Chapter 415 - Amidst the Valencian Wind VIII
Claire kept a steady gaze on the cheap wall-mirror in front of her as she strung her hair together. She made sure that every strand was perfectly placed, manipulating her vectors with far more care and precision than she ever had in battle. It was a task barely enabled by the public bathhouse’s implements, made possible only on account of the fact that Cadria’s technology was leaps and bounds ahead of what one might find abroad. Though a little foggy and in need of constant wiping, the private stall’s reflectors were polished enough that the only trouble she had stemmed from a lack of experience; the arrangement of her hair had always been something she had left to her servants.
Only once she was happy with the braided bun did Claire turn her attention to her ears. She folded them in on their bases and secured them with a pair of silver ear cuffs, effectively halving their apparent length. Even then, their size was well in excess of the national average. She could have folded and halved them again to further reduce their appeal, but she was unwilling to compromise. For her next destination, her appearance was of greater importance than any sort of secrecy.
It was for that same reason that she did away with her armour. The metal was transformed into a series of expensive garments. The top half of her body was covered in a mulberry silk blouse further protected by a rib-knit, cashmere sweater. Though a plain cream colour, its quality was evident from the complete lack of loose threads.
Her bottom half sported a pleated, cervelt skirt along with a set of formal, five-centimeter heels made of Langgbjern-sourced leather. She had a hat, a scarf, and a pair of mittens as well, though more for fashion and inconspicuity than to stave off the coming winter. Everyone else was geared for the season, and though she had removed her metal disguise, she did at least make some effort to minimize the attention she drew.
Stealth was also the reason she had chosen to change in a bathhouse. The free, public institutions were always flooded in the afternoon. The sheer volume of people they drew made them perfect for escaping the spies in charge of her observation.
Checking the mirror again, the lyrkress nodded in satisfaction and considered her route of escape. She still wasn’t quite sure how she was meant to evade her observers. They were sure to start stalking her again as soon as she exited the building.
The most obvious choice was to take them out, but it didn’t seem wise. She neither wanted to reveal her hand nor engage in any activities likely to mess up her freshly done hair.
She settled on prioritizing the latter after giving herself another once over. First were the stalkers who relied on artifacts. She grabbed ahold of their magical devices and compressed them into a series of tiny, dysfunctional spheres. Only once they were fully disabled did she seize the less technically reliant with her vectors directly; she ripped them from their vantage points and sent them spiraling into the ground.
With thirteen of them in all, the scene caused an immediate commotion—a commotion she used to slip into the crowd unnoticed. Engaging her sneaking skill, she slunk between the shadows and made her way through the city. She was only half certain that it would work, but the enhancement provided by the god of the depths proved far more potent than she had expected. She found, as she moved through the streets, that most of the eyes on her back were gone. Perhaps because none of the agents were her father’s, or perhaps because they were simply underprepared, only one had immediately recovered and tried to chase after her, but she promptly broke his legs with a series of wayward forces; without any armour to boost his magical resistance, it proved surprisingly simple.
Satisfied with her handiwork, she continued on her way. It didn’t take long for her to pass through the southernmost gate and waltz into the forest beyond it.
“Claire!”
Though her sneaking skill was still active, she found a fox beelining towards her when she turned to face the voice. Sylvia pranced through the fallen leaves, and leapt into her best friend’s chest. Or at least that was what she tried to do.
Taking off one of her mittens, Claire grabbed the furball by the scruff of her neck and stopped her shy of impact.
“Fix your paws,” she said. “They’re filthy.”
“Uhmmmm… okay, I guess.” Sylvia was a little confused, but she hummed a quick tune and removed all the grime.
“Good dog.”
“I’m not a dog, what the heck!” huffed the fox.
“Foxes are just orange dogs.”
“That’s not true! Some of us are kinda grey or black. And we’re not dogs!”
“I’m not sure I believe you.”
Pulling Sylvia into her chest, Claire continued to trek through the wooded land. She followed the path of a very specific leyline and came to a stop in front of a conspicuous hole.
“Uhmmmm… I don’t think we’re supposed to be here,” said Sylvia.
The tiny tunnel was marked with a wooden sign that bore House Augustus’ insignia—the tip of a spear with a spider engraved into its socket. The crest was accompanied by the declaration that entry was unlawful and that any violators would be struck down immediately upon their discovery.
“Don’t worry,” said Claire.
Despite the claim, there had never once been any such execution. It was half because the people respected her father’s authority, and half because entry was nigh impossible to begin with; the tunnel was too small for even a cottontail to fit through, and the magic that reinforced the walls made digging through its sides a near impossible task. The barrier placed around the entrance was just as much of a deterrent, albeit not for Claire. It opened when she approached, revealing an entrance tuned perfectly for her size and shape. The tunnel’s reaction was similar. It swelled so she could pass through, growing large enough for a comfortable stroll.
“So where are we going anyway?”
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“Somewhere important.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’ll see.” Claire lightly scratched the fox’s chin and continued ahead.
Though they were underground, directly beneath the forest, their surroundings were completely devoid of vegetation. None of the tree’s roots were anywhere to be seen, and there wasn’t even the faintest hint of moss growing within the tunnel.
It wasn’t like the environment was inhospitable—it was just damp enough for things to grow, courtesy of the recent snowfall, and there was plenty of light streaming in from up ahead—it was simply well maintained. A certain someone had taken the time to ensure that the tunnel was clean despite otherwise being incredibly busy on account of his kingly duties. It couldn’t have been anyone else. She and her father were the only two permitted to enter the space. Lest brought along as guests, any other would-be visitors were outright denied.
The end of the tunnel opened up into a bright field. It was a meadow in the middle of the forest, though it was difficult to say if it was truly in the forest at all. There wasn’t a single tree to be found; the towering stone walls kept them out of sight.
Together, the pillars folded inwards to form something of an incomplete dome. Enough of the sky was exposed that the field was still brightly lit, with all of the brightest beams coming together near the center of the secret garden. The place of their convergence was the one spot where the flowers still bloomed—where one could find a lone rock standing among the flowers. It was a perfectly carved headstone with her mother’s name engraved. From what Allegra had told her, it was something her father had crafted by hand.
In the past, Claire had rejected the notion. She thought it impossible with how little he cared, how he always left her side—for as long as Claire could remember, her mother was always sickly and often completely bedridden. Sometimes, her condition would worsen. They took dramatic turns for the worse that none of Cadria’s healers could solve. Those were the times when she needed the most support. And those were the times that her father always left for war.
But looking upon the gravestone again, with her ocular faculties far improved, she was more inclined to believe the rabbit’s claim. The sides were perfectly cut and the name was lovingly engraved. The task was performed with such impossible dexterity, and the stone was shaved so perfectly that it was difficult to believe that it was anyone else’s handiwork. Because it was the very same perfect attention to detail given to the tunnel’s maintenance.
Claire frowned as she recalled her father’s indifference—the mask that he had continued to wear throughout her mother’s funeral.
Perhaps he had his reasons after all. But even so, she couldn’t find it in herself to forgive him. Not for what happened back then, nor any of the events thereafter.
Silently, Claire strode through the field and sat down by the grave. She removed the clasps on her ears and allowed them to return to their usual shape. And then, still holding Sylvia in her arms, she leaned against the stone and pressed a cheek against it. In the past, it would have been her forehead, but the giant horn that sprouted therefrom rendered the act impossible.
A cool sensation spread from the place of contact, just as it had in the past. Claire was well aware that, in reality, it was all in her head. Her body was far colder than the polished stone. The sensation came more from her memories than it did from her nerves, but she basked in it regardless. It was the only reminder she had of her mother’s touch. Up high in the sky, atop her father’s fortress, her mother’s hands had always been just as frigid.
Claire closed her eyes and entrusted her weight to the headstone as a soft smile crept its way onto her lips. To her own surprise, she didn’t feel like talking. When she was younger, she often came to the grave to report on all of the things she did or felt. But even though the last two years had been the most eventful yet, her lips remained unmoving.
Somehow, it just felt right.
Because she was silent, because the whole valley was silent, it felt like they had reconnected.
She stayed like that for the better part of ten minutes, opening her eyes again only as she felt a gust of wind against her cheeks. When she looked at the grave through her bleary eyes, she almost felt like she could see her mother’s spirit, but it was only for the briefest of moments.
She knew it was a hallucination, a vision born of the desires and the petals sent aflutter. Still, it filled her with strength. Standing up and squeezing her pet even closer, she raised her eyes from the grave and looked towards the sun overhead.
“Hey, Claire?” Sylvia spoke up, sensing the opportunity to break the silence.
“Mhm?”
“What kind of person was your mother?”
“I’m not really sure how to answer that,” said Claire.
“Mmmnnn… what do you mean?”
“I don’t want to insult her while we’re standing in front of her grave.”
“W-wait, insult her!?”
Claire laughed. “It’s too hard not to. She was always a bit of an idiot.”
“Uhmmmm…”
The fox’s pensive look was met with a poke to the nose.
“I’m not saying it to make fun of her. It’s true.” Claire closed her eyes and looked back on some of her fondest memories. “Mother loved to tease people, even when it was inappropriate. She played dumb all the time, and she always did her best to get out of everything even when it was obvious that she was in the wrong. She was really silly. But that was also why I loved her.”
“Is it just me, or does that explain literally everything?”
“Shut up.” The snoose pinched the fox’s cheeks before continuing. “She only ever got serious when she scolded me and told me stories.” Her eyes glazed over. “Her stories were the best. She didn’t sing, but her versions were always more interesting than the bards’.”
“Really?” Sylvia opened her eyes wide. “I thought the bards in town were pretty good.”
“They are,” said Claire, “but my mother was better. She was why I always wanted to explore the world.” She squeezed the fox a little closer before falling back into the field. “If not for her, I probably never would have thought of running away to Llystletein.”
“Your mom sounds like she was loads of fun. I always thought moms were supposed to be crazy.”
“Yours is a bit of an exception,” said Claire, with a laugh. “Most of them don’t act like that.”
Sylvia frowned. “Mmmnn… I guess you’re probably right. Lia’s mom was really nice. And Melly’s wasn’t much like mine either.”
Nodding, Claire slowly sat back up and produced an item from the pouch on her waist. Unravelling its paper wrapping, she soon revealed a pile of skewers, bought from a stall in town.
Sylvia started salivating immediately, but Claire grabbed her by the muzzle and shook her head. She set the whole roasted frogs down in front of the grave and clasped her hands in prayer.
Again, silence pervaded the scene. Speaking none of the words out loud, she prayed to Krebb, her mother's guardian deity, and wished for her eternal peace.
The prayer was unanswered; the roasted frogs remained exactly where they were, but Claire soon stood up with a smile regardless. It wasn’t like she had expected much to begin with. Never once had Krebb given her the light of day, even though her mother was well-beloved. It was only natural. The god of cylinders had never liked the fact that a priestess of his dominion had given herself to one of Vella’s pawns.
She waited for the breeze to blow again, to flutter her hair as it did the violets adorning the polished grave. And then, as her mother had so many times before her, she spread her arms wide and danced amidst the Valencian wind.