Momentarily forgetting that he was among guests with whom he had yet to build any sort of rapport, Safir couldn’t help but snort at Aristide’s experience as King Caris’ guest. Courteous certainly wasn’t the first word that came to mind when he thought of the young king. “Sorry. I do believe. I simply find it rather amusing that anyone would use such a word to describe His Eyraillian Majesty. Then again, I have yet to be his guest; thus far, it’s been the other way around.”
For better or worse, at least the Lord of Stella D’Mare offered him the grace that he needn’t explain himself or his current condition, which was far from what he preferred to show visitors--particularly those of high status. While not as visibly wasted as Caris, the beverage had been strong (though he heartily disagreed with Tivia and Caris’ appraisal of the taste), and there was only so much one could do to downplay inebriation. “Honestly, Lord Canaveris, I wouldn’t be at my best even if Miss Rigas and His Majesty hadn’t forcibly imposed their company on me. Although, I suppose imbibing is entirely on me. I could have refused, but… I am certain His Majesty would have ended up all the worse for it. It didn’t occur to me I would encounter anyone to whom I owed an explanation for my state here in the kitchens. Otherwise I would have entrusted His Majesty to Tivia’s care, alone.” And perhaps he would have done so, had Caris--completely unprompted--uttered the word friend.
Speak of the devil, Tivia then emerged from the cellars with the dried herbs momentarily and handed them to the Ilandrian Prince, who then proceeded to crush a handful with a mortar and pestle. “If secrets are your currency of choice, Miss Rigas, then I can’t see you ever having the need for coin,” Safir said drily, in such a manner that he couldn’t imagine whatever she had to say would really matter to him. As soon as the water in the kettle came to a boil, he reached for a cup and sprinkled the contents on the bottom. “But if you feel it has merit, I’ll indulge you.”
Except, this didn’t seem to be Tivia’s secret alone. The Prince of Blades furrowed his brows and looked over his shoulder at Ari, who suddenly seemed incredibly uncertain. Safir wouldn’t have pegged him as the type to be hiding something, but then again, he was under the influence of spirits. Clearly, his judgment was incredibly off. “...may I ask what this is?” Safir pressed his lips into a firm line, and looked between the two D’Marians warily. “And why the merit of my honesty and trustworthiness--as an Ilandrian, no less--is suddenly in question, Lord Canaveris?”
Safir didn’t like this feeling, like he was suspect in his own home, not only by someone who was little more than a complete stranger, but by someone who he’d thought was safe to trust. Evidently, this was hardly Tivia’s secret at all. He waited patiently for Aristide to explain… but nothing could have prepared him for what he learned. “...what?” He hissed at the name on Ari’s lips; a person who had invaded his thoughts more and more, of late, but who he had all but given up on ever seeing again. The Prince of Blades was so startled, he realized too late that he misjudged when pouring the boiling water for Caris’ tea, and ended up burning his hand.
The startled prince dropped the kettle and clutched his hand, but the pain hardly registered. “Anetania’s… here? Now, in Ilandria? In this palace?” He was drunk, surprised, but not stupid. Safir kept his voice to a whisper, lest anyone outside of this scullery be listening in. His heart had leapt to his throat, and for a moment, he forgot to breathe. She does not wish to see you. Grant her space. She is not faring well. Had Tivia known all along? Ari certainly had. They’d known, and purposefully kept this from him, for one reason or another. They had sat at his table, exchanged words and condolences, all the while knowing exactly what this meant to him… and what Anetania meant to him.
At this point, Safir Vallaincourt didn’t know what else to feel aside from hurt and embarrassed. “You’ve been holding this in front of me, just out of reach, since the day we met.” He said to Tivia, brushing off any concern she or Ari voiced for his injured hand. “You tried to manipulate me with this emotional blackmail when you weren’t convinced King Caris could win an alliance with Ilandria. But you,” he turned confused, pained eyes on Ari. “I don’t even know you. And I don’t understand what either of you think to gain, at this point, by telling me this. Especially if she has no desire whatsoever to see me… I’m done.” Safir threw his hands up.
“I’m done being played, by supposed well-wishers--guests in my own home--especially at a time like this. Keep your secrets, both of you. And Anetania may keep hers. I’ll have no more to do with secrets or emotional blackmail at this time. Miss Rigas, please see His Majesty safely back to his suite with the tea.”
He didn’t bid them goodnight, did not articulate that he hoped to see them on the morrow. The Prince of Blades left the scullery quickly, the effects of the alcohol having dissipated from his sister the moment he heard Anetania’s name and burned his hand. He moved through the palace without thinking, all the way to the south wing, where he cough Somath just outside of his office. The royal physician looked about to lock up and retire for the night when Safir took him entirely off guard, pushing him back through the door and close it behind the both of them. Somath, understandably taken aback by the Prince’s very uncharacteristic behaviour, was all but entirely breathless. “You Highess--”
“Did you know? You knew as well, didn’t you?” Safir accused, with equal hurt, anger, and confusion. “That she is here? Anetania is here!”
“On my oath, Your Highness, I did not learn of this before today.” And Somath himself wondered exactly where Safir had heard. Had he somehow come across Nia? Or had Ari--out of sympathy or, perhaps, poor judgement--confided in the already grief-stricken Prince? “I am just as shocked and confused as you. I still don’t understand why she has decided to return…”
“And she won’t see me. She blames me, doesn’t she? For the decision my father made. She thinks me as bad as him, or perhaps in agreement with his stance. She has no idea…” The Prince of Blades, suddenly afraid he might spill tears, squeezed his eyes shut. “How many people here, who call themselves friends, or allies, or honoured guests, have kept this from me? Why am I made a fool in my own home, Somath? And why choose now to strike? When I am already down? Why… no. No, I know why. Exactly why.”
Safir opened his eyes. They were dry, but shining with clarity. “This is deliberately personal. It’s to hurt me. To kick me while I’m down, to show me how much she has hurt as a result of my father’s decision. Well, then.” He threw his head back and let out an entirely humourless laugh. “Tell them they’ve succeeded. They win--I’ve never felt lower. Never…” More hopeless. More betrayed. More alone. But the D’Marians didn’t need to know that: they already knew. Victory was already theirs.
“Your Highness… what’s happened to your hand?” The Prince’s thumb and forefinger on his non dominant hand, noticeably red and swollen compared to the rest of his fingers, hadn’t surpassed the physician’s attention. Nor did the strong scent of spirits on Safir’s breath, but he saw no merit in making that point in the soon-to-be King’s vulnerable state. “Please, let me treat you. We can discuss. I promise there is little more I can tell you that you don’t already know on the matter that brings you so much pain, but it is my strong belief that this isn’t some personal attack on you.”
“Then what is it, Somath? If not direct to me, then why now, on the eve of my father’s funeral? Why now, at a time when Ilandria doesn’t have an official King? Because to me, that sounds like quite an ideal strategy. ” Safir raked his uninjured hand through his now unbound blonde locks and drew a breath. “...please inform the Guard that I will be taking no audience tomorrow, for condolences, offerings, or otherwise, following the funeral. Ilandrians and foreign guests are free to attend to pay respects, but that is all. I will see no one further until the coronation, at which point I understand interaction is unavoidable.”
Somath’s already worry-lined face fell. He had been worried this would occur: that it would be too much for the stricken prince to learn that his once best-friend had not only returned after over a decade, but with no intention to see him… despite that it would mean so much to him at a time like this to reconnect. There were no winners in this heartbreaking conflict; contrary to what Safir believed, no one walked away victorious. But the Prince of Blades would neither allow his family physician to treat him, nor console him. Without another word, he left Somath’s office, retired to his suite--and this time, he locked the door.
“So you admit your path isn’t your own--yet you fly it, freely, with your unbroken wings.” Caris mirrored her words in order to process them, which was a little more slowly than he’d have preferred, thanks to the alcohol in his veins. “And they’re your wings, certainly? My family broke my sister’s. But she still wanted to fly; so she stole mine. Now she soars happily with her beloved husband and twin infants, while I stay behind in the home she abandoned, permanently grounded. I don’t even know why I’m trying so hard to clean up the messes Vega distanced herself from.”
The young king raked his fingers through his hair, the bite of the freezing wind still not yet registering as anything but pleasant on his exposed skin. Then, as casually as if they were discussing the weather, he tilted his head toward Sylvie. “Did Tivia ever tell you what she envisions for my future? For Eyraille?” Illustrating what the star seer had shown him (and others) in a terrifying vision, he drew a finger across his throat. “To my knowledge, her visions haven’t changed. This war ends with me dead, and Eyraille conquered by Mollengard. I’m not supposed to live to see next year… but, here I am, going against my principles and getting drunk to lift the spirits of my kingdom’s strongest ally. Quite the irony, right? That I decide to give a damn and give it my all when the stars already seem to believe it’s too late? I’ll tell you this much.”
Caris leaned in, as if he was divulging a deep secret. In some sense… it very much was. “I might fall--Tivia showed me as much. But what she showed me wasn’t the end. Regardless of what happens to me, I don’t believe Eyraille is going down. So I’ll do what I can, while I can, to make sure that’s the case.” How he was so cavalier in the face of what he believed would be certain death might have been a result of the alcohol. Was this a thinly-veiled confession that the King of Eyraille had given up on himself? Or that he believed in himself enough to save his home from a fate that was all but certain for him?
And with that abrupt and completely unprecedented divulgence, Caris appeared to drop the topic altogether, as if it didn’t interest him. His keen eyes studied Sylvie’s face, as if seeing something in it for the first time. “You know, you’re not who I thought you were, Miss Canaveris.” He said, after a thoughtful pause. “And I still don’t know who it is you really are… but it’s not who I thought. Just when I expect you to do one thing or say another, you do or say something completely unexpected. Now: why are you even out here? You’re freezing.”
Sylvie was free to interpret his comment as either criticism or compliment; Caris himself didn’t seem to know how he truly felt about it. But the young king wasn’t so drunk that he didn’t notice her shivering, clutching her arms around her body. And while he couldn’t relate, his senses still dulled by the alcohol, he didn’t want her to be uncomfortable at his expense. “Go on; your uncle will worry.”
When he followed inside, her uncle indeed wore an expression of deep concern. And Tivia was nowhere in sight. “What’s going on? Where’s Safir? Tivia…” Caris frowned. “Tell me you didn’t upset him. Did I drink all the swill for nothing?” The Eyraillian King sighed heavily, but didn’t protest when Tivia put the tea Safir had prepared for him (prior to his abrupt departure) into his hands. “Fine. It’s fine. We’ll fix it tomorrow.” Whether or not he believed what he said, or whether it was just the influence of the alcohol, Caris stepped out with an air of confidence that perhaps he was the only one in the kitchen to actually believe.
The funeral and last rites of the late King Ullir Vallaincourt, who had ruled Ilandria for over fifty years, took place late the next morning in the rolling fields beyond the palace. From the looks of it, the better part of the kingdom had shown up to pay their respects to the fallen King. Skilled magic had managed to preserve Ullir’s body in seemingly perfect condition up to this point: he was well dressed, and looked as though he could have been sleeping.
Safir, his council, and his closest attendants--including Rewalt Somath--gathered behind the funeral pyre. Contrary to the dinner he’d hosted the night before, of all the officials and people of note, it was curious that the Prince himself was, this time, the most dressed-down. His pale blonde hair was pulled half-back away from his face, and he’d donned a fitted, pale grey and silver tunic. The only indication of his lineage was a simple, silver circlet that sat upon his brow, and a ceremonial sword strapped across his back. His left hand was partially bandaged, and had earned a few concerned looks from council members, but everyone knew better than to comment.
Ilandria was not known for being particularly religious, and priests did not commonly facilitate funerals. Instead, it was the members of the late King’s council that led attendees through the ceremony, each responsible for a particular rite, or song, or account of Ullir’s rein. Safir himself did not even speak until the end, and whether that had always been the plate, or was an amendment upon the Prince’s request, was unclear. When at last the Prince of Blades stepped up to the pyre, standing tall over his father’s body, almost an hour had already passed. The funeral itself was about to come to a close; Safir, it seemed, would personally close this chapter in Ilandria’s history. And, in just a few weeks’ time, he would personally open a new chapter, when he accepted his father’s crown.
This time, at least, it made sense that his speech was scripted. Just like every other process in Ilandria, most funerals, especially those of noblemen, followed a specific formula out of respect for the dead. “Thank you for gathering,” Safir addressed the crowd. Much though he wanted to, he did not look for Nia’s face in the sea of people. Would he even recognize it if he saw it? “To bid farewell to an era, and the man who carried it. To mourn what is gone, but to rejoice in that it ever was. To never forget the past, but to look toward the future.” The Prince closed his eyes and exhaled softly. “To truth, to justice, and to what is right.”
A few council members exchanged micro-glances behind the Prince; likewise, a handful of the crowd appeared confused. Perhaps Ari, Caris, and the other foreign guests didn’t understand the significance, but Nia--standing stoic and unrecognized in the crowd--did, very well. The common tongue was spoken amongst nobility; Ilandrian, for the past handful of decades, had come to be associated with the lower class. The entirety of the funeral should have been carried out solely in the common tongue, that much she knew. But Safir--for whatever reason--had officially closed it in Ilandrian, and as a result, some people were taken aback.
Somath, however, was not. He knew precisely why Safir had made the last minute decision: he knew precisely who he’d made the decision for.
Drawing the ceremonial sword from its sheath at his back, Safir arranged the blade in his father’s cold hands, then stepped back as officials closed the ceremony by setting the pyre alight. The flames smothered the late King’s body, climbed high as Nia looked on from her vantage point next to Ari. To her credit, she hadn’t reacted at all that morning, and might have appeared as somber as any other attendee. But there was no mistaking the relief in her shoulders and her brown eyes as the funeral neared its end. Was it for watching the man responsible for her family’s death finally burn? Or could Safir’s last, poignant words in Ilandrian have touched something in her?
Attendees, in orderly fashion, were then free to leave final gifts of flowers or specialty blades at the pyre, but many were confused as to the absence of Ilandria’s Prince. One council member stepped up then to clarify: “His Highness will not be receiving well wishers at this time. We thank you for your understanding.”
“That’s fine with me.” Caris--who, miraculously, hadn’t suffered more than a headache that morning--stood from the seat of honour that had been reserved for him, with Tivia sitting at his side. “Good thing we’re not well wishers. Come on.”
Having been at the right angle to see where Safir had disappeared to, the Eyraillian King and his advisor slipped away from the gathering and followed Safir back to the courtyard. But it wasn’t long before the Prince of Blades realized he wasn’t alone. “Please, not today.” He spoke to Caris and Tivia without turning to looking at them. “Not now. That’s all I ask of you.”
“Safir--let me preface this by saying, I have no idea what happened last night.” Caris held his hands up. Dressed in full Eyraillian regalia, it felt strange to address Ilandria’s Prince when he looked so much less a Prince and more a shadow. “And I don’t know who upset you, so I don’t know who to apologize for. And my head feels as though it could split in two… so this is a really inopportune time for me to navigate what you could possibly be feeling when I can’t relate, or what I’m supposed to do.” He dropped his hands with a sigh and gently massaged one of his temples. “Historically, Eyraillian soldiers are instructed to leave injured or incapacitated comrades for dead. Often, the Skyknights still do: rid themselves of weak links that would otherwise slow them down. Maybe this is what makes me such a shitty Eyraillian King, then. Because you’re dressed-down and ready to admit defeat, and should walk away, but I’m not going to.” As if to make a point, he lowered himself onto a stone bench. “It doesn’t sit right with me to walk away from a vulnerable comrade. So until you feel like you’re able to stand tall… someone has to watch your back.”
While it went unsaid, Caris knew Tivia shared the same sentiment: that Safir (and Ilandria) had entered a very vulnerable moment in time. And anything could happen between now and the moment Ullir’s crown was placed upon Safir’s head. He had seen something in the Prince’s dull-green eyes this morning that he could relate to, and it concerned him. It caused him to wonder just how hard Safir would fight back if someone, for any reason, challenged him for Ilandria’s crown.
As a guest in someone else’s home, which, for his charge (who by now was likely starving), amounted to a prison under the worst possible circumstances, Ari sculpted a version of himself made entirely of artifice; pretty to look upon, but lacking substance, and therefore, deceit, beneath the surface. Uncertain of what to expect from the king, despite accounts of his even-tempered and principled nature, the situation called for extreme care. He praised King Caris’ hospitality without examining or evaluating the rougher aspects of his persona and said nothing that could incriminate or call him into question. Sharing no opinions, even in companionable candor, meant that no Ilandrian would view him as anything but a pleasant guest who definitely hadn’t smuggled in a high-profile and controversial figure with absolutely no ties to Prince Safir’s childhood.
It was a strategy he meant to maintain all the stronger. Inebriated individuals, no matter how accomplished they held their liquor, were still by definition physically and mentally impaired. Ari didn’t know this man or how he would react to poor news, especially while grieving his father’s death.
So why did he listen to the equally inebriated Tivia Rigas’ threat? Because she disguised it as sound advice? Because if not him, then her? Because he trusted a star seer, or failing that, trusted Alster Rigas’ assessment of Tivia’s supposed benevolence?
He regretted the confession the moment it exited his lips. Every word, a twist in his gut. Ari opened his eyes to the tea kettle splashing scalding water onto Prince Safir’s hand, his startled features now twofold, the pain divided—or doubled—to both hand and heart.
“So what if I have?” Tivia, already anticipating the blame, didn’t back down from Safir’s accusation of her manipulation tactics. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Eyraille is preparing for a war. If it was to buy Ilandria’s aid, then yes, I would promise your greatest desire if I could procure it.”
“Excuse me; you have been enticing Prince Safir with the prospect of a reunion this entire time? Using Nia as—as currency?” Ari folded a fist behind his back and focused on his breathing, a long-utilized technique to stay any overlarge emotions from triggering a flare-up response.
“It’s not like I didn’t ask Nia if she wanted to play nice with her old friend. I wasn’t going to throw her at Safir’s feet against her will. I’m not a monster.” Now facing an assault on both sides, from two jilted leaders, Tivia dug in her heels and fixed them an unapologetic stare. But before Ari could properly confront her, Safir turned on him with a comment that came off as…slightly unhinged, as though laced with paranoia.
“Your Grace, I have absolutely no intention or desire to undermine your rule through petty psychological games. I am merely respecting Nia’s wishes. I did not bring her here with the express purpose of torturing you. We arrived here but this afternoon. I did not secret this news from you as a malicious ploy for power. As a D’Marian by decree, she is my guest and hence under my protection. If she feels unsafe, it is my sworn duty to guard her from harm, perceived or otherwise. I gain nothing but for the hope of bridging the wounds of the past. …The truth is not always the way, indeed,” he muttered loudly to himself when it was clear Safir refused to listen and was en route to a stormy exit. Ari let the hasty prince go, exhausted of patience and disinterested in reasoning with the unreasonable. The Ilandrian monarch swept out of the scullery, the abandoned kettle and half-filled tea-cup the only indicators he’d been there at all.
“That…was not how I wanted things to go,” Tivia broke through the silence, pouring the remains of the tea into the cup and wiping up the spilled water with a rag. “I don’t relish in chaos.”
“With all due respect, Miss Rigas, I cannot abide your presence right now.” He spun on the star seer, his balled fist of tension manifesting through the knots in his shoulders, the kinks in his neck. His muscles heated, tingled—always a precursor to a flare up. Only, he felt it everywhere at once, twists of pain instead of numbing petrifaction. “I do not understand the providence of the stars or what trickery you must pull to thwart a terrible outcome. But I will not become party to it. If you are here to make an enemy of me or of Nia, I will defend myself. If you act the part of a villain, then that is how I shall treat you. Do you understand?”
Tivia looked down, stirring the wheat-colored tea with a spoon. Whatever edges sharpened her face in the shadows now softened them in the low lights of the smoldering coal fire. “Sylvie was fated to die on the night of the masquerade. I changed the trajectory of this timeline to preserve her life. Nia wandered into another world. I fished her out, and brought her back here in time to save your life. You don’t want me to be a villain? Then listen to my heroics and judge for yourself if I’m deserving of your enduring hate. Not that I’m looking for praise and love, either. Just give me the benefit of time. That’s all I ask. Time to see what happens. Time to address my fuck-ups. Just time, Ari. …Please.” Her voice cracked, so subtle as to nearly miss it under the crackle of flame. Before him she looked like paper ready to catch fire and blacken to ash. “I don’t relish in chaos,” she reiterated, and this time, Ari believed her.
Sylvie bit the inside of her cheek. Were they her wings? Or were they on loan from her family, such that the moment she strayed from their orbit, they would fall from her like a rain of golden feathers and she would plummet to earth, flightless and broken? If she betrayed her father, turned her back on his plight in favor of Eyraille, could she confidently state her status as airborne and free?
“No,” she said with a defeated breath, surprised at her honesty. He was forthright with her first; even if his openness was fueled by the liquor he’d imbibed, one truthful turn deserved another. “My wings are borrowed. From the Canaveris name—and from Tivia Rigas.” Knowing she piqued the young king’s interest, she hastened to explain. “A few months ago, I…died. It was not for very long, and the circumstances behind my death were purely accidental. I was simply standing in the wrong place at the wrong time. But then, I woke up from death, like it was extracted, or pulled from me. Tivia Rigas had reversed the damage. I have her to thank for my second lease in life.”
“If she foresaw your death, it doesn’t mean your death will stick.” To escape the chill bearing on her exposed neck, she released the pins holding her hair back, letting the wind capture handfuls of dark curls, which swirled around her like eddies. “What I’ve learned surrounded by necromancers, star seers, powerful mages that can rend this world in half or darken it with creatures hailing from a midnight plain, is that nothing is impossible. It might require one to abandon the rules of the universe, but the rules were always unfair, and who devised these ‘sacred’ rules to begin with? Why bound yourself to wings when you are fully capable of flying without them? If they’re broken or gone, we simply reverse gravity, and float upward.”
You know, you’re not who I thought you were. “Oh?” She cocked her head, an intrigued smile pulling on her lips. “Whosoever will keep you on your toes if Tivia is not around to step on them? You know, I confess I feel a similar sentiment. I was warned about you. Excessively. As some embodiment of incorrigible adolescent wrath, immature, short-sighted, and irredeemable as a king. But, either they were egregiously misguided, or Prince Safir’s liquor stores have painted you in the most exquisite light. Ask me again, in a few weeks.”
At his concerned glance of her half-bare arms and threadbare shawl, she let forth a teeth-sucking laugh, more for warmth than for mirth. “I am a Southerner by blood, your Majesty. If we so much as see a flurry of snow in Stella D’Mare, it is documented as a noteworthy event.”
When they entered the kitchens, the sudden oppressive weight hanging between Tivia and her uncle made Sylvie long for the bitterly winds. The energy was funereal, as though they mourned more than the death of the Ilandrian king, but his son, as well. His son…who was conspicuously absent.
“Where is his Grace?” Sylvie looked between her uncle and Tivia for the answer.
“Oh yes, I upset him. Leave it to me.” Tivia shook her head and snorted as she presented Caris with a hot cup of tea. “Safir’s parting gift. If it’s any consolation, Safir cannot possibly be angry with you. Wash the booze out of your mouth and let’s call it a night.”
Despite the hiccup in the kitchens, Ari returned to his and Nia’s shared bedchamber, carrying a tray of just-warmed food and a carafe of water. Ably balancing the earthenware like a palace attendant in his own right, Ari sailed through the threshold, placing the meal on the closest available table. “My apologies for the late arrival,” he closed the door behind him with his foot. “I befriended the chef with the express purpose of absconding with some leftovers for you, but we spoke at length, and the time wandered off somewhere. I assumed you haven’t had much to eat all day, and tonight’s cuisine featured many of those delectable spices you’ve mentioned. I must say, I doubt I will be able to leave here without stockpiling on a few sachets to go.”
He joined Nia at the small table, a low, hitched moan straining from his mouth as he landed heavily on the chair. The sharp stings and painful jolts hadn’t ceased pooling around his extremities, like sparks of fire popping on his skin. “I am fine,” he assured, when he caught her concerned gaze. “Though I suppose I should have been honest with you about the flare-ups and phantom pain.” Honest. The time for honesty is at an end, his inner voice scolded. You have decimated all attempts at brokering a truce with the Prince. He will naught trust you now.
“Are you interested in lingering here after the funeral? In Ilandria, I mean?” He searched her face carefully, his own eyes haggard, about to droop down his cheeks. “We are free to leave with the king’s entourage. Staying behind…well, we would have to devise a reason for an extended stay. There is the matter of the portal mirrors, of course, but I heard tell the prince has yet to approve the action, and if you have seen him up close,” he hesitated, unsure how Nia would interpret his next bit of news. “Prince Safir is not fit to rule. Not at present. It is a hasty judgment call on my end, but if things do not change between the funeral and his coronation, perhaps there will be another who will take advantage of the power vacuum…and rule in his stead.” And were that the case, would a new ruler be better for Nia, or worse? What of Eyraille? A compromised Ilandria spelled doom for the kingdom of mountains and rocs.
“My apologies. You likely do not care.” He poured himself a cup of water and drained it before carefully rising to his feet, minding the residual pains shooting through his limbs. He leaned forward and kissed her forehead. “Please disregard my prattle. You’ve endured enough today, and tomorrow is the funeral. In anticipation, perhaps we should retire to bed early.”
As he headed for the bed, he stopped mid-stride and looked over his shoulder at Nia, his face thoughtful, contemplative. Before he could stop himself, he added, “Were you once trapped in another world?”
Regardless of whether Ari received his answer, he retired to bed that night, but received no restful sleep. The residual aches on his arms, shoulders, and legs greeted him as he sat up in bed, but he ignored the mementos from last night as he donned his clothes for a funeral; a plain, unadorned black waistcoat topped with a cream-colored cravat and britches, to offset the somber color.
He and Nia arrived with their group via carriage to the funeral site, a small stretch of country just outside the palace grounds; an area presumably used for horseback riding and game-hunting. Aside from palace officials and some other delegates from dinner, King Caris and his entourage remained the only foreign representatives. The intimate group, unusually small for a king’s funeral, stood in silence as the rites were enacted by the council members and the pyre erected for the well-dressed body. During the involved process, Ari kept spying glances at Nia beside him, who stared blank-faced at the proceedings, calm yet unreadable. She only seemed to react once Prince Safir, who appeared in a drab outfit that reflected the empty sockets of his eyes, finalized his concluding remarks in Ilandrian. While Ari wasn’t well-versed in the culture, apart from his paltry understanding of the language and its uses, speaking Ilandrian as a nobleman or royal was practically unheard of in high society.
Tivia, meanwhile, stood beside Caris, adorned in black as usual. Her hair, which she had technically colored black, shone blonde under the glamour, which seemed to fool everyone in the crowd but Alster, who squinted knowingly at her. For the funeral, she deliberately looked away from the pyre and therefore caught no speeches, not even Safir’s final words, through lip-reading. Glad it finally ended, she was about to exit with the crowd, but Caris had other plans, and dragged her by the arm toward Safir.
“I think my coming along will only upset him more,” she protested, but by then, they had already crossed his path and Caris, trying so goddamned hard to reach Safir, sat before the bleeding, rotting pustule of a man, and made his appeal like an actual friend, because Caris had already declared his friendship last night. Not Tivia, who had no friends.
“You did nothing wrong, Caris,” Tivia agreed, stepping forward to stand before the diminishing prince. “Therefore, Safir, you’re targeting the wrong person. Don’t resent him. He drank shots from a bottle of disgusting liquor for you. Look at me. I’m the one at fault. Not Ari, who’s only looking out for his own and who only wants peace. Me, because I pressured him to tell you.” She continued, vague in her descriptions so as not to incriminate anyone aloud (save for herself), though she sensed Caris’ confusion beside her, as he likely wondered what in all hells they were discussing. “Yes, I dangled her over your head plenty of times, but I wanted to stop doing that. So last night, I made my decision. I would come clean and tell you, so you would be aware, and I wouldn’t have to keep teasing you with prospects of a reunion. Of course it didn’t go as planned. They should have been my words. I wrongfully involved Ari, against his will. So, what I’m trying to say here,” she sighed, messing up the weave in her braided not-blonde blonde hair, “is that I am sorry. I didn’t think it would hurt you to that extent when you already knew that it was only a matter of time before she would come here. I may be a star-seer, but I am shit when it comes to predicting how others will respond to news. Since I always blunder the reveal, I figured it was better for Ari to tell you instead, but,” she shrugged, “I suppose I ought to always expect a hostile reaction no matter what I do.”
As a guest in someone else’s home, which, for his charge (who by now was likely starving), amounted to a prison under the worst possible circumstances, Ari sculpted a version of himself made entirely of artifice; pretty to look upon, but lacking substance, and therefore, deceit, beneath the surface. Uncertain of what to expect from the king, despite accounts of his even-tempered and principled nature, the situation called for extreme care. He praised King Caris’ hospitality without examining or evaluating the rougher aspects of his persona and said nothing that could incriminate or call him into question. Sharing no opinions, even in companionable candor, meant that no Ilandrian would view him as anything but a pleasant guest who definitely hadn’t smuggled in a high-profile and controversial figure with absolutely no ties to Prince Safir’s childhood.
It was a strategy he meant to maintain all the stronger. Inebriated individuals, no matter how accomplished they held their liquor, were still by definition physically and mentally impaired. Ari didn’t know this man or how he would react to poor news, especially while grieving his father’s death.
So why did he listen to the equally inebriated Tivia Rigas’ threat? Because she disguised it as sound advice? Because if not him, then her? Because he trusted a star seer, or failing that, trusted Alster Rigas’ assessment of Tivia’s supposed benevolence?
He regretted the confession the moment it exited his lips. Every word, a twist in his gut. Ari opened his eyes to the tea kettle splashing scalding water onto Prince Safir’s hand, his startled features now twofold, the pain divided—or doubled—to both hand and heart.
“So what if I have?” Tivia, already anticipating the blame, didn’t back down from Safir’s accusation of her manipulation tactics. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Eyraille is preparing for a war. If it was to buy Ilandria’s aid, then yes, I would promise your greatest desire if I could procure it.”
“Excuse me; you have been enticing Prince Safir with the prospect of a reunion this entire time? Using Nia as—as currency?” Ari folded a fist behind his back and focused on his breathing, a long-utilized technique to stay any overlarge emotions from triggering a flare-up response.
“It’s not like I didn’t ask Nia if she wanted to play nice with her old friend. I wasn’t going to throw her at Safir’s feet against her will. I’m not a monster.” Now facing an assault on both sides, from two jilted leaders, Tivia dug in her heels and fixed them an unapologetic stare. But before Ari could properly confront her, Safir turned on him with a comment that came off as…slightly unhinged, as though laced with paranoia.
“Your Grace, I have absolutely no intention or desire to undermine your rule through petty psychological games. I am merely respecting Nia’s wishes. I did not bring her here with the express purpose of torturing you. We arrived here but this afternoon. I did not secret this news from you as a malicious ploy for power. As a D’Marian by decree, she is my guest and hence under my protection. If she feels unsafe, it is my sworn duty to guard her from harm, perceived or otherwise. I gain nothing but for the hope of bridging the wounds of the past. …The truth is not always the way, indeed,” he muttered loudly to himself when it was clear Safir refused to listen and was en route to a stormy exit. Ari let the hasty prince go, exhausted of patience and disinterested in reasoning with the unreasonable. The Ilandrian monarch swept out of the scullery, the abandoned kettle and half-filled tea-cup the only indicators he’d been there at all.
“That…was not how I wanted things to go,” Tivia broke through the silence, pouring the remains of the tea into the cup and wiping up the spilled water with a rag. “I don’t relish in chaos.”
“With all due respect, Miss Rigas, I cannot abide your presence right now.” He spun on the star seer, his balled fist of tension manifesting through the knots in his shoulders, the kinks in his neck. His muscles heated, tingled—always a precursor to a flare up. Only, he felt it everywhere at once, twists of pain instead of numbing petrifaction. “I do not understand the providence of the stars or what trickery you must pull to thwart a terrible outcome. But I will not become party to it. If you are here to make an enemy of me or of Nia, I will defend myself. If you act the part of a villain, then that is how I shall treat you. Do you understand?”
Tivia looked down, stirring the wheat-colored tea with a spoon. Whatever edges sharpened her face in the shadows now softened them in the low lights of the smoldering coal fire. “Sylvie was fated to die on the night of the masquerade. I changed the trajectory of this timeline to preserve her life. Nia wandered into another world. I fished her out, and brought her back here in time to save your life. You don’t want me to be a villain? Then listen to my heroics and judge for yourself if I’m deserving of your enduring hate. Not that I’m looking for praise and love, either. Just give me the benefit of time. That’s all I ask. Time to see what happens. Time to address my fuck-ups. Just time, Ari. …Please.” Her voice cracked, so subtle as to nearly miss it under the crackle of flame. Before him she looked like paper ready to catch fire and blacken to ash. “I don’t relish in chaos,” she reiterated, and this time, Ari believed her.
Sylvie bit the inside of her cheek. Were they her wings? Or were they on loan from her family, such that the moment she strayed from their orbit, they would fall from her like a rain of golden feathers and she would plummet to earth, flightless and broken? If she betrayed her father, turned her back on his plight in favor of Eyraille, could she confidently state her status as airborne and free?
“No,” she said with a defeated breath, surprised at her honesty. He was forthright with her first; even if his openness was fueled by the liquor he’d imbibed, one truthful turn deserved another. “My wings are borrowed. From the Canaveris name—and from Tivia Rigas.” Knowing she piqued the young king’s interest, she hastened to explain. “A few months ago, I…died. It was not for very long, and the circumstances behind my death were purely accidental. I was simply standing in the wrong place at the wrong time. But then, I woke up from death, like it was extracted, or pulled from me. Tivia Rigas had reversed the damage. I have her to thank for my second lease in life.”
“If she foresaw your death, it doesn’t mean your death will stick.” To escape the chill bearing on her exposed neck, she released the pins holding her hair back, letting the wind capture handfuls of dark curls, which swirled around her like eddies. “What I’ve learned surrounded by necromancers, star seers, powerful mages that can rend this world in half or darken it with creatures hailing from a midnight plain, is that nothing is impossible. It might require one to abandon the rules of the universe, but the rules were always unfair, and who devised these ‘sacred’ rules to begin with? Why bound yourself to wings when you are fully capable of flying without them? If they’re broken or gone, we simply reverse gravity, and float upward.”
You know, you’re not who I thought you were. “Oh?” She cocked her head, an intrigued smile pulling on her lips. “Whosoever will keep you on your toes if Tivia is not around to step on them? You know, I confess I feel a similar sentiment. I was warned about you. Excessively. As some embodiment of incorrigible adolescent wrath, immature, short-sighted, and irredeemable as a king. But, either they were egregiously misguided, or Prince Safir’s liquor stores have painted you in the most exquisite light. Ask me again, in a few weeks.”
At his concerned glance of her half-bare arms and threadbare shawl, she let forth a teeth-sucking laugh, more for warmth than for mirth. “I am a Southerner by blood, your Majesty. If we so much as see a flurry of snow in Stella D’Mare, it is documented as a noteworthy event.”
When they entered the kitchens, the sudden oppressive weight hanging between Tivia and her uncle made Sylvie long for the bitterly winds. The energy was funereal, as though they mourned more than the death of the Ilandrian king, but his son, as well. His son…who was conspicuously absent.
“Where is his Grace?” Sylvie looked between her uncle and Tivia for the answer.
“Oh yes, I upset him. Leave it to me.” Tivia shook her head and snorted as she presented Caris with a hot cup of tea. “Safir’s parting gift. If it’s any consolation, Safir cannot possibly be angry with you. Wash the booze out of your mouth and let’s call it a night.”
Despite the hiccup in the kitchens, Ari returned to his and Nia’s shared bedchamber, carrying a tray of just-warmed food and a carafe of water. Ably balancing the earthenware like a palace attendant in his own right, Ari sailed through the threshold, placing the meal on the closest available table. “My apologies for the late arrival,” he closed the door behind him with his foot. “I befriended the chef with the express purpose of absconding with some leftovers for you, but we spoke at length, and the time wandered off somewhere. I assumed you haven’t had much to eat all day, and tonight’s cuisine featured many of those delectable spices you’ve mentioned. I must say, I doubt I will be able to leave here without stockpiling on a few sachets to go.”
He joined Nia at the small table, a low, hitched moan straining from his mouth as he landed heavily on the chair. The sharp stings and painful jolts hadn’t ceased pooling around his extremities, like sparks of fire popping on his skin. “I am fine,” he assured, when he caught her concerned gaze. “Though I suppose I should have been honest with you about the flare-ups and phantom pain.” Honest. The time for honesty is at an end, his inner voice scolded. You have decimated all attempts at brokering a truce with the Prince. He will naught trust you now.
“Are you interested in lingering here after the funeral? In Ilandria, I mean?” He searched her face carefully, his own eyes haggard, about to droop down his cheeks. “We are free to leave with the king’s entourage. Staying behind…well, we would have to devise a reason for an extended stay. There is the matter of the portal mirrors, of course, but I heard tell the prince has yet to approve the action, and if you have seen him up close,” he hesitated, unsure how Nia would interpret his next bit of news. “Prince Safir is not fit to rule. Not at present. It is a hasty judgment call on my end, but if things do not change between the funeral and his coronation, perhaps there will be another who will take advantage of the power vacuum…and rule in his stead.” And were that the case, would a new ruler be better for Nia, or worse? What of Eyraille? A compromised Ilandria spelled doom for the kingdom of mountains and rocs.
“My apologies. You likely do not care.” He poured himself a cup of water and drained it before carefully rising to his feet, minding the residual pains shooting through his limbs. He leaned forward and kissed her forehead. “Please disregard my prattle. You’ve endured enough today, and tomorrow is the funeral. In anticipation, perhaps we should retire to bed early.”
As he headed for the bed, he stopped mid-stride and looked over his shoulder at Nia, his face thoughtful, contemplative. Before he could stop himself, he added, “Were you once trapped in another world?”
Regardless of whether Ari received his answer, he retired to bed that night, but received no restful sleep. The residual aches on his arms, shoulders, and legs greeted him as he sat up in bed, but he ignored the mementos from last night as he donned his clothes for a funeral; a plain, unadorned black waistcoat topped with a cream-colored cravat and britches, to offset the somber color.
He and Nia arrived with their group via carriage to the funeral site, a small stretch of country just outside the palace grounds; an area presumably used for horseback riding and game-hunting. Aside from palace officials and some other delegates from dinner, King Caris and his entourage remained the only foreign representatives. The intimate group, unusually small for a king’s funeral, stood in silence as the rites were enacted by the council members and the pyre erected for the well-dressed body. During the involved process, Ari kept spying glances at Nia beside him, who stared blank-faced at the proceedings, calm yet unreadable. She only seemed to react once Prince Safir, who appeared in a drab outfit that reflected the empty sockets of his eyes, finalized his concluding remarks in Ilandrian. While Ari wasn’t well-versed in the culture, apart from his paltry understanding of the language and its uses, speaking Ilandrian as a nobleman or royal was practically unheard of in high society.
Tivia, meanwhile, stood beside Caris, adorned in black as usual. Her hair, which she had technically colored black, shone blonde under the glamour, which seemed to fool everyone in the crowd but Alster, who squinted knowingly at her. For the funeral, she deliberately looked away from the pyre and therefore caught no speeches, not even Safir’s final words, through lip-reading. Glad it finally ended, she was about to exit with the crowd, but Caris had other plans, and dragged her by the arm toward Safir.
“I think my coming along will only upset him more,” she protested, but by then, they had already crossed his path and Caris, trying so goddamned hard to reach Safir, sat before the bleeding, rotting pustule of a man, and made his appeal like an actual friend, because Caris had already declared his friendship last night. Not Tivia, who had no friends.
“You did nothing wrong, Caris,” Tivia agreed, stepping forward to stand before the diminishing prince. “Therefore, Safir, you’re targeting the wrong person. Don’t resent him. He drank shots from a bottle of disgusting liquor for you. Look at me. I’m the one at fault. Not Ari, who’s only looking out for his own and who only wants peace. Me, because I pressured him to tell you.” She continued, vague in her descriptions so as not to incriminate anyone aloud (save for herself), though she sensed Caris’ confusion beside her, as he likely wondered what in all hells they were discussing. “Yes, I dangled her over your head plenty of times, but I wanted to stop doing that. So last night, I made my decision. I would come clean and tell you, so you would be aware, and I wouldn’t have to keep teasing you with prospects of a reunion. Of course it didn’t go as planned. They should have been my words. I wrongfully involved Ari, against his will. So, what I’m trying to say here,” she sighed, messing up the weave in her braided not-blonde blonde hair, “is that I am sorry. I didn’t think it would hurt you to that extent when you already knew that it was only a matter of time before she would come here. I may be a star-seer, but I am shit when it comes to predicting how others will respond to news. Since I always blunder the reveal, I figured it was better for Ari to tell you instead, but,” she shrugged, “I suppose I ought to always expect a hostile reaction no matter what I do.”
When Sylvie confided in Caris her near-death (or… reversed death?) experience, the first thought on the young King’s mind was that he must be far drunker than he’d initially thought. He blinked several times and turned her words over in his head, wondering exactly how he had misinterpreted them so terribly.
“I’m sorry. Safir’s wretched alcohol must have addled my mind more than I’d assumed; I thought you just told me you died.” But when the young earth mage confirmed that he hadn’t, in fact, been mistaken, Caris’ eyes widened. He knew Tivia was capable of entirely unimaginable feats; she’d completely erased terrible wounds on his body more than once, leaving his physical frame as if it had never been marred or damaged in the first place, leaving not even the faintest scar behind. But that she could bring back the dead? What else is the star seer hiding from me? No wonder she was so cavalier about prophesying my imminent demise.
Although he couldn’t predict a good reason for Sylvie to lie about such a thing, the Eyraillian king squinted his fierce, blue eyes at her, as if trying to detect any lingering traces of death that might have remained that might substantiate her wild story. Without a word of warning, and in a gesture that Sylvie most likely wouldn’t have seen coming (hells, he wouldn’t have expected it in a sober state), Caris pushed away from the wall and rested on hand against her cheek. She was chilled, yes, but no more than anyone standing in the bitter cold without adequate protection would be. Quite opposite him, whose body still emanated heat from the spirits that warmed his blood. His hand was unmistakably warm, and also mildly calloused from his ritual practice with swords. He’d increased his sparring frequency, of late, determined to best Safir the next time the Prince of Blades agreed to spar with him (if the man ever fully found a way back himself, which at this moment, was still debatable).
“You certainly don’t look or feel particularly dead.” He said, but it was unclear as to whether he was speaking to her or to himself. “Neither would I have guessed you were ever someone who’d rightly experienced death. You’re either quite the storyteller, or Tivia Rigas has been truly holding out on me. I suppose time will tell.”
Used to having his validity and efficacy as a King questioned time and again, not to mention his very character as a result of his lineage and namesake, Sylvie’s assumptions were no surprise to him. As a sober man, he was so beyond even being offended by the traits others related to him; right now, drunk out of his mind, he actually found it funny. “So that’s all you heard? Not that I’m a blight upon my kingdom, an abuser of power I don’t deserve, an embarrassment to my own family name? Well. Vega seems to have gone easier on me then I’d anticipated.” Caris snorted, and casually dropped his hand from Sylvie’s face. His egregious invasion of personal space hadn’t even occurred to him.
“You’re quite certain you’ll still be here in a few weeks?” When the young King raised his eyebrows at her bold assumption, for a moment, it might have appeared as if he was suggesting he might not choose to keep her around for that amount of time. But then he continued: “We’ll see how long your southern blood can tolerate Eyraillian winter. If you think this is cold, I’m afraid you might have a rude awakening. On the other hand, if the cold becomes your very undoing, at least we know Tivia is your key to cheating death. And, perhaps my key, as well. My thanks, Miss Canaveris.”
Caris gestured to the door, knowing how badly the D’Marian mage sought the warmth of inside. “This was a far more fruitful conversation than I’d imagined.”
Ari was right: Nia hadn’t, in fact, eaten anything that day, and the smells wafting from the kitchens were unavoidable from the guest suites, and rightly driving her crazy. Her relief when he set foot inside, carrying a plate of all very recognizable food, was palpable. “Thank the gods; I was considering risking it all and sneaking into the kitchens myself.” Ari hardly had time to set the plate down in front of her before she grabbed a merely hours-old bread roll covered in sweet butter and took an enormous bite. Her gusto was short-lived, however, when the Canaveris lord winced at the act of sitting down. The food and Nia’s hunger was quickly forgotten.
“You didn’t tell me you were suffering pains.” The Master Alchemist hadn’t forgotten Ari’s questions to Somath earlier. If she hadn’t already been very well aware that there were no traces of stone anywhere on or within his body, she might have insisted he strip down then and there so she could check. But--he’d probably, willingly, do that for her later, anyway. “Why didn’t you say something? Maybe you should be seen by another healer or physician. There’s no record of anyone ever recovering from your condition; it’s not like either of us knows what to expect…”
Nia wouldn’t have been so quick to let the Canaveris lord change the subject, but his question was a sound one, and not something they had yet discussed. “It was never my intention to depart any later than following the funeral,” she said, after a thoughtful pause. “And if Safir has yet to approve construction of the portal mirrors, then I can’t fathom a reason to linger. I guess I’ll see how I feel after Ilandia acknowledges that Ullir is dead and finally gone forever. I wouldn’t mind leaving Ilandria with some of the things I miss… namely the food.”
Following their heated conversation (well, heated on her end) with Sommath, Nia had spent the better part of the remainder of the day simply calming down. The sight of food had just finally solidified a state of content in the otherwise distraught Master Alchemist--until Ari brought up the topic of Safir, yet again, and presented some rather alarming and suspicious opinions. “Up close? How close?” Obviously, it went without saying that the ruler of Stella D’Mare had had another run in with the Prince of Blades, and while his opinion of him seemed less favourable than before, his take was also curiously vague. Contrary to her outbursts earlier (and previously--practically every other time anyone had mentioned the Ilandrian Prince), her reaction this time around was much different.
“My understanding of King Caris’ alliance with Ilandria is directly related to the fact he won a draw in a match against him--and Ilandria saw fit to decide Eyraille is worthy of an alliance. If you’re suggesting you suspect Safir to step down, then that could very well spell the end of the Ilandrian-Eyraillian alliance.” For the first time since returning to her home, with which she continued to have a very complicated relationship, Nia was speaking like a true Illandrian. “Whatever’s eating at Safir enough that makes you concerned, he’s not going to do something so selfish as to fuck over Eyraille by stepping away. Unless you’re concerned someone might confiscate power from him… in which case, I wouldn’t be worried.”
Nia stabbed a piece of render roast with her fork and chewed thoughtfully for a minute. “Ilandria fucking loves Safir. If they didn’t--they’d replace him. The people here have a lot of power and sway, even over the monarchy, so being born into royalty or nobility doesn’t make you immune to consequences. They let him stand in for his father for years; if they didn’t think he’d make a capable replacement when that bastard finally dropped dead, there would be no plans for his coronation. If you’re wondering about my opinion… it’s probably no surprise that I couldn’t care less.” She shrugged and paused to shovel in another mouthful, only slightly bitter that she couldn’t enjoy this meal without having to discuss topics she’d rather avoid. “Ilandia’s not my home anymore; Safir sure as hell won’t be my King, or anyone who steps up to take his place. What happens a few weeks from now is Ilandria’s problem. And, well, Eyraille’s, but we’re not here to smooth over political issues.”
The Ilandrian woman was happy to finally let that topic rest and enjoy her food, but before Ari retired to their shared bedroom, he paused and asked her a question she’d never anticipated having to explain. “...let’s discuss that later.” Nia finally sighed and shook her head slowly. She still harboured a good deal of guilt about that entire experience, and how it had resulted in almost losing Ari. If he wanted to know… she would tell him the truth about that, with as much detail as he desired. But not now; her head had to be in the right place. “We have a funeral to get through first.”
If anyone had asked Nia how she thought she’d fare, standing through the funeral of the man responsible for the death and harm of not only her family, but a wide array of other Master Alchemists, she wouldn’t have been able to answer. Fortunately, no one dared to pose the question to her face, although she had a feeling that everyone from Eyraille, save for King Caris, likely wondered at the answer. The Master Alchemist had decided that she would try to be part of the crowd and closely monitor her feelings thereon out. If she managed to hold onto a sense of calm, she would continue to proceed: but if she felt herself slipping for any reason, either into anger or despair or anything that would cause her to stand among the hundreds of others who were here to honour the dead son of a bitch (or simply to support Safir), then she resolved to leave quietly before she gave herself away.
Ultimately, to her own amazement, when the Master Alchemist took a place next to Ari somewhere deep in the middle of the crowd, and her eyes fell upon the deceased--albeit well-preserved--body of Ullir Vallaincourt… she felt nothing. No anger, though certainly no sadness or grief. She didn’t shed a single tear from start to finish, but she wasn’t alone; most upstanding Ilandrians learned from a young age that shedding tears for any occasion was considered bad etiquette. Even if she had felt anything, or felt the need to weep, standing amongst throes of Ilandrians would have stayed those tears. She’d once confided in Ari that no tears had been permitted at the deaths of any of her siblings, so this was far from the first Ilandrian funeral she’d attended. Perhaps she had those very experiences to credit for her composure. Her body and muscles recognized where she was and where she stood at that given time, and knew how to respond in kind.
She didn’t even react when Safir took a stand to deliver the final words that would close the ceremony. From her vantage point, she couldn’t see his face well, but it didn’t escape her that he was perhaps the most dressed down of everyone facilitating the funeral. And it certainly didn’t escape her when he delivered those final words in Ilandrian.
Never forget the past, but to look toward the future. To truth, to justice, and to what is right.
Nia furrowed her eyebrows. A handful of people seemed confused, if not a little surprised. He’d spoken the right words… but in the wrong language. IIlandrian was not for nobility; it wasn’t a language of business or diplomacy. That had never stopped her from using it as a child, whenever she felt she could get away with it. And it just so happened that Safir was one of the few with whom she’d corresponded almost solely in Ilandrian. Neither of their families would have approved; perhaps that was part of what made it so enticing for two young people, stifled by their own familial expectations, seeking reprieve outside of rules, rules, rules. She wasn’t sure that Safir spoke his native tongue with anyone else, and for that reason, she couldn’t help but wonder if, somehow, it was intended for her.
Something shifted in her when Ullir’s body was finally set alight. For a brief moment, she considered actually walking up to Safir and… and what? Chewing him out? Breaking down completely? Offering insincere condolences? Rub salt in his already raw wounds?
As fast as the thought occurred to her, without knowing exactly why she’d decided she wanted to see him, the opportunity was gone. Safir quietly took his leave, much to the surprise of a good deal of people. Evidently, he didn’t want to see anyone, and while on one hand, that was quite understandable, it went against everyone’s expectations. Everyone noticed, and some--no, many, who’d hoped to personally express their condolences--were disappointed. She was starting to understand what Ari meant, when he wondered if Safir Vallaincourt was fit to rule in his father’s stead. He was not King yet… and there was still time for Ilandria to change its mind about him.
And she didn’t know how she felt about that.
Nia wondered how long she’d stood in silence, lost in her own thoughts, when she became aware of Ari’s hand on her arm. He was talking to her, but she’d entirely missed his words. “This was all I needed to see.” She told him, hoping that it was enough to satisfy whatever question he’d asked her while she’d been lost in her own thoughts. “Business and markets will not be functioning today, out of respect for the Vallaincourts. But I don’t want to leave just yet. Who knows when I’ll be back? I still need to get my hands on the spices I miss so much.”
Turning to Ari, she grinned conspiratorially--but only enough for him to notice. She wasn’t so stupid as to be the only one smiling at a funeral. “I’ll speak with His Majesty and ask him about the possibility of returning to Eyraille a day late, if he’ll permit a few Skyknights to retrieve us after the fact. If you don’t mind, run it by Somath, too. If he’s as good as he’s trying to convince you he is, then surely he’ll have no issue securing permission for us to remain as guests here for one more day.”
Looking between Tivia and Caris, Safir could see that the star seer was telling the truth. The young King frowned in confusion as she spun her apology, clearly having no idea as to exactly what she had done wrong, who this ‘she’ was that Tivia had been dangling over Safir’s head, or why it had affected him so badly. And, knowing this much, Safir couldn’t deny Tivia’s request as sound. Caris did not deserve the cold shoulder. He did not deserve his ally (and friend?) to walk away from him when he had--for the most part--granted him space, gone out of his own comfort zone to try and lift his spirits, and shown up for him at arguably one of the most difficult times in his life. Perhaps this was precisely why his own people had taken a liking to the Eyraillian King, even when he himself was unsure about this alliance. Caris Sorde was curt, impatient, and seldom took no for an answer… but, he was true. Genuine. What you saw was what you got, whether you like it or not, no pretense. It was so painfully clear that he had nothing to hide, and absolutely no talent to spin prose that he did not mean, deep down.
“The next time you feel the need to drop an earth-shattering truth upon me, Miss Rigas, perhaps think twice before doing so on the day before my father’s funeral.” Safir sighed at last. It was the best that he could do: accept her apology, without downplaying the fact it had hurt him more than he cared to admit.
“Well, given that these are rather finite circumstances, you can at least rest assured that the next time Tivia tells you something you don’t want to hear, it will be at an alternate time.” Caris said, in an effort to try and make light of the situation without making a joke out of the fact that Ullir Vallaincourt couldn’t die twice… Unless the star seer had something to say about it. The young King had already made a mental note to ask Tivia about her curious death-defying abilities, but not here, in front of Safir. “Whatever happened isn’t my business; I’m confused as hell from how you transitioned so fast between poking fun at my drunken stupor to storming out of the kitchen before I could come inside, and I’m not going to ask you why. But I do need to know one thing: who are you?”
Caris’ vague question earned a frown from the Ilandrian Prince. “I beg your pardon?”
“Who are you? Tell me who you are.”
“You know who I am.”
“But do you?” The Eyraillian King raised his eyebrows. “Who are you to Ilandria?”
Safir hissed a sigh. “Please, Caris…”
“Just say it. Tell me who you are, who you are known for being, and I’ll shut up, head back to Eyraille, and leave you the hell alone.”
Before the Ilandrian Prince could oblige his ally, their conversation was interrupted. Evidently, Caris was not the only one who saw fit to disregard Safir’s desire not to speak with anyone. “Your Highness… forgive me for my intrusion, but I couldn’t go about my day without speaking to you.” A young woman around Safir’s age (or a little bit younger), dressed in a respectable though exquisite gown of shades of grey and black, spoke up behind Caris and Tivia as if they weren’t even there. Her hair was a shade between blonde and copper, and had been artfully woven around her head in a style of curls and braids. Her eyes reflected that of a desaturated sky, making the striking blue of Caris’ appear all the brighter in comparison. “I know it goes without saying, but I wanted you to hear it, anyway. You have my deepest condolences… and if there is anything that I can do to shed light on a dark day, I am at your service.”
When his surprise subsided, a flicker of annoyance crossed Safir’s features, gone before it could be noticed. “Your kind words do not go unappreciated, Jenikah, but I assure you, your service at this time is unnecessary.”
“Certainly that can’t be the case--what happened to your hand?” The woman, Jenikah--who was very clearly of noble lineage, given the exquisite fabric of her gown--looked equal parts concerned and determined, though more the latter than the former. “You don’t get hurt; I’ve never seen you get hurt. I can only imagine how this event has left you vulnerable…”
“Jenikah.” Safir sighed and blinked slowly. “Please, take a moment to consider whose presence you are in at this very moment.”
“What do you mean?” Jenikah furrowed her eyebrows, completely oblivious to what Safir was implying, until she turned and took note of the younger man dressed regally in gold and silver. Her eyes widened in sudden realization. “...oh! Your Majesty. I beg your pardon. Please accept my sincere apologies. I was merely worried for a friend.” Turning back to Safir, she said, before her hasty departure, “Don’t think I will not check in with you, Your Highness. It doesn’t escape me how difficult today was for you.”
With a brief curtsey, the young woman departed, albeit reluctantly, realizing too late that she’d just embarrassed herself by intruding on a conversation between allies. Caris audibly snorted, caring little whether Safir’s well-wisher heard him or not. “Who--no, what was that?”
“Jenikah Elisaron. She’s the daughter of a man on my father’s council.” The Prince of Blades shook his head slowly. “She was raised to believe the word no does not apply to her.”
“And she is certainly making no attempt to downplay how badly she wants you.”
Now, it was Safir’s turn to snort. “Me? No. She wants power.”
“And what are you going to do about that?” Caris was no stranger to this very situation: how many wealthy families had paraded their daughters in front of him over the years? Like Safir, he was an eligible bachelor, and a path to power. He couldn’t say he’d ever encountered someone with quite so much zeal as this particular thorn in Safir’s side, but then again, the Eyraillian King had no qualms of telling who he had no desire to see to fuck off. Safir wasn’t quite so direct; he couldn’t be, in his situation.
“I’m going to let her burn herself out. It’s been years; she’ll get the message eventually.” Safir, however, didn’t sound very convinced of that. All of a sudden, he looked infinitely more drained than before. “Thank you, both of you, for your concern and support. I do mean it. But I wasn’t able to sleep a wink last night, and I desperately need to lie down.”
“Fair enough. But in the words of your eager admirer: ‘don’t think I will not check in with you’.” Caris smirked and raised his voice in mockery of the councilman’s daughter. It did bring an amused smile to the Prince of Blades’ face before he turned and disappeared inside.
Caris’ smile turned downward as he watched Safir retreat. “I cannot linger here in Ilandria. It concerns me to leave Eyraille in the state it is in for more than a day; but I don’t like this.” He said to Tivia, and it wasn’t difficult to discern the meaning behind his words. “He’s weak and vulnerable, and people like that aspiring ‘princess’ are going to descend upon him like vultures--some in worse ways. I didn’t like the way some of his father’s ‘trusted’ council members were looking at him today. Could I count on you to keep an eye on our wayward Prince?” In a quieter tone, he leaned in, and added, “We need him on the throne, or our alliance could become null and void. But if we can’t trust him not to let his guard down between now and the coronation… then someone has to be on guard for him.”
“To be fair, you and I have wildly different interpretations of what we consider ‘earth-shattering,’” Tivia said, also trying to downplay the fact that she was at all affected by the possibility of Safir rejecting her apology. But it was clear in the set of her shoulders and the way she held her stance; relief had taken her. Whether or not she deserved it, Safir was giving her another chance. “You were drunk. I thought it was as appropriate a time as any. Better that than stone-cold sober. I saw an opportunity, assumed Ari’s diplomatic tongue would soften the blow, and—well, lesson learned. It will never happen again. Because it can’t,” she added as a complement to Caris’ facetious comment, smiling inwardly. “Caris understands.”
She let the two of them play their identification game, not quite following the thread (mainly out of difficulty in reading the lips of two people engaged in an active conversation), before another presence decided to reveal herself. The new figure swept between Tivia and Caris as though they were dirt on the hillside and engaged Safir like they met eyes at a soirée and answered his request for a dance. After following along for a minute, it didn’t matter what words the noblewoman spouted, for they were all extra embellishments on a gown; a pretty distraction to conceal the dagger strapped to her thigh.
Upon her departure, Tivia made up her mind about the caliber of woman she represented before Safir even rattled off an explanation.
“These women tend to multiply,” she said, corroborating Caris’ assessment. “You ward off one, several others will appear in her place. I hope you’ve mastered the artful dodge, your Grace, because you’re going to be doing plenty of dips and weaves from here on out.”
Once Safir took his leave, Caris didn’t need to say a word for Tivia to infer what he was thinking—because it followed her similar train of thought.
“I am as anti-diplomatic as they come,” she began, switching to telepathic speech to thwart eavesdroppers. “I can’t say I won’t inadvertently light a few fires in the process. But if it’s to fend off a gaggle of opportunistic women pressured by their high-ranking fathers to secure them a position at the top, then that is a language I understand. I also understand the language of swords, so it is within my means to defend, guard…and stab, if need be. I’m not letting this alliance go, even if I have to beat a few councilmen into submission.” A smirk twisted the unmarred side of her face, aligning the scars puckering the unsymmetrical half into temporary symmetry. “It should be riotously fun.
Tivia took her assignment seriously, and abhorred waiting around for when Safir deemed himself well-rested enough for visitation. The following day, after the delegation from Eyraille (minus Ari and Nia) departed for the mountainous kingdom, she barged into his study. Though she was nice enough to knock and announce herself, it didn’t occur to wait for a response before entering, a half-hearted apology on her lips about not being able to ‘hear’ a verbal invitation to enter and assuming that meant he sanctioned the visit.
“We have to do something about that woman,” she said, forgoing a greeting, or a ‘Good afternoon.’ “I have a few ideas, but you won’t like them. First, let me preface by reiterating that which you already know; these next three weeks are critical to solidifying your rule. Any crack or chink in the armor, and people will take notice. The enterprising among your court will not only take notice, but exploit any perceived weakness. Case in point,” she pointed to the unsightly blemish on Safir’s hand. “I’m getting rid of it.” She approached his desk, rolling up her sleeves. “I would like for you to write me a list of your council; name, rank, seniority, relationship to the Vallaincourt line—and where you would place them on a continuum of most trustworthy to ‘Would stab me in my sleep.’ If any have families—children of age, especially—write it down, too.”
She pulled up a chair and positioned it beside him. Gently but firmly, she placed his burned hand in her lap. “We’re also going to expedite the creation of these portal mirrors. If your rule is in any capacity questioned, we will want easy access to Eyraille and Galeyn in case you must make your stand through numbers and manpower. You have allies rotting away in Ilandria’s outskirts, awaiting your command. Haraldur Sorde’s Forbanne army remains on stand-by. Alternatively, Caris will lend you his Skyknights for aid if you require them. Hopefully you won’t need to take such drastic measures when your army will more than suffice. You are the vaunted Prince of Blades. Use the title; rally up those who are loyal and who would happily lay down their lives in your service. Utilize your popularity as a weapon.”
Tivia balanced Safir’s hand between her own. She hesitated a moment. “Securing the portal mirrors will require you to interface with Nia. She might use a proxy via Ari, or possibly recruit Alster Rigas to speak on her behalf. Neither she nor Ari left Ilandria. They are still here, which makes me wonder if she is holding out for something. I do not like to speak in hopefuls, but if we focus on establishing these mirrors for fast travel, Nia cannot avoid contact with the Ilandrian monarch forever. She will have to show her face to you, for propriety. No one can scarcely trust a faceless benefactor operating from the shadows. People can scarcely trust me, and I’m in their face.” Despite the self-aimed jab, she chuckled. “Now hold your hand still. This will not hurt. Just a tingle and a slight pinch of discomfort, and,” she paused as a gauzy starlight tapestry encased Safir’s small injury, isolating it in time. In her head, a mapping of the sky revealed the exact moment directly preceding Safir’s minor accident with the tea kettle. One blink later, and the sheen of etherea disappeared, along with Safir’s brand mark. “There. Now no one can fixate on it.”
She stood from the chair. “I know I haven’t given you a moment to breathe since the moment I entered. And you must be wondering, who am I to preach to you on ways to run your kingdom? I assure you, I am more experienced than I appear.” She grabbed her chair by the neck and returned it to its original position. “I am the daughter of a councilman, after all. He used me as a pawn for power, and succeeded in securing his seat. I have also acted as a leader in my own right—in another world,” she sighed, rubbing at the patch of bare skin on her ring finger.
“Now that I’ve hinted at my credentials, here is my ridiculous plan. Are you ready?” Not waiting for a response, she launched into the explanation. “That woman—and others of her ilk—will not leave you alone. Members of your council may soon follow Jenn—whatever her name,” she waved a dismissive hand; names were always the hardest for her to lip-read, “—they will follow her model by shoving their eligible daughters into your path and like silk whisper how it would flatter them if you chose their daughter to marry. And if you were to decline them, you will soon find their flattery ended, and their wrath renewed. They will act affronted, and use this as leverage to publicly discredit your suitability to rule. But if you are already courting another before this parade of prospects begins in earnest, it may delay their efforts for a time. Or, it will force them to devise a different strategy to secure power. If it is me, it will make it easier to keep them off you, and give a reason to remain by your side. …I told you that you wouldn’t like my idea,” she shook her head, amused at his barely contained expression of distaste. “I know I am lightyears away from what you’d consider appealing, and I am not deluded into thinking this is a ‘true’ courtship, but for appearances, and to explain why I’m constantly mucking up your doorway, it will prove why my presence is so prolific all of a sudden. They’ll be so distracted by me, and by who I am, that they’ll lose sight of their goal, insofar as they’ll be unable to focus on a singular line. Ideally, they’ll have to come after me. In short, I am the diversion, and the shield. And while I am busy cleaning the drains, you go out there and campaign and reach out to the people who will vouch for you. …Anyway, think it over.”
“Oh, and I thought you should know,” before she turned to leave, she snapped her fingers, and the blonde pigment bled from her hair, revealing a clotted, tar-like black underneath, “this is my new look. I waited until after the funeral so I wouldn’t draw attention to myself, but as I now want to, I see no more reason to hide.”
Tensions with the Ilandrian monarch notwithstanding, Ari respected Nia’s decision to delay their departure a day, much as he desired to leave immediately. He didn’t trust the questionable stability of their host, and moreso, Ari didn’t feel comfortable remaining a conditional guest in the home of a man he’d gravely offended, however inadvertently. Violating the basic tenets of hospitality aggravated his honor such that a prolonged stay bound him to a promise. To save face, he would need to locate Safir Vallaincourt, bow his head, and apologize.
Fortunately, the prince had made himself scarce after the funeral, leading Ari to seek out Somath instead to make the arrangements. According to Nia, Caris approved their temporary delay on the grounds that they would try to convince Safir to connect portal mirrors between Ilandria and Eyraille.
The day after the funeral, they bid farewell to Sylvie, who not only agreed to ride with King Caris on his roc, but seemed to relish in the idea. She excitedly chattered to Ari and Nia about her secondary flight, catching coy glimpses of the Eyraillian king when she thought no one was looking.
“Will you return in time for my birthday?” She looked between Ari and Nia, doubt creeping in her brow as she suspected, like Ari, that their ‘One day delay’ would multiply overnight.
“We have eight days. You know we would not miss it, Amethyst,” he said, eliciting a smile from his niece for using her crystal name.
After seeing off the Eyraillian delegation, they retired to their rooms, with Ari picking up a small pad of parchment and a charcoal set he always carried with him in case inspiration struck, which hadn’t been often as of late, but if he was going to wander the halls gazing at mediocre art, he would need to cleanse the pallet somehow.
“What would you like to do today?” He flicked a line of charcoal against the page. Since his disastrous conversation with Safir, the pain assailing his limbs subsided, albeit with a few pesky aftereffects residing in his joints—the hands, especially. “Businesses are now open, yes? We can go to market and wander about the stalls, follow our noses for your precious spices…” he trailed off, letting his hand glide across the page undirected, until he realized with horror the figure he’d sketched in his book. Dropping the charcoal, he slammed the book closed and shot to his feet. “I am more than ready to go,” he said, his smile a little too eager. “Let us—“
He startled when a series of knocks pounded on the door. It couldn’t be—
“I will answer.” He lowered his voice. “Stay hidden. We do not know who this is.”
He did a double-take at the black-haired woman standing on the other side.
“…Tivia Rigas?”
“Yes, it is a real marvel,” she stroked a strand of inky hair from her eye dismissively. “Let me come in for a minute. I have a question to ask your guest.”
Ari hesitated. “I do not think that is such a good idea.”
“No hard-hitting truths today, I promise. I met my quota for ruining lives. I have an innocent request, that’s it.” She patted a rolled-up parchment tucked into her belt. “A commission. Let me in and I’ll show you.” She must have noticed the alarm in his eyes, for she added, for his ears alone, “I’m not here to discuss what happened the other night. I think we can both agree that Nia doesn’t need to know right now.”
At least they could agree on one thing. Despite his reluctance, Ari nodded, swung the door wider, and invited Tivia inside. As she entered, she hailed Nia, who had lingered around the corner and out of sight.
“Nia. Good morning. Love the hair color. How does mine look?” She tossed her head. “So you decided to stay. I did, too. I’m on Safir-watching duty. King’s orders.” She stepped into the sitting room, a casual, disarming stride, both hands-free and palms open. “Not your problem, I know. I came to you for a different reason entirely.” She pulled out the parchment and unfurled it on the table in front of Nia. “I require a Master Alchemist. I mean, a regular alchemist will do, or an artificer, but you’re here, so I figure I would offer you the job first.” She pointed to the parchment, a close-up illustration of an ear and a strange, snail-shaped device wound in copper with clip-on attachments. Below the illustration read a brief description and a list of the components required to build the tiny contraption.
“I had a device like this, once upon a time,” Tivia looked meaningfully at Nia, knowing she would understand the reference. “It amplifies the sound in my ear and increases my hearing output. Even though I’m completely deaf in my left ear, the other still retains some sound. If I can support what’s already there, I won’t have to rely exclusively on reading lips—which is driving me to headaches. No one is going to learn this language,” she flew into a series of frenzied hand gestures to prove her point. “So I don’t have a choice. I foresee having to increase my sociability output exponentially, and it will be a boon to hear what’s happening from multiple sources at once. My request to you, Nia, is to build this for me. It’s a small project and won’t take much of your time. In exchange—well, you know what I could give you in exchange,” she raised a brow. “Though what I’m offering is far more valuable, I’m feeling generous today. You might as well take advantage of my lapse in judgement while you can.”
Safir Vallaincourt, Prince of Blades as deemed by Ilandria, was no fool. He knew better than to call Caris Sorde on a bluff when the Eyraillian King deemed he would be checking in, and considering how Caris and his entourage did not see fit to respect his period of mourning before his father’s funeral, it came as no surprise to him when the very next morning, the first visitor at his door turned out to be none other than the star seer who had assigned herself as Caris’ unofficial partner in crime.
The Ilandrian Prince had barely risen from bed, and was certainly not in a state to accept visitors; but he recognized that knock, and knew that it would not cease until he answered. There wasn’t even a flicker of surprise in his green eyes, dull and half-lidded from either too much sleep or not enough, when Tivia invited herself into his personal chambers for what must have been the third time in the past week. “Ah, Miss Rigas. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company this morning?” Safir scrubbed his uninjured hand over his face, too tired to even react to the stark change in the star seer’s hair colour. Clad in a now wrinkled grey tunic, it was clear he’d fallen asleep in the very clothes he’d worn to the funeral the day before. As for the three fingers that had suffered a severe burn on his opposite hand, the bandages were rumpled and in need of changing. Safir, however, would make no apology for the state in which Tivia had found him, considering he had not been expecting guests.
“Look, I would be lying to say Jenikah Elisaron is not a thorn in my side.” He said blandly, and took a seat at his desk across the room. Fortunately for Tivia, there was blank parchment and ink already waiting. He had come to learn that in most cases, it caused him less of a headache to oblige the star seer than to resist her. The sooner he gave her the list she wanted, the sooner he’d leave her alone. “She’s infinitely annoying, but she’s not dangerous; just rich. Her father, Delemir Elisaron, is Ilandria’s Minister of Trade and Finances. He’s never caused trouble within my father’s council. His biggest vice is that his daughter has him wrapped around his finger.”
Although Safir had little to say about the remaining five members of Ilandria’s royal council, he obliged Tivia nonetheless, and scrawled their names and positions on the blank parchment. It wasn’t the first time Tivia had watched him write, but with only one good eye, it was rather impressive that she picked up on yet another curious talent of his. “Yes, I’ve always written with both hands. Fought with both, too.” He explained, noting the look of curiosity on her face out of the corner of his eye. “It comes in handy when injured. My burn really isn’t a problem for me. Here.” The Prince blew on the ink to dry it faster and handed it to the star seer. As she looked over the names and titles, the very last one on the list gave her pause to inquire further: that of Ilandria’s Minister of Justice and Safety.
“Liesefa Jahnst had stood in her role for almost as long as my father maintained his.” Safir offered. “He trusted her implicitly. I’ve never been under the impression she’d seek to oppose me, but I will say she is a force to be reckoned with. She is responsible for law enforcement and legal protocols. Her voice carries a lot of weight in the council, and if she had a problem with me, then yes, perhaps there would be reason for concern. That said, if she did, she would’ve said something already.”
Seemingly satisfied with the list, Tivia then turned her attention to Safir’s injured hand and took it into her own. He winced as she removed the bandages, his skin partially raw, scabbed, or blistered beneath. He hadn’t realized how bad it had become in just a day. Yet by some means of magic that he couldn’t even fathom understanding, in mere seconds, any trace of damage and pain that remained vanished completely. The Prince of Blade raised his eyebrows, amazed despite remembering how quickly and easily she’d treated Caris for far more severe injuries, leaving the King of Eyraille to walk away as if nothing had ever happened to him. “Impressive, to say the least.” He complimented her and experimentally flexed his fingers. “Thank you. Anything to draw less attention to me at this point is appreciated. Now,” Safir drew in a careful breath, preparing for the worst. “What is it you have to propose that you believe I’ll find so aversive?”
As usual, Tivia Rigas wasn’t wrong: he didn’t like that plan. Not one bit, for more reason than one; so many reasons, in fact, and many of which he couldn’t even divulge. Safir blinked several times, struggling to find words for a suitable response. Suddenly, the Prince of Blades looked very much awake. “You’re suggesting… we engage in a duplicitous courtship?” It wasn’t that her suggestion was without reason. Although he would argue he didn’t require anyone to watch over him, and was far less concerned about the next three weeks than she was, Safir knew there was no chance of convincing her to change her mind. She would be here, and find a reason to be here, regardless of his wishes. But this was one plan that gave him more anxiety than the alternative, which was fending off endless women who were interested in him for all the wrong reasons.
“...Tivia, I am poor at weaving and maintaining deceit.” Safir said--as if that were the only reason he didn’t want to go through with this. “The people who know me well might easily see through the lie. My father’s council will most certainly see through it. Not for any personal reason on your part, please don’t misunderstand, but… the timing alone will come across as suspicious. A courtship directly following my father’s funeral, and preceding my coronation?” He sighed, but Tivia had already decided that they must move forward with her proposal, and was already moving onto other details. The portal mirrors hadn’t crossed his mind once since the star seer had initially proposed them; the day when, shortly after, he’d learned of his father’s passing. But now that she offered details into the mirrors’ construction--particularly, who was responsible for their construction--he was, in fact, very interested.
“I see. So this is the reason Anetania returned to Ilandria.” It made perfect sense. To his knowledge, most ordinary mages and alchemists weren’t capable of producing a safe and fool-proof means of entry and exit between two locations; he should have made that connection sooner. “I have yet to present the idea of such easy access into this kingdom to the council; I am for it, but it isn’t as simple as having the final say. And yes, I do intend to contact Haraldur and Vega Sorde. I imagine news has already reached them as to why we haven’t spoken in some time. The prototype crossbows that I would like the Skyknights to employ are ready: I’ll have Vega look at them and judge the feasibility of training them differently. In fact, I’ll contact her today.”
Frankly, he was in no condition or state of mind to convince anyone of his merit at the moment. Even those who already supported him might be questioning his future… But if he wanted to get through the next three weeks and see himself in his father’s shoes, then it seemed Safir Vallaincourt would have to practice the one skill he was inherently bad at: pretending. “I’ll do what I can.” He said at last, knowing full well he could make no promises as far as being convincing to anyone. “I just hope you’re better at distractions than I am at deceit… though do take care to consider exactly how you will be distracting.” He raised an eyebrow at the ink-dark hue of Tivia’s once pale hair. “Lest Ilandria question my taste in the people I’ve decided to… ‘court.’”
For better or worse, there appeared to be no change in Nia following the funeral. If it healed old wounds or incited the burden of new feelings of distress then it was impossible to tell, although Nia wasn’t hasty to depart Ilandria without experiencing a little of what she missed about her home. Therefore, she and Ari stayed behind one more day after the Rigases and Sylvie had departed, in hopes of making it to the markets.
“We should find most of what we--well, what I want in the open markets. But there might also be some storefronts that you’ll perhaps fancy.” Nia said, as she placed the finishing touches of wrapping her braid around her head. “Just give me a few more minutes to--”
The knock on the door startled the both of them, and the Master Alchemist knew what to do before Ari insisted she hide. At this point, they were on borrowed time as guests of Safir Vallaincourt; they could rightly be asked to leave at any time, by anyone.
The voice of their unanticipated visitor wasn’t, however, just anyone. Nia let her guard down only a little upon learning it wasn’t one of Safir’s staff. “Well, it’s pretty obvious what prompted me to look a little different… what about you?” She wasn’t sure if the colour truly didn’t suit the star seer, or if the change was just so drastic that it would take some getting used to. That impenetrable shade of ebony was also one shared by a few members of a certain, very powerful family… “You’re really not over him, are you?” There was no need to elaborate, and Tivia wouldn’t have wanted to dwell on it, anyway. Nia instead let the subject drop and studied the illustration the star seer handed to her. Its purpose was clear, even without explanation.
“So King Caris has you spying on Safir, now? That sounds concerning. But you’re right: it isn’t my problem.” Nia glanced over the labeled materials, many of which were common and easily attainable in Ilandria. The star seer was right: it was an easy job, and one that was well worth the pay off. “Give me a couple of days. I’ve come across the likes of such a device before, although I’ll have to leave it to you to have the palace agree to extend our stay for a little longer.” Knowing Tivia, that shouldn’t be a problem. She seemed to have a way with getting her way, after all. “I was going to go do a little shopping, anyway. I can get what I need today and probably get to work tomorrow. You have yourself a deal.”
Folding the parchment, Nia tucked it into a pocket at her side and smiled at Ari. “You ready to go? Oh--you’re drawing again? It’s about time!” Her smile widened, ear to ear, and before Ari could protest, she playfully snatched his sketchbook from his hands. “I was wondering when you were going to indulge in art again. What made you want to…”
Her voice drifted off when she turned to the most recent page. The charcoal was still fresh, having yet to sink into the porous parchment such that it would easily smudge at anyone’s fingertips. “...huh. I didn’t realize how literally you saw Safir ‘up close’ the other night.” Nia’s smile didn’t fade entirely, but diminished and grew tight. “Nice work. There’s more life in that sketch than any of the miserable paintings I’m sure you’ve already seen strewn about this palace. Perhaps you should get the court to commission you to paint his coronation portrait.”
Nia let the book fall shut and handed it back to Ari, who pitifully fumbled excuses claiming the sketch was no indication of favouring the Prince of Blades. “Ari, I have no bearing on your art. If I’d known all it would take is a pretty face to dig you out of your rut, maybe I should’ve introduced you to Ilandria’s handsome Prince sooner.” Petty though it was, she didn’t bother to filter jealousy from her tone, nor the implication that she believed the Canaveris lord had apparently found a new muse. A faint shade of pink stained her cheeks and crept up her exposed neck. “Why don’t you go and show Safir? I’m sure he would appreciate the gesture immensely. Especially coming from another regal, handsome man, I guarantee he’ll be flattered. Maybe even a little bit flustered.”
Without elaborating on her comments (which would surely make Safir panic if he knew just how she’d implicated him), the Master Alchemist grabbed her winter cloak from atop an armchair and threw it over her shoulder. “I’ll be back before sundown. Good luck with your Prince-minding, Tivia.” And with that, Nia made it clear that she would do her shopping alone that day, and took her leave without waiting for Ari. Her dour mood could be spelled out by the sound of her footsteps heavily retreating down the hall.
Reassured that Tivia would keep a pulse on Safir and Ilandria, Caris departed for Eyraille early the next morning, with Sylvie accompanying him once again. Her uncle and his paramor had requested a minor extension to their stay in Ilandria, and although he wasn’t the one who could grant them such permission either way, he did seize the opportunity to push his own agenda just a little bit. “If His Highness ever leaves his room, see if you can’t put in a good word for a pair of portal mirrors to traverse Ilandria and Eyraille.” Unlikely though it was that Safir would bother to consider that at a time like this, it was worth a try, and would frankly save every time, energy, and spare them from bouts of sky-flu in the future.
And speaking of sky-flu, while Caris wasn’t nearly as badly off as Ari once they landed in Eyraille that afternoon, he had yet to shake the feeling of his mild hangover from the day before. Safir, that swill of yours was more vile than I imagined… His headache had yet to abate, as did the uncomfortable feeling of being too warm in his own skin. At the very least, his stomach was still intact, and the worst he felt when his feet hit the ground again was dizziness that passed after a few moments. “Not as scary the second time, is it?” He commented as he helped Sylvie down from Kalaur. It wasn’t clear whether or not the young woman agreed: she was after all, by her own decree an earth mage, and felt most comfortable with her feet on the ground. But Caris didn’t particularly mind how tightly she clung to him hundreds of feet in the air, feeling her measured breathing against his back as she pressed her forehead between his shoulder blades. Her fear, surprisingly, was not an inconvenience to the impatient young king… though he had no idea why that might be the case.
“Well, it looks like everything’s still standing, so that’s something.” Caris said as he removed his mask and harness, then helped Sylvie with hers. “But there isn’t much daylight left; two hours at most. If it’s fair for you, I’ll have you resume your riding lessons tomorrow morning, and check in with some of the refugee families with whom you haven’t yet touched base. We can meet in the evening to discuss anything of note or concern.” The Eyraillian King paused to consider his own words. Had he just implied she had a choice? Since when did such verbiage make its way into his lexicon?
You’re sweet on her, aren’t you? Tivia’s drunken accusation rang in his ears. She was wrong; he fancied no one. There was no time for such nonsense, and besides, he’d already confided that he sought to be a better leader for Eyraille. It was her own fault for misconstruing his intent… so why did it continue to linger in his mind?
“See you for dinner,” he offered as parting words for the time being, before making his way inside. Unbeknownst to him, those words would turn out to be a lie.
Caris didn’t appear for dinner that evening for a number of reasons. For one, he’d underestimated the number of correspondences that had accumulated in a pile upon his desk during his brief time away. And when he sat down to sort through them and respond to the most crucial first, he found himself reading and re-reading ad nauseum. He couldn’t focus on more than a few words at a time, and most of them lost their meaning entirely when he tried to wrap his head around the messages. And when he prepared to draft his responses, he wasted several pieces of clean parchment on every reply, unable to scrawl more than a few sentences without letting the ink run too fast, or forgetting his train of thought mid-sentence. A dull headache throbbed behind his eyes, his skin felt uncomfortably warm, and when staff knocked on the door of his study to summon him for the evening meal, he sent them away and asked not to be disturbed further, in favour of making some headway in work that needed to be done. It wasn’t a promise, he said to himself, remembering he’d told Sylvie he would see her at dinner. He didn’t owe anyone his company; he was under no obligation to accommodate or apologize.
It wasn’t until very late into the evening that the Eyraillian King gave up on productivity entirely and retired, deciding he needed a solid night of sleep back in his own bed before he could effectively resume his duties. But Caris’ sleep was fitful, plagued with vivid dreams that made no sense and bouts of waking over and over again, sweating under the weight of his sheets, or shivering as he’d somehow managed to kick them off in his slumber. He wasn’t sure at which point he finally managed some semblance of restful sleep, but the next thing he knew, he woke to continuous, demanding knocks upon his door.
Reluctantly, the young King sat up and threw his legs over the side of the bed. His body felt heavy, like it was made of lead, and he could hear his heartbeat in his ears. “Yes, I hear you.” He called out, and winced at the sound of his own voice reverberating through his head. Through willpower alone, he put one foot in front of the other until he made it to the door to find an attendant waiting on the other side. “What is it?”
“Your Majesty--you were absent for two audiences scheduled this afternoon. Currently, another awaits your arrival…” The attendant frowned, taking note of the King’s attire. He hadn’t yet dressed for the day. “Are you… quite well?”
“...did you say, this afternoon?” Caris pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m afraid to ask… what time of day is it?”
“Sundown is in an hour, Your Majesty. Should I… perhaps send for a healer or physician? You appear unwell…”
Unwell? Curious, Caris took a step back from the door and glanced at his appearance in a full length mirror. There was colour in his face, albeit too much, perhaps, and his vivid blue eyes were overbright. Getting drunk for Safir’s amusement, he had wandered out into the cold and lingered without adequate protection from the biting wind… Had he caught a chill? That would certainly explain just how and why he had managed to sleep through an entire day. A shame Tivia hadn’t been around; she’d have hauled him out of bed hours ago to keep him on task. Perhaps he had become too reliant on her interference, considering no one else had the spine to hold him accountable quite so fiercely.
Contrary to the attendant’s concern, this realization brought Caris relief. It would explain a lot--including why he’d been acting so unlike himself around Lord Canaveris’s niece. See, Tivia? I’m not sweet on anyone. Just fucking delirious, apparently. At least he had no reason to fear becoming reliant on alcohol like Vega; he wouldn’t be revisiting it again anytime soon, if it made him stupid enough to come down with a chill and fever. “Have some tea to treat a fever sent to my office. And inform my audience that I will be with them shortly.”
Although the attendant wasn’t convinced it was the best course of action, she bowed her head in compliance and left the King to make himself presentable. He splashed cold water on his face and peeled off his nightclothes like a second skin, donning a more appropriate outfit of silver and blue, embroidered along the hem with intricate swirls. The heavy lining felt cool on his flushed skin for exactly a second before he regretted the choice, knowing he was bound to overheat in the long-sleeved coat, but if he wasn’t feeling well, then it was imperative he at least looked better than he felt.
Against his better judgment, Caris took the stairs to his study, where he found his appointment already waiting for him inside, in the presence of one of his guards. “Miss Canaveris--good afternoon. Evening… whichever it is.” The King dismissed the silent guard and took a seat at his desk, when the pungent tea was steeping. He dutifully took a sip and grimaced at the bitter taste. “I trust you haven’t been waiting long?” Of course, he knew full well she’d been waiting at least twenty minutes, which was as long as it had taken him to make himself presentable and make his way up the stairs. She didn’t appear particularly pleased, on that note, but unlike his earlier appointments, at least he’d shown up at all. Anyway, there was something oddly endearing about her look of annoyance…
I’m delirious. Caris took another sip of the awful tea; his fever would break in the next day or so, and he’d be in his right mind again. It had never failed him in the past. “You seem to be tolerating the frigid temperatures of this region remarkably well.” What were the chances that of the two of them, standing outside on the eve of King Ullir’s funeral while inadequately prepared for the cold, he would be the one to come down with affliction?
“Anything of note with the refugees that I should be aware of? How about the mines in the mountains? Tell me what you need from me to facilitate your duties.” The young King drew a clean piece of parchment and dipped his quill in ink. “I’ll make note of it now, and argue with you later, when I’m in a better state to do so.”
“Good thing you’ll be too busy winning the hearts of your people anew to focus on the upkeep of a fictitious courtship,” Tivia said, swiping the parchment off Safir’s desk to study the names he listed. “Knowing Ilandria’s fixation with presentation and reputation, I imagine romancing a woman in public will involve little more than the occasional arm around her waist and a kind word or two. Remember, many courtships are not borne of love, but of economy. We don’t have to fool anyone into believing we fancy each other. I merely have to convince your council members that I am a good investment. It doesn’t matter if we coupled out of convenience. They are free to balk at the timing. I am a star seer, after all. Timing is my currency. So let them be suspicious, let them find me a specimen, a curiosity, as long as their suspicions don’t loudly declaim to the crowd that I will lead you to ruin. To accuse me of treason is to implicate King Caris and Eyraille at large, and shatter our honor-bound alliance. No; what matters is that I have pedigree—I belong to the most influential D’Marian family—and power. The latter goes without saying. Either way, I’ll do most of the talking. You just concentrate on penning speeches and boosting your most likable aspects in front of the people. If you need a campaign manager,” she paused, drumming her fingers over her unmarred cheek in thought, “I might know who to consult.”
Pleased with receiving an answer other than an outright ‘No,’ she took his consideration as a provisional victory. “I’ll leave you to your affairs then—whether or not that means you will be returning to bed. Though if you do decide to leave your quarters today, I would double-check a mirror for bed-head.” She eyed a few stray blond hairs jutting out the side of his head and the rumpled front of his tunic. “I may be sporting a different hair color—a fashionable, and thus reasonable choice for a noblewoman, might I add—but I am put-together and presentable, at least.” Pocketing the list of names, Tivia tipped her head in a bow of farewell as she made for the door, granting him much-needed space to debrief from her company.
Tivia appeared a little later, in a different location. Inside Nia and Ari’s guest chambers, she made her proposition, knowing Nia would agree when she was offering something of much greater value in exchange. Tivia also knew the creation of her hearing device would waylay Nia and by extension, Ari, for a few extra days in Ilandria, creating more opportunities for certain events to occur. I really am starting to think like Vitali, she thought, shaking her head at her underhanded, albeit subtle, machinations.
Speaking of a Kristeva brother…
“…Are you serious?” While her stance grew cold and stony, she barked out a laugh, more guttural than mirthful. “That’s a stretch, Nia, to think I dyed my hair for that reason. Canaverises sport black hair, too,” she jutted her chin at Ari, who confusedly tried to follow the strange and sudden turn their meeting had taken.
“While Stella D’Mare is a cosmopolitan city, blonde hair is a rare occurrence and viewed as a quintessential marker of Rigas breed,” Ari supplied, still unsure where the discussion was headed, but intent on contributing a helpful comment or two. “Are you attempting to hide your Rigas heritage, Miss Tivia?”
“I didn’t come here to wax philosophical on my choice of hair color,” Tivia grumbled, fixing them both a hard stare. “It’s hair dye, not an ideology shift, an identity crisis, or heavens forbid, whatever you’re suggesting,” she waggled her fingers at Nia. “I like the color. There; mystery solved. So let’s get back on task, alright?”
Luckily, they did not press any further on what she viewed as entirely a non-issue. Nia pored over Tivia’s notes and illustrations, confident she could find all the materials in Ilandria’s markets.
“It’s essentially resonance or amplification stone technology implanted into the ear,” Ari mused as he looked over Nia’s shoulder at the notes. “I can create amplification stones if that might expedite the process.”
“It is a bit more complex than that, but you’re not off-base.” Tivia agreed. “It’s similar, but does not equate to sticking a rock in my ear and calling it functional.”
Once they agreed on a plan, Tivia nodded and turned to leave, but a sudden jolt from the corner of her eye spun her to attention. Nia reached for Ari’s sketchbook, which he’d discarded on the table prior to her arrival, spurring Ari to shout in protest and slide it away from her grip, but he was too slow and she was already rifling through the pages. A dark shadow fell over her face when she glimpsed a portrait sketch of who was, ostensibly, Prince Safir.
“This is—my hand, it draws without my consent,” Ari spluttered, failing to convince when his reasoning sounded like an excuse. His cheeks turned russet. “I was not—I do not always have conscious control of what appears on the canvas. He is but a pretty face. There is no substance or meaning in that sketch beyond surface-level aesthetics. I have been thoroughly unimpressed by him in every other capacity; you can be assured, Nia!”
But she either wasn’t listening, or didn’t believe his panicked assessment. In his efforts to assure her, he seemed to miss her insinuation with regard to Safir’s…preferences.
“You can not mean to go alone,” Ari protested, following alongside her. “What if someone recognizes you close-up? If you are angry, be angry, but do not risk exposure. We can walk together in silence.”
“She’ll be fine.” Tivia stood in front of Ari and stayed his outstretched arm. “She’s survived on the run for this long. Safir won’t let anything happen to her,” she added, for Ari’s ears only.
With the utmost reluctance, Ari stood aside and allowed Nia to leave on her own, as desired. When the door clicked shut behind them, Ari turned and grabbed for his overcoat, hastily slipping his arms into the sleeves. “I, too, have business at the market. If our paths should cross, I will gently remind her that I am not barred from perusing the wares at the same time as she.”
He headed after Nia, but traveled in a different direction down the corridors. Left alone in their chambers, Tivia glanced at the sketchbook, which Ari had discarded on the chair, presumably abandoned indefinitely, for the bad luck its pages had brought him.
He wouldn’t miss one page.
“Remember when I mentioned a campaign manager?” Tivia brandished a torn-out slip of parchment and handed it to Safir. “May I redirect your attention to Lord Aristide Canaveris.” Though the picture was a sketch, the lines were clean and precise, the likeness impeccable. The facsimile of Safir bore a tight, close-lipped expression, his sharp, bright-eyed gaze gazing into the far horizon, hair unbound and loose over his shoulder in neat, rippling waves. “The man is an artist. A damn good one. Sculpting, painting—name the medium. He can make anyone look like they just ascended into godhood. He also has a knack for crowd-work. In a few short months, he dethroned the Rigas family as the main seat of power in Stella D’Mare and took it for himself. He writes his own speeches and performs them with panache and presence, and makes everyone feel heard. The people love him for his generosity, hospitable nature, and natural charisma. You would benefit from enlisting his aid. With his direction, he can make you look credible, and bolster every marketable asset you have. Imagine,” she plucked the parchment from Safir and pressed it against the wall, “posting notices of this sort all around Ilandria? How would anyone resist the magnetism of your royal visage when amplified to this degree? Add a crown to the portrait and you’ve solidified your claim without uttering a word. Art has that effect on people. It can change or inform perceptions, inspire, awe, and attract. There is power in the practice and a truly skilled artist knows how to wield each stroke to masterful effect.”
She returned the portrait to Safir. “If this appeals to you at all, I recommend that you make amends with Lord Canaveris. If nothing else, befriending him would increase your chance of reconnecting with Nia.” With the way things were going, Tivia had no doubt Nia would love to reconnect…her fist to Safir’s face.
Sylvie went to bed on the evening before King Ullir’s funeral, fingers grazing the cheek Caris had cusped. It still tingled to the touch, a lingering aftereffect of his silly, drunken gesture. She ought not to have dwelled on a moment that would have little imprint on his memory the following day, after he awoke sober, but something about the contents of their conversation shifted her attitude surrounding the impetulant Eyrallian king. He was thoughtful, charming, genuine, and she liked how he bypassed niceties—polite, dreadfully boring conversation—to focus on deeper issues and philosophical inquiries.
He was also drunk, she reminded herself.
On the day of their return to Eyraille, Caris had acted his usual self; nothing that indicated his remembrance of his intoxicated escapades from a few nights ago. Maybe she had imagined a connection where none existed. Teselin Kristeva was correct; she had been so preoccupied with her frivolous novels, that her grasp on reality was spotty at best. Nothing happened between them. Nothing happened on their ride through the skies, aside from her firm squeeze around his waist when their descent into Eyraille’s landing promontory shifted through elevations quicker than her equilibrium could register. When they at last landed, she required Caris’ assistance dismounting—and standing. With her apologies, she leaned against his shoulder until her balance settled. He felt curiously warm. Otherwise, he did not react to their proximity.
“Your ribs shall live uncrushed for another day,” she said, pulling away from his stabilizing presence once her legs calibrated with solid ground. “It was another smooth ride. Thank you—and to Kalaur, as well.” She turned and produced a low tongue click at the giant avian, a sound she learned brought the rocs comfort and praise. Kalaur lowered his head and responded with a series of clicks in rapid succession, akin to a chicken clucking happily. In her excitement, she grabbed Caris’ arm, not yet registering her overly familiar reaction. “Did you hear that? I communicated with him! I—ah, forgive me,” she lowered her arm, stepped a respectful distance away, and cleared her throat. Her face now grew curiously warm. “Yes, your plan is fair to me,” she answered, remembering her place as a noble lady in service to a king. “In fact, I shall ride out to the refugee neighborhoods in the morning, marrying practice and purpose. I shall make efficient use of my time, and report back to you with my findings. I shall not get ahead of myself, however.” Attired in her riding pants, she opted for a bow in place of a curtsy. “I shall see you for supper.”
She did not see him for supper. She did not see him for the rest of the evening. That evening, she retired to bed, obsessing over what she might have said to insult the king. I am acting too familiar around him. One night of talking does not equate to overlooking his title for companionship.
“Briolette? You are safe?”
“Papa,” Sylvie breathed, relieved to hear his voice, however it crackled, through her tourmaline ring. “It has been ages, Papa. Forgive me.”
“But you are safe?”
“Yes, yes, of course. Uncle Ari is currently in Ilandria overseeing some business, so I finally have the privacy required in our shared chambers to talk without risk of being overheard.”
It sounded like her father wanted to inquire about the specifics of Uncle Ari’s ‘business,’ but seemed to take her generalization at face value and moved on. “How are you faring in Eyraille?”
Sylvie knew the question was not asking about her well-being, but of what she had discovered so far. “I agreed to help the king mind his refugee crisis. Mollengardian-born Eyraillians and natives are experiencing a host of tensions. Natives are looting and vandalizing their livelihoods in an attempt to drive them out of the kingdom.”
“And you hope to sow the seeds of dissent and create a diversion too big for the crown to ignore?” There was a hopeful lilt in his voice.
“No; I am going to help them. But,” she pressed, before he could protest, “I’ve also agreed to helm a mining operation in the mountains. My aim is to build a tunnel running beneath the mine to the city for purposes of evacuation and…for other means,” she said, her voice choking on the last words. Hurriedly, she added, “I also must tell you about the portal mirrors.”
She filled her father in on the magical link between Galeyn and Eyraille, and the proposed set connecting Ilandria with Eyraille and Ilandria with Galeyn. He listened, intrigued by the information, and satisfied not to press her much further.
“Papa,” she fiddled around the setting of the ring. “Just what will you plan to do with this information? You are a prisoner of Mollengard, but what will it take for them to free you?”
Her father did not hesitate. “When the job is done, of course.”
“And by ‘job,’ do you mean a full-scale successful invasion of…of Eyraille?”
He must have heard the uncertainty in her voice. “Are you having second thoughts, briolette?”
“I…Doesn’t this plan provoke a conflict of interest? Uncle Ari sides with Eyraille. Our family—Stella D’Mare by extension. If something were to go wrong, Mollengard might take us all captive.”
“And do you think I will allow anything bad to happen to my family?” A cold, clipped tone rang clear through the low hiss of their spotty connection. “I am making arrangements as we speak. They shall not touch you, or Ari. Despite their militant nature, Mollengardians can be accommodating.”
“Is it…is it possible to spare the king of Eyraille in all this?”
At that, her father laughed, a grating sound that sharpened the crackle into painful pops in her ear. “My dear briolette, it is the head of King Caris Sorde I have promised to deliver. For my freedom. For your freedom. Surely you were aware that the price of my deliverance would be a hefty one to pay. It is your choice whether to help me—or let them kill me.”
Sylvie stood in Caris’ study, ignoring the settee where she could have chosen to sit while waiting for the king’s arrival. Losing track of the time, she stared at the closest object to her line of sight; one of Thora’s gourds Sylvie had festooned around the study during the harvest festival. Interestingly, Caris had kept one on hand, the largest and more elaborate of the dozen she’d spaced about the room as artful decor. The gourd on display depicted a roc in mid-flight, wings outstretched and catching the thermals beneath its pinioned flight feathers.
Unbroken it soared, and the wings were its own.
Sylvie startled out of her daze at the sound of the door opening. Caris appeared, looking as if he’d just climbed out of bed. His forehead bore an unmistakable sheen, his face, flushed, and eyes overbright. She also made a note of the tea sitting on his desk. If the context clues weren’t enough for her to determine what kept him waylaid for nearly a day, then his statement about faring well in frigid weather removed all doubt. And here I thought he was avoiding me. What seemed like such a dominant thought yesterday paled in the face of her father’s news, and the repurposed, reestablished role she would have to play. Suddenly, she cared a little less about how Caris Sorde regarded her and more about what he revealed the other night regarding his death.
My father…will it be him, or his intelligence that ends you, Caris? Will it be me, whose intelligence he receives, responsible for your demise?
“Good afternoon, your Majesty,” she said, trying to reconstruct her usual chipper self, but falling into a recited, dispirited drone. “You do not seem well. Has the weather truly withdrawn its favor of you? Do not envy me just yet, however.” She fingered through her hair, which she hadn’t bothered to pin into a proper updo. It hung limp around her shoulders, bound only halfway.
“I found myself this morning wishing for better days. I must sincerely apologize, for I haven’t found the strength to venture from my chambers and perform what you have asked of me.” It wasn’t a lie to blame her lack of performance on illness. After speaking with her father last night, it was all she could do to rise out of bed, slip on appropriate attire, and sample a bite to eat. The verve and pep she displayed in preparation for the day ahead diminished to cinders and carried away on the wind. All she wanted to do was return to her chambers and sleep.
“I had originally intended a far more productive day. I do not wish to leave you with nothing, so may I present to you an idea. Evacuation tunnels.” Her eyes lowered to the ring on her finger before continuing. “My uncle built them in the D’Marian settlement and they proved to be immensely effective during Locque’s assault of otherworldly creatures, who devoured any still found above ground. When Mollengard invades, you will want to direct your citizens to shelter and potentially provide an exit point where they can escape into the mountains and to other areas of safety. The tunnels can also second as a hub for transporting ore from the mountains to the palace in secret, without alerting any spies and the like. When we were in the air yesterday, I sensed a strong presence from a lone mountain just north of the city, and it so happens to coincide with where the majority of the refugees have decided to relocate for the winter. Many have exited the city limits, but opted to remain close by in case of emergency. For them, not only can I mine the mountain, but repurpose it with caves for shelter and tunnels for escape or leading into the city. With this plan, we’d essentially be solving three problems at once. Mining and production, the refugee crisis, and evacuation plans.” Despite the thoroughness and thought put into her proposal, she gave the king a halfhearted smile. “I will start in earnest tomorrow. This time, I mean it.”
For all Safir wished otherwise… Tivia’s suggestion was, for all intents and purposes, sound and solid. It had never occurred to him that he might need to fear for his future in securing his father’s throne. Perhaps he invested too much in Ilandria’s stability and its stalwart honesty; or maybe his senses were so addled by stress and unresolved grief and guilt, he wasn’t seeing anything clearly. At best, this could solidify his future as Ilandria’s future King, carrying on the Vallaincourt bloodline for one final generation, at the very least. At worst, Ilandria and his council might simply be confused at his timely romance when the Prince of Blades had never been known to show romantic interest in anyone (at least, not as far as anyone was aware…)
“...fine. You have come through for King Caris time and again, Miss Rigas. I feel I can trust you to come through for me as well. Even if it is only born of desire to maintain the Eyraillian-Ilandrian alliance.” Safir ran a hand through his hair at Tivia’s entirely unveiled insinuation that it wasn’t looking its best--and neither was he, as a whole. He didn’t sound particularly offended, either, that she was making this offer on behalf of King Caris and Eyraille. For better or worse, Ilandria was no stranger to business and business decisions, and it wasn’t a kingdom known for entertaining wiles of the heart for any reason. Which was, perhaps, the very crux of his current issue in dealing with his father’s death. “I’ll do what I can, but it doesn’t sit right with me to deceive my council… or Ilandria. For all this is a purely political tactic, betraying anyone’s trust is hard for me to stomach. I am burdened to attend dinner and other events with members of my father’s council this coming week… If we want to be convincing, then it only makes sense that you attend them as well.”
The idea that he was putting forth a ‘campaign’ at all was more than the Ilandrian Prince wanted to deal with. He’d always believed in Ilandria and the council, and Ilandria and the council had--to his knowledge--always believed in him. Who was truly power-hungry enough to try to take his crown from him now, at all times? When their northern neighbour was on the cusp of a war that would inevitably throw Ilandria into chaos, regardless of whether or not they were allied with Eyraille? It didn’t make sense, and if his people didn’t believe in him by now, he was at a loss as to what he could do or say to convince them. “And what am I to say in these speeches, exactly?” He asked Tivia, sounding very much at a loss. “I’ve already spent my whole life proving myself to my family and my people. I’ve never stopped--well… not until now, I suppose.” He sighed, knowing well that he hadn’t exactly been very available, approachable, or reasonable this past week. “I’ll work on putting myself back together. But if they didn’t respect or believe in the person I was prior to my father’s death… then I fear I am at a loss.
“So I guess what I’m saying is… I’m open to suggestions.” Safir rolled his shoulders back. “You aren’t my advisor; King Caris has already secured you for that role. But as I suspect you are only here on his request, then at the very least, I’m willing to listen.”
He truly must have seemed little more than a lost cause to the star seer; that, or she understood very well that he was not currently in a position to effectively sell himself as worthy of his father’s crown. Not an hour later, Tivia returned, having suspected he likely hadn’t yet left his room--and she would be right. “What is this?” Safir asked, brows furrowed in confusion as he took the tan sheet of textured paper from King Caris’ advisor. To his credit, he had dressed more presentably and run a comb through his head several times since they had last spoken. His green eyes visibly widened when he unfolded the sketch.
“Lord Canaveris… the man I saw in the kitchens?” The past week of faces, decisions, and procedures was a blur to Safir. It all felt like a single, endless night full of responsibility with no end in sight. On a good day, putting a name to a face wasn’t difficult, but of late, his memory was slow and unreliable. It took a few seconds, but Ari’s was a name and face he did manage to recall--for a very notable reason. “He drew this? When? I thought the Ilandrian entourage had already departed… with you as the exception, apparently.”
Come to think of it, hadn’t it been run past him that a few Eyraillian guests had requested a slightly prolonged stay? He couldn’t remember the people or the reason, among all of the other details he’d had to consider this past week. But even if Aristide Canaveris was still in Ilandria… what reason would he have to want to help him?
“What misfortune… If only I hadn’t already alienated the one person you believe can sell my image to this kingdom.” Safir blinked slowly and folded the paper. “What could I possibly say to convince him to help me after I lashed out at him, clearly inebriated? I certainly wouldn’t consider lending my services to someone who’d behaved in such a way in my company. He’d already made it clear he is here for Anetania… and Anetania is only here on behalf of King Caris and Eyraille. I fear this bridge was already impassable before I so uncouthly burned it.”
Contrary to his pessimistic view, Tivia was quick to point out exactly what he could say to secure Ari’s aid. Something so obvious that even the observant Ilandrian Prince had somehow managed to overlook it, because it wasn’t something he’d considered as ever making part of a bargain, and frankly wasn’t sure he was comfortable leveraging. “...you know Lord Canaveris better than I do. His opinion of me certainly cannot be that high after how I spoke to him. If you think you can at all convince him to discuss this matter--then I’d very much like to talk.”
Unsurprisingly, Ari’s desperate claim that his hand had simply slipped and accidentally produced an extremely accurate sketch of Safir Vallaincourt hadn’t resonated with Nia. She spent the majority of the afternoon avoiding him and shopping for materials on her own, which wasn’t difficult. Ilandria had a strong economy and a wide array of businesses, artisans, and goods all over the kingdom. Where she knew precisely where to look to secure what she needed, at the markets and beyond, Ari did not, so while their paths crossed a handful of times that morning, by afternoon he lost track of her, and didn’t see her again until that evening.
The Master Alchemist had left without her smile, and by the look she wore when she returned to their suites that evening, she hadn’t managed to find it in the time she’d taken to cool down. In fact, she somehow looked worse than before. A darkness that hadn’t been there before, something different from fear or annoyance, limned the shadows and contours of her face. She didn’t move with erratic energy, cheerful or otherwise, and a stiffness in her shoulders suggested she had returned with a new burden she hadn’t been carrying when she’d left.
Ari was, of course, quick to notice, but the Ilandrian woman was quicker to brush him off with curt words instead of full sentences. Since he had no reason to assume her mood wasn’t a result of continued feelings of betrayal or disappointment upon noticing his sketch from earlier, he once again launched into desperate apologies. This time, she only shook her head. “Forget it. It’s not you, Ari. I went all over the place today, saw some people I used to know… no, it isn’t like that. I’m not in danger; I don’t think they recognized me, and if they did, they don’t want to hurt me. They’re like me--or, they were. They…” Nia hesitated and stared at the wall without really seeing it. When she spoke, her tone wasn’t angry, or jealous, or bitter. It was quiet, and saturated with a different sentiment entirely. “They surrendered to avoid death, but they....”
Her hands, which gripped both of her elbows tightly, were shaking. Those occasional tremors had never actually subsided since narrowly avoiding execution in Galeyn, but they hadn’t been this pronounced since then. Those who surrendered--it is no secret that they were maimed, Sommath had said. It truly wasn’t a secret that Ilandria felt impelled to keep if Nia had managed to come across Master Alchemists who were far unluckier than her in the span of a day…
“It’s fine--I mean, it’s not fine. Not even fucking close to fine. What I mean is, I knew what happened to them. I just didn’t see it until now…” Nia rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. “It doesn’t matter that Ullir is dead. The damage has already been done: it doesn’t make anything better. I don’t know why I thought it would.” When Ari assured her they needn’t linger in a place that brought her so much pain, that they could leave at any time--tonight, even, and all it would take would be asking for Tivia’s help--she shook her head. “Let me finish Tivia’s hearing apparatus. She needs it sooner than later… and, take my word for it, this commission is well worth my time and effort. Just another day or so.”
And, speaking of the very devil herself, there came another knock at the door. Nia didn’t rush to hide this time, although it was anyone’s guess as to why, when it wasn’t yet clear their visitor wasn’t one who meant them any harm. Then again, who else would dare to disturb the peace, hours after dark?
“Tomorrow, Tivia. I have what I need, just give me a day to craft it,” Nia said, thinking the star seer was impatient for her hearing apparatus. But she wasn’t here for Nia this time. Evidently, Ari’s presence was being requested, on a matter of ‘utmost importance’. It didn’t matter that Tivia didn’t come anywhere close to mentioning Safir’s name: call it a hunch, suspicion, surprising powers of deduction, or that Nia was still surprisingly attuned to her once childhood friend, but she knew.
She didn’t storm off this time. Maybe she was too exhausted, or realized there were far more dire reasons to feel upset. Not that her lack of reaction, aside from raised eyebrows, indicated that it didn’t displease her, of course. “Your handsome prince calls, Ari. Don’t leave him waiting.” Nia lifted a hand in a dismissive gesture before he could protest. “Go--really. I came back because I’m exhausted, not because I’ve come to accept you apparently have no control over what your hands draw.”
It was probably for the better that Nia retreated to the bedroom and shut the door, making it clear she still wanted to be alone. Ari might otherwise not have agreed to leave with Tivia, despite that she assured him it would be worth his while just to listen, even if he didn’t immediately agree to anything.
Safir was waiting next to the hearth in the sitting area adjacent to his personal office, nervously digging his nails into the calloused flesh of his palms when Tivia arrived with Ari in tow. He wasn’t sure if it was more a relief that the Lord of Stella D’Mare had agreed to speak, after all, than it would have been if he’d declined. Despite spending all day going over and over in his head what he wanted to say to the guest he’d treated so poorly, Safir was still very much at a loss for words. “Lord Canaveris. You have my gratitude for agreeing to speak with me at this hour.” The Prince of Blades managed to deliver those lines with finesse, but little did Ari know that was about as far as he’d planned, and he was already struggling with how to proceed.
“Might I offer you some wine? I promise it is far superior to whatever Tivia or King Caris has told you about my personal wares.” He wondered too late if the offer might be a misstep, considering he hadn’t been sober when they’d last spoken. Truly, Safir was unsure of a lot of things, including as to how best to present himself to Ari--casual and approachable, or official in his role. Ilandria’s Prince had ultimately opted for attire that touched on a bit of both. He’d tied his hair back in a loose ponytail, the pieces in the very front having already come loose to frame his face. In lieu of a decorative coat, he’d donned a fitted, charcoal-grey doublet with intricate silver and gold embroidery, and matching trousers. For all the lack of vibrancy, the silver complemented the simple circlet at his brow, and the gold brought out the sheen in his hair. Tivia had mentioned Ari had a flare for fashion and noteworthy self-presentation in terms of clothes and accessories, but as someone who lacked that knack, Safir had a hard time gauging what was too much, or too little--hence the deliberate state of in-between. And ever present, at his collar, was the ametrine brooch. “Please, have a seat. I promise not to keep you long.”
The Prince of Blades took a seat in a chair adjacent to Ari, without bothering to pour any wine for himself. He was nervous, and risked betraying his cool when he absently rubbed the back of his neck. How foolish; this wasn’t the first time he’d spoken with Ari, yet there was something about the Lord of Stella D’Mare that threw off his equilibrium.
“I don’t suppose Tivia debriefed you on why I summoned you at such an inconvenient hour?” Of course she hadn’t; she’d agreed to facilitate, but had also made it clear that she expected Safir to do the talking… and at a time when talking was suddenly so difficult. “I… to be honest, I’m not even sure where to begin. But perhaps, first and foremost, an apology is in order. For how I spoke to you the other night. I have no excuse for my behaviour, and am nothing less of embarrassed at myself. You did nothing to deserve such treatment, and I can’t apologize enough. Surely you have no reason to think well of me after such an outburst… which makes me wonder why I’m initiating this conversation at all, given the reason I summoned you at this late hour.”
Safir sighed heavily and bit the inside of his cheek, fingers nervously drumming on the arm of his chair. He had to look away from Ari, and into the warm fire at the hearth just to find the means to continue. “It has come to my attention that I should be concerned for my future as Ilandria’s leader. At least, insofar as Miss Rigas suggests. Evidently there are some who might intend to usurp me or deem me unfit to take my father’s crown. Therefore, it stands that I must make a case for myself, and ensure this kingdom, or at least the majority of it, are not having second thoughts about seeing me on the throne.”
Running into a rut, the prince stood long enough to retrieve a folded piece of paper from his nearby desk, which he then handed to Ari. “Is this your work, Lord Canaveris?” Lo and behold, it was Ari’s own sketch from that morning, the culprit which had made Nia angry enough to avoid him all day. Noting Ari’s surprise, Safir added, “Tivia presented me with that sketch this morning, in tandem with suggesting you might be able to help me… if it was confiscated without your consent, I promise I had nothing to do with that, and I’ll happily return it to you.” He shot Tivia an incredulous look at the fact she’d failed to inform him Ari had no idea the sketch was in her possession.
“Lord Canaveris, I’ve heard of your leadership in Stella D’Mare; your charisma, and your impressive ability to reach people. Frankly, I have no idea what to do or to say to change the minds of those who doubt me… and at even more of a loss as to how I could ever convince you to help me, after our last exchange.” The Prince of Blades sighed. In his mind, he’d already clearly accepted that Ari would turn him down, such that he couldn’t even look at him. “I can’t even think of what I could offer you that you would want, and that you don’t already have.”
Safir worked his jaw thoughtfully, eyebrows furrowed and mouth drawn into a frown. If it wasn’t obvious before that he was struggling, it certainly was now. “I know the obvious answer. You’re concerned for Anetania’s safety: you wish for the dissolution of the warrant my father signed for her arrest in Ilandria. A warrant that is, at this point, still active, despite his passing. I could persuade you with the promise that, when I take the throne, I will personally see to it that the warrant is destroyed. I could tell you that, the moment I have my father’s crown, it will be the first official decision I make as Ilandria’s King. But I… I am not going to offer that. That is not a promise I am willing to make in exchange for your help.”
Ari wasn’t the only one who looked positively shocked. Clearly, Tivia thought the Prince of Blades had truly lost his mind, and perhaps he wasn’t fit to rule Ilandria. That is, until Safir went on. “I cannot make a transaction of something that will never be part of a transaction on my part. Lord Canaveris… regardless of how Anetania must hate me, and regardless of whether or not you agree to help me, destroying the warrant that threatens my friend was something I had always, already, intended to do as King. The safety of another person, let alone someone I care about, is not an option as a form of currency. I may deal in many forms of business, be it an exchange, an alliance, or a pact, but exploiting the safety and wellbeing of others is not one of them. I simply refuse. And, so… I suppose I really have nothing to offer you.”
For all the time he’d had to think about what he’d wanted to say that day, it appeared Safir was only now realizing that he’d never had a chance of securing Ari’s help all along. He was never willing to bargain with Nia’s freedom in Ilandria; he had no hand to show. “It would seem I’ve senselessly wasted your time, after all. Here: a token of my culmination of apologies.” Bringing his hand to his throat, he unclasped the ametrine brooch and held it out to Ari, able to meet his eyes for the first time that evening. There was no point in maintaining a ruse of acting strong and collected. There was nothing in his verdant eyes but sadness and defeat. “You knew all along where--who--this came from. Take it; it was actually never intended for me to begin with. It’s just part of a story that… doesn’t matter anymore.”
Perhaps Caris wasn’t alone in suffering the consequences of exposure to winter winds. Sylvie looked… well, decidedly less like herself. Not ill, per se, but as if somehow, between yesterday morning and this evening, she’d given up on something important. Her movements were slow, her eyes dull, her hair looking as though she hadn’t seen fit to make it presentable for a royal audience. What happened? Who has made you feel this way? What can I do to change it? The questions spun through the Eyraillian King’s fever-addled mind, but he spoke none of them. It wasn’t his business; if she’d seen fit to tell him, she would have.
I didn’t drag myself out of bed to discuss feelings, Caris ultimately convinced himself. He took a breath, ready to dismiss her and tell her only to speak to him again when she had something of substance to offer, but it so happened that she didn’t come to him with nothing, afterall. “Evacuation tunnels.” He parroted, suddenly intrigued enough to change his tune and lean in. “I honestly hadn’t considered that, and compared to mining for gold, I daresay that should take priority. As for your lack of productivity today… I cannot rightly reprimand you for failing your duties today when I’ve done no better.” He leaned back in his seat and took another reluctant sip of the bitter tea.
“I expect you to follow through and initiate this process tomorrow--after your riding lesson. Send word of what you need, and we’ll discuss.”
When tomorrow came, however, there was no word from Sylvie regarding the tunnels, the mining expedition, or the status of the refugees affected by Eyraillian discrimination. Still somewhat feverish himself (enough so that he prioritized tasks he was able to complete from the comfort of his own bed), Caris, against his better judgment, let the lack of communication slide. But the following day, when he was finally feeling well enough to sit in his office or on his throne and hear out those whose audiences with him had been postponed, he began to grow confused and concerned. When he found a decent ten minutes between complaints and proposals to get a breath of fresh air (while probably dressed against the cold, this time), he checked in with those tending the stables. As far as anyone knew, no one had seen Sylvie attend her lessons since returning from Ilandria. When he later spoke to the staff responsible for upkeep of the guest quarters, Sylvie had reportedly turned them away several times, insisting she could tend to the tidiness of her own quarters and preferred to be left alone. It didn’t appear as though she’d set foot anywhere else in the palace since they’d last spoken: no one knew anything of the mining expedition or evacuation tunnels, nor the status of the refugees.
Slowly but steadily, the King’s concern and confusion transformed into his more familiar and characteristic sentiments of anger and frustration. Whatever was going on, whatever had changed, this was not acceptable.
So when the sun set and he had yet to hear from the aspiring diplomat, Caris decided he would not wait any longer, and took matters into his own hands. Without an invitation or any prior word, he paid the Canaveris girl a visit that evening in her own suite, determined to have an explanation.
“Miss Canaveris. What do you have to say for yourself?” He found Sylvie hunched over on a settee, fortunately decent (it occurred to him too late how lucky he was not to have barged in at a vulnerable moment), but clad in attire he was sure she must have slept in. At her surprise and astonishment regarding his unprecedented visit, he only frowned. “This is my home. You think I don’t have access to every room? Regardless: I want an explanation. Tell me why you’ve forsaken every promise and responsibility with which you’ve been tasked for three days. If you are unwell, you should have sent for a healer or physician. There is no excuse for such exorbitant negligence. Do you or do you not want a place here in Eyraille? After the countless hours you’ve already spent convincing me to invest in you?”
Caris had no idea what was eating Sylvie alive from the inside. Had no idea that, for three days, she’d been fighting a moral battle in her own head and heart, and as a result had found herself paralyzed, unable to move forward or retreat. Even now, her presence here in Eyraille and her motivation still eluded him, but he’d never have guessed that she was now in a position to make a decision in which there was no choice: no right, only wrong.
Yet despite this, despite not understanding the true nature of her suffering, he was not blind. He could see something was truly wrong, enough to change her behaviour so drastically, and for a reason he didn’t understand… Caris found himself entirely unable to hold onto his anger. He didn’t want an explanation, he realized; that wasn’t why he was here. He wanted this--whatever it was that Sylvie was holding close to her chest--to stop. He wanted to see her vibrant and smiling again… although he didn’t know the first thing about getting her there. The King of Eyraille was prepared to handle a lot of situations; more than most people gave him credit for. This, however, was not one of them.
Caris uncurled his fists. His brow smoothed, but his frown didn’t. I am wholly not equipped for this, he thought dismally, but… here he was, the one tasked to face it after being brazen enough to barge into her quarters. “Sylvie.” He sighed, and when she looked his way with moist eyes, he flinched. “Are you really going to cry? I already have no idea what I’m doing.” Completely at a loss, he drew a clean handkerchief from the pocket of his trousers and pressed it against her damp cheeks.
“I think it’s already obvious I am in the dark, here. I understand that I’m probably not approachable enough to trust, and even if I knew what’s going on to have you in such a state, I probably wouldn’t have any idea what to do.” The Eyraillian King took a seat next to her on the settee and sighed. “Why else would I have Tivia remain in Ilandria to help Safir tend his emotional wounds? Feelings aren’t my domain, especially those connected to turmoil.”
Caris inhaled slowly through his nose and fell silent a moment as he stared thoughtfully across the room.”...I hope you know, you are under no obligation to stay here or fulfill your promises. Eyraille isn’t your responsibility; I am not your king. If the weight of this place is breaking you, then your freedom, your home, is just a mirror away. And, no--I am not dismissing you. I’m just reminding you that, unlike me, you have a choice.”
Not two weeks ago, he’d have happily watched this seemingly delusional girl walk away and leave him alone. Now, the thought of her absence felt strangely… hollow. He didn’t want to see her go; that much he realized. What he couldn’t determine was whether he wanted her to stay for the benefit of his kingdom, or… or for something entirely different. Something he didn’t understand.
Under his skin, his fever fought valiantly for its last breaths. Perhaps things would be clearer when it finally died; but this problem was now. He didn’t have the luxury of clarity. “If you think it would help, I can contact Ilandria and send for your uncle. He stayed behind to try and convince Safir to permit a portal mirror between our kingdoms, but that is neither here nor there. Otherwise… tell me what I can do to ease your burden. Forego future riding lessons? Another, more scenic flight on Kalaur? Just tell me, and if it is within my power as King of Eyraille, I’ll try.” Why was he suddenly bending over backwards for someone who wasn't even his subject? Why did her distress bother him so much? Nothing made sense anymore. It was like he didn’t even know himself.
“Look. I can’t promise you won’t wake up tomorrow, or the next day, feeling the same way…” Caris fidgeted with the sleeves of linen shirt, dyed a bold shade of indigo. “I don’t know what keeps me going most days. Inertia, probably. Or maybe just stubbornness. But I do believe that one day, it will all pay off: the burdens, the pain, the turmoil. I know it’s not the end… just the more obnoxious part of the journey. If you’re not convinced that leaving Eyraille will help you, then for now, go with inertia. Put one foot in front of the other until you don’t have to think about it anymore. And if you need help getting started, well, you’re in luck.”
Sylvie’s loose waves of ebony hair had fallen in front of her face. Without realizing what he was doing, Caris tucked it behind one of her ears in a distinctly gentle gesture. “You might not be home, here in Eyraille. But you certainly aren’t alone.”
Under the guise of shopping, Ari scoured the market to find Nia, but whenever he caught sight of her, she dipped away, letting the crowd swallow her. Eventually, he stopped searching and bobbed down the main thoroughfares, halfheartedly browsing the wares on display. He was under no delusion that chasing and successfully catching her would bear fruit. She wasn’t some mystical fae creature who, if captured, would grant the bearer a wish. In the same vein, Nia wouldn’t grant him forgiveness just because he persisted. As for protection, he wasn’t confident in his skills with combative magic to whisk her from danger’s grasp. Tivia Rigas’ words spoke reason, after all. Nia could handle herself.
He, on the other hand, barely summoned enough strength to walk. Retiring early, he dragged his limbs back to the palace and sank into the settee in the sitting room. Against his fervent hopes, the bone-deep aches neither settled nor subsided. Worse yet, Nia hadn’t returned. Darkness stretched across the sky outside, but there was still no sign of her. Regretting his choice to abandon his search over a few inflamed joints, he pushed himself off the settee and braced for the walk to the door. Why did it feel as though he possessed less stamina than on an average day nursing a petrified limb?
Fortunately, he didn’t have to venture far, when Nia entered their chambers just shy of his reaching the door. The abject dejection on her pale features revealed everything about her current mood—and her ongoing scruples against his latest transgression.
“Nia?” He stepped forward, ignoring the shooting pain through his foot. No answer. He didn’t edge closer. “Nia, I am truly sorry for earlier. I meant no harm by what I drew. Apparently, I am a shallow man who enjoys other shallow displays of vanity. But that is as far as my fascination extends. Never have I been in such a locale that misunderstands the basic principles of an objectively aesthetic composition. And yes, art can be objective insofar as the general populace understands commonly held truths that dictate what we collectively define as art. I have been starved for something visually pleasing in this miserable place. I so desire to take down every piece and replace it with my own works. Thus, I’ve taken to sketching Prince Vallaincourt. Inspiration could not have reached me at a more inopportune time. That is what I meant when I referred to my hand acting of its own accord, for my hand and my heart were not aligned.” He raised the right hand, the culprit behind the ill-conceived sketch, and stepped forward, pressing it over her chest, her heartbeat pulsing wildly through his fingers. “Now they are together. Whatsoever I draw or sculpt will always pale to the love in you I hold most dear.”
He had spent hours crafting his apology, refined and polished it in his head like a tarnished plate of silver rediscovering its gleam. But her mind was elsewhere. She didn’t appear to hear him at all. How badly must I have injured her?
According to Nia, however, he was not the current source of her ails. In the vaguest terms, she described her run-in with the Master Alchemists who lost their hands in exchange for surrendering to King Ullir. He noted her own hands, trembling in a fashion he had not seen in a while.
“We should not remain here a day longer.” He closed their distance, transferring the hand upon her heart to grasp her palm. It shivered, and despite the brisk weather from which she emerged, it carried no chill. Her cold was internal, trapped like frozen rivers icing her veins. “This place holds nothing for you but horrid memories and horrors beyond repair. The echoes of the late king remain. There is no hearty welcome for the survivors; no future beyond the natural, pain-numbing passage of time. We can leave tonight, if—“
A knock on the door interrupted his entreaty. Tivia Rigas popped into the room, apparently not interested in overseeing the status of her hearing apparatus. She had come—for him.
“I cannot imagine what ‘utmost importance,’ a late-night appointment would entail.” He looked to Nia for her input. Already gauging the source of the disruption, she decided to remain annoyed by him, despite his sincere apologies. He untangled his hands from hers and backed away a step. “Nia, that is not fair. I’ve no untoward intentions in mind for—“ but she didn’t stay to hear his protests, opting to leave the sitting room altogether.
Ari eventually followed Tivia to Prince Safir’s chambers, though not out of a strong desire to speak with a man whose appeal only ran surface-level. Nia failed to understand—or rather, Ari failed to make clear—that aesthetic attraction existed irrespective of personal preference. The subject could be the most heinous person, disliked and despised, and yet Ari might find an undeniably irresistible trait painted upon their lovely face. Purely physical, and divorced from their general demeanor and morality. Chara Rigas stood as a shining example of a figure who haunted his sculptures and paintings decades after their unceremonious departure; an unwitting muse he so desperately wanted rid of, but an artist’s inspiration truly was, at times, impossible to control.
“Let us get this over with,” he sighed to Tivia before entering Safir’s study. “Are you certain he is not intent on continuing to accuse me of infractions against his person? I still have no interest in usurping his throne.”
“Yes, I am certain. Go on ahead and see for yourself.” Tivia opened the door and waved Ari inside.
Prince Safir emerged from behind his desk, attired in silver and accents of gold to complement his hair and warm, green eyes. His hands itched as he came before the prince, hoisting his gaze to the wall behind Safir’s head, lest he study his features with familiar intensity. For the occasion, Ari had not dressed his finest, donned in a tweed woolen travel coat, raven-dark hair loose and about his shoulders. He smelled of outside, low-burning fires, frost, and sweat. When offered, Ari accepted the glass of wine, as was convention, and stood at a distance to allay the prince of his less-than-savory odor.
“Thank you for hosting me at this hour,” Ari responded, gracious as always. “May I also extend my utmost apologies for the other night. I besmirched your honor in your own home when it was never my intention to behave in so callous a manner. Nor had I meant to overstay my welcome without consulting you directly about extending guest rites. If you are here to address my infractions, I will stand before you, the guilty party, and confess to my sin. While I believe His Majesty King Caris vouches in our favor, it is only proper to make my official bid and pardon before you, your Grace.” He bowed his head, a practiced dip. A few strands of silken hair slid over his forehead, somehow looking neither messy nor out of place. “Now, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”
Ari took a seat as instructed, casually making note of the not-so-polished presentation of Prince Safir. Contrary to last time (granted, last time he’d been full of drink), he appeared harried and jittery, like a jackrabbit bounding away from a predator.
“No, Miss Rigas has not yet debriefed me,” he glanced sidelong at the black-haired star seer, his suspicions mounting. Anticipating the direction of the conversation, Ari found it increasingly difficult to maintain his own nerves. He pressed his hands together, nursing their ache.
The portraiture of Safir flashed before him, as fresh as when he drew it that morning. He felt his stomach plummet. Again, his eyes found Tivia. She stared back at him, expression inscrutable.
“Yes, it is my work,” he admitted, summoning the dregs of his composure. “I wonder how it ended up in your hands, for I had never intended on revealing it to anyone. Now that it is in your possession, you may keep it if you wish. Think of it as a token of apology for causing you undue grief on the evening of your father’s funeral. Ah, think nothing of it,” he added, his heated cheeks betraying whatever coolness he had crafted. “One would think me quite the promiscuous sort, if they were to browse one of my sketchbooks or take a tour of my workshop. My specialty is in people and so I must whet my tools of the trade to the notable faces I meet, of which there are many. Do take it as a compliment, your Grace, that I found yours a most pleasing facade. Now,” he said, hastening to the topic at hand, “to properly address your request.”
“If I have this correct, you are seeking my advice on how to strengthen your bid for the throne by appealing to your citizens as a leader who inspires their trust. And I take it that Miss Rigas has regaled you with tales of my successful exploits as Lord of Stella D’Mare. Has she also told you it is a title I have held for no longer than a year? My qualifications may not be up to muster—not compared to my late brother, who held the position of Canaveris Head for several decades. Alas, I suppose I do have experience in minding my brother’s affairs from afar, instructing his fashions and penning his speeches; not to mention the reams of busywork involved. In short, I am not wholly unequipped for the undertaking.”
He withheld any offers to help, however, until the prince proposed his arrangement. Swirling his untouched wine, Ari waited to hear the one proposition that would make his involvement worthwhile. Though Safir had mentioned it, he automatically withdrew the idea in practically the same breath. Both Ari and Tivia stared at him, wondering of his intentions, until he clarified his views. “You would destroy Anetania’s warrant, regardless of my assistance,” he said, again trying to extract the main ideas of Safir’s speech into a palatable nugget of information, easier to swallow…and digest. “Why approach me with such honesty, your Grace? I daresay you would have secured my aid with the promise itself, never mind what you have already made up your mind to do. Nonetheless, I appreciate your forthright nature. You have given me something to ponder. Allow me this evening to consider my response and we shall reconvene tomorrow afternoon. I assume, as you have brandished my sketch, you will want my services as an artist, as well?”
As he rose from his chair to depart, he took a few sips of wine as a polite gesture of reciprocation, nodding his approval at the subtle hints of cherry and a few other spices he identified at dinner, but could not name. “I do appreciate the wine,” he offered, setting it on the counter half-full. “You must one day tell me exactly what spices comprise your tasty beverages. I very much wish to perfect the recipe at home.”
Before he turned to leave, Safir unclipped the brooch from his lapel and offered it to Ari as a gift. He regarded the lemon-yellow and gray-purple swirls of the stone for a moment, but pushed the jewelry piece back into Safir’s hands. “I intend to find the real stone. It is for a different reason I seek ametrine. However you have procured this piece, it is yours, and I shall not take it from your person.” He also met Safir’s eyes, run-down and mirthless and empty of life. Whether it was fruitful to assist the prince, he clearly needed help. If few could help him—he wasn’t confident about Tivia Rigas’ counsel—then someone would simply steal his throne in his stead, and Nia’s warrant would likely remain active.
“Tomorrow afternoon. You will have your answer. Good night, your Grace.”
He returned to his and Nia’s chambers alone, spurning the company of Tivia who offered it full well in knowing he would reject her hand. His limbs grew weary, heavier from the multiplicative burdens the day had brought. Inside their chambers, Nia hadn’t emerged from the bedroom. Heading to the closed door he knocked gently, but did not attempt to enter. He would sleep on the settee tonight, or perhaps the floor if his limbs screamed for firm support. “Nia, I do not mean to disturb your rest, and I will not enter if that is your wish. I only want to share the purpose of my audience with the Prince. In short, he requests my aid in strengthening his image in preparation for the throne. He suspects others are conspiring to steal his seat of power. If seeing him crowned king means I can persuade him to lift your warrant, then I am considering his proposal. You do not have to stay here in Ilandria. In fact, I implore you to return to Eyraille as soon as you are able. But if I have the ear of the Prince, perhaps I can encourage him to introduce policies to Ilandria that might heal the scourging done to your people over a decade ago. Tell me what changes you would like to see. They will not rewrite the past, but if they are a step in the correct direction, then it is worth consideration.”
He paused, leaning against the door for support. “Nothing will happen between us, I assure you.”
“Before you accuse me of dishonesty and underhanded dealings, hear me out.” Tivia lifted Ari’s half-empty goblet of wine and took a sip. “This one isn’t bad,” she confessed, drinking the dark-red beverage to its dregs. “I’m here to do what you haven’t the guts to pull. Not like I want that for you just yet. It’s better you remain fresh as fallen snow, for the time being. So leave the dirty tactics to me. If something goes wrong, say it was all my fault—because it is—and cast me out. Your reputation stays intact, and I’m the social pariah you almost married until you found me for what I really am. Everyone wins.”
“Anyway,” she fingered the stem of the empty pewter goblet, “it looks like you might have piqued Lord Canaveris’ interest, so don’t count your losses just yet. Secretly, he wanted to show you that portrait. An artist can’t stay away from his canvas once he’s been inspired. He can try, but he’ll fail.”
Sylvie hadn’t lied to the king. She meant to begin the following day bright and early, dressed in her riding gear and ready to extend her lesson to the roads outside the city where the refugees had made camp. After her appointment with Caris, she ate her supper, a paltry three bites of stew, and retired early to bed. But when the morning sun angled through her window, she turned away from its welcoming rays and buried her head under the coverlet. What good was it to honor her commitments to Eyraille when every contribution brought the kingdom one step closer to ruin?
She felt the warming, warning rays of the sun penetrate her shield of covers and land on the back of her neck. Briolette, it spoke in the timbre of her father, a caress, a balm during times of stress and trouble. You cannot stay abed. You must build what is needed lest we shall never reunite. Remember why you are here.
“I remember,” she clutched the covers feebly to her chest, but still, she did not move to greet the day.
Morning shifted to afternoon, and then to evening. She received only one knock; from the maidservant who wanted to tidy her rooms. “I have made no mess; worry not for I shall clean what little I’ve disturbed,” she told the sweet, gray-haired lady before closing the door.
Aside from answering the summons from the maid, Sylvie stirred out of bed twice more; to use the chamberpot, and to pour herself some water from the carafe across the room. While on her feet, she drew shut the curtains, spurning the reminder of the passage of time.
During the long night, she played with her ring, wanting to hear her father’s reassuring voice but knowing he would only remind her of their promise. She considered yanking it off her finger and throwing it across the room, but the thought of losing her last connection to her father, who relied on her to save his life, arrested her breathing.
She had focused on the wrong priorities. Instead of questioning her father for specifics, she ingratiated herself to the kingdom and its denizens, desperate for their approval. And for what reason? Not for earning their trust in service to Mollengard, to her father. She wanted companionship, a greater purpose, and conveniently forgot the price of achieving her personal goals. Everything was temporary, fleeting. Whoever crossed her path in friendship, she would destroy them. What would she say, if they…if Caris discovered her deception? I never wanted to hurt you, but to save my father, I need you dead.
No one would forgive her, no matter how noble the cause. …Herself included.
She lost track of the days. With the curtains shuttered, she determined time by interruptions. Twice more the maid visited, and twice more Sylvie sent her away. Alster and Elespeth had also stopped by her door, but she held fast to a smile and explained her fugue was temporary and she would be back to rights in a few days. They weren’t fooled, but respected her privacy and left her alone.
She’d managed to make it out of bed to the table in the sitting room. Although it must have been days since she ate anything substantial, she kept to water, the only thing she could stomach.
It was during her ‘meal’ when Caris stormed in and caught her in the midst of downing the water. The suddenness of his arrival caused her to choke and splutter into a fit of coughs when the water got caught in her throat.
“Your…Majesty,” she said in between coughs, too preoccupied for surprise and too numb to express her annoyance for the disturbance. “This is unprecedented. If you had knocked, I gladly would have answered.” She hunched in the settee and hugged herself, concealing the simple shift she wore in an attempt to shield her propriety, even if embarrassment had far evacuated her mind.
He had every right to his anger, and she did not argue as he launched into a disappointed tirade about her unreliability and three-day self-exile. She flinched at the number. Three days. Had she really disappeared for three days?
“…Forgive me,” she said, unable to mask her tone of voice into a layer of pleasantness. “I must have…lost my way, somewhere.” She clutched her head, feeling winded, confused, and out of excuses to give, especially not before the Eyraillian king’s fury and lack of mercy. She squeezed her eyes shut, awaiting the onslaught, the condemnation, the long, lonely walk to the portal mirror home…
It didn’t arrive.
She opened her eyes. The figure sitting before him blurred beneath a layer of her tears. How pathetic. If he thought her useless before, crying would remove all doubt.
But better I am useless than the arbiter of your death.
Through the blur, she watched him reach into his pocket and hand her something folded and white in his palm. A handkerchief. Tentatively, she took his offering and dabbed the corners of her eyes. The world sharpened and she saw him clearly since he had entered the room to complain. Only, he was no longer complaining, but…commiserating?
Just when this boy-king could not further surprise her, he shed another layer and revealed the heart beneath his carapace of steel. His words melted her, for they welled with care and a tenderness she never noticed lived in him. Despite—or because of—his beautiful sentiment of understanding, the tears ran down her face with a fervor impossible to quell. Unsightly gasps sucked her breath.
I cannot let this man die. I will have this both ways. My father and Caris, alive. Somehow, I will make this happen.
The final breaking point happened when Caris tucked a loose strand of her greasy, unwashed hair behind her ear. His fingers, fever-warm, carried a lightness reminiscent of feathers. A roc, protecting the flock. Protection was not limited to charging at the front lines of battle, but ensuring that the protected felt safe, heard, and cared for.
A shattering erupted in her skull, and she felt like she was dying anew, at the masquerade. Shards of calcified blood and pieces of brain propelled from her like fractals as she fragmented into smaller and smaller shapes, becoming less. Dust. Nothing.
A sob escaped her throat, but instead of stifling it with her arm, she buried her head against Caris’ shoulder, comforted, bolstered, by his presence.
“I want to stay,” she said in between sobs. “This place is so lovely, and you—“ she hitched in another breath. “you…you do know what you are doing. I will do what you ask; I am sorry. I am so sorry for everything.” If only he knew how sorry she truly felt. “Tomorrow will happen. Be-because I am not alone. Do not tell my uncle; I shall be…I will be fine.” Because I must be fine. I have no other option than to…
“Put one foot in front of the other,” she repeated after Caris, reluctantly withdrawing from his shoulder. “I can do that. Thank you, your Majesty. You did not have to say all those kind words when I have done nothing to deserve them. And even though I most certainly do not deserve this, I have a small request to make.” She reached for his hand and squeezed it gratefully. “Please stay? For a few more minutes. Tell me a story about the rocs. Or, conversely, tell me nothing at all. We can sit in silence, or I can fill the silence with endless apologies about how I ruined your tunic with my tears,” she released a weepy laugh, her chest still shuddering from the residual racking.
“We…Canaverises do not cry in front of others unless it is a funeral, a wedding, a birth, or a moving piece of art. This…I will not make a habit of it. I…miss my father.” It was not an outright lie, but he earned an attempt at an explanation. Something, anything at all. “He died around this time of the year. I suppose the funeral…opened a few wounds that have yet to heal. We always celebrated my birthday together and now it will be the third year where I have to contend with just his shadow as a present, and not his presence. It is but a few days away, but no matter. I should not burden you with this information when you have been nothing but supportive.” She glanced at the drenched handkerchief he offered her and grimaced. “It was a casualty in battle. I will be sure to clean and press this for you and return it to your possession, hale, hearty, and importantly, dry. …Thank you, your Majesty.” The smallest of smiles touched her face. Her hand slid from his. “You are most worthy of being called a king. I may not be your subject, but I feel as good as one.”
And if I must do the impossible to keep you alive and in power, then I shall merely be proving that those with broken wings can still fly.
Ah, bless Lord Canaveris and his eloquence. From what little he knew of him thus far, the D’Marian leader very much came across as an honorary Ilandrian for his finesse with words. In a way, it put the already nerve-wracked Ilandrian Prince at ease when he inquired about his dire honesty (to a fault, really) in light of trying and failing to initiate a trade of services, when the underlying message was clear. Safir laughed in spite of himself.
“I could lie and tell you that I simply embody hard Ilandrian values, honesty being one of them.” He shook his head slowly, tucking a pale blonde tress of hair behind his ear. “But the truth is, I’ve been pouring over what I wanted to tell you all day, and it’s just now I realize I truly have nothing to leverage. In short, I suppose I’m something of an idiot: although I appreciate your eloquence in not pointing out what is already painfully obvious.”
Contrary to Ari’s belief, it honestly hadn’t occurred to Safir to request Lord Canaveris’ services beyond what he had initially sought. Clearly, the man was a talented artist. That sketch alone, with wispy lines and unfinished shading, had more life and vibrancy than the faded portraits adorning the halls and rooms of the palace. “You know… it hadn’t occurred to me to hire an artist on behalf of the monarchy.” Or, at this point, on behalf of him… It certainly wasn’t a priority, considering everything else weighing on his shoulders. The man responsible for the gloomy paintings of him and his father had passed away a handful of years ago, and since then, there had been no reason to fill his position. If it would help secure Ari’s help in other avenues, then he certainly wasn’t opposed. “Well… let us perhaps wait and see how the future unfolds for me.” He said in reply, after a thoughtful pause. “After all, if I lose my right to the throne, it seems I won’t have need of an artist to paint my likeness. Be that as it may: I appreciate your consideration, despite that I have nothing more to offer you than a common interest in securing the safety of a single person. Perhaps that is why I decided at the last minute not to use Anetania as a point of negotiation: in my mind, a common goal holds stronger than anything I could promise. If nothing else… I think it’s already clear that my path to the throne is also Anetania’s clearest path for freedom.” Something of which he knew Ari must be aware. Stella D’Mare’s leader would be hard pressed to convince anyone else in his place to destroy that warrant of arrest.
Safir hadn’t realized the breath he held in his lungs or the tension in his shoulders until after Lord Canaveris took his leave, quietly closing the door behind him. He rubbed the back of his neck and collapsed upon the chair in which Ari had been sitting, looking as though weariness had caught up with him. “I’m not going to argue with your reasoning, Miss Rigas. It is sound: and as much as I resent deceit, I do respect your strategy, and thank you for doing this on my behalf.” He said to Tivia, resisting the urge to pour a glass of that wine for himself. His outburst in front of Lord Canaveris had rather soured his relationship with alcohol, for fear it would turn his behaviour in a direction entirely uncharacteristic of the man he believed himself to be.
“I know, I miserably failed at this negotiation. But, if it is as you say, common grounds are a far more secure way to establish amicable relationships than holding fast to a bargain that may dissipate the moment both people deliver on their promises.” Tivia didn’t chastise him, however; in fact, she sounded hopeful, moving forward. “He certainly seemed flustered finding me in possession of this sketch,” he countered, furrowing his eyebrows. “I’m not convinced it was one he wanted me to see, but if hiring him as royal artist, even temporarily, will convince him to agree to other terms, then I am in no place to deny.” I can understand why Anetania is so enamored of him, he almost said, but quickly thought better of it. If he was already at odds with his dear childhood friend, the last thing he needed was for her to believe he had anything but a professional interest in her paramor.
Nia hadn’t been sleeping, contrary to Ari’s concerns. She couldn’t sleep, not with her thoughts spinning and her heart still racing from what she’d witnessed beyond Ilandria’s market. When he knocked on the door, it was something of a relief to have an excuse to stop her futile attempt to chase slumber. She answered his knock, opening the door, and had the grace to hear him out. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected, with Ari meeting Safir at such a late hour, but it did come as a surprise to hear he feared Ilandria might not have him stand in his father’s shoes. On one hand, there would certainly be some poetic justice in seeing House Vallaincourt fall, after everything they’d done to her, her family, and those like her. However… there was no guarantee that putting someone different on the throne would be the change Ilandria needed. Better the devil she knew than the devil she didn’t.
“If you’re not leaving, then neither am I.” Nia insisted. Instead of chastising him for lending his help to someone she despised, she’d rather be present while it took place. “There is nothing Safir could possibly do to atone for his father’s sins. Even if he isn’t directly responsible, he stood by while it all took place. He gave the man a graceful funeral and apologized for nothing. For that, he will forever be complicit.” She didn’t know Safir had only learned of the massacre after it had taken place, sheltered and shielded from the bloodshed by his own father. She didn’t know he’d stolen away to her old house and looked for her, and suffered nightmares for months afterward. However… she did realize, even unconsciously, that all of this had taken place when he’d been a child. And it was difficult to blame a child for cowardice when they wielded no power.
“Regardless… that isn’t to say that someone else on the throne might not do worse.” She went on, after pausing to think. “Perhaps that’s all we can hope for: not that Ilandria can do better, but that it won’t be worse than what it is already guilty for. You are a persuasive man, Ari, insofar as you secured D’Marians to your side against Alster Rigas. Safir has always been Ilandria’s sweetheart: the people have never had reason not to believe in him, and he’s never had reason to make efforts to win them over. If he must fight for his place on the throne, then he is going to need help.”
Nia pushed the door open wider to permit Ari access to their bedroom. “Come to bed,” she invited him, just as he assured her nothing would ‘happen’ between him and Safir Vallaincourt. The Master Alchemist paused, and her eyebrows knit together thoughtfully. “Safir was wearing an ametrine brooch, wasn’t he? I thought I saw it at the funeral.” She could have been mistaken about it: perhaps it just happened to look similar to one she had once given him to gift to someone else… but it felt unlikely. The corner of her mouth curled into a strange, sardonic grin. “...certainly nothing will happen unless you’re the one to initiate it.” She said at last, finishing the conversation on that vague comment. Not much had changed with Prince Safir: once a coward to his own heart, always a coward.
His hand had almost seemed to act of its own accord. Caris couldn’t fathom what had sparked the urge to reach out and touch Sylvie’s hair: the gesture was as surprising to him as it was to her, but it was too late to retract. Nonetheless, it wasn’t as surprising as what she did next, turning her face to him to weep onto his shoulder. It wasn’t the sudden proximity that startled him. Twice, she’d clung to his body for dear life upon a roc, arms wrapped tightly around his ribcage for fear of falling. He’d felt her heartbeat race against his back, and her warm breath on his neck. But this was different: she was not in danger, not fearing for her life. Her heartbeat thudded against his own chest, and he became suddenly aware of the thin, structureless shift that covered her body, providing little support for her distinctly feminine softness against the firmness of his muscle. This realization heated his cheeks and momentarily sped his own heartbeat, which he could fortunately blame on the ghost of his dwindling fever.
I am NOT equipped for this, he thought over and over, trying to recall the last time he had ever found himself in a position of having to comfort someone. There wasn’t a last time; this moment was entirely a barrage of firsts that had completely escaped his foresight. Were this a battle, he’d be dead already. “You are welcome to stay, if that is your choice.” Hands resting lightly--arguably timid--upon Sylvie’s shoulders, the young king forced his words to carry a steady tone. He wasn’t sure he succeeded, and when she pulled away from his shoulder, still close enough to feel the warmth emanating from her body, there was nowhere safe for his gaze save for her tear-streaked face. Much as he wanted to look down, just as discomfited to make eye contact during such a vulnerable moment on her part, he dreaded what it might do to him to note the shape of her body beneath her nightclothes.
“...a story?” His mind was slow to catch up to her request; slower still when she clasped his hand. Her fingers were mildly chilled, undoubtedly the result of sitting around in flimsy attire near a fire that required stoking. Why was he even noticing any of this?! Any stories he might have had tucked away at the back of his mind evaded him completely in the moment. “Kalaur nearly killed me the first time I attempted to mount him.” Not exactly a story, but the best his curiously overstimulated mind could muster in the moment. “As soon as I approached him, he swept me with his massive wing and sent me crashing directly into the stone exterior of the palace. I hit my head and fell unconscious for hours. When I woke, much to everyone’s dismay, the first thing I did was try again. He was a wild and angry creature, but so was I, so I waited him out. We stared at each other for hours. I don’t know what changed, but I think we found mutual understanding in our similar personalities. Finally, when dusk had long since passed and all of Eyraille was asleep, I tried again. He didn’t make it easy, and mind you, I was younger, shorter, and not as strong. He didn’t kneel, he fidgeted, turned around again and again. He was testing me. Finally, at the break of dawn, I succeeded in climbing onto his back. We haven’t had any problems since.”
Maybe it wasn’t much of a tale, and more a testament to his own youthful stubbornness and what it had gotten him, but Sylvie didn’t appear disappointed. In fact, for a moment, she’d stopped crying completely. Just when he thought it was over, however, she launched into apologies and explanations for her behaviour, and her bright eyes teared up all over again. Caris sighed quietly; it appeared he hadn’t completely escaped the duty of having to reassure someone who’d lost a father. It had been as easy as getting Safir drunk to help the Ilandrian Prince to temporarily forget his ails, but this situation was different. “Ah. Well, if that is what ails you, then I understand my own accountability.” He nodded thoughtfully. His gaze trailed to the dying fire at the hearth; a neutral focal point to help him gather his thoughts. “I insisted you attend the funeral of Ilandria’s late King, ignorant to the fact it would indirectly bring you pain. For that, I have no choice but to absolve you of neglecting your duties when I myself am at fault.
“Furthermore: if it makes a difference, you are more than welcome to spend your birthday with your family in Galeyn. Or don’t: stay here instead and forsake the familiar. Regardless, know that I won’t have you working on your birthday.” Unfortunately, Caris was just as unfamiliar with birthday celebrations as he was empathizing with the death of a father. He couldn’t remember ever celebrating his own birthday; if Vega had ever celebrated hers, he hadn’t been included. To this day, he wasn’t sure if it was a curiously Eyraillian tendency to not celebrate another year alive, or if it was exclusive to his family.
Knowing not what to say or to promise, should Sylvie choose to remain here to celebrate, the young king offered the first thing that came to his mind. “There’s Eyraillian superstition that suggests the season in which someone is born speaks to their nature. I’m unfamiliar with the ebb and flow of Stella D’Mare’s seasons, but in Eyraille, you’re a child of late autumn, which prophesizes abundance for you and those who surround you. Rather fitting for an earth mage, I think.” Not that he vested much faith in superstition. As a child of spring, Vega was supposed to bring about new beginnings; and he, as a child of summer, was supposed to force the hand of change. Yet none of that rang true for the Sorde children.
“Let me know what you decide. For now, I’ll send for someone to tend to the fire and run you a warm bath. We don’t need the both of us fighting a fever.” Caris said and stood, risking yet another look at the earth mage… and regretting it. The heat from his cheeks spread down his neck, painfully aware that he was suddenly seeing her differently, and fearing this new perspective wasn’t one he could unlearn. And her compliments did nothing for his fragile composure. “And, if you’ll agree, I’ll have you attend dinner this evening. Don’t worry about the handkerchief: items in my wardrobe have suffered as casualties for far worse reasons. Focus on putting one foot in front of the other until you’re successfully able to leave this room--that’s your only assignment for today.”
Although Ari had joined Nia in bed that evening, when he awoke the next morning, there was no sign of the Master Alchemist. Her winter cloak and boots were missing, suggesting she’d left the palace entirely. Considering she’d already explained her plan to build Tivia’s hearing apparatus, it was possible she’d left for a safer, more secretive place to do so; as of yet, there was no reason for concern.
So, true to Ari’s word, he requested an audience with Safir late that afternoon to give him an answer as to whether or not he planned to help the Ilandrian prince secure his throne. “Lord Canaveris: I’m much obliged you stopped by. Please, have a seat.” Safir gestured to the chair across from his desk, and folded his hands calmly in front of him. It wasn’t that he had shaken his nerves from the night before; he simply found himself better able to conceal them today. “I trust you have given some thought to my abrupt request last night. Have you come to a decision?”
He had--and, just as Tivia predicted, Ari agreed to assist Safir in presenting himself as not only capable, but the best choice to rule in his father’s place. The Ilandrian Prince smiled his relief. “I cannot express my gratitude enough, Lord Canaveris. And, if you’re willing to offer your service as an artist, as well, then I’d be much obliged to hire you for that labour.” Not because he particularly wanted his likeness captured in paint, ink, charcoal or otherwise; on the contrary, Safir had always hated sitting for portraits. It made him feel painfully awkward, and the person staring back at him in the portraits always felt like a stranger. Perhaps it would be different with Ari, but even if it didn’t, he was willing to oblige the D’Marian leader’s drive to create art if it meant harbouring amicable relations.
“And, while I’m sure it goes without saying, you have my word… regarding Anetania.” He lowered his voice, although no one would hear them short of pressing an ear to the heavy oak doors, which were guarded by attentive sentries. “In a little over two weeks’ time, when I have the authority, the warrant threatening her safety will be as good as gone.”
On the topic of Anetania, Ari’s face suddenly contorted in concern, and he asked if there was any possible chance Safir had seen her that day. “Understandably, no, I’m afraid. I’ve yet to lay eyes on her at all since she’s returned to Ilandria. Why?” Safir furrowed his eyebrows. “Do you have reason for concern, Lord Canaveris? It may be worth consulting Somath; it seems she hasn’t made such a dedicated effort to avoid him as she has been avoiding me. But I can find out if she has left the palace.”
Safir didn’t hesitate to come through on that note, and left Ari to summon Somath from his office. “Lord Canaveris. What can I do for you?” The royal physician asked, surprised but not disappointed to see Ari again so soon. But the nature of his visit became clear soon enough. “No, I’m afraid I haven’t seen Anetania since before King Ullir’s funeral… You’re concerned for her whereabouts?” That much was clear, and it seemed just as unsettling to Somath that she’d disappear without waking Ari to tell him where she was going. “And you say Prince Safir has gone to determine if she’s left the palace? Then he’ll be in the stables; let’s meet him there.”
Somath accompanied Safir down a flight of stairs and out a side door intended for staff that took them directly to the stables. Sure enough, the Prince was already there, ahead of them in his investigation. “Your Highness.” Somath bowed his head. “Have you found--”
“You need a carriage--the both of you, immediately.” Anxiety ran rampant through the Ilandrian Prince’s emerald eyes. He gripped Somath’s arm before the man could finish his sentence. “All horses are currently accounted for but one. Look.” Safir all but dragged his family physician to the edge of the tables and pointed to hoofprints left in the mud. They were lucky it had rained last evening. “Look at the path. You know where it leads.”
Indeed, Somath did. There was little to be found in West Ilandria, save for some farms and housing. And a single, exquisite home at the precipice of a forest upon a hill, forgotten and fallen into disrepair… “It’s an hour by carriage.” Somath breathed, his eyes wide with understanding. “Those hoofprints are already hours old. The mud has dried.”
“It’s faster by horse. I’ll take a single steed and meet you there.”
“Your Highness… are you sure you--”
“Let her lash out. Let her hit me and hate me and curse my name, whatever it takes, but she shouldn’t be there.” Safir hissed, suddenly a far departure from the calm monarch Ari had spoken to not twenty minutes ago. The conviction in his voice and posture made him appear dangerous, and it was suddenly very clear as to how he had earned his title as the Prince of Blades; not simply a man who happened to be skilled with swords. “Don’t forget, I was there. And there is no closure to be found in that place: just pain and nightmares.”
Without another word, Safir--who’d already fashioned his favourite white steed with a saddle--mounted the beast in a single, fluid motion, and took off. The quintessential image of a fairytale Prince upon a trusted, white horse.
The royal physician neither argued nor hesitated, leaving Ari momentarily to speak with an attendant on the other side of the stables. Fortunately, the stablehands were used to Rewalt Somath making this very request for the sake of medical emergencies outside the palace. It was a situation that occurred at least once, if not twice a month, but this was the first time he insisted no driver was necessary. “I’m sorry, but we haven’t time for one to arrive. If that carriage is ready for passengers,” he nodded to one that looked well enough prepared, save for a couple of horses required at the front. “Then I will prepare it myself. I’ve an assistant to accompany me.”
No one had ever had a reason to question the honest and soft-spoken royal physician, so while his insistence took the stablehands off guard, nobody argued. A mere five minutes later, he and Ari sat at the front of the carriage, his hands on the reins as he urged the two sturdy horses into a gallop. “This is no mystery to you, I’m sure, where we are headed.” Somath spoke up over the rush of wind in their ears, his blue eyes determinedly focused on the road ahead. “Lord Canaveris, did anything happen recently that would drive Anetania to go to her family’s home?” Ari explained what Nia had witnessed the other day. How it had left her trembling, and how she’d confessed she hadn’t been prepared to bear witness to what she’d seen. Somath’s hands tightened on the reins, and he breathed something in Ilandrian that was most likely dire and impolite. “The both of you should have left after the funeral.” It wasn’t so much an accusation as it was regretful hindsight. He should have known Nia would find no closure nor comfort here…
An hour later, Ardane Manor came into view: a massive mansion of a home, one even bigger than the Canaveris Villa. Aspects of the outside appeared unattended, with moss and vines climbing the walls at all sides, but the stone structure otherwise seemed to have held well against the elements, showing little to no signs of disrepair.
Safir’s horse was already outside, waiting patiently for its rider to return. “I don’t suggest you come inside, Lord Canaveris, if you are not prepared to glimpse into the past.” Somath said as he climbed off of the front seat. “But, having said that, I know I am wholly unable to stop you.”
Although Safir had arrived twenty minutes earlier, it took a good ten minutes of standing outside the broken front doors of Ardane Manor before he willed himself to step inside. Suddenly, he felt thirteen-years-old again, weak, and impossibly small. Nothing had changed, safe for layers of dust collecting upon abandoned furniture and window sills with broken panes. His footsteps echoed as he entered; everything was as still and quiet as death. “Anetania,” he called, but he could barely raise his voice, as if he were afraid shouting might disturb the restless spirits of those who had fallen here.
Drawing a steadying breath, he proceeded. Not all aspects of the house were scarred with signs of struggle and proof of death, and he had only visited a few times as a child, but he knew well enough there would be no avoiding the signs of bloodshed for which his father was responsible. I’ll do it for you, Anetania, he thought, gathering his courage to move forward. I won’t run from this.
Somath and Ari entered several moments behind Safir, who at this point, could have been anywhere in the vast manor. The physician wore a solemn and determined look on his face; unlike the Prince and Ari, he knew this house well, but that didn’t mean Anetania would be easy to find. Right away, the signs of break-in were obvious, with smashed doors and windows, but as they proceeded through the quiet halls, lit only by remaining daylight, it became clear that some rooms, encapsulated in time, were spared the struggle. A dining room with a table set, ready for a meal that would never arrive. A parlor with well-crafted settees covered in dust, a fireplace full of ashes from fires that would never burn again. Still hanging on the mantle, undisturbed, was a tall portrait of a family of six: an adult man and woman, and four children, three girls and one boy. The youngest child, an infant girl, was cradled in the arms of the second youngest, who was also a girl. Soft, deep brown locks cascaded down her back, and unmistakable brown eyes looked forward with uncertainty, like she didn’t feel as though she belonged as part of this portrait.
Years later, Nia Ardane bore a similar expression whenever Ari had painted or drawn her: unsure of how to properly compose herself for a portrait.
“Come, Lord Canaveris; there is nothing to be found, here.” Somath said, although it was unclear as to whether he was referring to the parlor, or the last portrait of Nia’s entire family that had ever been rendered, hanging on the wall. It had been painted in that short window of time when all six of them had been alive at the same time.
It wasn’t the first floor that Safir recalled having scarred him with such nightmares. The struggle hadn’t taken place until the second and third floors… and somehow, he knew what was where he’d find Anetania.
His heart was in his throat as he climbed the stairs and found himself in a corridor with walls and floor presenting curiously dark, contrasting stains. He didn’t look too closely, but continued walking. “Anetania?” He opened door after door, met with only empty bedchambers, storage rooms, and workshops--the latter which had been purposefully destroyed by someone who wanted to ensure they would never again function as alchemical workshops.
An empty library with books scattered, but no sign of life or death. The occasional sitting room with occasional dark stains on the furniture. Another staircase.
On the first floor, it was easy enough to imagine that nothing save from a break-and-enter had ever taken place in his massive home. The second floor made it harder to pretend. But there was no way to twist the imagination to envision anything but slaughter on the third floor. Even Safir, who was no stranger to blood, found himself stopping to cover his mouth and nose to fight off a wave of nausea. His knees felt curiously weak as he recalled that this was as far as he had gotten, the day after Nia’s family had been killed. This was where Somath had found him, shaking and sobbing on the floor. His clothes had been stained with blood that hadn’t dried: blood he’d feared had belonged to his friend.
That blood was still here. No longer wet like partially-dried paint, little more than cracked, russet stains, but the sharp, metallic stench he remembered well still lingered. This was where the real fight had taken place: where Felyse and Heryd Ardane, among a handful of other Master Alchemists not willing to go down without a fight, had resisted King Ullir’s forces until they could resist no more. If he’d had the choice, the Ilandrian Prince would have turned back and left… but, wasn’t that precisely what Anetania would expect him to do? To run from the horrors his father had caused?
And anyway, she was nowhere to be found downstairs. He couldn’t leave without her. “Anetania,” he said again, his voice perhaps louder in his ears than to anyone listening. “Are you here? You aren’t in danger… I want to help.”
Further and further, deeper and deeper into the heart of the third floor, Safir left no room unchecked, no nook or cranny beyond consideration. Some rooms were better than others in terms of bearing signs of the massacre, but none of them were comforting; all were stained in blood.
Finally, at the end of a bloodstained corridor adjacent a well-lit room, with wall-length broken windows, a harp, and a piano, was the unmistakable figure of a woman curled in on herself and weeping uncontrollably. Her hair was the colour of faded honey, appearing darker at certain angles in the natural light. He wasn’t sure she knew he was there, and when he spoke, he wasn’t sure she heard him. “Anetania…?” The woman didn’t respond, clearly too lost in her grief. Slowly, he closed the distance between them. “You shouldn’t be here. No one should be here…”
“They’re still here. I can feel them. I feel them here.” Her only response was in Ilandrian, but it wasn’t clear whether she was speaking to him or to herself. “This… here. This was where she fell. I heard it when it happened… I heard it…”
Safir noted her hands, shaking but pressed firmly on the ground, where a massive quantity of blood had spilled and dried. It was bad enough to know who had died, here; but she could feel it, each and every individual person who had fallen at the hands of his father’s orders. Her mother, her father… perhaps it was a strange blessing in disguise that her sisters and brother had met their end in other ways, and hadn’t been present on that fateful day. That would be enough to drive anyone mad with grief. “...we can’t change this.” The Prince said, and gently reached for her hands. “As much as we want to, we can’t. This place… is best left as a remnant of the past.”
If Nia hadn’t clued into her company before, she did now. Her tearful eyes--a strange honey-brown--turned on Safir with palpable rage. “You speak only for yourself, spoiled prince! You speak for the family responsible for this!” In her wild hysteria, Nia tore her hands away from the Ilandrian Prince and slapped his face with all the might she could muster, but it was clear she wished she could do so much more. “So like you to want to conveniently forget all of this so you can have your fucking crown and move on! I don’t have that luxury, nor do the Master Alchemists who lost their hands at your father’s orders! You don’t get to pretend this didn’t happen. I refuse to let you forget the past!”
The frantic tone of her voice climbed with every word, until Nia took her shaking hands and wrapped them around Safir’s throat. She willed her shaking body with every ounce of her strength to crush his windpipe, but deep down, Nia knew she didn’t have that strength--and it only made her angrier. Even if she did, Safir was too experienced a fighter; he calmly wrapped his own hands around her wrists, and applied pressure to a tendon until her grip went slack. “...I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Seeing his only true childhood friend fall apart in front of him, raw and in more pain than he could imagine, Safir Vallaincourt felt tears spring to his eyes. Tears he hadn’t been able to shed for his father… yet which spilled for Nia. “I didn’t help you; I didn’t help your family. I wasn’t there when you needed me, and I can’t undo this. But I can hurt with you. I’ll share some of this pain, if you’ll let me… because I know it is the least I can do.”
Nia gave no response, aside from uncontrollable sobbing. When her arms went slack, Safir released them, and drew her into a tight embrace, knowing not what else he could do. She was cold, and shaking uncontrollably, but he wondered if she was even aware of the temperature.
“Safir? Anetania?” Somath’s voice carried through the empty house, accompanied by two pairs of footsteps.
“North wing,” Safir called back, without letting go of the broken woman in his arms. Soon enough, Somath and Ari turned the corner, but didn’t proceed, afraid Nia might take off like a spooked wild animal. Very slowly, Safir gathered the stricken, Ilandrian woman in his arms and got to his feet. He wondered if Nia was aware of who held her--or of anything, for that matter. His green eyes were still overbright from his own tears. “Do you have a carriage?”
“Outside. The sun is setting.” Somath nodded toward the last remaining copper hues of sunlight. “Better anyway that we bring her back under cover of darkness.”
They left as quickly yet as safely as possible, eager to retreat from the dark stain on Ilandria’s history--and more importantly, to remove Nia from the source of what ripped open her old wounds. If she’d arrived with appropriate winter attire, her cloak was nowhere to be found, so when Safir placed her inside the Carriage with Ari’s help, he draped his own cloak over her trembling shoulders. “I’ll go on ahead and ensure the guest quarters are otherwise clear,” he said to Somath and Ari. “You’ll neither be questioned nor disturbed; I’ll see to it personally.”
At that, the Prince of Blades climbed upon his steed and galloped ahead, leaving Ari and Somath to safely transport Nia back to the palace. The physician helped arrange the sobbing woman across Ari’s lap, trying to make her as comfortable as possible. “We’ll take it a little more slowly to avoid the bumps and ruts,” he explained, then paused, something softening in his face. “...Lord Canaveris, your unease did not surpass my attention on the third floor. I’m not talking about the blood.” There was no mistaking the look on Ari’s face when they’d finally found Nia, shaken but safe in Safir’s arms: disappointment, helplessness, and something akin to pain. “I need you to understand that what it is you saw does not reflect some failure on your part. Nor does it reflect any latent, romantic feelings on Anetania’s or Safir’s part--and I say that with certainty.” He leaned on the doorframe, and his eyes settled on Nia; still shaking, sobbing quietly, far from attuned to what was going on around her. “I maintain Anetania should never have come here… but healing is not a comfortable process, and as a result, is often avoided in favour of enduring a festering wound. What you witnessed was nothing more than a catalyst for healing, on the part of more than one individual.”
Somath closed the carriage door, leaving Nia in Ari’s capable hands, and returned to man the carriage. By the time they arrived at the palace, darkness had fallen in full. The stables were vacant, save for the animals, and to Safir’s credit, they encountered no one as they took back doors and a slightly longer route to Ari’s sweet in the guest wing. They did not see the Prince of Blades again that evening. Perhaps he was doing his part to ensure they did not draw attention; or perhaps he himself needed to be alone to process what had happened.
Nia had said nothing on the way back, even after her sobbing subsided. Her tremors didn’t subside, however, not for the warmth of Safir’s cloak, or when Ari and Somath lit a roaring fire in the hearth and tucked her into bed beneath layers of quilts. She was conscious, but only barely, and even so, unaware. “Lord Canaveris… may I have your consent on Anetania’s behalf to draw a sample of her blood?” After briefly checking Nia’s vitals, the physician donned spectacles to gently examine the palms of her hands. They still trembled, and after cleaning any essence of dried blood that remained on the surface, he noted a curious and concerning sort of inflammation surrounding the faint, silver runes. “I’m concerned there may be more to her current affliction than painful memories.”
With Ari’s consent, Somath retrieved his physician’s kit and carefully drew a single, small vial of blood from Nia’s arm. Even at face value, without running any alchemical analysis, there was something decidedly off about the colour of Nia’s lifeblood; it was paler, leaning toward pink undertones as opposed to deep russet. “I will run some tests and return in the morning.” The royal physician said, frowning at the contents of the vial, but reserving any further comments for the time being. “In the meantime, get some rest, yourself. Do not hesitate to call on me for any reason… and I think it goes without saying, but do not consult any other Ilandrian physicians at this time.” Not that an ordinary doctor would be of any substantial help in the first place, but the subtle differences in Nia’s bodily chemistry would no doubt give her away.
Somath left them to rest in privacy for the remainder of the evening. Nia didn’t once open her eyes, but when Ari pulled her against his body, her violent shaking subsided after some time. At one point, she quietly murmured, “I’m sorry…” To whom, or for what reason would remain unclear; she spoke not another word until the sun crested the horizon the next morning.
Ari left Safir’s study incrementally more hopeful about Nia’s prospects and future positive relations with Ilandria than when he’d entered. Contrary to their last meeting, the Prince of Blades had been nothing but respectful and remorseful, and Ari realized his prior assessment might have resonated as too harsh, especially for someone who recently lost his father and wasn’t operating at his best.
He returned to the suite, not expecting Nia to answer the bedchamber door when he knocked, but relieved when the latch clicked and she emerged on the threshold, albeit not much improved in demeanor or color from earlier. What surprised him was she didn’t seem vehemently opposed to the idea he drafted. Not that she championed it, either, but she found some merit, however reluctantly, in accepting Safir’s bid for the throne insofar as the Prince of Blades would fare better as king than a power-thirsty upstart with no interest in resolving Ilandria’s wounds of the past.
“I was worried you might insist on staying.” Ari pushed off from the doorway on which he leaned, shielding his exhaustion from one who likely felt it manifold in comparison. No need to further compartmentalize Nia’s fracturing state of mind with concerns about the stress accruing in his inflamed joints. “I would urge you to reconsider, but I am sure you want the same of me. To avail myself of any involvement with the Vallaincourt line whatsoever. But,” he squared his shoulders, prepared for a wrathful diatribe, “have you considered Prince Safir’s role during that time was highly diminished or, dare I say, nonexistent? Is it possible that he had no knowledge of his father’s kill order?” He recalled Somath’s brief account of Safir learning of the massacre after the fact and entering Ardane Manor on his own to search for her. What horrors he might have seen, Ari could not fathom. “And no, before you accuse me of taking sides, I am merely looking to mend bridges where I see disrepair. Parts will forever cease to function, crumbled as flotsam in the water, but I believe the foundations still hold. I shall observe for myself if my beliefs are sound, of course, but I am willing to guide Prince Safir if it will allow him to display his leadership potential and unlock his hidden prowess.”
Come to bed. Ari lifted a brow at Nia’s statement, bemused. “You have forgiven me? Or are you looking for someone to warm your frigid feet when the night grows cold and the quilts are insufficient?” Despite his minor repartee, he didn’t argue with her invitation lest he lose what little favor he gained and followed her inside.
“An ametrine brooch?” He tilted his head at her newest inquiry. “I have never seen him without it. During our first encounter, I openly admired it on him. No,” he hurried before she drew the wrong conclusion, “I admired the stone. As a matter of fact, he offered it to me just before. I declined, but he appeared mournful to keep it in his possession. I—“ he paused, noting Nia’s oddly-timed grin. “What do you mean?” She didn’t elaborate, and he was too bone-weary to solve her riddles when the bed—and Nia’s cold feet—beckoned him to sink into the eiderdown sheets.
When he awoke that morning, Nia was not in bed. Nor was she found in the sitting room. She left no notice, no indication of where she would be, which did not sit right with Ari, especially after her unfortunate run-in with the mangled former Master Alchemists the day before.
With no means of contact, no resonance stone to activate, Ari considered locating Tivia, who had an uncanny knack for divining a person’s whereabouts, but he quickly banished the thought, knowing the star-seer only contributed information when it served her or some greater purpose to which only she and the heavens were attuned.
Instead, he elected to give Nia the benefit of the doubt in assuming she was somewhere safe; or failing that, in a situation where her resourceful nature saw her to safety. Even so, he spent the entire morning fraught with worry, and nearly sacrificed his appointment with Safir to scour the market for signs of the wayward Master Alchemist. On my own, I can do nothing. He recalled the difficulty of locating her in the market. Far from agile or familiar with Ilandria’s districts and streets, his venture alone would bear no fruit. If he suspected Nia was in trouble, then the responsible course of action would be to involve someone of means. Safir, perhaps, but Somath he preferred.
Having made up his mind to see the Royal physician afterward, Ari left the suite to attend his afternoon appointment with the Prince of Blades. Contrary to yesterday, Ari wore a sleek blue waistcoat and the same lapis lazuli earrings he donned for the dinner the night before King Ullir’s funeral. He had also taken the liberty of bathing and splashing just a hint of scented oil behind the ears. On arrival, he greeted the prince and, unusual for how he normally did business, gave his answer without preamble or idle chatter.
“A splash of artistry may swing the pendulum in your favor, your Grace,” he said, trying not to sound too eager about the prospect of returning to the canvas, but obsessing over Nia’s whereabouts put a damper on his enthusiasm. “I cannot imagine the majority of your citizens have viewed you up close, but a facsimile of you posted in the town square, for example, might allow said citizens a chance to ‘see’ your likeness and form opinions about it. People are visually oriented, taken by color, beauty, aesthetics, symmetry. If you embody all of those things in your portrait, your citizens will have a mind to favor you before you even step up to speak. I will create a mock-up of what I am envisioning, and if it pleases you, we will have a sit-in—just for a charcoal drawing wreathed with a bit of color, mind. Something easily produced that we might post at all the major waypoints in Ilandria, focusing on far-reaching areas as well as places and people of note, for they will influence your vote the most. If you have a personal tailor, I would also make a few minor suggestions for your wardrobe. All of this, unfortunately, will have to wait.”
Unable to delay his feelings of malaise a moment longer, he asked the prince an unlikely question. Had he seen Nia? Disguised as she was, nothing but a direct collision would inform Safir of her identity, but it didn’t hurt to ask. The answer was as expected, but Safir approached Ari’s concern with all due seriousness and summoned Somath at his behest while the former went ahead in search of any clues to aid in their investigation. They ended up at the stables, where Safir pointed to an alarming fact; a horse was missing, and the imprint of its hooves in the mud suggested a seldom-traveled direction on the road that led to West Ilandria—and Ardane Manor. Ari’s stomach plummeted. Of course you would go there. I am a fool to not realize your predictability sooner.
“Then we must head there with haste!” The others not only agreed but took immediate control of the situation. While Safir galloped off on a steed toward Ardane Manor, Somath arranged for a carriage to follow in close pursuit. It was times like these Ari wished he knew how to ride a horse. An ache of resentment for his limitations and inadequacies lingered in his bones. He would not reach her first, or at least in tandem with the Prince. What if by the time he found her, some irreparable damage would take root that he could have prevented if only he were more proactive and adept on horseback?
These were the questions that haunted him during the endless carriage ride through the farmlands and forests of West Ilandria. Even Somath contributed his concerns, which, while not accusatory, shot him through with guilt. They could have left after the funeral. Ideally. But she, willful as a cat, would never have acquiesced to his request to leave for Eyraille, especially if he phrased it as a command, from sovereign to subject. She might have technically pledged her loyalty, but it was to Ari and his family—not to Stella D’Mare. Either way, he would never pull rank if it impinged on her freedom or whatever questionable decisions she decided to make, as long as said decisions did not poorly impact the Canaveris family or Stella D’Mare at large.
“We should have, it is true,” Ari bunched his hair into a ponytail to prevent the wind lashing it all around his face. “But Nia did not want to leave. I believe this might have been her goal all along. I wish she would have forewarned me, at least. If I could not stop her, I would have gone with her so she would not have to face such a place alone.”
A few shades before dusk, their carriage arrived at a vine-covered structure, its imposing facade a towering monument to a past forgotten. Nature deemed the structure a blight on the environment and conspired to erase it from a wandering eye, but the stone manor stubbornly held up against the final battle of erasure, nourished by the knowledge that one among them had survived. In survival, the remnants of bygone years would not bow to the earth and surrender.
“I have no intention of sitting idle after coming all this way.” Ari huffed as he jumped from the passenger’s seat up front, expertly hiding his flinch as the pain in his feet nearly buckled his ankle in protest. “My past is not the one crouching behind these walls. A hidden assailant will do me no damage if its blade is but a shadow. Let us go.” With or without Somath’s direction, Ari strode to the broad-facing front doors, splintered open and bashed aside as if by force years ago. Together, they traveled the long foyer, unsettlingly preserved to near perfection—under a thin layer of dust. Aside from the exquisite furniture and table woodwork, all of which were bare of any paraphernalia, presumably from looters, he noticed the portrait hanging over the mantlepiece in the main sitting room. Against his sense of urgency, he stopped to observe the artist’s rendering, marking the obvious discomfiture on young Nia’s face—and the glaring dissimilarities she shared with her “father,” a pug face of a man under the artist’s honest flourishes. So you were always uncomfortable before an easel. It stems from your place within the family. You have taken that misfit energy with you like a brand so you might never forget where you are from. And who you are…
“My apologies,” he said as Somath came around and gently redirected him upstairs. He chided himself as they continued upward. At a time like this, it figured he would be caught up analyzing a blasted painting!
His self-annoyance came to an abrupt halt when they reached the landing of the second floor. The environment transitioned from eerie and abandoned to something a shade more sinister, and it was evident in the overturned furniture, the ripped-up bedding, and dark stains in the wood not due to age or intention.
“How many people lost their lives here?” Unable to resist his curiosity, he asked Somath, voice low so as not to disturb the restless spirits who no doubt hadn’t quite moved on. As though to prove his suspicions true, an ongoing chill followed him room to room, and he caught a blurred shadow from the corner of his eye, there in his periphery, but gone when he looked straight on. “This was the homestead of the Ardanes, yes, but as I understand it, only her mother and father remained. Did other Master Alchemists seek this place as a final refuge?”
They climbed to the third floor and the signs of a struggle became all the more telling. Smashed furniture and shattered glass littered the alchemical workshops. The dark stains grew in prominence, rusty blossoms that carried an odor long absorbed and assimilated with the walls, the wooden floorboards. As they traversed the forbidding corridors, Ari wondered which of the rooms they passed belonged to Nia, and if it had been spared the brunt of damage, untouched by bloodshed and grief.
On one end of the manor, they heard the faded muddle of voices, prompting Somath to call out for hope of a response. The unmistakable response of Safir’s clear timbre bid them to hurry, and when they turned the corner into what looked like a parlor or a music room, the first thing he saw was the Prince and a weeping Nia enmeshed in a tight embrace. No matter how he clung to reason, it stung that he could not be the one standing in Safir’s place. This is not my land, he thought forlornly. Not my history. Not my past. He might bear her better through the days than I; and she, him.
Before he had a chance to properly react or speak, Safir had Nia in his arms and was carrying her down the stairs, Somath close on his heels, leaving Ari little choice but to fill out the rear. Together, they hurried out of the manor with the haste reserved for escaping a burning or collapsing building, which for Nia was all the same. They wedged her, sobbing and barely aware, in the back of the carriage, half seated atop Ari’s lap. He gently stroked her hair and whispered assurances, but nothing seemed to reach her as she lay, unresponsive save for a few reflexive shivers racking her chilled body. Prior to their departure, Somath popped his head in the door, quick to offer his keen observations, eliciting an uncomfortable silence as Ari grappled for what to say in return.
“Whatever the case may be, I am here for Nia,” he said at last. “I will gladly adapt to suit her needs. My priority is to facilitate her healing. All else can wait.”
The return trip lasted an anachronistic period of time, such that Ari questioned if Tivia’s wayward magic clung to them unexpectedly. Nia’s sobs hadn’t yet subsided, but despite the ongoing flood of her tears, he periodically scrubbed them away with a handkerchief. And if her ears had yet to drown from the droning sound of her weeping, he filled in the silence with random nonsense, mostly for his own sanity. Stories from his childhood, descriptions of fair Stella D’Mare from its heyday, the many paintings he crafted using just his feet whenever both hands petrified, and the unusual flexibility afforded as a result. He shared a few songs as well, penned in the language of the sea. Old D’Marian, which shared its roots with their once close ancestors of the Fallow Islands. While he was no singer, he was able to carry a tune, for his voice was strong, bolstered by the many speeches he delivered to large outdoor crowds at full volume. And as the song swelled and he scaled louder, his selfish wish was to overcome her sobs, steal them away, so she would have rest and he would feel reprieved of sitting helpless at the mercy of her grief.
By the time they arrived at the palace gates, it was full dark and Nia, whether by his design or not, had lapsed into silence. No sobs; just constant tremors. On the way back to their suite, Ari carried her, ignoring the screams of his beleaguered limbs as they took a circuitous route through seldom used tunnels up to their quarters. Setting her on the bed, Ari surreptitiously wiped the sweat from his forehead. He was no stranger to manual labor, often hauling enormous slabs of stone from the quarry to a hitch of horses, or his workshop, but always with help from Laz and his magic. Alone, his joints under constant assault from the endless stressors Ilandria saw fit to outfit him as a welcoming gift, it was a wonder he bore her out of the carriage. Now that she was safe, and warm, he turned from the roaring hearthfire and sat on the bed beside her, taking care not to collapse in an unceremonious heap. Decades of training taught him never to lose control of his muscles, regardless of whatever layers of stone calcified them stiff and inoperable.
“Yes, you may draw her blood.” Ari complied, trusting the physician to inspect Nia for her physical ailments as well as emotional ones, as they were often, especially in Nia’s case, closely intertwined. Having partaken in frequent blood drawing sessions from his family physician, Ari was well acquainted with the color of blood. What Somath had collected in his vial gave him pause.
“Should it be such a desaturated color?” Unfortunately, Somath did not have an immediate response, but promised to return in the morning after running some tests on the specimen. “All the same—thank you for your help today. You and Prince Safir, both. As a stranger in a strange land, so to speak, I would not have known where to go. My resources are next to nonexistent, here. I owe you a debt, though I daresay I am paying it as we speak, if you care for Nia in near the same vein as I. Nonetheless, please do not hesitate to call on me should the need arise. You can rest assured I will not consult other physicians. I know well the provenance of unorthodox body chemistry.”
He felt his own weariness inundate him like an avalanche the moment Somath closed the door and left them to recuperate. Kicking off his boots and outer travel wear, Ari climbed under the coverlet with Nia and scooped her into his arms. After a while, her shivering subsided. Pleased, he planted a small kiss on her forehead.
“The only thing you need to be sorry for is your cold feet,” he whispered, unsure if her muttered apology was meant for him or not. At this juncture, he didn’t care, as long as she would climb out of her fugue and return to the world. Return to him. “For that is your greatest offense to date.”
If Uncle Ari, grandmama, or her father were present to see her inappropriate behavior, they would be aghast. She, attired in a threadbare shift under which she wore no support, a vulnerable mess crying on the shoulder of a king, they would no doubt face second-hand shame. Caris, however, fared no better, barging into her chambers without warning or notice. Together, they flirted with impropriety, and considering what now lay ahead of her, she couldn’t care less. Why did exuding the model of a well-bred noblewoman matter when conspiring to kill the King of Eyraille laid out a treacherous—and increasingly more improper—plot? In just a few short days, things that seemed so urgent and significant shrank in the scope of the bigger picture.
So let her bask in the unchaperoned company of the king, alone in her private chambers, half-naked and exposed to his gaze. If he later accused her of harlotry, and banished her from Eyraille, at least she wouldn’t be party to the schemes, the deception, any longer. Her father’s life would be forfeit, but…
She shook her head and focused instead on Caris’ story. A true one, as it turned out, full of harrowing and daring. Two stubborn heads butting together for dominance. “It looks as though you met your match,” she said, the quirk of a smile. “Are you certain Kalaur did not dislodge something essential from your brain when he thrashed you against the wall? I mean, I find you perfectly sound of mind, but others seem to disagree. At any rate, you certainly earned Kalaur’s respect, the way he bows to you and obeys without fuss… it makes one believe there lies a match for every roc and rider. Not everyone is lucky to find their boon companion in this life. Kalaur would have lost something special if he had succeeded in vaulting you off a cliff, I daresay.” Why did she insist on obsessing over his death? Even in jest, she clung to the thought, however dastardly. He, like every other human, was fragile, and oh-so-breakable. Any venture—a simple stroll down the palace corridors or a friendly sparring match—could end his life prematurely.
She stole a glance at him. Glacial blue eyes emitting both crystallized ice and irradiating fire at the same time. Structure and chaos, fighting for a seat at the throne instead of working in tandem. It was now that the two halves had settled. In his wholeness, she saw him. It also didn’t escape her attention that he bore features reminiscent of the mountains of Eyraille; angular and sweeping and liable to steal one’s breath. Suddenly, a sense of modesty overtook her. On the chair opposite her, she lifted the quilt she’d torn off her bed and wrapped it around her shoulders. Not quite all the way around. She noticed where his eyes occasionally glanced.
“If I could not handle the funeral, I surely would have objected to the excursion, so do not feel wholly accountable. It did not quite affect me until our return to Eyraille. A delayed reaction, I suppose,” she said, already feeling wretched without having to bend the truth. She twirled the ring around her finger, which glinted with a sinister purpose under the pulsing firelight. “I might like to stay here for my birthday. I could walk through the mirror into Galeyn, but what if it is a trick, and you bar me from reentry? I would be very cross.” She bunched her eyebrows and squinted to demonstrate just how cross she would be.
“Fascinating,” she nodded along to Caris’ brief account of Eyraillian superstition. “Stella D’Mare is not immune from such superstitions, although we do not experience seasons in quite the same vein. Simplified, we have the rainy season, and the dry season. But in the interest of complexity and thoroughness, we have the season of stars, the season of shoals, the season of voyages, the season of the bougainvillea, the season of the grove, the season of carnival, the season of fire, the season of stone, the season of weeping, and the season of the moon. I was born during the season of weeping. While it sounds melancholic, it is a necessary period, rife with tumultuous weather but also the means to seed the parched earth and help it flourish in abundance. Much like your assessment, without the, ah,” she dabbed the remaining moisture from her eyes with Caris’ handkerchief, “weeping. You must tell me when you were born. You come across as a child of the season of fire, a period of intensity and destruction. The sun bakes the land, scorches the grass, and evaporates the lakes. It is during this period of strife that breeds resourcefulness and cunning. A leader, rising from the ashes to rebuild and refortify.”
Realizing she might have taken a few liberties in the interpretation, she looked away from his sharp roc-like features and stared at her lap, pulling the ends of her quilt ever closer to hide the rust blooms on her cheeks. “That is a prudent suggestion, your Majesty. One I will not squander. I would most welcome a bath and a bit of extra warmth. Thank you.” When he rose from his chair, a note of panic twisted her features. She nearly grabbed for his sleeve and yanked him back down in a plea to stay. I do not want to be alone with my thoughts of your demise. When he mentioned supper, however, the knots soothed, and she relaxed in her seat. “Yes. I shall see you for supper—child of fire.” It slipped out of her mouth before she gained the control to rein it in. With a well-timed cough, she continued, hoping Caris didn’t pay attention to her blunder, her all-too familiar words and the coy glances she stole at him. “One foot in front of the other. It shall be done.” And this time, she knew it to be true. A battle warred in her, as well, between what she cherished and what she wanted. The want…grew like a wild bramblebush, entangling both combatants until even she could not determine which side took priority.
I am hopeless. Utterly hopeless. A horrible daughter. I only wanted to free you, papa. Not commit atrocities against the undeserving.
This will be my undoing…
The morning after Nia’s rendezvous with the past, Tivia peeked into Safir’s study, a not-so-gentle reminder that he hardly had the luxury to lay around moping in a patch of stinging nettles while the minutiae of the kingdom still happened regardless of his consent.
“I heard about last night,” she said, not above expressing some delicacy over the matter, fresh and raw as it was in his memory. “No one could have stopped her. So I didn’t. I was in Galeyn last night, anyway. Had a situation come up and—-well, it’s better I show you.”
She opened the door wide and stepped over the threshold, striding inside. A four-legged shadow followed, coming into contrast under the light. A long pointed snout, golden eyes, and a russet ruff of fur emerged from the obscured hallway.
Tivia turned to the wolf. “He’s a stray, of a sort. He’ll be under my care for a while. I didn’t want to alarm you by sneaking him in without your notice. He’s trouble, but he’s not dangerous. …I hope you like dogs.”
Reassured that Nia would be in good hands for the night, Somath did not think twice about Ari keeping a close eye on the Master Alchemist’s condition while she rested. Prior to taking his leave, the royal physician paused, recalling a question from earlier that, at the time, he’d been too worried about finding Nia to answer.
“...about your question from earlier, Lord Canaveris. You asked about the… the extent of casualties at Ardane Manor.” Somath lowered his voice, in case Nia was conscious enough to hear in her very raw and vulnerable state. “Felyse and Heryd Ardane, as well as serving staff, were the only permanent occupants of the Manor aside from Anetania herself. However, they were not the only Master Alchemists to take a stand against King Ullir’s kill order. Felyse was…”
He paused, and his gaze went unfocused as he considered how to explain--if an explanation were even possible. “She had a certain persuasion about her, and had a good deal of respect within her community. Others of her unique practice looked up to her and sought her advice, for she was a smart woman, a problem-solver, good at what she did… and good at getting what she wanted. I think it goes without saying, then, that the Ardanes were not the only Master Alchemists who refused to surrender to the crown that day. Many others fought--and fell--with them. It also goes without saying that it wasn’t only the blood of Master Alchemists that was spilled on that horrific day.” Felyse and her allies had ultimately lost, but not without making the majority of those sent to oppose them pay with their own lives, as well.
And Nia, he knew--and Ari likely also knew--was more than aware of exactly how many unique individuals were killed. She could feel it in the blood against her hands. A decade did not erase the unique life signatures of the fallen who haunted that dark place.
When the sun rose to its highest place in the sky the next day, Nia finally stirred, opening her brown eyes as slowly as if she was awakening from a hundred-year sleep, like the Galeynians had. Ari was nearby, having taken his breakfast and lunch in their suite, reluctant to leave her. No sooner did she stir that he abandoned his tea and plate of warm bread, cheese, and fresh fruit in favour of rushing her to her side. “...we’re still in Ilandria.” She said after a beat, taking in her surroundings and slowly remembering the events of the previous day. Ari’s look of relief mixed with concern reminded her of exactly why they were still in Ilandria. Her bewilderment was quick to give way to guilt.
“...you probably want to know why.” Nia sighed and sat up slowly, pressing a hand to her forehead. Her entire body felt heavy and light at the same time. “I wish I had a good answer for you. One that would make sense, but… I really don’t. I think part of me was convinced I couldn’t feel any worse, after seeing others like me at the market. Seemed like an opportune time to confront my demons.” She gave a tight-lipped smile. No one needed to tell her how foolish an assumption (let alone dangerous) that had been, under the circumstances. “And… another part of me, a stupid part, thought that maybe there was still something there that would bring me comfort. That place was far from perfect. My life there was far from perfect, more of than not, but… but it was still my home. It was where my sisters and I would catch and wish upon fireflies, and where Celene would sneak into the kitchens at night to bring us tea that tasted like chocolate. And where I would listen to her play the harp, and where she tried to teach me as well, without my parents knowing…”
Tears sprang to her eyes. Before they could fall, she found herself in Ari’s arms again. “I really wanted to feel more than death, there. Because there was more than death, once upon a time.” Nia buried her face in his shoulder. “I was an idiot. I’m so sorry… the last thing I wanted was for my past to touch your life as well. It ruined enough lives as it is.”
There was a knock at the door, one with which Ari had become quite familiar. It wasn’t the first time Somath had stopped to check in on Nia that day; this was, in fact, the third time. But the royal physician was insistent on allowing Nia to rest for as long as her body needed. Only now, when Ari confirmed she was awake and lucid did he see fit to proceed, contingent on the Ardane woman’s personal consent.
“...what? You want an apology, too?” Nia regarded Somath with flat suspicion, but she couldn’t blame Ari for letting him in. After all, it was her fault he was sick with worry in the first place.
Somath merely shook his head. The lines around his mouth and forehead were more pronounced. It didn’t appear as though he had acquired much rest. “No apology, just your cooperation. Anetania--”
“Nia. Just Nia. Anetania was a helpless, powerless girl who died in that place with her family.” The Master Alchemist interrupted in a clipped tone. “It was Nia Ardane who survived, and who you’re speaking with now.”
“Ah. How your young sister addressed you.” The older man recalled Palla and Nia’s adorable dynamic with clarity, how protective the older sister had been to the youngest. But now was not the time to dwell, lest it open even more festering wounds than what they were already dealing with. “Nia, you are concerningly unwell. I am not just speaking to your emotional distress. I need to know: how have you used your skills, of late? What projects have you pursued or completed?”
Of all the things she’d thought to be asked, that wasn’t one of them, and Nia found herself scrambling for answers through the fog of her brain. “Portal mirrors, within the last few weeks. One in Galeyn, and then in Eyraille.”
“And before that?”
“Well… Ari.” She glanced, almost shyly, at the Lord of Stella D’Mare. “To save his life.”
The physician nodded. “And that tremor in your hands. How long have you been aware of this?”
Nia paused, but didn’t provide an answer. Not if it would require her to detail her contract with Locque, and how it had almost cost her her life in Galeyn, and her future with Ari. “Where is this going?”
Somath took a seat upon the foot of the bed and rubbed his eyes with a finger and thumb. “You’re suffering from an advanced stage of hyper resource exhaustion. Are you familiar with this?”
“I’m sure you’re dying to tell me, anyway.” The Ardane woman shrugged.
“It’s a condition unique to Master Alchemists who use their skills too often, without taking the steps for proper recovery in-between. As a result, their bodies cannot keep up, and returning to a state of homeostasis becomes more and more difficult, until it is altogether impossible to heal or recover without intervention. As it stands, your body appears to be stuck in such a state that it is no longer able to fully recoup on its own, and frankly… I am astonished you’ve still been able to carry on, as you have.”
If Nia was surprised or concerned, her face betrayed neither sentiment. “I suppose this is where you admonish me, then fix me. That’s why you’re here, right?”
“How can I rightly admonish you when you fled as a child, before completing formal training? You fought for survival for a long time; I should be admonished for not considering this sooner. It does speak to your resilience.” Somath’s blue eyes curiously softened. “Much like your mother. No matter how far she pushed herself, for better or worse, she was always on her feet.”
“Who cares? I know you can fix it. I’ve seen it before.” Nia eyed the physician knowingly; in particular, the bag he clutched upon his lap. “That magic serum of yours… I’ve seen you put Master Alchemists back on their feet within hours. So what does it matter?” She rolled up the sleeve of her gown in anticipation. “You’ve got it with you. So let’s have it, because I have a lot more work to do, here. One--possibly two more pairs of portal mirrors, and a hearing apparatus for a partially deaf person who’s offered me repayment that I can’t refuse.”
Somath frowned as his eyebrows knit together. “It isn’t that simple, Nia. Yes, the serum of which you speak can put Master Alchemists on their feet quickly, but not without consequences, and it should not be abused. In your case, suffering such an advanced state of this aliment, we have no choice but to resort to it. But I highly discourage jumping back into work the moment you start feeling better.” He opened his bag and withdrew a vial containing a golden-hued substance. “You could well find yourself depleted all over again, and faster. And continued reliance on this substance inevitably causes the body to completely lose the ability to recover in any way without it… Not from common illness or a minor scratch, leaving you arguably more vulnerable than before. It is a crutch, an emergency measure, but should not be considered a quick and convenient solution.”
“Then I’ll hold off on the portal mirrors, but I need to complete that apparatus. It’s more important than I can explain.” Nia didn’t bother to so much as try to explain. Not even Ari knew what Tivia had promised her in exchange for her help; and even if he knew now, she feared he would object. “Anyway, something like that is child’s play. I could finish it in an afternoon and not be much worse for the wear.”
“Nia, it isn’t me to whom you should be justifying your decision, or for whom you should be looking out for your well-being.” Somath glanced pointedly at Ari. If appealing to her love for the Canaveris lord was the only way to reason with her, then he wouldn’t shy from that tactic. “Regardless… I cannot stop you, should you choose to disregard my cautions. I do, however, hope you will be open to counsel, so as to prevent ever finding yourself in such a state again. Does that seem fair?”
Bringing Ari’s feelings and concerns into the situation seemed to have its desired effect. Nia’s furrowed brow relaxed, and she looked down at her hands, noting for the first time how the runes inscribed into her palms looked curiously inflamed. “...fine. I’ll be a good patient and consider your advice. Can we just get through with this?”
Somath nodded, sighing in such a way that made it seem he wished there was a better solution. “Lie back. Make yourself comfortable.”
There was a moment where Nia hesitated, as if she was only now realizing what she’d gotten herself into. She watched anxiously as Somath drew the contents of the vial into a syringe, and her anxiety peaked when he settled not near her arm, but her neck. “Hold up…!” she flinched, suddenly very much aware of her poor pain threshold. It was clear she, in fact, had no idea what she’d gotten herself into.
“I’m afraid the necessary injection site is no one’s first choice.” Somath said apologetically, but he did not proceed without Nia’s consent. “The serum requires fast access to the heart. For full disclosure, it feels worse before it feels better.”
“Don’t tell me that!” Nia whined pitifully. “I don’t want to know.”
“I wouldn’t be doing my duty as a physician if I kept you in the dark and not fully informed.” Somath explained neutrally, although it was possible the royal physician hoped the experience would be sufficient to dissuade her from seeking out the serum again so soon, and would instead encourage her to take the necessary steps to avoid needing it. “There is no rush, if you need a moment.”
Nia drew in a breath, and didn’t object when Ari came to her side and took one of her hands. “...just do it. Get it over with.”
“Very well. Relax; you’re safe here.” Somath brushed Nia’s hair aside, the honeyed-hue having faded a great deal these past few days in favour of her natural, rich brunette. The same went for her eyes, which had almost fully returned to their warm-toned brown pigment. He felt briefly along her neck for her pulse, before expertly and carefully administering the injection, then pressed gauze to the site.
As a result of the serum quickly taking effect, Nia’s reaction occurred just as quickly. “...it’s hot. Why is it suddenly so hot?” She sat up quickly, rubbed her face, her shoulders, her neck, her arms. “Everything’s burning…!”
“Be assured, this is very normal. It only lasts a little while.” When the royal physician spoke, there was as much apology in his features as his voice. After all, no one wanted to see their own daughter in so much pain. “Don’t focus on your body; pay attention to your company, instead. You’re going to be alright.”
Somath turned to Ari as he replaced the empty vial and syringe in his bag. “Talk to her; keep her mind occupied. The good news is, the serum is fast-acting. I’ll be back in a few hours to check in.”
Safir didn’t sleep much, if at all, the previous night. Nonetheless, his duties had him alert and in his office the next morning, knowing he did not have the luxury to mope. Tivia also knew this, and as if to remind him, invited herself to his study, expectedly uninvited as usual. “I wish she’d at least taken Lord Canaveris with her.” The Ilandrian Prince sighed and rubbed his tired eyes. “...but you’re right. There’s no sense in fretting over what we can’t control.”
Noting Tivia’s one-eyed gaze, which strayed to his throat, he self-consciously pulled up the collar of his brilliant azure tunic. “My punishment for interfering. I’m sure it has been a longtime coming.” It was the best he could explain the finger-shaped bruises at his throat. Nia wasn’t much of a fighter, but adrenaline could make anyone strong. “Wha--Tivia, what the hell is that?!”
Safir’s knee-jerk reaction was to stumble back when what looked to be a damned wolf casually strolled into his study. “That is not a dog; how the hell am I supposed to explain this, if someone else catches wind of it? I expect you to assume full responsibility for this, for I certainly have no words for anyone who may inquire.”
The worst part was, having a wolf take up residence in his home was probably the least of his concerns. For that reason, he only had so much ire to lend to the surprise, and soon just gave way to being deflated. “I am investing a lot of trust in you, Miss Rigas. Please do not let me down.” His tired green eyes locked on the wolf. The creature didn’t show signs of aggression, true to Tivia’s word, although it might have been better if he did, to pass him off as a creature intended to guard the Prince’s life and safety leading up to the coronation. “Keep him in your suites, for now… But if housekeeping grows too suspicious, it may be safer to move him to mine, as there are more places he can hide without being spotted.”
Somath hadn’t been exaggerating at just how fast-acting the serum was. After approximately thirty minutes of writhing in discomfort, followed by an hour and a half of succumbing to a decidedly delirious nap, Nia opened her eyes with a distinct clarity that hadn’t been there before. There was colour in her cheeks, her hands were free of inflammation, and even her notoriously cold feet about which Ari teased her mercilessly were warm. Sitting up felt easy; her limbs felt light, and her body felt curiously rested. Truth be told, she had never felt this good, and couldn’t remember the last time waking up had felt so easy. It made her wonder exactly how long she’d suffered from the affliction Somath had diagnosed, the name of which evaded her. All this time, she’d thought she was doing a good job taking care of herself. Evidently, there was still a lot she didn’t know about conducting her practice safely.
“...what time is it?” She asked Ari, who seemed to have not left her side this entire time. “I need a bath; I need to be a functional human again.
“What you need is to eat.” True to his word, Somath checked in at just the right time, with a plate of food and a curious-looking, blue-hued drink. He set it upon the table across from the bed. “You seem to be feeling better; may I?”
Nia nodded her consent, and Somath checked the palms of her hands, her pulse, the temperature of her skin. Notably, her body was entirely still, with no trace of shivers or tremors. Only more bloodwork would confirm for certain that she was no longer in danger of hyper resource exhaustion, but he’d prefer to do that after she had a meal in her stomach. “Personally, I am satisfied with what I see; but I must insist you eat something.”
“I’m not going to argue with you.” Nia replied, and eagerly dug into the warm bread and hot soup with gusto when he brought it to her. She didn’t even complain about the strange, viscous drink with its off flavour, already having identified it as a concentrated source of nutrients in lieu of something that was supposed to be delicious. “I get it now. Why my mother so often sought you out.” She said, between mouthfuls. “I feel like I can take on anything.”
Somath didn’t remark upon her comment. Felyse had certainly required the same treatment on more than one occasion… but that wasn’t her primary motivation for seeing him. Although, looking back at her double-life, he rather wished she’d only wanted him for his services as a physician. “Therein lies the danger of this treatment,” was all he said, before there was a knock at the door.
For a moment, everyone paused and held their breaths. Somath was already here; they weren’t expecting any interruptions.
“Wait here,” Somath told them quietly, and went to answer the door himself, once again willing to use the leverage and respect of his position to derail and send away any disturbances. There was a pause; then, Somath’s astonished voice from the other room. “...Your Highness.”
“I’m not going to stay,” Safir’s unmistakable timbre followed. “I just… Tell me if she’s alright. If there’s anything I can do…”
“If you’re going to talk about me, have the spine to do it in front of me, at least.” To everyone’s surprise, Nia called from her bedroom. “I’m not an invalid, and I speak both languages the two of you are fluent in.”
For a moment, it seemed as though neither Safir nor Somath knew what to do, as no reply came. Then, the door shut quietly, and when Somath returned, he wasn’t alone. Safir stood in the doorway, understandably hesitant to set foot in Nia and Ari’s bedroom. His eyes were clearly sleep-deprived, but at least he was dressed well, in fitted black trousers and an eye-catching blue tunic. The ametrine brooch at his throat caught the sunlight through the window. His blonde hair was loose around his shoulders, but not enough to conceal the faint purple blemishes at his throat that escaped no one’s attention.
Nia raised her eyebrows. “What happened to you?” No sooner did the words pass her lips that she realized she already knew the answer, and very quickly regretted asking. Her gaze dropped guiltily to her lap.
“Nothing I didn’t deserve, probably.” Safir shrugged. Somath politely excused himself, much to the Prince’s chagrin; he hadn’t anticipated facing Nia alone, so soon. “How are you feeling…?”
“Hungry. And a little stupid--but mostly hungry.” The Master Alchemist took another several mouthfuls of soup and bread, seemingly caring little for being perceived as rude in the Prince’s presence. The glint of ametrine at his throat caught her eye. “You never gave that brooch to him, huh? Why? Did he turn you down, or was it just easier to run away?”
A flush crept up Safir’s neck, and his eyes widened. “I…” He glanced over his shoulder for Somath, but the physician appeared to have taken his leave. “It’s… not so simple as that.”
“Liar. It’s very simple. You were supposed to give it to the bladesmith’s handsome son, and you promised you would; so what happened?” Nia stared him down intently, well aware that despite being in the presence of the Prince of Blades, she was, in fact, the one holding all the power at this moment. Her brown eyes narrowed. “Ari tells me you offered it to him. What do you expect me to make of that, Your Highness?”
“No, no! Please do not misunderstand. I-I… It isn’t what you think! I promise you on my father’s grave. Anetania.”
“It’s Nia now, please and thank you. And you can’t logically assume I give a shit about your father or his grave.” Nia snorted and raised an eyebrow. “How ironic, that the bold and unmatched Prince of Blades won’t run from a fight, but would rather deny his feelings than risk rejection from the object of his affection. The bladesmith’s son was nice; is he still around? You might yet have a chance.”
The rosy flush had blossomed in his cheeks now. Looking notably more panicked, Safir lowered his voice and took a step forward into the bedroom. “Nia,” he begged, using her preferred name, and met her remorseless brown eyes. “Please… stop. I’ll give you whatever you want, do whatever you want, if you’ll just stop.”
“Oh, you stop. Don’t be so melodramatic.” The Ardane woman dismissed his discomfort with a sweep of her hand. This time, she wasn’t won over by his lapse into Ilandrian dialect, especially when he was only using it as a shield. “The Queen of Galeyn is currently engaged to another woman, who had the spine to propose to her in front of her own subjects, in case you are unaware. Anyway, you’re supposed to inherit your father’s crown in a few weeks, am I right?” She pointedly arched an eyebrow, and before Safir could get another word in, all of her cryptic comments to Ari a few days ago became very clear. “I think you have bigger things to worry about right now than what the public might think of the fact their Prince of Blades only has eyes for men. Stop being a coward, and try being forthright. You might find it’s less of an issue than you think.”
“Oh, I am sure many would like to attribute the less palatable aspects of my personality to a head injury.” Caris snorted, but couldn’t help smiling. Why was it so easy to smile around Sylvie Canaveris?! “The truth is, no one else bothered to challenge Kalaur--but I did. Yet those hellbent on believing I am entirely ineffectual in my position seem to conveniently overlook that fact.”
On one hand, the Eyraillian King would have preferred the Canaveris girl celebrate her birthday with her family outside Eyraille, absolving him of actually having to act on organizing anything for her in his domain. But there was no mistaking an inexplicable sense of elation when she expressed interest in observing her birthday in his kingdom. Perhaps it was simply more convenient for her; or, just maybe, it was possible she desired his company more than the familiarity of home. “Miss Canaveris, you seem to be conveniently forgetting that tricking you into leaving would be far more trouble than it’s worth, not to mention entirely unnecessary. It’s my kingdom, and I have the final say on everything. If I truly wanted you gone, you simply wouldn’t still be here, and I wouldn’t even be asked to justify my decision.” In other words: she didn’t have to worry about expulsion from Eyraille. Not at this point, at least.
“Technically, I’m a child of summer. But I don’t honestly subscribe to such superstitions.” He told her with a shrug, trying to find every excuse to look at anything but her. Wrapping a quilt around her shoulders had only made him all the more anxious, drawing attention to the distinct parts of her that were less covered. Sylvie’s skin was rich in tone, and against an impossibly thin, white shift, little was left to the imagination. This is your own fault; you didn’t even knock first, Caris quietly admonished himself and dug his blunt fingernails into his palm to try and find a sense of grounding.
It didn’t do much. He had to leave, lest his dwindling composure become too obvious. Maybe he would benefit from a bath, himself; a decidedly cold one. “I expect to see you at supper this evening; no more excuses.” Caris tried to reach for the authority that most others seemed to respond to; it made him feel more in control. “Do not make me have to drag you to the table myself.” Please, please do not make me… He thought desperately and left her to her devices, letting out a long sigh only after he was on the other side of the door. This isn’t supposed to happen. Things should not be unfolding this way…
He had no idea just how much Sylvie would agree, for entirely different reasons.
“Lord Rigas; Lady Rigas. A moment, if you don’t mind.” Caris ran into Alster and Elespeth just a few corridors away, and jumped on the opportunity to get out of his own head. “I was hoping to consult you on something. It has come to my attention that Miss Canaveris’ birthday is nigh. I am ashamed to admit… I don’t know the first thing about what a celebration might entail, especially from a D’Marian perspective. In favour of maintaining amicable relations with Stella D’Mare, I do not intend to overlook such an important occasion. If you have any ideas or suggestions as to appropriate food, festivities or gifts… I’d be much obliged.”
It was never Tivia’s plan to bring Hadwin Kavanagh to Ilandria, but it was what she deserved for involving herself on an intimate level with the reality-addled faoladh.
While Safir, Somath, and Ari were dealing with Nia’s crisis at Ardane Manor, Tivia had made what she intended as a short trip to Galeyn. All the stressors of court life needed release, and only one man was depraved enough to satisfy her insatiable appetite.
Arriving in the Night Garden through her interdimensional shortcut, she found Hadwin kneeling by the same waterside where Nia had accidentally stumbled into another world, a haven delivering almost everything she ever wanted. He stared into the water like a scrying bowl, studying his reflection. Naturally, seeing the faoladh perched over the shoreline as if he would plunge into the deep end and never return set her on edge.
“What are you doing here?” She shone a light of etherea near his face, blocking his sight of the distorted image lapping dangerously close to his outstretched fingertips.
Hadwin squinted against the blaring yellow sun in miniature, but did not otherwise shift his stance. He remained entranced by the water and whatever promises it whispered into his sensitive ears.
“I could find her there,” he droned, as if placed in a stupor, bewitched by the energies at play around him, which promised healing, and which he misinterpreted as the return of Teselin Kristeva. “Dive right in and climb out the other side, where she is. We exist everywhere, all of us, and we’re all idling in the doorway. One foot in life, one foot in death. So I’d just be leaving one door for the other. Dead, alive, dead, alive again.”
“We’ve been fucking too much. I’m rubbing off on you.” She sighed and knelt next to him, holding him steady by the shoulder just in case he leaned forward too severely and fell into the water. “If you could traverse the worlds, you’d find a version of her, but not the one you know. And if you did that, Hadwin, if you somehow found a way, I’d barge into your world and drag you out of it by your feet like I did to Nia. This is not an option. You know what your problem is? You’re impatient, that’s what. And you’re bored. Sitting around and waiting isn’t going to make Teselin manifest faster.”
He turned to regard Tivia for the first time. His brow twitched, and as if he heard nothing, he said, “Did you always have black hair?”
She looked at him strangely for a moment. “No. I dyed it.” She blew some of the aforementioned hair out of her eyes. “Look, is anyone around to watch you tonight? Where are Bronwyn, Briery, Nico, the Gardeners? You can’t be left alone.”
“Everyone’s sick of me,” he shrugged.
“That’s not an answer.”
“And I’m sick of them,” he muttered, so low to a growl Tivia almost didn’t catch his words. “So I’ll go. Drop in for a swim, paddle around, and I’ll find it. I’ll find her, and—“
“—No, you won’t!” she seethed, grabbing both his shoulders and forcing him to look at her. “If you leave, you abandon the one that is here, do you understand?”
Hadwin retreated a step, shoving out of her grip. “She’s in the water, too! So how is that abandoning her? I’m going to her, damn it! She calls, you know. In the wind, I hear her. She’s in distress. She needs help. Always, always, I hear the wails. She screams, like she’s being torn apart and remade again. Can you imagine hearing that all the fucking time?!”
She could imagine it. Trillions of high-pitched wails, screaming for her attention all at once until she grew deaf enough to tolerate their pleas. “Hadwin, you can’t do a damn thing to help her until you help yourself.” If logic and reason didn’t reach him, then she would play his game. “Look at you. You’re a bag of bones. When I’m not here, what do you do? You stare at the water all day, or you lay on the grass, or prowl around aimlessly as a wolf. If you’re sick of everyone here, if you’re sick of this place…” she hesitated, not realizing what she offered until it blurted out of her, “then come with me. We’ll go somewhere else. For a little while. Long enough to regain your strength so you can fight for her.”
He didn’t respond, but by the suffused pain set in his gold eyes, something was penetrating his aura of madness. She continued.
“I’ll talk to the Gardeners under your care. Bronwyn. Briery. They’ll know where you’ll be. And if ever you want to return here, that’s easy. I’ll whisk you back to the Night Garden and it will be as though you never left.”
He looked over his shoulder, at the sloshing waves of the shoreline stream. “What’ll she do if I’m not here?”
“Well, you’re useless as you are, so it will be much the same struggle for her. Nothing will change because you can’t affect change when you’ve become no better than a fucking worm, rooting around in the dirt. So I’ll ask you, fear-reader. What are you afraid of? That she’ll think you abandoned her? That you’ll forever lose the opportunity to save her?” She chuckled, a sardonic, heartless cluck. “You’re barely hanging on. You can’t save shit, and you know it. She’d sooner have to rescue your sorry ass than the other way around.”
And there was the key. Tough love, peppered with an immediate means of escape. For the first time in a while, he seemed to look for a horizon beyond his immediate surroundings. “…Before I change my mind, let’s go. Right fucking now. Ilandria, was it? With the Prince who’s a damn sight and fancies only men?”
Tivia nodded. “There’s plenty of court intrigue to keep you occupied, too. Oh, and Nia is there, with Ari. She probably could use a friend right now.”
They left together that evening, through a hole in the air that led to the screaming vacuums of space, and to her private chambers in Ilandria.
“Now don’t go anywhere. I’m going to tell everyone in Galeyn where you went so they won’t be beside themselves with worry. I’ll grab your things, too. And come morning, I’ll introduce you to Prince Safir so he won’t wonder why an unsanctioned visitor is lurking around the palace.”
“About that.” Hadwin slumped on a chair, looking less than energized after their instantaneous journey through the stars. If the adventure-seeking faoladh failed to react to novelty, especially of the adrenaline-pumping variety, something was seriously wrong. “It’s been a damn while since I’ve done something like this.”
“Since you’ve done what?” She crossed her arms. “Live?”
“Yeah well, I’m out of practice, and you can laugh all you want but I gotta wade into the water before I tackle the ocean, y’know. So…let me be your dog or whatever. At this stage, it’s just easier,” he sighed, scratching at his scalp, his wild hair sticking out like weeds, “to be a wolf. Silent and dumb and compliant.”
Compliant? Now she knew something was wrong.
However questionable, she respected his wishes, and the following morning, paraded the “dog” in front of a skeptical and rightly alarmed Safir.
“So you’re right, he’s not a dog. He’s a wolf.” She reached behind his ears and gave him a scratch. The wolf moaned low in his throat and sprawled out on the floor, the very picture of docile. Compliant. “I have ways of masking him from view, or glamouring his face to resemble a popular dog breed of this size. “Though I figure,” she tilted her head, as if reading her mind, “if it comes to securing your image as the fierce, undefeated Prince of Blades, it wouldn’t hurt to have a wolf at your side. Despite how he seems, he is still a wild creature with jaw muscles powerful enough to tear off one’s arm if they come too close with the intent to harm. He won’t be a permanent fixture here, don’t worry. I’m just looking after him for now. As for a name—you can call him…Puca.”
Something of an amused snort blew through the wolf’s nostrils.
Ari did not have a restful night, too concerned with Nia’s welfare to abandon her for a restful night. The likelihood of surrendering to the soft cushions and toasty atmosphere of the roaring fire was, despite its temptation, abysmally low. He “woke” when the sky revealed a faint tinge reminiscent of nautical dawn, a gloaming that preceded the actual dawn. He spent those few straddling hours dining on an early breakfast and endeavoring to sketch someone other than Prince Safir, but yielding nothing fruitful but a few unrefined lines of Nia curled up in her quilt, loose hair hanging behind her like a fan. He quickly gave up the practice and as the sun crested the horizon, he turned to reading, looking out the window, adjusting Nia’s sheets, stoking the fire several times, and requesting for lunch to be brought into their suite. He was only two bites into his buttered bread when he heard her stir from the next room.
“Nia.” Since yesterday, Ari regained some mobility in his limbs, no longer a clenching series of inflamed knots, but it still ached whenever he walked, especially around his ankles, the soles of his feet, and his shoulders where he’d carried Nia aloft from the stables and several flights of stairs to their suite. He sat at her side, shifting her pillows to help her sit upright. “I am glad you are awake. Goodness, you had me worried for a moment. To confirm your suspicions, yes, we are still in Ilandria.” He glanced out the window, just in case the scenery miraculously changed when they weren’t paying attention. Sure enough, the view afforded rolling hills in the background and a slightly obstructed view of the courtyard, awash in glimmering marble distinctive of the Ilandrian palace. “If you want to return to Eyraille…”
She didn’t seem to hear him as she launched into an explanation on her rationale for returning to Ardane Manor. “I would not have faulted you for journeying to your childhood home, but you must have known the danger in venturing alone. While I might not have approved of the decision, I would have accompanied you. Why did you believe you had to handle this alone? I am here, Nia. Were you…” he shamefully looked away, “still angry with me with regard to Prince Safir?”
The past was in the past, however, including the events of yesterday. And as he took the tearful Nia in his arms, he pressed her close, ready to move forward, to a hopeful future. “All is forgiven, Nia. I am relieved that you are well, that you have found a way out of that dreaded labyrinth. You did not drag me into your past, Nia. As I’ve said before, I would have walked with you willingly, no matter the location. Please promise me you will no longer go it alone. Surely, I would have turned to stone, were circumstances different. Moreso in waiting behind in panic with no notice from you and only my overactive imagination to fill in the blanks than in coming along and being with you.”
Before he could extract her promise, there was a knock on the door. Anticipating Somath’s arrival, Ari gave the verbal go-ahead for the physician to enter, once he assured both Nia and himself were decent enough to receive guests. Despite the urge to step in and facilitate a productive exchange between father and daughter, he couldn’t fault Nia for her ongoing resentment, and allowed the conversation to play without his input. Until…
“To save my life,” he echoed, his face falling from the memory. Nia, bedridden for days, the likelihood of her recovery growing ever dimmer. A miracle saved her, a wish from a firefly. Even now, none could accurately explain what happened when all seemed grim. ‘Twas the grace of the Night Garden, the Gardeners declared, the mystery solved, as far as they gathered. Was he to blame for her present condition?
“Hyper resource exhaustion?” As Somath listed the causes and symptoms, Ari nodded, agreeing with his diagnosis, however much it made him sick with worry to learn Nia had suffered the condition for far longer than was necessary. Fool of me to assume her ailments were due entirely to emotional stress.
When Nia mentioned a magic serum, Ari immediately went on his guard, especially as Somath emphasized the consequences of abusing it. “This serum of which you speak—you will administer it only when it is necessary? And you alone will be responsible for dispensing the dose?” Fortunately, that seemed to be the case, as Somarh unveiled the curious golden substance from his bag and prepared the syringe. He relaxed a little, but stayed on edge, recalling how Elespeth Rigas almost died from complications of the Mollengardian stimulant she stockpiled in her flight from Haraldur’s Forbanne camp. If the serum boasted similar effects, he trusted Somath to keep the ichor-like substance under lock and key lest she succumb to its addictive qualities.
“The hearing apparatus—why is it so important? What did Tivia Rigas promise you?” Ari turned to Nia, who was so quick to delay the creation of the portal mirrors, but would not compromise on Tivia’s commission. “If I spoke with her, I am sure we could come to an alternative arrangement. She is…a little abrasive, but not unreasonable. Though, I hope she is not extorting you or promising that which she never intends to give.”
While Nia didn’t have an answer of certainty, she seemed to believe Tivia would come through with her end of the bargain. Complex as she was, the star-seer was unlikely to renege on a deal, although Ari found it suspicious for her to offer something so allegedly valuable in return for an apparatus that, by her words, any alchemist or artificer could devise.
“See how you feel afterward and we shall revisit this discussion,” Ari concluded, trying not to take Nia’s secrecy too personally. Exactly what did Tivia have? And was it worth another bout of illness, of hyper resource exhaustion, to obtain?
Somath’s syringe aimed for Nia’s neck woke Ari from his introspection. Immediately, he took the pain-sensitive Master Alchemist’s hands in his own and directed her attention to him. “Pain of this sort is rarely finite. You shall overcome, as you always have. Survival is in your blood.” After receiving the shot, she loudly complained of feeling her body afire. Rushing into the sitting room, he grabbed a plate of fruit and a tall glass of water. “Drink and eat this. It will cool you.”
He stayed with her, but not on top of her, until the feeling passed about two hours and one nap later. “How are you faring?” He reentered the bedroom, another glass of water in hand. He placed it on the side table and sat in the chair opposite the bed. From a cursory look, Nia appeared to glow with health, radiating a warmth that brightened her cheeks and—were he to check—doubtless returned circulation to her icy, frigid toes. “It is late afternoon; a few hours yet until supper. I daresay you’ve been asleep close to two hours. The serum has done wonders from my vantage point. You are,” he reached out to touch her cheek, rosy and brimming with color, “bright. I cannot recall when last I saw you full of such vigor. If it is a bath you want, and if there is room for two—“
He almost startled when Somath burst in, carrying a plate of food and a strange blue drink. Removing his hands from Nia’s face, he moved aside to let the royal physician through to inspect his patient. Fortunately, he concluded the treatment a success, eliciting a verbal sigh of relief from Ari’s lips. “That is most fortunate. However, we should take Somath’s caution most seriously. This is not a solution; merely as a means to bolster and regulate your homeostasis.”
The trio were taken a bit by surprise when Safir Vallaincourt decided to come calling. At Nia’s brusque invitation, the Ilandrian Prince stepped inside their bedroom followed by Somath. Ari scanned the blond’s appearance, equal turns sleek and effortless, and wondered how slovenly he appeared in wrinkled attire and unbrushed hair, in comparison. Suddenly he desired a bath more than Nia, to scrub the dirt and refuse until he, too, shone like a gem.
His gaze traveled to the unsightly purple bruise the ametrine brooch barely concealed. “What happened to your throat, your Grace?” he said at nearly the same time as Nia. Seeing the guilt of realization pass over her eyes and Safir’s vague, non-committal answer, Ari inferred the truth. He and Somath had encountered the conclusion of Safir and Nia’s reunion; not the moments preceding it.
You never gave that brooch to him, huh? No sooner did Nia pose her question than the two former friends partook in an uncomfortable discussion, which left Safir looking as though he wanted to detach from his skin and slither under the door. Mention of the bladesmith’s handsome son increased the Prince’s malaise, pitching him to feverish highs of embarrassment.
And then Nia mentioned him. Ari, too, felt flush with secondhand embarrassment. “Does this brooch serve as an offering of courtship? If so, I am certainly flattered, but…” He paused, analyzing the implications.
The Prince of Blades only has eyes for men.
Oh. Oh.
Ari’s flush deepened. Now he felt an even bigger fool for believing Safir had unrequited feelings for Nia. No wonder his sketch of the Prince of Blades upset her so. While he was taken with worry about the two of them rekindling a long lost relationship, she feared Safir would steal him away.
“I did not spin a falsehood, your Grace,” he managed, electing for diplomacy and to soften Nia’s inciting words. “I am flattered, for I fancy men and women. Perhaps women moreso, but I am not immune to a man’s charm. It is not such a strange occurrence in Stella D’Mare. To elaborate, the woman to whom the Queen of Galeyn is affianced is, too, a D’Marian. We’ve affiliations in Galeyn who’ve expressed and embraced their divergent views concerning the opposite sex. While, for obvious reasons, I cannot reciprocate your affections, if they be affections or simply a misunderstanding, you are among welcoming company.”
He fiddled with the more disarrayed strands of hair. “Whether or not you choose to remain incognito, I shall tailor your needs to the Ilandrian people whose support you still require. However, I would advise against a public reveal until after you are crowned king. Therein, Nia and I will disagree. Galeyn is a sparely-populated kingdom of peacekeepers, and Stella D’Mare, as mentioned, looser in their definition of ‘relationship.’ I am relatively ignorant of Ilandrian culture, so you will need to correct me if I assume your rules and traditions are a little more stringent and of a conventional bent. I would therefore suggest you let them love you first. Then, it will be easier for them to embrace your differences.”
The truth is not always the way. On that point, he and Somath fervently agreed. Would the D’Marians accept Ari’s condition if he had campaigned in full disclosure? They would have viewed it, viewed him, a liability unworthy of his position as Canaveris Head and later, Lord of Stella D’Mare and have passed him as a viable candidate. When he confessed his debilitating curse years later, a few D’Marians vocally expressed their belief that he was unfit for the job, even when he rose to many challenges on a petrified limb or two, with none the wiser. The moment his condition was made public knowledge, suddenly, people pegged him as weak and unworthy, as he feared. However, he had invoked only a minority of D’Marians, the majority of whom accepted and advocated for his continued rule. Because I gave them the space to love me, and not the disease, nor my status, or my preferences.
Such private and intimate matters always came last. Trust, after all, was measured in both directions.
With Nia and Ari away in Ilandria, Alster and Elespeth hadn’t much to do save watch after Sylvie in her uncle’s absence. Despite her cheerful attitude on her return from King Ullir’s funeral, the following days led her down a dark road of despondency, and no amount of knocking on her door and offering company broke the silence on her melancholy. Together, the Rigas couple roamed the hallways, wondering how to bolster her mood, when King Caris intercepted them to ask an unorthodox question, by his standards. Was the fiery, no-nonsense monarch of a kingdom on the brink of war beside himself thinking of how best to celebrate the birthday of Sylvie Canaveris? The young noblewoman who just a few weeks ago he barely tolerated as a means to acquire portal mirrors between his country and Ilandria?
Alster hid his smile. “Your Majesty, I’m sure Sylvie will appreciate whatever you put together for her. Canaverises of her age don’t have grandiose parties until they are much older, so she’ll prefer a small and intimate affair. Aside from that, I think it would make her smile to partake in the Eyraillian tradition. She’s always been curious about other cultures and customs. You needn’t worry about achieving perfection. It will tickle her just to know you care enough to organize a celebration held in her honor. Oh,” he slapped a fist to his hand, remembering something. “I know that Nia wanted to gift Sylvie the cat she used for the portal mirror demonstration. I don’t know where the creature is housed at the moment, but she does enjoy the company of animals. In all honesty, she is quite easy to please, as long as you are sincere and bring goodwill.”
“Nia, Lord Canaveris, I assure you with every ounce of Ilandria's truth… My intentions were never so untoward.” Safir, who had by now turned several panicked shades of scarlet, looked between Nia's sullen and accusatory face and Ari's astonished one. Somehow he had managed to find himself faced with a question for which there was no good answer that would satisfy all implications. “It is just as I told you: the brooch was never intended for me, and I noticed you had been admiring it. I had no right to keep it in my possession for this long… but I intended nothing more, I swear it.”
The Prince of Blades turned his eyes downward, feeling the weight of Nia's judgmental gaze. Since there was no retreating from this interrogation, he lowered himself onto a chair, almost visibly shrinking. No doubt he wished for nothing more at that moment than to vanish completely. “You're right, Nia. I have nothing but cowardice to explain why it has remained in my possession for this long. I almost gave it to the bladesmith's son; I practiced what I was going to say… but it was as though my courage disappeared along with you.” There was a forlorn smile on his lips when at last Safir looked up. “He has since married, a few years ago. His wife has a child on the way. I've only spoken with them a handful of times this past decade, but they are a lovely couple.”
Nia twisted her mouth to the side. By her expression, the Master Alchemist seemed to be torn between being moved by the prince's explanation and weighing how much it excused his inaction. Sometimes, it was easy to see the Ilandrian influences that she didn't even realize continued to weigh in on her judgements to this day. “And you haven't spared a glance at another man since? You're foolish to think you're the only one in this damn kingdom denying themselves out of traditional expectations. The bladesmith marrying off isn't an excuse.” She took a bite of fruit from her plate. “What would Ilandria think, were it to learn its future ruler's courage was contingent on moral support. Was it really my departure that led to your hesitation?” One eyebrow arched expectantly. “Or were you afraid of disappointing your dear papa? Oh how he thought his boy was truly the shining embodiment of Ilandrian ideals.”
“Yes, alright. I hear you. You have made yourself unmistakably clear, Nia, and I daresay you have achieved your desired outcome. I can win a battle of blades; but there is no such shield against the power of words as a weapon.” Safir brought his hands down hard upon his lap. It was a gesture of defeat. “Mind you, it was unnecessary. I can't take back what happened; I can't erase my own inaction or any of your pain. But when I said I promise to hurt with you, I meant it. It should have occurred to me that that wouldn't be enough for you.”
The deep scarlet quickly drained from the Ilandrian Prince's face. He rose from the chair and raked a hand through his pale locks. “Take pride in knowing you're the only person in Ilandria with the power to land blows more painful than my sword. And I am not so foolish as to attempt to fight back when I knowingly cannot wield a weapon to match.” Safir bowed his head humbly in Ari's direction. “My apologies, Lord Canaveris, for causing such a misunderstanding… I assure you, on my honour, I meant nothing untoward.”
To his credit, Ari had the grace not to take offense, and even offered words to soften the sharp edges of Nia’s accusations, but Safir had already turned toward the doorway with the intention to walk away. Certainly, no one could blame him: nobody in their right mind would stand around and take hit after verbal hit with no shield in sight. “Hold up.” To both men's surprise, Nia spoke up before Safir disappeared through the doorway. The Prince of Blades halted his stride, but did not turn, fearful the Master Alchemist was not finished with her diatribe, and had yet more verbal knives to throw. “I don't expect Ari to support me in all my sentiments. Maybe you should hear what he has to say. Some of it is a surprise even to me.” She glanced curiously at Ari, either wondering why he had never disclosed his diverse sexuality to her, or why she had never picked up on it.
After a brief hesitation, Safir turned and listened earnestly to the Lord of Stella D'Mare in his suggestions going forward. He had to admit, it was reassuring to hear his preferences were not foreign in foreign lands, and that he was in the company of someone who embraced unorthodox preferences by his own culture's standard. Yet somehow, it didn't help him feel any less alone, especially where Nia was quick to judge him based on his hesitancy to act true to himself. Even if Ari understood, and agreed it was wise to tread carefully during these uncertain times, it didn't take the sting out of his childhood friend's words, whether or not she was only speaking from a place of hurt.
“Indeed, Lord Canaveris, Ilandria is a kingdom of tradition and values. Both onto which it holds tight, even if they no longer serve it or its people…” He didn't--couldn't--look at Nia, knowing she was thinking a rebuttal, even if she didn't say it. Instead, he chose a neutral point on the wall to focus his tired eyes. “Should I ascend the throne, there are changes I would like to introduce, but not prematurely… and certainly not forcibly. Particularly not when it comes to traditions of family and relationships. Navigating this delicate territory in a kingdom that does not freely offer leeway for break in convention will be more than half the battle.”
“Are you serious? No leeway for a break? Now I know you're making excuses.” Nia had finished her meal in the time it took for Ari to voice his counsel, and set her plate aside. “Come on, Safir. You are not that detached from Ilandrian culture. There are two occasions in Ilandria where anything goes, with the exception of theft, abuse, and murder, and one of those occasions is literally encroaching.” When the Prince failed to reply, barely able to meet her gaze, she sighed audibly. “Even your stickler of a father didn't disallow breaks in convention under these circumstances.”
Brushing the wrinkles out of her skirts, which had clothed her for two days at this point, Nia sat up straighter and tucked her hair behind her ears. “Your deductions are correct, Ari. Ilandrians generally walk around with sticks up their ass the majority of the time. But, in the event of a wedding--or less commonly, a coronation--for one evening, we get a free pass to say ‘fuck it’ to etiquette and pretenses. You've not seen one hell of a wild party until you've attended an Ilandrian coronation or wedding. You could fuck your best friend's husband or wife, get blackout drunk, dance naked on a table. Best part is,” she raised her eyebrows, as if divulging a cultural secret, although it was no secret at all. “What happens at the party stays at the party. No judgment, and no one ever talks about it again--unless of course, you want to. Honestly, Safir, have you never been to a wedding after-party in your own damn kingdom?”
“And you have?” Safir challenged, and stared rather incredulously at the Master Alchemist. “Those evening… events certainly are not for children.”
Nia shrugged. “Celene and I might have snuck into one after the matrimonial ceremony. Feels like existing in a whole different world. But you've been an adult for years.” She eyed Safir knowingly, in such a way that suggested she knew the answer before she asked: “So what's your excuse? You could still kiss him, you know. The handsome bladesmith's son.” With a wicked smirk, she leaned in and whispered none too secretly: “And his wife can't even be mad after the fact--and neither can he. Especially not if you're King.”
“That… is not exactly what I have in mind for my first few hours as King…”
“Look, Ari knows more about campaigning than me. Play the good traditional Prince of Ilandria for now. But you cannot tell me you won't have an opportunity to be yourself and test the waters under very safe circumstances the day you wear your father's crown.” Nia pointed a finger at him in emphasis. “The choice will be yours, Prince of Blades. It's up to you to seize the opportunity. Tell you what: I won't even get mad if you kiss Ari.” The Ardane woman sat back and folded her arms. “Consider it my coronation gift to you.”
Safir’s utter lack of reaction was his only response for a few solid beats. When at last he broke the silence, it was with an incredulous laugh as he pressed a single hand to his forehead. “How cordial of you to volunteer someone else's comfort and present it as a gift.”
It was at that point where the tension in the room seemed to break. Even Nia grinned, not unkindly, but in a familiar way that made it clear this wasn't the first time she'd dared Safir to kiss a man. “Just saying, I won't stop you. I'm not sure Ari will, either.” She nudged the earth mage playfully. If she wasn't holding resentment toward Ilandria's Prince anymore, she certainly wasn't bitter about her romantic interest's aesthetic fascination with her childhood friend.
“Be that as it may… Tivia seems rather concerned about my marital eligibility and those who would seek to take advantage of it. As a purely defensive measure, up until I have officially taken my father's place, she's suggested we stage a politically motivated… involvement.”
“...a what? Oh, Saf…” Nia sighed. It didn't take an empath to read the discomfort and uncertainty on Safir’s face. “Do you actually think you can pull it off?”
Safir snorted and folded his arms. “What's important is Tivia is convinced she can carry that deceit for the both of us. With her leading potential threats astray, and your beau helping me craft an image Ilandria wants to see… I will do what I can to be the new beginning this kingdom needs. And, admittedly… there is a certain warrant of arrest I would like to get my hands on and annul as soon as possible.” He looked pointedly at Nia across the room.
“That's definitely a start. So long as you recognize it's only a start.” For a moment, the Ilandrian woman looked as though she was ready to lead the conversation back into a tense and accusatory atmosphere. “I will not let you live it down if you don't kiss a man once the crown is yours.”
The Prince threw his hands up and sighed. “Later. This is a conversation for later--or never.”
“Do you think you're calling a bluff? Hey--I win if you walk away!”
Knowing well there was no ‘winning’ against Nia, Safir simply shook his head, and muttered “Later,” once again before taking his leave of Nia and Ari as gracefully as he possibly could. Nia wrinkled her nose at the sound of the Prince's retreat, but sat back in bed anyway with no choice but to accept he wouldn't be particularly pressured today.
“What? Do you mean to tell me you wouldn't kiss him if you had the chance?” Nia asked Ari, who appeared flustered to have been implicated in the conversation at all. “Relax, my beautiful artist. I'm not mad. I never really was… not at you.” She tucked Ari's hair behind his ear and kissed his cheek. “I don't care whose beauty you admire, so long as I don't have to share your heart.”
With a meal in her body, renewed energy, a bath and clean clothes, Nia was eager to get to work on Tivia's hearing apparatus and secure the Rigas woman's promise of reward. Ari, however, first insisted she consult Somath prior to putting any amount of stress on her body so soon after suffering a very dangerous illness. The Master Alchemist complied, and let him summon the royal physician, who drew her blood one more time to ensure her body chemistry returned to normalcy. The biggest inconvenience was the hour wait while Somath ran tests, leaving Nia to restlessly organize her materials and clear a table for a task she seemed really intent on doing--much to Ari's dismay.
“Ari, I need to do this. You don't understand now, but… you will. I promise.” She took his hands and met his eyes with sincerity. “I'm not trying to be contrary. And I wouldn't insist if it wasn’t incredibly important… just wait. You’ll see.”
When Somath returned with his verdict, Nia was already prepared with a list of excuses should he advise against this pursuit. Fortunately, that wasn’t the case. “There isn’t any indication that you aren’t currently in top form.” The physician said, at which point the Ardane woman was eager and willing to get right to work, but he interrupted her before she could dismiss him. “However--please, take a moment to listen to me. You did promise to follow my advice.”
“I already know what you’re going to say. Take it easy, eat another meal, sleep for sixteen hours… I get it. I have to be careful. It’s not like I want any more sharp objects near my neck.” She gingerly rubbed the side of her throat, just to the right of her chin. The tender spot of the injection was the only real complaint she had.
“Indeed, I do recommend all of that. But since you’ve already detailed the strenuous pursuits you intend to endeavour in the near future, I must ask permission to monitor you until your slew of tasks are complete.”
Nia’s first reaction was to wrinkle her nose. “Let me guess. That would entail stealing some of my blood between every project?”
“In addition to determining a strict plan and schedule for your meals and periods of rest.” Somath nodded. “I understand you feel my approach to be overzealous, but you must understand that what you mean to do and the amount of work you intend to take on is completely unreasonable for any Master Alchemist, even seasoned ones. Since you’ve already made it clear there is no stopping you once your mind is made up about something…” He paused and looked at her pointedly, with her ill-advised trip to Ardane Manor alone hanging heavily in the air, causing her to avert her gaze out of guilt. “This is the only compromise that will satisfy both your safety, and the tasks you have agreed to. Frankly, I feel it is an entirely sound agreement.”
“...fine. You can boss me around for the duration of my work here in Eyraille and Ilandria.”
“And Galeyn. Did you not mention establishing portal mirrors between Galeyn and Ilandria, as well as Ilandria and Eyraille?”
The Master Alchemist rolled her eyes. “Alright. Whatever. Leave me alone to work on Tivia’s apparatus. You can poke my arm again when I’m finished.”
With those terms established, Somath left, and Ari allowed Nia space for the next handful of hours to somehow turn shards of copper, glass, wax and other various and sundry crystals and materials into a device intended to compensate for hearing loss. Unlike the portal mirrors, or many of the other projects the Master Alchemist had undertaken, she only spent a couple of hours sequestered away in the spare room where Sylvie had stayed the night to work without distractions.
The star seer, as usual, had impeccable timing. When she knocked on the door and announced her presence to Ari, the earth mage let her inside with an audible gasp--one synchronized with an audible start from Nia, who had just exited the bedroom. “What the fuck?” It wasn’t Tivia’s presence that had them so startled, but rather, the company she kept. “Hadwin?! Tivia… what the hell?” The Master Alchemist lowered her voice. “Does Safir know?”
Evidently, the answer was yes… and no. Safir knew Tivia had brought a wolf into his home, but not that that wolf was also a man--sometimes. She didn’t go into detail as to why Hadwin was here, but she didn’t need to. Nia could see the forlorn, listless look in his eyes, and according to Tivia, he didn’t want to be around anyone if he wasn’t in his wolf form. “Still no sign of Tes, huh?” Nia sighed and knelt to scratch the fur behind Hadwin’s ear. “Don’t give up, friend. Teselin wouldn’t want you to. She’s still alive, and that means it’s not over. She would never abandon you--I know it. You are really the best thing she had going for her. We can all see it.”
If Hadwin was better off here, among people who understood him, she wouldn’t question it, and was probably the least concerned of everyone who’d laid eyes upon him. “Tivia--about our deal.” Nia straightened and brushed off her skirts, a victorious smile already on her lips. Even after a mere two hours of work, however, Ari might have noticed a trace of colour had already drained from her cheeks, compared to the vivacity with which she brimmed earlier. Somath had been right: it was too soon, and she tired faster, even after a menial task. But that wasn’t enough to dampen her mood. “Sorry for the delay, but I think you’ll be quite pleased.”
The Ardane woman presented her with quite an accurate replica of her blueprints, albeit with a few artistic liberties. Fine, ornate gold chains glimmering with gemstones dangled from a wire that elegantly wrapped around the outer cartilage of her ear, giving the apparatus more of a decorative appearance. “Just because it’s functional doesn’t mean it can’t also be pretty, right? Try it on and test the fit. The chains are detachable if they get annoying.”
She watched as Tivia fixed the device into and over her ear. It fit perfectly; but there was no way Nia would have done anything but her best work for the reward the star seer offered. “Well?” She stepped behind Tivia, where the Rigas woman couldn’t read her lips. “Notice a difference?”
Of course she did; Nia might not have completed formal training as a Master Alchemist, but she had the gift of intuition and improvisation, and if Ari’s curse-less existence was any indication, there was never a chance of failure. “Excellent. So… about our agreement?” Now that Tivia wasn’t quite as hard of hearing, she leaned in and lowered her voice a little. “Long story short… I shouldn’t have been working on this today. But I’m willing to suffer the pain for this particular gain.”
Elespeth almost doubted what she was seeing. Since Nia and Ari were indisposed in Ilandria, the Rigas couple had been laying relatively low in Eyraille. In a way, it was rather relaxing, and an ideal opportunity for the two of them to enjoy one another’s company while others spearheaded the necessary tasks that involved their presence here in the first place. With Sylvie lying low the past couple of days, running into King Caris was the most interesting (and jarring) thing to happen since King Ullir’s funeral in Ilandria. And the nature of his question had her questioning if he was still suffering a fever, having known he’d been bedridden since returning to his home.
“Alright--small I can do. That’s easy. But I… Mister Rigas, do I really strike you as someone who bothers to celebrate anything, let alone traditional Eyraillian birthdays? Don’t lie to me. I know you’re friends with my sister.” Caris sighed at the cryptic and broad suggestions on Alster’s part. Typical of someone who didn’t know what to say to a king whose temper was known to be set off by the most unpredictable things. “If Miss Nia promised her the cat… then that is her gift to give. That doesn’t help. Perhaps it would be better if she returned to Galyen, with people who know what they’re doing.”
“I beg your pardon, Your Majesty.” Elespeth gently interjected. “Would it be safe to assume you have never been tasked with selecting a gift for another person?”
A bold question, but there was no judgment in the former knight’s voice. Caris didn’t even seem slightly annoyed. “Do you really think I’d be bothering either of you if the answer was yes? Such a responsibility falls on the shoulders of others in my employ.”
“And now you’ve been tasked--or rather, you’ve decided to take on the task of curating an experience for someone who is wont for little to nothing. What do you get for someone who isn’t in need of material possessions? After all, she’s from a family of earth mages. Material is their domain.”
“I really hope this is where you answer your own question, Miss Rigas.”
“The answer is rather simple, Your Majesty. In fact, you have two choices.” The Atvanian woman smiled kindly. “One is to once again let the responsibility fall into the hands of your trusted staff who might know a thing or two about celebrations and gifts. The other is to get to know Sylvie. Only by knowing someone will you learn what they have, what they don’t have, and what they wish they had. It could very well be that Sylvie doesn’t want anything at all, in which case, it’s as Alster says, and it’s the experience and thought that matters.”
The young King scrubbed a hand down his face. “I’m not yet well enough for riddles.”
“Your Majesty, mark my words… you are overthinking something that doesn’t require reason.” Elespeth shook her head slowly. “Although, I’m not sure why.”
“Because I’m still running a fever. I don’t know why we’re having this conversation.” Caris waved a dismissive hand and turned away, feeling burdened with more questions after this exchange than answers. “Good afternoon, Mister and Misses Rigas.”
Ari stood between Safir and Nia, both figuratively and literally, as she released a barrage of fell words upon her defenseless opponent. It did not seem fair to call it a battle when Safir refused to defend himself, perhaps out of fear of challenging a woman whose family his house had indiscriminately slaughtered. All the same, Ari almost couldn’t abide the cruelty behind Nia’s endless diatribes, but knew it wasn’t his place to step in and arbitrate, especially when he was uncertain if the relentless ribbing on her end was reminiscent of some type of ritual they shared when their days were spent in friendship. While he tried to ease some of the burden on Safir, who marched in defeat to the door, shrunken and very much impacted by his old friend’s iron-smithed words, Nia surprised them both by suggesting Safir hear and listen to his counsel. Far from advocating that the Prince deliberately hide the truth from others, he suggested (and they both agreed) on waiting until the proper time and place for such a revelation.
Nia, however, took the opportunity to throw an unexpected twist by mentioning an unorthodox custom; a no-holds-barred bacchanal that threw convention to the winds, at least for one evening. It made sense that a kingdom dedicated to stringent law and justice would need a reason to err from the watchful auspices of Ilandrian’s weighing scales. A free pass from decency, fidelity, and egalitarian principles.
“What if the bride ran away with the groom’s best friend during one of these events? Would that not augur trouble for the marriage if everyone is aware of what occurred, yet no one is allowed to speak of it? Or rather, no one wants to speak of it? I share a hypothetical, of course, and one that would not spell worry for you, your Grace, unless you decided to request a night with your old, and wedded, beau. I suppose I am struggling to understand. Stella D’Mare is no stranger to bacchanals of this nature, but with the understanding that everyone in attendance is in communicative agreement with their partner before proceeding. This sounds a version of that, except the law dictates consent and not the individual. The law will protect one from rampant sodomy and civil disobedience, but not from the consequences, or the breakdown of healthy, established boundaries. This could go terribly, in short. Not to bar you from participating,” he nodded to Safir, “but to protect the image you wish to project to your people. Lusting after a married man might dampen said image.”
According to Nia, he needn’t be a married man at all.
“Gift?! I am not a gift, Nia!” Outrage sent sparks over his reasonable dialogue. When only his cheeks heated before, his entire face felt flushed; be it with anger or mortification, he could not tell. “You cannot hand me off like a precious gem or a bag of gold and expect me to have no say. Please be delicate in these matters, I beg!” Safir seemed to agree, but Nia went on, convinced there existed no difference between aesthetic attraction and romantic attraction. He wanted to paint (perhaps sculpt) Prince Safir, not lay lips (and hands) on him! For her nudge, he crossed his arms and said nothing more on the subject. Fortunately, a slight shift occurred, and Ari was quick to address Safir’s mention of Tivia’s courtship scheme.
“Tivia Rigas has her fingers in many pies, of late,” he said, frowning. Star-seer. Warrior. Advisor to King Caris. Advisor and beloved of Prince Safir? Not to mention, whatever arrangement she had promised to fulfill for Nia in exchange for a hearing apparatus. “What do you make of it? She might lead your detractors astray, but only if you can convincingly affirm that your sudden courtship status is not a ruse. There is only so much she can say if you cannot endorse her words as true.”
While Safir believed the plan held weight, that was only true if he played his end correctly, and the more Nia teased him about his romantic preferences, the less certain Ari became. As the Prince of Blades took his official leave, still looking glum and harangued, Ari turned to Nia to ask her opinion, but shut his mouth when she returned to the subject of kissing Safir.
“No,” he sighed, his earlier outrage petering into exhaustion. “I do not desire to kiss him, Nia. I only wish to paint him. I never lied to you on that front. My heart is safe from his piercing gaze, of that you can be assured. Besides,” a wry smile formed on his lips, “I would not like to involve myself with a man who is my equal or greater in aesthetic attraction. Call it petty,” he tilted her chin and pressed a light kiss on her lips, “but that is how I am.”
As Somath had correctly inferred, there was no stopping Nia once she had her mind on something. Despite his obvious unease about the immediacy of resuming Tivia’s commission, and Nia’s silence on the nature of the star-seer’s “payment,” he supported Nia by supporting Somath, reiterating his treatment plan and echoing a similar sentiment whenever she resisted his guidance. “I understand this project is important to you,” he said, in the midst of awaiting the result of yet another of Somath’s blood tests. “And I shall trust that all will reveal itself in due course. But so is your health. However grueling the process, it is as Somath says; a compromise. In the end, we all get what we want.”
With all tests cleared and the parties in general agreeableness, Nia went into the adjoining room that temporarily housed Sylvie and Ari sat with his sketchbook, desperate in his attempt to draw anyone but the valiant Prince of Blades. Just like before, however, his hand deceived him and sketched out another portrait. Safir’s eyes jolted wide in distress, mouth parted slightly as if to protest Nia’s claims of his cowardice. One could hear the drawing beg for the source of his malaise to cease, but hesitation quavered his lips and the pain of inaction furrowed his brows into a slight tic. Ari wondered what the prince would make of this sketch if it ever ended up in his hands.
Better not to risk it. He tore the parchment out of the book, crumpled it up, and tossed it into the fire, stoking it with the poker until it devolved into useless cinders.
No sooner did Nia announce she had finished the apparatus than a visitor knocked on their door. Though Ari was certain as to the identity of the visitor, he was completely blindsided by her guest. As was Nia, who popped in from the next room and sputtered her surprise nearly in unison.
Sure enough, the unmistakable canine visage standing beside Tivia belonged to none other than Hadwin Kavanagh.
“This is rather unexpected.” Regaining his composure, he closed the door behind them, after he ensured no one had been eavesdropping from the halls. “I would welcome you, Hadwin, but I will first require an explanation.”
Tivia glanced at Hadwin, who sat on his haunches and seemed to drift off with his eyes open, heedless of whatever story she chose to reveal. “He needed some fresh air. It was getting stale in Galeyn,” she said, and they understood exactly her meaning. The faoladh had a rough time of life, lately, and conventional healing practices as seen in the Night Garden could not reach one whose major losses took place in or around the vicinity. The area had become too painful to provide a sanctuary and avenue for recovery. “Safir is aware I have brought a wolf into his home, but to him, he is a tame creature who goes by the name of Puca. Hadwin will reveal himself when he feels ready. Until then, please play along. He promised to be ‘compliant.’” She shrugged, as if the idea was utterly ridiculous. “His words, not mine.”
Hadwin blinked to a semblance of wakefulness as Nia approached and knelt before him. In response to the head scratch, he lowered his head and bumped it against her arm. Unbidden, a low whine escaped his throat at the mention of Teselin and slowly slunk to the floor, paws extended. Ari pitied the wolf; moreso when he and Nia spent critical weeks of their recovery in the sanctuary with Hadwin, who existed as little more than a vegetable, his mind lost in the mists. “I shall respect your wishes, Ha—excuse me,” he cleared his throat. “Puca.”
Tivia’s attention wandered from the unresponsive wolf on the floor to the glimmering object Nia presented. The chains of dangling gemstones and the gold filigree attachment grabbed her notice before the functional qualities of the apparatus. The sight elicited a smirk, far from disdainful or annoyed. It seemed to bring her amusement. “How very Canaveris of you, Nia.”
“Are you unhappy with a Canaveris-inspired design?” Ari frowned. “Too garish?”
“On the contrary.” Her eye flickered, losing its focus. “It feels like home.” Shaking away her brief reminiscences, she slipped the piece over her pointed ear, pushing the small, snail-shaped insert into her inner ear like she had done so hundreds of times before. After a few minor adjustments, she cocked her head to favor the left ear, listening for Nia’s whispers where she stood in her blind spot and, blocking her reliance on lip-reading to “hear.” She nodded, the slightest shift of her mouth and eyebrows an indication of approval. “It will suit my purposes, yes. …Thank you.”
Whatever Nia had whispered in her ear, Ari didn’t quite catch it, but Tivia nodded again, as if in understanding. How powerful was the apparatus that a mostly deaf woman picked up on her words clearly, without the need for non-verbal cues? “Yes, I know you’re eager. Too eager to rest even when under strong advisement from your physician,” she emphasized the word strangely. “Anyway, I haven’t forgotten.” She pulled out a tiny slip of folded parchment from her front tunic pocket and handed it to Nia. “The ingredients and instructions are all listed. Again, most of the materials can be found in Galeyn—with several exceptions.” She looked askance at Ari, who still hadn’t the slightest idea what their transaction betokened. “The blood of a willing Canaveris. And grave soil taken from the ground at the Canaveris estate in Stella D’Mare.”
“Now you must tell me what this is about. Nia. Miss Tivia.” He shot them an uncompromising glare. “If you require my cooperation, then I am afraid I will have to insist. Earthen soil from The Green Barrows can only be cultivated by a Canaveris. It is a sacred rite performable only twice a year. The full moon closest to the winter solstice, which is imminent—and the full moon closest to the summer solstice. Even if we can return to occupied Stella D’Mare, I am unable to extract the soil without the permission and presence of the elders, some of whom currently reside in the Fallow Islands. Nor can I present it as a gift unless to another Canaveris. So I ask you again.” This time, he whirled on Nia. “What are you looking to accomplish? I daresay I earned the right to this knowledge, considering this involves my home, my family, and the graves of my ancestors.”
“I will leave you alone to discuss—or not discuss—what you’d like to do.” Tivia retreated a step. “For the sake of discretion, I’ll leave to Nia what she feels comfortable to share at this time, as the information is now in her hands, to do with what she likes. As it stands, this transaction is complete.” She spared Nia almost a piteous look. “This is the best method. Not the easiest, but I did not deceive. It is impossible to exploit this formula or for others to replicate it for gain unless granted the blessing of the Canaverises. A purposeful failsafe. This is for you and you alone. Trust the process. Remember who created this formula in the first place.”
Before she made for the door, she peered over her shoulder, the chains of her new hearing apparatus shimmering in the lowlights of the fire.
“Would you mind watching Hadwin for the night? I have a few errands to run around the palace and I think he’d be happier in your company. If you’re worried about his discovery, everyone else who encounters him will only see a dog. You can tell him all about Ilandria’s raucous parties, and what level of debauchery is in store for coronation parties in particular.”
The wolf’s ears twitched and pricked forward at such a mention. Tivia rolled her one eye. “So there’s hope for you yet, mongrel.” With the click of the latch, she closed the door behind her, leaving Ari in an awkward position between a depressed wolf and the woman he trusted, making unscrupulous deals with a cold, dark star, unknowable as the heavens.
“Well, that was certainly unexpected,” Alster commented to Elespeth once Caris parted, the king’s mood grouchier than before he sought them for advice. “He’s going to need some help.”
Supper that evening was an affair reserved for the king and his guests, which, absent of Ari, Nia, and Tivia, included Alster, Elespeth, and Sylvie. The eldest daughter of Casimiro Canaveris returned to the table after a three nights’ absence, for which she had claimed illness, and waltzed into the dining hall, carrying no trace of the malaise that confined her to her room. The pastel yellow gown she wore was plain and unadorned, but flattered her shape and flared at the bodice to give off the illusion of volume. Her hair was wound into her usual updo, black curls framing her face, with amethyst jewels weaved into the sides and a matching pair dangling from her ears. She sat across from the king and beside Alster and Elespeth, her smile conservative, but reaching her brown eyes.
“My apologies for worrying everyone,” she announced, tucking her skirts under her chair as the palace attendant pushed her seat forward. “Do forgive my idleness. I feel much improved and prepared to tackle tomorrow’s itinerary.”
“You have my pardon, and Elespeth’s, I’m sure, though I cannot speak for his Majesty.” Alster concealed his smile when Sylvie looked at Caris from under her lashes, as if a direct glance would scorch her eyes from staring into the heart of the sun.
“Sylvie, I was hoping you might answer a question of mine.” He sought Caris’ attention and sent him a surreptitious wink. “It’s more a hypothetical, but in the interest of dinner-time conversation, I thought it would be appropriate. If you could have any possession in the world, what would you choose?”
Sylvie’s face seemed to fall, but only for a moment as she gathered up her societal graces. “Well, assuming ‘possession’ does not translate to ‘person,’ I cannot say I am in need of any possessions. There are things I value far better, like my health and the well-being of my family, but I am sure you were venturing for a lighthearted response. For that,” she clicked her tongue, genuinely puzzled for an appropriate response, “a place of my own, I suppose. A refuge, belonging only to me, perhaps with a workshop like Ari’s where I might practice and perfect my artistic aspirations in peace. My answer might be lacking, for I haven’t given it much thought, but I find it enough to be free of my home and the stifling company of my brothers for a time, however much I miss them, and the familiar. Although,” she turned a smile on Caris, “I find Eyraille to be quite lovely. I do adore the mountains so, the festive colors of autumn, and the rocs, of course. They are magnificent creatures with plumage that would rival the glimmer of the finest gold. It is a land worth protecting,” her voice hardened, forgetting her wits, her practiced candor. “At all costs.”
“Puca, huh? I can see it. That’s convincing enough.” Nia nodded at Tivia’s reasoning, and her surprise settled into understanding. After all, a good deal of people who might have served as Hadwin’s support system had up and left for Galeyn, all at the same time. There was only so much Briery and Nico, among Galeyn’s Gardeners, could do for him. Sitting, stagnant, in the same place where one experienced so much pain, was not a recipe for recovery--something that Nia had learned, firsthand. Not reaching out, or choosing isolation in addition to everything he was already going through, was only further fuel for a fire that might otherwise spiral out of control. Perhaps this resonated all the more with Nia because she had once stepped into a world that wasn’t her own, and in that world, both Teselin and Hadwin were gone. Upon returning to the world where she rightfully belonged, the realization that those she cared about were not as permanent on this plain as she had hoped. She didn’t take anyone for granted, and the realization that Hadwin might have preferred to disappear along with Teselin hung in the air as heavily as smoke.
Here, at least, relevant parties could keep an eye on him. It most certainly would end up cramping Safir’s style--especially when he learned there was far more to this ‘wolf’ than he would ever be prepared to comprehend--, but it was better this way. “Not sure how his definition of ‘compliant’ measures up to the actual meaning of the word.” The Master Alchemist commented and raised an eyebrow. Either way, she wasn’t responsible for how well or how poorly Hadwin behaved in a kingdom that was not accustomed (or, typically, willing) to oblige his reckless tendencies. The responsibility was on Tivia to take that fall if he fucked up too badly.
When the conversation not-so-casually shifted to the project over which Nia had been toiling that afternoon (much to Somath’s dismay, and well against his advice), and the Ilandrian woman presented Tivia with her sought-after apparatus, it was a surprising sense of pride. Yes, she had gone a little above and beyond the original design (alright--more than just a little), but it had less to do with obvious Canaveris influence, and more to do with the fact she wanted to make Tivia all too aware of how seriously she considered this bargain. While the hearing apparatus was simple enough, and nothing that an ordinary alchemist such as Somath couldn’t produce in a couple of days, Nia wanted it to be abundantly clear to the Rigas woman that she was presenting her with a piece of her best, and most careful work. Had she stuck strictly to the blueprint design, she could have finished much faster, and expended much less energy, but this was so more than an exchange of one favor for another. This is what your promise is worth to me, was the underlying message. For the chance of a lifetime--a Canaveris lifetime--with Ari, she was willing to give so much more. It wasn’t even a concept upon which she could settle a price.
“Hey, if it was something I needed, you can bet I’d decorate the hell out of it.” The Master Alchemist said, unsure as to whether Tivia’s comment was a compliment or just a snide remark. “Anyway, you’re a Rigas. Don’t pretend like your lineage doesn’t have an appreciation for pretty things. And, if you’re going to parade around as Safir’s fake fiance,” She raised her eyebrows, not yet convinced that that was a plan destined to pan out without flaws and mishaps, “you’re not gonna scare away all the girls who have no hope in hell of wooing the Prince of Blades if you don’t show off your wealth and lineage. In fact… we’re gonna need to make a few changes, if you’re going to be convincing.”
Nia gave the star seer a once over, and by the way she pressed her lips together, taking in nothing but monochromatic black, she didn’t believe Tivia would be convincing, as she was. “I’m not going to even attempt to convince you to get rid of the black hair--not that you even need it to try and make it obvious you’re struggling on some secret level.” She didn’t wait for Tivia to confirm or deny her dramatic decision. It was her business, and she’d open up if or when she was ready. “But you can’t traipse around Ilandria’s capital dressed like every day is another funeral. How about you clear your schedule tomorrow morning. We’ll find you something that screams, ‘No one deserves the Prince of Blades more than me, so stand aside’.”
Contrary to what Tivia must have thought at Nia’s out-of-the-blue offer to take her shopping and be her own personal Ilandrian fashion consultant for a few hours, it wasn’t icing on the cake in addition to handing over her hearing apparatus. This intent was entirely unrelated in its nature, and there was no denying the undercurrent of excitement in the Ardane woman’s voice. It shone in her brown eyes, a distant nostalgia borne of memories of shopping with Celene, helping her pick out gowns and accessories that dared other bold, Ilandrian girls to question her status and stature at their own peril. Then again, it was no mystery that one of the Master Alchemist’s more charming qualities was her genuine desire to help other women realize just how stunning they could be. She had, after all, assisted Chara, Elespeth, and even Teselin prepare for grand events at one point. It didn’t matter that she could hardly consider Tivia a friend; after all, her relationships with both Chara and Elespeth were also in a constant, tenuous state of flux. That didn’t stop her from jumping at every chance to pick out just the right shade of rouge for their cheeks, or to line their eyes with kohl and accent them with a dusting of mica in just the right way to accentuate their loveliness.
Funny enough, it was probably the closest that Nia could relate to Ari’s own artistic ingenuity. Her rarely-practiced talent just happened to be far more niche, and strangely, had never been one she’d managed to successfully apply to herself.
But all of that could be left until tomorrow. It was a struggle not to appear too eager as Nia calmly accepted the piece of parchment, her heart racing with such excitement she could hear it in her ears. “My physician will get over it,” she commented with disinterest in broaching the topic of Somath (or how Tivia was suddenly so aware of details she hadn’t even divulged), and completely missed the odd way in which the star seer emphasized that word. Her eyes scanned the ingredients as procedure at the same time that Tivia ventured to explain a few key components that the Master Alchemist certainly had not been expecting.
The way Nia Ardane’s demeanor shifted from excitement and unbridled glee to that of palpable disappointment and a sense of loss was like watching the cycle of life and death. In the span of a mere moment, she had gone from a vibrant rose in full bloom with dew upon its petals, to a listless, dehydrated stem, devoid of color and the will to try to stand tall anymore. Her petals withered and drooped, turning from a healthy pink to pale brown, and fell from the stamen. With no strength to stand tall, the stem that was her body went slack, and she slowly lowered herself into one of the armchairs as colour drained from her face, and the sparkle disappeared from her eyes. It was a stark example of how well she was able to hide her own exhaustion: with no more reason to stand tall and pretend that crafting that hearing apparatus hadn’t tapped into her already strained bodily resources so soon, it was suddenly very clear that Somath had been right, and it was too soon to be putting her body through duress.
“Ah… I see.” Nia gave no indication that she was attuned to Ari’s words, and how these two specific ingredients that were not readily available in Galeyn, Eyraille, or Ilandria, were ones she could only require with his cooperation and understanding. She didn’t need to hear about those additional stipulations that would require Ari, among others, to be in the know. What made her realize that this deep desire was still so, so far beyond her reach (and quite possibly unattainable, after all) was the fact it required travel to Mollengard-occupied Stella D’Mare. Even if they had the time and resources to make that trek, even if Tivia agreed to transport them there with her uncanny ability to bypass time and space in a matter of seconds, Stella D’Mare wasn’t a safe place for anyone in its current state, with or without a war brewing for Eyraille and Ilandria.
Improbable was not the same as impossible. But both conditions were equally capable of robbing someone of hope they’d been carefully and protectively nurturing over a period of time. Nia had exposed that fragile hope to this world’s harsh reality too soon; she’d invested too much in Tivia’s promise. The worst part was she truly only had herself to blame for foolishly thinking it would be so easy…
The Master Alchemist barked a humourless laugh and raked a hand through her freshly clean locks of brunette waves. “Tivia… wow. You got me. You got me good, and that’s something, because I’m not easily gotten. Tell me again, how much time did you spend around Vitali Kristeva?” How could this not be a result of the shady necromancer’s influence? Deals and pacts were his own form of currency, and while he had made it clear many a time he was not above entirely reneging on his own promises, it was far more satisfying for him to fulfill those promises to the poor suckers stupid enough to make a deal with him in the first place, only to have them find their desires contained a notable caveat that ended up being more than they bargained for, or required more than they were rightly willing to sacrifice.
So, yes, the possibility that this was the finale of Tivia’s grudge toward her for daring to spend one night with Isidor inevitably crossed Nia’s mind. “No, no, you most certainly didn’t deceive. I trust all of this, every word on this parchment: this is the recipe I need. Not the only recipe, but the one you decided to give me… that also happens to be one of the most unattainable. You are clever, Tivia!” Nia grinned a grin that did not reach her eyes, and pressed a hand to her forehead. “I mean, I knew you were clever. You’re clever enough to have won over the stubborn King of Eyraille and the hopeless Prince of Blades. You’re clever enough to orchestrate a false engagement to Safir that I have no doubt you’ll manage to pull off, one way or another. Honest Ilandria doesn’t stand a chance against you and what you’re capable of. And… I’m Ilandrian, as much as I’ve tried to distance myself from that identity. I don’t know why it never occurred to me that I wouldn’t be just as susceptible to your methods. Well--since this game has officially come to its conclusion, allow me to close the chapter and say what you’re dying to hear: I concede.” She breathed the words on a sigh that sounded like a last breath. “You win.”
Slowly, Nia folded the piece of parchment with as much reverence as Safir had placed the ceremonial sword in his father’s hands, before his final goodbye. It was useless to her, as all things stood, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t still precious. A symbol of the future she thought she could have… which, perhaps, had never been in the cards for her in the first place. “You once told me I’d get what was coming to me, didn’t you? For some reason, I assumed that punishment had come and gone with Galeyn wanting me dead, and all. I should really stop making assumptions altogether.” This was where Tivia could have basked in her victory: someone was finally more miserable and devoid of hope than she was. Why the star seer chose not to rub salt in Nia’s wound might have been an attest to her obvious maturity. Or perhaps Nia’s withered reaction was satisfaction enough. Either way, she did have the grace not to goad, but even if she had, it would have made little difference in Nia’s temperament and response.
“...tell me. That other Nia--the one from another world, who made better decisions than me, and never faced persecution in Galeyn.” She looked up briefly, heedless of the fact that Ari really had no idea what she was talking about, at this point. “Did she ever get what she wanted? This--or the same result, through other means?” She held up the folded parchment. “I hope she did. She deserved it… she damn-well earned her right to happiness. I don’t measure up to her in any way. So, I guess I really got what I deserve too, huh?”
The Master Alchemist shook her head and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Well… whatever. I guess that’s my problem. I own it; and it has nothing to do with what needs to happen here, in Ilandria. Safir is hopeless as fuck without intervention, and you’re gonna be carrying the majority of this little facade, so we’re still going shopping.” She lowered the piece of parchment to her lap. This time, the smile on her lips was faint, but it was genuine. It reached her eyes, but they suddenly looked so tired. “Ari can focus on helping our self-denying Prince look his best, and I’ll help you make every jealous aristocrat’s daughter realize just how they pale in comparison to you, and don’t stand a chance of winning over your ‘fiance’.”
Whether it was out of desire for Nia’s familiar company over Tivia’s, or out of pity for the fact he was all too aware of the sudden, dramatic shift in Nia’s mood and demeanor, Hadwin padded over to where she sat, within reach for him to scratch him behind the ears. She obliged without thinking. “There’s plenty of room, here, wolf boy. Just give us a heads up if you decide to assume a human form so we don’t accidentally find you lying around naked somewhere, hm, Puca?” She joked, while knowing full well such an incident wasn’t just possible, but probable. “Stick around these parts for a little longer, and you’ll get the chance to experience a party that I guarantee makes any Rigas revels you’ve attended look tame in comparison. You’ll get to see an entire fucking kingdom go absolutely hogwild--and no one can judge you for doing the same.”
After Tivia took her leave, Ari reiterated his question (one among many others that no doubt floated through his mind), demanding Nia explain the significance of what was written on that parchment, why it happened to involve his family, why she had been so insistent on obtaining it… and why, in a matter of moments, it had seemingly caused her to lose all hope. The Ardane woman’s dull gaze focused on a point on the wall in front of her, looking at nothing in particular. Her mind was preoccupied, on one hand struggling to find some loophole that would make her greatest desire possible, and on the other hand, struggling to reconcile how she would proceed with her hopes dashed and eviscerated. That cognitive dissonance of a battle between denial and acceptance, where the latter was coming out on top. “It’s… nothing. This is literally nothing, Ari. It has no significance because, as things stand, it isn’t possible.” Nia drew a measured breath and tucked the parchment into a pocket sewn into her skirts.
“We’re not going to Stella D’Mare for this reason or for any reason, anytime soon. Not while it’s occupied by Mollengard. I’m certainly not going to put myself at risk, let alone put you at risk, after everything we’ve done to set you on track for leading a curse-free life.” Much to Ari’s chagrin, Nia wasn’t going to tell him what was going on, or divulge any of the details surrounding her pact with Tivia. For one, there was no point in detailing the fact there had once been a fleeting hope that they could live their lives together in synchronized tandem, without the worry that one of them would die of natural causes and leave the other alone for the rest of his life with only her memory. And, furthermore, she didn’t want to give him any reason to so much as consider setting foot in Stella D’Mare. His safety far outweighed her unrealistic desire to challenge her own mortality… it just wasn’t worth it.
Nia stood from the armchair with more effort than she’d thought it would take. She was tired, and well aware of the fact she’d triggered imbalances in her bodily chemistry for nothing. Somath would probably be back sometime soon, either tonight or tomorrow, to test her blood yet again and set her on a strict regime of recovery. It wouldn’t hurt to get ahead of the game, drink some water, and lie down in the interim, but she couldn’t walk away knowing that Ari was--and had every reason to be--cross with her. Hurt that she was keeping secrets, and now suspicious as to how and why it involved his family. “I need to ask you a big favour, Ari, and I know you’re gonna be even more pissed off about it, but I have to ask. Pretend… none of this happened. Don’t give it a second thought. There’s no room for fancying impossible ideals when we’ve already got so much on our plate.”
Closing the distance between them, the Master Alchemist rested her hands on his shoulders, but she couldn’t meet his eyes. Instead, she looked down at the polished points of his leather shoes. “I’ve got a lot to apologize for. Getting irrationally jealous that you might have a thing for Safir. Running off to my family’s home without telling you anything. And… keeping secrets from you. I’ve betrayed your confidence in me, and I have no good reason to beg you to believe that everything I’ve kept from you was actually for you. I’m a disgrace as an Ilandrian because I have no problem deceiving or being dishonest, but now… now isn’t one of those times. Even though I’m not telling you everything, I’m telling you the truth. And I’m asking you to forgive me for a lot of things, although not all of them are obvious.” Drawing a slow and steady breath through her nose, Nia tilted her head up and took Ari’s face gently in her hands, drawing it closer to hers to plant a long, lingering, and meaningful kiss on his mouth. Perhaps it could say more than she could convey in words: how much she loved him, how much she wanted their futures to be entwined… and yet, how uncertain she was that such a fancy was even possible. She only broke away when heat and pressure built behind her eyes and threatened tears that she wasn’t sure she had the strength to hold back.
“I’ve fucked up infinite times as a person. At this point, my luck can only be a result of my shitty decisions. But… I’m not going to give up. Someday…” The corners of her mouth turned upward in a shy smile. “Just wait. I’m going to surprise you with something amazing when you least expect it.”
There was more than one way to achieve the same result as the recipe Tivia had provided. None of them would be easy, but if it didn’t involve trading dangerous territory, then it was still far more feasible than this alternate Isidor’s solution. She was disappointed now, but… she’d get over it. She’d collect herself and start from scratch. If she didn’t yet deserve the future with Ari that she wanted, then she would earn her right to it.
Without another word, Nia retired to their bedroom to rest before she became too wrought with emotion to sleep. For now, she’d just have to dream about the improbable, until one day she found the means to make it happen.
In hindsight, inviting Sylvie to dine with him and the others perhaps hadn’t been Caris’ most well thought out idea. When the Canaveris girl appeared, dressed in proper attire and looking positively lovely, it was still enough to trigger the memory of her face, weeping, pressed into his shoulder, with no more than her thin shift and his linen shirt as a barrier between their bodies. All over again, heat began to bloom in his cheeks and down his neck, and all he could do was feign interest in the otherwise unremarkable (for his standards) meal in front of him. His brief discussion with Alster and Elespeth had left him with more questions than answers, but he hadn’t anticipated the Rigas mage broaching the topic not-so-subtly to the person in question. The King of Eyraille nearly choked on a sip of water, pardoning himself quietly after coughing into the crook of his arm.
And, just as Elespeth has predicted, Sylvie’s answer to Alster’s question wasn’t so simple as sending someone to acquire a material item. His limited knowledge of women and their preferences for gifts had him considering jewelry, accessories, flowers, anything pretty and distracting from an otherwise ugly and unforgiving world. But Sylvie already had all of that: ample gowns in every imaginable colour, enough jewelry to suit any outfit and occasion, and as an earth mage, flowers were not beyond her ability to acquire by her own means. A refuge, belonging only to me, perhaps with a workshop like Ari’s where I might practice and perfect my artistic aspirations in peace. What did that even mean? What did she envision? And how the hell could he go about providing that?
“I didn’t know you were artistically inclined.” Caris mentioned after a beat of silence. He moved the food around his plate, blonde hair falling into his eyes as he pretended to be interested in something other than looking at Sylvie. “What is your medium of choice? I understand your uncle deals in, uh… was it paintings? Or sculptures?” A poor attempt to deviate from what would otherwise be obvious prying, but if what she wanted was a studio, somewhere away from home, there were ample empty spaces within the palace that could easily be converted for that purpose.
That is, if she even desired her own, official artistic refuge within the confines of his home. Perhaps he was jumping to unrealistic conclusions. Sure, Eyraille was novel to her for now. The rocs, flying, the mountainous landscape was pretty at first. But come winter, and the first bite of frost, she may very well change her mind, and quickly.
“I take it your home--Stella D’Mare lends itself well to art and artists? That is… well, at present, perhaps not so much, given how it’s currently occupied…” The young king rubbed the back of his neck. This was why he didn’t make small talk. Too often, he ended up with his foot in his mouth. “Apologies. I didn’t mean to be insensitive. I am not an artist, and I don’t know what calls to artists, but it certainly isn’t a popular occupation here in Eyraille. The harsh winters and grey skiles can’t be particularly inspiring…” Not to mention, who knew what would become of it a few months from now? Would the palace even still be standing? Would Eyraille still be a viable place to live? And would he even still be alive to witness the aftermath?
It was sad to think that even if he could sufficiently fulfill Sylvie’s wish, the results might be transient. At best, he could provide a chance to relish a moment in time, before his home was no longer safe, when everything was still relatively stable. Before she regretted ever coming here in the first place.
If this was all he could do, then at least someone might survive with a fond memory of the mountainous Kingdom of Rocs. That would have to be enough. Eyraille deserved as much.
During Nia’s spiral from the height of infinity to the annals of defeat, all Tivia could do was release a long, drawn-out sigh. “Why does this keep on happening…” she muttered in wisps of exhaustion. Hadwin tilted his head up at her, weary eyes commiserating, and she could hear the echo of what he said to her, once. Everything we touch comes out skewed. Own it.
It was why they found themselves an unlikely match. He dispensed truths no one wanted to hear. She operated on a similar level, except she lacked the charisma or the empathy to ensure that she hadn’t meant any harm. If she could form her lips into an easy laugh like Hadwin, or coo comforting words as did Alster… Alas, she would come across as disingenuous. Nobody would believe in her sincerity, because the undesirable role she played required a disconnection to humanity. An emissary of the stars did not bother to mire herself in the pesky details of hurt feelings and coddling someone’s emotional wounds. And yet…how she behaved oftentimes meant more than what she said. People came to despise her message because they associated it, and her, by proxy, with doom and despair. In their eyes, she had become the Lady of Ruination, ruthless arbiter of unwanted change.
That was how she chased away Isidor.
And they wondered why she dyed her hair black. I might as well embody the part. I might as well own what I am. I bring no good tidings. There are some secrets I alone must keep. So let them overreact. I don’t care. The end goal is far more important.
“Think of me however you like, Nia,” she sighed again, no longer bothering to defend her reasoning or to make half-hearted excuses aimed at her honest intentions. “If you see me as another Vitali, then I am. If you think this is all a petty ploy for revenge, then it is. I would have requested something far more elaborate than a simple hearing apparatus in exchange for dashing your hopes upon the rocks—might as well go for broke—but one could reason I needed you to be on your feet and useful, not indisposed for weeks. Yes,” she shrugged. “My twenty-year scheme has finally borne fruit. I am so ecstatic, I can hardly contain my elation. My cleverness will one day win me a seat as Queen of the World.” Her droning speech sharpened as her one eye leveled on Nia. “Checkmate.”
She had made it clear to the door when Nia made her final inquiry. More of a plea, too pathetic to humor with the response she most desired to hear. Hadwin rose to his feet, and by how he swished his tail, seemed inordinately interested in the answer. “Nia of the Mirror World is not your concern. If we obsessed over how our other-dimensional counterparts were faring, we’d never survive this life, this world. Focus on yourself. Make happen what you want to happen, where it’s supposed to happen, or you’ll waste your energy investing in the elements of your self-destruction. Only a void awaits you there.”
Tivia was not sure she heard correctly, and blamed Nia’s nonsense words on an auditory hallucination, or a misfire in the device around her ear. She turned around to supplement the missing context by reading Nia’s lips, and found she still couldn’t make sense of her speech, however grammatically correct and well-enunciated. The only other conclusion was that Nia was suffering from a fit of madness, or over-sentiment, or dumb loyalty to the ruse that would land Safir as rightful king of Ilandria.
“You still want…” she shook her head and cleared her throat, her pitch lowered and ironed flat of doubt and uncertainty. “Very well. I know how to dress myself for a part. I am not hopeless in this endeavor, but if taking the advice of an Ilandrian will make me look more convincing, then I’ll consider your fashion input. Tomorrow morning, then. I will call. Be ready to go.”
As if Tivia had enchanted his tongue not to speak, the spell wore off the moment she closed the door and quietly retreated down the hallway. Moving it around in his mouth to ensure it hadn’t turned to stone, Ari pressed it against the back of his teeth, but still he could not will it to operate. The entire exchange between Nia and Tivia left him speechless on multiple fronts, and he didn’t know if what he felt resembled confusion, betrayal, inadequacy, or a virulent mixture of the three. All he knew was that Tivia’s end of the trade left Nia nearly extinguished, like a candle melted down to the wick. It was not unlike her to put her eggs all in one basket and surrender completely when the shells cracked and the yoke spilled. Whatever she lost did not signal the end. They would work through it together—if she would be forthright about whatever it was.
Hadwin trotted to Nia’s side and plopped next to her chair, enjoying the complimentary ear rub and appearing—as far as a non-humanoid creature could properly express—entirely unfazed by the proceedings.
“Did you understand the contents of their conversation?” The wolf stared at him blankly, but Ari suspected artifice on his part. Ari clasped his hands behind his back, twisting the rings on his fingers until they pinched his skin.
“Nia.” He uttered her name like a clap of thunder. He almost reveled in how it made her flinch. “I cannot begin to express my frustration. You refuse to share your intention in receiving knowledge that, frankly, no outsider should have. You will not speak to me of this other world to which you traveled that has a significant bearing on your psyche and haunts your steps like an after-echo. Then, you ask me to forget what just occurred, as if this does me not a grave insult. No, I will not forget!” His limbs tingled and his bones quaked from an emotion he never allowed himself to experience. Not in its raw, physical form. Not when losing himself, even justifiably, reaped insurmountable circumstances. While he needn’t worry about petrification anymore, the leftovers of his condition remained, and in lieu of hardening to stone, his limbs erupted with heat and blistering pain, like the sun had sequestered under his skin and aimed to cook him alive. Sweat pooled on his forehead, but he didn’t retreat from the sensation, didn’t suppress or swallow the rising tide of fire, no matter how sharply it crackled. She would hear him, even if he burned.
“You do not get to decide when I return to Stella D’Mare.” He pulled a hand from behind his back; one nail had split in his violent picking. “Every day, I pine to touch our ancestral earth. Thousands of years of toil and stewardship, we suffered its desecration as others gouged and sickened the earth. The land is ours to tend, however others have laid claim to it in title and by rulership. Through occupation after occupation, we have never been apart and it twists my insides to stay adrift from our little jewel on the sea for these long years. I cannot survive the indignity of exile a moment longer.”
“I do not know what you want with the barrow soil, but I will not hear you say ‘It’ is nothing. You will not cast aside my land like you have cast aside your health. You will not belittle or disrespect yourself, or me, and fall to pieces because you would rather bemoan for a hope lost than trust me to see it through with you. Do you understand how much that hurts, Nia?” Though she would not look at him, he pierced her with a stare that went unheeded. “How you would rather nurse your premeditated failures, and ask me to enable them, than stand with me and let me help you?”
As she denied him the honor of reciprocation, he did not return her lingering kiss. He merely closed his eyes and allowed her proximity to his roasting flesh, which she would no doubt remark upon as concerning. “I am furious with you. And because I am furious, I will obtain what you seek. This is not up for discussion. You will have your barrow soil.” He pulled away and veered toward the room where Sylvie had occupied, and which now seconded as Nia’s makeshift workshop. “Good night.”
With Ari retreating to one bedroom, and Nia the other, Hadwin sat on his haunches, for once an innocent victim of a domestic dispute. Correctly assuming no one would emerge from their respective bedrooms for the rest of the night, he curled up in front of the sitting room’s still simmering hearth and had a long, thoughtful rest.
The following morning, Nia entered the sitting room from the bedroom she would normally share with Ari, and peered to the closed door in the rear where she last saw the Canaveris Lord enter.
“He’s not here.” Hadwin sat at a small dining table in the center of the room, spinning a coin around the hardwood surface. In human skin, he wore a button-down white undershirt and a pair of dark trousers. No shoes, but a pair of travel boots had been left for him beside his chair. “Like you, Ari wasn’t so keen on letting this all hang out, so before he left, he lent me some of his clothes since we’re a similar size and all. Glad that man loves to overpack, but even his simple wear looks on me like I’m about to join a four-piece string quartet for an evening soirée. But I wouldn’t know.” He slammed his hand on the spinning coin, stopping its trajectory before it naturally petered out on the table. “Not like I’ve looked in a mirror lately. It probably shows.” He slicked back flyaways of dark auburn hair from his forehead, adding to its mass of tangles.
“He’s coming back, by the way. Had some business with the prince, he said. Poor sod’s running a fever, but nothing ‘requiring dire necessity,’ or however the hell he put it. You don’t have to explain to me what happened last night. I got a read of the situation. Your man’s pissed as shit and he doesn’t know how to be. So he’s keeping his distance. Anyway,” he pushed from the table and swerved to face Nia, “figure I’d come with you on today’s excursion. I think you’re gonna need a third person as a buffer between you and Miss Starbright. And to be clear, I’m coming like this,” he gestured at his more lithe than usual body, “not as a wolf. Feel free to spruce me up so I don’t look like a walking rat’s nest. Pretty damn obvious I’ve been living in the woods this whole time. Just,” he pinched the bridge of his nose, hoping to squeeze the undesirable bits out of himself, “make sure I don’t lose my shit out there? Nowadays it’s hard to trust…anything I see. I’ve been looking at that door,” he jerked his chin at the one that led into the hallway, “and…if I step over that threshold, I’ll fall through the floor. That’s what I mean. Nothing here is sturdy. Everything’s liable to float away or sink or…fade. This whole earth is flimsy to the touch. Don’t get me wrong; I’ll walk. I want to walk. I’ll go anywhere you wanna go, but you have to tell me where it’s safe to walk, because you have eyes…and I don’t.”
“So you’re coming with us, huh? I figured.” Tivia met them at the door not an hour later, throwing an extra set of clothes, including outerwear, at Hadwin. “Stay behind me then. You can’t be seen in the palace as you are, so you l have to stay under a concealment spell until we reach the market. Is that something you can manage?”
Hadwin, attired in Ari’s clothes, tossed on his jerkin and a cloak. Adequately layered and decent—hair brushed out and tamed, boots cinched on his feet—at least appeared like he operated in the realm of sanity on the regular. “Yeah, yeah. I’ve got it,” he snorted. “I can follow instructions just fine, even when I’m not ‘Puca.’ ‘Sides,” he linked an arm through Nia, “I’ve got my anchor buddy right here, and all my screams of mortal terror are internal, so you’ll never know if I’m having a crisis. I’m considerate like that.”
“How about you?” Tivia regarded Nia. Though her expression was unreadable, Hadwin smelled the alcohol bleeding from her pores, strong as tar. Another long night of drinking to keep the lonely and self-hating star-seer company. Nia’s words from last night made an impact, however Tivia pretended her detached coolness wasn’t a front to ice over the smoking craters that pockmarked the entire surface of her soul. “This was your idea, so if you’ve changed your mind, or your physician has given you express orders to rest, let’s hear it now. If not, then…I suppose you haven’t been tortured enough. In that case, far be it from me to deny you a few extra turns upon the rack.”
It occurred to Sylvie that she ought to feel ashamed for her choice of gown for the evening. While the design lent a simple but elegant shape, the plunging neckline left little to the imagination. A coquettish smile touched her lips when she caught Caris staring at his plate, intent on looking literally anywhere else. If she noticed this behavior with someone different, perhaps she would have taken offense, but for the Eyraillian king, who often had no trouble directly meeting one’s gaze without waver or hesitation, she found his reaction…charming.
“Oh yes, my uncle is a wonderful artist. A sculptor, primarily, but he is not above rendering two-dimensional portraits on a canvas. None can quite hold to his level of raw talent, but he finds promise in my brother, the eldest of the six. I cannot say I am as gifted, but,” she timidly adjusted the sheer fabric of her sleeve, “I work with textiles. I embroider, knit, crochet, and I fancy myself an amateur seamstress. I made this gown,” again, she self-consciously fiddled with her sleeve.
“You made this?” Alster said, admiring the craftsmanship of her couture. “Now, I know nothing of the art, but from my angle, the seams are perfectly aligned. It takes a certain precision to splice together such neat angles.”
“Not at all. Patience, a little finagling, and a tolerance for stubbed fingers,” she laughed, but appreciated the compliment, nonetheless. “To answer your question, your Majesty,” she made it a point to look at him, even if he was unable to reciprocate, “and no offense taken, by the way, Stella D’Mare is as varied a locale as Eyraille. While we have our fair share of artists—painters, sculptors, potters, poets, playwrights, performers, and what have you—so do we boast a cadre of other professions. Merchants, sailors, shepherds, farmers—et cetera. As earth mages, we Canaverises tend toward hands-on pursuits, but we are not limited to the aesthetic arts. We are builders, as well. Architects, tunnelers. Miners. Now here I am endlessly prattling on.” She raised a spoon, taking a polite sip of soup. Though she hadn’t regained her appetite, it helped to whet her palate and to look as engaged in the menu fare as with her host—whose cobalt blue doublet favored his eyes too fittingly to be mere coincidence in wardrobe. He either chose the outfit himself, or had in his court a tailor with impeccable flavor for colors.
“I beg to differ, your Majesty. Eyraille’s sweeping vistas demand to be painted. Here lies a gravitas that Stella D’Mare, who has seldom suffered winter’s wrath, cannot possess. Ours is a shallow land, surrounded by beauty. Yours is a harsh clime, where beauty must battle for dominance against itself, and is made the stronger for the struggle. The refugees from Mollengard see it. That is why the majority dabbles in art. The intricately carved gourds, the glistening, multi-hued pottery and jewelry strung with stones found in your mountains, shawls weaved through with roc feathers shed during the seasonal molt, dried lupine and mountain wildflowers, forever preserved in resin—they have found beauty here, where Mollengard denied them. Your land, your Majesty, is worth sublimating. If nothing else, it has granted a displaced people hope, however fleeting. Ah,” she playfully slapped her cheeks, “my jowls will not cease their chewing, and I have not even placed a morsel in my mouth just yet! You must forgive me, your Majesty. How very like a D’Marian to wax poetical.”
Ari’s unbridled anger and frustration didn’t come as a surprise to Nia. Of course she’d expected it, after everything she’d put him through since they’d set foot in Ilandria. He was a patient man, more patient and understanding than she deserved, but no one’s patience was finite, and after all, she had just denied him the very reasonable request of putting him in the know as to what was going on. Were the shoe on the other foot, she most certainly would be furious, as well. However, expecting and understanding his ire did not make it sting any less. Perhaps it was that she had become so accustomed to the Canaveris Lord’s self-regulation and even, gentle tone of voice. This was a side of him she’d known to exist, but had never experienced it firsthand, directed at her. As much as she’d have wished for nothing more than to lie down and enfold herself in Ari’s arms, he was far too hurt to be her source of comfort… and she couldn’t blame him.
She didn’t sleep much that evening, too disappointed in herself and too lonely without Ari’s company to quiet her mind long enough to drift off for more than a few hours. The desire to get up and knock on the door of the spare bedroom and beg for forgiveness crossed her mind more than once, but… what reason would he have to forgive her, when she had been keeping secrets that even now, she was not willing to divulge? I don’t want to hide anything from you, Ari, she considered telling him, as if it were anywhere close to an explanation. But I don’t want to get your hopes up, either… I never should have pursued Tivia’s promise. I should have known it was too good to be true.
The next morning, she rose with the intention to try her damndest to smooth things over with the political leader of Stella D’Mare, who had sworn to her that he’d return to his native roots and obtain what she wanted without even knowing why it was important. On one hand, she hoped it was a bluff; surely he knew better than to put himself in such imminent danger. But when she crossed into the sitting area, and saw not Ari, but Hadwin--human Hadwin, in Ari’s clothes--occupying one of the plush armchairs before the fireplace, she wondered if she was too late.
Dread gripped her heart so suddenly that it felt like a painful jolt. Panic filled the Master Alchemist’s brown eyes. “Is he…?” She exhaled heavily when Hadwin explained he was still on the premises, meeting with Safir. He hadn’t taken off to Stella D’Mare on some whim; she still had time to reconcile with him before he acted so dangerously. Feeling suddenly lightheaded as her adrenaline rush ebbed, Nia lowered herself into a chair. “Yeah… yeah, of course. You’re welcome to join us. I’d have invited you along anyway, if I thought you had a penchant for shopping.” She spared him a tired smile. “I wish I could tell you I’m much better off, but I’ve… I fucked up a lot, Hads. I wasn’t ready to come back to this place. I’ve already made some hella stupid decisions, and Ari’s got every right to be pissed at me. But don’t worry: I’m not unsteady. If you need a distraction, and need someone to lean on, you can count on me for that much. It just so happens that making people look presentable is one of my unsung talents.”
By the time Tivia arrived not an hour later, Nia had not only dressed herself accordingly, but had helped Hadwin clean up and brush out his untamed locks. He looked decidedly less like he’d been residing in the woods for an undetermined amount of time. As for the Ardane woman, there was no erasing the stark distinctions of sleeplessness from under her eyes, but otherwise gave no indication that she’d changed her mind. “I wasn’t going to leave Ilandria without a shopping trip, anyway.” She explained to Tivia, purposely avoiding the fact that her last attempt at attending the market had left her shaken and worse-off than before. “This just gives me another excuse. And if you’re going to convince Ilandria that you are, in fact, in a relationship with its beloved Prince, you’ll need to look a little bit less like every day is another funeral.”
With Hadwin nearby, concealed by Tivia’s spell, Nia led the two of them out of the palace and toward the bustling market at the city’s center. With a combination of static shops and mobile, outdoor vendors, anyone could see at first glance that you were likely to find whatever it was you were looking for, if you had the time and patience. Fortunately for the faoladh and the star seer, not much had changed since Nia had fled her home, and as such, she had a relatively good idea as to where to look. Ilandria’s largest market had no shortage of tailors and textile vendors, and with winter approaching, they sported a wider variety of wares, in almost any colour or fabric you could imagine.
Of course, Nia targeted the richest colours and most expensive fabrics right away, to serve her purpose of dressing Tivia accordingly. As a Master Alchemist, money was, after all, not an issue when you could always make more (and her false currencies were far more undetectable than that of ordinary alchemists.) And, in spite of the domestic turmoil from the night before, and the weight of disappointment in Tivia’s recipe for longevity, the exuberant glee her actions betrayed in selecting fabrics and garments and bartering with the vendors and shop-keepers was decidedly not an act. She was very much a picture of the old Nia, the one with energy and an infectious smile that everyone had come to know first, and her genuine enjoyment of this small excursion shone through her fatigue and worries like a ray of sun through the clouds. This was fun: reminiscent of the times she’d accompany Celene to market for the same purpose, helping her older sister select wares that suited her best. It didn’t seem to matter to her that Tivia had all but entirely broken her spirit; not when this task distracted her from ruminating on hopelessness and destructive thoughts. Shiny jewelry and exquisite fabrics and couture was almost enough to wipe her mind free of her worries--almost.
There were still points throughout the morning that offered glimpses into Nia’s deeper state of mind. One moment, she would be eagerly sifting through textiles or pouring over just the right accessories to match what she’d already selected, when suddenly, her gaze would drift and her smile would fade, in some temporary bout of dissociation that left her reconsidering where she was or what she was doing, like a machine malfunctioning before resuming its task. But she shook herself free of those moments soon enough, before anyone had time to ask questions, and she slipped just as easily back into the jovial mood this shopping spree incited.
This unlikely spell of enthusiasm lasted for longer than what her companions probably imagined it would, until a fateful instance occurred that managed to shatter it entirely. While Tivia was busy being fitted for a warm gown of vibrant teal embellished with gold embroidery, Nia wandered nearby to a vendor who seemed set apart from the others, and whose wares--gems and jewelry, for the most part--were far less refined than the others. She was an older woman, accompanied by two young, teenage boys who were probably her grandsons. They’d donned sparse, leather gloves to protect their fingers from the cold as they helped arrange the old woman’s products upon an ordinary wooden table. The woman herself had no need for gloves; instead of hands, crudely-assembled wooden prosthetics designed to do little more than hold or grip were bound to her wrists by leather.
By the time either Hadwin or Tivia noticed what was taking place, Nia was already engaged in a quiet conversation with the older woman. Their conversation was hushed, and entirely in Ilandrian, but given the tears on Nia’s face, and the woman’s grandsons urging her to wipe them away lest she end up drawing attention to herself, the nature of the exchange wasn’t difficult to guess. Fortunately, Nia did manage to pull herself together, and kissed the old woman’s cheek before she handed her grandsons a handful of coins (real coins, at that) and collected something from them wrapped in recycled leather. The Ardane woman pocketed the item she’d purchased before she made her way back to her comrades, ready to explain before they jumped to any conclusions.
“I’m fine--I promise, I’m fine. And so is she.” She spared the old woman a glance over her shoulder. “She’s got a good family, lots of support… and she’s more independent than you’d think. Anyway: I think we’ve accomplished what we came for.” In the span of several hours that they’d spent at market, Nia had managed to commission no less than three new gowns made to order for Tivia, along with matching accessories and footwear. The clothes themselves would be ready, they’d been assured, in no later than three days. Even Hadwin hadn’t walked away empty handed, with a new dress shirt and trousers that had only needed to be tailored to fit his body, to mitigate the necessity of continually borrowing from Ari if he intended to remain in human form for more than a day at a time. Curiously, she hadn’t curated anything to her own taste or needs; not even whatever it was she’d purchased from the elderly Master Alchemist. She had certainly laid eyes upon items of interest, picking up a pair of earrings to imagine how they might look on her, or admiring the fabric of a gown for a few beats too long to merely be browsing--but, ultimately, ended up walking away. This was, perhaps, the most glaring difference between her and the Canaverises. While they shared a mutual interest in and love of beautiful things, Nia was merely content to admire than to covet. On one hand, for someone who had spent ten years on the run, it didn’t make sense to accumulate frivolous worldly possessions, but when it came to Nia, there was always that underlying suspicion that she perhaps believed herself ever undeserving of nice things.
Regardless, this shopping trip hadn’t been about her, and she seemed happy enough that the star seer and the shapeshifter had come away with something of value. “Anything else you two are interested in seeing?” She asked, resting one hand on each of their shoulders. “We’ve still got daylight!”
She didn’t have to spell it out, but Nia was willing to jump at any chance not to have to return to the palace, for fear of… well, that was the problem. She no longer knew what to expect.
“Ah--Lord Canaveris. I honestly didn’t expect to see you so soon.” Safir was genuinely surprised to find Ari requesting an audience with him in his office as early as the next morning. After Nia had successfully humiliated the Prince of Blades in front of his newfound ally, he’d rather expected the Lord of Stella D’Mare to reconsider helping him, at all.
But no sooner did Ari take a seat across from him that Safir noted something was clearly off. “Pardon my prying, but… are you well?” He already knew the answer. Ari, though well-dressed as always, didn’t look as though he’d slept, and his movement as he made his way across the room appeared decidedly stiff. If that weren’t telling enough, the telltale flush of his face, accompanied by a faint sheen of perspiration, betrayed an indisputable feverish condition.
Ari denied it, however, insisting rather impatiently that he was fine. “With all due respect, Lord Canaveris, I do not spar with an opponent if they give any indication they are compromised. Likewise, it goes against my Ilandrian upbringing to accept your help at this very moment when you are clearly under the weather. Please,” he furrowed his brow and stood. “Let me send for my physician. I am more than happy to reconvene at a later time.”
It turned out that sending for Somath wasn’t necessary. A knock came upon the door, followed by a familiar voice. “Your Highness. A word, please.” At Safir’s consent, the royal physician stepped into the office, himself appearing quite tired and frustrated. His countenance shifted to that of surprise when his eyes fell upon Ari. “Lord Canaveris--I beg your pardon. Forgive me for interrupting, but I just went to check in on Nia and how she is faring… but it appears she is absent.”
Strangely, this came as no surprise to Ari. And where Safir had expected him to respond with concern, his tone struggled to maintain thinly-veiled frustration, claiming that Nia had flippantly made plans to take Tivia shopping. Somath frowned and pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly. “She promised to cooperate… I shouldn’t have been so naive.”
“..surely, the two of you are not just now coming to the realization that Nia is an impossibly infuriating person?” Safir blinked his confusion, but did not exacerbate the issue when nothing could be done about it. He had always known Nia Ardane to do what she wanted, and avoid what she found aversive or contrary to her own whims. “Somath, would you please see to Lord Canaveris? I’m concerned for his health, although he disagrees with my assessment. Perhaps a professional opinion is in order?”
It wasn’t without dismay that Safir knew he was only aggravating Ari further by insisting he be seen by a doctor, but neither of their opinions held weight over that of a physician’s. Sure enough, upon looking more closely at Nia’s beau, Somath was surprised he hadn’t noticed his more obvious symptoms sooner. “With your consent, Lord Canaveris?” The royal physician asked, taking a step back and holding out an inviting hand.
However reluctantly, Ari obliged, and left with Somath, who had initially intended to bring him to his office. All too quickly, however, he became aware of how the Canaveris Lord walked with obvious discomfort, and instead insisted he return to his quarters, where the royal physician would meet him momentarily after fetching some supplies. After some preliminary tests of his joints, and a more thorough assessment of his feverish state, there wasn’t anything about Ari’s condition that suggested illness, disease, or otherwise. His vitals were healthy, his joints maintained normal mobility. Whatever was causing pain of movement and his feverish state, the physician surmised, didn’t appear to have anything to do with his health on a physical level…
“Aside from your fever and pain, Lord Canaveris, you appear to me to be in relatively good health.” Somath sighed, appearing perplexed. “I can certainly prescribe something for inflammation and to bring down your temperature, but without knowing the underlying cause, there is nothing to suggest your symptoms won’t return… I recall you mentioned experiencing phantom pain, in the absence of the curse you once suffered. Has it been worse, of late? And has it ever resulted in a fever?”
Curiously, Ari’s symptoms had seemed to worsen since coming to Ilandria. It also went without saying that he’d been experiencing a surplus of stressful situations in the short time since arriving. And, unsurprisingly… a lot of that stress was directly connected to Nia. “It sounds to me, Ari, that you have every right to be angry with my daughter. And you’re not alone in that.” He pressed his lips into a thin line. “Anger is a heavy emotion, and not one that is easily compartmentalized. It does not want to go unaddressed, and the consequences of ignoring it can result in symptoms similar to what you are experiencing… Tell me, how do you usually deal with anger? For Prince Safir, sparring is an outlet for excess energy. But what does an artist do? Or, moreover… is your outlet sufficient?”
He already knew the answer, but he wondered if Ari had come to this realization. Such was the effect Nia had on people: those who cared the most were so afraid of upsetting her, they held back to their own detriment (or in this case, their own health). Ari was guilty of this, but so was he. Frankly, so was Safir. “Lord Canaveris… would you say enough is enough, at this point?” Somath lowered himself onto one of the armchairs. “Allow me some time today to put together something for your symptoms… but with your permission, I think it is high time we address your issue on a more direct level. For everyone’s peace of mind.”
It was only a matter of time before Nia ran out of excuses to put off her return to the palace. The sun had set, Tivia and Hadwin had long since had their fill of Ilandria’s market, and the temperature had dropped significantly since that morning. With nowhere else to go that was safe enough for a woman who still had an active warrant for her arrest, the Master Alchemist accompanied her companions back to the palace, however reluctantly. They didn’t make it far down the corridors before they were intercepted by Safir himself. “Tivia--good afternoon. Might I have a word with your companion?” He was, of course, referring to Nia; Hadwin once again remained concealed by the star seer’s magic.
Nia stiffened, immediately on edge. “Is there something we need to talk about, Your Highness?”
“Are you refusing me in my own home?” The Prince countered evenly, but behind his easygoing smile, the challenge was clear: I dare you to refuse. See what happens if you do.
So he was through with playing nice, it seemed. Perhaps she deserved as much; she had given him a hard time, the other day, pushed him perhaps a little too far with her borderline cruelty. With Ari pissed off at her, and unlikely to come to her rescue, she didn’t want to find out what would happen if she refused. Wordlessly, she left the awkward, albeit reassuring company of Tivia and Hadwin, though looked none too pleased to do so.
“What is this?” She hissed under her breath, upon realizing her childhood friend was leading her toward her guest suite.
“Something you need to see. Or, more importantly, hear.”
“Safir, I am not in the mood--”
“That’s fine. I think you’ll find no one else is, either.”
Before Nia could protest further, or run, Safir opened the door to her guest apartment and nudged her inside with a hand between her shoulder blades. It came as no surprise to see Ari, sitting with the same expression she remembered him wearing last night. Somath, however, was a bit more of a surprise, standing off to the side; and either way, no one was smiling. Not even Safir. “What sort of set-up is this?” She demanded, turning an incredulous look on the Prince.
Safir just shrugged, leveling her with a neutral expression. “I think you know. But if you need a descriptor, you can call it ‘accountability’.”
“Safir did not orchestrate this, Nia. I did, with his cooperation, and Ari’s consent.” Somath stepped in. He wore an expression she had never seen before; it was rather reminiscent of how her mother used to look at her often, like she was little more than a baneful disappointment. “Sit down.”
Nia, however reluctantly, complied, and only then did Safir take his leave and close the door so as to let this conversation unfold without constraints. He didn’t venture too far, however; Nia was known to be a flight risk, and he was committed to step in as a contingency plan, if the need arose.
“...look, I know what this is about.” The Master Alchemist sighed as she peeled her gloves off her hands. “And I’m sorry.”
“I don’t think you do--not in full. And I’m afraid your apology, in context, is worthless.” Somath clasped his hands behind his back, and squeezed his wrist a little too hard. “It is one thing, Nia, to not acknowledge, or to not care for the lengths Safir and I are going to ensure you are protected, here. That much we can bear, because we do not discredit what you have already suffered. But that is where clemency ends.” His already displeased features tightened. “To run off to your family’s old estate without telling anyone, to be diagnosed with a condition that is fatal if left untreated, yet to forego proper self care in the aftermath and then recklessly put your body through further duress, and then refuse Lord Canaveris any explanation… Your apology is beyond worthless, because you have made no commitment to change or to let anyone help. And what’s worse, Miss Ardane…” The physician’s tone grew sharper and more dire with every word. “You refuse to see how detrimental your behaviour is to the people who love you the most.”
He gestured to Ari, who looked only marginally better than he had earlier that day, after taking a tonic for his fever and inflammation in his joints. “I’ve made my decision.” Somath went on. “That if you truly choose a path of self-destruction, I am not going to stop you. I will not argue with you over adequate rest or nutrition, and I won’t prohibit you from running yourself into the ground. But it is high time you acknowledge just who you are taking down with you.”
That seemed to get Nia’s attention. Immediately, her eyes darted to Ari. “What do you mean? What’s happened…?”
“I will not speak on behalf of my patients if they are capable of speaking for themselves. I’ve said my part.” The royal physician let his hands drop to his side and turned toward the door.
“Hey--hold on!” Nia demanded, and stood from her seat. “You know I didn’t mean for--”
“Enough!” Somath didn’t even turn to look at her, but for that, she was grateful. There was enough bite in his tone, she could only imagine how much more was written in the lines of his face. “I have heard enough. The only thing more worthless than your apologies, Anetaina Ardane, are your excuses.”
Not a moment later, only she and Ari remained in the uncomfortable silence of the sitting room, neither of them looking in the other’s direction. The Master Alchemist didn’t want to have to be the one to break the silence; but she knew she had to. “Will you at least tell me what’s going on? Last night it felt like you were running a fever--has it gotten worse?” She wanted to close the distance between them and check for herself, but she feared he’d turn away from her again. Instead, she only drew as close as the small table positioned between the opposite arm of each chair. To avoid standing over him, she sat back on her heels, instead.
“I know… it doesn’t even do justice to say I’ve been difficult. I know what I’ve done, and I know how I’ve made you feel. But if my shitty decisions have made you sick…” Nia’s desperate brown eyes studied his face. If she touched it, would it still be hot? “I… don’t know what to do. Do you want me to listen? Or to talk? Just tell me how to fix this, Ari. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know, or I’ll listen to whatever it is you want to say to me. I thought--I really, truly thought I was protecting you, by keeping you in the dark from things I thought you didn’t need to know. I was wrong--and Somath’s correct. I didn’t realize what it was doing to you because I’ve been too focused on myself, and not even for any of the right reasons.”
Nia adjusted her position on the cool, stone floor, and removed her last purchase of the day, still wrapped in leather, from her pocket. It was a gift, intended for Ari, but she wouldn’t risk cheapening her sincerity at such a fragile moment. She set the wrapped leather aside on the table, but otherwise drew no more attention to it, and shifted her weight to her other knee. “I’m not asking for you to forgive me; I’m not that vapid. But I want… I just hope… Will you give me the chance to earn it? Your forgiveness? Please…” Nia rested one hand atop his knee, and rested her forehead against her arm. “I don’t even know where to begin; but I want to try. I know my promises aren’t worth shit--Somath’s not wrong about that. But I fucked up, and I mean it when I say I’ll do anything to fix what I’ve broken. Just… tell me what it will take.”
“You made that?” Caris echoed Alster’s surprise, and against his better judgement, he looked up from his plate to turn his attention to Sylvie’s gown. Did he regret it? Absolutely, from the moment he felt the heat in his face travel all the way down his neck. The young King quickly looked away again and drew a breath to steady himself. “Doesn’t look amateur to me.”
“Your Majesty, are you quite well?” Unsure as to what she should attribute the King’s flushed features--be it illness or his proximity to Sylvie--Elespeth couldn’t help but ask (if for no other reason than to give the poor young man an out.) “I understand you’ve been fighting a fever, of late. Should you exhaust your personal physician’s recommendations, Alster has been studying as a healer for some time now. Please don’t hesitate to reach out if we can be of help in any way.”
If only there was any help for my current problem… “Much appreciated, Mrs. Rigas.” The Eyraillian King cleared his throat. “And very perceptive of you, Miss Canaveris. I suppose I’ve already betrayed the fact I have positively no artistic inclination, at this point, to have overlooked what my own kingdom has to offer.” He even managed to smile a little; it was easier to maintain the illusion of composure so long as his eyes weren’t drawn to Sylvie’s plunging neckline. What mattered now was that he knew what mattered to her. It was a tall order, with a lot of guess work left to consider, but it was a start. Enough to be sure he would have something for Sylvie on her birthday.
“There are no laws in Eyraille that prohibit speaking in poetry. So long as you recognize I sadly might not have a clue as to what you’re saying.” Caris toyed with one of the sapphire studs that adorned his earlobes, before realizing too late it drew more unwanted attention than he desired. This wasn’t fair; he had never been known to exhibit nervous tells. Yet suddenly, when appearances mattered, he was a mess; and the worst of it was, he had a feeling Sylvie was well aware.
And everyone else just thought he was delirious out of his mind.
“Make no mistake, having never visited Stella D’Mare myself, it is a privilege to share my table and home with native D’Marians.” He went on, unaware--as he should be--of Elespeth’s origins. “What do you miss about it? What is important for an outsider like me to know? There is only so much I can glean from maps and books.” In a desperate attempt to get through the remainder of this meal with his composure intact, Caris opened the question to all three of his guests. The more they talked, the less he would be required to, and the more people he had to focus on, the less it would come across as rude that he pointedly couldn’t look at Sylvie.
Shopping with a mad wolf who couldn’t walk the streets without checking the cracks for roadways into oblivion and a jilted Master Alchemist was an awkward experience for Tivia. It was made all the more strained to pretend, at least on her part, that nothing happened between them the previous day. Nia, on the other hand, exuded enthusiasm for their venture into the markets. Perhaps she was really that simple, or easily distracted, but she genuinely looked forward to the day’s events, regardless of the company she kept. Tivia half-wondered if it had anything to do with the argument that no doubt occurred between her and Ari, and finding an outlet of escape, damning the crowd she chose, as long as it provided a space to run. Tivia was no bastion of comfort, even on a good day. Hadwin’s presence helped by virtue of the friendship he and Nia shared, but the difference was too incremental to matter, especially when the indisputable fact remained: Nia is using me as a distraction, and I don’t like it.
Then again, what did Tivia like? What did she enjoy? Someone of her age or younger, and of a certain persuasion, should enjoy mindless shopping with a few companions, a mundane and normal moment in a life defined as anything but ordinary. But nothing was normal about this set-up. Not normal, natural, or earned. Like her upcoming performance in Ilandria, it was a front, patently false, and therefore, not worth maintaining beyond the necessary gesticulations and pre-planned phrases to sell the illusion. As a celestial mage, Tivia excelled at glamour; concealment spells, flashy imagery, fabricated backdrops, and misdirection. What if her natural talents preordained her for the forgery of an existence she’d be forced to live?
This is it, she thought bleakly. This is what I have to look forward to in this life, in this world, from now until death. I should consider myself grateful I found a brief reprieve in that other place beyond the stars, undeserving as it was to be sucked by the marrow due to my selfish interference. To be relevant, to be loved…I would kill everyone in my path just to covet a spark. With my expensive tastes in mind, of course every day is a bloody funeral.
Because she didn’t see the point in fostering friendly relations, she stayed silent amid Nia’s dog-like gallumphing, while the actual canine in their retinue kept his head down, concentrating on his every step. It didn’t stop him from sidling close to Nia, on occasion grabbing her arm (for self-preservation reasons) and having her ear while he was close.
“Y’know, for being away for what, a decade, you’ve got a pretty solid mental map of the place.” They bobbed down the main thoroughfare, scouring for textiles and tailor shops. “I’ve been out of my homeland same length of time as you and I’d sooner burn down the place than figure out where the fucking haberdasher’s setting up shop. …Too soon,” he sighed, as if recalling the forest he set ablaze in Galeyn. Contrary to Nia, who the citizens found guilty for her involvement with the witch Locque, the majority of the hermit kingdom felt bad for the faoladh out of touch with reality and hadn’t punished him for the inadvertent arson. It didn’t hurt that he probably fucked half the kingdom. “Point is, Dun Gealach’s impossible to navigate. No one in Collcreagh understands how to lay down a city. It’s in a constant state of renovation because someone had a dream that they needed to plant trees in the city center so the fae wouldn’t curse them, and everyone is either too drunk off their arses to disagree or they think it’s the best idea since the time someone put a goat on a pedestal and named it king for a day. One good thing about Mollengardian occupation is they’re probably introducing the good people of Collcreagh to the concept of structure. …Nah, who am I kidding?” He snorted. “It’s No Man’s Land out there. Nothing but a haven for pirates and shepherds and skirmishes. Mollengard doesn’t have a prayer taming that hunk of useless rock.”
Tivia tuned them out and focused on the goal beyond their ill-matched romp through the streets. The sooner she found a few decent gowns, the sooner they could leave. Fortunately, Nia was good as her word and introduced Tivia to a few tailors of renown, selecting a few timeless Ilandrian fashions that also showcased her ties to Stella D’Mare. Oceanic dyes of a depth able to appeal to one who only preferred black, including some of a lighter, but tolerable shade. In the end, she’d chosen a small wardrobe of jewel tones and twilight tones, mostly ranging from ultramarine, to cerulean, and to deep, sunset purple. She begrudgingly accepted Nia’s money, not because she wanted to be in the Master Alchemist’s debt, but so as not to create a fuss. If shopping with an inferior stand-in for her sisters brought Nia unbridled joy, then Tivia wasn’t cruel enough to stamp on someone’s good time. Despite everyone’s collective mythology spouting the same conclusions, the elusive and mysterious star seer had no interest in kicking someone while they were down.
Nia went off on her own for some time, but when she returned, the pep had finally exsanguinated from her skin, such that she appeared paler, eyes overbright and moist. Without prompting, she went on to explain her run-in, ensuring the old woman with the wooden prosthetic hands was well looked after by her grandsons. Tivia had no response. She already knew about the surrendered Master Alchemists who for their cooperation and compliance had lost their hands. No need to remark upon the obvious.
Hadwin, however, whose uncanny wolf eyes scryed something fearful locked away in Nia’s unwavering smile, looped his arm through hers once more and responded to her brave facade with one of his own, even when it was clear to Tivia how he stooped over with mental and physical exhaustion. “Don’t wanna leave yet, huh? Well how about you show me where these law-abiding citizens go for a good time? Where’s the public houses? Inquiring minds and all that.” He nudged her elbow with a wink. “Not to partake—oh no, I’ll fall through the floorboards for sure, but I wanna see how people have fun around here. Maybe it’ll rub off on me, and then we’ll go one day, you and me. Since you owe me a drink and all.”
And so they toured the finer drinking establishments around town until Hadwin could no longer stave off his exhaustion. Slinging his bundle of new clothes over his shoulder, he admitted defeat, and Nia finally conceded, trudging back to the palace before the sun fully sequestered and shrouded the land with pre-wintery chills their autumnal cloaks were unequipped to handle.
No sooner did Tivia cast a concealing shroud over Hadwin than they encountered Prince Safir in the hallway of the palace. “Your grace. Ah, yes. I’ll step out of your way.” With a mere head dip of farewell, Tivia—Hadwin close behind—took their leave of Nia, both star-seer and fear-reader intuitively aware of the “punishment” that awaited her.
The onset of fever welcomed Ari to sleep that evening and persisted throughout the night, along with aches in his joints and a pesky chill requiring him to bundle tight in bed, despite the flush that cloyed and raked across his sun-baked skin. If the fever and its constituents were the only culprits behind his sleepless night, perhaps he would have found a way to manage through the discomfort, but the racing of his heart and the ongoing sting of earlier events prevented the very concept of rest. Knowing the futility of his attempts, he rose from bed well before dawn, splashed cooling water on his face from the basin, and dressed as though he suffered no affliction, which for Ari was the standard fare of behavior during the decades of his curse: living with it as normal. If these new flare-up symptoms were to become his new normal in exchange for continued life, he would cope with the changes, unruffled and unbothered.
Unfortunately, Prince Safir didn’t see things through his lens.
After a short exchange with human-form Hadwin, to whom he lent a set of clothes, he sneaked out of the suite to avoid an encounter with Nia, and headed straight for the Prince’s study, expecting a warmer welcome than what he received.
“Your Grace, you needn’t worry about my present condition,” he sighed, not even bothering to mop the excess residue on his forehead for fear of making his fever too obvious. Or debilitating. “I am ready to work on your behalf. As is, we’ve precious little time as is to implement a campaign strategy before your coronation. Please do not obsess over inconsequentials. I’ve spent the majority of my life under the constant shroud of an insidious malady. If I rested every time the symptoms manifested, I would have been chronically bedridden.”
However, he had failed to convince Safir, who prematurely adjourned their meeting and insisted he receive immediate attention. Ari about sputtered his annoyances aloud, but held his tongue as the door opened to reveal Somath, who shared his own spate of concerns involving Nia’s newfound disappearance. Hardly able to contain his disdain, Ari revealed her ill-bred plans to scour the market with Tivia for suitable attire to debut into Ilandrian society as Safir’s inamorata. “At the very least, I thought she would wait for your arrival before scurrying off yonder, but at this stage, I am not in the slightest surprised at her dismissal of good sense. So on that note,” he rose from his chair, gripping the back for support, “I consent to your professional assessment. I shall await your arrival in my chambers.”
It came as no surprise when Somath determined nothing physically the matter to cause Ari’s frequent aches and ague, save for a telltale sign which he also suspected was true. “I am in agreement. My previous affliction created flare-ups during times of stress. Typically, I use my art as an outlet. Sculpting can become an intense activity if one focuses on speed and power to direct one’s strokes at the stone, though it is more a hacking away than a mindful chisel and the results are always grotesque. The satisfaction in their subsequent destruction is often a powerful remedy. Unfortunately, it is not a portable activity, and my workshop is afar.” Not to mention, he thought, his inability to formulate anything other than the face of the fair Prince of Blades.
What Somath suggested in lieu of sculpting gave him pause. “I was direct with her. Last night, that is. I typically skirt around the issues, I will admit, and I realize we have much to resolve, but…” he leaned forward in his chair and wrung his hands together. “My anger cannot possibly be productive as it is. I daresay it will do further damage in its raw state. I am not ready to confront her so soon after last night. And yet…I tire of patience. Of pretending I am unaffected by her ceaseless antics. I,” he ran a hand through his hair, the bun he affixed becoming undone from the slick, fever-damp weight, “cannot operate under this added strain, not if the source of my strain shares my bed. You are correct. Enough is enough.”
Early that evening, Nia arrived, flanked by Safir to prevent her escape. With no exit point in sight, she had no choice but to face, unwittingly, her father—and him. Having taken a tonic provided by the physician, Ari felt marginally better, his fever at a manageable bake, joints moveable and less compressed and riddled with pain. But in anticipation of confronting Nia, the familiar prickle encroached in his hands and his shoulders, and an annoying pressure drilled near his temples. To ignore the sensations, he focused on Somath, impressed with how he scolded and took control—much like a father. He better conveyed what Ari wouldn’t dare say. Not that he was entirely averse to difficult conversations. As a leader, he hosted them at length, and had even shamed his fellow D’Marians whenever they acted like an unruly pack of dogs. But this was different. Nia was his equal in partnership. His savior, champion, and cherished companion. Since returning to Ilandria, slew after slew of difficulties had befallen her. She needed support, yes, and at the same time…she needed guidance. Sometimes guidance spoke a rough language, and it always spoke the truth, in honesty. By Ilandria’s precepts, Ari would go against Canaveris customs by choosing the latter.
Somath and Safir had since evacuated the apartment, leaving the two alone to evaluate the fragile ground upon which they tread. Knowing she would be the first to crack, he said nothing at first, expecting her to inundate him with her desperate apologies and floods of well-intentioned promises to do better. What came out of her mouth wasn’t far off the mark. Excuses, primarily, but he couldn’t blame her for the attempt at reconciliation.
“I ought to spare you an explanation. Tit for tat, as they say.” He gave her a bleak stare, his mouth turned to a frown. “Alas, I am not so petty. I am ill, yes, and it does not seem I will improve unless we understand each other—or, at the very least, open the channels for a dialogue. So I shall communicate with you.”
“First off, I do not need your protection.” He sat tall in his chair, despite the cramping in his shoulders. “I am the Lord of Stella D’Mare, the head of my family, a decades-long survivor of the insidious curse that nearly ended my life. I traveled the exodus of my people on a persistently petrified leg. I’ve learned to move through the world without the full function of my hands, when the need arose. Perhaps I did not thrive under those conditions, but I functioned well enough before you entered my life. I am an adult; not a child in need of coddling. My mother still treats me as such; I do not need another. If I could not handle you, then I would have written us off long ago. What I cannot handle is your assumption that you are making decisions on my behalf, without me. Your actions suggest that I am not trusted to belong beside you. I thought we had moved past our doubts. Nia…” his hard eyes softened, and with it, the lines of his aggravation. Now, he looked ready for a long convalescence in the Night Garden. “Do you still view me as a traitor?” Considering how Nia treated Safir as one, despite his having nothing to do with King Ullir’s kill order, it made sense for her to bear some residual resentment for him, as well.
Before she could devise a response, he continued. “In the interest of honesty, I will confess I spoke with Prince Safir the night before his father’s funeral and revealed that you would be in attendance. Based on our prior run-in with Somath, I had the sense that nothing dire would occur as a consequence. All the same, I anticipated my actions would betray your trust, so I kept silent. Perhaps instinctively, or subconsciously, you understood I could not be relied upon as your confidante or otherwise. I will bear partial responsibility for what has occurred these past few days, for if you truly viewed me as a steadfast partner, then you would not have ventured to your childhood home by yourself.”
His gaze flitted to the leather-bound object she placed on the table, but he made no inquiry about its purpose. “I cannot force you to reveal your secrets, or to share your experiences in other earthly realms. Nor do I have the solution you seek. All I can do is my best to fix what is broken. That is why, to show my unerring faith in you, which I hope in turn will not be betrayed, I will obtain the barrow soil, and ask no questions. In return, what I ask from you…is to include me. Allow me near. Let me help you.” For the first time since he’d spoken to her that evening, he met her gaze. Whether from the fever or the heavy topics they discussed, his own eyes glistened with the onset of tears. “It is an isolating thing, to watch you suffer from afar. I am alone here, Nia. As are you, I expect. Might we keep each other company?” He extended one hand for her to take. It quaked from the strain of fighting against muscle weakness, but he held it firm.
“I have settled many fevers in my brief stint as healer, your Majesty,” Alster said, corroborating Elespeth’s claim. “You need only say the word and I’ll be at your door in moments.”
Sylvie raised an eyebrow at Caris, a subtle twitch, but it revealed her skepticism as to the true impacts of his re-emerging ‘fever.’ “Oh yes, your Majesty, if you are still fighting fits of pique, do take it easy and rest.” A devilish smirk pulled up one side of her face. She raised a goblet of wine and took a victorious sip. “It is nice of you to praise my work, however. It became a lifelong pursuit of mine after having to constantly mend my brothers’ torn trousers and shirt sleeves. To stave off boredom and rote repetition, one must turn to creative solutions before long.”
“Thank you for hosting us as per usual, your Majesty.” Alster followed suit with Sylvie, though for different reasons, and raised a goblet in the king’s honor. “I might be a native D’Marian, but I spent much of my life abroad as a diplomat’s son, so I am not the best authority on answering your questions. Sylvie is a Canaveris. A steward of the land is best suited to the task.”
“Oh not at all,” she waved her hand dismissively. “What Lord Rigas means by ‘steward of the land’ is that the Canaveris line settled the area first. It is said we first arrived by boat from the Fallow Islands, but no one can quite place the approximate year. It was in our keeping for at least two thousand years before Rigel Rigas and his retinue implanted an otherworldly serpentine beast underground and stationed himself as ‘protector’ in our stead. At least, that is how the Canaveris version of the story goes,” she cast a quick apology to Alster. “The Rigases and Canaverises have a long and storied rivalry. Thousands of years of built-up resentment based on this one inciting event from the past. On the Rigas front, one would argue that it was Rigel’s responsibility to remain on the land and ensure the beast would remain subdued and never rise as a threat to the denizens of Stella D’Mare. Rigel’s successor succeeded in the task,” she smiled at Alster, who looked away, modestly, “so I would say our rivalry is at last coming to a close. To an extent. All of this is to say—that is our history in a nutshell, an important moment in our ancient timeline. On the surface, at least in its heyday, Stella D’Mare appears the picture of insincere beauty. Everything looks a little too perfect, a little too in-line, angled just so. It is a front in that sense, but if you dig under the surface, you will find that its imperfections are many, but many also are its traditions and culture, which pulse with life. You will seldom find a more vibrant city, but the same can be said for most anywhere, if you acquaint yourself with the people. That said…” her eyes went out of focus as she thought about the first part of his question. What do you miss about it?
“I miss my home. The Canaveris estate. The Rigases might have crowned the summit and boasted the most impressive vistas, but we owned the beaches, the sea caves, and the crags that towered dramatically over the inlet. I would frequently wake to the sound of seal pups barking on the rocks,” she closed her eyes, smiling at the memory. “I am certain much has been destroyed in the tidal wave that wiped out some of Mollengard’s fleet. We evacuated the area well before we could assess the damage, so it is hard to say. In all this time, we survived our many conquerors never having left or surrendered the land. As one would expect, a few Canaverises stayed behind, living by that principle. Many others traveled to the Fallow Islands with our distant relations. To be honest, I do not know what possessed Uncle Ari to join the grueling wagon train to Braighdath, and then to Galeyn, but as his family, we followed. I suppose he believed we stood a greater chance at survival if we remained with the majority of D’Marians, even if it meant swallowing his pride to obey his most pernicious rival at the time.” She opened her eyes and made a face at Alster, who smiled and shrugged, his steel prosthesis glinting under the chandelier light.
“Guilty. Yes, I was Lord of Stella D’Mare at the time, as you know, your Majesty, though I later abdicated the position in favor of Lord Canaveris. In brief, it is a long, convoluted, and complicated story, but it is safe to say that Rigases and Canaverises have found common ground. And if we can help secure victory here in Eyraille, we, too, will be much closer to reclaiming our homeland from Mollengardian occupation.”
If only…Sylvie thought drearily, staring into her goblet. If only it were that simple…
At the possibility Ari might remain tight-lipped about his health, as some form of spite to reciprocate her own infuriating secrecy, Nia’s frown deepened, along with the crease between her eyebrows. Okay, okay, I get it! She wanted to say, if it wasn’t already clear she was ready and willing to concede and give Ari whatever he wanted to smooth things over. Fortunately, the Canaveris Lord had a far more level head (and temperament) than her, and it wasn’t difficult to see how Ilandria--or more specifically, her return to Ilandria--was taking a toll on his well-being.
If she was responsible for this, then it was up to her to remedy it.
For someone who was apt to ramble without meaning, sitting back and opening herself to just listening for the sake of understanding (and without the intent to formulate a reply) was a skill the Master Alchemist realized she needed to practice more often. Sitting back on her knees, she gave Ari space to explain, and get his feelings and thoughts off his chest. Perhaps it was that he’d already sufficiently vented the night before, or perhaps Somath had spared enough fury and words for the both of them, but contrary to the royal physician, his words were direct, but calm. Furthermore, it shed light on just how and why her abject secrecy bothered him, and the toll it took on him. It hadn’t occurred to her that her desire to keep him in the dark as a means to protect him could come across as patronizing. He was right: he’d already walked the plains of this world for far longer than she had, all the while shouldering a curse without anyone’s help. Who was she to think he needed protecting?
And neither had it occurred to her how he might rationalize her behaviour. It had been a while since she’d thought about his role in delivering her to Galeynian authorities, at a point when she had been particularly vulnerable. Indeed, there had been a time when she was certain they were over indefinitely as a result. A time when she’d truly thought there was nothing he could do or say to earn her forgiveness. Ultimately, she’d come to realize she couldn’t hold a grudge against him or his family, because there was just no denying her feelings for him. Since that night he’d taken her into Galeyn’s Night Garden and showed her those colourful fireflies, knowing they had long been a personal symbol of hope, she’d been certain he was the one person she needed in her life, above all else. Nothing he’d said or done, then or now, had ever given her pause to reconsider or look back.
“Of course not!” Nia shook her head. Surprise and confusion were written in her features. “I trust you more than anyone, Ari. You’re not a traitor in my eyes. I know you’ve never wanted anything bad to happen to me, and I realize now that back in Galeyn, your hands were tied when you had to turn me over. If I’d really considered you a traitor, all this time, do you really think I’d have gone to such lengths to save your life? If I wasn’t sure I could trust you?”
If he’d spoken with Safir long before she had, and revealed her presence in Ilandria to the Prince of Blades, then she believed he’d trusted nothing would befall her as a result. Her frustration with his ‘fascination’ with Safir had simply been an artefact of the simmering anger that had blossomed in her gut upon setting foot in Ilandria for the first time in over a decade. She’d never actually been angry at Ari; truth be told, she wasn’t sure she’d actually ever been angry with Somath or Safir, either. But with Ullir Vallaincourt dead--the only person who truly deserved her anger--where else did it have to go? It had crossed her mind that perhaps, in light of the late King’s death, she’d actually turned that anger on herself, in such a way that she ended up projecting it on everyone else who didn’t deserve to bear it.
Now, as a result, all Ari could think about was how he went wrong, once upon a time, trapped in a situation that had been completely beyond his control. To the extent that he was determined to set foot in Mollengard-occupied Stella D’Mare, just to prove a point. He didn’t want her protection… But if she’d led him to believe that the only way they could reconcile was for him to pursue such a dangerous task, and she couldn’t rightly deny him, then it was up to her to dissuade him.
Nia took his beringed hand in both of hers. It was warmer than her own by comparison, considering she had been outside not too long ago, but she wondered how much of it resulted from his fever. The urge to draw some of that heat out of his body with her own practiced hands was difficult to quell, but he was too observant to do it on the sly, and she didn’t want to give him yet another reason to be angry with her for overlooking her own health. “You have my trust already. But I don’t think I deserve yours.” She pressed the back of Ari’s hand to her cool cheek and closed her eyes. He was giving her an out, an opportunity to keep her secrets when that was far from what she deserved. Yesterday, she’d certainly have accepted that offer without question. But seeing the toll her secrets had already taken on him… This clemency was one she didn’t rightly deserve.
“I was ready to give up. At Alster and Elespeth’s wedding. Because I’d realized I’d become too comfortable being with you, when our romantic involvement still hadn’t been made public. Everything between us was so carefully concealed… and I didn’t know how much longer I could like that.” She breathed out slowly. Each word felt heavy on her tongue, but he deserved to hear them. “It occurred to me that nothing I did could ever amount to getting myself out of hot water in Galeyn. Not even Chara or Queen Lilica could tell me exactly what I had to do to finally clear my name. So, in line with my penchant for making shitty and impulsive decisions, I got drunk and went to the Night Garden. And I can’t tell you what happened next; I must have blacked out near a stream. But when I woke up… I wasn’t in the Galeyn that I knew. You were there, Alster and Elespeth were there--even Osric was there. He was alive! But Hadwin wasn’t there, and Galeyn--that Galen--didn’t despise me. By some fucked up means of Night Garden magic, I’d managed to switch places with some other, alternate Nia. A Nia who hadn’t fucked up nearly as much as I had. I’d traded places with a Nia that was a hero in Galeyn, and was engaged to the man she loved… whose life she’d already saved. This was the Nia I wish I’d been, and while it crossed my mind that maybe, just maybe, I could stay there…” Her gaze trailed to the cool floor where she still sat. “I didn’t deserve any of it. And I’m lucky Tivia was able to bring me back in time to save your life. Especially since my disappearance pushed you over the edge in the first place.”
A slow, sad smile played on her lips at the bitter memory that she’d nearly been responsible for Ari’s death. It was something she’d never forget, a burden she’d shoulder from now to the end of her life, however long that ended up being. “I don’t know if you ever met that Nia, but she’s the Nia you’ve always deserved, Ari. She’s everything I’ve failed to become. Unfortunately, since she’d already spent her energy saving another version of you, she wouldn’t have been able to perform that feat a second time. I think about her a lot… And I can only assume she found the answer to something I’ve been wondering for a long time.”
Nia hesitated a beat. Somehow, the reason behind her deal with Tivia, and the recipe that had brought her to tears, was the more difficult topic to discuss. Perhaps she was afraid to say it out loud, in the event that giving her hope a voice would give the universe a reason to nullify it, just as it had done at every turn in the past. Conversely, it might also make Ari more determined to risk his health and safety, traveling to Stella D’Mare for the recipe’s sake. Regardless, he was right: if it involved his family and his family’s rightful home, he deserved to know. “I’ve been entertaining the idea of what it really takes for us to be together for a lifetime. To my understanding, your longevity is at least twice my own; a lifetime to me isn’t the same as a lifetime to you. So I wondered how I might find a way to match yours, step for step. Then, Tivia came to me, promising a solution if I made her that hearing apparatus. And me, being impulsive as I am, didn’t even think to question what her method of achieving this feat might require…” The Master Alchemist exhaled slowly, trying not to let the disappointment from last night infiltrate her senses again.
“I was stupid to think it could be so simple. And I know I can’t stop you from returning to Stella D’Mare if you want to. We’re not equals, Ari: you’re a political leader and well-respected figurehead. What you say, goes. You could very well forbid me to travel to Stella D’Mare, but not the other way around. So all I can really do is tell you that I’d rather find another way to be with you for your measure of forever than to risk everything we’ve already fought for by placing either one of us in unnecessary danger. I’m not giving up; I’m just reconsidering my plan of action. Does that make sense?” Though still afraid to meet his eyes, knowing how much she’d already angered and disappointed him, Nia finally looked up from her place on the floor, in front of his armchair. Still she wouldn’t stand over him, but neither did she deserve to sit at his height as an equal. Through her actions, her inactions, and her grave insult to the Lord of Stella D’Mare by way of deliberate secrecy and purposeful omission of details, she had already placed herself beneath him.
“I didn’t travel to Ardane Manor alone because I didn’t trust you, Ari. And I didn’t keep these secrets because I thought you didn’t deserve to know. I just felt as though… you’ve been through enough. You don’t deserve to suffer as a result of my crappy decisions. But it is as you’ve said: you don’t need protecting. You’re more than capable of shouldering your own agency, with or without me. I was wrong to make you feel lesser. I mean what I said--you don’t have to forgive me. I haven’t earned that, yet. But I’ll start by promising to stop excluding you from my ventures and intentions…” Nia released his hand and shifted on her knees again. The cold, hard floor was uncomfortable against her bones, but standing up just yet didn’t feel right. “Just tell me what else I need to do to make amends for hurting you so inadvertently. I’ll make amends with Safir or commit myself to bed rest until Somath decides I’m healthy and stable enough to move… whatever it takes. We’ve come too far for me to watch your health decline again so soon.”
Much to King Caris’ dismay, his master plan to avoid the source of his own discomfort backfired almost immediately. Somehow, at a table full of D’Marians, Elespeth Rigas chose to remain silent, and Alster Rigas delegated all accounts of Stella D’Mare solely to Sylvie. Just when he’d thought the Rigas couple was on his side and willing to alleviate the tension warring inside of him and bringing an uncomfortable flush to his face, they’d just as quickly backed off and forced him to face his problem alone all over again. Had he known Sylvie would dominate the conversation and demand his attention (and in that damned dress), he’d instead have tried to find a reason to excuse himself from this meal early. Now, he found himself trapped.
“Knowing what little I do about the fabled kingdom of Galeyn, I suppose I can assume it does not resemble your home enough to satisfy what you feel you’ve left behind?” Though, Galeyn aside, Eyraille couldn’t be more opposite of Stella D’Mare, with the exception of Mollengard itself. Its climate, weather system, landmarks and surroundings couldn’t compare to the seaspray air or warm and inviting atmosphere of the Canaverises and Rigases lost home. By comparison, Eyraille was cold and dry, and its climate was about as harsh as many of its people. What beauty Sylvie (or anyone, for that matter) could see in his own, mountainous kingdom was still very much lost on the young King. One of his only personal pleasures was taking to the skies on Kalaur: not solely for the thrill of flight, but as his only temporary reprieve from occupying Eyraille’s barely fertile soil. In the sky, he was able to feel apart from his home. It wasn’t that he didn’t love Eyraille in his own way; rather, that love never felt reciprocated.
Aside from his people, who feared, but otherwise invested so little confidence in him, Caris did not awake every morning to soothing sounds or the warm sun. The wind, especially harsh in the winter, was known to wake him up too early, and the sun did little to provide sufficient warmth (save for the small handful of summer months), and instead served to obscure vision for several hours of the day. For most of the year, it rose and set early , as if it were eager to have its job in this kingdom over and done with. He was used to it: it was all he’d ever known, and the only place he’d ever called home, however flawed it might be. But were he a visitor from one of the warmer, southern kingdoms, he certainly wouldn’t have sought an extended stay in the kingdom of wind and mountains, where only the strong were really known to survive.
“I daresay, that is an interesting history of your home. I wish I could say Eyraille’s history measured up in comparison, but… well, there is certainly nothing charming about a kingdom ruled by tyranny for so many generations.” It wasn’t his intent to belittle the damage his father and the Sordes had done to his home; the dining table simply wasn’t an appropriate place to delve into the bloody details. “But unlike Stella D’Mare, Eyraille never had much of a struggle for dominance. There are unsubstantiated theories that, once upon a time, Eyraille and Ilandria were all part of the same empire, yet ultimately divided over investing in substantially different values. In my opinion, your tale of rival families sounds far more entertaining. Apologies for such an abrupt change in subject, but, Alster Rigas,” the young King shifted his attention away from the Canaveris girl, for the sole purpose of giving his fraying nerves a break. “If it isn’t a delicate topic, your arm strikes me as a story in and of itself. Is it a result of D’Marian craftsmanship? Because, if so, D’Marian metallurgists seem as though they could very well show up their proud, Ilandrian counterparts.”
By some grace, Caris managed to make it through the rest of the meal without fumbling or succumbing to his nerves. On the bright side, he’d come away with just the information he needed to begin to put together the best possible semblance of what Sylvie desired most. With the help of his own, personal interior designers (and with consistent input from Alster), he envisioned a room to accommodate her textile creations: one with ample sunlight, and in the theme of the seaside that the Canaveris girl so missed. Following the meal that evening, he personally went through every empty or otherwise unoccupied room in the palace, of which there was no shortage of choice. When he’d taken the throne, his home saw far fewer staff willing to serve him; and when Vega left, fewer still saw any point in putting up with his arrogance. He often wondered why the few guards, serving staff and housekeepers had chosen to stay at all. Perhaps it was the only position they had ever known.
Later that night, he’d finally decided on a spare bedroom that hadn’t seen use in at least half a decade. It wasn’t the biggest, but sported a wall of tall windows with enough daylight to rival his own bedroom, and in removing the bed and washing station, there would be ample room for whatever supplies a textile artist could desire. He could already envision a spinning wheel and a loom, positioned at just the right angle to make room for a collection of threads, fabrics, needles, buttons, and whatever other decals she fancied.
As early as the next morning, Caris summoned a handful of consultants to begin to brainstorm how it might all come together. After having the furniture removed and getting a better idea of how to transform the space for its new purpose, he had to go over the logistics of modifying the fireplace and hearth to make it safer around a room that might ultimately be full of flammable items.
Consequently, the King of Eyraille forsook the majority of his typical duties that morning in favour of getting a headstart on planning. Since staff and subjects tended to seek an audience with him well after the sun was high in the sky, he didn’t expect this side-venture to attract much attention, or any suspicion. Wasn’t it just his luck that the one person who should not be laying eyes upon this room was the one person who happened to be looking for him, just before lunch.
“...Sylvie!” No sooner did he step out of the soon-to-be textile workshop that he came face to face with the Canaveris girl. Without thinking, he took her by the shoulders and spun her around to face the other direction. Even with the room currently stripped down to its bare bones, he hoped she hadn’t seen anything that would come across as suspicious. “What are you doing here?! I thought you’d intended to assess the potential for those underground safety tunnels. How did you even find me?” After guiding her several paces down the corridor, it occurred to him too late that he was touching her, and suddenly, began to feel his nerves fray anew. Her attire today at least didn’t invite quite as much attention as it had the night before, at the very least, but it didn’t seem to matter. Out of nowhere, this foreign girl had amassed the power to make his body temperature rise… and he hated it.
Evidently, all she sought was permission for a slightly bigger Eyraillian entourage to accompany her and help determine the best possible location for these tunnels, and he hadn’t been in his office or council chamber. As a result, she’d asked around for his whereabouts. It was a perfectly sound request that made sense, on her part--and frankly, one that he should have thought of beforehand. “...yes. Of course; consider it done. I’ll have my staff send for whoever and whatever you need immediately.” The young king released her shoulders and scrambled to maintain professional composure, folding his arms across his chest. He was already feeling that aggravating, familiar heat build beneath his white linen tunic.
“If there is anything else you need to discuss, Miss Canaveris, I ask that you schedule an official audience with me this evening. I’m afraid I am otherwise occupied for the duration of this afternoon’s daylight hours.” Yes: his study. A place of business, where he felt more in power than he did sitting upon his throne. No one could walk in without an appointment, and therefore, no one could take him off guard. That was perhaps the only place he could safely have a conversation with the D’Marian earth mage without feeling as though he was coming apart at the seams.
So long as he managed to avoid finding her in any more casual settings, from now until… well, forever (or at least until her birthday), he could avoid making excuses for why his fever appeared to sporadically return, whenever she was near.
