“I heard an interesting rumor last night.”

Dere opened one lazy eye, a multicolored canvas of grey and black, and observed the silver haired woman sitting across from him. She wore a lovely red dress, adorned with pretty yet elegant frills and modest silver jewelry, which accentuated her hair and light blue eyes. “Do tell.” He didn’t sit up from his prone position on the bench across from Arlette, where he’d been napping moments before, choosing instead to leave the option of returning to slumber open.

“Oh, you know how rumors can be, so outlandish.” Dere raised an eyebrow. Arlette, who sat on the bench in perfect posture, met him with an elegant smile. “This particular one claimed that a man, of all things, broke into the small shrine to Glemoa in the Red district and actually ordered the daughters to leave. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that?”

Dere’s other eye opened and he sat himself up, careful not to rumple his fine clothes or to knock his head on the cramped interior of the carriage. “Outlandish indeed. But, as you said, these rumors can oftentimes be so absurd. Were I to believe everything I’ve heard, I’d walk around the streets like a madman, claiming that faceless men walk the same ground we do.”

She hit him with another perfect smile. If he annoyed her, she didn’t show it. “Yes, that would truly be an outlandish claim.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

Her smile remained unmarred. “Though, I do find that our world can be quite peculiar, so much so that the things we dismiss as outlandish can prove to be totally correct.” She put particular emphasis on the final word. “And I do find it to be such a bizarre coincidence that, a few days after you ask about a temple to Glenmoa, a man strides into such a spot unannounced.”

He met her with his own smile, the complete opposite of hers. It made no attempt to hide intent or truth, but rather reveled in them. “That’s a bold claim you seem to be making. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you didn’t trust me.”

Light blue eyes tried to pierce through his but failed to find anything through the shadowy grey. “Ah, now you understand. I don’t trust you in the slightest.” Nothing about her posture or overall demeanor shifted but the conversation had changed.

Dere stretched off his grogginess and yawned. “Yet, here you are, across from me.”

A slight shrug of her shoulders served as perhaps the most genuine response she had yet given. “Unfortunately, my trust remains irrelevant. Marcella trusts you, for now.”

Dere leaned back in the seat, legs splayed out on the bench. “Which is peculiar, I admit. I’m not even sure I trust me.”

Her expression remained as statuesque as ever, but Dere thought he saw a flicker of amusement pass through her eye. “Well then, you are a wiser man than I thought.” She took a second, considering what to say next. “Like me, Marcella thinks you’re useful, almost necessary. Unlike me, Marcella thinks she understands you, at least enough to trust you.”

“Does she now?” Dere’s eyes twinkled.

“Don’t mistake me, I think it's a foolish notion. But Marcella has always had an eye for people, an understanding of how they work. She can find the humanity in anyone, and she’s seldom wrong.”

“Finding the humanity in me would be… difficult.”

Arlette gifted him with a polite laugh. “I don’t doubt it. Perhaps Marcella trusts her talents too much. She has always leaned on her own intelligence, especially since her channeling has always been weak by her families’ standards.”

Dere narrowed his eyes, unsure why Arlette chose to divulge that particular information. Arlette pretended to not notice his suspicion. “I’ve known Marcy since she was a child. Always out to prove why she was the brightest of the family, and, indeed, she usually was. I think her sisters would normally have resented her for it, but they always had a closer bond with Reyn. Marcy just never had that same talent.” Arlette looked out the window as she talked. “Made her a good Queen candidate for Erdrick, of course. Still had the Blessed bloodline to maintain her pedigree and the intelligence to help manage the kingdom, but she lacked the actual strength to challenge his throne. Sad really, in the past, Erdrick would never have had to worry about such things. A straight descendant of the Fire King, yet age and old wounds catch up to even the most powerful Blessed. We may play at being immortal, but we are not.” The way she ended the sentence varied from the start. Dere could hear the cold edge in her voice.

The atmosphere in the carriage had shifted. Dere sat, still leaning back, trying to read Arlette. For her part, she ignored him, continuing to stare out the window at the lovely countryside of Clovin. “I tend to find,” Dere muttered, after a time. “That those best equipped to use power, are those who would manage just fine without it. I suppose that’s a point in Marcella’s favor.”

Arlette turned to him and gifted him with her most dazzling smile yet, so lovely it could make even the coldest man’s heart melt. Shame, really, that it was fake.

---------------

Dere helped Arlette down from the carriage and turned to face the manor. Every inch of the stone and marble oozed wealth. Vines, trimmed daily, tumbled down the walls. Beautiful windows, decorated with images of fire, let sunlight into all four stories. A garden, maintained by a small army of staff, led them to the front door, which itself was inlaid with precious stones and carved of expensive dark wood from the Western Continent. Impressive for a mortal, Dere had to admit.

He and Arlette walked arm in arm through the front door. The guard, a portly bored looking man in fine chainmail, nodded at Dere’s invitation and gestured them on through.

The inside somehow flaunted its wealth even more than the exterior. Crystal chandeliers imported from Coln, artwork painted by Aria’s Blessed, architecture of Vandrian style. Dere and Arlette strode through it all, looking as impressed as Clovish custom allowed.

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Together, they entered the central courtyard, where they found the focus of the party. The greats of Clovin, many of them Blessed, mingled amongst each other here, exchanging false pleasantries and sugared lies. A server passed them as they stood by the entranceway, carrying a silver platter with goblets of wine. Dere snatched up two glasses and handed Arlette the other. He took a swig of wine and raised his brows in appreciation before taking another sip.

Arlette looked at him and his glass, slight dismay curling her lip. Dere gave her a little wink. “Just blending in, that’s all.” He finished the remainder of the cup, as fast as etiquette would allow, and replaced it with another from the tray. Trying not to sigh, Arlette took a delicate sip from her own glass, hardly consuming any of the wine at all. She then led Dere away, before he could summon the bright idea of grabbing a third drink.

It took surprising grace to weave between the various guests, but they each managed it well enough. Dere picked up bits of the conversation as he flowed between the groups of people. The usual pleasantries and pointless topics appeared, but, every so often, he’d catch a worried whisper of Duval, Besson, or the faceless men. Arlette led him to a corner where they had a good view of the full courtyard and all its many guests. On the way, Dere finished his glass of wine and deposited it onto another tray. Arlette stopped him before he could grab another.

“So…” Dere began, until the sudden blaring of music from the orchestra at the center of the courtyard interrupted his thought. The guests laughed and walked over to nearby partners, outreached hands extending a silent invitation. The ones who received an affirmative answer moved around the center of the room, preparing to dance.

“I don’t suppose you know how to dance?” Arlette asked.

“If it's old, stuffy, and traditional, almost assuredly. If not…”

“Well I have good news then,” She said, giggling just a little. “Old , stuffy, and traditional is the only way Clovin knows how to do things.”

Dere’s laugh echoed around the room, intermingling with dozens of others. He proffered a hand to Arlette, bowing mockingly as he did. She shook her head and accepted the hand before leading him off to the center once more. Dere did indeed recognize the dance. He had learned it two thousand years before and could still recall the movements. He and Arlette moved through them together, his natural dexterity making up for his occasional misstep. “So,” He said, as they danced in rhythm. “Mind pointing out the important guests here?”

Arlette scanned the room a little and considered. “You’ll need to know the Highlords.” They extended out at arms reach and came back together. “Duval, Besson, and, of course, Lucroy you already know.”

Dere tried his best not to look confused when she mentioned Lucroy, a name he hadn’t heard. He scanned his memory and landed on a tall red-haired man with commanding blue eyes, whom he’d met back at the manor. “Ah,” He said. “I didn’t know he was a Highlord.”

Arlette gave him an incredulous glance but seemed unwilling to delve further into it. He whirled her in a circle. “Other than those three, there’s Sylvian, Highlord of the Eastern Plains.” She nodded her head in the direction of an old, formal looking man, with a well groomed moustache. “He was Erdrick’s cousin, a loyalist, and a good man, for a Highlord. Over there is Highlord Christopher. He remained loyal to Erdrick.” She grimaced when she saw the next man. “That’s Highlord Frederic and his son Dylan.” Dere followed her glance and saw two men standing side by side chatting. They looked much alike: average height, blond hair, handsome.

Arlette continued to glare at them as she talked and danced. “Frederic was one of Duval’s earliest allies, as much a scoundrel as you’ll ever find. His son, if at all possible, is worse. They and Sylvian have been at each other's throats for nearing on three decades.” Dere thought he saw the boy look in their direction, but he couldn’t be sure.

She pointed out many more of Clovin’s elite- Evrard, Albert, Nathaniel, Gustave, Isaac- some loyal, others not. A few were missing. Those who had not yet been culled in by Duval’s might: Maurius, Manuel, and Adam. They fought on, but their defeat was an apparent inevitability.

Arlette continued describing, in more detail, the political intricacies and relationships between the Highlords, but Dere’s eyes glazed over and his ears picked up next to nothing. The next thing he knew, Arlette was staring straight into his eyes. “Are you even listening?”

Dere broke out of his revery. “Of course, Isaac and Manuel were… childhood friends?”

“Longtime rivals, actually.” Her usually calm demeanor slipped a little.

“Same thing, to my ears.”

It seemed like Arlette wanted to chastise him, but the music stopped before she could. Dere separated from her and went to grab some wine, promising to return in a minute. Arlette watched him as he walked away then shook her head, too annoyed to offer much complaint. 

Dere slipped between the crowd towards the nearest server and reached for another drink. As he did, another hand picked up one of the other cups. Dere grabbed his own and looked upwards at the chiseled face of Highlord Sylvain, the only one Arlette seemed to like. He nodded at Dere and dipped back into the crowd. On a hunch, Dere followed at a distance.

Sylvian exchanged pleasantries with a few of the guests, but he moved with a clear destination in mind, never loitering for more than half a minute. He made it through the worst of the crowd and ended up at the Easternmost wall where he met another figure, this one tall and lean with stark black hair. Dere leaned against a nearby column and sipped his wine, ears straining to pick up anything they might be saying.

“I hate parties.” The black haired man murmured, bitterness lacing his tone.

“I hate parties that celebrate my defeat.” Responded Sylvian with a guffaw.

The black haired man shook his head and Sylvian laughed and patted him on the back. “Always so negative, Florian.”

Florian rolled his eyes but otherwise maintained a clear level of respect to his apparent superior. “Have you heard,” He said, after Sylvian’s laugh had died down. “The Highlords are calling a meeting?”

Dere’s ears perked up. He took another casual sip of wine and pretended to look away from the two men. Sylvian’s voice lost some of its good-humor. “I’ve heard. Worried about Duval, are they? Little late for that.”

“This could be an opportunity to get the Highlords in line, form a united front against Duval and his monsters.” Florian muttered the words out so quiet that Dere had to strain to catch them.

“United Highlords?” Sylvian’s laugh carried across the party and through the room, temporarily interrupting some of the nearby conversations. Sylvian waved politely and everyone returned to their idle talk. Then, more quietly, he continued. “That’s funny, Florian, that’s really funny.”

“I know it’s naive, sir, but we should try.”

Sylvian started to speak and stopped himself. He gave it another moment's thought, then, spoke again. “No, you’re right. We’ll never unite, but this might be a chance to plant a seed in their mind, to try and sow some discontent.”

Florian betrayed no reaction, positive or negative, to his lord's change of mind. “The meeting will be in an hour, in Besson’s personal residence.” Sylvian only nodded.The two of them broke up after that. Sylvian slapped Florian on the back as he walked away, telling him to go and enjoy himself.

Dere finished his wine, mind buzzing. He needed to get into that meeting, but how? He looked around for Arlette and saw her conversing with some of the party guests. A few dozen feet away from her, a man approached, Frederic’s son Dylan, walking right up to her with a clear purpose. Dere connected the dots. They knew each other well, very well. He had an idea.