Unable to match Nia’s fury for a situation that, like with most kingdom politics, didn’t affect or impact him, Hadwin spat out a few gritted curses to show his solidarity. “Lady Genocide’s coming back to this spot in two days. I’ll keep tabs on her. She’s tough to crack, but if she won’t show her yolk, her supporters might. Easy to find a bad egg among the crate. You just have to follow the trail of rot.” He clamped her shoulder, a sudden clap of pressure to startle her from the downward spiral of her thoughts. “Hey. We’ll figure this out. We’re a creative, resourceful lot. When we get back to the palace, we’ll draft up a plan, probably have one of those dreadfully boring council meetings of Galeyn’s ilk, and go from there. Between you and me, though—I don’t think blind faith in justice is gonna save the day for your would-be king. He needs to fucking drown this bitch. But in the meantime–”
Having anticipated Nia’s decision to head to the structural eyesore who had no choice but to front as a tavern, Hadwin said nothing, allowing her to take the lead. They parked the steed on the hidden and less fetid side of a piss-soaked alleyway (it surprised nobody that there was nowhere to stable the mare) and entered through a half-crumbling entrance, the door too distorted to fit into the jamb and hanging slanted off its hinges. With half the clientele face-down on the water-stained tables and the other too sloshed off stale ale to exercise restraint and coherence, Nia and Hadwin eased into the main room without notice or care.
“Damn,” he muttered, “I’ve seen better conditions in Tulrahan–a shantytown by fucking definition. Folks there were always hankering for a fix–and a pop or two in between the legs–but their spirits weren’t ground into ashes and dust. Not like here.”
But he hadn’t come to lament the shambling corpses of the living dead. His purpose sharpened when a familiar smell wafted toward his nose, its mixture best described as astringent and sleep. His periphery caught a dark shape floating up the stairs. At first, he hesitated. Accustomed to shades and haunts crouched in the corners, he dismissed their appearance as so commonplace, he’d stopped reacting to their frequent visitations. He changed his tune when Nia, who stared straight at the wraith, chased it up the stairs. Unless his delusions were contagious and Nia had succumbed to the disease, he assumed the shadow was not a ghost, and joined the hunt. He cringed when they creaked and groaned over the elderly floorboards. Who needed a guard on duty when the pressure-sensitive wood not only deterred assassins, but probably took out an ankle with a misstep through the rot-thinned planks?
Sacrificing care for efficiency, they sped (abeit with a galumphing canter) for the door at the end of the hallway and flung it open to…darkness. Hadwin faltered. Did he yet again hallucinate an entire scene? Nia seemed just as puzzled. “Either we’ve both gone mad or it look’s like our lad’s been taking lessons in puppetry and illusion.” He projected his voice, much like a ventriloquist. “Care to shadow-box, Izzy?”
Sure enough, their quarry “materialized,” gaunt and pale as a driftwood tree, bleached to bones by the tide. “Damn,” he sucked in a breath, “did you take up necromancy? Cuz you sure look like you died and brought yourself back to life. You ought to have consulted your tear brother, cuz you could’ve cast the resurrection spell a mite sooner. I can smell the worms wriggling under your skin. I’m shocked you’re even edible, with your new shadowy aesthetic and all. Figure you’d taste like coal smoke.”
It came as no surprise to either Hadwin nor Nia that Isidor did not share their eagerness for a reunion.
“Hm.” In response to Isidor’s request for their quick and dutiful exit, Hadwin kicked the door closed, leaving the three–and whatever shadows lingered–in the cramped room. “You know,” he ignored Isidor’s moratorium on all conversation, “I’d originally come all this way to bend your scrawny arse in three different directions. Seeing you broken and battered under my foot exceeds whatever cheap explanations you’d deign to tell me by a mile. So I’m glad we’re in accordance. But,” he steepled his fingers and bent them at an angle, satisfied with the chorus of cracks and pops, “I changed my mind, and it only took three seconds of looking at your sour mug to decide. You’re plenty pathetic as you are–and I’ve seen my reflection–but I think you’ve got me beat.”
He scrutinized the skeletal figure as if waiting for him to diminish into ashes. “Not that you care, but Tivia didn’t rat you out. She stayed tight-lipped on the subject of her despair, regardless of who asked. No matter, though. Not much effort to figure it out on my own. Did anyone ever tell you that love and fear are bedmates?” He raised his eyebrows, but elicited no reaction from the man who stopped living, and hence, stopped caring. “Thought you’d like to know the tumble your old flame took after your fraught little reunion. She fell apart in the center of the marketplace, a weeping mass of entrails and pus and a subject of quiet ridicule. Oh how they pointed and whispered. A real spectacle. Tivia Rigas—reduced to a whimpering puddle. Now, I’m no expert, but if I had to wager a guess, she collapsed from a broken heart. None of my business what you cats discussed to get you clawing at each other’s throats. But you’re a fool if you think your antics don’t concern me—on one point in particular.”
By now, he’d forgotten Nia in the room in favor of his agenda. The ultimate reason he sought Isidor in the back end of Ilandria. He steadied his hands at his sides, commanding them not to squeeze into fists as Tivia’s words from earlier echoed in his thoughts. How does it feel to have him sweep in and claim blood ties to his sister? They’re family, and you’ll never be, and the truth eats you up inside. …He doesn’t deserve to be her hero. Despite his initial mastery of control, his fingers hardened into fists.
“Whatever you’re doing for Teselin, if you’re doing something for her,” he chuckled to ease the tension. His tension. “...Don’t fuck it up, because if you do, and you send her careening into a worse state,” he took one step forward, letting the hostility radiate from his skin like furious suns, “I don’t care what unholy deals I have to make, what gods or devils I have to petition, but I’ll put you where she is now, and make sure every individual particle of yours screams for a death you’ll never receive. You think you’ve reached the annals of despair now? I’ll crack you wide open and feast on your downfall like a luscious steak.” Leaning so close he could have bitten off Isidor’s nose, he split into his most menacing grin and landed a faux-playful punch on his shoulder, pretending, imagining, that he swung with full, annihilating force and launched him out the window. “If you see Rolf, tell him I said ‘Hi. He got reassigned to West Mollengard, so I heard, but I’m glad to make the trip and fuck his bones clean off his skin again. Who knows? I could be your neighbor.” He flung the door open wide, the light from the half-broken lanterns in the hallway harsh compared to the thicket of shadows Isidor had layered around him. “I leave the floor to you, Nia. Ta-ta!” And he stormed out of the room.
Sylvie, wilting in her seat, shot to ramrod attention like a soldier who’d been caught sleeping while on duty. “That is absolutely not the case. The studio is a wonder and I cherish it, I really do. I’ve no complaints. The room is structurally sound and equipped with everything I could ask for, and more.” She painted over her ostensible exhaustion with a fresh layer of cheer and gratitude. “Forgive my complaint. I was simply explaining my less-than-stellar condition. The fault is all mine, I’m afraid. I should have known better than to work with volatile elements in an unventilated space, but as I was only producing enough for an experimental swatch, I did not think the fumes would be so virulent in its opposition to my lungs. Lesson learned, I suppose,” she said with a tired smile.
Even the auspices of oblivion could not immure her from Caris’ poorly worded comment. She blinked up at him, her smile turning wolfish. “Oh, to accompany me to bed. There would be no space for you, I fear. Myr is a growing cat and requires his stretching space. As it stands, he seeks to push me off the bed and claim it as his own, in entire. It seems we must settle with the physician.” She accepted his outstretched hand and graduated from her seat. Once steady, she nodded at Caris to take the lead, as her palace wayfinding skills were underdeveloped at best. In her current, foggy-brained myopia, she didn’t know how she succeeded in locating Caris’ study.
Pausing a moment to catch her breath, which had shortened to a yarn-clipping’s length of lung power, she proceeded out the door with her royal guardian. “My personal valet,” she joked. On the outside, she exuded lightness and grace. On the inside, doubt clawed at her heart. As they took slow, careful steps down the hallway, Sylvie glanced at their intertwined hands. Just a few days ago, unprompted contact like this would have filled her with glee and warmed her hand hours later. Now, she felt…nothing. No pleasant tingle. Not even natural body heat. All was cold, and hard like stone. In a surge of panic, she wrenched her hand free and stared at the lines etched on her palm, looking for evidence of crystallization, but she saw no calcified open wounds. No rubified calluses on her fingertips. She palpated the flesh with her opposite hand, and the pressure dimpled her skin. Normal, as far as her examination showed. Then why was Caris’ hand as stiff as marble?
“My…apologies,” she said, breathless. “My hand,” she scrambled for a feasible excuse, one that would not offend, “is a bit inflamed from the dye. To answer your unspoken question, yes, I wore gloves, but I suppose they were not tight enough around the cuffs, and the irritant trickled through the opening. Am I ever the careless, clumsy one today?” She reached for a laugh, but received only the weeds of one, gnarled and brambly. “Are you sure you still desire my company this evening?”
Despite the opening she created for Caris to leave, he stayed at her side, perhaps out of a sense of obligation to an honored guest of Eyraille. Owing to her “condition,” she clasped her hands by the wrists as a deterrent against bodily contact. A temporary measure, she assured herself, until she met with the royal physician.
The physician, she realized with dim horror, who would notice, if he were to draw a significant sample of blood, the basilisk’s curse she carried in her veins.
She slid to a full stop.
“On second thought,” she recalibrated until she faced the direction of her bedchambers, “I would much rather head to bed. I shall call for Lord Rigas. I feel a magical component is in part responsible for my sudden malaise.” A lackluster excuse for her ongoing erratic behavior, but it would have to do.
“Alster is indisposed at the moment, but if your concerns are of the arcane variety, I’m available to assist in his place.” In the corner of her eye, a figure approached from a half-obscured antechamber. Tivia Rigas. Had she stationed herself along their path, waiting for her opportunity to pounce?
“Ah, Lady Tivia,” Sylvie shuffled into a half-hearted curtsy. “Good evening. Thank you for the offer, but I am happy to wait for Alster, even if I must delay the appointment until morning.”
Undeterred, Tivia remained within Sylvie’s sluggish stride. “Oh, I have quite an effective method of healing, as his Majesty here can attest,” she cocked a nod at Caris. “It’s a little unorthodox, but as they say, ‘Time heals all wounds.’ I personally find the adage to be rubbish, but in it lies a spark of truth, if you disregard linear time entirely.”
Sylvie’s polite smile wore around the edges. “I am certain a long night’s rest is enough to clear my malaise. If my condition has not approved by morning, and if Alster is not available, I will consider your services. Now, if you will excuse me,” she turned to Caris and bobbed a weary nod, “I am confident of the way to my rooms, your Majesty. I shall take my leave. Many thanks to your patience and consideration this evening. I shall call upon you in the morning and resume my duties posthaste, contingent upon my health. Good evening.” Withdrawing from the small retinue, which had fast grown into a stultifying heat, Sylvie retreated, leaving Tivia and Caris alone to speak–or bicker. Whichever they fancied.
Once the subject of her fascination dipped out of earshot, Tivia cocked her head at Caris, preparing for his displeasure. “Believe it or not, I sought to help, and in the nicest possible way. Neither did I lie. Alster has business in Galeyn. But you and I both know that little Sylvie Canaveris’ ails amount to more than a piddly headache. Something is wrong, and we won’t know unless we get close to her..”
Something was wrong, but nothing Tivia had seen or predicted. While Alster did not return from Galeyn that evening, he sent word to Elespeth that he would have to extend his trip a day or so longer. It soon became apparent why, when Elespeth delivered the news the following morning. Nico had vanished. And no one could find him.
There was no denying that the person in front of them was Isidor: his height (which almost bordered on intimidating, at no fault to him,) the quiet baritone timbre of his voice, the slick, ebony hair that hung to his shoulders like obsidian silk, eyes that rivaled shimmering onyx, all accompanied by an unspoken air of loneliness that followed him like a shade…
And yet, Nia felt as though she was faced with someone else entirely. A parody of someone she considered a friend (even if the feeling was never mutual, and might never be), someone who looked the part, albeit much rougher than she remembered, and decidedly… hollow. Even moreso than the last time she had seen him, leaving Galeyn behind as barely a shadow of his former self.
This wasn’t by any means the first extreme deviation from his personality and mannerisms. Back when she had still foolishly been working with the witch, Locque, Isidor Kristeva had been a skittish, socially awkward man who could nary string a cohesive sentence together among friends, let alone those he did not trust. And then, his brief tryst with Tivia Rigas… well, he suddenly carried himself with a light and a confidence that hadn’t been there before. That demeanor had shifted considerably when their relationship abruptly dissolved, leaving him wounded, dejected, and withdrawn from his friends (and just unhinged enough to take a tumble in the sheets with her, at the time.) But this… The person before her did not give the impression of someone who was simply wounded and embittered. There was something irrefutably dangerous about his aura, enough to make her believe that if they pushed him too far, and for too long, he was not beyond retaliation.
And Isidor, like Nia, was a Master Alchemist. She knew what he was capable of--although perhaps not to the full extent.
Before the Ardane woman could get a word in, for better or for worse, Hadwin took the opportunity to unload on Vitali’s brother. Nia’s knee jerk reaction was to cut him off and reel him in before he pushed Isidor past a point of tolerance, and incited unnecessary violence, but not only did she fail to find an opportunity to get a word in, she didn’t have any words to interject. Like so many other occasions, she had made a split-second decision with no obvious intentions or goal, and no plan as to how to proceed. It was really little wonder as to why she loved and valued Ari’s presence and guidance: just how she had managed to get as far as she did without a grounding voice of reason was beyond her…
“What does it take to be left alone…” Isidor muttered darkly. His eyes fixed on the faoladh and the Ardane woman with a sort of disinterest that left Nia decidedly unsettled: like it wouldn’t matter to him if they dropped dead in a heartbeat, and that he wasn’t beyond removing them from the land of the living. “Since you all seem to lack basic understanding, I’ll repeat myself only once: I am not here for Tivia. She made the decision to approach me when I’d have preferred to avoid an encounter, and I sought to turn her away as fast as possible. Hold me responsible for her public breakdown if it soothes your own consciences to lay blame, but, again, I am not here for any of you. My reasons are my own, and I do not owe those reasons to anyone--especially not the likes of you.”
If he was telling the truth, and his presence in Ilandria was mere coincidence, then Nia personally felt inclined to believe him. As dangerous as Master Zenech’s former acolyte was, Isidor was a defensive creature by nature, and not one to seek trouble. Not so unlike a wild animal when cornered, if he lashed out, then it would be retaliatory in nature, and not an instigation. That in and of itself would have led her to the decision to respect his wishes and leave well enough alone; after all, it wasn’t likely that being confronted by some of his objectively least favourite people would be the catalyst to bring the solitary Master Alchemist back down to earth, and back into a support group that was yet still willing to accept him. All they’d be doing by pressing was further agitating a threatened, wild animal, thereby inviting whatever repercussions followed.
The Ardane woman was, however, quick to change her mind on that stance the moment Hadwin mentioned the very nation that was threatening Eyraille--and, through association and proximity, Ilandria.
“Mollengard?” Nia turned her attention from Isidor to Hadwin and then back again so fast she almost suffered whiplash. “That’s not… No way. I’ll believe you’re capable of some crazy shit, Isidor, and some of it I can’t even begrudge you. But if you’re here with Mollengard--”
“Then what, Nia? Go on, finish your sentence.” Isidor snapped, and the fact he interrupted her at all was more jarring than the acid dripping from his words.
Then what, indeed. The Ardane woman wanted to believe it was a lie, simply because she could not fathom any rational circumstances for which Isidor Kristeva--a man who had escaped his own forms of oppression--would willingly seek out yet another entity hellbent on subjugating him again. There was nothing to be gained by working for Mollengard, and if he thought for a moment that he somehow had the upper hand on them, then he was sorely mistaken.
And, to that point alone, Nia would never have imagined Isidor would be so stupid as to believe otherwise. Perhaps dregs of naivete still lingered from his days as a sheltered alchemist, holed up in his tower… “Hey. I know I’m not the most suitable person to say this,” she sighed, knowing before the words passed her lips that they were futile. “Whatever you think of us, Is… we’re not your enemies. We want Teselin back, too. Hells, whatever it is you’re doing, I’ll help you! You don’t have to shoulder this alone.”
“You?” The word was like acid on Isidor’s tongue, and his voice, the weapon it coated. For the first time in as long as she could remember, Nia felt… afraid, in his presence. “You will be the one to help me? When you are the reason she is gone? …get out.”
Nia knew this was not a request, and the dark undertones of his voice, tainted with anger and pain she could hardly grasp, were enough to make her turn on her heel and head after Hadwin without hesitation.
With the shabby inn behind her in a mere moment, the Ardane woman found Hadwin waiting next to their ‘borrowed’ horse. Whatever had riled him up, the cool night air seemed to have calmed his nerves a bit. “Is it true? Do you know for sure he’s here with Mollengard?” She whispered, all the while knowing the faoladh had no reason to lie about something so dire… and it wasn’t as though Isidor denied it. That, in and of itself, was confirmation.
“What if he needs help, Hadwin? What if… all of that,” she gestured vaguely toward the inn, “was just a mask because he’s afraid to tell us too much? I just… I can’t bring myself to believe he’s here to hurt us.”
That much, the necromancer’s brother did confirm, in his assertion that none of his former allies were the reason he was here. Maybe she was reading too much into it, or maybe she was just naive, but even if Isidor was here with Mollengard, she couldn’t bring herself to believe that he meant harm. At least, not directly.
But with greater problems hanging over their heads, and no foreseeable resolution regarding the Master Alchemist from Nairit, they had no choice but to cut their losses and move on. “...fuck it. Let’s get back to Safir.” Nia huffed her frustration, and mounted the steed behind Hadwin. Whether the sudden flush of her cheeks was due to pent-up anger or the creeping winter chill was anyone’s guess, and on the way back, she remained curiously silent for someone who wasn’t known for shutting up for any period of time.
Ilandria’s central city and its palace had already retired by the time they returned. All but Safir and Ari, that is, who seemed to be waiting impatiently in the residential corridors after they returned the horse to the stables and went inside.
“Where have the two of you been?” The Ilandrian prince’s countenance was one where relief warred with frustration. It wasn’t far off from Ari’s; there was no question that the Ardane woman and faoladh’s sudden absence had left them worried. “Nia, did you really think your vague note to Ari would suffice? We were about to set out in search of you both!”
Nia waved her hands in a dismissive gesture before Safir even finished his sentence. “We need to talk. Now--all of us.” Without waiting for a response, the Master Alchemist grabbed both men by their forearms and ushered them into the nearest sitting room: the same place where the Prince had taken Ari for his flight-sickness upon his initial arrival in Ilandria. As soon as all four of them were safely sequestered out of earshot, she shut the door. “Hadwin and I did a little reconnaissance. Jahnst is planning some real bullshit; dangerous bullshit. The wolf can probably explain it better than me.”
As Hadwin unwrapped the details of Lady Jahnst’s notorious scheme, the other men’s faces shifted from mirroring confusion to settling in shock and incredulity. At least, Ari, for one, reflected enough palpable (albeit carefully compartmentalized) panic for the entire room. Safir’s typically smooth features, on the other hand, presented only a subtle shift to mirror the thoughts beneath the surface. After all, he’d expected this; or something to this degree from Liesefa Jahnst. “To think, had I found out too late…” The Ilandrian prince murmured, too quiet to be content. The muscles in his jaw jumped from the tension of grinding his molars. “I’m not even sure how to proceed. Jahnst has certainly picked her tactics well.”
“We could try to get to them before the day of, but there’s no telling who, or how many have been enticed by that bitch’s offer.” Nia paced the room, arms folded firmly across her chest. “Not like you have much of a leg to stand on, either, Your Highness. Have you seen the state of their surroundings? Where they are living? If you can even call it living. If you’ve ever needed damage control… now will be the time. Good thing you’ve got a practiced orator on your side to smooth over public relations regarding the people left maimed at the hands of your kingdom.”
She glanced at Ari, pushing her unruly chestnut waves over her shoulder. “Think you’re up for the task? Is it even possible to counter what Jahnst has planned? I’m not gonna lie: the odds don’t look good. Even if the spurned and broken Master Alchemists don’t like Jahnst, they don’t exactly like you either, Saf. Unless you’ve got something up your sleeve better to offer them, this is going to be absolute fucking mayhem.”
“...I should have worried about that woman sooner.” Safir sighed. His verdant eyes were bright with frustration, but whether it was directed at Jahnst or at himself for retroactive inaction was unclear. “Either way, whether I refute her claims or go along with them, I lose what support I have garnered.”
The tension in the small sitting room could have been cut with a knife, taking up more space than oxygen and consequently making it difficult to breathe. And, curiously, the majority of that tension was not emanating from the Ilandrian Prince--arguably the most affected party--but the Master Alchemist. Safir surely wasn’t the only one to pick up on the way she suddenly carried so much tension in her shoulders, or the firm position of her mouth where she seemed to be biting the insides of her cheeks. “Nia,” he ventured, brow furrowed. “Is there something more…?”
“...yeah, actually. Not to do with Janhst, and I don’t mean to derail the very real crisis at hand, here, but Hads and I ran into Isidor: yeah, he’s here, and no, he doesn’t want to see anyone. But he said something I can’t quite make sense of.” Nia’s keen eyes searched the faces of the men in the room, searching for answers before she gave voice to her question. “Look, I’m willing to believe that Isidor is so aggrieved by the fate of his sister that he’s lost his fucking mind. And I know he and I have never exactly been on good footing. But he seemed pretty damned lucid when he told me, to my face, that I am the reason Teselin Kristeva is ‘gone’. So…” The Master Alchemist exhaled slowly through her nose. “Anyone care to weigh in on that one?”
“...Sylvie?” Caris stared, confused and wide-eyed, at his now empty hand. Almost in tandem with Sylvie, as she stared at hers. His gaze shifted quickly to her palm and fingers, searching for wounds or the inflammation she claimed, but to his untrained eye, it looked… well, distinctly unharmed. Not signs of chemical burn of any sort. What was this? What had he done to suddenly make her desire such distance, when just the other night, her hands were all over him just as much as his were all over her?
His suspicions were only heightened when the Canaveris girl suddenly saw fit to decline his offer to see her to the physician altogether. Much though he tried to reason that he should not take it personally, his mind couldn’t help but spiral, just as quickly as it seemed his chances with Sylvie were unraveling. Did I do something wrong? Is she too afraid of being caught? Has someone already said something to her…? Damnit all, if it was Tivia…!
Speaking--or, rather, thinking--of that very devil, and so should she appear. The young king was only slightly less startled than Sylvie when the star seer appeared out of the corner of their eyes. Had she been there all along, or just made herself known for her eavesdropping?
Yet, for once, Caris couldn’t dispute her offer for help. “She’s not wrong.” He shrugged his shoulders. “You’d never know the amount of times Prince Safir Vallaincourt did a number on me during some friendly sparring, thanks to Tivia’s help. If she can prevent the amount of scars I should have, at this point, I have no doubt she can be of use to you, Miss Canaveris.”
Either his vote of confidence was not enough, or Sylvie had already made up her mind that she wanted little to nothing to do with Tivia. On one hand, Caris couldn’t--and didn’t--blame her. Not after she was the reason for their interrupted moment of building passion the night before. But there was something decidedly urgent about the way she took her leave, with barely so much as a ‘good evening.’
It all left the Eyraillian King feeling verily frustrated: at himself, at Tivia, and if he was being honest with himself, Sylvie. Caris kept his lips pressed tightly together instead of responding to the star seer right away; either at a loss for words, or making a laudable effort to moderate his temper. “The nicest possible way, huh?” He huffed, and folded his arms across his chest, but there was otherwise nothing in his demeanor to suggest he did not believe her on either count. Far from it, in fact.
“What do you know?” He asked, finally turning away from the direction in which Sylvie had disappeared. “She’s suddenly acting strange. But I don’t get the impression she is lying… something just seems off. I thought… I’d hoped she would trust me enough to confide. If you want me to get close to her,” he arched an angled eyebrow, knowing full well what he intended to say needn’t be said at all. “Maybe consider a bit of distance. Or: privacy.”
When Caris retired that evening, he did not expect to awaken the next day to hushed anxiety carried on low voices throughout the corridors. No sooner had he washed, dressed, and broken his fast that he picked up something was indisputably wrong. It came as no surprise to find his guests from Stell D’Mare were directly connected to it, when he spotted Elespeth conferring with Tivia just outside her quarters. “I don’t suppose either of you care to explain why everyone is suddenly so quietly panicked?” He interrupted, as always throwing subtlety to the wind. “I assume this doesn’t have to do with Mollengard, or else there would be less whispering, and more proaction.”
Hadwin shivered, but not from the cool, dark room, which either lacked proper insulation or had every window propped open to shuttle forth streams of pre-winter chill.
Some folks experienced rage as inner immolation, ready to carve out its summoner from the inside to a scorching stump of charcoal. Others felt bursts of conflicting emotion. Tears, laughter, or turgid ice in one’s veins that rusted every joint and limb frozen. Hadwin had sampled each permutation so often, he recognized them by name. The one he felt now was by far his most despised. Shivers meant cracks in the skin, vibrational fissures that collided and separated in a million different directions and disharmonies, micro-spasms that took semi-autonomous control without his command. His fingers twitched too much to land a clean punch, teeth chattered enough to send his speech into a quaver. He teetered on the balls of his feet like a sapling in a windstorm. Despite the involuntary chemical responses of his rebellious body, he meant every word, every sentiment. His conviction was not any less compelling, or accurate. Hadwin Kavanagh exacted revenge for lesser offenses, and he wielded a rare and sadistic talent for torturing the victims of his displeasure in increasingly gruesome methods. But something else crept up in his throat, uninvited, and threatened to swallow his tongue–and his promise.
He was afraid.
Not of Isidor. Heavens no! The overdramatic lollipop harnessed no level of menace capable of destroying him, but for the one commonality they shared.
He was afraid for Teselin. What Isidor’s meddling might do. Worse, what if he succeeded? Saved her, before she saved herself? While he had faith in Teselin’s ability to resolve her own scrapes, and believed Tivia’s prognostication of no interference, he wanted to believe in a quicker solution, one that would spare Teselin the least amount of damage in whatever nether world she inhabited. And if that solution bore fruit because of Isidor, Hadwin would despise and curse the sludgy fungal slime every day he lived.
Because it meant he owed Isidor his unshakeable loyalty. It meant that Hadwin chose wrong in allying with the star seer. It meant that he failed Teselin in every conceivable way, like he failed Rowen. When recounting the day Teselin returned to corporality, the bards would sing, “T’was Isidor Kristeva who forged a deal with heinous Moll’gars, to revive the one he loved. Hadwin Kavanagh dissolved in madness, and broke apart his gourd.’
Hadwin twisted from the door frame and glared at the piss-stain who shifted into human form. One more parting shot before he left. “If you accomplish your lofty goal, what then? Mollengard owns you, and they’ll wise up to whatever promises you deny them. Your sour-puss look is cute and all, but watch it doesn’t stick. Hells, will you even be able to revert to the man people fancied? What am I saying?” He blew out his cheeks in short, mocking bursts of laughter. “You’re Isidor fucking Kristeva. You were meant to die alone.”
Not quite catching the last bits of conversation between Nia and Isidor, Hadwin stampeded down the hallway, daring his boots to snap the floorboards and send him careening through the ceiling. He ceased interest in a careful tread, dismissed the possibility of falling into oblivion. If the world swallowed him whole, who the hell cared? If temporal reality ceased to maintain his form and function, then let him dissolve and join Teselin in the hereafter. Holding on to the far-flung wish of reunion served him only platters of blight-stricken grub, guaranteed to rot his gut and bludgeon his mind bloody.
I’ll face every pitfall. Every hiccup in the road. One of them is bound to lead to where I can find you. Even if I can’t do shit, I’ll keep you company on that lonely road.
He didn’t recall how he ended up back outside, the steed’s tether in his hands, unmoored from the makeshift post, a rusty nail skewered in the drooping pine-wood siding. He also didn’t remember when Nia returned, but he loosened his fisted grip on the rope, flapped his lips in a sigh to rival the horse beside him, and tossed his head to acknowledge her question.
“I knew he was with Mollengard before I set foot here,” he said, his whisper unintentional. All the brassy posturing in Isidor’s abode drained him of his casual bravado. A curious layer of hoarseness coated his throat. “Tivia’s an open sore. The guards are afoot. Don’t know where, but I ain’t sticking around to find out. C’mon, we’ll talk and ride.”
He mounted the horse, captured the reins, and sent the steed into a light trot. Once they bridged a safe distance from the scummy neighborhood, he addressed her next set of questions. “That mask’s fused to his face now. Though I’d argue it’s less a mask and more his shadow. And just like a shadow, it belongs to him. It always has; just waiting for the opportunity to snake up his legs and crown itself monarch. He’s too myopic to fear his self-imposed shackles. Not when he’s so hellbent on his mission. Too damn focused to care about anything else, or anyone else.” The wind rushed through his hair, combing it like icicled fingers, a rush he welcomed to numb the feeling that needed a galloping of hooves to escape. With a flick of the reins, Hadwin urged the horse into a canter. “He ain’t gonna accept a damn lick of help, so I say we give him exactly what he wants. Fucking peace and quiet–which he’s not likely to get in Mollengard for long. Lucky for us, he doesn’t seem to pose a direct threat, but it doesn’t mean I wouldn’t find it immensely satisfying to stab out his heart next time we meet.”
They spent the rest of the ride in silence. Two companions notorious for incessant chatter, and the only exchange between them was shared exhaustion. After returning the horse to the stables, Hadwin disappeared to an unpeopled area outside to change into his wolf skin. They returned to the palace, an unassuming blonde-haired woman and the “dog” she took for a walk. Albeit a thorough, hours’ long walk that spanned them clear across town and back.
No sooner had they swept inside the residential wing of the palace than Safir and Ari were upon the duo in moments.
“Heavens,” Ari clutched his chest, a not-so-subtle reminder of his stress-induced fever from which he barely recovered. “The two of you had us worried! Nia, how many times must I insist you bring a resonance stone? If I cannot persuade you from ill-advised forays into the city, then I expect you to maintain an open avenue of communication. No excuses!”
Except, Nia came equipped with an excuse, and its urgency bade Ari to waive his proviso in favor of granting her a platform to plead her case. They relocated to an adjacent antechamber, the same one where the heinous portrait of the Vallaincourt family hung proud and oblivious over the mantelpiece. Once Hadwin reverted to his human skin and reclaimed enough vestments to pass for decency, he revealed the underpinnings of conspiracy laid out by the treacherous Liesefa Jahnst, a plot too outlandish to ring false, despite Ari’s passing acquaintance of her. Still, he needed to confirm the veracity of such a claim.
“You are certain you heard true?” He cocked his head at Hadwin. The faoladh, who, contrary to his nature, recounted the tale entirely without affect, bristled at the implied accusation.
“Flattered as I am that you’d credit me for spinning such a fanciful yarn, Ari, no, I didn’t make this shit up, and Nia here can corroborate my claim. My mind’s in question, not my ears.”
Ari raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “My sincerest apologies, Hadwin. I believe you. I suppose I elected for a dram of denial rather than entertain the latest spate of regrettable news. Nonetheless, we are grateful for the foreknowledge, and better grateful you arrived safe and unharmed. What the two of you pulled was too risky a venture, but,” he gave a resigned sigh, “the intelligence we’ve gained in return is invaluable. There are any number of methods we can employ, but I must first run a risk analysis and study Ilandrian policies to access an informed perspective on how best to approach these critical final days leading to your coronation, your Highness.” He nodded to Safir. “All of this is to say–yes, I am amenable to the task, daunting as it is. Out of curiosity–Nia, Hadwin,” he leaned towards the latter, who sat on the settee beside him, “how were you informed of Jahnst’s rendezvous? Your impeccable timing suggests you possessed the foreknowledge to intercept her clandestine location. However,” he laid a hand upon Nia’s arm, a minuscule press of warmth on her frigid and icy skin. “Something more disturbs you, does it not?”
It turned out, Ari underestimated Nia’s malaise by a landslide. At mention of Isidor, Ari unfurled from his rounded and tucked-in posture, a swan’s neck straightening to a rigid line. Realization flooded his senses. The bizarre behavior of Tivia Rigas, her tight-lipped secrecy. At the time, Ari downplayed her reaction as an unfortunate hazard of her unenviable vocation as messenger of the stars. But he should have known that the level of her distress far outranked her prior moods. “Isidor. Why is he—? Wait, I have questions to–”
Nia skimmed past the explanation, and Hadwin disturbed him with his quietude, offering no commentary to fill in the blanks. Scarcely recovered from news of Isidor’s presence in Ilandria, Ari was further blindsided by her inquiry. “He said that ‘you’ are the reason?” A curious spark of flame ignited in his chest. The swan-neck curled in a battle-ready curve. “How dare he?! Where is Isidor? I demand to–”
“Hells, Ari, I thought she already knew,” Hadwin interjected, his languid but robust voice clipping Ari’s rising diatribe before it took flight. “Shows how well I’ve been paying attention. Well fuck, this might sting a little. I’ll break it to you, Nia, but I’m gonna preface this by making one thing extremely clear. You are not the reason Tes is gone. Tes is the reason Tes is gone and she’d berate anyone who thought different. Isidor’s looking for someone to blame, but he does her a disservice. Cheapens her sacrifice, ignores her desire to use her magic to achieve favorable results and prove to herself her capacity to heal. He doesn’t know shit about what was going on in her head. But I do. The night she disappeared, she…Damn it, I tried to stop her! We could’ve drafted a plan, collaborated with Al, but Tivia stopped me. Bombarded me with illusions and tricked me into believing I was losing my mind. And you better believe it worked! Cuz I’m that much of a fucking pushover. Tes went off and…”
“You don’t have to continue, Hadwin if the recollection is too painful to bear,” Ari said, watching as Hadwin, who’d taken residence on the floor, writhed like the wolf within was about to explode from his skin in a spray of fur and bone shrapnel.
“Of course it’s painful!” Hadwin spat through gnashed teeth, digging his nails into the ornate rug beneath him. “I shattered into a million pieces to make it easier to cope, but I’m…” his head perked up, as if he arrived at a grand epiphany, “one span of the bridge, and she’s the other. Yes, I have to keep it together. If my end of the structure collapses, how will she be able to cross over, and come back to us when she’s ready? But what if there’s nothing but ashes when she returns? Gotta make sure there’s a world still left for her to come back to. Quell the rebellions. Kill the disease. The tyranny, the treason, Mollengardian superiority…”
“Take a break, Hadwin,” Ari said, kind but firm. The faoladh had devolved into incoherent ramblings, too lost in his thoughts to complete his version of events. “I will tell her the rest.”
“Nia.” He cupped her hands in his and met her warm, brown eyes, so lost and swimming in confusion. “After you performed the procedure to save my life, you fell into a deep, death-like coma. Gardeners, healers, Alster, Isidor—they all attempted to treat you, but to no avail. Your diagnosis was grim. Alive by the grace of the Night Garden, but…fallen, with no means of recovery. Whatever Teselin did for you, it nudged you back into a trajectory amenable for Alster’s magic to reel you to the surface. But the strain on Teselin…somehow, she vanished, the circumstances so mysterious that no one became aware of her benevolent meddling until Hadwin posed his concern for her sudden disappearance, and Isidor followed through with an investigation. Later, Tivia confirmed what had happened. Enraged at Tivia’s prognostication that we allow Teselin to reconstitute without any assistance, Isidor fled Galeyn, presumably to devise a solution for Teselin.”
“We collectively decided,” he glanced at Hadwin, who hasn’t ceased his mutterings and seemed unaware of anyone else, “minus Hadwin, who was too swept in his demons to understand, not to tell you what really happened, out of fear of this very outcome. That you might blame yourself, or go the way of Isidor Kristeva, or,” he paused, but the implication was clear with the raving wolf-man at their feet. “I would not have kept this secret from you, Nia, but I wanted to wait until you showed signs of convalescence. You have had much to worry about, as of late. I did not find now a prudent time to share with you a revelation that would shock or undermine your recovery. My deepest regret is that you discovered the truth through such insidious means and not from the mouth of a friend.”
Tivia hid her expression of bewilderment well. She adjusted the hearing apparatus, not sure the spiral-shaped device picked up on Caris’ words of praise. For her. So taken aback by yet another monarch’s offering of kindness, she stood agape as Sylvie exited their company and hurried down the hallway, refraining from following on her heels like she had originally intended. By the time Caris addressed her, she had recovered from her shock-induced lapse and peered askance at him with her good eye. “Hm? Did you ask me what I know?” She turned to face him, fetching a clear look at his face for better ease of communication. “Very little, I am afraid. I figured I should follow the advice I offered you, and endeavor to be a friend to Sylvie. Clearly, I am god-awful at the dreaded concept, but I had hoped she would grant me the time of day in exchange for reversing time to save her life. But,” she shrugged, “I was mistaken. I’ll admit I insinuated myself between you two because she would dare not meet me alone. Anyway,” she brushed an offending lock of blonde hair from her face, “I’ll leave you to your duties. I will say this much, though.” She gazed down the hallway where Sylvie had scurried, her frown turning the lip-seared half of her face into a sneer, “Sylvie Canaveris is keeping secrets so nebulous, even she cannot explain their shape. Darkness shades her eyes, and she stumbles, unable to adjust when life before had always walked alongside, holding a candle. Now, she must tread alone.”
The following day brought Tivia a surprise the stars had deigned not to reference in their nightly bombardment. Of course, why would they? She had steered the future into a path seldom trammeled, with nary an imprint on the trodden earth to track or follow. The route she’d chosen offered nothing but a rusty-edged sword to bushwhack the bramble and branches aside.
When Caris happened upon Tivia and Elespeth, he caught the end of their hushed conversation halfway between the hallway and the door to Tivia’s chambers. Just as Tivia had done to the young king and his love interest, Caris barged into their proceedings and awaited inclusion on the latest news.
“You’re correct. It has nothing to do with Mollengard, but it will impact a few of our allies,” she said, retreating to the cover and relative privacy of her bedchambers in hopes that Caris followed suit. “It’s already removed Alster from our roster. We,” she gestured to Elespeth, “were discussing how or when to tell Sylvie and Ari. In short—Nico has disappeared from the Canaveris villa. The stables at the D’Marian settlement noticed a Night steed missing from their number early this morning. It’s only been a day since he’s vanished and Alster hopes to locate him before he informs Ari since it hasn’t been long enough to generate immediate concern, but according to his grandmother, it’s unlike him to run off like this. Usually he keeps to his rooms when he’s upset. He didn’t leave a note, but some of his things are missing. Several days’ worth of clothes, winterwear, money, and art supplies. Night steeds travel boundless gulfs of land in a single evening, so he could be about anywhere by now. Too far to track his scent.”
Hadwin wasn’t alone in being preoccupied with intrusive thoughts and feelings. If Nia was paying attention at all to either Safir or Ari in their earnest reaction to the devastating news that his crown might well be threatened, then her awareness barely brushed the surface. Her brown eyes were locked on the expansive portrait of the Vallaincourt family as if she was taking in every detail, when in fact she wasn’t really seeing anything at all. “Call it a most fortuitous accident.” She replied several beats too late to Ari’s inquiry. “Hadwin had a solid hunch Isidor was in town; we just happened to wander in the right direction, and found more than we bargained for…”
It wasn’t until the Canaveris Lord acknowledged her deep preoccupation with heavier thoughts weighing on her mind that she drew her attention away from the royal portrait. The beat of silence that followed, however brief, felt loaded enough to suddenly send her pulse racing. “Thought I already knew what?” The Ardane woman demanded, looking between the three men with rising agitation. “What, is this some goddamned conspiracy? I thought Isidor was just fucking with me because the only thing that makes him feel better at this juncture is making someone else equally miserable!”
“For what it is worth, Nia,” Safir held up his hands in a defensive gesture of surrender. “I am just as perplexed as you…”
“Someone had better start talking before I set something on fire.” Nia’s voice was low and steady, and although the hearth was cold and without even a flicker of an ember, there should have been no doubt in anyone’s mind that she could very well come good on her threat.
Hadwin fortunately had the sense to clear the air--to the best of his ability, at least. Although his words did not harbour much in the way of comfort, it certainly explained Isidor’s accusation… and, arguably, reinforced his cutting words. At least, such was the case for the Ardane woman, who had secretly hoped the necromancer’s brother had simply been talking out of his ass, using insincere words with the intention to harm. Perhaps she should have remembered that Isidor Kristeva was, at his core, a terrible liar…
And Hadwin thought she already knew; but had Ari? Or had he purposefully chosen not to say anything to spare her highly sensitive (and sometimes, flammable) feelings? “Her sacrifice.” Nia parroted, and a muscle in her jaw twitched in tandem with the rest of her body going almost entirely rigid. “As if I am worth that much… and you all knew. You were all content that I did not know…”
“Not all of us.” Safir piped up, and pushed away from the wall, effectively inserting himself into a conversation that clearly did not apply to him. “But even if I had been in the know, Nia… I’d have done the same. Because I know you. I never stopped knowing you, and I know how you would take this information to heart far too quickly. I am not acquainted with this Teselin, but to think that she is the reason my dearest friend is here and speaking to me right now…”
“Oh--spare me. All of you.” The Ardane woman raked her fingers through her hair and opted to put distance between herself and her room full of men, lest she actually ignite something. While her aura might have been ablaze, however, her eyes were moist with tears. “Just… forget it. Forget I asked at all. We’ve got bigger issues afoot, and should be focusing our energy on how the hell we’re going to prepare for Jahnst’s sabotage. Because you’re gonna need more than just Ari’s masterful crowd work to save your ass--and your crown--now, Saf.”
Nia pressed her hand to the door, sparing a single glance over her shoulder just in time for a tear to trickle down her cheek. She wiped it away with an impatient hand before it could draw any attention. “You’re gonna need a goddamn miracle.”
The Prince of Blades, on his part, knew better than to pursue his best friend at the moment. She needed time to cool down, to process the enormous blow that had found its way to her attention by the most unkind means, but that didn’t negate how wretched the faoladh and Lord Canaveris felt for the way she clearly shouldered the burden of this new knowledge. “...I have never met this elusive and mysterious Isidor Kristeva,” he began after a thoughtful pause. His lips drew into a thin line. “And he should hope that I never do. Regardless… Nia is right. Jahnst has played a card I never imagined she’d be hiding up her sleeve. I don’t know how, or if it is even possible, to recover from what she has planned. If she has convinced the very people this kingdom has wronged to take part in this charade…”
Safir spread his hands in what seemed like a helpless gesture, only to curl his fingers toward his palm, clenching them into fists. “Then she is far more clever than I gave her credit for--and I don’t even know if there is enough time to intervene. But, if there is a chance that even some of them have not already accepted…” He turned to Hadwin, recalling that in the details of his recount, the faoladh hadn’t mentioned the Master Alchemists had agreed to anything as of yet. At least, the assumption remained that he hadn’t heard as much during his opportune eavesdropping. “Perhaps not all is lost. That is the mindset we must adapt, at least. Or else we--I--have already lost. Please…”
Releasing a sigh that his lungs had been holding from the start, the Ilandrian Prince relaxed one hand and ran it through his hair, before gesturing to the door. His attempts to not look as defeated as he felt were waning. “Get some rest. Dilemmas are never sufficiently solved with foggy minds. Let us return to the matter on the morrow.”
After everyone departed the quiet sitting room, and the Canaveris lord returned to his suite, he found Nia sitting before the mantle of an unlit fireplace with an open bottle of wine in her hand, and no wine glass in sight. The only light, emanating from a handful of thin candles, cast ominous, dancing shadows on the walls, either mimicking or influencing the Master Alchemist’s current mood, under the circumstances.
“You going to tell on me?” Nia didn’t need to look over her shoulder to know it was Ari who had joined her. The softness of his cautious footsteps (the way he tiptoed around her every time he was uncertain about her mood) gave him away. “If Sommath is more concerned about me drinking wine than this entire kingdom falling to shit--which is a very possible outcome, at this point… then the man’s gotta learn to prioritize.”
Whether to avoid conflict, or due to the fact he agreed there were bigger problems than micro-managing her diet, the Ardane woman was no less relieved when Ari didn’t protest to her less-than-advisable choice of beverage. When he moved to take a seat next to her on the settee, she offered him the bottle of deep red, trusting that he would pass it back when he’d had his fill. “Before you say anything--I don’t want to talk about it. Not when we have a very real crisis on the precipice of descending on us in a matter of days.”
There was no need to speculate on the topic she wished to avoid: namely that which had sent her reeling from the sitting room in the first place. For better or worse, it wasn’t a revelation she wanted to dwell on at this given time. “I don’t even know how Janhst did it. From what I can gather, the remaining Master Alchemists here have scattered themselves far and wide. They don’t want to be found… let alone by that heinous bitch.” Nia pulled her knees up to her chest, puffed out her cheeks, and sighed. “I hardly know where to start looking, but… I have to try. Someone’s gotta convince them our esteemed Minister of Justice doesn’t have their best interests in mind. She’ll raze them as soon as she’s razed Safir’s path to his father’s crown. Fuck…” With her hand now empty of the wine bottle, the Master Alchemist curled it into a fist and pressed it to her forehead.
“...I know I’m at least partially at fault here. No--don’t try to convince me otherwise.” Nia held up a hand before Ari could protest, all too familiar with his tendency to assuage her worries, even at times when she didn’t deserve it. “I’ve fucked up time and again since I’ve been here… If I hadn’t made it all about me, maybe we’d have paid closer attention to all the bullshit going on behind the scenes in Saf’s world… We might not have time to turn the tables, but I’ve gotta try. Tomorrow.”
Relaxing her limbs, which had been pulled tightly towards her body, she rolled back onto her feet and moved toward one of the floor-to-ceiling windows. Although night had fallen, Nia had spent enough time in this room to know that it looked out far beyond the central city, and upon the less populated and far less traveled outskirts of the kingdom. More specifically, toward the very lands where the broken and scorned Master Alchemists that Ilandria had once cherished had retreated. “Before you say it--I’m going alone.” Nia turned her determined face to Ari. Of course this would give him cause to worry, considering the amount of times she had taken off without so much as a word or warning, since arriving in Ilandria. And to top it all off, submitting herself to Sommath’s supervision after a very real health scare did not make her seem particularly capable of pulling off this stunt and remaining unscathed.
Expecting the Canaveris lord’s protest all the same, the Ardane woman closed the distance between them with a shockingly quick pivot, and occupied his lips with her own. The kiss, although clear in its initial purpose, lingered too long to merely serve as manipulation. Then again, there was no questioning the authenticity of Nia’s love for Ari. “Just… trust me on this. You're an outsider, and clearly a wealthy and well-to-do one at that. Not to mention you've been seen in Saf's presence, and already he doesn't come across to them as a trustworthy figurehead. By association, neither will you.” She pulled away at last, but not far as to remove her palm from his cheek. “This is my home. And it’s fucked up--in so many ways. But it’s still my home, and Saf’s my friend. I might not be able to fix this. At least, I have to try. And…” With a coy tilt of her head, she flashed a smile. “This time, I promise to take a resonance stone.”
“Wait… what? Disappeared?”
Caris’ reaction was delayed, for the mere absurdity of the situation, and for the fact that Nico Canaveris was perhaps one of the last people he’d have expected to be the source of a brand new crisis. Sure, Sylvie’s brother was an… interesting sort. More specifically, the type who tended to lean on doom and gloom than to chase hope. For that, the Eyraillian King could not blame him; not when hope had been something he hadn’t entertained for a long time. But what could possibly have spurred Ari’s nephew to just… disappear?
“How do you mean, exactly? From here, in Eyraille, or from the other side of that mirror? I can’t imagine anyone vanishing from my palace without a trace. Not with the number of sentries I have stationed at every point that matters.” The young king frowned at the mention of Night Steeds. If that was the case, this had happened on Galeyn’s side, which--technically--did not really make it a problem that concerned him, as it was beyond his jurisdiction.
Except… that was not entirely true, since it affected not only his allies, but also, Sylvie. Someone who--for better or for worse--he couldn’t help but care about.
Of all the times to cause trouble, Nico… did it have to be now?! Caris sighed heavily and raked a hand through his blonde locks. “As if we don’t already have a plethora of problems brewing… Is this prolific drama characteristic of Canaverises, or something? No--don’t answer that. It answers itself.”
In addition to more problems, this turn of events also raised more questions. Here he’d thought Sylvie’s abrupt change in behaviour could be explained by the disappearance of her younger brother; except, Tivia suggested the Canaveris girl, along with her uncle in Ilandria, had not yet been made aware of this problem… If something hadn’t been eating at her before, then that would certainly be the case when she found out about her brother.
“And just how long do you plan on extending this search without informing the other Canaverises?” He asked, turning his body toward the corridor that faced the direction of Sylvie’s room. “They’re going to find out sooner or later--sooner than later, I would wager. Best they hear it from us than down the grapevine, only to find out we knew all along… But, if you have some sort of plan, then I will not interfere.”
With nothing more to contribute, and expecting neither did the two women, Caris proceeded to take his leave, allowing them to conspire in peace. But not before he paused temporarily. “No--I’m not going to tell her, so relax. But she deserves to know. So if I do not break the news, then I hope one of you will.”
Although this didn’t explain anything, the young king was still concerned about Sylvie’s shift in behaviour. If she was, in fact, unwell, and Alster Rigas was not present to help, then he needed to convince her to see some medical professional about her symptoms. With that said, knowing full well that he’d be pushing all his scheduled tasks later than for which they were originally scheduled, he made his way to her room and knocked on the door.
“Sylvie… are you awake?” Caris knocked hesitantly, not wanting to come across as demanding, yet neither did he want this matter to rest until he told him what was going on. “I don’t mean to intrude. Though I hoped, if you are able, that we might have a word…?”
“I bear the blame, Nia; not them.” Ari rose from the settee, but refrained from anchoring Nia in place with his hands. Much as she warned to set the room ablaze, she also embodied wildfire, each move unpredictable. But containing her flame was not the answer. He kept his distance, granting her the space to burn unchallenged. “I am not looking to absolve my sin, but only to provide a perspective. Tell me, honestly. If our roles were reversed, and my petrification curse still plagued me, would you withhold the truth if it prevented a dangerous flare-up? Remember your otherworldly rendezvous with Tivia Rigas? Which I had learned about only days ago because you feared telling me sooner would trigger a response?” He paused, shaking his head. “No. Forgive me; my rhetoric reeks of manipulative intent. You are allowed to feel irate. Betrayed, even. But Safir has no part in these proceedings, and Hadwin–”
“--I enabled her.” The faoladh, who’d devolved into a squirming mass on the floor in an active battle to preserve the remains of his lucidity, blinked into the barest glimpse of awareness. “I told Tes, the night she disappeared, she had the power to create any outcome she wanted. She wasn’t bound to a path of destruction. Unlimited potential, I said. She had limitless potential. So she decided to put it to practice. Fuck… Nia, she would’ve done it for anyone. You saved her life, besides. So she returned the favor, manifold. That’s the kind of person she is. It’s on me for not setting boundaries for the kid, but c’mon.” He flopped on one side and clutched his head, his twisted features disappearing beneath equally twisted fingers. “You and I both know once she’s got her sights set on a project, she’s fucking unstoppable.”
But Nia, exhausted by the topic, refused to absorb their attempts to pacify her vacillating state of mind. With a nod of resignation, Ari stood aside to allow her unimpeded passage out of the parlor. Like Safir, he understood Nia’s need to process the wealth of information in a safe and quiet space.
Ari stared at the door until Nia’s footfalls faded from earshot. “Isidor Kristeva…” He turned from the door to address his company of two–or one and a half, depending on Hadwin’s current mood, which cycled through the seasons every few minutes. From cold, hot, blustery, to sodden from the weight of a torrential downpour. For that reason, Ari moved his attention primarily to the Ilandrian prince. “I cannot fathom why he now resides in Ilandria, nor what inspired his radical change in attitude aside from…the obvious.” His gaze flickered to Hadwin; he omitted the summoner's name out of respect for the faoladh.
“I assure you, the Isidor I knew a few months ago, while subject to a dour, ill-spirited demeanor, was my dear and fond friend. His dramatic disappearance rattled a good number of his allies, myself included. Lord Rigas, who knew him best, has appeared more taciturn and withdrawn since Isidor’s flight. Not to mention, Tivia Rigas…They shared a short-lived affair, not long ago, but I suspect they’ve not yet resolved their romantic tension, and it is entirely plausible she spoke with him in the market the day we found her collapsed from despair. Whatever they discussed, I assume Isidor did not spare his barbed tongue. First Tivia, now Nia… Isidor had better hope we do not cross paths, for I will not offer clemency. In his current iteration, I believe he can potentially be dangerous. We should not discount his presence here in Ilandria.”
“He will have to wait, however. Our current predicament takes prominence. I assure you, we shall navigate Jahnt’s nefarious machinations toge–” his breath hitched as the edge of his boot made contact with a protruding mahogany leg of a claw-footed side-table and sent sparks of pain through his foot. “Ah, forgive me. Blundering through objects as I am, I should heed your advice and retire for the evening. We are all of us in dire need of rest. I will see how Nia fares and, come morning, we shall draft a plan.”
“Count me in.” Ari looked over his shoulder at Hadwin, who had shifted to lying like a plank on the floor, half-hooded gaze trained on the ceiling moulding. He’d returned to some semblance of clarity, albeit with a languid, foggy quality. He spoke in a dead drone, contradicting his interest. “Jahnt’s meeting with the same Master Alchemists in two days. Same place, same time. I’ll head back there, give another listen; see if she slips more nuggets of her master plan.” Before either Ari or Safir could interject, he added, his face drawn–desperate, “Give me something to do, yeah? I caught their scent, by the way. All Master Alchemists seem to have a similar tang to their skin. Must be from the bodily rearranging to surpass human limitation. Makes ‘em smell…oily.”
Upon his return to the suite, Ari was relieved to see Nia seated before the hearth. He paid little heed to the open bottle of wine in her hand. Better to have her drunk and under his supervision than wandering the streets, distraught and untraceable. His steps susurrus-soft, he approached Nia, hesitant to speak and ruin her wine-induced calm, until she broke the silence first.
“Sommath is a physician. Loyalty to his kingdom falls secondary to his vocation.” Among other fatherly reasons. But Nia had heard enough secrets for one day. To learn that her paternal bloodline resided in Ilandria’s royal physician might push her past the brink. “But to answer your question–no. I will not tell.”
He sat beside her, the coattails of his crushed velvet frock coat brushing against her leg. He accepted her offering of wine, brought the rim to his lips, and took a few long, thankful gulps, leaving Nia a fraction when he returned the bottle. If she argued that he guzzled so much to prevent her from draining the contents herself, he would shrug and mention that he too was entitled to a drink. He didn’t mention that the source of his wine-seeking excess came primarily from news of Isidor. He cared for the dire state of Ilandria and invested in a hopeful outcome despite Jahnt’s nefarious schemes, but the shock of learning about Isidor proved too insidious a distraction. He couldn’t think of anything else, and wanted to speak of it to someone who understood. Still, Nia had barred all conversation on the subject and he had no choice but to respect her decision and to try and offer useful commentary.
…Not that he was given a chance to say anything at all before she yanked him close and drove him into a kiss that served to sap the remaining strength from his bones. He clung to her lips, absorbing her intoxicated desire, equal parts enthralled and guilty for enjoying the labors of love spurred by the distress he had perpetrated. Fear-driven secrets he kept to protect her well-being.
“Nia,” he pulled away, winded from the delicate way he held his breath so as not to disturb their fragile, fleeting moment of intimacy. He stroked her cheek as reassurance, a sign of appreciation. “Darling. Grant me a moment to speak. I admire your gusto, but please give me the space to consider your proposal. I am not opposed to your plan. But—I have a counter-proposal.” He slid his hand from her cheek and rested it on her shoulder. “I understand I am not the best fit for delicate, clandestine dealings of this nature. You are correct–I am far too ornate in dress and speech to slum it on the streets with you. I could not hide my pedigree if I slathered myself in dirt and wore a burlap sack,” he said, chuckling at his expense. “My limitation lies with my inability to compromise appearances.”
“I do not advocate for this lightly, but…take Hadwin with you. Even in the dregs of his madness, he proved a capable ally, tonight. He claims he can find the hidden Master Alchemists by scent and no one will recognize him if he remains a human. You said it, yourself. We’ve a crisis on our hands and are running out of time. Therefore, it is vital that we deploy all our resources, however scant and imperfect. If you need help locating the Master Alchemists, we should remove as much of the guesswork as possible. The faoladh operates best when his mind is occupied. Make this a joint effort, Nia. Save your kingdom, but first realize we are not made to act alone. I would feel much better if you were navigating a hostile environment with a friend. Please,” he slid closer so that their foreheads almost touched, “would you do that for me, at least? A compromise?”
Tivia raised an eyebrow, surprised that Caris didn’t know the latest in Nico’s whereabouts. “Nico returned to Galeyn some time ago, your Majesty. The morning after Sylvie’s birthday, so I understand. I can’t fault you for not noticing. The Canaveris eldest son isn’t known for his stand-out presence. Sylvie didn’t talk to him at her party and Alster believes the upset encouraged him to head home, but doesn’t know if it’s the main cause for why he ran away. In any case, I’ll speak with Nadira and convince her to wait at least a day before informing Ari. Knowing him, he’ll leave Ilandria indefinitely to search for his nephew and Safir can’t afford to lose a socially adept ally mere days before his coronation.” And Safir can’t afford to have me take Ari’s place. After her faux pas at the market, Tivia would only weaken Safir’s claim to the throne. Why she believed she was ever equipped to perform a front-facing position remained a mystery.
“If you think Canaverises are dramatic, I dare you to spend a day among Rigases,” she snorted, amused that the young king thought the earth-bound Canaveris lot were the paragon of instability. “You will change your mind in an instant.”
“At any rate…I’ll take the blame for withholding information. It’s what I do, so I might as well meet everyone’s expectations. Sylvie’s in a fragile constitution, so it’s better to wait until she’s better recovered, anyway. The guilt she’ll feel for learning her brother’s disappearance might be in part her fault…imagine the weight on her conscience.”
The Canaveris of questionable constitution was not resting in bed, but slouched over her desk in the corner, poring over the previous entries in her diary. Her headache had receded in intensity from the previous day, but it waxed and waned, its phases memory-dependent. The more she fed it, the fuller and more pronounced the pain. If she didn’t bother to review and recollect the pieces of her fractured chronology, she could carry on as normal–albeit in a confused fog. The diary served as her only guide through the haze that spread across the last few months, dampening all but the vaguest recollections. Without her detailed entries, she wouldn’t remember why she was in Eyraille, what she meant to do in Eyraille, or why King Caris Sorde looked at her with hungry eyes. But the more she read, the more the pain spiked in reply, as if resisting her crusade to recover her receding memories.
“Why—“ she gasped, clutching her head with one hand, grasping the pages of the date marked three days ago with the other. The last entry, and by far the most mysterious. Whereas previous entries listed her day’s demands in a regimented hourly log, the latest showed a scrawl of stream of consciousness, her flowing script replaced by reckless, borderline illegibility. From what her throbbing eyes could parse, the Sylvie from three days ago spouted nonsense. “Everything changes today. I am about to experiment with indigo die. Dye. What a silly mistake. I am not about to die. Why would I die from a dye? Die dye die dye die dye die dye.” Dried teardrops stained the page, smearing the final three letters. Though distorted from the water damage, Sylvie thought she read, ‘Dad.’
A brusque knock on the door startled her to her feet. With harried breaths, she slammed the diary shut and turned from the desk. Instantly, she regretted the quick spring to motion. The ache returned, twin vines wrapping and wrapping her head, digging trenches in her brain. She stumbled to the door, caring little for her simple state of dress; a formless gown she usually wore to the workshop, comfort and maneuverability over style.
“Your Majesty,” she said to the figure on the other side of the door, her curtsy a straight line bereft of curves or flourishes. Rigid, military–minimal head-wobbling. “Good morning. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” I hoped, if you are able, that we might have a word? Her polite smile vanished and worry furrowed her brow. “Ah, yes. Of course. Is anything the matter?” She swung her door wide, allowing him to enter. “Or if you prefer your office, instead? I realize I have made an improper request. Forgive me.” She grazed her forehead; a quick swipe, like wiping away a bead of sweat. “I have not yet recovered from my bout of illness, though I am happy to report I am feeling better. Have you heard from Lord Rigas?”
“And--” Ari might have escaped the kiss, but Nia wasn't about to let him get far. She held his face in her hands, with a tension that suggested more desperation than affection. “Before you object on the grounds that I’m not mentally or emotionally sound enough to make this decision, or go and blame the wine, just know that…”
The Master Alchemist paused, and actually listened to Ari’s words amidst her passionate protest. The Canaveris Lord knew her all too well, and following her impassioned displeasure surrounding the alleged reason for Teselin Kristeva’s disappearance, had likely surmised there was nothing he could do to change her mind or dissuade her. But, he wasn’t beyond negotiating the terms.
Even if those suggested amendments weren’t, at face value, sound.
“Hadwin?” Nia pulled back and blinked her wide brown eyes, certain for a brief moment that she had misheard (or if the wine had otherwise gone straight to his head and good senses.) “You can’t… no. I understand. And… you’re right.”
Lowering her hands from his face, the Ardane woman rested them on his shoulders. She couldn’t (at the given moment, at least) devise any proper arguments against his request, save for perhaps the faoladh’s general mental instability of late. Even that in and of itself wasn’t much of an argument, given how she hadn’t exactly exhibited the soundest of minds either, nor had Tivia Rigas. Everyone, for one reason or another, was losing their grasp on good sense and reality. At least Hadwin, for all his unpredictable demeanor, still had valuable skills to offer as a friend and ally.
“Alright. Deal.” Nia sighed her agreement and pressed her forehead against Ari’s. “Our resident faoladh comes with me. If he can help me find the other Master Alchemists, then all the better. But beyond that… you’ve got to trust me, Ari. Which… I know, it’s asking a lot.”
Her hands slid down his arms to find his hands. Even with a heavy ring on almost every finger, her own slipped between with ease. “I’m taking accountability. I haven’t been the most reliable, to say the least. And, for the sake of time, I’m not gonna sit here and try to convince you this plan is by any means foolproof. But… it’s all we’ve got. It might be all Saf’s got--and that’s if I manage to act fast enough. If I don’t pull this off…” Nia’s mouth widened in a humourless grin. “Then feel free to call me on my bullshit for the rest of our lives. Or… as long as you feel you can continue to put up with my bullshit.”
That evening, the two of them retired shrouded in a blanket of uncertainty. There was no question between the two of them that Ari was any more convinced of Nia’s plan as she was; like many of the Master Alchemist’s endeavours, it was a matter of ‘fake it until you make it’. Far from infallible, but if the only alternative was inaction, then a half-assed plan gliding on hope and overconfidence was better than nothing at all. In any case, Nia would argue that this was simply the price of her own inaction, putting off talking to Safir for as long as she had upon her arrival in her home kingdom. Had she paid closer attention to what was going on around her instead of brooding, had she not put off reconnecting with Ilandria’s Prince for so long… could this pending catastrophe have been avoided?
Probably not; it seemed like a scheme Liesefa Jahnst had had in the works for quite some time. But they’d certainly have had more time to prepare…
Sleep largely evaded the Ardane woman that evening, to the point where she gave up and rose from bed several hours before sunrise. Quietly leaving Ari to his own restless slumber, she padded into the common area, with only silver moonlight from the windows to light her way. It was there she found Hadwin, keeping warm in his wolfskin, whose ears perked up upon her arrival. She was already dressed in a long, insulated winter coat, with a thick scarf, durable boots, and--of course--gloves. The beauty of winter in Ilandria meant no one would so much as spare her a second glance that her hands, with rune-inscribed palms, were covered. “Awake? Good. C’mon, get up. We’ve gotta go now.” She didn’t expect any resistance on Hadwin’s part; not when the Canaveris Lord had implied the shapeshifter had already volunteered himself his services to the cause.
“You think you’ve got a nose to track down the other Master Alchemists? Then let’s find them, and fast. You can do the tracking; I’ll do the talking. And let’s hope it’ll be enough.”
The door to Sylvie’s private chambers opened to once again reveal a dishevelled, sleepless-looking woman who was not at all prepared to face the day. It wouldn’t have been the first time Caris had walked in on his Canaveris guest when she was in far from an ideal state to receive visitors, but compared to last time, there was something distinctly different about her demeanor. Last night, Sylvie had appeared unwell, for sure. Yet there was something beyond signs of a mere headache or lack of adequate slumber in her dark eyes. A malady that ran deeper than she let on, deeper than he--with no skills of a physician or that of a healer--was perhaps capable of understanding.
Her state left him speechless for half a moment at least, before he quietly invited himself in and closed the door behind him. “Can we put honourifics aside for now?” The young king requested. Much though he wanted to reach out to Sylvie, he pressed his back to the door instead, maintaining a respectable distance between the two of them. Just when he’d thought the two of them had reached a point where they felt comfortable breaching formalities, etiquette, and overall professionalism in favour of their blooming feelings and desires… Well, last night had him now thinking otherwise. Although he could not for the life of him discern what had changed, or why.
Perhaps the greatest difference between Caris’ leadership and that of Aristide Canaveris’ lay in the fact that while the latter was a persuasive and accomplished orator, the same could not be said for Eyraille’s young king. And if there was an appropriate way to gently segue into what he wanted to say, well, the method certainly eluded him.
As a result, a deluge of words and feelings, all having incubated deep in his chest for the entirety of an all-but-sleepness night, therefore, spilled from his lips. “If you’ll allow me to be frank with you, Sylvie… I don’t understand exactly what’s going on. If I have done something wrong, or made you feel uncomfortable in any way that has made you wish to put distance between us, then please tell me. You may rest assured that nothing you say to me will compromise your current position here in Eyraille--and you needn’t worry about sparing my feelings. I just…” Realizing he hadn’t so much as taken a breath, Caris paused and raked a hand through his hair, too ashamed at his considerably lacking decorum to maintain eye contact.
“I am not good with people, Sylvie. I know that. I’m not well liked, and for good reason. And as much as I try to remain unbothered by that fact--or make people believe I am unbothered, at the very least, I… I don’t want to compromise your opinion of me. It matters, because you matter. If I’ve been so forward with you as to make you reconsider where you stand with me, then so be it. I only hope you have the grace to inform me as to exactly what made you change your mind about me, so that I may never make such an egregious mistake ever again.”
The young king had anticipated (or rather, hoped) that in light of relieving the burden of such words from his chest, he would feel lighter, more at ease, regardless as to whether or not the Canaveris girl provided him with an answer to his questions. That he was instead met with a blank, confused stare, however, had the exact opposite effect on his bearing. Why was she looking at him like she hardly knew him? As if they had never shared an intimate moment together? Was this some sort of ill-intended joke…?
The only thing waylaying the anger that accompanied feelings of intense shame was the fact that Sylvie Canaveris looked so inarguably unwell. Worse even than when he had last seen her. Whatever her reasons for resolving to put distance between the two of them… He was not so callous as to refuse to prioritize what was inarguably a more pressing issue. “You know… nevermind. It doesn’t matter. Forget I said anything.” Caris felt the heat in his face, knew his cheeks had probably flared bright red. This was, perhaps, the most humiliated he had ever felt--but he reminded himself that how he felt in this moment did not matter.
“You’re clearly unwell, Sylvie. And I don’t believe for a moment that you are feeling better when you are standing before me now, looking noticeably worse.” The sigh that passed the Eyraillian King’s lips was not one of frustration, but rather, defeat. Caris had lost count of the times he had conceded defeat to Safir Vallaincourt; none of those losses felt anywhere near as substantial as he felt right now. “I understand Lord Rigas is currently preoccupied with other matters. But if you insist on seeing him alone, and will not be seen by any of the accomplished physicians I have on hand, then… I will send word for his return. You can’t remain unchecked when you look like you might faint at any moment. Just… go back to bed. Rest. I won’t have you return to your duties in my kingdom until you are well again.”
The shame and embarrassment felt hot and suffocating, like being trapped in an oven. Standing before a woman for whom he realized he cared rather deeply, yet who refused to acknowledge him as anything more than Eyraille’s reigning monarch… This was beyond merely a bruised ego on his part, and he wanted nothing more than to escape that feeling as quickly as possible.
Without another word, Caris pushed away from the door and took his leave, in a way that was too hasty to be natural. The young king didn’t even know where he was going until he found himself in the company of the divisive star seer once again. Why was it that all roads seemed to lead back to Tivia Rigas, whether she was directly involved or not?
“There’s something wrong with her.” As if as much even required words. Caris forsook the preamble, knowing that Tivia didn’t much care for it, anyway. She herself had mastered the art of wielding words the way Safir Vallaincourt wielded a sword: with cutting precision. “I do not know what you think she’s playing at, and maybe I’m too naive to see the truth for what it is, but it seems to me that she isn’t playing at all. Sylvie seems… ill. I don’t know how, or what precipitated her sudden decline in health, but I am sure it has nothing to do with dyeing textiles…”
Cheeks still burning with residual humiliation, even the dimmest of minds could discern how deeply the Eyraillian King had taken the young woman’s reaction personally--however much he was concerned for her health. The confrontation had left him shaken in more ways than one. “Or… perhaps I have misread her. Maybe she is an excellent liar.” He took long strides toward one of the windows. There was plenty to look at outside in lieu of looking Tivia in the eye. “One who has decided she’d already had enough of me, and as such, has immersed herself deeply in character to convince me she is unwell, because nobody who knows the reputation of Eyraille’s King would dare be so direct. Well.”
Caris turned away from the window and its magnificent view of the mountainous kingdom beyond, wearing a humourless smile on his face. “I guess this marks the end of your bright suggestion to keep my suspected enemies close. She acts like she doesn’t know who I am… beyond the crown that I wear. A far cry from how she behaved on the eve when you posed such a suggestion. Regardless… if she is truly sick, then she needs to consult a healer. She won’t consider any of the palace's residing physicians…” Almost as quickly as that semblance of a smile was there, it was gone as he turned to face the star seer. “Where is Lord Rigas? She seems insistent on consulting him alone.”
There was nothing restful about the evening when Hadwin and Nia brought news of Jahnst’s duplicity. Particularly not for Safir, who was, for the first time, finally beginning to doubt his chances of winning over his own people--and, subsequently, the throne that had been in his family since Ilandria’s birth, centuries ago. As if fear for the future of his position in his own home was not enough, in addition to that deep-seated concern was the accompanying shame that he hadn’t picked up on this sooner. Has he been so preoccupied with his father’s failing health all these years that he’d failed to sense the deceit that had been taking place behind the scenes? Or was he really just that naive--so invested in Ilandria’s pillars of truth and justice, and so convinced that all Ilandrians embodied this kingdom’s ideals, that he failed to consider this might ever be possible?
Either way, this turn of events was beginning to make him question whether he deserved the throne at all. How could he rightly claim to be capable of leading and protecting this kingdom from outside harm, if he couldn’t even suss out infection that was brewing within? No amount of Ari’s political guidance could stand up to Jahnst’s clever scheme. Would it be more realistic to spend the next two days leading up to the coronation of Ilandria’s new reigning monarch preparing a graceful exit, instead of one last reach for the crown that might never be his…?
The prince wore his state of mind clearly in the bags under his eyes, the way his blonde locks fell carelessly over his shoulders and back, and his wrinkled white tunic hung on his frame as he made his way to his office the following morning. Having decided to forego breakfast for lack of an appetite, it was earlier than he would usually start the day. Hence his surprise when he found someone already at the door, waiting seemingly impatiently for an audience with him.
“...Ari.” The Canaveris lord’s face mirrored hours of tossing and turning without sleep, not dissimilar to his own. Then again, given how upset Nia had been upon her hasty departure the previous evening, it wasn’t much of a surprise. “Is everything alright? How is Nia? I realize I had no knowledge and therefore no part in the revelation that upset her so, but if there is anything I can do to help…”
Little did he know that the present cause for Ari’s distress had little to do with Nia, at the given time. Sensing Stella D’Mare’s leader preferred to speak in private, the Ilandrian Prince hastily opened the door to his study and invited him inside, closing it firmly behind him. “Pray tell, what else is amiss?”
Nothing to do with Nia, and surprisingly, nothing to do with the darker affairs of some of Ilandria’s respected officials, it would seem. The star seer, Tivia, had evidently returned to deliver more bad news, regarding certain unforeseen circumstances related to Ari’s family. “Your nephew… Is foul play suspected? Has King Caris offered to send scouts to seek his whereabouts? Ari…”
Safir paused and lifted his hand, laying it to rest half a moment later on Ari’s shoulder, after he’d contemplated words. “Listen to me. What is befalling my kingdom is serious beyond measure; I cannot deny that, or the uncertainty of the future it faces. But it is my kingdom. And your nephew… that is your family. Allow me to make it clear that you needn’t stay here when your family needs you elsewhere. As someone without a family of their own…” The creases between Safir’s brows relaxed, and his verdant eyes softened. “I would never forgive myself, if something happened to those dear to you, while I kept you away from them. Whatever comes to pass in two days’ time is well out of our hands now. Ilandria and I will face the music, regardless of who is here to witness it. Please, do not consider yourself beholden to me or this kingdom in light of this crisis.”