[https://media.discordapp.net/attachments/1138234412786532434/1138234588276195488/Deer_12.png]
♝♝♝♝♝♝♝♝♝♝
Chapter 25: Of Rot and Wood
The Crown Prince brushed aside the flakes of calendula and arnica that clung to his skin as he sat up in the tub to face the nobles who had interrupted his bathing. “So—you’re telling me that a mere servant caused all this?”
Marquess Borghese shot a nervous glance in Earl Percy’s direction. “Your Majesty, the servant was a demoted noblewoman that my daughter hired as an attendant out of pity. The bitch has barely been a member of the household staff for two weeks!"
“And yet Lady Priscilla trusted this servant enough to bring her along for the Royal Hunt,” Percy countered with notable cynicism. “There are also several witnesses who claim that it was Lady Priscilla who jumped to accusing the Duchess of being a witch the moment blood poured out of her attendant’s mouth!”
‘I’m not going to let you brush this matter under the rug so easily, old man,’ Percy mused with a smug grin. ‘Priscilla’s reprehensible behavior has been a source of torment and disgust among the nobles ever since you arranged her engagement to the Second Prince. It’s about time the Marquess reaped the rewards of letting a spoiled child continue to harass others while hiding behind her father’s influence.’
“That lie has already been swiftly and irrefutably thwarted,” Borghese sputtered with another furious glare in the Earl’s direction. “By several ladies who witnessed the incident first hand.”
“The Marquess has conveniently left out the fact that these witnesses are all ladies whose husbands and fathers owe their titles and lands to the Marquess and Duke Stryker,” Percy countered with a sneer. “Hardly a trustworthy perspective for truth.”
“And yet surely their words must hold equal weight to the Earl’s blatant efforts to shield his mistress!”
“Gentlemen, please!” Prime Minister Attwood protested in a restrained but weary tone. “Marquess, it hardly benefits your current situation to further insult the Duchess, who is, in fact, the victim of this charade.”
“Yes, forgive me, Prime Minister,” Borghese grumbled as he offered Attwood a fleeting glance. “I merely wished to point out the Earl’s obvious motivations for being here and demanding restitution on behalf of the Duchess.”
“Enough!” Nicholas roared, startling the noblemen, who quickly averted their gaze as the prince stood and snapped his fingers impatiently. The royal steward hastily wrapped a purple towel around the Crown Prince’s waist and retreated as Nicholas stepped out of the bath and dripped his way over to a waiting cushioned chair.
“The fact of the matter is that your household is responsible for publically maligning the Duchess’s name,” Nicholas pointed out sharply as he fixed the Marquess with a disapproving gaze. “Priscilla is responsible for her servant’s actions just as you are responsible for your daughter’s public behavior, Borghese!”
“This is not the first time Lady Priscilla has attacked the Duchess’s character in public either,” Percy interjected. “It happened once before while the lady served as the Crown Princess’s lady-in-waiting.”
“That was a misunderstanding!” Borghese protested quickly.
“And yet, your daughter has made no attempt to apologize for either incident!”
“What exactly are you suggesting, Lord Percy!”
“I believe the Earl is referring to a public apology,” Attwood replied with a faint but tired smile as he leaned against the wooden armrest of his chair. “But you have more pressing matters to be concerned about, Marquess. Unless you can prove the servant in question had a personal motivation to target Lady Kirsi and did not act under Lady Priscilla’s instructions, your daughter will stand accused of slandering a Duchess.”
Anger and shock quivered visibly across the Marquess’s pale face, and for once, he seemed at a loss for words.
“Surely there can be no doubt, Prime Minister,” Percy replied with a frown. “The accusation of Duchess Kirsi being a witch came directly from Lady Priscilla’s mouth!”
“There appear to be two countering views on that matter, Lord Percy,” Attwood replied with an amiable shrug. “How are we to value two different testimonies from multiple ladies of the nobility.”
“Then let us ask the maid directly,” Nicholas interjected. “I, for one, would be most interested in knowing why she ate those herbs to frame the Duchess.”
“Your Majesty!” Borghese protested quickly. “A servant can hardly be counted upon to own up to her actions and words if it means further incriminating herself.”
“I understand your concern, Marquess. However, you know that the testimony of a servant will hold little weight unless she can provide a specific motivation for Priscilla to act against the Duchess. Where is the maid now?”
“I believe she was placed in Viscount Gilwren’s care,” Percy answered promptly. “The Crown Princess took control of the situation and even obtained a physician to see to the servant’s injuries.”
‘How strange. Since arriving at Gilwren, Eleanora's behavior has changed dramatically. How is she suddenly capable of handling a public incident involving two noblewomen she doesn't care for with calm rationality?’ Percy mused with a faint smile of approval. ‘Perhaps Elearnora has finally realized how critical Kirsi’s support will be if she still wants to become Queen.’
“Your Majesty!” Borghese growled out stubbornly. “From beginning to end, this matter has been handled with an obvious bias for Lady Kirsi and against my daughter. The herbs and accusations were the work of the servant who weaseled her way into my household. For all I know, this woman might have been planted by someone who wished to damage the Borghese name. This bitch’s testimony can hardly hold any credibility after being conveniently placed in the custody of the accused’s grandfather!”
“The accused? Surely you mean the victim’s grandfather!” Nicholas corrected as the steward finished drying off his torso and then assisted the prince into his bathrobe. “Marquess, I would choose your words with more care. One might be tempted to believe that you had practiced for an altogether different outcome of this afternoon’s events.”
“T-that was not my intent, your Majesty,” Borghese hastily apologized.
The Crown Prince stood up slowly, tightened the cord of his robe with a sigh, and then shifted his attention to Attwood. “What do you suggest, Prime Minister? This incident will surely spark rumors in either direction if we do not address it swiftly.”
“I agree, your Majesty,” Attwood replied solemnly as he crossed his legs and laced his fingers over his raised right knee. “However, the best way to deal with such unpleasantness would be to publicly and fairly process this matter.”
“What do you mean,” Percy interjected stiffly. “Surely the Duchess’s innocence is not in question. The Viscount’s physician also confirmed the identity of the herbs and their effects.”
“Yes, I understand, Lord Percy. I was referring to the culprit responsible for orchestrating this incident.”
“Perhaps the Prime Minister should interrogate this maid personally—after her injuries have been seen too,” Nicholas suggested. The Crown Prince returned to his seat while the steward prepared a brush and comb.
“Is there any reason to do so?” Borghese demanded. “I believe the Earl is well aware that Lady Kirsi agreed to drop the matter regarding Lady Priscilla’s guilt.”
“Oh?” Nicholas turned his head towards Percy with a genuine look of surprise. “Did she?”
“I believe the Duchess was referring to Lady Priscilla’s outburst rather than her guilt, your Majesty,” Percy replied reluctantly. “All testimonies gathered so far appear to confirm the Marquess’s interpretation. I believe her Grace will be more than satisfied if the servant alone is punished to the full extent.”
‘It’s unlike Kirsi to demand justice by punishing a servant for her Mistress’s actions,’ Percy mused as he ignored the Borghese’s smug expression. ‘Why would she ignore this golden opportunity to put Priscilla in her place?’
“Very well, if that is what the Duchess wants,” Nicholas muttered as he leaned back into his steward’s capable hands. “Prime Minister, I would like you to conduct a short interview with the servant tomorrow morning. Record her statement and let me know if anything stands out. After Captain Beaumont finishes his duel with Viscount Stafford, I will have the maid publically executed before the morning hunt.”
“Thank you, your Majesty,” Borghese responded with evident relief.
“Oh, one last thing, Marquess,” Nicholas replied as he raised a hand to stop the counselor from leaving. “Regardless of the maid’s testimony, Lady Priscilla will kneel before the Duchess and apologize—publically. As a noblewoman, she will take responsibility for her words and her servant’s actions. Is that understood?”
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
The Marquess appeared to momentarily flounder before responding with a curt, “Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Tell Lady Priscilla she will do so before her maid’s execution.”
“Your Majesty,” Attwood interjected before Borghese could respond. “If we are to hold a duel, a public apology, and an execution before tomorrow's morning hunt. Then might I suggest that your Majesty give special dispensation for the duel to take place at Gilwren? To speed along the day’s events.”
“You make a good point,” Nicholas replied with an amused grin. “However, I do not wish to pressure our generous host unnecessarily.”
“Leave that to me, your Majesty,” Attwood replied confidently. “I will inform the Viscount and ensure that all is prepared for dawn.”
The Crown Prince gave his trusted advisor an affirming nod and then turned to address the two waiting counselors. “I trust our discussion has proven satisfactory for you both?”
“Satisfactory?” Borghese growled savagely. “Is your Majesty not at all concerned with public opinion? Such blatant favoritism for Lady Kirsi will make your Majesty’s ruling seem little more than a farce meant to appease your new Duchess!”
Percy glanced over at the Marquess’s trembling fists and smiled. ‘I always knew your pride would be your downfall one day.’
“Favoritism?" Nicholas murmured as he waved aside the steward's hand and stood to face the angry Marquess. “Viscount Stafford provoked the Duchess of Bastiallano, and your daughter’s servant did the same. I have decided to provide the nobles of your faction with a clear, decisive warning that I hope will dissuade any further foolish provocation.”
The Earl smiled at the murderous glint in Borghese’s eyes as the Crown Prince placed his hands on the Marquess’s shoulders.
“Perhaps a little gratitude is in order, Borghese?” Nicholas murmured with an almost predatory-like smile. “The Duchess and I have allowed Lady Priscilla to walk away from this incident unscathed. I assure you that such mercy will not be granted to the next fool who attempts to cross either of us.”
‘That was surprising.’ Percy shifted silently and narrowed his eyes as the Crown Prince returned to his seat with his usual charismatic smile. ‘I wonder if the Marquess is aware of just how fragile his current status has become.’
Borghese quivered with silent rage but kept his glare directed at the floor as the tension stretched into unbearable silence.
“Go,” Nicholas muttered with a dismissive wave as the steward returned to massage the prince’s shoulders. “Get some rest, my Lords. Tomorrow promises to be quite entertaining.”
“Thank you, your Majesty,” Percy replied as he stepped back to open the bedroom door, allowing the rather angry Marquess to storm out first before following.
‘Go on, Borghese. Flex the Duke’s influence as if it were your own. The more you and the rest of the Royal Faction squirm to maintain your power, the faster the Crown Prince, Kirsi, and I will cut you down.’
❆❆❆❆❆
The tumultuous sounds of boastful lords huddled around their campfires, enjoying the last of the ale and wine for the evening, soon faded as Jasper crossed the threshold into Gilwren Forest. The lilting sway of the deciduous and evergreen branches above melded against the crunch of leaves tread underfoot, occasionally punctuated by the popping crack of a fallen twig or branch.
The Huntsman peered patiently through the darkness until he spotted a deer trail marked by four long cylindrical cones of a spruce tree painted with a mixture of crushed fluorescent coral dust, water, and mud. The effect was a subtle but useful trick to find one’s way through the pitch-dark woods.
A serenade of katydids, crickets, and other nocturnal creatures filled the looming black forest realm, broken by the occasional trill of a mockingbird and the rare but lethal hoot of an owl. Dark wings swooped over Jasper’s head as a small animal darted frantically through the leaves not far from the trail.
Moonlight broke through the swaying arms of elm trees as the Huntsman reached the small creek that connected back to Vesper River. He slid down the loose leaves of the embankment towards the silver trail of rippling water and paused beside a fallen, fungi-covered branch to listen intently. After a moment of stillness, Jasper knelt to run his hands through the chilled water, then drank the refreshing liquid in small scoops.
The shallow creek swelled around him, spreading up the rocky shore as it crept over his boots and under the fallen branch. The flowing water churned into a small whirlpool that glowed with a faint silver-green light. Jasper calmly shook the drops of water from his hands as he waited for his contact on the other end of the connection to respond.
The churning water flashed brighter and then dimmed as the pale visage of his fiancé appeared like a mirrored reflection. “What took you so long? I was worried.” Larissa’s impatient voice rippled through the fluid transmitter.
“The Viscount set up a curfew for the Royal Hunt,” Jasper replied with a faint smile as his fingers stretched restlessly toward her reflection. “This will probably be my last message home for a while. It’s too risky to continue with all the knights positioned around the manor and forest.”
“And has this risky mission produced any results yet?”
“Are you that impatient to have me back?” The Huntsman smiled as Larissa scowled and narrowed her cerulean-blue eyes at him disapprovingly. “It has. The Duchess who took Kirsi’s name is here.”
The Strugna noblewoman’s face dimmed for a moment as the glowing light fluttered. Jasper frowned at the disruption, but Larissa’s image quickly sharpened as her shocked expression filled his view.
“Are you sure it’s her? The same Kirsi that your father knew?”
Jasper rocked back on his heel carefully as he rubbed his unshaven jawline. “I only have the old legends and my father’s records to go off of. My memory of Kirsi as a child is—unreliable at best.”
“Give it time,” Larissa replied encouragingly. “You will know for certain when you see her magic.”
“That’s not something the Duchess is likely to demonstrate when surrounded by such hypocritical and superstitious nobles,” Jasper replied with a snort of disgust. “It took a bit of bribing, but I managed to get assigned to her hunting party.”
“I hope you didn’t use any Strugna gold to buy your way in.”
“Why offer gold when pearls are easier to barter and trade?” The Huntsman held up his hands apologetically as Larissa glared at him. “I’m joking. I traded one of the huntsmen a bag of truffles. It’s an edible mushroom. They’re considered a rare delicacy around here,” Jasper explained with a shrug. “Anyway, I should know if Kirsi is the one we’re looking for before the hunt is over.”
“Be careful, my beloved. We won’t be the only ones testing her.”
The Huntsman raised a brow and nodded. “I’ll keep a lookout. You stay focused on the council and keep the Royal Consort distracted. I’ll reach out as soon as I have a definitive answer.” Jasper brushed his fingers against his lips and then tapped the water’s surface. Larissa’s worried cerulean-blue eyes rippled beneath the liquid surface. She echoed his gesture and then vanished beneath the moonlight as the churning reflection separated into dark tendrils of the flowing creek.
The quiet chorus of the forest returned to fill her absence as Jasper rose to his feet. The Huntsman waded through the receding water and climbed back up the embankment. He pulled back his huntsman’s hood and ran a hand through his dark-brown hair as he pondered the traces of ice magic that he had detected in the paw prints of the Duchess’s wolves earlier.
‘If the legend of the Calamity Witch is to be believed, then this Duchess is the same ice witch that my father trusted the future of Strugna to.’
Jasper tapped the seashell talisman beneath his jerkin as he paused beneath a birch tree branch with one foot on the deer trail. His seal-grey eyes narrowed as he turned to look back at the silver creek. All around him, the dark swaying limbs of the forest fell suddenly still, as if the trees had been frightened by some unexpected presence.
The Huntsman pulled a hatchet from his belt and scanned the dark forest around him with wary intensity as the unpleasant yet tangible smell of death whispered through the shadows. His seal-gray eyes glowed with the same silver light as the creek. The magic-enhanced vision lit up the beating veins of the trees, stretching from their extended limbs down to the roots beneath the soil.
Jasper found the dead tree quickly. A remnant's soul burned, trapped in the twisted oak’s trunk and vine-covered branches that rattled with the bones and skulls of woodland creatures. The popping sound of roots probing and wriggling through the damp forest soil as the Remnant slithered closer raised the hair on the Huntsman’s arms and neck.
The stillness faded beneath a sudden foul breath of air that grew steadily louder, like the howl of a swelling storm, layered beneath the dead witches' hungry, humming voices.
Jasper lunged towards the creek as the Remnant hurtled towards him, limbs and roots twisting and plowing through leaf and stone as they ripped through the shattered ground. With a fierce but determined cry, the Huntsman hacked off limb after limb that barred his path and stretched his left hand towards the stream beyond the dangerous web of the Remnant’s roots.
A silver, fluid blade sliced through the dead oak’s roots and wrapped itself around the water witch’s arm like a serpent. An inhuman howl of fury bled through the forest as the trees around them quivered in fear.
“You should not have come,” Jasper growled as he continued to hack through root and limb, then swung the liquid blade towards the dead oak’s trunk. The silver serpent sank its fangs into the Remnant’s bark, ripping the hardened exterior free to reveal the oily, tar-like substance beneath. “Though I suppose it's been a long time since you lost all reason to madness.”
Tiny spider-like threads sprouted out of the dead oak and spun around its trunk, tightening and pushing the broken bark back together to cover its rotting interior. The severed roots along the embankment twitched and twisted, then crawled towards the tottering Remnant, like maggots fleeing back to their nest.
The Huntsman choked down a gag. The putrid scent of rot and death in the air had become overwhelming. With a grimace of determination, Jasper raised his ax hand towards the Remnant as he muttered the spell that would seal its demise, “ᛋᚢᚱᚱᛖᚾᛞᛖᚱ ᚦᛖᛁ ᛒᛚᚩᚩᛞ.”
The dead oak shuddered as a squeal of terror hissed from beneath its cracked exterior. The silver serpent connected to Jasper’s left hand continued its assault, ripping bark from the blackened tar as drops of dark fluid bubbled free and floated through the air toward the Huntsman’s extended hand.
Dark, twisted roots tore earth and stone apart as they pierced through the collapsing embankment and stretched across the stream towards Jasper, only to be cut down by the creek’s barrier that protected him.
The Huntsman gritted his teeth beneath the deafening howl of the wretched souls long lost to greed and the desire for power. He focused on finishing the unpleasant task, draining every drop of fluid from the dead oak’s body until the putrid, bloated hearts of the Remnant sat trembling in a pile of its crumpled bark and limbs.
The sight of the melded witches' pulsating organs sickened Jasper, as did its reason for being here. The fall of Minerva and Viktor had reduced two great covens to near extinction. Shadow covens had formed in their absence—obsessed with obtaining immortality at any cost—even their humanity.
“That which is dead cannot be saved,” Jasper muttered grimly. The Huntsman pulled his scarf up over his mouth and nose and clenched his ax tightly as he crossed the creek.
A short but unsatisfying while later, the Huntsman stood over the hacked chunks of the Remnant’s rotten heart. He flung the tainted ax into the creek and set about gathering the dried limbs and bark of the oak tree, which he piled over the melting black organ. A splash of animal oil and a flash of flint soon sparked a roaring fire that ate away at the wailing souls' remains.
Jasper stared into the dancing flames as the wind died around him. Only the soft, questioning hoot of an owl disturbed the Huntsman’s thoughts as he waited for the fire to do its work.
‘More will come.’
After cleansing himself in the creek, Jasper retrieved his ax and climbed back up the embankment to return to Gilwren Manor.
‘The Hunt has already begun.’