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.”
Caris wasn’t fool enough to openly react to Tivia Rigas’s more-obvious-than-not comment, as she knelt to be level with his waist to tend to the particularly painful lacerations behind his knees. But the faint flush that spread across his otherwise pale face was, unfortunately, involuntary. “More importantly, you have the good sense to keep your thoughts to yourself.” The young king muttered in response. It was already humbling enough to be this vulnerable in the presence of someone who wasn’t even an official of his court; comments regarding his body were entirely off limits. But Tivia already seemed to know this.
Fastening his trousers with a belt, Caris stood from the seat with absolutely no pain at all; even some of his muscles that ached from the exertion of going full force were as relaxed as though he hadn’t just sparred and found himself in copious amounts of pain a half hour ago. Tivia might not have been a healer, but she had most certainly proven her merit. The fact he not only hadn’t dismissed her from his service for asking Safir to throw their initial match, but also continued to have her present for important discussions and leaned on her for support in other areas was perhaps the best (and only) compliment that she could hope to receive. “Are you speaking with certainty, or hypothetically?” He asked, following her remark of Mollengard and torture. “If your telling stars have hinted anything into my future with regard to this war or Mollengard, then I believe it vital to put me in the know. In fact, anything more than that damned vision you projected to me and some members of my court would be helpful, especially now that we have taken strides to secure help from Ilandria.”
Tivia’s remark pertaining to joining him and Safir in further training came as something of a surprise, and he couldn’t help but raise his eyebrows. The Eyraillian king himself often forgot that the woman before him had, in fact, trained as a war mage, and was herself a seasoned warrior. It certainly added to her value that she could hold her own. “You could try to convince him, but would you be capable of healing yourself? I see now that Safir Vallaincourt, Ilandria’s Prince of Blades, has certainly earned his name. And if you ask him not to hold back… he won’t.” He rubbed one of the now phantom wounds at his side.
Caris’ expression sombered slightly at the abrupt change of subject, when the star seer mentioned the condition of Safir’s father… and her prognosis regarding his longevity. “Tivia. Is that hunch, or is that knowledge near certain? About Ilandria’s king? Because if his end is imminent within the next few weeks…”
But the Eyraillian king’s words trailed off as he thought twice about what he was about to suggest. While it might be a mercy to reveal to Safir Vallaincourt precisely when he could expect to say goodbye to his father, Caris and his entourage already had to suffer jumping through Ilandria’s hoops to adhere to their protocols. Had it been up to him, they’d already be far further along in this alliance than they currently were. Should Safir learn precisely how limited his remaining time was with his only living family… He couldn’t afford for Safir to be preoccupied with such distractions. Perhaps it was an insensitive approach, and that he and Tivia were potentially selfish for keeping this information from him, but if there was nothing that could be done for the dying Ilandrian king… what benefit would it be to Ilandria’s Prince? To count down the days, the hours, the minutes until his father drew his final breath? Perhaps it was a greater mercy for Safir not to know, than to agonize over the inevitable.
“Well, regardless… I’m here on business. And if Safir wants friends above allies, then he’ll have to put in more effort than what I’ve seen.” Caris dismissed the notion with a shrug and secured the buttons of his tunic. Were it not for a faint sheen of perspiration on his brow, and residual pallor from losing blood, no one could have guessed he’d just fought a losing battle. “I only hope that Ilandria’s official transition of leadership when the king passes on doesn’t set us back.”
Later that day, before a call for supper, Caris and Tivia were invited to speak with Safir in his study--which indicated it was a decidedly more ‘formal’ discussion than what had taken place in the sitting room, with glasses full of amber-coloured spirits. Safir himself had since changed out of his training attire and now donned a clean tunic, accompanied by a pale green, ornate waistcoat that brought out the brilliance of his eyes. His hair was brushed and tied back, and he looked every bit prepared to talk business with his new ally.
“Your Majesty. I daresay you look in far better condition than you did a few hours ago.” The Ilandria Prince seemed genuinely surprised that Caris carried himself as if he hadn’t needed a long nap and nutrient-rich snack after recovering from the assault he’d suffered earlier. He then added, nodding in Tivia’s direction, “It didn’t occur to me that a star seer was equally a healer.”
“She isn’t. She just possessive a wide array of useful skillsets.” Caris answered, in a way in defense of Tivia, as a means of suggesting that toting such a title would reduce to something less than what she was. He took a seat across from the Ilandrian Prince at his desk and folded one leg over his knee, and his body language alone suggested he wasn’t inclined to discuss the humiliating match that had left him bleeding on the ground. “So. What facet of complicated politics are we discussing today?”
Safir, to his credit, made no further comments on how poorly the young king had fought for his life earlier. The Ilandrian Prince clasped his hands in front of him on the desk. “What, would you say, is Eyraille’s strongest point of offense, specifically?”
Caris snorted, suddenly looking less than amused. “Really, Safir? You summoned us to ask an obvious question? Get to it, already. What do you have in mind for Eyraille’s Skyknights?”
“My apologies. It isn’t my intent to waste your time; allow me to get to the point.” Unclasping his hands, Safir leaned back in his head and looked between Tivia and Caris. “Your Skyknights are lacking. They limit themselves to spears and lances, and can only make a difference in close combat by taking an opponent off guard. Furthermore, they remain open to the threat of arrows and other range weapons and magic. Historically, they have only ever secured victory by overpowering their enemies as a result of speed and sheer numbers. Mollengard already outnumbers your entire army, Your Majesty. Ilandria’s aid aside, victory does not bode well if you do not adapt your greatest asset to fight in a more versatile manner.”
Depending on his mood, Caris might have interpreted Safir’s comment as a slight to Eyraillian offense. But the young king, of late, had demonstrated something of a leap in maturity. As opposed to storming off in a huff, he simply nodded. “Go on, then. How do you propose my Skyknights adapt?”
“There are a few options. For one, positioning some to fight individually, as opposed to in a flock as the bird species is inclined to do, would take anyone who’s studied Eyraillian battle techniques off guard. There is also the potential of training some of your Skynights in a variety of other weapons; in particular, I was thinking arrows--fight fire with fire, and cut off the threats before they become a threat. And, if you want my personal opinion, the more versatility we employ, the harder it will be for Mollengard to predict how you will attack or defend.”
“Alright. Fewer formations, and diversify weapons. Are you offering to have your weapons masters work with my Skyknights to become accustomed to a bow and arrow?” Caris asked, seemingly on board with everything Safir had to say. “Currently, they are trained to wield single-handed weapons. They require at least one hand to maintain their balance. This is going to require more than getting spear-users and fliers accustomed to a bow; it will throw off their balance entirely. You will basically have to expect them to forget what they know and learn to fight all over again.”
“Of course, I’ve considered this, and I realize we don’t have much time. However, if we start now, I don’t see this as impossible. Nothing that honing their core and lower body strength can’t solve. They will have to learn to maintain balance without their hands--assisted by a modified harness as well, of course. I am more than happy to offer Ilandria’s aid in all of this.”
“Then if we start now, we start now.” Caris stood from his seat. “I’m going to send word to the current Skyknight commander to select those he thinks will adapt the best and quickest. Allow me time to do this; we can reconvene later if you have any further suggestions.”
Before Safir or Tivia could get another word in, Caris left the study to do precisely what he’d said, leaving the Ilandrian Prince alone with Tivia. Safir waited a beat, then cautiously stood, listened to Caris’s footsteps retreat, and closed the door. “Miss Rigas. A word, if you don’t mind.” Safir lowered his voice as he took a seat again. His mouth was tight at the edges. “There is another concern I have regarding the Skyknights. I don’t feel I yet have a rapport with His Majesty to discuss this with him, but since you seem to be such a fan of secrets, I bring this concern to you. It’s about his sister--and her husband.” Safir sighed quietly and shook his head. “I don’t know how to put this lightly… I fear King Caris has made a grave mistake in exiling Vega Sorde and her husband from Eyraille. While she hasn’t commanded the Skyknights in some time, murmurings of their eternal loyalty to her reach even Ilandrian ears. Some feel they don’t fight as well without her. And her husband, who I understand is a former Forbanne soldier who managed to regain his agency… his inside knowledge of Mollengard would be a boon in this war. Seeing as you are someone who manages to find clandestine methods of achieving your means, I wonder at the possibility of quietly involving Eyraille’s ex-princess and her warrior husband. Bringing them here, unbeknownst to His Majesty, to do what they can. Or… you can feel free to retaliate and inform Caris I’ve plotted behind his back. That is well within your prerogative.” He shrugged his shoulders, making vague reference to how peeved she was when he’d informed Caris that she had attempted to orchestrate their first fight in his favour. “However, I don’t see how that will benefit anyone. And he will find out sooner or later, anyway. It is my hope that by the time he does, he will at least be in a position to realize that now is not the time to alienate family and friends.”
“Well… I could be exaggerating a little.” Nia confessed and sheepishly lifted her shoulders. “If I worked my ass off, then yeah, we’re talking days on my part alone. But it really all depends on how quickly the mirror is made, and the craftsmanship of it. It must be crafted specifically of Galeynian materials, and even then, I have very specific requirements for the quality of those materials. Perhaps the Canaverises could be of help in the craftsmanship?” She posed the question at Ari, knowing there was no one better to ask. “On your part, Al… well, I’m not a mage. I can’t cast the spell that brings it all together, but I can show you what it entails. Unfortunately, to create that second and third mirror, if we so decide… you’re gonna need to be in Eyaille. And then, in Ilandria, which I realize directly conflicts with your desire not to be involved.” The Master Alchemist shot an apologetic look in the Rigas mage’s direction.
“Now, if we’re concerned in terms of security, Alster’s right. A blood seal on the mirrors would be the easy part.” She went on, turning to address Haraldur’s skepticism of the cost-benefit analysis regarding the convenience of portal mirrors. “We can use blood to authorize as few or as many people as we want to be able to pass through them. However, that would mean that in a pinch, if we need to use them to evacuate an entire population… I’d need Al, again, to reverse the seal. This is a tricky little situation where, since Master Alchemy and magic is involved, I can’t unmake what I make. And, at the end of the day, if we decide it’s too much of a risk to security…” Nia curled her hand into a fist and slowly brought it to the ornate mirror’s surface. “The good thing is, they’re as easily destroyed as an ordinary mirror. Shatter it, and the mage is gone. Not even the most meticulous reconstruction can restore its transportation properties.”
“Why are we arguing mirrors when there is a more pressing question at hand?” Vega spoke up again. While Haraldur’s reassuring touch made her rethink certain choice words for Ari’s niece, she wouldn’t bite her tongue on affairs that directly involved her family. Her searing blue eyes settled on Sylvie with what could only be described as suspicion. “What is it you want? What could possibly make it worth it for you to bind your future to someone you’ve never met--to a nation, a culture, you barely understand, and that would have had you killed two decades ago? You have never met my brother; you know very little about him, and have no knowledge of the more intimate and delicate points of Eyraille’s politics. That you’re suddenly so interested in a foreign kingdom, and wish to bridge a gap by proposing a marriage… it doesn’t make sense to me. And it certainly won’t make sense to Caris. Many of us here have or had brothers, Sylvie.” Nothing about Vega suggested she was impressed, let alone swayed, by the Canaveris girl’s display. “It doesn’t make you qualified to deal with my ‘incorrigible, bratty’ brother. And if you think for a moment that he’s going to even spare seconds to consider a marriage during a time of impending war…”
Her heart pounded; her pulse raced, and Vega knew that she had reached her limit. In the past, she’d let her ire get the best of her, and had harmed Tivia Rigas as a result. She’d promised herself, that day, that she would never repeat such an event, even under different circumstances. She knew when it was time to leave, so she stood, and made for the door, but not before uttering, “...then you are a young, privileged, and highly deluded upstart.”
The sound of the heavy door closing behind Vega, following her departure, resonated in the bones of everyone in the room. Noting the rather stricken look that had befallen Sylvie, Nia stepped away from the mirror and laid a hand upon the young woman’s shoulder. “So… I dunno if this is common knowledge, beyond Eyraille and Ilandria, but a gut feeling tells me that arranged marriages don’t sit well with her.” The Master Alchemist offered. “When she was young--younger than Sylvie--Vega Sorde was… well, not exactly engaged, but promised to the Prince of Ilandria as a future wife. I only know this because at the time, my mother was trying her damndest to pair my older sister off with the Prince. Came kinda close to it, until Eyraille proposed a political alliance through marriage. I’d never seen my mother so angry when Vega ruined her chances of tying our family to royalty. Although, I think it’s pretty obvious now that when Eyraille’s king died, Vega broke off that promise pretty damn quickly. I can’t speak to what kind of pressure she must have felt, barely having reached puberty and then suddenly being groomed as a wife. Don’t take it personally, Sylvie.” She tried to offer a reassuring smile. “I don’t think she’s mad at you, specifically. She’s mad at the idea. If anything… I’d say she’s a little worried for you.”
Did she elicit a blush to surface on the young king’s cheeks? Of all she had accomplished—and disrupted—during her short tenure as an advisor for Eyraille, this was one of the more noteworthy developments. The petulant Caris, who took himself so seriously he sometimes resembled a toddler playing as an adult, leaked some of his boyishness to the surface, and he was better for it. For one, it made him instantly more likable, to the point where she found it difficult to refrain from making another jibe just to see his reaction.
As a consolation, she kept a wide berth as the king dressed, turning around only when he was decent. Any hint of playfulness drained from her features in favor of her typical scowl, an appropriate uniform for a star seer who too often saw little else but certain doom. “In every vision I see of Eyraille’s fall, you die,” she stated, direct as always in her approach. It would be an insult to Caris to dress up the truth with pretty euphemisms and circumlocutory subtext when it all amounted to the same thing. “It’s an instant death. A beheading, as I’ve shown you. Seeing as we’re rejecting that reality and paving a new path, it’s possible you could end up as Mollengard’s prisoner. We’re making this up as we go along. Brand new territory. But I’ll let you know if the stars deign to hand us a script for our improvisational performance. Either way, we’ll be expecting a tragedy. It’s unavoidable, as all war ends in tragedy, but if we prepare for the worst, we can hope to mitigate the brunt of the storm ahead.”
For Eyraille, maybe, she thought, forlornly. But remember what you learned in the other world. The smallest of gestures can reap the most disastrous consequences. You may save Eyraille, but at what cost?
Save Isidor to end the world… She played with the inflamed ring around her bare finger.
“Part of my training as a war mage was in learning to endure pain,” she answered Caris promptly, as if she hadn’t mentally wandered off to that dead place in the cosmos she swore not to revive in obsessive detail. Star seers looked to the future. The past only informed the outcome, but if that were the case, why did its echo resonate in her ears louder than she had the decibels to hear? “I think I passed that test with flying colors. No one escapes getting burned alive without gaining a bit of fortitude.” She traced the burn scars that trickled down the left side of her face like melted wax. “I’ve seen the battlefield many times. Killed more people than I could keep an accurate tally. True, when I lost my eye and most of my hearing, it took years to redevelop my technique to some semblance of what it was. I’m not the warrior I used to be, but I’m no pushover, either. I know what to expect from Safir Vallaincourt.”
Speaking of what to expect…
“I’m certain about this.” She glanced out the window to her left, which afforded a view of the courtyard and across from it, the glistening tower where the king allegedly whiled away the last of his days. “Not so much about the date of death, but I can feel his star fading. It’s a pinprick in the sky, a moment away from extinguishing completely. Safir won’t take it well no matter what I say. We should anticipate a setback when this happens. Let’s accomplish as much as we can until then.”
Before supper, they gathered in Safir’s study to discuss his alluded-to suggestions for best practices and use of his on-loan military. Following proper dining etiquette, Tivia traded her blood-soaked tunic for a black gown trimmed with lace and tied her hair in a braided crown. She accepted the proffered beverage and took an experimental sip, not quite used to the combination of sweet and spice the North added to their food and drink. To get a better lip-read of the chatting men, she triangulated her position by standing further back and opposite where they gathered, tilting her head to favor her good eye.
Even with her advantageous perspective, she thought she misinterpreted Caris’ correction to Safir about her newfound status as ‘healer.’ Did the Eyrallian king not only defend her preferred title, but praise her as useful? Will wonders never cease? I was not expecting that.
“If that’s not a glowing endorsement, then I don’t know what is.” Tivia leaned against the wall, nodding her approval at Caris. “Well, I second his Majesty’s notion.” She made a vague hand gesture at the Ilandrian prince. “Let’s get on with it.”
She listened carefully, but didn’t have much say in the matter of artillery and alternate functions for the Skyknights. That didn’t make her entirely useless in the discussion, however, as she did have a few opinions to share. “I agree; versatility will make for a stronger unit. It’s safe to assume Mollengard understands its opponents. Through understanding comes exploitation. It’s harder to exploit what they can’t see coming. I wonder,” she jutted her chin at Safir, “what are your opinions on crossbows? They’re easier to wield, are operational with one hand if necessary, have a further range of motion, and can be mounted on the roc saddles with a bit of blacksmithing ingenuity. Mounted this way, a Skyknight won’t need to go no-hands while mid-air. It’s a better compromise, as it won’t rely on a Skyknight completely unlearning one combat style in favor of something clunkier and less intuitive. We want our fighters strong, not scrambling to figure out a new system that will cripple them in the skies and leave them vulnerable to Mollengardian firepower. But–” Caris had heard enough, and was already out of the room before she could finish her counter-proposal, eager to implement the changes to his Skyknights immediately.
“Say what you will about his demeanor, but he’s dedicated, I’ll give him that.” Tivia sighed and sampled another sip of the syrupy-sweet amber beverage. She curiously tracked the Ilandrian prince’s movements as he crossed the room to shut and latch the door. “Oh, a secret rendezvous? I thought you were adamantly against this type of subterfuge,” she cooed, her interest piqued. “Go on, your Grace. You have my attention.”
It turned out, his concerns aligned perfectly with her own. And here she was so preoccupied with speeding things along! If she trusted more in the universe to provide the answers instead of forcing square pegs into circular holes, she would save herself so much aggravation.
“It looks like you and I are leading with the right foot forward, at last. I am in complete agreement. King Caris, in the roughest terms I can describe, fucked up.” Pushing off from the wall, Tivia relocated to a chair across from Safir and transferred to her telepathic communication to deter eavesdroppers–or Caris himself–from barging in and listening to their underhanded dealings. “Caris underestimated the essentiality of Prince and Princess Sorde, not just for their indispensable skillsets, but the unity they bring to Eyraille. As you said, Vega’s Skyknights are loyal to her, and the refugees living in Eyraille are loyal to Haraldur. With these two factions deprived of their leaders, it’s not far-reaching to assume dissolution will follow. The Skyknights will not operate at their best, and the refugees will resist relocation and assistance. Not to mention, Haraldur is in possession of a Forbanne army. Six hundred strong, thereabouts. Not an impressive number, but their formidable fighting prowess makes up for the lack, and their collective information on Mollengardian battle tactics will grant us a fighting chance.” She almost snorted at Safir’s mention that she’d turn around and give him away to Caris just to satisfy a vendetta.
“I’m amazed that you believe I’d be so petty. Granted, I haven’t given you much else to work with in your dealings with me so far, so that’s on me. Besides, I meant what I said, about being discreet. I’m not going to tell him anything–if you won’t,” She raised a brow at him. “Are you physically capable of keeping a secret? Well, I suppose you’re good at some secrets,” she mused, but refused to explain what she meant. “I’ll put you in contact with Haraldur. It’s easier for me to reach him than the alternative,” for reasons I will not disclose, she almost added. “Considering your complicated history with the former princess of Eyraille, you would have better luck appealing to him, anyway. Talk about someone who can hold a grudge,” she clutched her ribcage in guttural remembrance of the pummeling she received from the irate and scorned Skyknight commander, during what felt like two lifetimes ago. Some punches withstood the erosion of decades and distance–a testament and compliment to Vega Sorde’s legendary ferocity. “Let’s schedule to meet again tomorrow,” she rose from her chair and extended her arm to broker their “deal.” “I’ll give you what’s needed to speak with Haraldur and Vega–if he’s managed to smooth her down by then, that is.”
“Oh, I forgot to mention.” She dropped her arm and eyed the ceremonial sword Safir kept sheathed beside his desk. “You’ll be training me tomorrow. Look forward to it, your Grace.”
“I apologize for the misunderstanding. What I meant is that I must decline filling in as a diplomat for Eyraille. In any other avenue, I’m more than happy to help, especially if it involves developing a convenient and accessible means for travel from A to B,” Alster clarified, concerned that others would find him selfish for withholding assistance. “Please, I wasn’t trying to suggest wilful negligence on my part. Use me as a free resource, whatever you need, but I wouldn’t have the long-term availability or commitment to foster positive relations with Eyraille. As it is, I’m a poor representative; a former leader who fell from grace in a spectacular fashion. I’m technically not affiliated with Stella D’Mare, either. It’s better I utilize my strengths as an innovator, not an orator.”
“Well, I’m glad you said it and not me, lest I look the villain,” Ari opined, a half-moon smile of jest. “Lord Rigas, no one in this room would question your commitment and frankly unrealistic work ethic. I commend your realization not to stretch yourself too thin. The implementation of the portal mirrors, I imagine, will be no small feat to engineer, so it is best to direct your energies where they are most applicable. Of course, Nia, you needn’t ask twice,” he turned and presented her with a princely bow. “I know the finest glaziers in the settlement. And as you well know, a Canaveris never works with unrefined materials. Except…” he trailed off, frowning at her mention of Ilandria. But before he or anyone added their two cents to the logistical complexities of the distance-shortening magic mirrors, Vega found a foothold into the conversation, only to pivot it in a completely exaggerated direction. “Why, I thought the matter closed, Vega,” Ari said, almost taken aback by her rekindled flame. “Sylvie is acting as a diplomat. We’ve decided not to pursue political marriage based on your recommendation that your brother would reject it. Why belabor the point? Sylvie understands. We all understand.”
Even Sylvie, who exercised implacable self-restraint in front of the emotionally volatile ex-Skyknight, wobbled in front of her wounded aggression, resolve waning in the face of the unrelenting volley of her fire-tipped arrows. She dug her feet into the floor and launched a retort, raising her voice so Vega would hear it over the angry clomping of her retreat. “Vega, you are doing a fine job singly representing Eyraille according to the practicum which you’ve vehemently criticized. If we cannot have a civil discourse, then nothing I say will be a satisfactory answer to your inquiries. You’ve already written me off as deluded and I cannot help but extend a similar impression of you—as sorely, desperately in need of counseling.”
The heavy doors rang, recording the after echoes of heated last words by two people who would never see eye-to-eye. As Nia tried to salvage the situation by providing context to Sylvie and any others stunned in the wake of Vega’s violent flight, someone else ran for the exit.
“Excuse me,” Haraldur went after Vega, doors reopening and closing, but at a regulated, temperate volume, making up for earlier.
With the departure of the husband-wife duo and their rejection-happy stance, Sylvie allowed her defenses to lower. Shoulders slumped, she leaned into Ari and Nia’s supportive arms. “I did not handle myself too gracefully in the end,” she admitted, bowing her head in supplication. “For my untoward behavior, you have my sincerest apologies. I should not have humored her oppositional energies. She is obviously hurting and targeting me as an outlet to alleviate her suffering. I feel terribly for her, but I couldn’t condone how she treated me.”
“Consider yourself lucky.” Chara, who watched the proceedings in silence, shook her head, unimpressed by the dramatic tableau that frittered out before it began. “You should have seen what she did to Tivia.”
“Vega, what was that all about?” Haraldur easily caught up and grabbed her arm to slow her mad dash through the halls. Despite his question, there was no judgment or accusation in his tone. “I don’t like this, either. The girl is obviously lost, but she’s not our enemy. Picking a fight with a teenager isn’t going to change their mind. It will only make them more willful. Did I ever learn that the hard way,” he sighed, remembering his interactions with Breanne, Shayl, Teselin…and Caris.
“This is out of our hands. I hate that it is. I hate that we can’t do anything. That we have to stand by while other people try to fix a problem we’ve been banned from solving. We’re best equipped to address it, we’re the ones who care the most, and yet, we’re stuck here like useless flies on the wall and treated like our opinions don’t matter.” He breathed out noisily, trying to control his own rising frustration.
“The only consolation is that Sylvie won’t be acting alone. She’s supported by her uncle, Nia, and Alster. I don’t know how Tivia will take to her, but it doesn’t change the fact that she’ll have eyes watching her wherever she goes. Her protection is all but guaranteed. Perhaps,” he loosened his grip on Vega, his voice going quiet and contemplative, “she could even succeed in convincing Caris to let us help before it’s too late. What else can we do, Vega?” He pressed his forehead to hers and eased her in close by the waist. “If we force our way into Eyraille, that will send the wrong message and launch us into civil war. We have no choice but to let others take the lead first, in hopes they will ease our path forward.”
Haraldur was right. To an extent. Later that evening, he received another nebulous message from Tivia. He awoke the next morning to find a resonance stone on his side of the bed and a map with the kingdom of Ilandria circled several times in red ink.
“Your Majesty. To be quite frank, I would like nothing more than to not have to fight you again so soon.” How Caris was on his feet, brimming with energy and raring to go as early as the next day and spar again with the Prince of Blades was far beyond Safir’s comprehension. For all he claimed Tivia Rigas was not a healer, she had most certainly reverted Caris’ battered body back to peak form in a short amount of time. There wasn’t even a single trace of a scar, and the Eyraillian king was no worse for the wear in terms of his energy. In fact, he was still feeling the faint aches of the sparring match from the day before. But no one would have guessed, based on how straight his posture was as he sat at his desk. “Regardless of how good you’re feeling so shortly after our match yesterday, a few days’ rest is customary after training.”
“I know where I went wrong--I felt where I went wrong.” Caris pressed. It was clear he was positively itching to try again. The thought of experiencing more pain apparently wasn’t a deterrent. “I want to improve. And you don’t look any worse for the wear.”
“Respectfully, Caris, there are more important tasks at hand. Such as training your Skyknights.” Sarif hadn’t even realized that in his frustration, he’d sighed the Eyraillian King’s name, when neither of them had confirmed they were yet comfortable being on a first-name basis. Caris didn’t seem to react (or perhaps notice), though, so he let the fact slide. “Some of our master weapons smiths are in the process of designing a lighter version of a crossbow to wield atop the rocs. If your Skyknights agree, then--”
“Your Highness. Please excuse my interruption.” A shy attendant knocked on the door, bowing apologetically at the interruption. “Your father, His Majesty-”
Safir didn’t even let them finish. He was up and out of his seat so quickly, he hardly had time to murmur, “Please excuse me” to his Eyraillian guests before all but sprinting out of the room and dashing up the stairwells to his father’s room, his heart in his throat. Was this it? After years of mental and physical decline, had Ullir Vallaincourt finally reached the end of his fragile lifeline? That was what the Prince of Blades expected to find when at last he reached his father’s bedroom, Ullir was sitting upright on his own--for the first time in months--with a book in his lap. Safir’s law went slack in a mixture of relief and confusion. “Father…?”
“I keep trying to read… it’s difficult to make out the letters.” Ullir sighed, holding the closed book in his hands.”Is this the one? Your favourite as a boy? The one… I would read to you, until you were old enough to read it yourself.”
Dumbstruck, Safir crossed the room and took the book from his father’s hands. A compilation of Ilandrian fairytales and fables, full of adventure and virtuous morals for children, yet were no less intriguing to adults. At one point, Safir had memorized every single tale on the three-hundred pages. Today, he only remembered his favourites. “This is the one, yes…” Why? Why suddenly remember this now? Not only did Ullir seem to recall something from the past the Safir would have assumed was inconsequential for him, but he recognized his son at the age that he was at this point in time. On other occasions, Ullir forgot the passage of time, and assumed Safir was still a twelve-year-old boy. Where had this energy come from? This sudden clarity?
“Read it to me. Would you? Your favourites.” Ullir requested, lying back upon his pillows. “I used to remember them. I can’t, anymore. I’m sorry. That I don’t know your favourites…”
Who knew how long this lucidity would last? There was so much else Safir would’ve liked to talk about, in this moment that his father had enough of his mind to comprehend. To really fill him in on Eyraille, and the impending threat of Mollengard. To ask him if he regretted the massacre at the house of the Ardanes, and the horrors he had wreaked upon the population of Master Alchemists in Ilandria, particularly after so many of them had served the crown for years. To tell him… how much it had hurt him, when he’d lost his only friend as a result of that massacre. So much else he would rather say and do, knowing he might never have another chance, but… the old man wanted a story. Wasn’t concerned for the future he did not have, and simply wanted to relive a moment from the past that Safir hadn’t once realized was special to him. He didn’t have the heart to deny him.
“...of course. But, I have a lot of favourites.” The Prince of Blades took a seat on the side of his father’s bed. “I’ll read the shorter ones. And then, if you’re still interested, I’ll read more.”
“You weren’t kidding. So the man isn’t even dead, and we’re already having setbacks?” Caris sighed dramatically to Tivia in the courtyard of Ilandria’s lucious courtyard. Fortunately, no one was around to hear him speak so… liberally of their dying King. Safir had disappeared hours ago. It was almost evening, and not even a servant was able to tell them when they might next have an audience with the Ilandrian Prince. To Caris, it felt like a day wasted. “Call me shallow if you must. I can’t empathize; my father was a tyrant and a monster, and while I am nowhere near perfect, Eyraille is better off without him. Had he ever had a deathbed, and had I been old enough to hold a grudge, I’d have put him out of his misery sooner. And it isn’t as though Ullir Vallaincourt wasn’t problematic in his own right… Where was Ilandria’s strong sense of fair justice when he destroyed an entire population of his own people?” He was, of course, referring to the Master Alchemists. No one was unaware of that period in Ilandria’s history; it was curious, how the kingdom as a whole so seldom acknowledged it.
“At least he could have pointed us to his weapon’s smith. To look at the blueprint of the crossbow he has in mind.” The young king took a seat upon a stone bench, inscribed with old Ilandrian script. He folded his arms and looked to the sky, where the sun was close to setting. “What a waste of a day that we can’t afford to waste.”
“Apologies. I found myself suddenly more occupied with other matters today than I had anticipated, Your Majesty.” Not a moment later, the Prince of Ilandria found them there in his courtyard. If he’d caught wind of any of Caris’ complaining, he didn’t let on. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact he was in a far better mood than he’d been in when they’d last spoken that morning. “Dinner will be served within the hour. But, if either--or both--of you are still keen on experiencing pain, I think we can arrange a short spar beforehand. One on one,” he clarified, holding up a hand before there was any argument. “And Your Majesty first, if I may request. Miss Rigas can tend to your injuries before her turn, lest she find herself too incapacitated after the fact.” He raised an eyebrow, as Tivia had yet to confirm whether or not she could tend to her own wounds the same as she could tend to others. “Those are my conditions. Decide soon; the palace cook has held his position since before I was born, and he suffers no tardiness for the meals he prepares.”
As was typically a result of her outbursts, Vega did stew in regret as soon as she exited the doors of the council chamber. She didn’t resist when Haraldur grabbed her arm to break through the haze of red she was seeing. The fierce Sorde woman knew she was in the wrong, the way she’d talked to Sylvie in front of her uncle, who had been nothing but gracious and generous at her children;s birthday celebration. She had surely and single handedly burned bridges with the Canaverises in such a short amount of time… but, simultaneously, she meant everything she said. It was a ludicrous idea to send Sylvie Canaveris, of all people, to try and be a diplomat before her crass, bull-headed younger brother. And, she still hadn’t received her answer to her biggest question: why was this suddenly such a pressing concern for Sylvie? What drove her to want to be in Eyraille, smoothing over relations that she didn’t understand?
“I never thought I would hear myself say that I’d prefer Tivia Rigas’s involvement with my home,” she sighed, “than some bored, young girl who is so desperate to sever herself from her own younger brothers as their nanny, that she’d make it her mission to put up with mine. It doesn’t make any sense, Haraldur. Isn’t this why Tivia left for Eyraille in the first place? To keep an eye on things and slowly--methodically--get through to Caris? This is a horrible idea. The fact that Tivia is still in Eyraille, and hasn’t come running back home in defeat, makes me think that she’s making progress. Having Sylvie show up could unravel all her work and everything she’s gained, and ultimately, set us back when we are already pressed for time. How… how is everyone else on board with this!?”
But Haraldur was right: what else could they do? They couldn’t go to Eyraille, themselves. The chances of Sylvie convincing Caris of anything were not good, and Vega shared in her husband’s concerns for creating and placing portal mirrors in a kingdom at risk of invasion. “How can we trust in others to take the lead when they don’t even know what their path is, or where it will lead?” She sighed, but really had nothing more to say on the matter. It was out of their hands, clearly, and their opinions were outnumbered. Never had Vega considered she would ever have so little say in plans involving her own home… but, perhaps this was how the universe chose to punish her for perceivably turning her back on Eyraille, in favour of pursuing the dream of her own family.
“Not bad… not bad at all. You can most definitely fit a person through this mirror. Two at the same time, if they’re both average weight.” Nia ran her hands over the gilded frame of the massive mirror that had been delivered to Ari’s study. It stood about seven feet tall and more than two-adults wide, very much giving it the appearance of a doorframe… which, while that would be its intended purpose, it definitely compromised the object as a method of clandestine escape, or for funneling in more help, should it need to be used as such. Fortunately, this particular mirror would remain in Galeyn for the time being. Those constructed in Eyraille, and possibly Ilandria, would simply have to be a little less obvious. “And… there’s definitely no denying you put time and love into the detail of this frame.”
“Of course! The majority of this project was the customized frame. I wouldn’t dare deliver anything less to Lord Canaveris.” The mirror’s crafter insisted, seemingly pleased that Nia had taken note of the delicate roses and cherry blossoms of rosegold and touches of silver that outlined the reflective glass. “Please let me know if there’s any other way I can be of service.”
Nia was careful not to let her smile drop until the glazier respectfully took his leave of the office and the villa. The Master Alchemist sighed and shook her head. “Oh--no, the mirror’s fine. There’s no reason it shouldn’t be a perfect amplifier for the spell I’ll get Alster to cast on it.” She said to Ari, noting his look of concern at her heavy sigh. “It’s just that… well, obviously it’s gorgeous, and I could see he was playing to your aesthetic, but anywhere outside of this villa, it will probably stick out like a sore thumb. And, if I’m being honest… I’d have preferred he keep it a little more plain, if it meant he could get it to us sooner. It’s been four days; I’m going to need two alone, if I’m lucky, and then one with Alster. But, the important thing is, we have what we need. Or one half of it, at least. Here’s hoping the crafters in Eyraille as just as meticulous!”
Taking a step back to admire the mirror (which was for all intents and purposes a piece of art), the Master Alchemist gave it one last nod of approval. “Well, I’ll need a couple of days with this, before I hand it over to Alster. I’m gonna be pretty out of it by the end of the process, so… you’ll keep an eye on Sylvie, right?” Nia looked toward the door, beyond which was the hallway leading to Ari’s niece’s room. She had been leaving her room more than she had in the past week… but only insofar is she showed up for meals, made congenial and polite conversation, and then leave again. She still spent the majority of time in her room, to the point where Nico saw their younger siblings more than she did. Ari had no idea, but Nia suspected it had to do with her curse: she’d never tell Ari, for fear that he would rush to save her at the expense of his own well-being.
Since it would be her last opportunity before working on that mirror consumed no less than two days of her existence, Nia left Ari to instruct staff where to carefully move the mirror and knocked on Sylvie’s door. To her credit, the young Canaveris girl answered this time, and let her in without hesitation. “Hey, hon. Just thought I’d let you know the mirror is finished; I’m gonna have to spend a few days working on it, but it looks like everything is good to go. Eyraille’s borders are currently closed, but we’re reaching out as a known ally, so I think they’ll at least hear us out. How have you been holding up?” There were layers to that question. Knowing what she did now of Sylvie’s affliction, worry constantly nagged at the back of her mind, just like it had when Ari’s health hung in the balance, a hostage of his curse. But beyond that, it had been impossible not to see how she was so burned by Vega Sorde’s reaction. Anyone vaguely familiar with the fierce Eyraillian woman knew better than to fight fire with fire, but Sylvie’s knee-jerk reaction had been to defend herself, at which point Vega only came down on her harder. But left unresolved… Well, if the young Canaveris girl did manager to broker a diplomatic relationship with Eyraille (or, particularly, with Caris Sorde), then letting things lie as they had settled in the wake of Vega’s fury wasn’t the way to go.
“Listen: Vega wasn’t in the right, saying to you what she did. Honestly, I doubt she meant… all of it. But, if you’re gonna be dealing with her brother, it might be worth considering trying to make amends.” At Sylvie’s somewhat horrified expression (understandably, nothing would make her happier than to never have to deal with the Skyknight again), Nia put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I think being the blogger person is the way into her good graces, and if you do manage to broker favourable relations with Eyraille and Vega’s brother… It’s just going to be easier for you in the long run. I’m sure Alster or Elespeth would accompany you if you need moral support. I’d be there for you myself, but for the next couple of days… I’ve unfortunately got a very tenacious date with an overly decorated mirror.”
In most cases, Tivia possessed a contradictory amount of patience and impatience, as different in temperance as the two halves of her face; one smooth and attractive, the other gnarled and hideous. Like Caris, she could hardly stand still without writhing her hands or kicking stones out of her path. Unlike Caris, she had the sense not to complain. It helped to be cosmically aware of the imminent end the stars had determined for certain figures and events; otherwise, she’d exist as nothing more than a hemming and hawing slattern, living day-to-day pining after the next man who crossed her path and dropped a kind word. To that end, the stars had assigned her a greater purpose beyond kindling for a sacrificial bonfire, or a sacrificial bedside. It didn’t make her grateful for her celestial gifts, but at the very least, she wasn’t bitter.
…Well, she was a little bitter.
“I’m afraid so.” She validated Caris’ annoyances with a companionable sigh, although hers sounded—she imagined—more resigned than frustrated. She picked a leaf off a holly bush and twirled it between her fingers. “Looks like the disruptions are beginning earlier than I anticipated.” She glanced up from her leaf in time to catch his latest batch of lip flaps, intrigued by his self-awareness. If he knew his setbacks, there was hope for him yet. “I can’t empathize, either. My father was an unscrupulous bastard who thought himself a god among men. I’m glad I had the chance to kill him myself.” She plucked the sharp points off the spiny leaves, undeterred with how her indifferent pronouncement of patricide might sound to certain ears. She long determined that Caris did not count under people who balked or scandalized easily.
“Justice is at the whim of the law-maker,” Tivia said, not quite sure if she spoke the phrase aloud or in her head. It didn’t matter, because Safir finally waltzed into the courtyard, a revived jaunt in his step. She could determine only one reason for the Ilandrian Prince’s sudden shift in mood. You believe your father is recovering. Were she feeling indulgent, she would ask after the king’s health and affix Safir a pitying stare at the response. Instead, she stretched out her arms, cracked her knuckles, and cricked her neck from side to side.
“By all means, lead the way to our inevitable ass-kicking,” Tivia dropped the leaf and ushered Safir forward.
In terms of what Caris learned from last time, be overestimated how he would correct his problem. While he did approach the Prince of Blades with an adjusted stance and fought with deliberate stepping, contentious of his next moves, his careful strategy lasted about a minute before he reverted to his old ways of rushing the opponent with reckless attacks. Whether from force of habit or muscle memory, whatever Caris had intended to correct fell back into sloppy formations. His overreliance on speed to fluster Safir landed him, again, on his knees and disarmed, sword scattered behind him. Despite the similar result from yesterday, Caris lasted one minute longer and managed to evade several attacks that, if struck, would have left grievous injuries across his back and torso. While the Eyraillian king sported injuries, they were not nearly as debilitating as the ones preceding them, such that a quick retreat into Caris’ chambers took care of the wounds with time to spare for Safir’s promised—rather, extorted—duel with Tivia.
She approached him on the field, donned in a layer of light chainmail, leather bracers, and grieves. She attached a buckler to her off hand, and withdrew a mid-length spear from behind her back.
“I would be insane to challenge you with a sword. I’d rather play to my strengths,” she raised the spear, angling it above her shoulder and adjusting her stance to match. She slid one foot forward, circling him in measured steps. “Don’t you dare go easy on me because I’m deaf and have no depth perception,” she challenged as she remained on the defensive, outer loop of the imaginary circle she created with her feet. “I can feel where you are just fine.”
Considering her limitations and the fact that she was using a real weapon and not a fabricated one spun from etherea, Tivia held her own remarkably well. Sensitivity to her surroundings—the subtle changes in air pressure before an attack, the sense of her opponent’s nearness, even as he lingered in her blind left side, the vibration of his footfalls—calibrated her in space, allowing her to evade his most damaging attacks. The spear’s range granted her a tactical advantage, avoiding the expert thrusts and sideswipes of the sword. Unfortunately, she was unused to its bulk over the weightlessness of a magical weapon construct, and before long, fatigue set in, leaving her open for attack. Too slow to swerve aside or meer the assault head-on with the haft of the spear, she took the blow full-force to her side and crumbled to the ground, weapon flying out of her hands. Although the chainmail caught the brunt of the attack, the sword buried into an area not protected by armor and carved into a chunk of flesh just above the hip bone.
On the ground, she hissed and sucked in deep breaths among her harried panting, but they failed to self-regulate against the shooting pain. Damn, he really did know how to hit where it hurt!
After a minute, she finally got her breathing under enough control to sit up, though heavily leaning left, toward the uninjured side of her body. “Help me up,” she growled at Safir, who did so. “I’ll be able to…heal from this. Just need to get to my room so I can…curse your name out loud without any legal consequences. Go on. Tell me what I did wrong. Let’s see if we’re on the same page.” She chuckled weakly, but winced from the jerking movement of her stomach. Amidst his exchange of arms and exchange of words, she covertly slipped something into his pocket. A small, round stone wrapped in paper with written instructions on how to use its magical, resonant properties.
“I don’t know, Papa, what if this plan does not come to fruition?” Sylvie loitered on her bed, speaking into her ring while buffeted on both sides by pillows, in case she received a visitor—Nia, most likely-/who didn’t believe in closed doors. “The meeting was a disaster! I am fairly certain Vega Sorde wishes me dead, and the reception I received overall was tepid. I don’t have a strong enough case. Uncle Ari and Miss Nia are supportive, but hesitant, and the others are going along like they’re having their teeth pulled. I don’t know how else I can convince others that I have the best of intentions.”
“I told you, briolette; this is too much for you.” Sylvie could almost hear her father tsk tsking on the other end. “Your best option, without formally withdrawing your request, is electing for a bit of honesty. As much as you can give, without spoiling the truth. There are some things we must keep to ourselves until the time for revelation is here, but if it will serve our cause to be transparent, then I have a suggestion for you.”
Nia arrived at Sylvie’s door, thankfully after she had completed her nightly session with her father. With a welcoming flourish, she gestured the Master Alchemist inside and pulled up a chair for her to sit. She nodded along to Nia’s report on the portal mirrors, keeping her expression neutral as she didn’t yet have an opinion on how they might benefit her and Casimiro’s cause. “That is excellent news. Surely, if you keep the mirror within the bounds of this villa, no one will suspect its ‘other’ property. Conversely, there is always the undercity. It’s an extensive underground space, with many empty chambers and dead-end tunnels. No one will give it any notice there. Anyway, I have been well. A little tired, but nothing detrimental to our estimated departure date. In fact—“
She paused, blanching, when Nia mentioned Vega and their unpleasant encounter at the meeting. Her brows furrowed at the suggestion. “You mean for me to…approach her, unsolicited, and,” she breathed out an even stream, “reconcile our differences, somehow?” She about laughed away the notion, writing it off as preposterous—not to mention, patently uncomfortable—but remnants of her last conversation with her father floated in her head. Be honest.
She sat back in her chair opposite Nia, lips pursing in contemplation. If she approached Vega, transparent, penitent, and most important, diplomatic, then the ex-Skyknight princess would view her sincerity first-hand, and might be pacified by the display. No one believed her ability to woo with words and punchy rhetoric, but if she could feed just one indigent soul, others would have to admit her usefulness as Stella D’Mare’s representative.
“Consider it done.” She rose from her chair, passing Nia a determined smile. “I do believe I can do this on my own. Vega will think less of my approach if I am surrounded by supporters. I shall head to the palace as soon as possible. Thank you for the suggestion, Nia. And do pace yourself with the mirror, yes?” She squeezed the other woman’s shoulder en route to her wardrobe. “I worry for you, too, even if I do not show it in the most graceful of ways.”
It had been a few days since he spoke to Vega about what he found at his bedside the morning after their meeting with Sylvie Canaveris. Taking care in his approach on the subject, he’d waited until later that evening, after his shift with the Forbanne and following the twins’ scheduled bedtime. She was calmer, then, better able to digest the unlikely premise he was about to broach.
“This morning, I received this.” He placed the red-inked map and the resonance stone on the table they shared in their suite’s dining area, sliding them over to her. “Out of nowhere. I don’t know how it got there or who it’s from, but I can take a guess. Tivia Rigas.” He pointed to the small note scrawled beneath the circled lines highlighting Ilandria’s place on the map. “What does this say?”
Vega obliged and read the message aloud. Wait until you’re contacted.
“What do you think this means?” His voice climbed no louder than a whisper, not only conscientious of their sleeping children in the next room, but of any spies listening in from the walls. “It can’t be that the prince of Ilandria wants to speak with us. And why Ilandria? Did Tivia strike a deal with them? Has their relationship with Eyraille recently changed?”
“What do you think? You’ve had dealings with this prince before. In…not by choice,” he sighed, choosing to address a history she wouldn’t be so keen to hear or discuss. “Is he worth hearing out? I’ll take your lead on this. Though, at the very least, maybe we can finally learn what the hell is going on over there.”
But that was three days ago. Haraldur carried the stone wherever he went, but felt no vibrations alerting him to a call. He was beginning to think it was an elaborate prank. Or maybe the kingdom of blades simply changed its mind about involving the exiled Eyrallians in whatever scheme it was concocting.
Evening rolled around and the warrior couple were relaxing at the same table as before, winding down before bedtime, when they received not a buzz from the stone, but a knock on the door. They looked at each other questioningly, as it was not a time they typically expected visitors. When Haraldur opened the door, Sylvie was standing meekly on the other side of the threshold.
“Commander.” She dipped her head, contrite. “Is this a bad time? I had hoped to have a quick word with your wife. I feel a lot has been said, and not all of it positive. I…would just like a moment to explain myself so I am understood.” She gestured behind him. “May I? I know you have little ones inside, so if here is not the best place to conduct business, please direct me to where we can.”
They decided to hear Sylvie out, Haraldur and Vega both, but as they seldom brought outside matters into their home, elected for the empty council chambers to talk. They gathered in a sound-muffled corner, pulling up chairs, and allowed Sylvie the first word.
She sat on the hardwood chair, shifting a few times to find maximum comfort, but to no avail. Even if it were beset with cushions stuffed with the finest eiderdown, she would not manage to locate its sweet spot. She brushed her damp palms across the hem of her purple gown, and looked towards Vega. Not directly at her, lest she lose her nerve glimpsing those roc-fierce eyes, but at an imaginary point past her head.
“I fear our tempers got the best of us the other day. For that, you have my apologies. I have been taught better than to sling insults. If I hold any aspirations at all for diplomacy, then it behooves me to take better care of what I say.”
“Which leads me to my first point. You are correct, Sir Vega. I am no diplomat. In fact, I never wanted to be one. I still don’t.” Is this going too far, papa? She gripped the hem of her gown. “I crave adventure. Exploration outside the four walls of my cramped villa. Yes, I am spoiled, and have known little strife. But I am of the age where I must make a name for myself or I will be consigned to become someone’s wife. It is inevitable, as per Canaveris tradition. We must marry. Now, I can either remain within the settlement and rue my noblewoman’s role in society, or I can take myself elsewhere and do more with my upbringing. Be more. Help an ailing kingdom on the brink of destruction. You must understand that my home was similarly taken by Mollengard. Why doubt my eagerness to assist, then? Because my reasons aren’t enough and so I am not enough?”
She loosened the claws of her fingers, staring down at her lap, at her glowing pink ring. “I love my family very much, Sir Vega. I would do anything for them. This is what I’ve chosen to do for them. No, they never asked me to place myself in such danger, risking it all for a foreign nation, but these are the steps I have to take…to make certain they are safe. Surely, you would do the same for your family, too?” The mist of tears fluttered her eyelashes. The itch compelled her to rub one knuckle at the corners. “It is as your husband always says,” she nodded at Haraldur, who stood like a silent sentinel against the wall. “If Mollengard succeeds, we all lose. Who is to say they will not come for Galeyn? Come again for all the misplaced D’Marians who will once more need to flee their homes? I want to do my part, Sir Vega. I don’t want to become a passive observer, a victim of circumstance, when I can take charge and make a difference where I can. And I sincerely believe I can make a difference for your brother. For your sake—and his—I will forgo any aspirations to marry him unless it is something he wants. Either way, I will have to marry. However, I am with you, in that I would ideally like to marry for love.” She smiled warmly at Vega and Haraldur. “As you both have. And what a lovely family you are raising together. I pray for their health and happiness. I hope one day you will reunite with your extended family, too. With his Majesty, your brother. It is not a complete picture otherwise, wouldn’t you agree? Just as I am—as I will be— incomplete,” she pressed her heels together, “without my whole family, too.”
In most cases, Tivia possessed a contradictory amount of patience and impatience, as different in temperance as the two halves of her face; one smooth and attractive, the other gnarled and hideous. Like Caris, she could hardly stand still without writhing her hands or kicking stones out of her path. Unlike Caris, she had the sense not to complain. It helped to be cosmically aware of the imminent end the stars had determined for certain figures and events; otherwise, she’d exist as nothing more than a hemming and hawing slattern, living day-to-day pining after the next man who crossed her path and dropped a kind word. To that end, the stars had assigned her a greater purpose beyond kindling for a sacrificial bonfire, or a sacrificial bedside. It didn’t make her grateful for her celestial gifts, but at the very least, she wasn’t bitter.
…Well, she was a little bitter.
“I’m afraid so.” She validated Caris’ annoyances with a companionable sigh, although hers sounded—she imagined—more resigned than frustrated. She picked a leaf off a holly bush and twirled it between her fingers. “Looks like the disruptions are beginning earlier than I anticipated.” She glanced up from her leaf in time to catch his latest batch of lip flaps, intrigued by his self-awareness. If he knew his setbacks, there was hope for him yet. “I can’t empathize, either. My father was an unscrupulous bastard who thought himself a god among men. I’m glad I had the chance to kill him myself.” She plucked the sharp points off the spiny leaves, undeterred with how her indifferent pronouncement of patricide might sound to certain ears. She long determined that Caris did not count under people who balked or scandalized easily.
“Justice is at the whim of the law-maker,” Tivia said, not quite sure if she spoke the phrase aloud or in her head. It didn’t matter, because Safir finally waltzed into the courtyard, a revived jaunt in his step. She could determine only one reason for the Ilandrian Prince’s sudden shift in mood. You believe your father is recovering. Were she feeling indulgent, she would ask after the king’s health and affix Safir a pitying stare at the response. Instead, she stretched out her arms, cracked her knuckles, and cricked her neck from side to side.
“By all means, lead the way to our inevitable ass-kicking,” Tivia dropped the leaf and ushered Safir forward.
In terms of what Caris learned from last time, be overestimated how he would correct his problem. While he did approach the Prince of Blades with an adjusted stance and fought with deliberate stepping, contentious of his next moves, his careful strategy lasted about a minute before he reverted to his old ways of rushing the opponent with reckless attacks. Whether from force of habit or muscle memory, whatever Caris had intended to correct fell back into sloppy formations. His overreliance on speed to fluster Safir landed him, again, on his knees and disarmed, sword scattered behind him. Despite the similar result from yesterday, Caris lasted one minute longer and managed to evade several attacks that, if struck, would have left grievous injuries across his back and torso. While the Eyraillian king sported injuries, they were not nearly as debilitating as the ones preceding them, such that a quick retreat into Caris’ chambers took care of the wounds with time to spare for Safir’s promised—rather, extorted—duel with Tivia.
She approached him on the field, donned in a layer of light chainmail, leather bracers, and grieves. She attached a buckler to her off hand, and withdrew a mid-length spear from behind her back.
“I would be insane to challenge you with a sword. I’d rather play to my strengths,” she raised the spear, angling it above her shoulder and adjusting her stance to match. She slid one foot forward, circling him in measured steps. “Don’t you dare go easy on me because I’m deaf and have no depth perception,” she challenged as she remained on the defensive, outer loop of the imaginary circle she created with her feet. “I can feel where you are just fine.”
Considering her limitations and the fact that she was using a real weapon and not a fabricated one spun from etherea, Tivia held her own remarkably well. Sensitivity to her surroundings—the subtle changes in air pressure before an attack, the sense of her opponent’s nearness, even as he lingered in her blind left side, the vibration of his footfalls—calibrated her in space, allowing her to evade his most damaging attacks. The spear’s range granted her a tactical advantage, avoiding the expert thrusts and sideswipes of the sword. Unfortunately, she was unused to its bulk over the weightlessness of a magical weapon construct, and before long, fatigue set in, leaving her open for attack. Too slow to swerve aside or meer the assault head-on with the haft of the spear, she took the blow full-force to her side and crumbled to the ground, weapon flying out of her hands. Although the chainmail caught the brunt of the attack, the sword buried into an area not protected by armor and carved into a chunk of flesh just above the hip bone.
On the ground, she hissed and sucked in deep breaths among her harried panting, but they failed to self-regulate against the shooting pain. Damn, he really did know how to hit where it hurt!
After a minute, she finally got her breathing under enough control to sit up, though heavily leaning left, toward the uninjured side of her body. “Help me up,” she growled at Safir, who did so. “I’ll be able to…heal from this. Just need to get to my room so I can…curse your name out loud without any legal consequences. Go on. Tell me what I did wrong. Let’s see if we’re on the same page.” She chuckled weakly, but winced from the jerking movement of her stomach. Amidst his exchange of arms and exchange of words, she covertly slipped something into his pocket. A small, round stone wrapped in paper with written instructions on how to use its magical, resonant properties.
“I don’t know, Papa, what if this plan does not come to fruition?” Sylvie loitered on her bed, speaking into her ring while buffeted on both sides by pillows, in case she received a visitor—Nia, most likely-/who didn’t believe in closed doors. “The meeting was a disaster! I am fairly certain Vega Sorde wishes me dead, and the reception I received overall was tepid. I don’t have a strong enough case. Uncle Ari and Miss Nia are supportive, but hesitant, and the others are going along like they’re having their teeth pulled. I don’t know how else I can convince others that I have the best of intentions.”
“I told you, briolette; this is too much for you.” Sylvie could almost hear her father tsk tsking on the other end. “Your best option, without formally withdrawing your request, is electing for a bit of honesty. As much as you can give, without spoiling the truth. There are some things we must keep to ourselves until the time for revelation is here, but if it will serve our cause to be transparent, then I have a suggestion for you.”
Nia arrived at Sylvie’s door, thankfully after she had completed her nightly session with her father. With a welcoming flourish, she gestured the Master Alchemist inside and pulled up a chair for her to sit. She nodded along to Nia’s report on the portal mirrors, keeping her expression neutral as she didn’t yet have an opinion on how they might benefit her and Casimiro’s cause. “That is excellent news. Surely, if you keep the mirror within the bounds of this villa, no one will suspect its ‘other’ property. Conversely, there is always the undercity. It’s an extensive underground space, with many empty chambers and dead-end tunnels. No one will give it any notice there. Anyway, I have been well. A little tired, but nothing detrimental to our estimated departure date. In fact—“
She paused, blanching, when Nia mentioned Vega and their unpleasant encounter at the meeting. Her brows furrowed at the suggestion. “You mean for me to…approach her, unsolicited, and,” she breathed out an even stream, “reconcile our differences, somehow?” She about laughed away the notion, writing it off as preposterous—not to mention, patently uncomfortable—but remnants of her last conversation with her father floated in her head. Be honest.
She sat back in her chair opposite Nia, lips pursing in contemplation. If she approached Vega, transparent, penitent, and most important, diplomatic, then the ex-Skyknight princess would view her sincerity first-hand, and might be pacified by the display. No one believed her ability to woo with words and punchy rhetoric, but if she could feed just one indigent soul, others would have to admit her usefulness as Stella D’Mare’s representative.
“Consider it done.” She rose from her chair, passing Nia a determined smile. “I do believe I can do this on my own. Vega will think less of my approach if I am surrounded by supporters. I shall head to the palace as soon as possible. Thank you for the suggestion, Nia. And do pace yourself with the mirror, yes?” She squeezed the other woman’s shoulder en route to her wardrobe. “I worry for you, too, even if I do not show it in the most graceful of ways.”
It had been a few days since he spoke to Vega about what he found at his bedside the morning after their meeting with Sylvie Canaveris. Taking care in his approach on the subject, he’d waited until later that evening, after his shift with the Forbanne and following the twins’ scheduled bedtime. She was calmer, then, better able to digest the unlikely premise he was about to broach.
“This morning, I received this.” He placed the red-inked map and the resonance stone on the table they shared in their suite’s dining area, sliding them over to her. “Out of nowhere. I don’t know how it got there or who it’s from, but I can take a guess. Tivia Rigas.” He pointed to the small note scrawled beneath the circled lines highlighting Ilandria’s place on the map. “What does this say?”
Vega obliged and read the message aloud. Wait until you’re contacted.
“What do you think this means?” His voice climbed no louder than a whisper, not only conscientious of their sleeping children in the next room, but of any spies listening in from the walls. “It can’t be that the prince of Ilandria wants to speak with us. And why Ilandria? Did Tivia strike a deal with them? Has their relationship with Eyraille recently changed?”
“What do you think? You’ve had dealings with this prince before. In…not by choice,” he sighed, choosing to address a history she wouldn’t be so keen to hear or discuss. “Is he worth hearing out? I’ll take your lead on this. Though, at the very least, maybe we can finally learn what the hell is going on over there.”
But that was three days ago. Haraldur carried the stone wherever he went, but felt no vibrations alerting him to a call. He was beginning to think it was an elaborate prank. Or maybe the kingdom of blades simply changed its mind about involving the exiled Eyrallians in whatever scheme it was concocting.
Evening rolled around and the warrior couple were relaxing at the same table as before, winding down before bedtime, when they received not a buzz from the stone, but a knock on the door. They looked at each other questioningly, as it was not a time they typically expected visitors. When Haraldur opened the door, Sylvie was standing meekly on the other side of the threshold.
“Commander.” She dipped her head, contrite. “Is this a bad time? I had hoped to have a quick word with your wife. I feel a lot has been said, and not all of it positive. I…would just like a moment to explain myself so I am understood.” She gestured behind him. “May I? I know you have little ones inside, so if here is not the best place to conduct business, please direct me to where we can.”
They decided to hear Sylvie out, Haraldur and Vega both, but as they seldom brought outside matters into their home, elected for the empty council chambers to talk. They gathered in a sound-muffled corner, pulling up chairs, and allowed Sylvie the first word.
She sat on the hardwood chair, shifting a few times to find maximum comfort, but to no avail. Even if it were beset with cushions stuffed with the finest eiderdown, she would not manage to locate its sweet spot. She brushed her damp palms across the hem of her purple gown, and looked towards Vega. Not directly at her, lest she lose her nerve glimpsing those roc-fierce eyes, but at an imaginary point past her head.
“I fear our tempers got the best of us the other day. For that, you have my apologies. I have been taught better than to sling insults. If I hold any aspirations at all for diplomacy, then it behooves me to take better care of what I say.”
“Which leads me to my first point. You are correct, Sir Vega. I am no diplomat. In fact, I never wanted to be one. I still don’t.” Is this going too far, papa? She gripped the hem of her gown. “I crave adventure. Exploration outside the four walls of my cramped villa. Yes, I am spoiled, and have known little strife. But I am of the age where I must make a name for myself or I will be consigned to become someone’s wife. It is inevitable, as per Canaveris tradition. We must marry. Now, I can either remain within the settlement and rue my noblewoman’s role in society, or I can take myself elsewhere and do more with my upbringing. Be more. Help an ailing kingdom on the brink of destruction. You must understand that my home was similarly taken by Mollengard. Why doubt my eagerness to assist, then? Because my reasons aren’t enough and so I am not enough?”
She loosened the claws of her fingers, staring down at her lap, at her glowing pink ring. “I love my family very much, Sir Vega. I would do anything for them. This is what I’ve chosen to do for them. No, they never asked me to place myself in such danger, risking it all for a foreign nation, but these are the steps I have to take…to make certain they are safe. Surely, you would do the same for your family, too?” The mist of tears fluttered her eyelashes. The itch compelled her to rub one knuckle at the corners. “It is as your husband always says,” she nodded at Haraldur, who stood like a silent sentinel against the wall. “If Mollengard succeeds, we all lose. Who is to say they will not come for Galeyn? Come again for all the misplaced D’Marians who will once more need to flee their homes? I want to do my part, Sir Vega. I don’t want to become a passive observer, a victim of circumstance, when I can take charge and make a difference where I can. And I sincerely believe I can make a difference for your brother. For your sake—and his—I will forgo any aspirations to marry him unless it is something he wants. Either way, I will have to marry. However, I am with you, in that I would ideally like to marry for love.” She smiled warmly at Vega and Haraldur. “As you both have. And what a lovely family you are raising together. I pray for their health and happiness. I hope one day you will reunite with your extended family, too. With his Majesty, your brother. It is not a complete picture otherwise, wouldn’t you agree? Just as I am—as I will be— incomplete,” she pressed her heels together, “without my whole family, too.”
Certainly, Safir took note of the improvement in the Eyraillian king’s stance. It was evidence enough that Caris had listened and learned, and put what he had learned into practice… to an extent. But even the best of students couldn’t improve so significantly in a single day, and in the end, the Prince of Blades still found it far too easy to exploit the younger man’s weaknesses. Safir predicted this match wouldn’t last too long, and he wasn’t wrong; Caris fell almost as quickly as head the first time. Almost, but not without nicking the Ilandrian prince a few times. Superficial cuts, at the very worst, and nothing compared to the pain his challenger suffered. As much as Caris had a surprisingly practiced stone-face in repressing his reactions to pain, the very fact he couldn’t rise without assistance, nor reach his sword (which had gone flying several feet away) signaled an end to this fight.
“Not bad, Your Majesty. But there’s still room for improvement.” Safir said evenly as he helped the injured king to his feet, and transferred him into Tivia’s care. “Your speed is commendable. But speed is only an advance when you use it tactically. If you only aim to throw off your opponent, they will learn your movement very quickly, and you will no longer have the advantage. I would like to see you use a wider variety of techniques, in the future; we will work on that.”
“Tomorrow, then?” Caris rasped, somehow managing to smile through the pain and light-headedness of his lacerations, bumps, and bruises. Nothing upset his obstinacy, it seemed.
Safir didn’t return his smile. “Even if you don’t think you need rest, I most certainly do. In fact, it might do you well to sit in and observe some of our own soldiers who have trained the same way I did. After all, there is no sense in learning combat techniques if you lack understanding in how they are best utilized.”
It was immediately clear that that idea did not appeal to the Eyraillian King, in the way his smile faded and the disapproving furrow of his brow. But he made no argument (perhaps he simply couldn’t) and said nothing further as Tivia escorted him away to tend his injuries. Safir wasn’t convinced that Tivia would be back for her turn; not if it required a good deal of energy on her part to heal him. But he refrained from changing out of his leathers and layers of protection, just in case. Safir waited the better part of a half hour, just cresting thirty minutes, at which point he was almost ready to call it a day… when Tivia Rigas stepped onto the training field again, in battle-ready gear and carrying a spear.
“You are welcome to wield a spear. Or a dagger, a battle axe, or whatever it is you fancy. I’ve trained to use them all; although, a sword has always been my preference.” Safir said, equal parts surprised and impressed that this woman, with her own disadvantages--nevermind her skills in magic--was so ready to take him on, after witnessing on more than one occasion the state in which he had left her king. Or… whatever Caris Sorde was to her. Tivia Rigas’s involvement with Eyraille and its young ruler still perplexed him, but Tivia’s business was her own. “Would you prefer I match your weapon? I’m more than happy to accommodate.”
However, Tivia seemed almost insulted that he’d offer to change his preferred weapon, and he had a feeling she interpreted ‘accommodate’ as being synonymous with ‘going easy’ on her. “I just sent the King of Eyraille sprawling on the ground and bleeding, two days in a row.” Safir commented and raised a pale eyebrow. “What makes you think I’m going to go easy on you? You should know better.”
All anyone had to do was ask, and he was happy to deliver. Tivia had once described herself as a war mage, and there wasn’t a shadow of a doubt that she had seen and participated in real battle. Her scars were proof enough, but her movements and stance were not that of a novice’s. She’d fought, and had probably even killed, though he couldn’t help but notice there was something strange in the way she held her weapon. Almost like it was too heavy for her, and she wasn’t used to the weight.
Not unlike Caris, it wasn’t difficult and it didn't take long for Safir to read into her weaknesses and exploit them to put this match to an end. To her credit, he worked up something of a sweat, and had his own minor nicks to show for this second fight, by the time it came to an end. Tivia lasted longer than he’d thought she would, but ultimately, the Prince of Blades remained undefeated. “There are no legal consequences to words on the training grounds, Miss Rigas. Say whatever you must that will bring you relief.” The Prince of Blades cleaned his weapon briefly with the corner of his tunic, sheathed it, then knelt to help the star seer off the ground. “I’m happy to tell you your shortcomings, but wouldn’t you prefer to discuss it after you’re fit to stand on your own feet again?”
What was good for Caris, apparently, was good enough for Tivia, and she didn’t have the patience to wait. So, upon her request, Safir was more than happy to not hold back.
“When was the last time you held a solid, steel weapon, Miss Rigas? It’s more than clear to me that you’ve experienced battle and understand the stakes. But as a mage, I wonder if you have relied more on your magic than combat with tangible weapons.” He paused, then added, “And that isn’t a judgment--merely an observation. However, if, as you say, Mollengard employs their magic-resistant Forbanne soldiers, then becoming accustomed to the weight of steel could well save your life.”
Safir meant everything that he said, but it didn’t satisfy Tivia. These were things of which she was already well aware: she wanted to know what he saw that she hadn’t considered. The Prince of Blades hesitated as he helped her up the spiral staircase frequented by the serving staff, searching for the right words. “You and His Majesty have the same weakness, and it’s one that is all too easy for enemies to pick up and exploit. You harbour unchecked anger and rage, and should it be left unresolved, it will continue to seize control of you in battle. Whether you’re aware of it or not.”
It wasn’t what Tivia was expecting to hear: fair enough. It also wasn’t a conversation that Safir had thought he’d be having, either, but she had asked, and sought honesty. He was nothing if not honest, so he went on. “I don’t know your or the King do Eyraille well enough to understand the source; I think you both already know, and that’s all that matters, because only you can resolve it. For Caris, it manifests beyond his fighting, but in terms of his swordsmanship… He is very easily derailed. When he must change stance and adapt, it isn't to defend, or for tactical purposes that will earn him a victory in the long run. He is reactive: and while it might benefit him in the moment, or gain him a temporary advantage, he had no foresight to how the battle will end. And even if he tries to envision it, he doesn’t pay enough attention to his enemy to anticipate what their endgame is. If you’re wondering why I haven’t detailed any of this with His Majesty… well, let’s be honest. King Caris Sorde isn’t exactly receptive to perceivably ‘nebulous’ explanations, is he?”
The corner of Safir’s mouth turned upward as they crested the last step of the spiral staircase. “If he wants to train with me, I will have to get through to him in a different way. But you… I think you can benefit from deeper observations. I don’t know your history, Miss Rigas, but I am familiar with the Rigases, and I do understand your longevity far exceeds that of an ordinary human. You don’t appear any older than I am, but I don’t doubt you’ve seen and experienced more in your lifetime than I have in mine. A longer life means more opportunities for happiness… but also for pain.”
If Tivia feared or despised pity, then she’d be relieved to find she’d have none of that with Safir Vallaincourt. His observations and assumptions were entirely objective, acknowledging that there might yet be a good deal in the Rigas woman’s past that she had yet to reconcile, and some things about which she might even be in denial. But he didn’t assume she wanted her sadness and pain acknowledged in an emotional way; so, that wasn’t the route he took. Very much like a true Ilandrian. “The past shapes us insofar as we continue on paths that reward us, and change course to avoid pain and failure. But sometimes, those adaptations become maladaptive, and cease to serve us well as the years go on. Beyond the way you hold your weapon like it is heavy, Miss Rigas, you hold it almost like you don’t want to. Like it pains you. And, contrary to His Majesty, nothing about your combat style suggests that you fight to harm: on the contrary, you fight like you’re afraid of being harmed. It reminds me somewhat of soldiers who are sent into battle too young, before they are ready…”
Safir stopped, then, realizing that his thoughts had become reaching. He’d said what he needed to say, and told Tivia what she needed to hear (even if it wasn’t what she’d been expecting). Fortunately, there was no further need to talk, as they’d reached her room, upon her request.
“If you require a healer, please don’t hesitate to reach out. There are several employed here at the palace, both magically-adept and otherwise.” He told Tivia, and took a respectful step back when it was obvious she was able to carry her own weight. “I hope you’ll be well enough to join us for dinner, Miss Rigas. Please take care.”
“... a resonance stone?” Since storming out of the meeting where Sylvie Canaveris volunteered herself as a diplomat between Galeyn and Eyraille, Vega had tried hard to let go of what she couldn’t couldn’t control, because fixating on it wasn’t going to provide a solution, and--like Haraldur had said--nothing was going to change Sylvie’s mind. She and Haraldur hadn’t revisited the topic of Eyraille since then, and she hadn’t intended to bring it up, but when he suddenly presented what was unmistakably a resonance stone, and… was that a map of Ilandria?
Taking the sheet of paper, scrawled with red ink, Vega examined the cryptic message. “Wait until you’re contacted…” She read, and her eyebrows gathered in the middle as confusion set in. “I don’t understand. If this is indeed from Tivia, is she not in Eyraille? Why does this appear as though it came from Ilandria? I’ve honestly not spoken with Eyraille’s Prince in years. I don’t understand why, all of a sudden, he would be reaching out to me now. And, if it were me he wanted to reach… why he would go through my husband.”
Vega turned the resonance stone over in her hand, looking for any other clues that might shed light upon this nebulous outreach. “To be honest, I don’t know what kind of man Ilandria’s Prince of Blades is, now. He wasn’t the Prince of ‘Blades’ at all when I first met him and last saw him. We were children; neither of us had much say in the matter regarding what our parents wanted for our futures. But if he is reaching out to me now, after more than a decade without contact… We may be able to make it closer to home--to Eyraille--if we are needed in Ilandria.” After all, they weren’t exiled from Ilandria; Caris held no jurisdiction over Eyraille’s southern neighbour.
Before they could discuss the matter further, there was a knock at their door. And just when the former Eyraillian princess’s defeated mood was beginning to turn to more hopeful… who should interrupt, but Ari’s niece.
Haraldur glanced over his shoulder at Vega, seeking her input as to whether or not she was in the mood to hear Sylvie out. The Skyknight might have refused, under other circumstances, but… she had to give the girl credit for her courage. Because it took courage to stand up to anyone who hailed from the fierce Sorde lineage.
Vega wordlessly agreed with motion of her head, and Sylvie stepped inside to say her peace at a far corner in their sitting quarters--the furthest from the twins’ bedroom, lest they overhear any commotion and wake up. When Sylvie began to speak… she didn’t stop. And, this time around, her reasoning wasn’t so privileged and ignorant as the other day. In fact, it made her wonder if Ari’s niece had spent the last twenty-four hours trying to plan what she wanted to say to Vega and Haraldur. It seemed… almost rehearsed. But, that didn’t make it ingenuine, and some of her points were ones that Vega couldn’t help but empathize with.
When the girl finished saying what she needed to say, the fiery redhead breathed an exasperated sigh. “I know you’re telling me this because it strikes home for me. The expectation that I marry out of propriety, or dutifully carry on familial traditions in the way that my ancestors see fit. We all know I did none of those things.” Vega ran a hand through her copper locks, feeling the vestiges of a headache beginning to bloom. “Sylvie, let me be clear with you. And I speak not as an indignant ex-royal, but as someone who was once in shows very similar to your own: nothing that you can tell me will convince me that your plan is a good one, or for that matter, even safe.”
Leaning forward in her seat, she looking the privileged young woman up and down. The difference between the two of them was, when she had forsaken what her father had wanted for her… she’d already had survival skills that Sylvie Canaveris couldn’t possibly have so much as considered. “Regardless of what you do or don’t do… you will be a victim of circumstances. I abdicated the throne to my kingdom to follow my heart as a Skyknight, and found the person I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.” Vega reached over and placed a hand atop her husband’s. “I started a family that isn’t tied to my father or the Sorde name. And… I earned exile, from the place I used to call my home. For every action, there will be a consequence. If garnering positive relations with my brother is worth what you might lose, as a result, then that is for you and only you to decide. If you came here looking for my blessing…”
The Skyknight stood from her seat, indicating that she wished to draw the conversation to a close. “I’m sorry, but I can’t grant it. However, I’m not going to stop you--because I can’t--and I do wish you the best. For both your sake, and my brother’s.”
Despite the slash mark at her side and the gush of blood she had to staunch with her hand, Tivia wasn’t debilitated by pain. What she said to Caris the other day wasn’t all guff; pain just hit differently. Not that it didn’t hurt. Refusing to acknowledge the bitter sharp bite of steel at her waist did a disservice to the blade and its owner, not to mention her own mental resilience. Rather, she’d experienced so much of the universe’s challenges in so short a time that it felt silly to bother with injuries that, in the grand scheme of things, meant nothing. Technically, nothing that occurred in her speck of a neighborhood meant a lick to the cosmos at large, but she couldn’t think that way, lest she go the route of Alster, who occasionally viewed humanity from a telescopic lens and lorded like a god from afar. In any case, the world’s present toils must have meant something. Why else did star seers exist if not to parse the messages of the stars?
And to change them.
As Safir hoisted Tivia to her feet, she turned her head at a severe angle to catch the movement of his lips, hoping to process his prattle as helpful information and not just garbled nonsense. Thankfully, proximity combined with her good ear facing his mouth helped pick up the essential moments of his dialogue, enough to formulate a reply.
“Yes, it’s no surprise I haven’t handled a weighted weapon in a while; that’s a given. But,” she flinched as she placed her weight on the first step of the servants' stairs, her fresh wound singing from the jostle of bones and muscle, “I don’t fight with anger or rage. Not only is that a rookie mistake, but it requires having anger and rage to begin with. I have none. I know that may be hard to believe, based on all the winning conversations you’ve had with me so far,” she snorted, “but don’t confuse bitterness and frustration with rage, which, as a rule, I don’t bring into battle. I’m not a sloppy fighter. The only control I lack is in my muscles. Otherwise, I have to disagree with your assessment.”
As it turned out, he had more to say. A lot more to say. Tivia wasn’t quite sure how she felt about his vague references to pain and denial, or how he equated her to a young soldier facing their first battle. Her first reaction was to bristle, but not only would that prove whatever conclusions Safir made about her ‘anger’ and ‘rage,’ but too much bodily strain would nick into her injured side and make her bow over in the middle of the stairwell. Both looks did not sit right with her. Not in front of a man who thought he had her all figured out. Did a simple sparring match reveal so much of herself to a relative stranger?
“I think it would be impractical to spill my heart on the battlefield, just so I don’t spill my blood,” she shook her head and scoffed, poking fun at his analysis, but not rejecting his advice outright. When they reached the door to her chambers, she allowed him to open it for her. “I prefer a ‘wait and see’ approach when I fight. I never used to be, but too many people got hurt.” It was the closest to the raw truth she would admit. The barest of agreements. He had pegged one part of her correctly, and she would hand him credit where it was owed.
With Safir’s help, Tivia made it to the chair across the room next to the wash basin—a similar set-up to Caris’ quarters. Plopping heavily on the seat, she periodically pulled back the rag she used to stop the blood flow. It still ran freely down the point of incision, but reduced to a trickle. Better working conditions for her magic to take, at the very least.
“Thank you for your counsel. If nothing else, I will definitely strengthen my arms and core and run routine exercises to engage my endurance. When I’ve reached that point, I’ll fight you again. I’ll tell you this much,” her voice lowered, as if to pass along a secret, but she did not switch to telepathic speech. “I was around your human age of eighteen when I saw battle for the first time. I almost died there. I would have died if I wasn’t pulled from the fire in time. Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I’m still there. Burning. Screaming. I never left that place, and there is no end. Only eternity.”
Recollections of the fire brought ironic chills to her body. “I don’t like to fight. It has too many horrible associations for me. But I want to like it. To…heal from a maladaptive lifestyle, to use your language. So there.” She snapped out of her fugue, returning to her normal state of affairs, scowl and all. “You successfully performed a type of clairvoyance. Though I suppose it’s no different from a highly observant and intuitive person. At least in this particular field. I still won’t prescribe to your ‘anger and rage’ assessment, though. I guess we can’t get it all correct.”
Before he left the room, and before she tended to her wound, she added, this time telepathically, “Contact them as soon as you can. Preferably tonight. And also,” she paused, taking a moment to look out the window facing the king’s tower, “Don’t get your hopes up. That’s all I will say on the matter.”
When Sylvie caught herself fidgeting in anticipation of a response, she removed her damp palms from her gown and tucked them under her thighs. It didn’t help that Vega already regarded her as a painfully naive maiden unaware of the world at large; Sylvie didn’t need her predatory raptor gaze to glimpse ‘nervous wreck,’ as well. Could she detect weakness? See through to Sylvie’s sweet exterior and catch a skittering mouse cowering in fear? Or, clawing deeper into her burrow, find a rat?
The fiercest people you meet are usually hiding a nest of fears, her father relayed, during their last conversation. The Sorde family is no exception. To unravel them, you need only find the loose thread…and yank.
She might not have succeeded in anything so grand, but Vega seemed less likely to tear her apart, at least. Something she said must have contributed a fraction of a point in her favor. She would take the small win. More of a contrition, a truce, but she wasn’t deluded into believing a few well-chosen words would soften the heart of an opinionated warrior who on principle would never fancy a daffy stranger waltzing into her kingdom like she was attending some fancy soirée. I am more than that. That might be, but whoever took a Canaveris for more than shallow, foppish, and materialistic?
“You don’t regret it, then? The path you chose?” She watched as Vega sought her husband’s hand, and how tenderly he responded to her touch. It almost made her ache with longing. To be loved in such a way… “However fraught, it led you to a family, and your independence. In that vein, what leads you to believe my path won’t result in something great, too? I say this with respect, Sir Sorde. I did not come to ask for a blessing I never expected to receive. I merely wanted to answer your question from the meeting, and reconnect on more civil terms. Now that I’ve accomplished my objective, I won’t take more of your precious time.”
Rising from the chair, she smoothed out the bunched-up layers of her gown and held herself erect as a proper lady who had come of age. “Thank you for granting me a chance to reconcile, or failing that, to chat with you.” She swept into a respectful curtsy. “Do take care, Sir Sorde. Commander,” she nodded at Haraldur. “I wish your children good health and fortune. Good evening. I shall see myself out.”
Once she was out the door, her retreating footsteps reverberating down the hallway, Haraldur dropped his impassive expression in lieu of a concerned shake of his head. “I hope she finds whatever it is she’s looking for. On a positive note, she seems way too polite and upstanding to cause that much of a stir. Do you still think there’s something off about her?”
Before Vega could answer, a sudden clamor pounded on the table behind them, prompting Haraldur to swerve around and dispatch the source of the disturbance. He snatched the aggressor off the table and regarded the culprit: the resonance stone, rumbling hungrily in his hand.
Sliding a chair next to Vega, he sat and positioned the stone between them. Warily, he answered. “Hello? Who am I speaking to?”
Despite the slight conundrum with the mirror, Nia was on track to finish her part with its design before she passed the magic specifications to Alster. For the majority of the day, Ari left her alone to concentrate, stopping by occasionally to refill the decanter of water next to her workstation. As it turned out, the first leg of the undertaking proved the least labor intensive, dedicated more to the compilation of materials than the brutal fasting period that awaited the next handful of days. When he popped his head through the door that evening, she invited him inside, assuring him that he wasn’t disturbing any delicate processes…yet. The next few days, however, were another story.
“If you are still concerned about the mirror’s frame, there is time for me to melt down the metal into a staid, nondescript shape.” Ari stood before the mirror of note, stroking the delicate sculpted cherry blossoms with the pads of his fingers. “Much as it would pain me to destroy one’s labor of love. Alternatively, I can simply pop out the frame and have a plain version crafted in its place. Whatever you need, I am happily at your beck and call.”
Before the mirror tempted him into nitpicking his appearance—the fly-aways escaping his ponytail, the crooked cravat and the lopsided sleeve cuff—he turned away from the future portal to regard Nia, a slight frown replacing his pleasant smile. “About what you said at the meeting a few days ago—do you mean to travel to Ilandria? I understand the politics have undergone a shift with the deteriorating health of its current king, but would his son institute a pardon on you and your family name, or failing that, simply look the other way while you install a mirror on his premises?” He raised a brow skeptically. “I know what I reference is a future concern; we do not even know where the Kingdom of Blades stands with its neighbor to the north. Alas, I cannot say I am comfortable with the idea of you setting foot on the land that forsook you and your family, callously abandoning its so-called tenets of fairness and balance for mindless bloodsport. No trial, no voice of the people, no chance for remediation. I do not fancy this place in the least. You must promise me that if you decide to return to Ilandria--under the operation of sound reasoning, of course--I come along with you. I won’t hear a word of dissent on the matter.”
Speaking of the abandonment of sound reasoning…
“Sylvie traveled to the palace tonight. Alone,” Ari sighed, taking a seat on the bed at the far end of the spacious room. Technically, he had offered it to Nia as her personal bedchambers, but since she spent the majority of evenings with him, she reserved the space as a makeshift workshop. “To speak sense into Vega Sorde. I do not know which is worse; Sylvie's success, or Vega's retaliation. I should have made her go with a guard. Not that I expect anything untoward to occur, especially with Vega's sensible husband around, but when tensions run high, people become emotionally reactive, and volatile.”
He smoothed out the quilt he’d wrinkled in the process of sitting and shifting on the bed. “I want to support my niece, of course, but not at the expense of her safety. I will still accompany her to Eyraille and broker an arrangement with the king, though I am far from eager to do it. This may sound crude to admit, but I am tempted to sabotage the meeting, or, less drastically, hope the king is as inflexible and uncompromising as his sister lets on. Are these horrible thoughts to harbor?”
He gazed at the signet ring on his middle finger; solid gold and shaped to resemble a honeybee with wings outstretched. Every Canaveris Head wore some variation of the family sigil. Casimiro’s ring, which he inherited from Nadira, was lost along with his body, leaving Ari to commission a new ring, which he designed as a deliberate departure from the original. I could never replace my brother, so why should I replace his ring?
“I made a promise to my late brother that I would provide for his children,” he said quietly, letting the light play on the polished gold surface where it aptly resembled honey dripping from the comb. “But what does ‘provide for’ entail? I am not their parent, but I am their acting guardian. I would not dare cross a line and assume their father’s role. And yet…” he shook his head, hauling himself to his feet. “Forgive me, Nia. Here I have inundated you with unfiltered, garbled speech when you require a noiseless environment for your work. Do not let me interrupt another moment of your finite time.”
“Apologies. I don’t mean to imply anger is your motivation when you fight; or that you’re inherently flawed for the possibility of experiencing it.” Safir apologized. It wasn’t his intent to alienate Tivia Rigas for touching on sensitive topics, or points she might disagree with. “It’s something that many--in fact, I would say most--warriors and soldiers have to work through. But sometimes it manifests as anger’s companions: hurt, regret, fear. We’ve all experienced something adjacent to it at one or more points in our lives. It has the potential to stick and influence us in ways that we might not even notice. In people like Caris Sorde? Well,” The Ilandrian prince snorted and shook his head. “He’s painfully transparent. Probably also self-aware, which has its benefits and downfalls. He doesn’t care who knows: which, ironically, makes him easy to work with as a training disciple, but also a dangerous target for his enemies, who will read him faster than they will read them. But none of that is the case with you, Miss Rigas.”
The more steps she took, the more she flinched and grimaced, at which point the Ilandrian Prince took the liberty to help him into her room to find a seat. “I’m not sure if it’s because you hide it well, or that it operates subconsciously, contrary to King Sorde who is always thinking about who and what makes him angry. Bitterness and frustration are, too, anger’s companions, and I’m not suggesting you act entirely in its absence: that’s impossible and absurd. It’s being cognizant of it, acknowledging that it will take up space, without letting it decide when and where it will manifest. And, if there is a better solution than practice… I’ll let you know when I discover it. Gods know, it’s something that I’m continuing to overcome to this very day.”
And didn’t he, too, have his demons. Many, many of them. Anger at his father, for the senseless massacre he had incited over a decade ago. Resentment toward the very people of Ilandria--who loved and respected him--for blindly following and agreeing to the decisions of their King years ago when he suddenly decided there was an exception for due process, spitting in the face of justice for his will alone. And regret… deep-seated regret and bitterness toward himself, for disagreeing with what he saw, knowing how wrong it all was, yet doing nothing to stop it. Feeling helpless but to stand back and witness the greatest blight on the Kingdom of Ilandria, the sickening bloodbath that no one talked about. For all Eyraille was itself soaked in the spilled blood of innocents, it’s people--and king--sought to do better. Acknowledged their dark history and vowed never to repeat it; learned from it.
But what had Ilandria learned? Did it even acknowledge what had happened as wrong? Or did the people see it as a necessary step forward toward what they perceived as justice? Oh, if only people knew how Safir had fought his own anger for years--and continued to. It didn’t go away; part of him feared it never would. He’d simply learned how to keep it placated at inconvenient times, and feed into it in private during those moments where he feared it would otherwise take over. Safir Vallaincourt was far from a perfect fighter, or a perfect person: he was simply well-practiced, and collected.
“I’m sorry. For what you were forced to experience; and I mean it.” Knowing she’d probably had enough of his ‘insights’, the Ilandrian Prince knew well the importance of validating traumatizing experiences, if he ever hoped to help those training under him grow as capable warriors. “I wish I could say such occurrences are rare. Men of eighteen years of age have, in the past, fought for Ilandriua for the first time… and never lived to talk about it. Women, less so, but it’s not unheard of. Those who did live to talk about it did not walk away unscathed--much like you. In an ideal world, no one should be subjected to battle and war before they feel ready… if they ever feel ready at all. I understand your reasoning: if you are to be subjected to it, then learning to like it would make life much easier. But, Miss Rigas… I am here to tell you that you don’t have to learn to like it to be an effective warrior, or to heal from a maladaptive lifestyle. In fact, I hope you don’t.”
Straightening his posture, Safir gave Tivia the space she required, trusting that if she wasn’t capable of tending to her own injuries, she would have said as much. “Whether or not you agree with my ‘assessment’, what I do hope is that you, and His Majesty, see through to the end of this Mollengardian threat, and that it lies in history as the last terrible threat you have to endure. And that you can spend the remainder of your lives occupying yourselves and your minds with the better things that life has to offer.”
Just as he turned to leave, the star seer spoke directly to his mind, causing him to pause in his step and furrow his brow. Instinctively, he pressed a hand to his hip, and made note of something hard and smooth in his pocket that hadn’t been there before. Contact… who? Do you mean Vega Sorde and her husband? What shouldn’t I get my hopes up for?
But he knew better than not to heed the advice of a star seer, someone far more well attuned with the future than he was. So Safir resolved to use whatever it was she had placed in his pocket that evening, regardless of whether or not it would yield results. If he didn’t get his hopes up, then it would mean he harboured no hope at all.
Sylvie Canaveris did not seek out Vega and her Husband to be convinced to change her mind about her stance on traveling to Eyraille for diplomatic purposes; and Vega should have known that she wasn’t here to gain the family’s blessings, either. Yes, the Skyknight and new mother understood what it meant to be forced to conform to the expectations of one’s family, and perhaps it made her something of a hypocrite to ask this young woman to reconsider. But there were far more options in terms of alternatives to the life her family expected her to lead. If she was really feeling the pain of burden to acknowledge and make a difference in the tragedy her family and people had suffered at the hands of Mollengard, why not lend her services to a safer ally that would be more willingly to accept her help? Alster had once mentioned that Stella D’Mare and the Fallow Islands had long since been allied forces, and they were not under immediate threat of Mollengard. That she was so determined to win over Eyraille still made little sense to Vega.
“I don’t regret my husband, or my marriage. I also do not regret my children.” The former Princess of Eyraille answered Sylvie’s leading question very carefully, determined not to give her the wrong idea or to feed into her ‘own’ rebellion. “I could never regret the important people in my life, or the love I found. What I do regret--and will forever regret--is the burden I placed upon my younger brother, who was much younger than even you when the weight of Eyraille’s crown was placed upon his head. I regret, Sylvie, that the actions that led to me finding what I wanted in life meant that I was solely responsible for the death of my brother’s innocence. I regret that I let down the once sweet and trusting young man who had looked up to me to protect my kingdom and people. He used to have hope in his eyes: and when I abdicated the throne, it was gone. Do you understand what I am trying to tell you, Sylvie?”
Vega couldn’t help but sigh, because it was clear the young girl didn’t. She could spell it out to her in the handful of languages she knew, and it still wouldn’t make a difference. But she would say it, anyway, if for no other reason than to make it known that someone had at least informed the naive young woman before her that her decision likely would not yield all she had hoped for without consequences. “I am not denying that you may be successful in Eyraille. You are a charming and clever girl; and pretty, to boot. My brother has a secret eye for aesthetics, and you might well get through to him. But I can guarantee it will not be without consequences that will leave you with regret. I can’t tell you what that regret will look like; I only hope that you are prepared for it when it comes for you. Otherwise… think what you may of me, but I do wish you success. For the sake of my home and my family, if nothing else.”
Sylvie, predictably unswayed by the former princess’ warning, politely agreed to disagree and took her leave. Only when the sound of her footsteps retreated did Vega sigh and expel all of the frustration she had very carefully been keeping at bay and answer her husband’s question. “I don’t know. I don’t think she’s lying; and I don’t blame her for wanting a different future than what her family intends for her. But…” The fiery redhead furrowed her brows and stared at the door. “I can’t help but feel she isn’t telling us the entire truth. Yes, she wants independence, but I don’t think that encompasses the entirety of her endgame. There is something more. I just…”
The rumbling of the resonance stone started both Vega and her husband, such that Haraldur was quick to snatch it off the table and respond, lest they lose the opportunity to find out who this stone was connected to, and what they wanted. There was a brief pause after Haraldur spoke, before a response resonated low and careful and somewhat distorted from the stone’s vibrations: Might I be speaking to Haraldur Sorde? The Forbanne Commmander’s inquiry was answered with another question, before providing the information Haraldur sought. We have not spoken before. My name is Safir Vallaincourt; I currently govern the Kingdom of Ilandria in my father’s stead.
“Safir?” Vega interrupted, her voice laced with surprise and bewilderment. “How… how did you manage to connect with us? Did you send the resonance stone?”
Another pause. Then: Vega Sorde. It has been a long time since I’ve heard your voice. There was no malice in the Prince of Blades’ tone; it was a neutral observation. I wish I could tell you how the stone managed to find its way into your possession. I believe it has something to do with Tivia Rigas, and her tricks, which I will never understand.
“But Tivia travelled to Eyraille. To keep an eye on my brother… What is she doing in Ilandria? Safir.” Gone was the bewilderment in Vega’s voice, replaced with an authority that she no longer rightfully possessed, since being exiled from her home. “Tell me what’s going on.”
To Safir’s credit, he did, in great detail. Explained how Caris--by some strange means--had won an alliance with Ilandria, and everything that entailed. He mentioned an amendment to the Skyknights’ training, which had yet to reach approval… and that he did not hold much hope for Eyraille’s forces in Vega’s absence. While Eyraille itself might have harboured hot and cold feelings toward its former deserter-Queen, many of the Skynights had ceased to perform to their best abilities since she had left them. I think Eyraille’s chances at surviving Mollengard’s onslaught would be better with you and your husband involved. Of course, it would have to be a clandestine sort of involvement… as I am reaching out, unbeknownst to your brother, King Caris. His trust is hard earned, and while I do not wish to jeopardize it, I also disagree with his decision to exile you and your husband. I do not believe it was made in Eyraille’s best interests.
“I… you don’t know how much we want that. To be involved. To go… home.” Vega confessed, and had to pause, trying not to let the moment render her emotional. “But if we are found out… Caris will lose focus. He’ll be distracted by his own anger and righteousness, and it will only hinder your efforts in the long run.
Contrary to your concerns, I think you will find that your brother is rapidly maturing as a person and as a King, Sir Sorde. Of course, he will eventually become aware of my duplicity in drawing you here, but so long as he does not learn of it prematurely, I don’t believe it will derail our efforts as much as you believe. Is it possible for you two to make it here my means less obvious than by roc? Eyraille’s borders are, understandably, closed--but not Ilandria’s.
“Yes--of course. We can travel by night steed and enter Ilandria from the west. Maybe… as soon as a matter of days.” It didn’t take much to convince an already eager Vega, who was willing to cling to any hope that she could reconnect with her home, and make a difference. “Just… we’ll just need time to sort things out here, first. We have children who just turned a year in age… We can’t leave without securing their care and safety.”
So I have heard. Congratulations, on your beautiful family and their bright future. A pause, then Safir added: You deserve it. You always have. I mean that, as deeply as Ilandria’s love of truth prevails.
While somewhat taken aback by the well wishes of someone who, at one point in time, was supposed to be her future husband, those words had already earned Safir steps toward her own trust. Vega couldn’t help but smile. “Thank you. I… we can’t express how much that means to us. We will be in touch, Prince Vallaincourt. I can’t say when, but expect to hear from us again, sometime soon in the evening. Whether or not I will ever lawfully be a part of Eyraille again, that won’t stop me or Haraldur from doing everything we can to secure it’s safety and future.”
“Unfortunately, there’s no time for that. The frame is gonna be just as much as part of this as the glass. But, I think it’ll be fine, so long as it stays here, in the Canaveris villa.” Nia had already thought through what to do about the flash frame, and ultimately decided there wasn’t time to worry about it. “If it’s hidden in plain sight, among the rest of the villa’s extravagance, then it won’t stand out. We’ll just have to be sure to make Eyraille’s--and possibly Ilandria’s--less conspicuous.”
As it turned out, the Master Alchemist had also thought long and hard about Ilandria, and her future presence in the kingdom that had once paid bounty hunters to deliver her to the crown, dead or alive. In fact, she might have been further along with this mirror had Ilandria not been on her mind. But, with Isidor gone… there was no alternative. No one else was capable of creating a portal mirror, and while even traveling as far as Eyraille might put her at risk, she--like Ari--was not willing to send Sylvie to Eyraille without a quick way out, should things go terribly wrong. But, the need to find herself in Ilandria was, at this point, speculative at best. “Like you said: we don’t know where Ilandria stands with regard to Eyraille and the Mollengardian threat looming over it. Maybe they don’t give a fuck; in which case, fuck ‘em. They don’t deserve a quick way out if they couldn’t care less what happens to their partner in trade.” Nia said with an indifferent shrug of her shoulders. “I’m not rushing to find myself in Ilandria. But, on the rare chance they decide to ally with Eyraille, or decide they care what happens, then… we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. It is as you say: Stella D’Mare has already established somewhat friendly relations with Eyraille. So I can’t see Ilandria putting itself in the path of making an enemy of Eyraille and Stella D’Mare for the sake of beating a dead horse. There are no functioning Master Alchemists left in that kingdom: and I don’t intend to stick around. So if the Prince’s head is as far up his ass as his father’s was, then Ilandria has more fucking problems than Eyraille. And that’s saying something.”
It wasn’t without acid that Nia spoken of the Ilandrian Prince, even moreso than her own home. While she had volunteered Vega’s involvement with him in her youth, the Ardane woman had never gone into detail about her family’s involvement with him or the Ilandrian crown: and, mercifully, no one had ever asked. “I’m tired of living in fear, Ari. So if you think that the possibility of finding myself in Ilandria again is enough to spook me out of doing everything I can to ensure Sylvie’s safety, then think again. Anyway, I haven’t seen my face plastered on paper and scattered across towns and cities for at least six years, now. If I had to guess, I’d have to say Ilandria and the Vallaincourt family is over me. Maybe they’ve finally seen reason and they now realize they have bigger fish to fry.”
Nia was more than happy to change the subject back to Sylvie when Ari expressed his concern about his niece--and she felt his pain, and his conflict. Were it up to her, she’d do what she could to prevent Sylvie from entering a kingdom that loomed under threat of war. But there was nothing she could do--or that Ari could do, for that matter. If they refused to support her decision, the stubborn Canaveris girl would find another means to get what she wanted. More dangerous means, without a doubt. “Vega’s a mother, and Sylvie is still a child in her eyes. She’s not gonna hurt her, with or without Haraldur around. I can promise you that.” Nia ran her hand along the perimeter of the mirror’s reflective glass, checking one last time for imperfections--and finding none. “Honestly? I don’t think you have anything to worry about, Ari. If Caris Sorde is anything like his sister--and anecdotally, he seems worse--then there isn’t a chance in hell that he’s going to let Sylvie distract him from preparing for war. There won’t be any need to sabotage, because your niece has her hopes too high. Hell, all of this,” she motioned to the mirror, “is probably a waste of time and energy on my part, as well. I’m just doing this so Sylvie can’t claim we weren’t routing for her and didn’t believe there was a chance she’d succeed. I say, just let things unfold naturally. Caris Sorde will snuff out your niece’s ambition before it ever sees fruition, and there will never be a reason for me to set foot in Ilandria. Sometimes, you just have to trust the process. In the end, the only casualty will be our time and energy. Which…”
The Master Alchemist sighed heavily, looking the mirror up and down. “Sucks, considering I’m about to spend two days on this monstrosity. But I’m willing to go through with it for your niece. When her hopes are dashed, we’ll pick up the pieces, and redirect her ambitions to something safer. Rest assured, Ari.” Nia turned away from the mirror and smiled at the Canaveris lord. “You don’t have to worry for your family--or for me. Let the charade play out, and let Sylvie bear witness to natural consequences. The only thing that’s gonna get hurt is her pride.”
How was it that the Ilandrian Prince could be so perceptive about certain matters, yet completely dense about events happening in his life, operating under his own nose, no less? Then again, Tivia was no different, insofar as the stars refused to shine their all-shining facets on her affairs. Depending on the person, especially if she shared a deep acquaintance—or an intimate relationship—she could parse not only their possible futures, but the details of their determined pasts, as well. People like Haraldur, Alster, Elespeth, Teselin, Hadwin, Vitali, to an extent, …Isidor. Yet, when it came to scrying for herself, it was like she didn’t exist. Like she was a ghost, and the real Tivia Rigas died in the fire during Messino’s war. As an extension of her nullity, whatever she touched sank with her into the unreachable throes of oblivion. For Eyraille, rubbing her stink on everything was a strategic move; since the sky-top nation’s fate ended as Mollengardian-occupied territory in every single manifestation of the future, having her mere presence barge in and tweak and twist and shift and disrupt necessitated some change in the kingdom’s pessimistic results. It was, however, a huge bother not to see what was coming.
“I can’t afford to be transparent. Not even to myself.” She returned the blood-soaked rag to her wounded side, hissing at the bite of pressure. “I’ll forever remain a mystery, uncertain of the things I need and cherish. So maybe you’re right and you see something I can’t, since I’m so disconnected from everything to begin with.” Her tone, how she practiced it in her head, came off as nonchalant and unaffected, as per her admittance to feeling a disconnect to life. She wasn’t aiming to inspire pity or concern; rather, the dead opposite. See what a shell I am, Prince of Blades, and desire something better for yourself.
“You misunderstand. I don’t want to like the art of war. I’m interested in the art of form. The martial manipulation of weapons and their adoption as extensions of the body. I want to find a place outside of myself, separate from my magic. To have something for me, Tivia. Just Tivia. Not a star seer, not a Rigas. I won’t wait for things to improve for a future that doesn’t exist for me. No reason to indulge in a delusion. Nothing looms forward but for this present moment and the topics it touches. So I’ll see you again on the sparring grounds, your Grace. And for supper.” She squeezed her one eye shut as she adjusted her position on the chair for better ease of accessing her wound with magic. “Rest assured, I can handle this little bee sting on my own.”
After Sylvie took her leave, closing the door with a quiet thunk, Haraldur, who stayed quiet for the duration of the exchange, shared his similar hangups about a young woman's whirlwind decision to involve herself with Eyraille's affairs who before expressed no interest in the subject up until a few days ago. “I find it strange, too. The reasons she gave sounded like excuses. I’m sure she’s been dealing with the inadequacy of her station for a while. But what came to a head for her that she’s suddenly driven to change her circumstances right now? But,” he rubbed the stubble at his chin, considering another angle, “we also don’t know her. We haven’t seen her struggles, or what she’s been going through behind closed doors. Whatever problems she’s facing, they’ve been brewing for a long time. We’ve only been privy to the suddenness of her decision, but not anything preceding it.”
If he had anything more to say about Sylvie’s odd behavior, he promptly forgot the moment he heard the resonance stone vibrate. Harauldur didn’t recognize who spoke, but Vega chimed in once the voice introduced himself as Prince Safir Vallaincourt of Ilandria. The man once betrothed to his wife. While he listened in on the prince’s proposal quietly and carefully, he contained his enthusiasm only slightly better than Vega, who made it a point to express their gratitude for being involved in the defense for Eyraille–albeit in a clandestine, illicit manner.
“Getting to Ilandria on short notice won’t be a problem,” Haraldur said, piggybacking off Vega. “We have multiple methods of instantaneous or near-instantaneous travel. Just make sure to clear our arrival beforehand and preferably don’t house us in an area accessible to Caris should he decide to make an impromptu visit to your palace. In person, we’ll discuss the practicality of Vega liaising with her Skyknights in secret, and the logistics of transferring my Forbanne to Ilandria. We’ll keep in touch once we have affairs sorted in Galeyn. Thank you, Prince Safir, for reaching out.”
When their connection ended, Haraldur regarded the residual warmth of the resonance stone for a moment before offering it to Vega. “You should hold on to this. It was given to me, but I don’t think it matters who has it. You have more of a familiarity with the prince than I do, even if it has been a while. Do,” he tilted his head to one side, frowning, “do we trust his proposition? Is he an honest man? One who won’t turn around and sell us to Mollengard or report us to Eyraille to save his own skin? Because if that’s the case, if you believe our best route into Eyraille is through Ilandria, then,” he glanced at the door to the nursery, behind which the twins miraculously remained sound asleep without stirring once, “how long will we be gone? We wanted this. Wanted involvement. An opportunity to step forward and prevent disaster from hitting Eyraille. Now that we have it…” he trailed off, uncertain. “I know they’ll be fine under the care of a trusted guardian, but,” he sighed, hard-lined eyes softening into regret, “if we’re gone too long, we’ll miss out on everything. Will they even recognize us when we return?”
Ari didn’t miss the curl in Nia’s lips as she spat on about the Ilandrian monarchy, nor did he brush over its connotations. As a house of nobility in their own right, the Ardanes, at their peak, were situated at the right hand of the king. He remembered Nia’s vague mentions of parties at the palace and relationships with Ilandria’s royal court. Considering all that happened–the purging of a once great Master Alchemist family and the lone survivor’s decade-long flight from bounty hunters looking to finish the job–Nia’s current diatribe was specifically aimed at the prince. Recalling Nia’s insights in relation to his brief betrothal to Vega Sorde and the fallout that ensured shortly afterward, how close was she to the situation to learn so much about a personal marriage arrangement? It was almost as if she and Prince Safir Vallaincourt were once acquainted.
Once being the operative word. Whatever affiliation she had for the Ilandrian monarch died with her family and her subsequent exodus from the kingdom that betrayed her. By extension, Ari, who innately understood the importance of erecting a partition between one’s personal feelings and the staid world of politics, developed a secondhand dislike for Ilandria and the Vallaincourt family at large. Of course, he would reserve judgement until he met the prince in person, if any such possibility came to pass.
“I have never once implied your cowardice, Nia,” Ari said, his calm rationality combatting her raw indignance. “Nor am I prohibiting your travel to Ilandria. I only ask that I come along with you should the moment arise. If for nothing else, then I am certain you would need an ally to provide succor in times of difficulty. Much as the threat may no longer exist, Ilandria holds echoes of the past, memories both pleasant and treacherous. I am merely offering to sail those choppy waters with you. Would you deny me that right, Nia?”
But the threads of the conversation were lost, replaced by his concern for Sylvie, a more palpable topic for Nia to grasp. Perhaps it was for the best not to belabor the matter of Ilandria. Too much distraction would interfere with her ability to concentrate on preparing the mirror for Alster to finalize with his magic.
“You drive a cogent point.” On his feet, he strode across the room, laying his long, elegant fingers on her shoulder. “His Majesty, Caris Sorde sounds a difficult, nigh impossible sort to engage. It takes a similar disposition to pierce through his stubborn, impetuous layers, and I suppose the no-nonsense Tivia Rigas has succeeded in that regard. Sylvie has a far gentler approach…typically,” he frowned. “I have seen her verbally annihilate her brothers when they have rubbed her last nerve threadbare. I do not like to postulate what-ifs, as they remove me from a position of control and power, but the possibility remains that Sylvie somehow reaches Vega’s wrathful, prickly brother.”
Sylvie wanted nothing more than to spend her final days at the D’Marian settlement alone in her room packing, or speaking with her father, but guilt and duty pried her from her chambers and led her to the nursery on the opposite end of the villa. Upon construction, Sylvie had pleaded with Ari to allow her a bedroom of her own, and positioned as far away from the nursery for her own peace of mind. “If Nico is allowed his own space for no reason other than he is the eldest male, then do I not earn the same honor for helping raise my brothers when their mother never dares?”
She did not mean to drag her step-mother into the mix, but Veera was, by all intents and purposes, a dingbat, with no personal sense of responsibility or care. She whiled away her days mingling with D’Marian nobility, an outspoken socialite with a cause who gathered her fellow gaggle of friends to beautify the settlement with garden trellises and potted plants in the windows of every establishment. Each evening she retired to her rooms, a bottle of wine delivered personally to her door. Her children, aside from Archie, the cherubic-faced sprout who she sometimes paraded to her friends like a pet poodle, had seen hide nor hair of her since their arrival to Galeyn.
Fortunately, Ari had sought to relieve her of the responsibility as her brothers’ caretaker by hiring more nannies to see to their personal needs. While this liberated her from the daily nightmare of chasing the twins all around the settlement during one of their many disappearing acts, or soothing Archie from yet another temper tantrum, or bailing Neil out of trouble when he snuck out late at night to steal a Night steed and ride around the countryside willy-nilly, she always made it a point to visit the nursery as often as she could, lest they band together and start hounding her wherever she went.
She was surprised to see Nico in the nursery. Seated next to Archie on a pile of cushions, he read to the boy from a gilt-paged illustrated storybook, making an effort to disguise his voice to resemble the colorful cast of characters, to Archie’s squealing joy. They looked up when she entered, confusion giving way to relief.
“Syl-syl!” Archie leaped from the cushions and vaulted across the room, wrapping his stubby arms around her waist. “We missed you so much! Why don’t you come around anymore? Is it because you’re too good for us?”
“No!” She blanched from outrage, though deep inside, she feared it was true. “Never! Who said that, Archie? Was it Rou? Or Thad? Dastardly trouble-makers, those twats.” She shook her fist at the two mounds in the corner of the room. Asleep, still, with only twenty minutes before the breakfast bell.
“We heard the news.” Val, the eldest after Nico, straightened his collar in the mirror before glancing over his shoulder, feigning disinterest. “Congratulations. You will finally be rid of the likes of us.”
“I thought they were lying!” Archie exclaimed, digging his fat-cheeked face into the hem of Sylvie’s skirt. “Tell me you’re not going to Ey…Eyr…Rayleigh…”
“Eyraille,” Sylvie corrected, gently, before Archie’s attempts gave him an aneurysm. “And yes, I am going, but that does not mean you’ll never see me again.” She dropped to her knees, holding Archie at arm’s length. “You will have to wrangle these boys into shape in my absence. Can you do that?” She thumbed over to Nico. “It seems you have this one under your control.”
Nico crossed his arms. “It will take more than reading you one story to believe I am possessed, body and soul, as your puppet.”
“He will crack, eventually,” she whispered conspiratorially into Archie’s ear. “Though you might have a harder time breaking Neil and Val. As Neil will say, he is a wild stallion who cannot be tamed.”
“I said that once!” A tousle-haired boy emerged from behind a chest of drawers and threw a shoe across the room at the congregation. It skittered harmlessly across the floor just shy of its target.
“What did I say about throwing shoes, Neil?” Sylvie whipped on him, hands sternly on her waist and her expression icy. “Just because I am to be leaving shortly does not mean I cannot stick a foot up your bum for the offense. Maybe then you will behave differently. Every time you see footwear will be a reminder of your arse-sores.”
“Syl-syl!” Archie chuckled uproariously.
“Don’t go repeating that,” Sylvie warned the innocent-eyed boy.
“Would everyone stop yammering!?” Two sleepy heads poked out from under bedsheets. Bleary and yawning, they shot daggers at the congregation by the door. “Sylvie’s a traitor,” Rou continued.
“She’s not our sister anymore,” Thad finished, looking and sounding every bit like his brother.
"Traitor," they said in unison, booing and hissing and wiggling their arms in the air.
“I’m not going to miss this rabble,” Sylvie snorted, but placed an affectionate pat on Archie’s silken-haired head. “Except for you, my sweet.”
“Until you grow up; then she’ll spurn your existence,” Val quipped, picking up the shoe Neil had thrown and returning it to its owner–by pummeling him with the hard leather sole. The two boys barked and griped in the back, the twins lolled and complained lazily in bed, Archie whined low in his throat, and Nico rolled his eyes and glanced longingly at the exit.
Amid the chaos–the yelling and the demand for order by threat of death–Sylvie sucked in her bottom lip to prevent herself from following Archie’s model. Much as she resented her role as glorified nanny to six reckless and unappreciative boys, the thought of leaving them behind stung more than she anticipated.
Was Safir Vallaincourt an honest man? That was a difficult question to answer, because no two peoples’ definitions of honesty were the same. Ilandria as a kingdom prided itself for its adherence to justice, transparency, democracy, and overall logic and reason; but that didn’t mean that it had always appeared as such to those outside of the Kingdom of Blades. No one could ever forget how, after employing the help of dedicated and talented Master Alchemists for centuries, benefitting from their skills in the way they improved Ilandrian weaponry such that to this day it was still considered the elite source of bladed weapons… King Ullir Vallaincourt had ordered the entirety of their population dead or maimed. Those who had surrendered themselves willingly had lost both of their hands, but lived to tell the tale as vacant shadows within the Ilandrian population that everyone tried so hard not to see. And those who had resisted, such as the Ardanes… well, they were reduced to spilled blood, their remains discarded. Eyraillians hadn’t batted an eyelash; not while Vega’s father had still been in power, and the Kingdom of Rocks had long since purged magic users from its lands in a similar way. But just because they and the Ilandrians did not perceive such an act as contrary to reason, honesty, and justice, did not mean the same for outsiders.
Nonetheless, somewhere in Ullir Vallaincourt’s mind, he had found reason to justify such a heinous act. Seeing Master Alchemists in a different light, he’d decided it was most reasonable and the best choice for his people to eradicate the threat from the kingdom. Not once in his remaining years as an active ruler, before his mind had begun to slip and his body to deteriorate, had he ever expressed even the faintest hint of remorse, or the most fleeting thought that, perhaps, he’d made a mistake. And, as far as Vega knew… neither did his only living son, Safir.
“That’s not the question to ask about an Ilandrian.” Vega replied after a long, pregnant pause, turning her answer over in her head as she turned the resonance stone over in her hand. “They take such pride in what they perceive as truth and justice, and honesty ties in with both. Every decision they make is justified, one way or another, whether or not we agree. The real question we need to ask is… do our interests align? Such that Ilandria--and Safir--will not see fit to betray us to Mollengard? If you ask me…”
The former princess sighed heavily and puffed out her cheeks. “I’m not Ilandrian; and I was never close with Safir, or his family. Ilandria and Eyraille were partners in trade, but nothing more. However, my gut feeling tells me that Safir isn’t stupid enough to think that betraying Eyraille in turning it over to Mollengard will spare Ilandria from a similar fate. It is in Ilandria’s best interests to aid Eyraille, because if Eyraille falls to Mollengard, we all know the kingdom to the south will be next. That is what I think, but like I said… I don’t really know Safir, or how his reason and justice differs from that of his father. If it differs at all. Although…”
Vega paused, turning an idea over in her head that she seemed somewhat reluctant to voice aloud, by the furrow of her brow. It almost sounded like defeat when, at last, she said, “I think I know who we can talk to for a more informed opinion. You’re right: we can’t rush into this uninformed. But…” The fiery redhead turned toward the twins’ bedroom, already feeling pangs of guilt and loss, despite that they hadn’t even made the formal decision to leave their children in the care of a nurse for an undisclosed amount of time. “I’d rather our children forget our faces and voices, if it means we are securing a safe future--and a rightful home--for them. Even if they hate us for it.”
True to Nia’s word, it took exactly two days for the Master Alchemist to finish transforming the mirror, particle-by-particle, in preparation for Alster to cast the finishing magical touches that would complete exactly half of the two-way project. The feat wasn’t anything like what she had put her body through in order to save Ari; but then, nothing could compare with achieving the impossible. Nonetheless, two days without food, limited water, and exerting her physical focus and mental concentration to a very delicate task left the Ardane woman weak and spent.
So when her presence was requested at what would be the final meeting of stakeholders prior to Sylvie’s departure to Eyraille, Ari had to request--nay, insist-that it be held in the Canaveris villa. If Nia was to be rested and well enough to accompany Sylvie to Eyraille in just a few days’ time, then she’d have to forego even the small trek by night steed from the D’Marian settlement to the palace in central Galeyn; it was difficult enough to put one foot in front of another, let alone cover any amount of distance.
But as a result of all of her years on the run like a desperate animal of prey, the Master Alchemist had all but perfected the art of hiding what ailed her, and when all relevant parties gathered at the grand sitting room at the Canaveris villa, Nia had nothing to show for her toils save for a faint pallor to her skin, and red-rimmed eyes. She looked no worse for the wear than someone who needed a good night’s sleep, but it was nonetheless evident that the normally energetic, boisterous woman didn’t even attempt to rise from the settee upon which she sat for this gathering.
“Well, you’ll be happy to know it’s all ready--enough for Alster to finish up, at least.” Nia proudly announced of the portal mirror. “Al, the spell to activate its properties is written in Ilandrian. I’ll pass it on to you at the end of this meeting; let me know if you need a double take on a translation, but I have faith in you as a polyglot. Anyway, if this plan is set go,” she spread her arms with a smile, “Then so am I… in a couple of days. I don’t trust travel not to give me motion sickness just yet.”
“A messenger has been sent on behalf of Galeyn and Stella D’Mare, indicating our desire to request an audience with King Caris.” Lilica took the opportunity to clarify. “We’ve yet to have a response either way, but Eyraille’s borders are closed, so any messages on their part will be received far more slowly. However, I am optimistic that Eyraille will hear us out, and that we will receive a reply within the next day or so. Our envoy confirmed via resonance stone that they have arrived, and are merely waiting for clearance.”
Vega couldn’t help but snort. “All of you are far more optimistic about my brother than I would realistically be. But, I suppose we can only wait and see. Sylvie.” To the Canaveris girl’s surprise, when the Skyknight addressed her, for the first time it was in the absence of any contempt. “Since it’s futile to try and talk you out of this, I have no choice but to hope you are somehow the miracle that wins Caris over enough for him to see reason. But before you leave, I think it would be beneficial to debrief you on Eyraillian culture and customs. Not everything can be learned from books, and for the task you are choosing to take on… I think you will need every advantage possible. Down to wearing the right attire. Have you already selected what you wish to pack?” At Sylvie’s somewhat nervous affirmation, she added, “Good. If no one else has anything pertinent to add, since we have neither Caris’ decline nor acceptance at this point, go and set out what you intend to take with you. I’ll be by shortly to give you insight into what will give you the best chance at being taken seriously.”
After Sylvie excused herself to go and do just that (whether she wanted to or not, she had the good sense not to put up a fight with Vega), the Skyknight waited a beat to be sure Ari’s niece was out of earshot before she spoke up. “Nia.” She turned her attention to the Master Alchemist, who looked surprised she’d addressed her at all. “If you don’t mind… I was hoping we could have your input into something that had recently arisen.”
Nia raised her eyebrows, looking slightly more alert, but no less spent. In any case, she couldn’t find a good reason to decline. “I’ll do my best. What’s going on?”
Exchanging a quick glance with her husband, Vega took the resonance stone from a pouch hanging at her side. “Haraldur received this recently. Just a few days ago, we were finally contacted by the person with this resonance stone’s companion… it was Safir Vallaincourt. Ilandria’s Prince of Blades.” Surprise registered not only on Nia’s face, but everyone else in attendance: Chara, Lilica, Alster, Elespeth, and Ari. Aside from Haraldur, this was the first anyone else was hearing of this turn of events. “To make a long story very short… Tivia Rigas, somehow, convinced my brother to pursue an alliance with Ilandria. And, somehow… Caris was successful. Ilandria will aid Eyraille in its defense against Mollengard. However, Safir wishes to involve me and Haraldur… unbeknownst to Caris. He’s invited us to Ilandria to help make preparations. If you ask me, his request sounds sincere, but… well.” Vega replaced the resonance stone in her pouch and folded her hands in her lap. “As an Ilandrian, I figure you would be the best to consult before we commit to a decision either way.”
“What are you asking, exactly?” Nia asked. Her brow was now creased with confusion. “If I think you should go to Ilandria? Well, so long as you’re not a Master Alchemist, I don’t see a problem.”
“Specifically, we were hoping you could tell us whether Safir Vallaincourt is to be trusted in this proposition. That it’s not a ploy to try and sell us out to Mollengard in some vain attempt to secure Ilandria’s safety.”
“Like I said: if your hands don’t look like this,” Nia held up her palms, scrawled as they were with fine, silver runes, “then you don’t have anything to worry about. Not like the ruling family of Ilandria was ever known for persecuting anyone else, and they’re not stupid enough to think they’d have anything to gain by appeasing Mollengard. But I’m not an expert. So your guess is as good as mine.” She let her hands drop to her lap and shrugged. “I might be Ilandrian, but it isn’t like I was ever really permitted to get close with the ruling family.”
Vega frowned, looking momentarily confused. “My apologies; for some reason I was under the impression you were better acquainted. After speaking with Safir, I wasn’t under the impression he had a penchant for duplicity… And, at least, it sounds as though your thoughts might be along the same vein?”
“What part of I’m not a fucking expert don’t you understand?” Whatever composure Nia Ardane had carefully maintained despite her exhaustion, for the sake of a civil meeting, finally shattered. “This meeting was supposed to be about Sylvie and Eyraille and your brother, but everything I’ve heard for the past week has been about nothing but Ilandria and it’s little bitch of a Prince. You wanna know my opinion? You really wanna ask me, of all people, what I think of this ‘offer’ on behalf of the Ilandrian crown? Then consider this. My family was tight with the Vallaincourts for centuries--yes, you heard right, centuries. Master Alchemists bearing the name of Ardane were the right hand of the Ilandrian monarchy for so long, going so far back that the origins of that centuries-long employment are all speculation. Centuries long--but you want to know how long it took Ullir Vallaincourt to decide that centuries of loyal servitude suddenly meant nothing? How long it took him to decide to slay the Ardanes and maim every remaining Master Alchemist in the kingdom?”
Nia sat upright, a flush of colour blooming in her pale cheeks, but her hands, white-knuckled and gripping her skirts, were trembling. “Two weeks. Every Master Alchemist in Ilandria was dead or maimed in two weeks, because Ullir suddenly got scared about something he couldn’t control… and the rest of the kingdom just went along with it. No protest, no revolt. And Safir--you wanna know what Safir--Ilandria’s royal sweetheart, their cherished Prince of Blades--did amidst all of it?” A surge of adrenaline must have fueled her enough to rise to her feet, however unsteadily.
“Shit all! He did shit all. Politely nodded on to his father’s will, and that was that. So if you’re really asking me if he can be trusted… then I’ll say it one more time. It depends on who you fucking ask. Because if they have runes on their hands, and are still lucky enough to have hands, then the answer is no. Otherwise?” The irate Ardane woman threw up her hands in exasperation. “Your guess is as good as mine. Sorry, but I’m done, here.”
Before anyone could get a word in, Nia steadied herself against the wall and took her leave of the sitting room and the small gathering, leaving Vega both flabbergasted and remorseful. “I’m… so sorry, Aristide. It wasn’t my intention or Haraldur’s to upset her.” The Skyknight said to Ari, realizing at this point that after upsetting his niece and his significant other, there was no possible way he could hold her in high regard. “We were hoping for some insight before making a decision that has an impact beyond us. I see now that we chose an inopportune and inappropriate time to bring it up; I accept full responsibility for this mistake.”
Shortly after the small party dispersed, Ari found Nia in his bed, but she hadn’t even made it under the covers, let alone into attire appropriate for sleep. Exhausted in body and mind, she’d found just enough resolve to safely collapse somewhere soft and safe. She managed to crack an eye open upon Ari’s entry, but didn’t have it in her to sit up. “...I fucked up. I’m sorry.” Was it really any surprise that Nia Ardane, of all people, was once again too outspoken? Perhaps not, but as soon as she left the company of her friends and allies, she regretted how she’d reacted to Vega Sorde, who’d only asked a simple question. “I’m tired and hungry and if I’m not lying down, the world just kind of spins… I thought I could handle a simple rendez-vous. I guess I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. Or… I overestimated just how much I could keep a level head. Sorry I’m such an embarrassment.”
A look passed over Haraldur’s haggard face, one not seen for a while; a resigned sort of hopelessness. At Vega’s grim declaration, his shoulders sagged, and the rest of him collapsed, an under the surface ripple hidden from eyes untrained to see the subtle shift of the earth that preceded a landslide.
“For their future,” he droned, nodding, and nodding, and nodding. He lumbered to his feet like something broken, each step a teeter on unstable ground. “Forgotten. To keep them out of Mollengard’s hands, I’ll become nameless once again…”
He pivoted to the door, stance rigid, like his skin was made of bark. “I’m going to take a walk,” he announced colorlessly. Without another word, he opened the door and staggered out of the room.
The days leading to the assemblage at the Canaveris villa drudged on like wading through a river of quicksand upstream. With all of Haraldur’s concentration dedicated to keeping one practiced foot in front of the other lest he misstep and sink into the mire, he had nothing left to offer the outside world. As a father, he was distant, unresponsive to Kynnet’s bids for attention or Klara’s demands to be coddled in his arms. As a provisional Gardener, he saw no beauty or comfort in his surroundings. A tree looked like every other tree and the flowers nondescript as weeds. As a Forbanne Commander, he went through the motions, putting the soldiers through drills in preparation for the possibility of war—although he never floated the term in the open, too cautious to make a snap decision.
Tired of the monotony, he looked to Sigrid, who he had been training to act as interim commander in his stead. Already assigned a small squadron of soldiers, she was fast proving her worth as a leader the Forbanne respected and followed. “Take over for me. You know what to do. They’ll listen to you.” Either she knew better than to ask what bothered him, or understood she would exhume no useful answers in his current, unresponsive mood. She left him alone to leave the barracks on the hill, wandering off to parts unknown.
Sigrid knew better. But not Bronwyn Kavanagh.
In his aimless travels, he walked a shortcut through the Night Garden and encountered the she-wolf in his path. In hindsight, he should have kept track of his whereabouts; otherwise, he’d be aware of the territory he entered. Long claimed as the haunt of Hadwin Kavanagh, who spent the majority of his days as a wolf, people generally gave the area a wide berth for the not-quite-recovered madman who was often spotted yelling at the sky. All except for his sister, and a few choice acquaintances tasked to monitor his well-being.
Bronwyn sat beside her brother at the base of a towering tree, picking at a few snacks spread out on a picnic blanket. Hadwin, for once not a wolf, looked bored and disinterested in the spread laid out before them—roast rabbit, by the look and smell of it.
She spotted Haraldur before he could retrace his steps and slip away unseen. Another idiotic move on his part. Yes, let me outmaneuver a wolf’s superior senses.
“Haraldur,” she called him over, a grand wave of her hand. “Are you hungry? Please eat this. My dimwitted brother decided he’d rather subsist on air like a flower, so we have plenty. It’ll spoil otherwise.”
“No.” He shook his head, no longer caring to monitor his tone between pleasant demurral and gruff refusal. “I don’t want any.”
She glanced at him. Their eyes met. “That’s a difficult decision,” she said, amber eyes glinting. “But why do you need to go through such extremes? I mean, I know your reasoning, don’t get me wrong,” she corrected gently, “but nothing needs to be so finalizing. You fought too hard for them to give up.”
His expression hardened to stone. “You have no idea. You couldn’t possibly know the magnitude a decision like this takes.”
“But it’s destroying you!” The suddenness of her tone jolted her forward, pitching on all fours. “What does any of it matter if you’ve given up on the thing you wanted most in your life? And you won’t put up a fight!”
“I am!” He roared, teeth bared like the very wolf he challenged. “Mollengard can’t have them so they won’t. If I’m captured, they can’t get to them through me. Can’t torture and break their spirits to repurpose into monstrous killers! It matters that I spare them from the same horrible fate. If it’s the only thing I do right as a father, then I’ve done my job!”
“Lay off, Bron. They’re safe in the Night Garden. The trees talk to each other and Papa Tree here knows best.” In a shocking reversal, was Hadwin, resident shit-stirrer, trying to broker peace between the two sparring sides? He tilted his chin at Haraldur. “Go fight your war. The bairns will be here if you get back, but will you? That’s what Bron means. You’re marching into battle already defeated. Fight like you fucking mean to reunite with them. Every day is a fresh battle. Every. Damn. Day.” Renewed ferocity folded his thick brows into angular lines. “But you push on, and on, and on, because they’re worth the fight. There’s no sacrifice in what you’re doing if you mean to give them up. Cuz you know what that’s called? Abandonment. You’ll be abandoning them.”
“I’ve had enough from you two. Coming from him, I get. But you,” he jabbed a finger at Bronwyn, “I thought you were better. Stay out of this.” Haraldur stormed out of the clearing, leaving behind a bewildered Bronwyn and an unbothered Hadwin.
The assemblage at the villa took place the following evening, the venue chosen to spare Nia, barely out of recovery, from configuring the portal mirrors, the burden of travel by carriage or night steed. They gathered in Aristide’s sprawling parlor, seated in plush settees–save for Haraldur, who always preferred standing. He declined the offer of a drink and a “light refreshment” of cheeses and fruits plated artfully on a silver-plated serving tray. He almost wanted to snort aloud. What was this, an evening soiree?
As per last time, Sylvie was among the small audience of nine, but not for long. Vega devised a strategy of redirection, one that the young Canaveris noblewoman seemed hesitant to accept at first. “Oh, Lord Rigas has been teaching me some of Eyraille’s customs and rituals from the perspective of a diplomat. But,” she caught herself, a practiced smile removing any nuance of discomfiture or suspicion–not that she could afford to incite Vega’s hair-trigger temper a second time, “it would be an honor to study under a native Eyraillian. As I am representing Stella D’Mare, I do not intend to sequester my cultural heritage, but neither am I insensitive to Eyraille’s preferred…palate,” she said delicately. “I shall reconvene with you presently.” With a curtsy, she swept out of the parlor on slippered, whispering feet, quiet as the night. Not putting it past her to listen at the door, Haraldur relocated to stand sentinel by the entrance, peering through the slats to ascertain their conversation remained within the parameters of the room.
As was quickly becoming tradition during strategy meetings, someone had an outburst. This time, it did not stem from Vega. All eyes were on Nia as the subject of Ilandria and the persecution of Master Alchemists employed by its king triggered a tirade no one, not even the gentle hand of Ari beside her, could quell. No attempts at reason would calm a racing heartbeat filled with rage, so Haraldur crossed his arms, heard her out, and swerved aside when she made her inevitable exit through the doors. Even if Sylvie wasn’t actively listening by the door, he was sure everyone in the villa heard Nia’s impassioned–but justified–rant. So much for keeping things covert.
Ari, who caught himself mid-stride in his knee-jerk reaction to follow Nia out the door, remembered his commitment to his guests as the host and facilitator of the meeting and turned to address Vega. “No amount of hand-picked words and soothing tones will appease a wildcat when she is cornered,” he said evenly, his expression placid, not a wrinkle or furrow to be seen. If he was bothered by her, he concealed it under a thick veneer of politesse–though his words hinted at his agitation. “For the analogy, perhaps it is more fitting to replace ‘wildcat’ with ‘roc.’ The creatures represented are interchangeable, after all. That is to say, we all have our triggers, Vega Sorde. Last time, you demonstrated yours. We can safely infer that Nia harbors unresolved trauma in association with Ilandria. Had I known what you intended to discuss, I would have prepared her beforehand. However, something tells me all the preparation in the world would not have sufficed when the wounds we prod haven’t been given a chance to heal.”
Lifting his hands, he addressed everyone in the parlor who remained. “In Nia’s absence, I will provide my verdict. On behalf of Stella D’Mare, I cannot condone this covert alliance. Pending our reacquainted partnership with Eyraille, granting my support that counters King Caris’ wishes would set a bad precedent–a conflict of interest, should he uncover the truth before he is adequately prepared. Please understand. Acting duplicitously did not serve me well in the past. I will not don that old mantle.” He gripped the edge of the settee, the same where Nia lay, barely conscious with an infected leg, days before he betrayed her to Galeynian authorities. “Through transparency I will aid Eyraille, but in faith, I will inform him of nothing exchanged within these walls. Your provisional arrangement,” he gestured at the husband-wife duo, “in whatever illicit, unofficial capacity, resides between you and Prince Safir Vallaincourt. As it does not involve the governing body of Ilandria, the prince too will suffer for his unscrupulous infractions. …Perhaps not,” he frowned, reconsidering. “Compared to his genocidal-happy father, this small deviation from the democratic Illandrian model would not result in much, if any, disciplinary action by his court. Nonetheless, one cannot ignore the risk of fomenting a climate of mistrust. If Caris cannot trust his advisors and alliances, Eyraille’s downfall will be all but assured.”
“So you’re saying we should rely solely on your niece to sway Caris’ attitude on the off chance he’ll change his mind and wait until he welcomes us back into Eyraille with open arms?” It was the first time Haraldur spoke since entering the Canaveris villa. “We’re done dancing around the outer fringes of this crisis, being told our unsanctioned involvement will be the catalyst behind Eyraille’s defeat. If Eyraille is going to get destroyed either way, then fuck protocol and diplomacy and going through the ‘proper’ channels. This is our opportunity, and we’re moving in.”
“You are free to arrange yourself however you like, Commander,” Ari clasped his hands, choosing not to match Haraldur’s impatient incitements to arms. “I am not disputing your or Vega Sorde’s decision; only Stella D’Mare’s stance and our rationale behind it.”
“I think it’s best we hold off on making any decisions until we hear back from the envoy in Eyraille,” Alster suggested, rising from his seat to stand near Ari and Haraldur in case things turned ugly between them. “Give it another day or two. By then, I’ll be done with the finishing touches on the mirror, Nia will have time to fully recover, and Haraldur and Vega can make their arrangements in anticipation of departure. We’ll reconvene then, ideally when everyone has had adequate rest and can think straight without losing their composure. I know tensions are high, but let’s do our best to be civil. We’re all on the same side, even if our methods differ.” He slipped the instructional paper Nia gave him into his pocket, freeing up his hands. Just in case. “If you need me, I’ll be available for transportation. The roads from here to Eyraille, or Ilandria for that matter, might be monitored by Mollengard. Too much activity will alert them to Galeyn’s involvement, especially if we keep using the iconic and recognizable Night steed. They’re not as covert as we believe. Until we can get the mirrors erected in Eyraille and possibly Ilandria, let’s settle for the clandestine. The fewer waves we make, the better. Speaking of clandestine,” he held up his right hand, the steel prosthesis glinting in a subtle sparkle of blue etherea, “Sylvie can’t hear a word of what we’re discussing in this room. I think we can all agree that the less she knows, the better.”
Having settled on a tentative agreement, the party dispersed for the evening, thus unchaining Ari from his host responsibilities and allowing him to search for Nia. Fortunately, it didn’t take him long as he entered his room and saw her curled up on the top sheets of his bed, fully clothed.
“I should not have agreed to his gathering until you were well. For that, you have my sincerest apologies.” He sat beside her on the bed, gently stroking her back in small, concentric circles. “No one blames you, Nia. Considering Vega’s outburst from last time, and the surprising loss of Haraldur’s composure shortly after you left, I think we all expect at least one person to spiral into a passionate furor. Perhaps next time, it will be my turn,” he smiled in spite of the implications. The last time he “spiraled,” he nearly started a war with Galeyn in retaliation for their plans to execute Nia. “Heavens know I nearly lost my impartial tone toward the end. Rest assured, you are not an embarrassment. No relationships have been decimated, but if you still feel this way in the morning, it is nothing a formal apology to Vega Sorde cannot assuage.”
“A lot is at stake, presently,” he said, launching into a brief overview of what happened after she left. “When two people are faced with the loss of their home, it is nearly impossible to ask them not to act. I do not fault Vega and Haraldur for their stance. However, I did motion for Stella D’Mare to distance themselves from any underhanded dealings of Prince Safir, who I am certain has not gained greater Ilandria’s approval to recruit the Eyraillian exiles as it would conflict with their ally’s fervent wishes. For now, It is best for Stella D’Mare to take the straight and narrow path, so to speak. We shall operate with honesty and transparency around King Caris and gently guide him to the best course of action for his kingdom.”
Ari slowly removed his hand from atop Nia as he shifted out of the bed. “I will arrange for supper to be delivered to my room. We shall dine together. Does that sound tenable? When I return, I was hoping you would tell me of your relationship with Safir, but,” he emphasized, as softly as he could muster, “only if it will not invoke too much pain. It is best that we know—that I know—who we are dealing with, and how best to approach this man in the future. I will not let him near you, at any rate. Out of respect for you, he will not receive my grace. Only a sharp, indifferent understanding.”
Before he stepped out of the room to place his dinner order with the kitchen staff, he fetched Nia an extra quilt from the chest at the foot of the bed, draping it lovingly around her shoulders and planting a kiss on her forehead. “I will return shortly, but here is something you can ponder about while I am away. I’ve never ventured to ask; what is your favorite stone, if you were to choose? Barring that, a favorite color? No reason for me to know in particular. Curiosity grips me, I suppose.” With a playful wink, Ari stepped out of the room, but true to his word, returned a half hour later carrying trays of food stacked with all of Nia’s favorites.
As much as she possessed the same host-headed streak as Caris, characteristic of the Sorde bloodline, Vega was at least better acquainted with recognizing when it was absolutely pertinent to rein it in… and to recognize when she had made a mistake. Fortunately, Ari had the grace not to lash out in retaliation for upsetting Nia on such a grand scale. She counted herself lucky that she and Haraldur weren’t entirely thrown out of the Canaveris villa. “Yes, I understand. In hindsight, we should have informed you ahead of time that we’d planned to bring up the topic of Ilandria. But… we feared that, had Nia known, she might never have considered refraining from entertaining any conversations surrounding her former home and its Prince, and her input is very valuable on this topic. Furthermore,” she glanced at the other faces in the room, as if she hoped to find understanding in one of them. “We decided it would be best that the fewer people who are aware of our plan, then better. Not for lack of trust, but knowing how quickly information can travel on accident. So, thank you for your promise of silence, and we understand that on behalf of Stella D’Mare, you won’t take part in any of this. Unfortunately…”
The Skyknight sighed and raked a hand through her thick, red locks. “From us, Caris will not listen to reason and will not respond to transparency. We have tried both, to no avail, and as a result, this leaves us with no other choice than duplicity. My home--and Caris’--is in danger. And if I must act against his will to prevent a terrible outcome… then I will personally accept the consequences, should he find out prematurely. And I, personally, shall accept the consequences.” She sat with her shoulders level and her spine straight, demonstrating her ironwilled resolve. “Safir has informed us that while Ilandria as a whole has not been informed of the possibility of our involvement, he has already cleared the idea with the closest members of his council representing the different districts of his kingdom. Should our plan not unfold as we had hoped, and should my younger brother uncover my duplicity, then I will personally take the fall. For all he will know, it was my lone decision all along, and everyone else will have simply gone along with it. But, for the future of my home, and for my own brother’s safety… I see no choice but to be underhanded. And if all I can expect from the rest of you is to agree to disagree, then that is the outcome I graciously accept.”
Mirroring her husband’s decision to play a rational, neutral party, Elespeth couldn’t help but agree that everyone was getting far ahead of themselves when it wasn’t even decided as of yet whether Eyraille would accept a D’Marian or Galeynian diplomat at this time. It was all a moot point until they received confirmation, either way. “Alster’s right. We’re getting ahead of ourselves. We should sleep on it, wait for the messenger to return with Eyraille’s decision, and then take it from there. However… in my opinion, I don’t believe it wise to try and breach the subject of Ilandria or Prince Safir Vallaincourt with Nia again.” The former knight scanned the room for understanding and agreement, particularly on Ari’s part, and seemed to silently receive it from most parties. “It is like Ari has said: she has not been awarded the chance to heal from the trauma she associates with her home. When I was rescued from Atvany… I was faced with so much support, however much it hurt to acknowledge my home was no longer home for me. I had Alster, and Haraldur, and even at that point, I found family among the Rigases. Not to say that I still don’t harbour wounds that have yet to heal: my brother died, because of me. I watched it happen, and I’ll never forget. But I had people to lean on, people to help me through the dark, and to reassure me it is okay to hurt for a while. Nia, on the other hand…”
She turned her head to where the Master Alchemist had fled, hands trembling, barely able to maintain her balance, her brown eyes shining with old pain of bleeding, seeping wounds that she wanted nothing more than to ignore--or better yet, to forget.
“Do not misunderstand: I don’t speak for Nia, for she can speak very well for herself. And I won’t pretend that we’ve had to resolve some of our own personal differences; it’s not some well-kept secret that we weren’t instant friends.” Elespeth mentioned, a means of acknowledging her own accountability. “But when you consider that for over a decade, the only thing she had to lean on was flight: her ability to keep running, and I hope that someday, she might not have to run anymore. And when she finally stopped running, she found herself in the employ of a vengeful witch, and then, a scapegoat for that witch’s deeds, landing her a prisoner of Galeyn… but we all know that story. What I’m trying to say is, any further insight into Ilandria should be gleaned through other sources. I mention all this because, technically, I’m still a fugitive, even if Atvany believes me dead.” She offered as an explanation for suddenly seeming to care so much for someone whom she still didn’t hold in particularly high regard. “It would be hypocritical of me not to acknowledge I empathize, to some extent.”
Although Vega couldn’t speak for Haraldur’s feelings on all of this, she couldn’t deny Elespeth’s sound reasoning, and nodded in agreement. “This meeting… this was my mistake. We will not broach the topic of Ilandria again with Nia. Instead, I will tread cautiously in my dealings with Safir Vallaincourt from this point forward. Nonetheless, thank you all for hearing me out, today. On Alster’s advice, let’s wait to meet again. Ari,” Vega turned to the Canaveris lord as she stood from her seat. “Please pass on my apologies to Nia. And if there is anything I can do to make up for triggering her pain, do let me know.”
The small gathering dispersed, then, and as per her promise, Vega consulted with Sylvie for a short time after, offering her take on what Ari’s niece had planned to take in terms of her wardrobe, and what styles were appropriate (or not so) pertaining to certain events. Night had fallen by the time she finished, and took a carriage back to the palace with Haraldur, who didn’t say much on the way back. In fact, he hadn’t said much at all in the past few days, not since Safir had first contacted them via the resonance stone, and the former Princess of Eyraille had taken notice, but as of yet, had not brought it up.
No sooner did she unlock and open the door to their quarters, that the sound must have roused one of the twins from their slumber, and subsequently, both of them awoke in less than amicable moods. Vega’s maternal instincts kicked in immediately, and she rushed to scoop both the crying baby, and the now unsettled one into both her arms. Haraldur, on the other hand, didn’t even make a move to be involved… and, like her children, Vega was through with being silent.
“I don’t think you should travel to Ilandria. In fact, I don’t want you to, if it means you are choosing to stop being a father.” The twins were growing fast and getting heavy, so she had no choice but to take a seat on a settee to cradle crying Klara in one arm, and soothe bewildered Kynnet on her lap with the other. “I will take a chance and travel to Ilandria, acknowledging the possibility that I will not see my children again for a very long time… but hoping otherwise. Because there is absolutely no point in getting involved at all in the absence of hope; there’s no point in fighting if you don’t try to fight for the outcome you want.” Vega pressed her lips together in a firm line. “So if traveling to Ilandria with your knowledge of Mollengard and how they will use the Forbanne against Eyraille means that you absolve yourself of any future involvement in your children’s lives, Haraldur, then you should not go. You can stay here, with the children in my absence, and inform Ilandria and Eyraille from afar. Klara and Kynnet will not forget you, even if they are at risk of forgetting who their mother is.”
While Kynnet was more easily soothed, and already falling asleep again on his mother’s lap, Klara couldn’t be consoled. As if she was already so attuned to the tension that permeated the walls of her small home. “When you married me, you became Haraldur Sorde. And when our children were born, you became a father. Both of those events were never intended to be unsettled by pending war… but, if the only way you can become involved is to distance yourself from both, then I don’t want you taking part in these efforts. It’s not worth it--and there is no place for you in this plan if you cannot, by any means, grasp at hope.”
Unable to sooth young Klara, to any avail, Vega stood and wordlessly handed the fussy girl off to her father. Often when one parent failed to placate the twins’ fussy temperaments, it meant that they were in need of attention from the other. And Harldur hadn’t so much as looked in the children’s direction for days. “The choice is yours, but I stand firm on what I said. If you can’t be a soldier and a father, then just be a father. Protect them here, and I will protect them from afar. You’ve already spent enough years as a soldier… It doesn’t suit you to return to a life where you will find no meaning.”
Leaving him temporarily alone with his thoughts, and his daughter in his arms, Vega returned to the twins’ bedroom to try and coax Kynnet to go back to sleep in his crib.
As much as Ari tried to reassure her none of this was her fault, Nia couldn’t help but feel wretched for her outburst. No one meant any ill will toward her, and Vega’s questions had been sound and non-threatening. It was the Master Alchemist who had chosen to receive the words as weapons, and to throw knives back. “I offered to be of help. And when I’m finally sought out… I act like a bastard. Vega’s not in the wrong. I could’ve been more forthright. I chose not to be because… apparently, I wasn’t in the mood.”
Truth be told, for all Ari claimed to be on her side and not to hold her accountable, she was surprised to hear him press her for information about Safir. It wasn’t the first time he had brought up the topic, and maybe that was her fault. She was bad at hiding her disdain for the man, but never touched on the details as to why. It was bound to bring up questions; she couldn’t fault Ari--or Vega, or anyone else--for wanting more information. “There’s nothing more to tell than what I’ve already said.” The Master Alchemist sighed, too tired to lift her head from the pillow, even at the beautiful promise of food. “When I was young, there was a short span of time where I thought he was someone who could be trusted. I thought he was different from his father. But when his father ordered the massacre of my family and other Master Alchemists… he did nothing. He isn’t different from Ullir, and I’ll never be stupid enough to trust him again.”
Perhaps Ari knew that there was more to it than what she’d said. Clearly, Safir must have done something, or presented himself in a certain way to earn her trust in the first place, and she had yet to touch on what had won her over in the first place. Instead, she simply offered: “I was a desperate kid, Ari. Before and after I fled Ilandria. Desperate for a friend, someone I could really connect with, someone I could trust not to hurt me, even if they couldn’t protect me. It’s my own fault that I was wrong so many times, but I’ve learned from my mistakes. That said… just because Ilandria’s Prince let me down, doesn’t mean he’ll do the same with Vega Sorde. If he’s concerned Ilandria will become Mollengard’s next target if Eyraille falls, then he has every reason not to betray her. They’ve got common ground, which is something Safir and I never shared. But beyond that… there is nothing else I can tell you. I’m sorry.”
Unlike the Skyknight, Nia was fortunate that Ari knew better than to pry and risk shattering her all over again. Instead, the topic of Ilandria and Safir Vallaincourt was dropped, and switched to something entirely unrelated--and very unexpected. “...my favourite stone?” When had there ever been a point in her life where she’d had the luxury to sit and ponder her favourite anything? But Nia couldn’t say that to Ari and hurt his feelings. She didn’t have a favourite stone, and whatever colour she preferred depended on the day, the time, the season, and largely, her mood. So the best she could do was think of the first noteworthy stone that came to mind, and hoped it passed his vibe check.
“Ametrine.” The attractive purple and yellow mixed hues played through her mind’s eye as clear as day. “Easy as hell to fabricate with access to amethyst and citrine as an Alchemist or a Master Alchemist; not so commonly found in nature. Also, not particularly useful in any practice, but I guess I found it pretty. Made and purified a couple as gifts back in the day, but I doubt anyone ever held onto them.”
Although there was nothing her body wanted more than food, and the promise of a meal excited her more than she had the energy to express, Nia’s mind craved rest more than anything else. By the time Ari returned with almost every food the Master Alchemist could possibly crave, she was fast asleep, and so dead to the world that waking her up and expecting her to maintain consciousness for any amount of time was, sadly, a futile effort.
Back at his home in Eyraille, Caris Sorde paced his study impatiently as he awaited the summons he’d sent, such that not a single square foot of the room was untouched. She certainly took her time, but at last arrived, bearing a cool composure that contrasted harshly with the Eyraillian King’s unsettled energy.
“Care to explain what the hell this is?” Foregoing any form of greeting, Caris held up the letter he had just received from a D’Marian envoy, who they had allowed through Eyraille’s otherwise closed borders as a single exception due to perceivably friendly relations they’d established when Alster Rigas, a born and bred D’Marian, had saved his sister’s children in her womb. He’d thought that perhaps the D’Marians were in need of some sort of assistance, and weren’t able to find it in Galeyn. However, this letter detailed something entirely different that had taken him completely off guard. Stella D’Mare and Galeyn weren’t reaching out for help; rather, they were hoping to send a representative for diplomatic relations between Stella D’Mare and Eyraille. As if they weren’t satisfied that Alster Rigas, during his time here, hadn’t sufficed.
“So it’s not enough that you come here of your own accord, or so you say. It’s not enough to convince me to reconsider my decision regarding Vega and Haraldur’s exile, so now they send another. How many more guests can I expect before my sister gets the message? And how long until Galeyn and Stella D’Mare respect my damn decision and stop trying to change my mind on Vega’s behalf?”
Caris was so ready to be angry, and ready to let Tivia be the recipient of this anger, but the star seer didn’t even break her poker face when she informed him that not only did she not have anything to do with this, but had no idea what this D’Marian ‘diplomat’ intended to achieve, or who it was they even intended to send. The Eyraillian king believed her; after all, she had been entirely honest with him up until this point, and it didn’t make sense that she would betray his trust now and act behind his back. “So you’re really in the dark about this. The stars haven’t told you anything? We really don’t know what to expect?” But the stars did not always speak to Tivia when she wanted them to, or speak on any given issue she desired. They said what they wanted, when they wanted, and evidently, they hadn’t seen fit to inform her into this change of plans. Regardless, it was a change in the trajectory that the star seer had originally predicted, which could also potentially work out for the better… or for worse/
Lips pressed together, Caris took a seat at his desk and lowered the letter, scanning it again in case he’d missed anything in his hot-blooded ire. “...you know what? Let’s let them in. Clearly, lack or reply isn’t enough to get my point across, then I have no qualms saying it directly to their face. There will be no mistaking my feelings on the matter.”
Pushing the letter aside, Caris drew a clean piece of parchment, dipped a quill into ink, and began to scrawl a reply in his left-leaning, Eyraillian script. True to his nature, he was short and to the point, offering no more than a few sentences. “What a fucking waste of time. At least I can try to minimize my time spent wasted.” Wasting a few seconds for the ink to dry, the Eyraillian King folded the letter and poured wax onto the seam, sealing it with his personal stamp so there could be no mistaking this came directly from his desk. “I’m curious to see why they think sending someone to speak with me face-to-face will sway me to whatever it is they are toting, regardless of whether it’s related to my sister. Well, let them have their feelings hurt in person.”
Caris motioned over an attendant, who’d been standing off to the side, and handed them the letter to deliver to the messenger from Galeyn. “If this is what it takes to finally be left alone, then I’ll wear my ruthless reputation like my crown.”
Far from pacified, Haraldur at least had the sense to hold his tongue after Alster and Elespeth made their well-reasoned appeals to wait before traveling to Ilandria. He didn’t agree, but kept his dissenting opinions to himself, knowing his concerns would reach an unwelcome audience. Even Vega was all apologies, keeping her ire in check, when contrastly, he wanted to smash something expensive, which in the lavish Canaveris villa wouldn’t be difficult to find.
He said nothing else for the rest of the meeting, merely grunting to inform his acknowledgement of the points discussed, but not his agreement. He waited in the carriage while Vega spent some time in the villa instructing Sylvie on how to behave and dress in a manner least offensive to the easily riled Caris. Not like it would amount to anything. Not like war wasn’t already a surety on the horizon, and diplomatic excursions just noise and nonsense.
Silence accompanied their carriage ride home. Silence followed into their chambers. One of the twins filled that silence with a distressed cry for attention, jolting Haraldur’s paternal instinct, but he stifled the need to answer the child’s needs, prompting Vega to act in his stead. He accompanied her to the nursery, mindful of his duty to fatherhood even if he could no longer provide emotionally for the children, and received the fussing Klara into his arms, holding her, but not consoling her.
Vega’s ultimatum came as a shock to him, such that he moved to a chair so as not to drop the complaining child. “That’s madness, Vega. You’re not going alone. You’d prevent me from coming for some non-reason like that? Have you been talking to Bronwyn and Hadwin? Because you’re sounding just like them. You absolutely will not make this sacrifice alone.”
There’s no sacrifice in what you’re doing if you mean to give them up… Dammit, he let one of the wolves into his head!
“This isn’t a choice. I don’t have a choice; stop acting like it is.” He hefted Klara in his arms like a sack of flour. She whimpered as if aware of her father's withdrawal of love. “I’m not abandoning anyone,” he said, more defensively than he intended. “Why do you think that? Because I’m putting myself in the mindset that’s necessary to prepare for war? I haven’t given up hope. It’s there, but we need to focus on reality. Hope doesn’t win wars. Hope doesn’t buy you a miracle. Hope kills, but reality informs, and I’d rather be informed than delusional.” He knew his argument had flaws. Knew of the last time he stopped hoping and allowed the likes of Rowen Kavanagh to burrow her snout into his vulnerable underside and tear into his raw flesh with her horrible visions. Lack of hope had literally killed him.
But this time was different. He fully intended on returning to his children. It was necessary to partition his affection, love, and kindness because failing to erect a barrier would mean those emotions of longing and heartache would trickle into his soldier’s persona, distracting him from doing his martial duty.
Why, then, wasn’t it working? Why did he feel like he scooped out his own heart and replaced it with a heavy stone? How would overburdening his load improve his ableness as a fighter, let alone a person trying to survive each day without tossing away the things that made him happy, fulfilled, and worthy?
When Vega wandered out of the room, carrying a distraught Kynnet, Haraldur rearranged the bundle in his arms into a cradle, tenderly pressing her against her chest.
“Klara,” he looked at his daughter, tears pricking her green eyes. “No matter what I do, how I act, where I go, please know that I love you and your brother. I’ll always love you.” He kissed her buttony nub of a nose, the ends of his stubble causing her to bubble into ticklish laughter. Despite everything, he smiled.
Haraldur didn’t give Vega his answer that evening. After they put the twins to sleep, he crept out of their chambers in the middle of the night, too restless to sleep. His sojourns led him, naturally, to the Night Garden, a route he planned from the start. He ended up standing under the grandiose canopy of the sentinel tree, shoulders heavy and slumped like a strayed supplicant begging for forgiveness.
“I have to go,” he whispered to the whispering branches, which creaked and groaned and carried their secrets on the wind. “I’ll hate myself if I don’t go. I can’t leave Vega to do this on her own. This is something I know I must do. To stand against Mollengard and protect the oppressed. It’s a song I’ve been carrying since the day they took me, screaming, from my father’s arms. One of hatred and revenge, simmering into a boil. As long as they’re out there, destroying what I hold dear, I can never live in peace. They’ll come for my children if I let them. But,” he shook his head, “I’ll hate myself if I go. I never want Klara and Kynnet to believe they were abandoned by their parents. I couldn’t live with myself if they grew up thinking they weren’t loved unconditionally. Yet, I don’t think I have the strength to be a soldier and a father. That’s why I can’t afford to feel. If I let myself feel, I won’t be able to bear it. I’ll be smothered by my own breath. Choke on my own spittle. I have to cut off one of those limbs to strengthen the other. But…that’s idiotic, isn’t it? The other limb isn’t dead, or sick. How can I exist as something whole when I’ve never been whole? When I keep trying to hack away what needs allowance to grow and thrive?”
The tree never reacted, never boomed a message in his head. Lately, it didn’t drop a branch or reveal another rune to carve and study and meditate on. Perhaps, he exhausted even the tree’s help. He asked too much, but provided nothing in return. He took and took and took. Why would the tree deign to humor his spate of human crises?
A branch snapped behind him. He spun around, hand on the hilt of the sword he remembered to take before leaving the palace. “Who’s there?” He demanded, pointing the blade at the darkness.
First, he heard no response. For a second he believed he hallucinated the sound or overestimated its source. An animal snapped the twig and darted off, nothing more incriminating. Until a small voice revealed itself. He wasn't entirely wrong to think it came from an animal.
“Haraldur, it’s me. It’s Bronwyn. I’m sorry for startling you. I started myself, not seeing that branch.” His blade wavered, hesitating. “May I come closer? Just for a second.”
Haraldur lowered the sword and tucked it back into its sheath. “Why are you here? Were you following me?”
“No.” Slowly, she slid out of the shadows and into the bioluminescent blue light emanating from the mushrooms marking a path to the base of the sentinel tree’s mighty roots. “Not intentionally. But I meant to find you eventually and give you these. Put out your hand.”
Haraldur didn’t budge. “Are you trying to buy my forgiveness? Because if that’s the case, I don’t want it.”
A long, impatient sigh whistled out of the faoladh’s mouth. “For the love of—just take it.” Before he could object, she wrenched open his hand and pressed two round, smooth objects into his palm.
He held them out, examining their oblong shape, the pointed ends, and the ridged tops that resembled little wood-hewn caps. “Acorns?” But he knew they weren’t just acorns. Nothing was just a plant, just a leaf, just a seed in the Night Garden.
“They dropped from the trees of your children. One each. Saplings, one-year-old, and they’re already shooting out of the ground, so eager to mature and tower over all else.” She couldn’t help but grin, but it quickly faded when Haraldur didn’t budge from his spot until she properly explained herself. “Let me know if I overstepped, but I just couldn’t leave things as they were from the other day. If you’re leaving Galeyn, take these with you. They’ll keep you connected to Klara and Kynnet, and they, to you. No matter the distance, I have a feeling that as long as you keep these acorns close, they’ll never forget you or Vega.”
Haraldur examined the seeds, but remained skeptical, even as they tingled with a familiar warmth, like the twins swaddled in blankets and snuggled close to their parents, blissfully asleep. “How would you possibly know that, Bronwyn? You’re not a Gardener.”
“No,” she nodded in admittance, holding half her head as if sudden movements pained it. Even in the ambient glow of the Night Garden, shadows appeared under her sunken eyes, and her skin shone as pale and waxen as tallow. “But I’m a wolf. A faoladh. I’m sensitive to certain energies in this place. It’s like how Hadwin can hear Teselin in the wind. I don’t think he’s imagining things. Not entirely, anyway. I legitimately believe he senses her, and it drives him mad because he can’t get to where she is. I don’t believe he can recover here, but that’s another story. I hated where we ended things. I’m not the strongest speaker when it matters. All I wanted to say was not to cut yourself off from loving your children just because it’s the easier thing to do in the short run. If it helps, carry these as a keepsake so you’ll have them always near.” Unbeknownst to her, her eyes glowed a soft, honeyed hue, impossible to avoid, like Rowen Kavanagh and her acerbic gaze. Unlike Rowen, he didn’t want to look away from the sweet wisps dancing in his vision, and the alluring promise they offered. “Sometimes all we need is a reminder,” she said as though in a trance, her voice like silk. “That we already have the love we deserve.”
When Haraldur returned to his family’s chambers early in the morning, he awoke Vega with a lingering kiss on her lips. “I’m coming with you,” he concluded, matter of fact and non-negotiable. “And so are they.” He held up the acorns Bronwyn handed him the night before. “In spirit. They won’t forget us, Vega. Because they can’t. Not when they’re always near.”
“Let’s spend our last days here with them. Everyone else can wait. I won’t withhold from them a moment longer.”
Tivia should have resented the rude awakening for an early morning summons by the irate king, but she had quickly grown accustomed to his modus operandi and was more curious than furious. As a petty form of revenge, she took her time washing up and looking decent before following the guard out the door and to Caris’s study. No sooner did she appear on the threshold than he swooped on her like a bird of prey and went on a tirade she could barely follow on her own, his lips flapping incomprehensibly fast, until he shoved the letter in her face. Understanding dawned on her. Confusion, too, but less so, now that he presented the context.
“One of the first things I mentioned to you upon arrival was that I had come to Eyraille on my own accord. I do not represent Stella D’Mare or Galeyn, and neither Vega nor Haraldur sent me. I’m acting alone. Whatever this message is about, or who they plan to send, has nothing to do with me.” That explanation seemed to convince Caris, insofar as he stopped directing his anger at her. Unruffled, she continued. “We’ve embarked on a new chronology separate from what the stars divined. From here on out, I can’t accurately predict what will happen next. Only the paths that closely intersect with the lines that run parallel to us. Here is what I can predict, based on what I know about Stella D’Mare.” She watched, hiding her amusement as the tirade-prone king hunkered behind his desk and angrily scrambled for parchment and writing implements, hasty as always to provide his retort without thinking through the consequences first.
“My cousin Alster is an idiot, but even he wouldn’t be idiotic enough to come here and smooth things over on behalf of Vega and Haraldur. If I had to guess, this diplomat was chosen by Aristide Canaveris, the current Lord of Stella D’Mare. If I had to make a comparison, he’s similar to Safir Vallaincourt. He has a strong, noble bearing, oozes honor, and values fairness and lawfulness. He’s also a stickler for tradition and takes his customs seriously, including paying back whatever debts he feels he owes to his allies. I suppose he sees this a pertinent time to compensate for the aid you provided during Stella D’Mare’s mass exodus.” Though she spoke these words with a strong dose of indifference, beneath her practiced veneer, she felt a sting of longing for a time that ceased existing. A time when she dressed in Canaveris finery and wore the yellow Topaz proudly on her ring finger, an unmistakable sign that she belonged to their family not only by marriage, but by merit. She had earned the stone, earned the name, and earned her place. How could she deny their entry into Eyraille, despite her fierce insistence that Caris trust no one from the outside? And what would prompt Stella D’Mare to insinuate their aid so suddenly, if not spurred by some inciting event? She didn’t like it, but she was on board with Caris’ proposal. Let them in, see what they wanted, and send them packing.
It didn’t seem like there would be a problem. If Caris was as good as his word, whatever diplomat who crossed into Eyraillian territory wouldn’t stand a chance.
Partly out of guilt, Ari tiptoed around Nia since asking her to reveal her past relationship with the Ilandrian Prince. Even when he presided over the meeting and agreed with Elespeth’s assessment not to broach the topic of Ilandria with her, he had selfishly asked her for the information regardless of her feelings, and for what reason? Morbid curiosity? A fervent need to know if she and the Prince were ever intimate?
He didn’t know how else to lift her depressive mood. Food hadn’t sufficed, nor did attempts at bedroom play, and her easy attitude and glib assurances of contended tranquility seldom fooled him anymore. Nonetheless, he acted like a besotted man in love, taking her at her word in an effort to appease and please. He didn’t broach anything of import. Aside from mentioning Sylvie’s Eyraille-bound preparations and the D’Marian envoy’s return, of which they awaited for two days, what they spoke bore little substance. Empty chatter apt to fill a room at a dinner party.
He was relieved, therefore, for the interruption. A knock on his bedroom door sounded that evening. An attendant, apologetic for disturbing him after hours, announced that the envoy had just returned from Eyraille and wanted to meet with Ari to deliver the message signed by the king. As Nia was privy to the conversation at the door, she accompanied Ari and the attendant to the parlor where the envoy stood, awaiting the lord of the villa’s arrival. Without preamble, he handed Ari the letter, which he opened and read on the spot. “Then we must prepare for an immediate departure. Tomorrow evening, if we decide to employ the Night steeds. If we involve Lord Rigas…” Trailing off, he passed the message back to the envoy. “Please inform Lord and Lady Rigas, Queen Lilica and her consort, and the Eyraillian exiles of the contents of the letter. If possible, tell them to gather at the villa first thing in the morning at the latest.” When the envoy departed, a decanter of honeyed wine and a light meal for his troubles, Ari turned to Nia. “This is it, then. Our audience with the notorious king of Eyraille. I am loath to awaken Sylvie at this late hour, but she must be made aware of our prompt response. She will need to sharpen her tongue and her wits if she intends on convincing Vega’s impetuous little brother to serve on his court.”
“And here I thought it was your cousin, Alster Rigas, who currently governed Stella D’Mare. It was during the D’Marian exodus, at least.” Caris frowned, and for a moment, wondered if his memory wasn’t fully intact. “A lot changes in a small amount of time, apparently. I’m not familiar with this Aristide Canaveris, but I’ve certainly had my fill of his type, if he’s anything like Prince Vallaincourt. One stickler for traditions and protocols is all I need. But, if he is merely the one choosing the diplomat he intends to send in his place… well, let’s hope there’s a modicum of difference in persona. Otherwise, I might well succumb to my sister’s curse and consider imbibing in wine for the sake of my sanity.”
With the letter written, signed, and sealed, and send off to be delivered to the envoy from Galeyn (he frankly wasn’t clear as to whether they were Galeynian or D’Marian, as the lines were inextricably blurred at this point), there was nothing left to do but wait--and prepare to make this diplomat regret wasting his time. “I have to say, I’m rather curious as to what this Aristide Canaveris wishes to ‘compensate’, particularly when most of Eyraille’s efforts toward aid for the D’Marians were spearheaded by my sister, who already happens to be in their company. I suppose we’ll just have to wait and see what kind of speech they’ve spun to try and sway me to whatever agenda they have in mine. In any case… My apologies for summoning you so hastily.”
Interestingly, the fact that he felt comfortable enough to inconvenience the star seer was actually synonymous with the fact that, over the past few weeks, Caris was really growing to respect her. But whether Tivia (or even Caris, for that matter) was aware of it, it was best left unaddressed. Sometimes calling attention to a good thing was all it took to make it dissipate. “I suppose we’ll reconvene in a few days’ time. Just long enough to send Aristide Canaveris’s diplomat back home, regretting that they ever made this trip. I don’t deal in superfluous niceties on the best of days.” The young king’s mouth turned downward at the corners. “Let alone during a time of impending war.”
Despite completion of the first portal mirror, which had already passed her scrutinizing inspection, Nia’s energy did not lift after a few days of rest and good food. The idea of traveling to Eyraille, and the possibility of traveling to Ilandria, hadn’t fazed her in the slightest before people had begun drilling her specifically about Safir Vallaincourt. For all her home had betrayed her, the Master Alchemist couldn’t deny she still harboured a deep love for it. For Ilandria’s easy springs and cathartic winters. For the spices and herbs harvested from the bases of the mountains, many which didn’t even grow in Eyraille. She missed the fireflies in the winter, and walking the markets in the early morning, hearing the musical lilt of her native language spoken unabashedly among the working classes, yet rarely heard among the upper classes. There would always be a part of her that loved Ilandria; a sacred part of her heart that it forever kept hostage, because despite all the pain and trauma she experienced within its borders, it was still the place where she had grown up with her sisters. It was where she had chased fireflies in the dead of night, on the coldest eves in winter. It was when she learned just how grateful she was for the smallest things in life: a warm bed, a hot meal, a stranger’s smile, a friend’s laugh… For all Ilandria had hurt her, she knew that if she had the opportunity, she’d be back in a heartbeat. Not indefinitely: not since she had resolved to make the rest of her life with Ari, who most certainly had no intention of moving his family to the nation that had wanted her dead (and perhaps still did). But if it were in the cards for her to visit, even just occasionally without repercussions… She wasn’t confident she could resist.
Yet somehow, the ruling family--in particular, Ilandria’s Prince, and future King--was what triggered Anetania Ardane’s ire, and threatened to shatter her. She could talk about Ilandria for hours, the good and the bad, but the Vallaincourts were a topic that she’d have been happier to never, ever discuss. Not even with Ari, because the Canaveris lord and appointed leader of Stella D’Mare was her future. And she refused to let her past interfere with her future… if she could help it.
To his credit, Ari didn’t bring up Safir again after that evening. He let her rest, brought her meals when she needed it, and gave her the time and space over the next couple of days to get back on her feet. He was nothing short of a perfect, loving companion, and she so badly wanted to reciprocate. So in the days following her temperamental explosion among her friends and comrades, the Master Alchemist tried to shake it off as if it didn’t bother her. She smiled, and laughed, and cracked jokes, and nothing could diminish her libido in the bedroom, but she had the feeling that he wasn’t fooled. He knew her too well; was too attuned with her body as well as her moods… he saw through it all.
So when their evening was interrupted by a messenger, it was a welcome change of pace to break the tension in the atmosphere that had been looming over them like a raincloud. Truth be told, she didn’t know what to expect when she approached the door, and the letter was handed to Ari. She’d been willing to bet that Caris Sorde would sooner leave them all hanging, like he had done to his sister, instead of sending an outright refusal to grant them an audience and clearance through Eyraille’s borders. Yet, somehow… he’d agreed.
“What in this universe would have possessed Eyraille’s King to agree to this?” Nia couldn’t help but speak her mind, so taken aback by this news that she couldn’t feign her feelings about it otherwise. “He won’t hear out his own sister, yet he’s open to international relations from someone who he is very well aware could be an acquaintance of hers. If you ask me, from what little I do know of Caris Sorde, the only reason he’d comply with our outreach is as big ‘fuck you’ to Vega.”
Which… might, ultimately, work out in their favour, although it would more than likely put a dent in Sylvie’s pride. Whether he met with her, only to give her the cold shoulder and turn her away, or made it abundantly clear that this was only a passive aggressive move against Eyraille’s former princess, Ari’s niece would be hurt. And as much as Nia didn’t wish such a thing upon Sylvie… it may well be what she needed to bring her head back down to earth. “I’ll go let her know.” Nia offered, agreeing that it was best that Sylvie be amply prepared. “It’s now or nothing; the Sordes are not known for their patience. If we don’t hit the opportunity while it’s still hot, we’ll lose our chance.”
Sure enough, not only Sylvie, but everyone else was informed of King Caris’ word no later than that very evening; and, as a result, many of the parties involved barely slept a wink. Sylvie, understandably, had been kept awake with nerves. Suddenly realizing her future proximity to Ilandria--or more specifically, the people who had killed her family--had prevented Nia from doing more than toss and turn, and her restless body had likely kept Ari awake.
Alster and Elespeth, who had gathered at the palace in central Galeyn didn’t look particularly well rested, and neither did Haraldur and Vega (who, to be fair, seemed to have been experiencing some state of turmoil ever since Caris had sent word of their exile.) Even Lilica and Chara, who were not slated leave for Eyraille, looked as though they were still settling with the fact that Caris Sorde had agreed to this at all. In sum, not a single one of them looked ready or aptly prepared for this trip and everything it would entail, because few (if any) of them had actually thought they would be making this trip…
But wasn’t that just like Caris Sorde, deciding what was least expected, and what would make the most uncomfortable impact.
Once everyone was settled (albeit barely awake), Ari said his part, reading the letter word for word (which wasn’t long; Caris had been quite to the point), and announced that they should depart no later than this evening, if they wanted to have an audience with Eyraille’s king during his proffered window of time.
“That will be quite a number of night steeds for this excursion,” Lilica mused, considering the large group that planned to depart Galeyn for a kingdom a great distance away. “Do bear in mind that few mares have bred since Galeyn was awakened, and many were lost to Locque’s wrath. At the moment, they’re not in infinite supply…”
“Alster and I can travel by other means.” Elespeth mentioned casually, referring to her husband’s ability to cut through space and time, and manifest in far-away places in an instant. While it hadn’t been discussed that she would be part of the entourage, it was clear she wasn’t willing to stay behind in Galeyn, even if Alster didn’t intend to remain in Eyraille longer than it took to complete the final touches on Nia’s second portal mirror. No one dared argue with her when Ari was intent on accompanying Sylvie and Nia. At least, it certainly wasn’t a fight that Lilica wished to pick.
In line with discussion regarding transport, Nia offered: “Ari, Sylvie and I can take a two-horse carriage, if you can spare a couple of steeds. Under better conditions, it might be faster to travel through Nairit to Eyraille by roc, but if we don’t want to make a spectacle… We’ll have to come up from the south. Through Braighdath, carefully around that expansive body of water, and up through Ilandria. Which, I wager will still take a handful of days, but it’s the safest route, if we don’t want to rouse Mollengard’s suspicions.”
Perhaps safest wasn’t the first consideration on everyone’s minds: not when Nia, it seemed, would have to endure travel through the nation that had destroyed her family. However, when the Master Alchemist didn’t seem to bat an eyelash to the potential danger, everyone knew better than to draw attention to it or weigh in.
Lilica, to her credit, knew well enough not to react either way, and simply offered a consenting nod. “I can offer you a carriage, but even with the largest, I suggest you pack light. Not only for lack of space that will impede the comfort of travel, but the less the night steeds have to haul, the faster they will move under the cover of darkness.”
“I think I know a thing or two about packing light.” Nia commented with a knowing grin. “I’m no stranger to being on the move. Hey, it’s a great excuse to dive into haute Eyraillian fashion. Am I right, Slyvie?” She playfully nudged Ari’s niece, knowing how much she delighted in shopping, and hoping it would put some of her nerves at ease.
Vega snorted, unable to but to weigh in with a monotone: “Don’t get too excited. Eyraillian clothing trends have leaned utilitarian for as long as I can remember. You’ll stand out in that; and not in a way that will make my brother take you seriously.” She nodded to the pale blue gown that currently donned Sylvie’s body. “Consider my suggestions for your wardrobe. In fact, if you have a moment now, there is something more I think you should know before you leave.”
The Skynight stood and made to leave the council chambers, glancing over her shoulder to see if Sylvie deigned to follow. With Nia’s nod of encouragement, Ari’s niece nervously followed Vega just outside the room, understandably apprehensive and not knowing what to expect. But the time had come and passed where Vega Sorde felt it necessary to expel her ire onto a young girl with good, albeit unclear intentions. “I just feel you should know that what I’ve said--what everyone has said--about Caris is true. He is arrogant and petulant, and he cares little for how he comes across to others, who he insults, and who he hurts. Regardless of your heritage, he will see you as beneath him, and I can’t guarantee that anything you do will win his respect. He isn’t a nice or reasonable person, Sylvie; and the worst part is he knows this, and he doesn’t care. But…”
The ex-princess hesitated, as if searching for the right words, then expelled a puff of air. “But, all that said…” Vega glanced down both ends of the corridor, ensuring they were alone. Her words were difficult as it was to form in front of Sylvie, let alone any eavesdroppers. “Caris isn’t evil. He is harsh, but not unlawfully cruel. He is a direct product of his environment, and of betrayal--and I am partly to blame. I betrayed him; and then, in his eyes, I abandoned him. Chose the family I have with Haraldur over the family I have with him. I’m not telling you this because I’m trying to justify his character or excuse his actions: I’m saying this because I think it is important for you to understand that he doesn’t act out of malice. He acts out of anger, and that anger was born of deep hurt. If you can keep that in mind, then it will be easier for you not to take his demeanor personally.
“That said…” Vega raised her shoulders and dropped them again. “If you’re having second thoughts, now is your chance to backpedal. Otherwise… I trust you understand exactly what you are in for.”
With everyone relevant to Eyraille’s operation once again packed inside the Canaveris parlor, Ari didn’t tarry in his announcement of King Caris’s letter via envoy. A muted surprise passed over those gathered save for Sylvie, who thought everyone was unnecessarily harsh on the adolescent king of Eyraille.
“We should be glad for the reply, even if King Caris is entertaining an audience simply to silence our persistence,” Sylvie countered, trading surprise for practicality. Naive as Vega believed she was, Casimiro’s eldest daughter didn’t invest in empty hopefuls. Everyone had an angle. Selfish desires. Ulterior motives. She only hoped hers did not appear too evidently on her face. “I expect he will be in a devilish mood when he receives us.”
“We will ensure our initial meeting runs smoothly, Sylvie, you have my word,” Ari promised, offering his niece a hot, honeyed beverage to settle her nerves. Though she presented herself as unrattled (enough), she accepted the drink and sipped on it intermittently, feeling her squirming stomach ease.
“An allotment of two steeds is amenable to us,” Chara said, agreeing with the proposal request. “Given they return to Galeyn posthaste. And no, Alster,” she shot a heated glance at Lord Rigas, who lifted a hand but hadn’t a moment to open his mouth to speak, “do not consider squeezing everyone through your narrow and unstable method of transportation. I don’t doubt your ability to travel impressive distances in moments, but at maximum how many people have you taken? Two? Three?”
“...Two,” Alster muttered, slowly lowering his hand.
“Then it is settled,” Ari said, for once not teasing his eager-to-please rival and predecessor. “Sylvie, Nia, and I shall take the carriage, though if I were to make an amendment; we embark on a northeasterly route, avoiding the lake and Ilandria altogether, and enter Eyraille by way of the foothills of Nairit. It will be a gentler entrance through the mountainous kingdom and less taxing on the steeds. True, we will be near Mollengard by proximity, but Nairit’s thick forests in the dark of night should provide us ample cover. Though it will add an extra day or so to the journey, overall, we will be making incredible time compared to the alternative.”
“I will not require much. Stella D’Mare’s exodus taught us a valuable lesson. We’ve learned to take only the essentials,” Sylvie said, self-consciously fiddling with the fine stitching on her gown, which, by Canaveris standards, was considered quite plain. “The way you speak of Eyraillian fashion does not much hearten me to the idea of shopping there, I will admit.”
“It’s utilitarian, but they’re not allergic to color in Eyraille.” In a huge departure from his behavior last time, Haraldur issued Sylvie a small, conspiratorial smile. “They just wear it differently. Think earth tones.”
When Vega requested another private audience with her, Sylvie sipped her honeyed beverage in preparation and followed the ex-Skyknight out the parlor doors, hoping her stride showed no unsteadiness or uneven footing. She’d learned to hold her own around the volatile woman, but sometimes worried there might be an unplanned lashing out of words that burned to be said.
She hid her sigh of relief when the subject pertained to her brother, and not a rehashed evaluation of her motives–or unconvincing lack thereof.
“He and my eldest brother should meet for a drink sometime,” she said with a wry smile, but all joking aside, she nodded to show understanding; that she valued Vega’s warning and took it with the seriousness it deserved. “I appreciate your instruction, Vega Sorde. You have been an immense help. Nothing you say I will take for granted. Your brother sounds as many a young man thrust into a role he does not yet understand. The burden of responsibility must weigh on him. I will seek to offer my support and relieve him of what I can. His feelings of betrayal will certainly dwindle over time. I hope to one day see your relationship improved with your brother. Perhaps it will happen sooner than later.”
While Sylvie and Vega were busy talking in the foyer outside, Alster, after silencing the room with his magic, crossed the space to deliver a small bundle to Haraldur. Opening the drawstrings, he pulled out two hand mirrors trimmed with gilt edges. The mirrors themselves appeared worn, as if they’d been out of use for a hundred years, but the glass either remained in mint condition, or had been popped out and replaced. Considering the presence of mages and alchemists, the possibility that they’d been refined also crossed Haraldur’s mind.
“When I was working on activating the portal mirror’s magical settings, I had the idea to enchant this old match-set I found in the farmhouse some time ago,” Alster said, by way of explanation. “The way I see it, we have resonance stones in abundance and mirrors that transport you from one end of the continent to another, but nothing in the middle. I present the ocular glass. You and Vega can test my first pair. They’re embedded with resonance stones so you’ll be able to hear, as well as see,” he emphasized by tapping on the glass, “the person who has the companion mirror. If you and Vega are planning on heading to Ilandria, give the companion mirror to one of us and you’ll be able to see your children from afar.
Haraldur stared at the hand mirrors, too flummoxed for words. “And you made these?”
“With a little help from Nia, yes,” Alster looked over his shoulder and winked at the Master Alchemist. “The principles she used to purpose a mirror for portal walking helped me understand how to adapt one for remote viewing. These mirrors are nothing that hasn’t existed before, but they are much harder for a mage to make without the assistance of an alchemist or earth mage. Fortunately, we have both.” He gestured to Ari and Nia, standing beside each other. “They provided the refined materials for the replacement mirrors. The rest just fell into place. Give them a try before you leave and let us know. We’ll make the proper adjustments.”
Haraldur turned the mirrors around, forcing his gaze from the small but supportive crowd.“This means a lot to me. And to Vega, I’m sure. I can’t express…and after I’ve been so,” he trailed off, swallowing down the rupture of emotion bubbling in his throat. “Thank you,” he managed, composing himself. “Many times thank you.”
Haraldur and Vega returned to the palace shortly after the gathering at the Canaveris villa, scrambling to prepare for departure to Ilandria. Alster agreed to portal them any time before he and Elespeth were scheduled to appear in Eyraille, which, given their instantaneous mode of travel, meant they would be on standby for a few days until Ari informed them via resonance stone when they reached their mountainous locale. While heading to Ilandria wasn’t as time-sensitive for them, Haraldur and Vega both agreed that the sooner they left, the better, much as it pained them both to say farewell to the children for an unknown span of time.
On arriving at the palace, Haraldur made a beeline for the Forbanne barracks on the hill, where he suspected to find Sigrid delegating among the soldiers. Gently pulling her aside, the first thing he did was apologize.
“I’ve been cagey lately. I’m sorry. I’m sure you’ll get the full story from Bronwyn if you ask. Come to think of it, I owe her a bigger apology for snapping at her. I really owe her a debt of gratitude for what she did,” he sighed, fingering at the ring he wore around his neck and half wondering where to store Kynnet and Klara’s acorns. If not secured on a chain, he feared he’d lose them.
“Vega and I are bound for Ilandria in the next day or two. If negotiations go well, I’d eventually want to march the Forbanne into Ilandria, or pass them through portal mirrors or whatever incomprehensible inventions Nia and Alster cook up next,” he said, but not unkindly. “In the meantime, I need someone to look after the Forbanne in my stead. Can I count on you? You won’t be alone. Gunnar and Kadri are shaping up to be fine section commanders. They’ll happily follow your lead, or advise if asked. I’ll check in often—as often as I can. Let me know if you’re having second thoughts. This proposition is sudden and daunting, and if you don’t feel up to it, I’ll cede command to Gunnar, who’s been shadowing me for months anyway. But I figure I give you first crack at the responsibility.” He laid a companionable grip on her arm. “It’s yours if you want it.”
Sylvie wasn’t bluffing when she affirmed her skill in packing light, fitting everything into one small valise, which she stashed in the back of the carriage. During Stella D’Mare’s exodus, she focused her finite time on helping her brothers load their essentials into the tiny carriage reserved for all seven of them. She packed their clothes, mainly, but also some valuables and sentimental items, leaving little space for her lace-trimmed gowns and gilt-bound novels, which she had to leave behind. What she later acquired were either hand-me-downs from well-meaning Galeynians, redesigned by her embroidery-savvy hand, or new additions from their favored tailor. Though she never acquired a taste for the minimalistic aesthetic of her adopted home, she learned to live with less, and appreciated natural accents in place of fabricated ones; fresh-picked wildflowers trussed up in a chinabone vase, or headbands woven out of rushes and sewn in with dried berries. If she found something to love in Galeyn, it stood that Eyraille had its bounties to share, too.
While waiting for Nia and her uncle to gather last-minute materials and get their affairs in order, Sylvie loitered by the Night steeds already hitched to the carriage, gently soothing one’s mane and smiling as the mare threw her head back and nickered. Alster met with her outside just as the setting sun began to pinken the horizon.
“I haven’t had the chance to speak with you individually,” Alster said, looking over his shoulder to make sure they were truly alone. “I have faith you’ll be fine in Eyraille. You’re adequately protected with charms and talismans, and though I don’t want to impose on her, Tivia is nearby if you have need of her help. Until we install the portal mirror in Eyraille–that is, if Caris allows us to,” he sighed, aware of that possibility, “please tread lightly, Sylvie, and try not to get hurt. If all goes according to plan, I’ll be in Eyraille with Nia and Ari for some time and can heal any injuries you sustain. I know you can hold your own; Ari ran things for years in your household before anyone on the outside was even aware of his condition. You share his willpower and constitution, but take care not to overtax yourself, either. I’m working on developing a cure,” he lowered to a whisper. “You won’t need to wait for relief much longer. Keep your chin up in Eyraille, but watch where you step–and you’ll be fine.” Nodding his leave, he disengaged from her company and headed back to the villa. “I’ll see you in a few days, Sylvie. Have a safe trip.”
Alster wasn’t the last person to wish her well. Prior to leaving, her grandmother and her siblings stepped out of the villa to see her off. All her brothers were in attendance–save for her only full-blooded brother.
“Where is Nico?” She looked to her grandmother, who shook her head.
“Now don’t you worry about that boy. He claimed not to feel well and refused to leave his room.”
“That’s because he didn’t want to cry in front of you,” Rou teased with an amused sneer.
“Why would he cry for you?” Val shrugged. “You despise him, Syl.”
“Now, now, Valerian,” Nadira chided, a light-knuckled slap on his shoulder. “None of that talk. Nobody despises each other. We cannot speak for how Nico feels. For all we know, he is legitimately unwell.”
“Oh.” Sylvie tried not to sound disappointed. “Well, tell him I wish him well, and we shall keep in touch. That extends to all of you.” She knelt and kissed the tear-stained Archie on his forehead. “Though we are far in distance, we are not far in spirit. We have resonance stones, besides. You have but to contact me to hear my voice.”
With her farewells properly expressed–kisses and insults and light banter, all told–Sylvie shot out one last wave from the carriage window before the Night steeds lurched forward and, with a sharp crack of the reins, sped through the darkening twilight, leaving the Canaveris villa, the settlement, and the rest of Galeyn in a wild blur.
Nestled between Ari and Nia, Sylvie closed her eyes. Not from the jerking, disorienting wobble of the carriage, but to prevent a persistent sting from pricking her eyelids and leaking down her cheeks. I have done it, father. She pressed the tourmaline ring to her lap, comforted by its cold, metallic weight. I will save you yet. Please have faith in me…
The party of three arrived in Eyraille three days later after an uneventful journey around the outskirts of Braighdath and through Nairit, dipping into Ilandria as they reached the foothills and wended their way up the mountains via the pass. The change in elevation introduced rows of spiny evergreens and swathes of alder and aspen woods embellished with orange and yellow autumnal coats. Patches of snow limned the crown-pointed mountaintops, a promise of winter to come.
Sylvie nestled under the light jacket Vega encouraged her to pack, already feeling the residual chill from outside the window.
They didn’t reach the palace–more an imposing fortress towering precariously over a cliff face–until early the next morning. The border closures meant traveling through multiple checkpoints and continuously presenting their letter from the king proving they belonged to the D’Marian delegation and were expected. Finally, their carriage passed under the iron-spiked portcullis and into the front courtyard of the palace. Alster and Elespeth, who hurtled through the spaces between worlds to rendezvous with their group, waited for them outside the towering entrance doors.
They were not alone. Beside the Rigas couple was a small retinue of palace guards and Skyknights, and within their rank, two faces, one familiar, and one unfamiliar. The familiar face, half-gnarled by burn scars and wearing an eyepatch, belonged to Tivia Rigas, the woman to whom she owed her life. At the moment, she didn’t appear open to guests, arms crossed and expression surly, but unreadable. Beside him, the unfamiliar boy, at least by acquaintance, not by reputation, reflected the same, unwelcome scowl, blue eyes blazing with a fire that scorched, but did not warm a room.
No sooner did Sylvie step out of the carriage than she lowered into a reverent curtsy. For the occasion, she donned a simple traveler’s gown, a woolen green skirt cinched around her straight-wasted, white cotton bodice. Her dark hair was framed around her head in loose pin-curls, accented with just one barrette within which she tucked a sprig of mountain lupine she had picked in the valley while the Night steeds rested. Following Vega’s advice, she presented in practical, understated dress, allowing for only one statement piece as decoration.
“Your Majesty,” she said, straightening out of her curtsy. “It is an honor to make your acquaintance. Thank you for arranging this last-minute audience. My name is Sylvie Canaveris. On behalf of Stella D’Mare, I would like to offer my service to you and your court as a diplomat, brokering peace between our nations and people as we band together to address the scourge of Mollengard.” She met Ari’s approving nod from the corner of her eye. She’d practiced this introductory speech for hours on the ride through the mountains, obsessing over the tonality and proper enunciation of each syllable. “We have not forgotten the debt we owe to Eyraille for transporting our sick and infirm from besieged Stella D’Mare during the great exodus. May we continue to strengthen our relationship, for it is through banding together that we stand the best chance of defending this great land from invasion.”
The first that Sigrid had seen of Haraldur in days--no, it had actually been well over a week--turned out to be the last that she would see of him for an indeterminate amount of time. When the Forbanne commander showed up among the ranks that he had left her to lead for the time being, the former Dawn Warrior thought that perhaps he was coming back to rightfully take over and offer her a break. Which, she wouldn’t have taken offense to; if he had a problem with how she was conducting her leadership in his stead, she knew she would’ve heard from him sooner than this, and relinquishing control for a while would award her the opportunity to address other aspects of and people in her life that she felt she’d been neglecting of late--namely, Bronwyn. She hadn’t seen much of the faoladh woman in the past weeks, and had heard that she’d been spending the majority of ehr time with Hadwin. While that didn’t immediately register as concerning, considering they were siblings, Hadwin wouldn’t look out for his own well-being, of late, let alone someone else’s…
Her expectations were quickly dashed as Haraldur explained his real reason for coming to see her. “Bronwyn? What did you say to her, Haraldur?” Sigrid’s brow furrowed and she took a step closer to her brother. “What’s going on?” Her confusion transformed into surprise as he went on to explain. “Ilandria? You… do you know how long you’ll be gone? Surely you’re not taking the twins along; who will care for them in your stead?”
She regretted the question almost as soon as she asked. Clearly, this was not a decision that Haraldur and Vega had made lightly, and the idea of leaving his children behind pained him. But something dire necessitated his and Vega’s presence in Ilandria, related to Mollengard’s threat on Eyraille, and there was nothing he could do to enact change from Galeyn.
“I’ll do what I can in your stead.” Even if she didn’t feel entirely confident, Sigrid couldn’t refuse him when he was already so reluctant to leave behind the family he’d made--and had found. “Though it wouldn’t hurt to delegate to Gunnar and Kadri from time to time. Especially if you require someone to check in on the twins occasionally. As Klara’s guardian, I feel as though that falls within the realm of my responsibilities.”
Sigrid didn’t miss the relief and gratitude in Haraldur’s green eyes, but regret and concern clouded the bright azure of hers. “You will take care, right? Be careful not to attract Eyraille’s attention. Or Mollengard’s, for that matter. And keep in touch. I’ll keep you apprised of what’s going on here. But… please take care.” She touched his arm in turn and held his gaze. “I am counting on you and Vega to return. And so are Klara and Kynnet. That’s non-negotiable, and I stand by my words.”
Alster and Elespeth would boast a very different experience, considering Alster’s ability to step through space and time at a whim. But for Nia and the two Canaverises, the three days spent in travel were both the shortest and the longest they’d ever experienced. While she didn’t argue their alternate route through the foothills, as opposed to risking travel through Ilandria, Ari’s suggestion didn’t exactly save them much time, and the ride was anything but smooth. The Master Alchemist had fortunately planned ahead and prepared a handful for draughts to facilitate slumber, all of which came in handy, considering she was still feeling off since completion of the first portal mirror, and suffered such motion sickness almost the entire time that she consumed little more than water during the entire journey, and tried to spend as much time asleep in the cramped carriage as possible. By the time they arrived in cold and mountainous Eyraille, she was at the very least well prepared to work on the second portal mirror with her entirely empty stomach, should King Caris Sorde agree to her proposition. Though her condition did concern Ari slightly, she brushed it off and simply applied a white powder beneath her eyes to conceal the prominent dark circles, and rouge to her cheeks to inspire the illusion of being far healthier than she felt.
Finally stepping out of that carriage (and knowing she wouldn’t have to ride again for at least a short amount of time, with any luck) gave the Master Alchemist a second wind when they arrived outside the courtyard of Eyraille’s grand and intimidating palace. Alster and Elespeth were already there, waiting for them, in the presence of a large handful of guards and Sknights, the infamous star seer who had helped Nia return to the world and the Ari she was meant for during the time she’d found herself lost between dimensions, and a young man with the same pair of fierce, blue eyes that belonged to Vega Sorde. Caris looked far, far different than what she remembered, the only other time she’d laid eyes upon him many years ago, when he’d been much younger, and had not yet worn the ails and trials of life in the lines of his youthful face.
Since Sylvie was the reason all four of them were here to accompany, they let Ari’s niece step forward and be the first to speak and introduce herself. In true Canaveris fashion, she executed her greeting beautifully, presenting herself as every bit a diplomat as someone with more experience than her. Both Ari and Nia felt nothing but pride for the young Canaveris woman… but, much to everyone’s dismay, her efforts didn’t even earn her a response from King Caris. Little more than a look, in fact. The Eyraillian King shifted his gaze to Ari and Nia, his mouth tight with suspicion.
“I was informed I would be speaking with a diplomat. And yet, I find myself facing not one, but five visitors.” He articulated in such a way that demanded an explanation.
Nia stepped forward to oblige. “Your Majesty. I trust Alster Rigas, with whom you’re already familiar, has explained his presence and intent here today.” She dropped into a bow, before indicating the Rigas couple, who stood near Tivia. “Allow me to introduce myself as the other half of Alster’s proposed arrangement. My name is Nia. I’m here to work with Alster to develop--with your consent, of course--an expedited means of travel back to Galeyn. It’s a rather arduous process that requires not one, but two mages to execute. We’d be more than happy to discuss the details with you, later.”
“So you won’t offer a family name?”
“Oh, I most certainly will, if you require one, your Majesty. Although I don’t hail from such a widely respected lineage as the Rigases and Canaverises, and I’m not here as a main focal point.” While Eyraille was not the kingdom with the stain on its character regarding the injustice forced upon Master Alchemists, the group had decided prior to departure that not only would they refrain from mentioning the fact she was an Ardane, but also that she happened to be a Master Alchemist, given Eyraille’s most recent alliance with Ilandria. Caris Sorde had yet to prove that he could be trusted with such information, and until they were either convinced of such (or forced into a position where they could not hide the truth any longer), they would tote her position as that of a mage. Fortunately, the cool temperature removed any suspicion as to why she had donned brown, leather gloves, and so as to ensure she did not stand out, Ari, Alster, and Elespeth had also covered their hands ‘against the cold’, so to speak. And since only her younger sister and perhaps a single friend had ever referred to her as ‘Nia’ back in Ilandria, she felt it safest not to lie about her first name (rather, her nickname), in case anyone accidentally slipped up on an alias. The only wild card was Tivia, and whether or not the star seer would see fit to perpetuate the lies and half-truths was anyone’s guess. They simply had to put their faith in her that she realized it was in everyone’s best interests to
The Ardane woman was clever, though, and knew better than to dwell on herself for too long, lest King Sorde ask too many questions. Instead, she motioned to Ari, who stood to Aylvie’s right. “I’ll let Ari introduce himself, but he’s here for his niece, and to assist me, should I require it.”
Caris listened as the Lord of Stella D’Mare provided his own introduction, his face impassive and impossible to read. Finally, when everyone said their parts, his attention averted once again to Alster and Nia. “You,” he pointed to each of them in turn, “I am interested in speaking with. This alternate means of travel has me very intrigued. I see how it can prove useful. Otherwise…” When his blue eyes settled on Sylvie again, everyone knew by that look alone that he’d dismissed her, and needn’t voice it aloud. “I am not interested in nice words, or ‘aide’ from a nation that has already proven incapable of holding its own against Mollengard.”
“We are more than happy to discuss, Your Majesty. However, I do feel the need to clarify that the rest of us are only here as accessories to Miss Canaveris’s intentions.” Fortunately, this was a turn that the small party had expected, and already discussed. Nia was not afraid to speak up against Caris’ dismissal of the D’Marian diplomat, or allow him to turn Sylvie away so quickly. Of course, this tactic also put the lot of them at risk of being turned away, but if he wouldn’t consider Sylvie’s help, then they had no interested in busting their assess off developing any more portal mirrors for the ungrateful King.
“I see.” Vega’s younger brother wrinkled his nose in distaste, and didn’t even spare Sylvie another glance, before he motioned with his hand. “Fine. If your terms include me entertaining this girl’s personal mission, in exchange for the help of yet more capable mages, then I will concede--tentatively. Do see that your diplomat has prepared more for me than a carefully practiced speech. I will not have my time wasted, especially not in such a dire time for my kingdom.”
With a dismissive hand gesture, Caris turned away. “In the spirit of hospitality, you’ll find warm rooms already prepared for you, and a hot breakfast in the dining hall. If it suits you, I would like to speak with the mages after you’ve eaten your fill.” The King then departed, leaving the courtyard for the warmth of the palace again without as much as a goodbye. Tivia accompanied him soon after, a somewhat snide remark on her lips about how easily he’d caved to ‘a pretty face’, after all his talk of turning the lot of them away immediately.
“Really--do you jest?” Caris snorted and rolled his eyes. “I want nothing to do with the ‘diplomat’. I’m going to get what I can out of the mages; then, I’ll send her packing. If they can make two mirrors a portal between here and Galeyn, they can do the same between Eyraille and Ilandria. Imagine the amount of time that will save us, traveling to and fro for our business with Safir. Not to mention--maybe it can convince our stubborn Ilandrian Prince to come to us, once in a while, if he knows he’s just seconds away from home to tend to his dear father. I am not caving, Tivia; I’m using the resources available to me, and turning away what doesn’t serve me. I have no qualms about dashing the Canaveris girl’s hopes, and sending them my regrets by letter at a later date to salvage relations with Stella D’Mare. It’s not like they can act surprised.” A sly, knowing grim pulled at the corner of his mouth. “I am, after all, Eyraille’s petulant, incorrigible, and bull-headed King. They knew what they were getting into when they attempted to appeal to me.”
“You were perfect, hon. Caris was already prepared to say no, regardless of who the diplomat was.” Nia reassured Sylvie, as the five of them had congregated in Alster and Elespeth’s room after the generous breakfast laid out for them in the dining hall… none of which Nia had touched, in preparation for her work on the second portal mirror. “But, we’re not giving up that easily. Look at Tivia: she has the charm of a rattlesnake, and somehow managed to stick around here.”
“Nia is right. Don’t give up hope just yet. So far, this is no different than what we’ve prepared for.” Elespeth chimed in, noting how frustrated and dejected Sylvie looked. “Alster and Nia aren’t going to give Caris what he wants until and unless he comes good on his word. Besides, he isn’t foolish enough to so callously alienate Stella D’Mare as allies at a time like this. In the meantime…”
The Atvanian woman looked out the window at the view of the village square some distance off. Buntings, banners and ribbons all sporting earthy autumn colours swayed in the wind, among denizens of Eyraille sporting the same colours. “Why do you, Ari, and I go take a look around while Alster and Nia talk to Caris? Vega mentioned this is the time of year where Eyraille typically celebrates the end of the harvest. It could be a good opportunity to immerse yourself in Eyraillian culture. What do you say?”
She looked between Ari and Sylvie, the latter who seemed open, but Ari appeared hesitant, glancing worryingly at Nia. Even through the application of rouge, she still seemed unwell from the travel, struggling to keep her spine straight in the comfort of a plush chair. The Master Alchemist brushed it off with a flippant hand gesture when Ari asked after her physical state. “I’m fine. Those foothills were treacherous, though. On the way back, I think I’d rather risk Ilandria than suffer three days with motion sickness and a splitting headache. Hey, Al… would you mind?” The Ardane woman asked, sheepishly looking to Alster and his healing skills. “Just for the headache. I can’t have anything in my stomach if I’m going to be diving into prepping another mirror, and probably soon.”
“Don’t you have to have it crafted, first?” Elespeth asked. “From pure materials, or something?”
“According to Vega, there should already be enough full-length mirrors crafted from Eyraille’s finest materials, because her father wouldn’t have settled for anything less.” Nia explained. “Here’s hoping she’s right. It’ll save us a lot of time… especially if this second mirror, straight into Galeyn, isn’t the only one we’ll be crafting on behalf of his immature Majesty.”
After Alster took care of Nia’s headache to the best of his ability, he and the Master Alchemist met with Caris in his study upon his request. The conversation unfolded exactly as Nia had anticipated: after they further explained their reasoning behind the portal mirrors between Galeyn and Eyraille (for Sylvie’s safety, but also open for his own usage and safety), Caris asked after the possibility of establishing another pair between Eyraille and Ilandria, to facilitate dealings with this kingdom’s newest ally. Of course, Nia and Alster knew better than to refuse, but not without doing their part to help Sylvie’s cause. “On behalf of goodwill between Eyraille, Stella D’Mare, and Galeyn, we’re happy to oblige--if you will hold an audience with our diplomat.” The Ardane woman postured, sitting confidently with one leg crossed over the other, and her hands folded carefully in her lap. Negotiating was so much easier without throbbing pain in her temples. “Like I said, Your Majesty, Alster and I are merely accessories to--”
“Yes, yes, you’ve made yourself clear. I’ll listen to what your diplomat has to say.” Caris sighed, resigning himself to that promise, as much as he’d rather not. “Nia, is it? Your accent.” He registered his cool eyes on the woman. “It sounds distinctly Ilandrian.”
“Ah, well, you’ve got me there.” Nia flashed a wide grin. “I called Ilandria my home for a long time.”
“And now?”
“Now? Home is wherever Ari happens to be.” Nia’s smile softened. “Home is not a static thing, Your Majesty.”
“What a novel concept.” Caris, who clearly couldn’t relate, sighed and sat back in his chair--and, mercifully, turned his attention back to the topic at hand. “I’ll have an assortment of the palace’s best mirrors for you by tomorrow morning. If they don’t meet your standards, then I’ll have one made that does.”
Satisfied, Nia nodded, and rose from her seat along with Alster. But she didn’t take her leave without a final push for Caris to uphold his word: “And Sylvie?”
The Eyraillian King expelled a heavy breath through his nose. “You can inform Miss Canaveris that she may have an audience with me this evening.”
“Perfect. Thank you, Your Majesty.” Nia smiled, and bowed respectfully. “I am confident you’ll find that Alster and I are not the only two visitors here whose help you’ll benefit from.”
Alster and Elespeth had arrived approximately an hour before the Canaveris carriage pulled up before the palace entrance, more than enough time to explain to Caris (and Tivia, who glanced warily at him), not only his reason for joining the “delegation,” but why he was no longer the Lord of Stella D’Mare.
“There’s been a change of hands. I won’t get into it, your Majesty, to spare you the politics and verbal sparring, but I stepped down from my position as head to prevent a civil war. Prioritization of outside threats is more prudent than the perpetuation of infighting. I’m sure you would agree. Lord Aristide Canaveris is currently in charge. You will be speaking with him and his diplomat in due course. And yes, for the record–as I’m sure Tivia has informed you,” he acknowledged his cousin with the bow of his head, “I’m not the diplomat the envoy spoke of or promised. While it’s true I have done plenty of diplomatic work in the past–as you’ve experienced for yourself–my strength lies in my magecraft, which you’ve also seen firsthand. My associate and I will better explain once she arrives with Lord Canaveris and his chosen diplomat. I must preface, though, that our cooperation is contingent upon the wishes of the Canaveris delegation. You’ll have a chance to hear their request in a moment. I won’t want to get ahead of myself.”
Tivia, who hadn’t spoken a word since arriving with Caris, not even to greet her cousin and his wife, broke her silence, but only for one. Her telepathic message whizzed through his mind like an arrow pinning a message to the wall. “What are you doing here, Alster? Why are the Canaverises coming?”
Unlike many of her recipients, who could only receive her clairaudient delivery, Alster was able to respond in kind. “I’m not overstepping, Tivia. I’m only here for one purpose. Ari and Nia aren’t staying, either. We’re leaving once we establish Sylvie and she settles down in her role here.”
At his mention of those specific names, Tivia’s brows bunched, trying to make sense of the situation. “Nia? Sylvie’s role?” But she didn’t have a moment to ask for elaboration before the Canaveris carriage arrived, and the conversation unfolded as expected, with the Canaverises exuding politesse and protocol, and Caris snubbing their advances–all except for Nia’s, whose talk of portal mirrors piqued his interest. Although, Nia’s explanation left much to be desired; namely, the part about her name, or lack thereof, and her true vocation. Tivia didn’t react to the news, but she observed, her luminous eye darting to each new speaker as they stated their case and provided their defense before the unimpressionable judge and jury whose sole permission they required.
When Ari stepped up and introduced himself, it was much in the same vein as his niece, replete with flourishes and gentlemanly pizazz, traits that appeared ingenuine and made to impress and ingratiate, but Aristide was a curious specimen, because while he simultaneously primped his feathers with the glossy side on display, he meant every word and action. Even when he practically mirrored Sylvie’s speech, it carried more weight coming from him. Moreso after he fashioned a retort following Caris’ blatant disregard for Stella D’Mare’s usefulness based on how they folded against Mollengardian might. “I do beg your pardon, your Majesty. A rampaging Serpent destroyed our city prior to Mollengard’s arrival. Take that as a cautionary tale. Even the most sharpened pikes cannot win battles if the walls of your stronghold crumble and fall. Defense will be your savior. Our mages are here to provide you that–support in moments via our Galeyn-to-Eyraille linked mirrors, and beyond, to our allies in Ilandria.” He said the last bit with just a sliver of hesitation. “Sylvie, too, offers you defense. Through interfacing with the people of Eyraille, she will shore up cooperation from your people and gather your citizenry into a strong, united front. We are at our best when we bring out the best in others. Take from our example of failure, your Majesty. At the time of Mollengard’s takeover, Stella D’Mare was divided, having barely survived its independence from Andalari and an attack from an otherworldly beast. Our people were scattered, afraid, wary of each other, unable to tell friend from foe. Division is a kingdom’s greatest downfall. Invest in your people,” he placed an affectionate hand on Sylvie’s arm, “by investing in her.”
Of course, the decision came down to the appeal of instantaneous travel, and if Caris had to invite who he perceived as a tagalong to obtain such powerful technology, then the trade-off was well worth the minor annoyance.
Upon dispersing, the guests from Stella D’Mare escorted to their guest rooms and the Eyrallian procession headed elsewhere, Tivia snorted loudly beside Caris in obvious disapproval. “If all you want is instantaneous travel between here and Ilandria, I’ll take you there myself. I have transport magic. No need to suffer an incursion on your loins for the sake of a couple of mirrors.”
“Something isn’t right,” she said, transferring to telepathic speech whenever she wanted to remain covert. “I trust Alster and Lord Canaveris, so it’s not from them I feel this unease. It’s from her–Sylvie. Tread carefully around her, Caris,” she said, the dropping of his title deliberate, as she was speaking to him as akin to a friend and not a king. “Don’t let her into any important places. Guard and surveill. Be vigilant. She’s here for a different reason than what she claims.”
“Nia is absolutely correct, Sylvie. You performed admirably in front of the king.” Ari assured, sitting beside his niece on the bed they commandeered from Alster and Elespeth. “He is a disagreeable sort, as we all have come to understand.”
“Oh, I am not worried. The king is exactly as I envisioned,” Sylvie effused, showing nothing to contradict her bold statement; no shaking voice, or fiddling with her dress, or banging her knees together. “Perhaps I should adopt Miss Tivia’s model and behave like a wretched being who glares at everyone she sees and says not a word of greeting to anyone.”
“Do what comes most naturally to you,” Alster suggested. “Seems like that’s what Tivia is doing and Caris responds to her. He’s the type to celebrate authenticity and not artifice. It would be a start in the right direction. Curiously, he appears to be developing a strong respect for mages as long as they’re useful to him. If you offer your services as an earth mage, he might be open to accepting your help.”
“That may be. If he wants his crown polished or a gem purified, then I am at his beck and call,” Sylvie said, a little moodily. “I am not a quick hand at magic.”
“Earth magic can fortify and refine. It is in many ways the most closely related arcane discipline to alchemy,” Ari offered. “But I understand if you are not comfortable utilizing it for an unfamiliar purpose.”
“Then I agree with Elespeth’s suggestion.” Alster also peered out the window, approving of the splashes of fire-colored glory decorating the town square in direct mimicry of the trees on the mountainside. “You would enjoy Eyraille’s gatherings. The harvest festival isn’t as elaborate as the Equinox, but it’s a popular one, and citizens come from all over the kingdom to celebrate and sell their bounty of crops. Go with Ari and El and talk to some people. Play to your strengths, Sylvie. You’re personable and others warm to you easily. If Eyraille’s king won’t attend to you, then go out and find who will.”
With the seed of the idea firmly planted in her mind, Sylvie departed for the festival, with Ari and Elespeth in tow. After Alster eased Nia’s headache through faint, healing pulses of magic, they set off to speak with Caris about the function of the portal mirrors, how they could bar certain people from accessing its magic should others discover its existence, and how they could erect a network of mirrors from different locations and link them together in a web of connectivity. The king was so eagerly on board with the idea that it took little to convince him to accept an audience with Sylvie that evening.
Following their brief, but fruitful discussion (save for the slight hiccup where it appeared Nia’s identity was in danger of discovery), the “two” mages retired to their rooms for the afternoon. For the moment, Caris had offered them two; one for the Rigaes, the other for the Canaverises and those affiliated with them, as was Nia’s case. When Nia entered, the bedchambers were ostensibly empty, insofar as Ari and Sylvie hadn’t returned from the harvest festivities. Someone else, however, was waiting for her on the bed.
“A mage? Really? You couldn’t come up with a more convincing lie?” Tivia lounged against a bedpost, legs, dressed in their knee-length boots, crossed one over the other. “How is that going to pan out when you travel to Ilandria to fashion the third mirror? You’d have to expect the straight-laced Safir to keep quiet for you, and he wasn’t on your side when it mattered most, so what makes you think he’ll have your back this time around? I suppose there’s only one way to find out.” Uncrossing her legs, she pushed to her feet and clunked across the room to Nia, lighting a nearby lantern with a stream of yellow-hot etherea radiating from her fingertip. “Sylvie will cause trouble here. I wouldn’t advocate for her were I you, but something tells me we’re not going to shake her off so easily. Anyway, I’m not here to talk about your misled decision in bringing her here. I wanted to have a quick chat with you. Privately. Sorry for entering the room without permission. The door was open.” She shrugged in a direct contradiction of her apology.
“I’m sure you’ve heard King Ullir is sick and bedridden. His star is about to gutter out and when that happens, Ilandria’s Prince of Blades will find himself directionless, fatherless, and potentially useless to us. I want to expedite his mourning period and get him on the throne, established, clear-headed, and ideally working out his past guilt. That’s where you come in. Somehow, he is under the delusion that you are his dear, long-lost friend with whom he desperately longs to reconnect. I’m asking that when the time comes, speak to him and try to hear him out. I’m not saying you have to forgive him, or like him. Find a modicum of closure, however possible, and face the sins of your homeland. Simple enough, right?” She cocked her head and smiled facetiously.
“No easy feat, I get it. So if you need further incentive, I have something you want.” She pulled a sheet of folded parchment from her tunic pocket and held it between her fingers. “This is a formula for a tonic of slowed aging. Isidor developed this formula. …The other Isidor,” she clarified, keeping all sentiment out of her voice. “So you know it’s effective. He created it so he would age in tandem alongside his longer-lived compatriots. All the ingredients can be found in the Night Garden. I’ve written everything here, instructions down to the minute detail. I’ll hand it over to you…when the deed is done.”
She returned the slip of parchment to her pocket. “Think about it. We’ll talk later, when you’ve slept off your pallor. I know where to find you.” Having said her peace, she brushed past Nia and slipped through the doors like a wraith, quiet as a snuffed candle. In fact, the etherea-flamed lantern, on realizing its creator departed, flickered out and died–much like a star extinguished.
Accompanied by Elespeth and her uncle, Sylvie took in the allure of the harvest festival, admiring the sights and trying not to draw attention with her eagerness to stop at every stall or sample the spiced delicacies wafting through the air like a beckoning breeze. Eventually, she settled at the display of giant gourds lined up in a row in the town square, some as huge as carriages. Others had been hollowed out from the inside, the outer flesh carved into elaborate, artistic designs.
“Look at this one, Uncle!” She waved Ari over to a fire-orange gourd wefted into overlapping rosettes across its ribbed surface. “This is not so different from our celebrations. I wonder if it is a competition and if we may join?”
“Let us not get ahead of ourselves, Sylvie,” Ari chuckled. “We are here to explore and appreciate, not to challenge someone’s artistry, however friendly our intentions.”
Conceding, Sylvie hailed a figure standing by one of the gourds instead, a cherry-haired girl with plump cheeks who looked around her age, perhaps a mite younger. “Excuse me—did you create these wonderful works of art?”
The girl looked taken aback by the question. “Did I create all of—? Goodness, no! We just provided the gourds. Our farm produces more than we know what to do with, so we bring them down each year and invite artisans to carve into them. Though,” she paused, her brow troubled, “this is probably our last year participating, unfortunately.”
“Oh,” Sylvie mirrored her expression, “why is that? It would be a shame not to return and provide your wonderful organic canvases for creative exploration.”
The girl studied Sylvie carefully, expanding her observations to Ari and Elespeth. “Are you…you’re not refugees, are you?”
“Allow me to introduce myself properly.” Sylvie dipped into an informal curtsy. “I am Sylvie Canaveris, of Stella D’Mare. This is my uncle, Ari, and our companion, Elespeth Rigas. I am here to help the king manage relations between our nation and Eyraille. Technically, we are refugees, but our current residence lies in the small hamlet kingdom of Galeyn. May I ask your name?”
But the girl dismissed the second half of Sylvie’s introduction at the mention of Elespeth’s name and associations. She glanced at the ex-knight, wonder alighting her blue eyes. “Elespeth—I’ve heard of you! I met your fiancé. Alster, was it? He’s Enginn’s friend, and I heard you’re Enginn’s friend, too! Wait,” she puzzled as everyone looked at her blankly, “he goes by a different name now. Though I don’t think we can refer to him out loud or else generate the scorn of the king. He was exiled with the Princess and…I’m sorry,” her troubled expression returned. “I am Thora. I wouldn’t want to get any of you in bad standing with the king by speaking with me. The reason it will be our last year–aside from talks of war–” she edged in close and lowered to a whisper, “I am from Mollengard. Even though Eyraille’s been my home for longer, and I consider myself Eyrallian, others in this kingdom don’t see it that way. Not anymore. We’re not, well,” she folded her arms and sighed, “we’re not as welcome outside our farmlands in the mountains. People look at us with scorn. These gourds,” she pointed to the exquisite knife-work, “were made by others in our community. The native-born Eyraillians won’t touch them. We discovered a few smashed this morning, in fact. There’s no use sticking around the cities if no one wants us near.”
“That is a real tragedy, Thora. I am sorry you are experiencing such baseless cruelty,” Sylvie bowed her head, taken by the young girl’s plight. “I can speak to the king on your behalf. I will not mention your name specifically, but he should be made aware of this unnecessary injustice. As well,” she smiled conspiratorially and leaned into Thora’s ear, “the man you refer to as ‘Enginn,’ I know him. Haraldur currency resides in Galeyn. I will deliver a message when I see him next. Whatever you wish to convey, I will relay to him.”
Thora’s eyes went wide with appreciation. “Really? You would do that for me?”
“Of course,” Sylvie beamed. “And I would love to purchase one of your decorated gourds. Actually, make it several. In the spirit of the season, we shall festoon the palace with them! Surely, the king will not begrudge me a few seasonally appropriate ornamentations.”
That had yet to be seen. When she, Ari, and Elespeth returned to the palace, Nia informed them that Sylvie had won a private audience with King Caris in the parlor after supper. Guards would be posted by the doors, but it would be the closest to a private conversation she could hope to gain.
She arrived at the parlor early, recruiting the help of a few attendants to transfer the bulky gourds she purchased from Thora in a handsome display around the room. Two bookended the roaring fireplace, while another perched on the table, rimmed with an accent cloth to complement the look, and to catch a loose seed or puree stuffing, should it decide to shed and leave a mess.
When the king entered, allegedly baffled by the sight, Sylvie clasped her hands together to shield her nerves and curtsied for the king in greeting. “Do you hate them? My apologies, your Majesty. I attended the Harvest Festival today and conversed with an engaging young woman–Mollengardian born, but no less a citizen–who is suffering maltreatment by native Eyraillians. I found it supremely unfair to allow these wonderful creations to be smashed by irate citizens, so I rescued them from most assured destruction. They are my gift to you, but if you find them a blight or an eyesore, I shall move them to the guest chambers. I hope you do not take offense by my presumptions. I merely thought it would bring you some well-needed cheer."
The idea of sleeping in an actual bed not in a carriage (still or moving) was so appealing to Nia that the Master Alchemist was almost giddy with the promise of rest after she and Alster met with the surly young king. Fortunately, Caris had been so focused on the idea of expedited travel between noteworthy locations that he hadn’t seen fit to follow up about her surname (despite confirming she was Ilandrian) and didn’t seem suspicious that she was passing herself off as a mage. He saw her and Alster only as a means to an end, and if that was enough to have him entertain the idea of hearing Sylvie out, then she would deliver on what he wanted.
However, her fantasies about a good, long nap were put on hold for a little longer when she reached the guest room where she, Ari, and Sylvie would be staying. She hadn’t betted on it being empty; however, she’d have anticipated to be greeted by either Ari ro Sylvie, or both. Instead, a familiar woman clad in black adorned with lace, and who sported an eyepatch was lounging on her bed with such nonchalance she might as well have owned it. Nia’s already neutral expression soured ever so slightly; mentally, she was exhausted and ill-equipped to deal with whatever it was Tivia had manifested to tell her, and half-considered walking out and weathering the chill of Eyraille’s autumn and crashing somewhere beneath a quiet tree. After all, the star seer seldom made an appearance when it came to delivering good news…
“Does an unlocked door signify a welcome to anyone who cares to walk in, in Stella D’Mare? Or did you leave your class behind in Galeyn?” The Ardane woman closed the door behind her as Tivia Rigas called her out on her lie. It was unlikely she would make mention of such sensitive information if there was a chance anyone was within earshot to eavesdrop, but this close to Ilandria, she couldn’t take any chances. “What choice did I have? You think I’m really going to make it known to the son of yet another tyrant that I’m a Master Alchemist? I’m not stupid--and neither is Caris. He doesn’t give a shit who or what I am: hells, he didn’t even follow up on my last name. All he cares about is what I’m able to give him. I’m more valuable to him here, cranking out three more fucking portal mirrors, than being turned over to Ilandria. Fun fact, a pair of portal mirrors can only lead to two different places. People have tried to expand upon that in the past, and no one has lived to tell the tale, as far as I’m aware. Best to play it safe.”
Despite the ease at which Nia felt as though her meeting with King Caris Sorde had gone smoothly, her palms had nonetheless grown sweaty under the young king’s scrutiny. As she passed a chair stationed near the cozy room’s unlit fireplace, she discarded her leather gloves to let her skin breathe. “Might he call me on my lie? Maybe. But I think it will be instantly clear to him why I felt the need to do so. And so long as I come good on my promise, I don’t foresee it being a problem. And, believe it or not, I have thought about how to skirt Ilandria and remain unnoticed.” Kicking off her boots, the Master Alchemist all but collapsed in the chair. Less comfortable than a bed, but if she closed her eyes for long enough, she’d undoubtedly fall asleep.
“Option one: we bring the Ilandrian mirror here. It doesn’t matter where I work with it so long as its materials are pure, and purely Ilandrian. That’s the best case scenario. However, I do anticipate that that might be a big ask. Option two, we work in Ilandria unseen. Have Alster introduce himself for the both of us and explain that we cannot be disturbed for the duration of the process. Al can reference me as an “assistant”, I’ll do my job undercover, and that will be that. Then I get the fuck out of Ilandria before Safir gets too nosey. Now, if you can think of a better plan… seriously, I’m all ears.”
Tivia, however, had not welcomed herself to this room, uninvited, to provide any useful advice. In fact, aside from her criticisms of Nia’s plans, her remarks about Sylvie Canaveris left the Ardane woman both surprised and perplexed. “Wait… are we talking the same Sylvie, here? Sylvie Canaveris, as in Ari’s niece? As in, the girl who plays nanny to a dozen younger brothers, who likes shopping, planning parties, and pretty dresses?” Nia frowned and tilted her head. “I mean… if I’m being honest, I’m not convinced she’s gonna make much of a difference here, and I don’t know that she has a chance in hell of winning Caris over. But I’m a little lost as to exactly what kind of ‘trouble’ you think she’s going to cause…”
But, in Typical Tivia Rigas fashion, the star seer said what she said, remained entirely vague without any intent to follow up, and moved on to another topic… one that poor Nia couldn’t seem to escape, no matter where she went. And she didn’t have the mental stamina or the energy to try and respond with grace.
“You, too? Will no one shut the fuck up about Safir Vallaincourt?” Nia felt that headache that Alster had kindly diminished hours ago slowly returned as blood rushed to her otherwise pale face. “Ullir can’t die fast enough. You know how many times I’ve fantasized about killing that man? About being the one to do in the person who ordered my family dead? But he had the gall to grow old and sick before I had the chance. So what makes you think I’m going to coddle his son?” She spat, depleted of any patience to so much as entertain Tivia’s request. “Out of some fucked-up solidarity that the both of us are now the only surviving members of our lineages? I’d sooner let him suffer; let him know what it feels like to be the last, and to be alone! And you should, too. Let him be directionless and useless. Let him be his own fucking downfall, for all I care.”
She could have said so much more, but Nia had a feeling she’d gotten her point across enough for Tivia to perish the thought that she would play along with whatever scheme the star seer had in mind, that involved her being nice to the Prince of Blades, of all people. Of course, the star seer must have known what she was getting into, and she hadn’t come unprepared. “Tivia--let me save you the time.” Nia held a hand up at the sight of the parchment. “There is absolutely nothing written on that piece of paper, in any language, that is going to convince me to play nice with the Prince of Blades. My role here is quick and dirty, and it doesn’t involve Safir. If you want to lick the man’s wounds once this world is finally rid of Ullir Vallaincourt, then that’s your choice. You can all form a fucking support group, for all I care, but I will not be part of it.”
And… she spoke too soon. While it wasn’t exactly a secret that Nia struggled with the idea that she would age so much faster than the man with whom she intended to spend the rest of her life, she didn’t discuss it with those who weren’t close to her. Perhaps Alster had let it slip… or, she had simply surmised this desire, given that it had been the desire of the Isidor from another world. But if it was possible, and if all of the ingredients could be procured from the Night Garden…
“Hold on.” Nia sat upright, just in time for Tivia to decide that the conversation was over. “You’d better keep that fucking hidden, Tivia!” She shouted after the star seer, her heart racing. “You have no idea who would kill you to get their hands on it…!” And put Galeyn in danger all over again. While it was short of the immortality alchemists and Master Alchemists alike had sought after for centuries, an extended lifespan was no less valuable. She could only imagine what Isidor’s mentor would have done to get his hands on it… or, what Mollengard would do, should they find out it existed.
When Caris arrived to make good on his word to meet with Sylvie Canaveris that evening, he did not expect to walk into the parlor (which hadn’t changed in appearance, for as long as he could recall) and be faced with… gourds. He was so surprised and perplexed that he almost forgot to react at all. “The festival of harvest…” Somehow, in all his preoccupation with preparing for Mollengard and the back-and-forth trips to Ilandria to plan with Safir, Caris had forgotten that this was even taking place. The last time he’d even deigned to attend a festival in his own kingdom… it had coincided with Vega and Haraldur’s wedding. The idea of any festival hadn’t felt the same to him ever since, and he no longer felt any inclination to participate. But, he couldn’t begrudge his people for trying to find a reason to celebrate, and he certainly wouldn’t begrudge them festivities.
“I’m not in need of an interior decorator, Miss Canaveris. But if the gourds please you, then they can stay.”
Caris took a seat in one of the chairs near the hearth and exhaled a long breath. “Gourds aside. What is this about the Mollengardian refugees? Did you witness some act of mistreatment that I should know about?”
Sylvie explained what Thora had recounted, of how her family’s farm suffered vandalism at the hands of native Eyraillians, and how it had encouraged the D’Marian woman to buy their wares so that they did not go to waste. “You do realize it’s possible that you were had, yes?” Caris raised an eyebrow and leaned back in the chair. “People can easily pick you out as a foreigner. It’s not unheard of for some people to spin a story that tugs at the heartstrings of unsuspecting others to turn a profit. In any case,” He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “The refugees have long since had citizenship here in Eyraille, and I can’t have the people turning on each other in a time of impending war. I’ll send for someone to check in with the refugee families to see if others can substantiate any merit to discrimination.
“So. Is that all?” Caris’ cool, azure eyes fixed on the young D’Marian woman, who was barely able to keep her nervous energy from seeping through her skin. “I am not sure exactly how much you understand of Eyraille’s situation, Sylvie, but what is useful to me--and Eyraille--right now are assets to offense and defense. Right now, Ilandria and its Prince are willing to offer both, and it is with Ilandria that I place my priorities. I can appreciate that you and your people were threatened and displaced by Mollengard, and I don’t doubt you can empathize with our plight. However… do understand that I can’t--and won’t--spend my time talking interior decor and good deeds with you.”
Caris stood from his seat and brushed imaginary wrinkles from his trousers. “I’ve agreed to entertain your diplomatic fancy in exchange for the portal mirrors your associates have agreed to create. But if you want to make a difference here,” he cleared the distance between the hearth and the door, casting Sylvie a final glance over his shoulder. “You’ll have to bring me more than gourds.”
After taking his leave of the parlor, Caris sent for Tivia to meet him in his study, perplexed by a comment she had made earlier that day.
“Would you care to elaborate on your concerns regarding our ‘diplomat’?” The Eyraillian King sighed heavily and rubbed one of his temples. “What is it I am supposed to be wary of? So far, she’s out making friends with the refugees and buying harvest crops for decor. While I’m doubtful there is anything of substance she can offer me or this kingdom, thus far, I fail to see how she may be a threat.”
Around the same time that the Canaverises, the Rigases, and Nia reached Eyraille, Haraldur and Vega crossed the border into Ilandria, where they checked into an inn at the kingdom’s western border, not far from the lake. Darkness had begun to fall, and after a journey that had spanned several days by night steed, the couple would’ve liked nothing more than to disappear into their room (which had already been paid for) and sleep, but they had been instructed to find a seat somewhere in the corner of the restaurant and wait until dusk. Clad in heavy cloaks to ward off the cold, and with Vega’s fiery hair pulled away from her face and woven into a knot, no one recognized them despite the busy hour. Safir had maintained that this would be the safest time to meet: there would be too many people for anyone to be paying close attention to a given person, and the majority of them would be drunk, and their senses otherwise dulled.
To not look as though they were lost (or specifically waiting for someone), they ordered a couple of ales and a warm, freshly baked loaf of bread and butter--which, after days of travel, living off of dried fruits and meats, was a very welcome change, and the majority of it disappeared quickly. They were to wait for Safir’s arrival, and he would know them by Vega’s cloak (a deep blue with a grey trim--not a direct replica of Eyraille’s colors, but most definitely inspired by them). An hour passed, and as they watched patrons come and go, nobody so much as looked in their direction. Vega began to wonder if they’d made a mistake, or if something had happened.
“It’s dusk. His instructions were very clear… I’m sure this is the right place.” Vega murmured and fiddled with her empty stein. Given her past relationship with alcohol, she decided against a refill, but her nerves were so frayed, it would have been welcome.
As she stared absently at the table’s stained wood grain, someone with a mug full of ale took a seat. Neither Haraldur nor Vega took much notice, until several moments later, the stranger spoke in a hushed tone: “Vega Sorde?”
Vega turned her attention immediately to the stranger at the parallel table. Whisps of pale blonde hair poked out from a hood, and a flash of familiar blue eyes. Despite that she’d planned for and prepared for this moment, it somehow still felt… surreal. “Safir.” She breathed his name in a sigh of relief. “Is it safe to talk, here?”
“On my part? Yes. On yours…” He leaned in and lowered his voice. “Word of your arrival cannot spread to Eyraille and Caris. It’s best to be discreet. In ten minutes, make your way to the room on the third floor. End of the corridor and on the left. Knock exactly five times.”
Safir finished what was left of his ale, stood, and then took his leave. As instructed, Haraldur and Vega waited exactly ten minutes, before following suit and making their way to the third floor of the inn. Finding the aforementioned room, Haraldur delivered five precise and measured knocks upon the heavy oak door; a beat later, the lock unlatched, and Safir opened the door to allow them entry, then promptly shut it again.
With his cloak removed, Safir had donned commoners’ clothing, but there was no diminishing the regal angles of his face or the way he carried himself so easily as a prince. Vega had never been able to carry herself with such grace, when she had still held the title of royalty… “Welcome, Vega. And Haraldur.” He nodded in the tall, muscular man’s direction. “I’m so glad you were able to come.”
“We weren’t going to pass up this opportunity. Not if it means we can make a difference against Mollengard’s threat. Believe me, the gratitude is ours.” Vega breathed in a beat, suddenly finding herself at a loss for words, and not quite knowing why. “I… I’ll admit, I’ve been struggling to figure out where it is we stand. Or if I owe you an apology, on my father’s behalf…”
“Why would you apologize for a decision that was made on your behalf as a child? You’re Eyraillian; your brother can’t take that away from you. And, by virtue of marriage, so are you, Haraldur. And since Eyraille and Ilandria are officially allied… then I should hope we stand as allies, at the very least. Or, at best…” Safir smiled and offered his hand--to Vega or Haraldur, whomever cared to take it. “As friends.”
Initially, Sylvie felt pleased by the Eyraillian king’s appreciation for the gourds. Whether genuine or as an attempt to humor her interests, it proved that the young monarch was not so brutish and cantankerous as everyone claimed. He possessed humanity and a dose of decorum, albeit underutilized in favor of blunt, tactless candor.
She spoke too soon, as he wasted no time exposing her to his divisive attitude. At the accusation, Sylvie’s practiced expression gave way, pinkening to outrage. She caught herself before it manifested in her voice and mannerisms. This is exactly what he desires. To get a rise out of me, she thought, reminiscing on her brothers, who pulled the same dirty tactics. “With all respect, your Majesty,” she said, exuding both politesse and firmness, “I am no fool. If you think me one, both Lord Canaveris and Lady Rigas were in attendance and sanctioned the transaction. The woman to whom we spoke more than demonstrated her integrity. Even if her intention was to see me as a mark, I do not mind. I’ve little need for money, and her circumstances would necessitate thievery-by-proxy if she cannot do business with her regular clientele due to hostilities outside of her control. That said, I do appreciate the seriousness with which you find the matter, your Majesty. At any rate,” a smile fringed her lips, “she invited me to dine with her family at their farmhouse in the mountains. I may very well accept her generous offer. It would help to speak at length with others about her concerns and better understand how we may serve them.”
“Speaking of—and if you would hear me out,” but he was already dismissing her contributions to Eyraille and the war effort, penning her as useless. A frivolous slip of a girl, full of frippery and frolic. As he left her standing in the gourd-decorated parlor, her fisted hand uncurled, folding over her ring hand. I do not know how you want me to proceed, papa, she thought, dearly wishing for the privacy to solicit her father’s advice. You require information on Eyraille to satisfy Mollengard so they may free you. But to gather this information, it is best I become an asset to their cause and earn the king’s trust. For that, I must play both sides…
At Nia’s knee-jerk hostility, Tivia scoffed. “I never implied that you tell the truth. I merely said your lie is threadbare and won’t hold well in water because you–yes, you, Nia–are sinking. And everyone can see it. Notice how they tiptoe around you. How your beau casts worrying looks when you so much as take a step on your unsteady feet. In this sorry state, how will you be useful for long?” She rocked back on her heels and half-listened as the Ardane Alchemist enumerated her excuses and elaborate plans for sneaking under Prince Safir’s nose in Ilandria. By then, Tivia stopped following the desperate flapping of Nia’s lips, its pace too grueling to translate reliably. But she understood the gist and let the rant continue until a gap in the conversation revealed itself. Tivia went on.
“Your personal vendetta against the Prince of Ilandria won’t do us any favors,“ she said coolly, unperturbed by Nia’s flame-spewing. “If the next monarch of Ilandria is too weak or distracted to govern, a power vacuum will open up and invite instability–which I know would please you immensely, but we need our allies strong. Pick off Ilandria later, on your own time. I’ll even tell you the best date to stage your revenge. Presently, though, anything we do to compromise our allies means Mollengard will win. And if Mollengard wins, then nobody wins. So I’m terribly sorry you have to keep hearing Safir’s name, but you’ll either need to deal with it, or remove yourself as a player. Return to Galeyn and hide under the covers until the worst blows over. Those are your options. I figured I’d give you something for your troubles, to make your suffering worth the price, because whether you like it or not, you are fated to cross paths with Ilandria–with Prince Safir.” She raised one eyebrow so Nia would understand her meaning, clear though it was vague. “So, if given the choice, would you rather face the inevitable on your own terms, or be taken like a knife stab from behind? Remove yourself of your power and make yourself ill with fear,” she nodded at Nia’s piqueish complexion, “or stand up for your future, by confronting your past?”
Exhausting her discussion topics, and her patience, she turned her back on Nia and floated to the door. Though she couldn’t hear her exact words, Tivia parsed the panic from the woman’s pained shouting and inferred the cause. It was fortunate she had cast a spell to dampen the sound inside the room when she’d entered, lest Nia inform the corridors of the dangerous thing she held. Tivia didn’t bother to correct Nia and her catastrophizing scenario. For one, the parchment Tivia carried was scrawled full of gibberish. The information lived in her head, but she wasn’t fool enough to let a hard copy float around for a gleeful pickpocket to nab. For another, the Isidor of the other world stipulated that the tonic would activate under incredibly specific circumstances, knowing his responsibility not to create a panacea fit for starting a campaign to strip the Night Garden of its life-giving resources and cause a crisis. Tivia had already ended one world by her presence alone. She was not so careless as to end another.
Later, she met with Caris in his study on the subject of Sylvie Canaveris and her potential for stirring trouble. Though she anticipated the topic for discussion, she hadn’t prepared a way to say, in as little words, that her warnings amounted to a hunch. A strong hunch, but not one backed by the stars. For that reason, she hadn’t pursued her thought process, or where it led, other than how she felt on first laying eyes on the young woman who fancied herself a diplomat; a visceral twisting of her gut.
Tivia did not hate Sylvie. On the contrary, they shared a friendship in the other world, akin to sisters. The young girl was an open book, and despite her far-flung dreams of adventure outside her stifling home, curbed her impulses and remained dutiful. Of course, the Sylvie of the other world represented a slightly different caricature than the one currently residing in Eyraille. Though her direct counterpart, they were not, by definition, the same person borne of the same desires.
At their core, however, they exemplified the same archetype. Sylvie Canaveris in any world closely parallel this one would not make such a sudden and reckless play unless strongly influenced by an outside source. But ‘outside source,’ could mean anything ranging from a particularly inspiring novel she read, or a leader she admired…
Or…a near-death experience. The masquerade ball, and the devastation she reversed, including Sylvie’s assured demise.
Could that be the catalyst behind Sylvie’s rebirth of priorities? If so, it meant that whatever happened, Tivia was partially responsible for the result. By plucking the Canaveris girl from her date with death and setting her on an unknown path obscured by the shine of the all-knowing stars, Tivia had created an uncertain variable, and inadvertently introduced it to yet another uncertainty; Eyraille’s survival of Mollengard.
“This is going to sound supremely unhelpful, but I have a sense that her being here feels…askew,” Tivia said, resigned into giving an honest assessment of her impressions of the day, however lacking in substance. “I know Sylvie. She wouldn’t leave everyone she loves and come to Eyraille on a whim. The stars are silent. I doubt they’ll help me parse the truth. I’ll keep watch over her; see what I can discover on my own. As for the portal mirrors,” she sighed, hating to backpedal on a former conviction, “they’re a good idea.” Good insofar as allocating Haraldur’s Forbanne troops into Ilandria, she thought, but did not share aloud. “Good enough to withstand a young upstart wandering the kingdom with a paintbrush and a dream. Let us hope the culmination of her dastardly deeds equals to nothing more than reupholstering the furniture with little embroidered flowers.”
Ari was the next person to enter Nia and Sylvie’s shared chambers, not long after Tivia graced them with her presence. Nia lay on the bed in a position to facilitate sleep, but her eyes were open when Ari made his fleet-footed approach.
“My apologies. I did not mean to wake you,” he said, taking a seat on the chair beside the bed. “I suppose I am not so cat-like on my feet as I surmised. One does not seamlessly transition from clunking about with a cane on petrified limbs to prancing about like the veritable lord of the dance. But I digress. How are you faring?” She did not like when he pried, so he refrained from leaning toward her with an evaluative glance. Even from his vantage point, however, he detected the tired lines rimming her eyes and the pallor that hadn’t recovered its hue, despite partaking in several meals since their arrival. “If I had known the difficulty of this voyage, I would have requested Lord Rigas to spirit you here with his wayward magic,” he said, patently avoiding the option of traveling through Ilandria. Under his instruction, it was never an option. “If you need an extra day to recover, I shall bring it up with the king. Even he is not fool enough to deny someone their rest, especially when that someone has been tasked with a labor-intensive project for his benefit. May I ask about your audience with the king? Anything of particular note?”
When Nia did not respond right away, Ari smiled through the silence. “Ah, no matter. Sylvie performed admirably at the harvest festival, today. She has befriended a young woman, a Mollengardian refugee, and purchased a few of her prized gourds to display about the palace. Oh, that reminds me,” he fished through his pocket and presented Nia with a small satin pouch cinched tight with silken drawstrings. “I brought you a gift from the festivities. A token, a trifle, really, but may it lift your spirits. I shall bother you no further. Please resume your slumber.” He set the pouch by her pillow and rose from his chair, quietly slipping through the room next door.
If Nia cared to open the pouch, she would find a rare and coveted spice found only in Ilandria, perfect for brewing a tea she oft described in dreamy reminiscence.
After tying loose ends in Galeyn, Haraldur departed with Vega for Ilandria. Despite Alster’s insistence that he transport the couple to the borderlands, they opted for horseback so as not to overwhelm the Rigas mage and his climbing responsibilities. For the journey, Haraldur packed light, two simple outfits, his armor, and weapons slung on saddlebags. He kept the hand mirror Alster gifted them in a snug pocket lined with fluff to prevent breakage. Its companion mirror remained in their apartments at the palace, available to the nanny on duty. Each was instructed on how to use it, including Sigrid and Bronwyn, who both agreed to watch the twins when the full-duty nannies needed a reprieve. For the acorns belonging to Klara and Kynnet, he applied linseed oil and lacquer to protect the surface from cracking, and strung them on the necklace chain that contained his wedding band. With everyone represented so close (literally) to his chest, he felt able to go anywhere, knowing some of the people he cherished most were only a mirror glimpse away.
On the third day, they crossed the Ilandria border and arrived at the inn as instructed by Prince Safir. To while away the time, they sequestered in a nondescript corner, kept the hoods of their traveling cloaks over their heads, and ate their fill of bread and pottage from the kitchens. Also guilty of alcoholic tendencies, Haraldur nursed a few ales, but never drank to excess, wanting his wits about them in case of an unexpected ambush, or spies from Mollengard in their midst. Staying alert and vigilant reeked of suspicion, so after a few hours perched like a hunting dog with ears perked, Haraldur slumped in his seat and returned to swishing down some ale.
“Think we were stood up? Or—we walked into a trap?” He muttered to Vega, but within moments, another hooded figure joined them at the table, and by the utterance of his wife’s name, they knew to whom they spoke.
Adhering to the hooded man’s instruction, they ascended to the third floor ten minutes later and knocked exactly five times on the door at the end of the hall. The same figure answered the summons and allowed them entry. Uncloaked, the man who claimed the moniker of Safir Vallaincourt left little shrouded in doubt. Either the graceful, noble figure was the real deal, or the Prince of Blades had found a convincing body double. Judging by Vega’s reaction, however, Haraldur gauged Safir’s authenticity. This was the prince of Ilandria. How…was he supposed to address him? With a bow and a ‘your Highness’ tagged at the end? If Safir still considered them Eyraillian royalty, would it be beneath him to prostrate? Aside from Caris and technically Lilica, but the circumstances behind her Royal appointment put her somewhere in between), he hadn’t directly spoken with a monarch of their respective kingdom. Deferring to his soldier background, he greeted Safir with an informal salute, fist to chest.
As apologies were exchanged and awkward attempts at resolving a decade-old conflict hung in the air, Haraldur looked to Safir’s outstretched hand, baffled by his last words. As friends? Did Ilandrians casually bandy about declarations of friendship when discussing war and strategy? Haraldur thought of Nia and concluded that maybe her overt friendliness was a cultural holdover, after all.
“So what would you have us do in Ilandria?” He said, blunt but to the point. “If we mean to stay clandestine for now, we have to take care in how we reach out to allies in Eyraille. I mean to bring my Forbanne here, after we work out the logistics of transporting over six hundred soldiers over the border on the sly, but once they’re in Ilandria, there’s no hiding the truth from Caris. He will know we’ve deceived him. We’ll need a slow and subtle play until that time comes. Tell me what you have in mind.” He grasped the Ilandrian monarch’s hand, a steady pump of a handshake, but nothing resembling warmth. Just a transaction. “I will call you an ally, Prince Safir. In time, I may yet call you friend.”
