinner that evening, Sylvie joined them for the first time in over a week, seeming very much her usual, chipper self, but did not offer much into her future plans or motivations behind them. So Nia waited until afterward, when the table was cleared and Ari’s niece left for her bedroom. Knowing well that expecting to be welcome was ridiculous, she did not wait after knocking to invite herself into Sylvie’s room. She could’ve sworn she’d heard the Canaveris daughter speaking to someone, but when she pushed open the door, Sylvie was sitting at her vanity, adjusting a ring on her finger. She looked surprised, and unsurprisingly annoyed at the intrusion. “Hey; I know this is untoward, but you didn’t answer your door the last time I knocked… and I hoped we could chat, for just a minute.”
Respecting her space, Nia had the courtesy to at least take a seat on the foot of her bed, knowing better than to crowd her. “Sounds like you’ve got some pretty amazing plans in mind. Your uncle said you’ve proposed the idea of going all the way to Eyraille to… get a better feel for the climate and maybe be of help. Damn, that’s ambition, if ever I’ve heard it.” The corner of her mouth quirked a smile. “But we’ve always known you had it in you, Sylvie. I just hope you’re not planning to take off all on your own because you feel the need to prove something, to your uncle or yourself or anyone, for that matter. Just because we sometimes worry for you doesn’t mean we’ve ever thought you weren’t capable of something amazing.”
Nia’s eyes drifted to the intricate patterns woven into the quilt on Sylvie’s bed. Golds and silvers sewn in the shapes of flowers and swirls. This entire room was fashioned to the liking of a feminine girl born into prestige; but what did she hope to encounter in Eyraille, of all places? “Look, I know things have been… I know you’re sour with me. And you have been since I almost gave up: on me, on living, on your uncle… And I only made it worse when we almost lost him, and when I almost didn’t wake up. I’m not perfect, Sylvie; I’m hella damaged, and why your uncle doesn’t seem to see that in me, I’ll never know. But I haven’t forgotten about the first time I attended a party at this villa. Where I was unliked, largely unwelcome by most, and extremely out of place. Throw in that I’d never been invited to such a grand event, and I found it way too overwhelming, to the point where I had to lie down. I should’ve been kicked out at that point.” She chuckled, and the flush of her cheeks even betrayed residual embarrassment from that night that continued to linger. “But instead, a kind girl who had absolutely no reason to show me such kindness and understanding rescued me and took me to a room where I could lie down, instead of passing out and making a fool of myself in front of a lot of important partygoers.”
Looking up from the beautiful quilt upon which she sat, Nia added, “Between you and me, this villa is already way too overrun with men. Laz has yet to return… if you take off, I’m gonna have to contend with your grandmother all alone. Glad she doesn’t hate my guts anymore, but, I’d be lying to say she doesn’t scare me. I’d miss you, Sylvie; in a lot of ways, I already do. I can’t remember the last time we spoke. I just hope you realize you’re more important to everyone here than you give yourself credit for.”
It didn’t pay to argue semantics with the prince, so Tivia killed the conversation and moved on before inebriation made her rattle off things she would later regret. Whether Safir agreed to her terms to throw the duel was moot; what rankled her was how he threw their confidentiality to the winds by revealing her duplicity to Caris. In an ironic twist, Safir's honesty and forthrightness dampened her capacity to trust him. If his inability to keep secrets were any indication, then how would he fare in a reunion with Nia? Even if he’d made a careless mistake before, mistakes of that nature tended to repeat, and one slip of the tongue could inform the wrong Ilandrian officials about his rendezvous with the notorious Master Alchemist fugitive. She wouldn’t risk Nia’s safety for a man yet to prove his integrity. As an ally, he would provide the soldiers and Eyraille a fighting chance, but beyond numbers and weapons, she didn’t view him as particularly useful. She would remain somewhat civil to him–she fought too hard just to turn around and sabotage his support–but nothing more.
As for Caris…
“Far be it for me to argue in favor of a dishonorable discharge,” she said, hiding her surprise. Rather, the swill hid her surprise under a sheen of blissful indifference. Senses dulled, she lost grip of her conscience, which advocated for self-effacement and somber reflection of her failures and half-baked plots. It sailed out of her fingers like smoke, leaving her with an afterimage of how she should have felt if shame commanded the narrative at that moment. Leaning into her ear, it would have whispered reminders of the world she destroyed for the crime of existing where she shouldn’t. For wishing a result burdened by consequences too steep and numerous to justify. And you will repeat the same sordid history, shame would hiss, piercing her faulty hearing with a screech to rival the stars. Let Eyraille fall. Haven’t you learned by now that your touch invites doom to all?
Lucky for her, the wine punched shame in the face and left her to sleep off her bruiser in a back alley for the evening. With the muddiness of inebriation came clarity, of a sort. She’d stay on her current path until the bitter end. Because what else was she supposed to do with her life? Hide away in a tower and cry over the state of the world?
“Seeing as I won’t be underestimating you any longer, I can only view your decision to keep me on board as wise. As for Prince Prettyboy,” she snorted, turning her back on the man’s mopey face and the two noblewomen fawning over him, “he doesn’t like that he won’t receive what I promised him, even though it was he who rejected my generous offer and couldn’t help but squeal about it. I see no need to give him what he wants just because we’re allies. Perhaps he’ll earn the right to that promise once he’s done something of merit.”
It wasn’t the last she would see of Prince Safir. In fact, they were to meet up again in the evening, after supper, to discuss and share insights on Mollengard’s planned invasion. Considering the specificities of the subject, Tivia was invited to join Caris and Safir, a decision which filled the Ilandrian monarch with unease. Replying to his frown with a smug smile, she sat in the chair opposite him, leaning back on the cushions and crossing her legs to expose the knee-high boots she wore under her long tunic. The wine had since weened out of her system and the sharp points of sobriety drove their rusty nails into her head with incredible force, but she refused to show her discomfort in front of a man who took great pains to infer his displeasure at her arrival.
“No need to mince words, Your Grace,” she teased, unable to resist burrowing deeper into Safir’s tender skin, serrated pincers primed to twist the flesh raw. “You wanted this to be an all men’s club and my presence murders the fraternal spirit,” she raised a knowing brow, but made no further elaboration, likely to Safir’s unending relief. “In all seriousness, I do have a purpose. Let me first explain how my ability works, briefly.” She thrummed her fingers on the arm of the chair, her foot bouncing to the rhythm they provided. “Every event that passes my knowledge expresses an archetype, a general model from which a particular pattern will emerge. From this archetype stems several possibilities ranging from mild, to positive, to extreme. Certain events are defined more loosely. They are less restrictive and thus can be shaped and molded. Others are the opposite, leaving little space for an alternative interpretation. In Eyraille’s case,” she sighed, “we are working with a tight timeline. We’ve precious little wiggle room, no time to play or experiment or lollygag. In other words, it is imperative that we take decisive action, which King Caris has done,” she nodded to the boy-king sitting beside her, giving credit where it was due.
“Fortunately, we’ve made progress. Securing Ilandria’s alliance is an enormous step toward mitigating this disastrous archetype. In no version of Eyraille’s fall have I seen a sliver of Ilandrian support. It could be they were there, but had already succumbed to Mollengardian aggression. Or, conversely, were choked off by a Mollengardian barricade. If this is the case, then I suggest fortifying Eyraille with Ilandrian forces. We cannot have Ilandria on call for when we need them to be present, because in waiting for help to arrive, it will be too late. Simply put, we need a live-in army stationed within Eyraillian borders. We also need to secure the easiest entry points into Eyraille, including the Vassair mountain pass where Central Mollengardian refugees cross the border. The same region where Haraldur once ferried them into Eyraille.” She turned her head to regard Caris, gauging his temperament before continuing. “We should evacuate the refugees currently living in the borderlands and convert the area into a base. The best place for them is closer to the capital. However, it will take some convincing to relocate them. They’re not happy with your decision to excommunicate their savior,” she shrugged, revealing nothing on her stance concerning Caris’ controversial decree to strip the princess of Eyraille and her consort of their titles and citizen status. As she was not Eyraillian, nor part of Caris’ court, it was best to remain neutral and unopinionated. “‘We must monitor them carefully, lest they create a stir, or, worse, defect. It's best to have them on our side. They know Mollengard and their underhanded tactics.”
Now that affairs more or less stabilized in Galeyn, Ari no longer had any excuse to procrastinate the notarization of important documents delivered to his desk months ago by eager D’Marians who either wanted permission to expand their territories outside the settlement’s parameters, to jumpstart his long-delayed campaign toward democracy, or, ambitiously, to plan an expedition to the old homeland for purposes of eventual reclamation. He yearned for the days when he could hole up in his studio and sculpt, but since Laz’s disappearance, he’d been unable to wield the chisel and hammer like he used to. Normally, navigation through a lengthy fallow period would have bothered him, but he supplemented his artistic lack with frequent outings, which Nia often helmed. Together they’d travel to the border, riding horses and climbing trees (rather, he would attempt these activities, but none proved successful). On days when he couldn’t travel far, they set aside a few hours in the afternoon and evening in the underground spring, or in his bedroom. No longer impeded by his curse, he was able to enjoy himself without the need of external aphrodisiacs to relax.
While Ari managed these workarounds to stave off his missing friend and his vanished artistic talent, he never forsook his duties to oversee the wellbeing of his brother’s children. So when Nia entered his office later that afternoon to inquire about Sylvie, he was happy to report a positive development in the ongoing case of her melancholy mood.
“It is a little abrupt,” Ari admitted after his summary of Sylvie’s new crusade left Nia more concerned than relieved. “But Sylvie has always been abrupt. When she devises a plan, she throws her heart and soul into it without any regard for restraint. Look no further than her involvement with the Solstice celebration, never mind its unprecedented aftermath,” he said, dancing over both the controversy and the reminder that the unwitting instigator of the masquerade’s grand finale was no longer with them. “Sylvie always requires a project. I see no issue providing her with a necessary distraction, especially during these difficult times. However, you may rest assured. I am not so eager to appoint her to far-off Eyraille. With war brewing up north, I would feel most uncomfortable to send my only niece as our sole representative. I informed her we have no need for so hasty a decision, given that Miss Tivia Rigas is already acting as a consultant and advisor on our behalf–although I use the word ‘behalf’ in the loosest of terms,” he frowned, understanding that Tivia offered her services to the king of Eyraille as a free agent. At least, according to Haraldur, who last spoke with the controversial and elusive star-seer. “I respect Sylvie's eagerness to do humanitarian work, but she must remain here for the time being. If in the future her decision has not wavered, and if the climate in Eyraille remains stable, I will reconsider, but as it stands, Nia, no.” He stood from his desk and gently took her hands in his. “I share in your concern. Sylvie will not be heading to Eyraille unless accompanied by either me or Nadira. She knows this and has accepted my answer with great equanimity and grace.”
“He said no. Papa, he said no!” Flopping on her bed, she groaned her lamentations to the bejeweled ring, her complaints carrying over to its patient and thoughtful recipient. “I am scarcely allowed to do anything remotely daring, let alone permitted travel to Eyraille, alone, in the midst of war! As it is, I am extraneous.” She lay on her cushions, shooting up her legs so they stretched perpendicular to the floor. “Tivia is in Eyraille as an unofficial advisor, though I much doubt she is doing diplomatic work. Her skills are unrelated to what I would provide; he must know that!”
“Did you say Tivia? As in Tivia Rigas?” The voice on the other end broke his contemplative silence. “Why is she in Eyraille?”
“Oh, did I not tell you? She is a star seer,” she paused, considering if she should also relay that Tivia technically saved her life at the masquerade by reversing the damage caused by Teselin’s explosive outburst, but thought better of worrying her father needlessly. Mentioning her brush with mortality would cause her father to reconsider her viability as a shrewd and capable daughter. As it stood, she kept tightlipped about her crystalization curse, implying, by omission, that Nia had cured her alongside Ari several months ago. “She plans to use her future sight to stave off the inevitability of war, so she claims.”
“A star seer? Heavens,” her father mumbled. She could make out a few choice swear words under his breath. “How much do you think she knows? If you were to…arrive in Eyraille unannounced, for example?”
“Unannounced?” Sylvie frowned, dropping her legs onto the mattress with a collective thump. “You are not suggesting I leave Galeyn and travel to Eyraille under false pretenses?
“And to fabricate a story so convincing you would fool even a star seer? No, that sounds ridiculous,” he swore again, a little louder. “What an absurd premise. An impossible ask. You’ve no gift for this method of subterfuge. I…my apologies, briolette,” his voice softened, tender and contrite. “Forget I involved you at all. I will devise another method for us to reunite. One that does not place you in so much peril.”
Sylvie sat up straight, rankled by his sudden oppositional stance. “Papa, I would excel at this. Do not give up on me just yet. Anything to bring you home. I would do anything.”
Her plaintive entreaty was interrupted by a brusque knock followed by a wide swing of the door. Typical of Nia to knock as a courtesy rather than for permission to enter. “Talk later,” she whispered to her ring before slinking off her bed in a weak attempt to show decorum to her uninvited guest. “Miss Nia,” she said, her tone clipped. Pleasant, but guarded. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your unforeseen company?”
She wanted to kick herself for her overeagerness. Assaulting Ari with too much, too soon, had invited suspicion to land in her lap. Nia was on to her, dashing her intentions to abscond in the middle of the night before the green of her plans ripened to red on the vine. She knew the correct pattern of words to manipulate Sylvie, casting her previous iron-clad convictions into doubt. Wavering on her feet, she retreated to the chair at her vanity, a span’s distance from the bed Nia had claimed.
“Miss Nia, I am going to die,” she stated, checking to make sure her father had deactivated their ring-to-ring communication. Assured of this fact, she continued, not sure why she launched into a morbid topic with someone she once viewed as a sister before things had grown so terribly complicated. “Uncle Ari carried the curse of the basilisk’s gaze. I carry the curse of the basilisk’s fang. Its venom was injected into me. An accident, but it happened, nonetheless. Venom acts quicker, so I will not survive to ripe adulthood. I say this to provide context, not to instill pity, or guilt. You cannot cure me. Curing my uncle nearly killed you. I am on my own. I do not fear death in isolation, but I fear leaving nothing behind. No legacy, no purpose. I am delighted you find me kind and empathetic. That you view me as helpful and instrumental to your quality of life here. However,” she picked at the peonies finely embroidered on her seat cushion, “it is not enough for me. Wasting away like this cannot be all there is to life. It will break my uncle’s heart to hear this, so please do not repeat my words. I am not happy here. I want to be. I wish to be, so very much. But I cannot keep pretending to smile and laugh and sing like a canary in a gilded cage. Surely you must understand the feeling of four bars surrounding you with all escape routes hidden.” She glanced at Nia for the first time since her arrival, hope gleaming in her fawn-brown eyes. “I am choosing to confide in you, Miss Nia. At the very least, if Uncle Ari does not see my worth as a diplomat, ask him to arrange a marriage proposal to Eyraille’s king. Strengthen our union through transaction. I will happily abide by my duty as a Lady of the Canaveris family and marry if it serves our cause. As Mollengard invades, our alliances thin out and die. It is imperative that we maintain cohesion with Eyraille,” she curled one hand into a fist and covered her ring with the other, “by whatever means necessary,” she whispered, her final, determined plea.
“I had expected this informal meeting to involve all relevant official parties, Miss Rigas. Be they a man or a woman.” Safir retorted, albeit calmly. If Tivia had meant offense in a manner other than implying sexism on the prince’s part, the innuendo had gone entirely over his head, perhaps as a result of not realizing the depth of what the star seer knew about people against their will. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass and lifted his shoulders in a casual shrug. “If His Majesty deems you relevant, however unofficial, then you are welcome.” It was less a peace offering and more a formality, but he had the courtesy to partially fill an empty crystal glass with the same amber liquid from a dark bottle, and placed it in one of Tivia’s empty hands. When he repeated the action for Caris, the Eyraillian King politely declined, by holding up a hand.
“Thank you, but I’ll pass, lest I fall into the same habits of my sister. And everyone else in my family, for that matter.” He explained without missing a beat. “The vice has to die somewhere.”
“In that case, I commend you for paving the way for a brighter to better your bloodline.” Safir placed the glass on the table next to his chair. “Speaking of your sister… I do have questions. Well, they’re are actually more concerns. But, please.” He gestured to Tivia without looking at her. If this was the hill she chose to die on--blackmail and passive-aggressive jibes--then he had a better head on his shoulders than to entertain such behaviour. “You clearly have a lot to say. I’d like to know how to envision Ilandria being of help, aside from providing weapons and soldiers.”
Respectfully, Safir held space for Tivia to explain herself, and why she and Caris had applied such pressure on Ilandria for an alliance in the first place. He waited for her to finish, nodding his understanding of her reason (however much reason could be derived from what seemed very much like glorified fortune telling), and when she finished, he had questions prepared, as her explanation raised more questions than it did satisfy answers. “And where have you seen Ilandria, in any of your visions? I find it interesting that you deduce Eyraille’s downfall as due to a lack of Ilandrian aid, specifically. But what of this nation, Miss Rigas? Have any visions of Ilandria dissolving in blood and fire as a result of not allying with Eyraille? Understand that it is not my intention to be difficult or obtuse. If I send my men, my people to fight for you, I am inevitably sending them to die.”
To Tivia’s likely surprise, Caris spoke up in defense of her reasoning before the Rigas woman could reply. “And if you don’t, then they die here, in their home. I wasn’t being obtuse when I said that we can stand together, or fall together, Your Grace. Given what Tivia has predicted, I do not foresee a future where either of our kingdoms walks away entirely unscathed. However, I do see the possibility that, should we work together, they both survive.”
“Your Majesty. Rest assured, there is no need to further plead your case.” Safir took a sip from a glass, before setting it--barely touched, mind you--upon the table to make it clear that the duo had his full attention, and he did not misunderstand. “You have Ilandria’s alliance; one that you most definitely have earned, according to my kingdom. If Ilandrian presence in Eyraille will strengthen your stronghold and better prepare for this inevitable war, then consider it done. Although, I’m not sure we can be of much help smoothing over your reputation among the refugees that have taken residence in the mountains.”
The Ilandrian Prince shifted positions in his seat, crossing one left over his opposite knee. “Until quite recently, the exile of your sister, Princess Vega Sorde, and her husband, was little more than a rumour. Needless to say it struck as quite shocking to have these details confirmed through the Eyraillian-to-Ilandrian grapevine.”
A muscle twitched in Caris’s jaw, and in his forehead. “Respectfully, Prince Safir, my family is my sole business.”
“That was true, Your Majesty, until the two of us signed the official agreement of alliance this afternoon. The affairs of your family are the affairs of your kingdom, and the affairs of your kingdom is the business of your allies. Whatever your reasons, your actions have caused significant unrest among a fraction of your population, which, I will agree with your… advisor,” he cleared her throat, still foggy as to just what Tivia’s role in Eyraille was, “is a factor that cannot remain unconsidered. But, if I may, I would like to extend the offer to the Mollengarian refugees to temporarily relocate here to Ilandria. There is plenty of room amidst the forests and farmlands to the south, and it is opposite the enemy, which would put them in the best position for safety. However,” Safir folded his hands, lacing his fingers together on his lap. “I will leave that for you and your advisors to decide. Now. Is there anything else either of you cares to mention before I call this open communication to a close?”
“I want you to train me. The way you were trained to use a sword.”
Safir had reached for his drink, but hesitated mid-gesture, taken-aback by the Eyraillian king’s abrupt request. “...Your Majesty. While I am flattered you see me as worthy to assist you in honing your skills, I daresay our time could be better spent. As a King, you absolutely should not be found fighting on the front lines.”
“And let’s hope that doesn’t come to pass.” That comment in and of itself was an attest to the young King’s maturity. Caris might still have had far to go, but he had come a long way since the day when Haraldur had scolded him for ever thinking it was a good idea to fight among his soldiers. “But, in the event it does, I also need to hold my own. Since Eyraille had relied so long upon its Skyknights and their spears, I am not ashamed to admit that Ilandria far outshines my kingdom in swordplay.”
“Your Majesty. Today, we were prohibited from striking with the intent to harm during our match. So that is precisely how I fought: not with motivation to harm you, but rather, quite the opposite. I feel it is safe to say we both held back. What you experienced is quite different from Ilandrian training for the sake of battle.”
“Of course; I’m not an imbecile. Had you fought with full might, victory would have been yours. Allow me to be clear, Your Highness.” Caris sat forward in his head and sought his new ally’s gaze. “I want you to fight me with no restraints. And I want to learn from it.”
Safir snorted; perhaps one of the only indications his composure was not as unshakeable as he let on. Fatigue was beginning to show beneath his eyes, and understandably, his tact was slipping. “King Sorde, you would find yourself daily in the hands of a healer. And I don’t say this to boast or throw shade.”
“Then it’s a good thing I have a particularly efficient healer at hand.” Caris replied, and it took a good, long moment for Safir to realize he was referring to Tivia.
But the Ilandrian Prince seemed to have run out of either energy, patience, or both to entertain any more wild ideas put forth by either Caris or the star seer. Safir rose from his seat, deciding to forego finishing his drink, and raked a hand through his pale locks, tumbling down his shoulders and back, free of its silver ribbon. “Tomorrow, I will arrange to have Ilandrian soldiers transplant in Eyraille. If for no other reason, than to strengthen your Kingdom’s backbone. And I stand by my offer to help relocate the refugees. We can discuss further details at a later date.”
As he headed for the doorway, intent on checking in on his father before retiring for the evening, the Ilandrian Prince couldn’t help but add as a final courtesy, “You are free to remain here in my home for as long as you see fit. As part of our alliance, you and your entourage are perpetual guests. Please don’t hesitate to speak up should you find any needs unmet.”
With a final nod, he excused himself from the conversation, and left to fill in his father on the details of the alliance… whether or not he was lucid enough to understand.
For someone who was seldom to never rendered speechless, Nia simply had no words with which to respond to Sylvie’s confession. “You’re…” She could practically feel the colour drain from her face, and had Sylvie not crossed the room to put space between them, she might have grabbed her hand to see--or feel--the truth for herself.
“Sylvie. Is this what had you shut up in your room with no contact for a week? Does your uncle know…?” But the answer was already obvious. Had Ari any inkling that his dear, sweet niece suffered a curse akin to his own, he’d stop at nothing to have it reversed. “Listen to me--really listen. You’re not gonna die anytime soon, because I won’t let that happen. Your uncle would never let that happen. No, I might not be in the best condition right now to help, but if I could claw your uncle away from death, then I can damn well help you, if you’ll let me. And I hope you will. So if you’re suddenly determined to live your entire life in a single moment because you’re scared you won’t have a chance to live it in years to come.”
She wanted to hug her. The fact that Sylvie was practically admitting to giving up, and doing what she could with what was the rest of her short life (or so she perceived) hurt Nia in the same way that she had felt hurt those times when her younger sister, Palla, had begun to fade. She couldn’t let that happen again; she wouldn’t. “Syl, if you’re unhappy… then I guarantee, that is all the reason your uncle would need to try to find a way to make you happy. If Galeyn and this villa doesn’t suit you because you want to define yourself beyond being your brothers’ caretakers, you know he would make that happen. But if you’d prefer I approach Ari instead… Let me see what I can do. Only under one condition.”
Nia pursed her lips and leaned forward. “You have to promise to let me help you. I won’t tell Ari what you said to me, unless your life and safety are in danger, and I’m left with no choice but to act fast. I stood by and lost two sisters who didn’t deserve to die; I’ll be damned if I stand by and let it happen to another beautiful, young woman with a bright future. Do we have an agreement?”
Only when Sylvie confirmed her agreement to Nia’s terms, however reluctant, did the Master Alchemist leave her to her privacy and to rest for the evening. Typically, by this time of evening, she and Ari would be well into one another, either basking in the baths and one another’s company belowg round, or in a tangle of limbs and sheets in his bedroom, but this evening, she was late to arrive. Who knew how long Ari had been waiting, considering Nia never missed the opportunity for intimacy of any sort.
“I talked to Sylvie… but I think you should have a conversation with her. She’s unhappy, Ari. She’s practically a woman, now, and wants a life beyond this villa and her brothers. And wants to prove to you that she is capable of that, and capable of doing something great, but… I really think you should talk to her.” Typically, the Ardane woman would have mischievously enticed his gaze and senses with a striptease, but she was so preoccupied with concern for Ari’s niece that instead, she unconsciously opted for a hasty change into a nightdress. “She’s determined to go to Eyraille for public relations purpose, but she’s doubting that you have faith in her diplomatic skills. She’s--get this. If you won’t let her leave as a diplomat, she went so far as to suggest coordinating an arranged marriage between her and Eyaille’s king. Vega Sorde’s brat of a brother, of all people. If you ask me, I don’t think she knows what she wants. She only knows what she doesn’t want: and that’s to be stuck as her brothers’ caretaker well into her womanhood.”
Running her hands through her hair, the Master Alchemist finally joined Ari on the bed, and met his gaze with an air of apology that she then voiced. “I’m sorry… this is your family, and probably none of my business. But I’ll never forget how I stood by as my sisters were torn away from me, one by one. I can’t let myself stand by knowing that she feels this way.” And knowing that your family is not out of the woods with cursed afflictions, she so badly wanted to say, but there was no benefit in Ari finding this out now. It was best to cross that bridge when she was confident she would be able to withstand yet another procedure akin to what she had performed for Ari… which, would also be contingent on getting Isidor back. She wasn’t sure she had the confidence to do it without him.
“What if… I accompanied her to Eyraille? Or the both of us did, for a short time? That way she’d have someone to turn to if need be, without feeling as though her freedom is being restricted. Sylvie’s strong-willed; I think you’ll agree that if she wants something, she’ll find a way to get it, regardless of whether or not she has anyone’s blessing. Maybe…” She covered one of Ari’s hands with her own. “While it’s not ideal, it would be safest for her not to go alone.”
Safir’s lukewarm response elicited a slow, bemused blink from Tivia. Either he was denser than she thought or her attempts to knock him down a peg were too clever to rile him. Alternatively, he had no basis for knowing when someone suspected him of diverting preferences because no one had cause to believe otherwise. You, good sir, are so deep in the hole you can’t see the rope leading out, she thought with a slight shake of the head.
Contrary to Caris, she accepted the amber liquid, but withheld from drinking. Oh she would, as certain as the sun rose the next day (barring an unforeseen cataclysm), but she wouldn’t compromise her wits until she contributed her dose of relevant information about which Safir doubted its validity.
“Fair enough,” she conceded, placing her untouched glass of wine on the serving table beside her chair. “You are free to dispute my claims. Parsing the stars is an epistemological pursuit, hardly quantifiable through our limited scientific understanding. However, I will correct you on one point. I have deduced no such thing, at least in terms of believing that Ilandria holds the key to Eyraille’s survival. Do not think me such a single-minded fool as to place unerring faith in one avenue. However, I am inclined to echo His Majesty’s sentiment. We are stronger together. The more alliances Eyraille forges, the greater the odds of staving off Mollengard’s assault. And what of this kingdom, you say?” Tivia cocked her head, training her working eye on Safir like an owl surveying its prey. “What is Eyraille if not a perfect stepping stone into Ilandria? One does not need to read the stars to realize where Mollengard will conquer next.”
With Safir firmly on board stationing soldiers in the bounds of Eyraille, the only thing left to discuss on her end was the matter of the refugees, who the Ilandrian prince suggested should move across the border until the threat of annihilation passed. “They have made a life for themselves in the mountains of Eyraille. It will be a difficult ask, but Ilandria might succeed where Eyraille fails. It’s not a radical or spurious statement to say that a certain population of Eyraille’s citizens has been vocal and resistant to some of the…changes implemented recently.” She didn’t need to spell out those changes. Safir mentioned them without prompting. Absent of their Skyknight commander and her refugee-saving husband-turned-leader of defected Forbanne, Eyraille was left without critical defenses.
Tivia refused to say as much–even she had the sense not to antagonize their prime ally beyond a few punchy comments about its leader–but Ilandria was a consolation prize, a last-minute acquisition to fill in Eyraille’s power void with something usable. Since getting directly involved in Eyraille’s affairs, she failed to render an accurate reading of what lay ahead for the besieged kingdom in the mountains, but she speculated that its high risk of failure stemmed from Caris’s ill-informed decision to ban Vega and Haraldur, the kingdom’s two most capable and uniting figures, during Eyraille’s most desperate turning point in its recent history. If only Safir or Tivia could convince the moody boy-king to reverse his directive, their chances would improve exponentially, but short of the Ilandrian prince bludgeoning him in the head with the hilt of his sword and rewiring his personality through blunt-force trauma, the stubborn Eyraille monarch would not budge, his firm stance a matter of pride and principle.
Tivia perked up, therefore, when Caris spoke of pursuing swordplay lessons with the sword-competent Prince of Blades. Nevermind that she was no healer, just a dabbler in time-reversal magic. She would happily play the role if she got to watch the two men smack each other around for a time. How quickly your stance on magic has changed, my king, she mused to herself.
“I see no issue in preparing for the worst-case scenario. We should all hone our training to the sharpest edge. I, too, am woefully out of practice, but I will not presume to insinuate myself in such affairs, so consider my contribution as healer a done deal.”
With their preliminary meeting coming to a close, Tivia rose, plucking the untouched drink from the table as her parting gift. “It’s a start. Thank you. We’ll speak later on how best to utilize your forces to their greatest extent. In the meantime,” she nodded at Caris, “we should close Eyraille’s borders to all but her allies. No imports from anywhere but Ilandria. Everything coming through should be vetted and inspected. Mollengard may tout its militaristic prowess, but never doubt its knack for producing spymasters. We trust no one.”
Not even you, she thought as she watched Safir’s retreating back. Mollengard will attack from within. This much I know. And yet, I’m making it so much easier for Mollengard to infiltrate. Eyraille may be closed…but Ilandria is not.
Once she felt safe to do so, she drained the contents of her beverage in one huge swig.
“I have always known, but blissfully ignored the truth until…I simply could not avoid it any longer.” Sylvie lowered her arms, letting them dangle like a marionette surrendered by its puppeteer. “I suppose it started to sink in after Teselin…” she swallowed, “and when Isidor left. I understood then, that there would be no solution for me. No hope. Alster is trying, but I have made his efforts impossible, as he requires full cooperation from the Canaverises to continue his research, and I refuse to have him break our confidentiality pact. If Uncle Ari learns about my condition, I will never be allowed to leave, at least not until he finds a cure. You,” she sighed, genuine fear in her eyes, “cannot be the one to help me. Uncle Ari would not place your life in jeopardy like that again. I will not allow it.”
Her tune changed when Nia mentioned speaking to Ari on her behalf. Her dead, dangling arms sprung to life, bunching the fabric of her gown. Both sides fought for a dominant claim to the material, with the right side ousting the left, tourmaline ring agleam like a red, angry thing possessed. She nodded, but barely. A mere bob, devoid of the joie de vivre that typified her grand, enthusiastic gestures of infectious pep for the mundane and wondrous. “I will let you help,” she agreed. “But within reason. You will not sacrifice your health, for one, much less your life. That is my addendum to our agreement. Are we on the same page?”
After exchanging their promises to each other, Sylvie saw Nia off, bidding her gratitude and a good evening with a smile and a wave. Closing the door (and bolting it shut this time), she wandered to her bed and lay on the cushions, as before. She stared at the tourmaline on her finger for a long, unfocused moment before activating the connection to her father. The gem winked to life, its thrumming vibrations tickling her finger. A curious sheen appeared on its surface, as if it were an eye, glossy with life. “Papa,” she whispered. “Papa, I think I did it. I secured passage to Eyraille. I am so close, so very close to freeing you.” As she uttered her words of hope, tears pricked her eyes and ran down her cheeks.
They were not tears of hope.
After waiting nearly an hour, Ari began to worry about where Nia went. It wasn’t like her to skip their nightly appointments without word. While free to sleep in her designated bedchambers, Nia spent every conceivable night in his bed, an unspoken arrangement weeks in the making. Was she feeling unwell? Tired? No longer interested in their intimate ventures?
“Nia.” He shot out of bed when she arrived, taking her into his arms. “I worried you had sickened of my juvenile virility and required a moment’s abstinence alone in your quarters, which I gladly would have honored, but—“
He clamped his tongue when her serious tone bade him listen. “Sylvie.” His brow furrowed, immediately forgetting his selfish proclivities when his niece was suffering so profoundly without his notice. He already failed with Nico, who literally needed to confront him for the truth to bleed through the oblivion of his brain. So why was he so quick to dismiss another hurting family member, chalking her pain to mourning the anniversary season of her dead father?
“I will speak with her,” he promised, heading defeatedly to the bed and hunching over the edge, his inky hair tumbling over his shoulders. “Although, if I am honest, I do not want her in Eyraille at all. There must be a safer appointment. Our connections in the Fallow Islands would happily welcome her to live and do humanitarian work. The islands are so frequently ravaged by storms that there are a multitude of homes to rebuild and misplaced families to feed. Importantly, she would be far away from the threat of war. The islands have never been conquered. …Something tells me my alternative suggestion would displease her, however,” his mouth twisted in an ironic smile. “She does not want concessions. She wants what she wants, for better or worse.” He massaged one of Nia’s hands as she joined him on the bed. “You may no longer be Galeyn’s prisoner, but I doubt they would be pleased to see you given free rein outside their surveillance. Not without ample accompaniment, so…if we cannot sway Sylvie’s decision, then I will go with her, and with you, to Eyraille. Simple as that.”
It turned out Sylvie would not be dissuaded, determinedly disinterested in all of Ari’s poetically-presented amendments to her destination-specific bearing. For her, it was north to Eyraille, or nowhere, and nowhere in the parlance of a depressed teenager meant something far more frightening.
At last, he conceded, but with the proviso that they schedule a meeting with Queen Lilica, Chara, Vega, Haraldur, Alster, and Elespeth to discuss the viability of their hackneyed, hasty idea to send an inexperienced Canaveris maiden to represent Stella D’Mare and Galeyn as a diplomatic advisor for Eyraille.
The meeting took place the following day, unfolding not exactly as Ari predicted.
“Why?” Chara Rigas was first to speak, but to her credit, she wrangled in her explosive anger and posed a legitimate question to the young woman. “What lies for you in Eyraille? What do you hope to accomplish that others are not already scrambling to achieve?”
“Lady Chara,” Sylvie curtsied to the queen’s advisor and fiancée, leaving behind her personal scruples regarding her illicit and abusive history with Ari. “Tivia Rigas has earned a seat in Eyraille, but she made it quite clear she is not representing Stella D’Mare or Galeyn. Rather, she is acting as a neutral party, providing her uncanny insights. I, on the other hand, will act as liaison between our two sovereignties and Eyraille, paving the way for an open and fruitful dialogue. My hope is to convince the king to accept our help.”
“What if Caris refuses you?” It was Haraldur who spoke next, standing, as usual, in his corner, spurning the chairs at the councilroom table. “For one, I’m surprised he didn’t turn Tivia away the moment she arrived, but her neutrality must have won him over. You say you want to convince him to accept our help, but he never will if it means involving me and Vega. He’ll cut off his nose to spite his face before he willingly asks for our aid.”
“Unless Eyraille wants to spurn its allies and welcome Mollengardian occupation unopposed, King Caris will not reject a legitimate offer for an alliance, especially if I am there to facilitate the exchange.” Ari stepped forward, placing a hand of support on his niece’s shoulder. “In place of acting for Stella D’Mare and Galeyn, Sylvie will represent Stella D’Mare alone. She cannot speak for Galeyn’s occupants, nor can she broker any arrangements between Eyraille and its former occupants,” he gestured to Vega and Haraldur. “With apologies to my phrasing.”
“The two are not mutually exclusive. As long as the enclave resides in Galeyn, Stella D’Mare remains a protectorate of Galeyn,” Chara said, clicking her painted nails on the councilroom’s wooden table. “Caris will not be so fooled as to accept this arrangement unequivocally.”
“Then it will be up to me to change his mind.” Sylvie straightened her shoulders, lifted her head, and narrowed her eyes. “Uncle Ari is correct. Unless Eyraille is so determined to founder, its king will be foolish not to welcome willing allies. Politics and pride aside, Eyraille can little afford to reject a helping hand.”
“I want to believe in your spunk and optimism, Sylvie.” Haraldur’s normally rigid posture seemed to melt in the shadows. His haggard features drooped, revealing defeat and the desperation to believe a young noblegirl held any power over the multilayered complexities of Eyraille’s innate stubbornness. “But Caris is incorrigible. He’s written us off. Your crusade is admirable but it will only end in disappointment at best. At worst…I don’t need to tell you what—or who—you’ll be up against. Mollengard doesn’t take prisoners. It breaks spirits and repurposes them. Re-educates, brainwashes, whatever you want to call it. You’d be one of the lucky ones if they killed you instead. I’m not trying to scare you, but to put things in perspective. If you go to Eyraille, there will be no one around to protect you.”
“I’m not afraid to die.”
“Sylvie—no one is dying,” Ari snapped, alarmed by his niece’s uneasy calm. “At the first sign of danger, you inform us by resonance stone and we shall bring you home, understand?”
“I’m able to do that,” Alster, who watched the proceedings in silence so far, supplied his contribution. “Fast travel to Eyraille and portal you back to Galeyn in moments. Tivia can do that as well, to my understanding.”
“What else can Tivia do?” Sylvie turned to Alster, curiosities alight. “She is a star seer, but could she, for example, sense when others are up to no good? Detect ill intentions in individuals and thwart attacks before they happen?”
Alster frowned. “She mentioned that the more involved she becomes, the less she can predict. My guess is that she went to Eyraille because no result instilled confidence in her, so she’s gone to manually reroute the flow of the river, as it were.”
“Then, with the two of us working together, Eyraille will not fall,” Sylvie concluded, her smile one of unfaltering reassurance. “So when do Uncle Ari, Miss Nia and I depart?”
“And risk proximity to Ilandria?” Chara squinted at Nia in confusion. “I understand Ari’s request to accompany Sylvie, but why would you willingly venture close to a kingdom that wants to erase you? Correct me if I’m wrong, but was it not your desperation for protection that landed you as Locque’s loyal servant to begin with?”
“Ilandria cannot touch Nia without invoking war with Stella D’Mare,” Ari deadpanned, dark eyes churning to pitch. “Besides,” the shroud lifted, and with it, his attitude returned to normal, “did Lord Rigas not boast his ability to transport us to Eyraille in a matter of moments?”
“Not a boast.” Alster crossed his arms and fixed Ari a mock glare. “I’m stating a fact. But before we go forward with anything,” he softened his gaze and addressed Sylvie, “I have to ask. Are you sure you want to travel to Eyraille, Sylvie? Aside from the threat of war, its culture is a major departure from what you’re used to. For one, the kingdom was, up until recently, hellbent on eliminating those born with magic. You may find little common ground with native Eyraillians. Not to say it isn’t a lovely place,” he was quick to amend. “I was fortunate to attend their Equinox celebration a few years ago, but if you are viewing Eyraille as similarly oriented to your ideals and beliefs, you might find a disparity. You’ll be required to shift your diplomatic tactics to better fit an Eyrallian model. If this is something you seriously want to do, I’ll help you prepare, but give yourself a few days to pack, prepare, and say your goodbyes. Surely, Eyraille can hold out a little longer.”
“Yes, I am certain. This is what I want. Eyraille is not like the storybooks would have me believe. I understand the gulf between fiction and reality,” Sylvie said, unhesitating and polished, as if she practiced the words in a mirror. “I will defer to the council on their final decision, but everyone in this room must agree on one important front; we cannot afford to dally. No longer than a week I will wait.” She clasped her hands in front of her and stood unbowed, the paragon of a mature, well-bred noblewoman–mild of temperament but at the same time, uncompromising. “That is my only concession.”
In just a few days following the decisive duel that had earned Eyraille an ally in Ilandria, Safir had come good on his word and proceeded to send numbers to the northern kingdom to sit in wait for a sudden attack from Mollengard. Caris had returned to his home for a couple of days to work on closing Eyraille’s borders, and limiting its import to Ilandria. However, for further communication with Safir, he had to return to Ilandria, as the Prince of Blades refused to leave his home. His primary excuse was that he needed to be present in the event that Mollengard suddenly changed course and decided to raze Ilandria first en route to Eyraille, as Ilandrian borders were not closed. However, Tivia and a small handful of others were aware of the secondary, perhaps more pressing reason that Safir remained rooted in Ilandrian soil. Once or twice a day, the elegant prince would disappear to see his father, either filling him in on current affairs (even if the old man wasn’t lucid enough to take in what he was saying), or just sitting and speaking with him to show he was present. King Ullir Vallaincourt had long since stopped showing any hope of recovery: he was bedridden, and the majority of the time, unaware of what was happening. Sometimes, when Safir spoke to him, he mistook him for a twelve-year-old version of himself. But his unspoken fear was that when his father finally passed, it would be in his absence--and he would never forgive himself should that come to pass.
Fortunately, travel by way of the rocs was not harrowing for an Eyraillian, and Caris was perfectly happy to return some days later to continue discussion with the Ilandrian Prince. After all, he hadn’t let up on his own, personal request to have Safir trai him to better handle a sword in life-threatening situations. For no other reason than to end Caris’ incessant nagging, Safir finally, reluctantly, relented.
“When you walk away limping, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” The Prince of Blades said without a trace of irony as he finished fastening a leather vest that protected his torso without restricting movement, followed by similar armor to protect his limbs. “See that your healer is nearby. Then, you can decide if you’d like to continue to train in the future. There is no shame in turning away from the idea.”
“If I cannot hold my own against an ally, Your Grace, then I will surely fall to Mollengard, should they get their hands on me. You can leave me bloody and gasping for breath, and I will not change my mind.” Caris finished fasting leather around his knees and shins, and squinted against the sunlight that assaulted the wide training field behind Ilandria’s palace. His opponent stood several paces away, sword in hand, while Tivia stood off to the side, as the single compromise that Safir had requested: first aid on hand, which also included Ilandrian healers of his own. Not only did the Ilandrian Prince refuse to go forward without taking safety into consideration, he demanded eye-witnesses to safeguard against Caris claiming foul play at any point.
Safir nodded from across the field, his shortsword gleaming menacingly in the daylight. “Then I respect your decision to endure injury.” He said bluntly, in that ever cold, calculating Ilandrian fashion. He had not earned his titles as Prince of Blades without good merit. “For our first lesson, then, there will be no lesson--no rules. I want to see how you fight for your life, Your Majesty. And I want you to think about every single thing that you are doing wrong, and detail it to me after the fact. But without further ado.” He bowed his head respectfully, before taking up a defensive stance, awaiting the Eyraillian King’s first strike.
To no one’s surprise, Caris immediately went on the offensive, and this time, he did not hold back. The Eyraillian king was fast and he held his sword well; he knew where and how to strike, and little could be found to be wrong with his form. However, it only took about a moment for Safir to read into his style of fighting--which was fast, accurate, and purposeful, but not defensive. And that was how the Eyraillian King lost his second fight to Safir Vallaincourt.
For Safir knew not only how not to get hurt, but to maximize his movement not only to parry or pivot out of the way, but also to strike. And strike he did, but nowhere that the stubborn, young king bore the protection of leathers. This fight spanned less than a third of the time that their initial duel had, for there was no recovering for Caris as soon as the tip of Safir’s blade sliced the unprotected back of one of his knees. He did try, to his credit, to maintain balance and strike with his wild abandon, but offense was only the best defense when the aggressor knew how to hold his own once the tables were turned. Safir fought with the same grace and elegance that he had before the entirety of his kingdom some days before, but there was far more aggression in his movement in the way he held his sword. Contrary to before, this time he struck with the intent to harm--and harm he did, without breaking a sweat. The same couldn’t be said for Caris, who, four minutes later (which Safir found rather respectable, having assumed he’d fall a lot sooner), was on the ground, his weapon abandoned in favour of clutching his midriff, which bled steadily, but not worryingly so. Safir’s assaults were shallow enough, but no less painful.
The Prince of Blades didn’t even have to make a call to know this match was over. “Can you tell me where you went wrong, King Caris Sorde of Eyraille?” He asked, his voice flat as his shadow and silhouette blocked the sun from Caris’ vision. When, after a beat, it was clear that Caris was in too much pain to reply, Safir answered the question for him. “You have speed on your side. You can recover some of your fumbles, but you, Your Majesty, fight recklessly. You strike without thinking of how your opponent will retaliate. You don’t consider defense because you rely solely on defense. None of this armor was of much use to you. Do you know why?”
Sheathing his sword, knelt to help Caris to his feet; surprisingly gentle, careful not to cause his body any further distress. “Because your enemies will not strike where you are protected. They will strike where you are vulnerable, and where it hurts most. Don’t mind the parts of your body that are not exposed to danger--and focus on survival. Survival comes first, and when your survival is secured, then you go forth with your reckless abandon.”
Tivia crossed the field to assist in helping Caris back to the palace. “Can you make it up a flight of stairs? I can send for some help if you have trouble walking,” he offered to Caris, but the stubborn king--bleeding and clearly in pain--shook his head. Safir shrugged and didn’t press the issue.
“Well, whether or not you wish to continue in future days, I hope you learned something, Your Majesty. Otherwise, when you’re healed and recovered later this evening, I’ve mulled over some suggestions to strengthen your own amr--in particular, your Skyknights, if you care to hear it.”
The Prince of Blades gracefully took his leave, allowing Caris (who leaned heavily on Tivia) to take the servant’s stairwell at the back of the palace, so as to make it to his quarters privately and unbothered by onlookers. Although pale, and clearly breathing through stinging, throbbing pain, the Eyraillian King didn’t voice any complaints, and tried to carry his weight to the best of his ability as Tivia helped him back to his room, where he all but collapsed on the chair positioned near the washbasin. There was no denying her help to unfasten the leathers that had protected vital areas, yet had entirely failed to be of any use to him, as Safir had been quick to point out. The fitted trousers and tunic he’d donned specifically for training were most likely a lost cause, torn and bloodied with his superficial (albeit noteworthy) wounds, and he required help shedding those as well, hissing at the sting of fabric sticking to open lacerations. Yet, it was perhaps the first time he’d wordlessly accepted help from Tivia without responding with attitude, and cared little for finding himself relatively exposed yet again to a woman he still didn’t know very well. Perhaps it was the recognition that he’d gotten exactly what he wanted: Safir had fought him, without holding back, and it had revealed a lot as to what he needed to work on if he wanted to hold his own in a war.
“He doesn’t want to fight me again. No more than you want to be a ‘healer’, I imagine.” Caris said at last, after Tivia took care of the most painful lacerations behind his knees. “But this is what I need. Eyraille wants me to take this seriously? Well, this is serious. Even if I never personally see battle against Mollengardian soldiers… I cannot dismiss the possibility that it could happen. So why waste the opportunity to train among some of the best?”
As soon as Tivia had reversed the last of the damage on his skin, which left nary a scar on his legs, arms, or midriff, Caris wiped away the remainder of dried blood with a washcloth, and wordlessly caught a replacement pair of trousers that Tivia gathered from the wardrobe. “Let Safir be annoyed when I return to fight him again. I came here to secure an alliance; not to make friends. Although for all the time he remained cooped up in this palace,” he gestured with one arm after securing the pants at his waist and stood, partially decent once again. “I get the impression making friends was never on his agenda, either.”
The majority of people who had gathered for this abrupt, impromptu meeting that involved Sylvie Canaveris suddenly deciding to depart for Eyraille, of all places, had entered the council room already deciding that the idea was entirely ludicrous. However, they gave the young noblewoman the floor to voice her proposal all the same; she was, after all, not a child, and if they could approach this in such a way that made it clear they were taking her idea seriously into consideration, perhaps it was not come as such a blow when they refused.
However… refusal, oddly enough, was not the direction that the conversation took, even if the majority of the room’s occupants felt to their core that this was a bad idea. Chara was the first to say what was on nearly everyone’s mind, and Lilica couldn’t help but agree, and feel equally bewildered: what was in Eyraille for young Sylvie Canaveris?
“Sylvie, I think we can all appreciate your eagerness to make a difference for us, and for Eyraille, however difficult and impulsive its monarch has been.” The Queen of Galeyn said evenly, piggybacking off of Chara’s voiced perplexity. “But Chara and Haraldur are correct. King Caris does not appear to be one who can be swayed by reason, threat, or otherwise.” Otherwise being a pretty face and sweet, charming personality, but Lilica saw no reason to be quite so blunt. “He had already taken offense to his own sister’s sudden departure, where she had her children on foreign soil and remained to aid Galeyn in a time of desperate need. He risks nothing for his pride, and while it is still far beyond and of us as to why he didn’t send Tivia away as fast as she arrived, he does not strike me as one willing to sacrifice his pride for anything, especially if someone means to prove him wrong… of course, I say this meaning no disrespect to you, Vega.” The caster with dark magic forever lying dormant in her veins directed an apologetic look to the once Eyraillian princess, who sat far to her left at the long table, arms folded and looking far from amused that anyone at all was entertaining this idea.
The Skyknight lifted her shoulders in an indifferent shrug. Everything about her body language suggested she was entirely closed off to this proposal, for more reasons perhaps than she was willing to admit, but she still had the poise not to outright say what was on her mind. Perhaps that was how she differed from Caris the most. “No offense taken, Your Majesty. My brother is a stubborn, bull-headed brat who had not yet grown out of acting out of spite. He may not have inherited our father’s dark heart, but he no less embodies some of the worst of what the Sorde bloodline is known for. I’m sorry, Sylvie.” Vega’s expression softened as she turned her face to Ari’s niece. “I mean you no disrespect in your honourable desire to make a difference in my homeland. But I know my brother. And as a King… he still has so far to go. And I have no one to blame for that but myself.”
“Not so. As someone who has not yet had the… pleasure of meeting your brother, Vega, you Haraldur, and even Alster and Sigrid have done nothing but extend help to His Majesty, Caris Sorde of Eyraille.” Elespeth, sitting next to her husband, spoke up in support of her friend, who in the past year had had to juggle the responsibilities of a diplomat, a princess, a mother, and an ex-knight like herself on very little sleep, thanks to the year-old Sorde twins. She didn’t even realize the immense pressure she and Haraldur had shouldered through all of this, not only as warriors, but as parents. “But… I understand your point of view, and I believe you. If anyone can attest as to whether this plan would make a difference for your nation, then it is you. But…” The former Atvanian turned to the trio at the other end of the table--Sylvie, Ari, and even Nia--who seemed to believe differently. “Something clearly makes you all believe that this is somehow worth the endeavour. Enough that you, Nia, are willing to risk such deadly proximity to a place that would quickly have you exterminated, should they learn of your existence nearby.” Elespeth’s gaze was a mix of confused suspicion at the Master Alchemist, but also of concern.
Clearly, Nia had considered this argument, and hadn’t arrived unprepared to explain. “Well, first-off, Ari is right.” The Ardane woman covered one of Ari’s hands with her own, grateful for his fierce support. “Ilandria’s not stupid, and if they’re already aware of Mollengard’s threat on Eyraille, they know better than to invoke war with yet another nation at this point in time. They’re too calculating for that. Furthermore, word along the grapevine tells me the monarch responsible for the death of my family and for culling the population of Master Alchemists within its borders has been indefinitely retired from the throne. His mind and body have grown weak with no hope of recovery; word has it he isn’t long for this world.” There wasn’t a trace of sympathy in her voice or demeanor for the man of which Nia spoke. “His son currently rules in his place as a proxy. I doubt he has his sights on focusing Ilandria’s might on offing me when Ilandria faces actual threats. No doubt the kingdom has deduced by now that any threat to Eyraille is also a threat to them by virtue of proximity. Anyway.”
With a dismissive hand gesture that made it clear she was not the person for which everyone should be worried, as it would be Sylvie putting a good deal of her well-being on the line for a selfless cause. “While Alster and Tivia Rigas do have the ability to transport others between locations without the need of night steeds or rocs, it’s neither fair nor rational to solely rely on them for such purposes. Which is where I think I can be of help.” Nia abruptly stood from her seat and wandered to the further part of the room, near a long, decorative mirror that spanned almost the entirety of one wall, making the already large room appear twice as big by way of optical illusion. “Portal mirrors. This has already been brought up once, but I think it’s high time we establish a few, for safety--in secret, of course. With the help of a powerful and capable mage, I can create a link between two mirrors--one here, one in Eyraille--that can act as doorways between the two kingdoms. No magic required of those who wish to past through, which could expedite evacuation in a pinch if neither Tivia or Alster is present. With the right resources and your help, Al,”she ran a hand down the gilded frame of the mirror in front of her, “I could one half of the portal done in a couple of days. Then we can finish the job in Eyraille, then, bam! A quick getaway if need be. This is, of course, if Galeyn will grant me leave to accompany Ari, Alster, and anyone else necessary to Eyraille. I realize I’m not a prisoner anymore, but let’s be honest: neither am I entirely free.”
That was a difficult proposal to turn down, considering that Tivia and Alster couldn’t be spread so thin utilizing their energy solely for transport. It also did offer a quick out for Sylvie, or anyone else involved, if they desperately needed to get away. Nonetheless, the young Canaveris woman hadn’t convinced everyone in the room that this was a good idea. What she had convinced them of, however, was that it was no less worth trying. Lilica brierfly brought up the possibility of also accompanying the small party to Eyraille, to establish rapport on behalf of Galeyn, but Chara (among the others) was quick to shoot the idea down. While Nadria Canaveris was well-enough respected to manage the D’Marians in Ari’s absence, the Galeynians were still very much attached to Lilica after what she had done to forever put an end to Locque’s threat on Galeyn. There was no one they trusted more as a stand-in in her absence, including Chara, and anyway, there was little that Galeyn could offer Eyraille against the threat of Mollengard, meaning Caris had no reason to entertain her niceties. Elespeth, on her part, did appear uncomfortable entertaining Sylvie’s pursuit, but knew there was nothing she could say that would change anyone’s mind, especially where her husband and Nia suggested contingency plans to maximize the safety of Ari’s niece.
Vega was the only one who had any further words after Sylvie’s final request that decisions and arrangements be made no later than within a week. The Skynight fixed her gaze cooly on Ari’s niece, bearing her no resentment for her optimism, but knowing it would be better for her to truly understand the reality of what she would be facing now than when she encountered Caris for the first time.
“Just so you’re aware, Sylvie, Alster’s putting it lightly. Too lightly, if you want the truth.” The Skyknight hadn’t uncrossed her arms from around her chest the entire time; an indication that she was restraining herself from saying everything she wanted to say, for the sake of maintaining amicable relations with the Canaverises, whom she did not yet know very well. Nonetheless, they had shown nothing but kindness and camaraderie, and had been so beyond generous when celebrating her children’s first birthday (which, of course, had done a good deal in winning Vega and Haraldur over.) But not only was Sylvie determined to go to Eyraille and do the impossible, which was to convince her brother to see reason. The topic of political marriage had come up, and for a myriad of reasons--including, but not limited to the fact she had once faced arranged marriage, herself--it did not sit well with her. “It wasn’t long ago that Eyraille still condemned any and all magic users, no questions asked, no trial, no jury. Some of its denizens remain in the mindset that magic users are not to be trusted. So not only should you not expect a warm welcome by anyone, but there will be some spaces to which you simply won’t have access. People, shop keepers, anyone can and may turn you away. With Haraldur and I exiled, I cannot guarantee the hospitality that will be extended to you at the palace, let alone any surrounding areas. As for my brother…”
Vega’s mouth twisted to the side and her brows knit together in the middle. “The fact he has never shown interest in arranging a marriage to a native Eyraillian does not bode well for convincing him that marrying outside of his kingdom will appeal to him, even for alliance purposes. It is going to take more than a pretty face and the potential for positive international relations, although what that more is, I cannot tell you. Put simply… you should be prepared for Caris to laugh in your face, and refuse any and all further discourse, because that isn’t just the King that he is: it’s the person he is. So, if after all of these cautionary tales, you are still determined to proceed…” The fiery-haired former princess of Eyraille finally unfolded her arms, placed her palms flat upon the table, and pushed herself upright, standing. “Then good luck to you. You’ll need it.”
Spectating over a swordmaster and his overeager protege quickly wore out its novelty for Tivia. At first, she was interested in learning from observation, tracing Safir’s graceful movements for inspiration to incorporate into her own form, but she gave up following the dizzy back-and-forth flailing of the two combatants and sat back to flip through a book she borrowed from the palace library.
Although raised as a war mage, Tivia never decided her own path, and often wondered what specialization she would have pursued if her father didn’t control every aspect of her life. Funnily enough, she was always partial to astromancy. As a child, she would often sneak out to the beach at midnight and lay face-up on the sand, circling the stars with her fingers and mapping the transit of the constellations relative to their positioning on earth. At home, she would scribble star charts in the study and compare them to the ones she found in the Rigas archives, impressed by her accurate rendering of the night sky. Even the archivists were impressed by her work. If ever you change your mind about pursuing your father’s path, you would have a place in the archives, the head librarian told her, a genial bespectacled man twice her age.
She reciprocated his kindness by devouring his mouth with her tongue and ramming him against the nearly-lined shelves.
Needless to say, she was never welcomed back to the sole establishment that brought her joy and purpose. The following day, Cyprian doubled down on his daughter’s training. “You are undisciplined and a disgrace!” he slapped her across the face, his backhand leaving bruises from the heavy gold rings he seldom took off. “What you did to that librarian—you disgust me. What would possess you to act like a common whore?!”
Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do? Trade myself for a favor? Repay kindness? Nothing is free and everybody wants something.
She didn’t tell him her thoughts outright, but the philosophy remained with her for years, informing her most important decisions. Haraldur saved her life from the flames; she reciprocated the deed with her body. Vitali similarly offered his protection and she defended him countless times, in battle and before his many detractors. In love, too, but her amorous intentions were a wasted effort. Nonetheless, she paid him back manifold, to the point where she could no longer keep track of who owed who, anymore.
Isidor…wanted nothing from her.
The stars, contrarily, wanted everything from her. Your beauty, your hearing, your eyes, your sanity. This is what we ask in exchange for your interest. This is the price for looking up in wonder, in asking if there is more to the world than what your inferior senses perceive. Sample from our feast…and pay.
She should have stuck with fighting. Simple. Effective. An existential crisis did not transport a fighter to another world and cause them to end it.
Perhaps next time, she would ask to join. Insinuate herself, rather. Forcing her company was the only method by which anyone would have her.
Tivia hadn’t glimpsed one line of text from her book before a heavy thud indicated that her charge had been unceremoniously thrown to the ground. Looking up, she was unsurprised to see Caris supine and bleeding through his armor with Safir lording over him. Too far away to read his lips, Tivia assumed he was lecturing to Caris about the importance of proper form, or whatever litany of novice mistakes he could throw at the boy, whose writhing torso and tight-hugging grasp suggested that the pain outcompeted the prince’s advice. Closing her book, she vaulted across the training field and bolstered Caris against her shoulder. His blood soaked her clothes, but with none the wiser to see the difference through the dark, opaque fabric.
“I’ll take it from here, your Grace; thank you,” she assured Safir as she gently guided Caris through the servants’ quarters and back to his room. While he rested in a chair, she whittled off his armor by sliding her hand between where the leather stuck to his blood and separating the layers to avoid peeling him like an orange and tearing off more delicate layers of ravaged flesh. She repeated the process by shedding his trousers and tunic, setting aside the blade-popped seams for mending later.
“He scored you pretty good,” she commented as she cleaned the surgically precise injuries with a sponge and cloth from the water basin, taking care not to press too hard. “I would hardly call these wounds superficial. Definitely not life-threatening, but he specifically targeted areas that would inflict the most pain. They’re a sight to look at, too.”
Without further preamble, she set out to undo Caris’ collage of lacerations, starting with the most insidious and working her way to the least damaging lash marks on his arms. “Psh, you got me there,” she admitted to Caris’ comment about her healing aspirations, or lack thereof. “Though you must admit, it’s a handy skill to have around, and my poker face is top-notch,” she said, a thinly veiled reference to seeing the disrobed lower half of his body for the second time in days.
As she finished with the last of his grisly wounds, Tivia stood from his chair, washing her hands of his residual blood and wiping them clean on a dry towel. “All ready for another row with the Prince of Blades, hmm? If nothing else, your sessions will accustom you to the feeling of excruciating pain. In the event Mollengard captures and tortures you for information…well, like you said, it’s always best to be prepared,” she shrugged, knowing that torture resistance wasn’t what he meant to learn from his reluctant sparring partner.
“Next time, I’ll have to join the two of you,” she said, as if permission was always granted and offered and she only needed to agree. “I won’t make it a regular thing, but I don’t want to be a sitting duck, either. If Mollengard deploys their magic-resistant Forbanne, I can’t rely on my weapon constructs. It would behoove me to familiarize myself with a real weapon again. I’m sure Safir would love to have an additional headache to train.” She smirked as she turned away, granting Caris the privacy to at least dress himself without an audience. “Though—I would argue that he does desire friends.” If his eagerness to reconnect with Nia is any indication, she thought. “But, as you know, his father is on his deathbed and Safir is nothing if not a dutiful son. Between you and me,” she glanced over her shoulder once Caris finished dressing, her vision blurring with the onset of its prescient knowledge, “the king of Ilandria has a week. Perhaps two, but his thread of mortality is fraying and it’s more than ready to snap.”
“Portal mirrors?” Alster was the first to react to Nia’s proposal, intrigue lightening his features. “You’ve mentioned them before. A feat of this magnitude would only take a few days on your end? And what would you require of me to configure their usage?”
“I have concerns.” Haraldur emerged from his corner, taking a stance behind Vega, but refusing to sit. “First off, what makes you think Caris would accept a magical artifact of this scope? Something like this has the potential to be abused, and if our enemies get a hold of it, they have a direct window into Galeyn. If anyone can use them, it’s a dangerous security violation. How can these mirrors be protected against falling into the wrong hands?”
“I’m sure we can devise a failsafe. Blood-activated, for instance, and acceptant of a limited number of pre-authorized people,” Alster posited, though he bit his lip, conscientious of Haraldur’s practical objection. “If worse comes to worst, we don’t use the portal mirrors. I can’t predict how Caris will respond to having these mirrors in Eyraille. Knowing him, he won’t take to the idea at all.”
“Has no one a kind word for the king of Eyraille?” Sylvie scanned the room, evenly meeting everyone’s gaze, until she landed on Vega, the loudest naysayer of the group. As she would be; siblings seldom held back from tearing at each other’s throats. “Your brother ousted you and your family from your home. Were I you, I would be rightly incensed. ‘Who is this young upstart, deluded in believing she can reach my brother where no other–where I–could not?’ Is that what you are thinking? My apologies if I am making wrongful inferences. Let me at least put a few of your concerns to rest, Sir Sorde,” she said, hoping she did not rub salt into the wound by using an inaccurate moniker, considering Vega was no longer a Sir or a Sorde according to Eyraille’s king. “I have six younger brothers. Let me emphasize. Six. Younger. Brothers. I raised them all. I know incorrigible, entitled, bratty teenage boys. Nothing that anyone in this room has described about King Caris Sorde differs from my typical day in the Canaveris villa.”
“She does have a point,” Ari couldn’t help but chuckle, lightening the mood during an otherwise intense moment. “No one is better equipped to wrangle those wild boys into order than Sylvie.”
“Your second point is a notable one,” Sylvie continued, bolstered by her uncle’s enthusiastic vote of confidence, “but it would do Eyraille a disservice not to mention the strides the kingdom has made to rectify these harmful anti-magic prejudices. Is it not true that Alster Rigas used his magic in a public venue during the Equinox festival and was not subsequently shunned by the crowd? Not to mention his tireless efforts to save your children in utero. I’m sure the king has recognized the enormity of this feat and despite his radical decision to excommunicate you, has not changed his mind about the miracle he witnessed. I’ve heard it said that the Eyraillian crown has a Rigas in its employ. A librarian by the name of Alta, who has resided there for decades. Add Tivia Rigas’ service to the roster and you have a kingdom that is steadily evolving from its problematic history. Last we heard, Tivia is not serving a sentence in the Sorde dungeons. She is working at the king’s side. I see no need, therefore, to be frightened. I will let my actions speak for me and others can conclude how they wish to treat my existence.”
Ari nodded along to his niece's words, finding it difficult to be an impartial representative when she impressed with her rhetoric, unshaken by Vega’s frosty reception and borderline cruelty. “Stella D’Mare is Eyraille’s established ally. They would be remiss to mistreat our diplomats, magically gifted or not. Eyraille—under Vega’s leadership, might I add—“ he gestured to the former Skyknight commander, happy to give credit over her divisive brother if it would placate her dour mood, “relocated our people from Mollengard-occupied Stella D’Mare to safe harbor, risking detection as they sailed through hostile skies by roc. It is therefore our sworn responsibility to return the favor by providing succor to ailing Eyraille. As leader of Stella D’Mare,” he pressed a hand to his chest in salute, “I will facilitate the exchange in person. When I depart, Sylvie here will act in my stead, as a diplomat,” he emphasized so Vega would understand. “Arranging a political marriage is only viable if both parties agree. If your brother is adamantly against the practice, then we shall respect his decision and push for diplomatic harmony instead.”
“In time, I hope you will view me as more than a ‘pretty face,’” Sylvie bowed her head to Vega, her calm poise betraying nothing of how she registered the comment. As a slap in the face, an insult that hinted at her intelligence, or lack thereof, pegging her as a vapid, insipid woman, concerned with frolic and frivolity and going where the wind took her. Better than the alternative, she thought, fiddling absently with her ring.
Haraldur gently squeezed Vega’s shoulders, as if to tell her, ‘Enough.’ Of the fierce husband-wife warrior duo, he operated at a lower vibration, grounded like a boulder wedged in the middle of a raging river, unmoored and unbudging. “Won’t this mess up whatever Tivia is planning? She corresponds with me. Albeit, in a weird way, and it’s one-sided,” he frowned, as if realizing how that sounded. “Nothing bad,” he hurried. “She uses images. Illusions that trigger whenever I walk in the room. From how I interpreted these images, she seems to have the situation well in hand. But, if we insist on involving Stella D’Mare, let me make a counter-suggestion.” He signaled at the elephant in the room seated next to Elespeth. “Send Alster. Not only is he a diplomat, but he’s worked with Eyraille and Caris before. He has an established relationship with the kingdom of rocs and strong, fortifying magic. He would be a boon in this situation. No offense to you, Sylvie.” He dipped his head to the young woman in apology. “As I said, I want to believe in your determination, but this involves Mollengard and a belligerent Eyraillian king who is not above sticking his fingers in his ears if it means ignoring reasonable counsel. Desperate times call for desperate solutions. Caris needs people he can’t ignore. I’m sorry Sylvie, but I can’t sanction this.”
“By that logic, Commander, would Lord Rigas not be the safe choice and I, the desperate one?” Sylvie hardly missed a beat, her timbre as smooth as the waters she navigated. She sailed past his boulder and girded against the approaching rapids. “If it requires a near-miracle to reach the stubborn king of Eyraille, then it stands to reason that the conventional, tried-and-true methods will not suffice. While I am hardly an extreme choice, I am at least a different one. Who’s to say?” She delivered a wily side-smirk at Vega, cloying as it was cheeky. “Perhaps a pretty face is what it takes to disarm his allegedly cold, unfeeling heart and open him up to reason.”
“Besides, I’m not up for the task.” Alster surprised everyone in the room by objecting to a role he would have jumped to play without question or permission. “I prefer a supervisory and supportive role for now. If the situation grows dire, I’ll step in if necessary, but I agree with Haraldur; if Tivia has things under control, then it’s best to give her space to work. Sylvie won’t overstep, I’m sure.”
“If it pleases you, your Majesty, may we bring this matter to a close?” Sylvie dropped into another curtsy before Queen Lilica. “I will not be alone in this endeavor, and if we come to a consensus on the proper usage of the portal mirrors, then in the event of a worst-case scenario, we can funnel Eyraillian refugees to Galeyn. As we don’t want to burden Lord Rigas with constant transport, we should also not burden his brilliant mind with the tedium of managing foreign affairs when another could do so handily in his stead. Allow him to focus on projects, healing, and magical innovation, and I,” she rose to her full height, the dark spiraled curls that framed her face bouncing ebulliently, “will palliate the king’s fire-breathing temper.”
