Chapter 34: Ghibellines’ Ball

“The Ghibellines family is perhaps the largest and most influential in all the kingdom. Contributing to their position, not only among the peerage but the common folk, is their annual Ball. Every Ghibellines house, in every city in the kingdom, holds the grandest ball of the season. They open their estates to the peasantry, with the exception of the house itself - of course. Grand feasts, dancing of all sorts, and fireworks - make up the display. Despite the presence of stinking peasants, there isn’t a member of the gentry who won’t attend their nearest Ghibellines’ Ball, for there is no better opportunity to get into the good graces of the family. Or rise in its ranks for the more distant members, relegated to lording over rural towns and villages.” -- An excerpt from The power of balls by Scroticus Sackus.

☠

Navigating the cave beneath the church proved to be harder than the party expected. Not for any physical reason but because of its contents. They came to one chamber where the walls were lined with rusted cages, stacked atop each other to the roof of the cavern. Although long abandoned, the use of these cells was evident. All three conscious members could feel the anguish and despair which still lingered here. The sombre Delphine and James didn't say a word as they sped through.

At one point, they thought that they had come to an exit. A long narrow shaft that ascended directly up. Rungs were hammered into the wall. By the acolyte’s reckoning it should put them somewhere on the edge of the temple ground…probably.

They ascended and somehow found themselves in a sewer tunnel, the stink was too much even for the undead.

“Shit,” James cursed.

“Yes, we can all smell that,” Dante remarked, still carrying a sleeping Alma - covering her nose.

“No, you idiot. I’ve heard of this but I always thought it was just a rumour,” James informed.

“The Underground?” Delphine asked, with a mixture of disbelief and fear.

“Yes,” James confirmed.

“What’s ‘The Underground’?” Dante inquired. After a mixed description that the pair had gained through gossip. Isolated to the church grounds as they were, their knowledge was lacking. Dante was about to ask if they couldn’t just turn around but when looking back - he saw that the hatch they had climbed through disappeared.

They wandered about for hours with no direction. At some point, Alma awoke but was groggy and slow. While leaning on Dante’s arm for support she revealed, in a whisper, that eating undead blood had negative side effects and she’d need human blood before long. The pair stumbled along, one anxious the other hungrily looking at their two companions.

Luck appeared to be on the group’s side as after some time voices could be heard. Cautiously following the sound, the voices resolved themselves to be familiar ones. It was the sound of Iago and his cronies, counting aloud some kind of numbers. James wanted to go to him immediately but Alma managed to hold the boy back. They watched as he passed a tunnel over. They had meant to follow but again Alma kept them all back. Soon it was clear why, two figures were stalking the Priest, walking with loping graceful steps - not making a sound.

Again, James tried to break free but again he was stopped. They ended up following the followers at an equal distance. When Iago departed the sewers, using a hidden door, they weren’t able to see the mechanism. Thankfully the two stalkers could, and they, in turn, saw them. A specific brick was pressed and a passage was opened.

This new pathway was scent isolated which came to everyone’s relief and after a quick Sterilising Chant from the acolyte the group smelled as fresh as daisies. The path was much narrower so they had to keep a greater distance. It terminated in a large store room, from the entrance they could see Iago but the two followers disappeared.

When James heard the truth of Iago’s actions, he couldn’t hold himself back, and neither could Delphine. Although she tried her best. Dante didn’t follow the pair as Alma had stopped, frozen still. It was as if she had seen a ghost, and she wasn't already a vampire. Dante tried to move her but couldn’t, her muscles tight and trembling. He followed her gaze to the middle of the room where one bone fell after another. The bones seemed odd to Dante. Slightly yellowed and engraved with strange black runes. It finally struck him when they began to articulate.

“Osseus?” he asked but was cut off by a sudden wind. It carried the two acolytes from the room, kicking and screaming. It whisked them along at blistering speed but didn’t seem to attach to Dante and Alma as it did the others. Alma began slipping off the cushion of air and Dante grasped her catatonic hand, but it only ended up dragging him off as well. They had gone so fast that he didn’t recognize the place they found themselves in when they fell and in the blink of an eye the acolytes were carried out of sight. They were no longer in the passage or the sewers but a strange underground cave that seemed to have grass growing on its flaw.

‘What was that?’

Dante tried to stand but his hand was being held in a death grip by an unmoving Alma. Having tumbled from the fast air current they were a tangle of limbs upon the grass. Using his other three appendages Dante extricated himself as best he could. Looking Alma in the eye, he spoke her name calmly and softly.

She seemed to snap back to her senses, backing away from Dante’s closeness. Pulled back by her own unrelenting grip on his hand, she released it with disgust before remastering herself - back straight.

“Are you alright?” Dante asked, concern evident in his voice.

“Fine,” Alma lied. Trying to control her shaking - not able to look Dante in the eye. He laid a hand on her shoulder to calm her but it was shrugged away. Dante frowned and sat a distance away on the grass. A silence stretched between them but Date was content to wait.

“I promised myself I wouldn't do that. I thought I could be strong,” Alma eventually said, clearly chastising herself. A tear may have come to her eye but she covered it with a punch to her own face.

“You are strong,” Dante said, without an ounce of doubt or embarrassment. She blushed but didn’t reply. Some time was spent with the pair listening to the sound of subterranean crickets. With time Alma came back to herself, fueled by self loathing she stood

“Come on, we're going,” she declared, still not meeting Dante’s eye.

“Where to?” Dante asked, just trying to get her to talk.

“I don’t know, anywhere!” she snapped. Dante followed along as the chirping of insects returned. They headed in the direction the wind had gone, soon finding themselves in a most peculiar forest. Instead of branches and leaves the trees seemed to be nothing but roots growing up, stringy tendrils floating in the air as if possessed. Neither of them said a word about the odd plants and neither allowed even the smallest grasping root to touch them.

They lost the windswept trail at some point. How, they knew not. The destruction it had caused just seemed to cease. Likely disappeared into The Underground carrying the two acolytes with it.

From between the white whispering feelers came a weird sight. A cottage that wouldn’t look out of place in some idyllic retirement village. One story, furnished with a thatched roof, and limewashed. A rose bush grew up one wall but didn’t seem to have any flowers, or even buds.

“That’s definitely haunted.” Dante remarked without inflection. Alma didn’t halt in her forward march. “Where are you going?” he asked, with some little concern evident.

“Where do you think?” Alma replied, churlishly. “What’s the matter, are you scared?” she taunted, trying to hide the involuntary snort of mucus. Dante rushed after the determined woman - trying to get her to turn away but she wouldn’t be dissuaded.

Creak. The wooden door swung slowly open without much effort. Alma stomped into the kitchen and Dante stepped carefully behind her. The room was well stocked, the walls lined with pots, pans, cooking implements, and jars. The pair had just made it to the dining table when there came a

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

Bang. Dante flinched, Alma spun; a Blood Whip at the ready. Dante turned to see the door slam, his heart hammering. Behind them clay smashed as a line of oat pots shattered on the floor. Alma clenched her weapon tight, circling slowly.

Dante twisted to face the sound, his face as pale as ever.

Twang. Dante spun at the new sound. A knife had appeared, as if thrown, in the back of the door. It still wobbled.

Dante repositioned himself again at yet another sound, that of an old woman cackling. His eyes landed on the most witch-like witch a witch could be. Messy grey hair, a long crooked nose, and half missing teeth completed the image. She sat at the table’s head.

Unfortunately for them both, all the spinning had left Dante rather dizzy, when combined with the shocking appearance it caused him to land, back first, in the woman’s lap. It was a move some swooning lady might perform so that she could be swept up into a prospect’s arms. Dante was no fainting waif however. Oof, Crack, Thud. Dante landed, the woman Oofed, the chair broke.

Before either could react, the witch had a Blood Whip at her throat. “Who are you!” Alma challenged the already detained witch.

“Really?” she questioned, although it was muffled beneath Dante. Realising this he rushed to get off the presumably frail old lady. She spat out a mouthful of dirt that had transferred from the Bard’s now rather tired clothes.

“What were you doing swimming through mud?” she spat, in a surprisingly good natured tone. Still raw, Alma was having none of it.

“I asked you a question,” she near hissed.

“Keep your hair on,” the old woman complained, joints creaking and popping as she made her way back to her feet. Something grey slipped from her head revealing tightly tied black hair beneath. She snatched it with an as yet unseen speed and in the blink of an eye had it back on her head. Dante stared in confusion as his heart slowed, after all the frantic spinning.

“Honestly, you come into my house and start demanding things… I was only playing a harmless prank.” Dante couldn’t catch any more of the mumbling that occurred in the rest of the arduous rising process. When it became evident that Alma wasn’t about to put away her weapon she answered:

“The name’s Nora, Nora the Naughty Witch,” she declared, as if they should recognise it. “You know…” she encouraged. “Famous the city over for my pranks and scoundreltry.” She looked between the pair, shocked.

“We’re not local,” Dante explained, feeling sorry for the woman, who looked quite put out at the lack of reaction. Not really knowing what to do, Alma unsummoned her weapon.

“Can I ask, are you a Witch?” Dante asked, not able to hold back the question.

“Well of course I’m a Witch. I don’t live in a cabin in the woods, nor grow warts for nothing. It’s all branding,” she explained.

“Woods?” Alma murmured under her breath bitterly.

“Now,” the Witch continued, clapping her hands, “What are your two wishes?”

“I thought that was genies or djinn? And why two?” Dante asked but was drowned out by Alma’s immediate shout for “Gold”. A tiny coin, smaller than a pea, pinged off her forehead.

“There are two wishes because there are two of you,” the wishing Witch explained, addressing Dante’s questions.

“That’s not fair,” Alma began angrily, “I want more gold than a king,” she amended.

“That is more than some kings, besides you’ve had your wish. Boy, what do you want?” she asked, ignoring Alma’s stomping.

“Emm,” he began, not wanting to take anything away from his companion. When it became clear she wouldn’t give her anything more he answered. “I would like to know, and be known by, my family,” he said, choosing his words carefully. Alma huffed. The witch wiggled her hands in a manner that may have been mystic before looking off into the distance. Several seconds passed before she returned to herself.

“Difficult, very difficult. I can try my best but I’ll need something from you,” she finally said.

Alma paced, annoyed.

“What do I need to do?” Dante asked, resolute. She shot him a surprisingly impish grin before announcing:

“You must answer my riddles three!” Alma slammed her fist on the table to stop the annoying woman.

“I thought that was Ghosts?” Dante asked, having heard something of the sort from the only ghost he had ever met.

“Hush,” the Witch said, striking his shin with a cane that had appeared from nowhere, “I’m old, I can do what I like.”

“Get it over with then,” Alma demanded, fed up with the whole thing.

“Fine, fine. Here’s your first one:

A Witch on her travels meets three Fates. One is called Truth and always speaks the truth. The second is called Falsehood and always tells lies. The third is called Wisdom and sometimes speaks the truth and sometimes lies. The trouble is that the Witch does not know which is which. Therefore, she asks each one a question. She starts with the Fate on the left and asks her: ‘Which one is standing in the middle?’ The Fate replies: ‘Truth’. She asks the middle one: ‘Which one are you?’ The Fate responds: ‘Wisdom’. She asks the last one: ‘Which one is standing in the middle?’ The Fate replies: ‘Falsehood’. The question is, which Fate is which? First, second and third?”

Dante took some time to think it over but it was Alma who answered, “Wisdom, falsehood, truth.” When Dante looked at her, questioningly, she responded, “Riddles used to be a great way to part drunkards from their coin,” and shrugged.

“That’s correct!” The Witch declared, somehow fluctuating the light with her laugh of delight. “Next one, next one:

The thought of me brings sickness

The sight of me, despair

Falter while in battle

And you're sure to find me there.

When you fall most ill

Make sure to have a care

To leech me for your treatment

Will take you elsewhere.”

“Blood,” Alma replied, without hesitation.

“Very good,” the Witch clapped. “But this is for the young man’s wish so he must answer the last.” Reluctantly, Alma agreed.

“No legs have I to dance, No lungs have I to breathe, No life have I to live or die And yet I do all three. What am I?” she asked. Dante sat, thinking about it. Alma clearly got it right away and seemed ready to punch it into him.

‘No legs, doesn’t breathe, but lives and dies?’ Dante thought. It was certainly a hard one. Dante’s eyes searched the room as he pondered the riddle. They lingeried on the hearth for a moment and it came to him.

“Fire,” he said, at first softly, “It’s fire isn’t it.” He smiled seeing the look of pride on Alma’s face. It quickly passed when she realised it was there.

“Excellent,” the Witch cackled. This time it seemed far more sinister. The candlelight intensified - with a wave of the women's cane the two were hurtled into the fireplace without a moment to react.

Before they could so much as scream they were engulfed in green flame. Dante let out a sound of pained surprise only to realise it didn’t hurt. Thinking the fire may be some form of transportation spell, he waited. Just as he was about to get up, the floor disappeared from beneath them and they fell, the fire some sort of distraction. Down, Down, Up? Gravity flipped and they found themselves popping out of a well. Around them was the courtyard of an excessively large house. A complete staff of servants bustled, not even noticing the newcomers - so busy with their preparations were they. Dante was, again, about to stand when he heard a cough directly above the pair. He looked up to see a rather serious looking man, dressed smartly in black, seeming not at all pleased.

☠

After Alma was able to produce a piece of paper, the butler's manor changed completely. As it turned out they had appeared on the grounds of the Ghibellines’ estate, just as they were preparing for the night’s festivities. Alma at some point had swiped an invitation and it granted them some immunity from the majordomo's wrath.

He was clearly displeased at the sudden, unexpected arrival but hid it behind a mask of professional passivity. Apparently, it wasn’t unusual for some of the noble guests to arrive ahead of time and expect rooms to be prepared for them. As such, they were escorted to the guest wing of the manor. Now that the earlier excitement had worn off, Alma was looking worse than ever. Clearly low on energy, with bags under her eyes and laboured sounding breathing. She looked at the maid that followed her into her rooms hungeraly.

Dante spent the next few hours being fussed about by a number of servants, not knowing what he was supposed to do, he let them go about their work.

His clothes were taken, he was bathed thoroughly, then dried off by men who seemed to see it more like polishing a statue than treating a person. After he was red raw he was to be dressed. When being undressed he had been measured and whilst he was washed, clothes had been prepared. A variety of styles and colours were laid before him. Dante's mind reeled at the level of wealth this alone represented. How rich must the Ghibellines be to be able to treat every guest in such a way? When asked which family he was from, in order to emblaze their emblem, he paused. When he asked them to leave it blank he was given odd looks but obeyed.

Not able to choose which outfit he asked for the advice of the most senior servant attending him. He ground his teeth as he chose the same outfit that Sqwent had been raving over since he saw it. A red tunic, with silk embellishments and puffy shoulders. The trim and buttons black, it came with a matching pair of hose and a one shoulder cape. Dante felt ridiculous wearing it but hardly felt in a position to complain.

He reunited with Alma in the hallway. She seemed far more vivacious, a skip in her step. He was relieved when he saw the same maid as before leaving Alma’s room, although she seemed pale and drawn she was still alive. The pair were as ready as they could ever be for a Ball in high society.