The girls’ first two weeks in the castle-town of Argenton proved an unexciting long respite. Esme moreso, for the lofty title of a personal guard in the end amounted to little more than that of a conversational partner for the marchioness, her most formidable foe being neither contempt nor disregard from senior warriors but perpetual boredom, her occupation affording far worse varieties of labor than survival in the wild. Even then, she complained seldom about so paltry a problem, or at least tried not to, out loud. And at night, she alternated between reading and training in the courtyard.

As for Cordelia, a lack of progress galled her enough to fill the empty hours with even more aimless research. There was little indication as to whether the copious information she had been devouring from the dusty tomes was true or useful. Nor had she come across aught more than the most superficial references regarding her greatest enemies at the present: the einherjar and the fey lords of Elfland. There were names mentioned in the lore, among them Freya and Vali, the two lords the World Serpent had confronted and humiliated during that gathering at Avalon. And also of many other names she was already familiar with. She found naught, however, that diverged greatly from her old world’s knowledge of what it had called Norse Mythology. The Dark Master oft alluded to by the demons was never mentioned. While pronounced deities, or those prevailed in the text as had survived the passage of time, such as Odin, Thor and Loki, were treated as though they ruled still in the world of feys. Yet of the three, only one offspring of the last she had met: the World Serpent herself.

“There was a great change,” Mastema had said when inquired of the matter, “And things are not as before. These names you mentioned our people have long forgotten. Now the Dark Master rules Elfland and the fey lords try desperately to appease his system.”

But it refused to speak more of the matter, and for which she suspected the familiar knew little more than herself.

“Your world had but a miniscule glimpse of the true lore,” it added, “I’d not rely upon your knowledge overmuch.”

Another source of intel was the maidservants in the castle, who were willing to share whatever they might or might not know. Though from this quarter she found little of use besides an ungodly amount of gossip, for which she had gained a passing familiarity with the locals. For all that was worth. Of other things of wider implications, scant rumors were alluded to here and there, but once again imparted nothing new. That the land was broken since the passing of the heirless High King, and that an unsavory band of hired swords called the Boggarts haunted these northern countries, she had heard enough.

And then there was her day job to attend a portion of her day. To her mild surprise, Cordelia found the children tolerable after the first disastrous introduction. Whether the nurse’s scolding had effected this change in their attitudes, or that the initial bafflement was simply over, the first and subsequent lessons were conducted rather smoothly.

Etna was cold and detached, a tad haughty and sarcastic, but ultimately did not treat Cordelia like an inferior being, even though the latter wouldn’t have minded such a treatment, being hired only to play the part. Eric was exceedingly shy and oft stumbled when attempting new dictions; his own mistakes frustrated him, at times hinted at a hidden temper beneath the bashful surface. That they were not lovely children had not changed, but all the same Cordelia resolved to act the part of a tutor, with a little better sense of responsibility than she had cared to take upon herself at first. The language she commanded well enough, mayhap too well, confounding even the seneschal, who made a point to inspect her tutoring once in a while. As for cultural knowledge and natural sciences, she first researched in the library then arranged the scattered bits and pieces into coherent lesson plans. The nurse remarked that she was far more erudite than the previous tutor, though this might not say much beyond her patchwork being better than nothing. The children meanwhile resented the fact their study time had doubled.

All this academic endeavor, personal and occupational, kept her nose well stuck between dusty parchments, having missed her no less than a dozen meals in as many days. This earned her a reputation in the castle as that one air-headed scholar, who in reading so much and so often had inhaled an ungodly amount of dust from the books that even without one, her mind would still wander elsewhere, preferably away from own sustenance.

On one occasion, Esme was commanded to fetch her friend and sometime servant from the library, dragging, in fact, the latter to an appointment with the lady of the house which Cordelia had not cared to note down in her schedule.

Galilea, Sir Kamaric’s wife, was a lovely woman, who somehow still managed to retain an air of naivety despite having given birth thrice and being in her middle years. She was also as starved for conversations and actions as Esme, though Sir Kamaric visited her chamber often enough to allow Esme time to stretch her legs around the castle, thus shuffling both’s modes of boredom.

Her private chamber was a nest of silk, colored like a messy rainbow by strewing garments. She had laid dresses and gowns and even boyish clothes wherever there was space to put in the room, making heavy stacks of soft fabrics and gaudy drapings upon the couch. This excessive lavishment found its next victim in Cordelia. Diplomatically, she obliged the lady, and stood dumbly as she was dressed up.

Esme had made space by the window, a small clearing upon a rustic stool where the rich apparels did not dare approach. She alternated between sending her lazy gaze out the window or back at Cordelia whenever the tightened corset would cause the latter to cry out.

The blonde herself had been made a prototype before Cordelia’s arrival, as it seemed to be her frequent job around these parts. Hers were boyish clothes: leather jerkins with fine trims of gold over a silky shirt, a pair of riding breeches, and boots of soft deerskin. But most fitting, perhaps, was a beige hat crowned upon her golden head and the peacock feathers stuck out from which. She had switched from her shaggy short hair to a tidier cut with a parted bang, courtesy of the marchioness’s order, and so lost without a trace the wilder aspects she had been used to during her rough life in the wilds.

Cordelia wished her own apparel could be so simple, drowning as she was under belts, girdles, stockings, hoods, scarfs, capes, coats, detached sleeves, and an unguessed number of other articles trimmed with ruffles and frills - all forming increasingly complex layers, whose varied combinations baffled her who was used to simpler and modern clothing.

Nor were these elaborate getups supposed to be the day-to-day outfits. Lady Galilea herself fashioned in a white muslin, completely unbothered by jewels save for a thin chain of silver about her neck. Meanwhile, these clothes Cordelia had been obediently trying on and taking off showed no sign of having been much worn, save perhaps for such personal dressing shows. All evidence pointed to the garments being a form of entertainment to a lady confined to her ivory tower, bored out of mind and given to the pleasure of prettiness.

“Have you grown used to the castle,” asked Lady Galilea, circling Cordelia as she draped a toga over the naked white of her victim’s bare shoulders.

“Fair well, your ladyship.”

“I’m glad,” she said absently and took off the toga, then picked up another of a different shade. “Have the guards caused you aught trouble?”

“Not under your husband’s ruling, they won’t,” she said monotonously, standing rigid as a belt was wound tight around her waist.

“And the castle itself? Have you been around?”

“I lose my way often, so I tried not to.”

“Saw you the sepulcher?”

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Cordelia started. She maintained a fixed focal point in the wall for her narrowing eyes. “On my first day, ma’am. I was looking for the library.”

“That is a long way to find oneself lost. How think you of it?”

“A solemn ground with all the shadowy trappings of an eternal home, I do suppose. But if you would pardon some unkind words, ma’am, I do not think it a wholesome place.”

“And how not,” Galilea chuckled. “The servants say it’s haunted.”

“So I was told. I do not think your household has aught to do with those there lain?”

“No, we don’t. Did the lock really rattle?” She asked, having ceased her constantly moving hands.

Esme had also turned her attention from the window, showing now a mild interest.

“The lock was quiet,” she said guardedly, “But a fierce wind rose when I entered the ground, and then came a sudden coldness.”

“Just like in the horror stories, eh?” said the lady. “There’s the howling wind, and there’s the biting cold. Mayhap even whispers unheard in the night?”

“Went you not there, ma’am?”

“My husband would not countenance it.” Galilea sighed. “He thought it an unholy place. Still I should love to see it in person someday, and I can walk thither on my own well enough, only they say it’s a dirty path to get there.”

Cordelia smiled. Such is the temper of those who had not faced true evil. To the lady, threats of the undead are like thunder outside the window, bloody wars told in the bard’s tales, devoid of the dreads yet full of novelty.

“Fear you not ghosts, ma’am?”

“Oh, a little, but not any more than a mouse. But pray, tell me how to deal with them should they ever storm my chamber.”

“On what account do you think I know, ma’am? That I read some books?”

“On account that you’re a white witch!”

“I am most certainly not! I know only little tricks I learned from my people.” The lady arrived indeed close to the truth, if the ‘white’ descriptor was more than a little erroneous. “Why think you I’m a witch, though?”

“Magic, of course. My husband told me yours were no cheap tricks. And since you serve someone and not your own gains, you are a white witch.”

Cordelia looked at the innocent lady in amusement. By that definition, she would be the blackest witch of them all. She did not correct her mistake.

“Anyway, do you not think...” Galilea drew back, putting the scarf she was holding on the table to relieve her hands of the light burden, and said enigmatically, “...that ghosts could be lonely too? One would think centuries imprisoned in a dark place would not be pleasant.”

“They are ghosts, ma’am, if there were really such things. And are not humans.”

“And can ghosts not be lonely? No one really knows how they are like, don’t they?” she countered. “For all that we know, they might actually be quite human. And even should they be evil, can they not be made good with understanding and affection.”

“That is quite a daring thought, ma’am.” Cordelia chuckled. “Better though, if you would leave the task to folks better equipped to deal with a treacherous turn. For that is oft the main characteristic of ghosts.”

“Well, I have no mind to meet them myself. Not that my husband would like it. But think you not the possibility is there?”

“Insofar as there are humans as irredeemable as born devils, yes, ma’am. And why not? Perhaps there are some good souls between the countless feys, after all.”

“But that is not true.” Esme suddenly interjected. “That which marks humans from the rest of earth’s creatures is a capability to change. A good man can turn evil as easily as an evil man could become good. While beasts are one way from birth to death. And so are feys who do not die, they are a definition etched in eternity. Their morality does not change as they have no mortality.”

“But what of those,” Cordelia raised her voice, “who could be killed? Feys who may still die by a knight’s blade, for indeed they may! Does not their possible demise imply a measured life, and thus mortality?”

“And what is alive is able to change,” Galilea eagerly agreed, “For that is the meaning of life, is it not? Even the holy book says all mortals may achieve salvation, so long as they seek it.”

“No.”

Galilea widened her eyes in surprise, for it was Cordelia herself who objected, not Esme.

“No,” she repeated, her hollowed voice strange even to herself, her eyes staring emptily. “There are those indeed who may not change, deeds so evil they can never be redeemed! Do you deny the existence of such humans, Esme? Humans even! Many so vile their only cure is a slaying out of hand. Are there - ” her arms twitched with discomfort, drawing unbidden close to her body, “-not those who fill you with such disgust and contempt you could wish death upon them, though you would not cause harm to even a fly? Can their likes be redeemed, ever?” Her voice demonstrated without reservation an edge of hatred, rising proportionally with her swelling emotions. “They are as beasts, born and die that way, forever drawn to crimes, rape and murder, even as wolves to lambs - because they could, and because their sustenance is the blood of the innocence! How differ they from feys? Who are thus born, thus condemned? ‘Tis unfair, too unfair by far, to distrust one for the manner of one’s birth.”

She did not heed, almost unaware, of the heavy pang that had now fallen over the room of gay garments.

“You defend them so fiercely!” exclaimed Lady Galilea, ending the span of silence.

“It is merely a thought,” she said pointedly. “Empty exercise of the wit.”

“Well, I think,” the lady shrugged, “it was a nice little conversation.”

Cordelia found herself in a stupor, and before she knew it, she was already at the window. And there she stood, on the almost opposite side of the room of Esme. Whereas Esme sat facing the courtyard where the soldiers were having their afternoon exercise, Cordelia saw the plains beyond the castle-town. She was feeling all the hatred in the world for everything. Behind her was a world peopled with such humans as she had always known them as: vapid, selfish and simple creatures at once pernicious and perfectly innocent.

“This will not do,” she muttered under her breath, feeling her grip on the cold stone sill. And even as new daring thoughts and reckless ideas formed in her head, she could almost hear in the distance spanning worlds the snide laughter of an enormous serpent.

The truth was she was going nowhere like this. Esme’s distrust and unwitting disregard were only ones of the many causes of her frustration, though it perhaps had been the catalyst to this sudden swell of emotions. Her patience was running thin, and her own selfish feelings had been galling her. She had known too well what she was doing was futile. That she merely delayed the inevitable. For no amount of excavation of the dusty tomes would ever bring her purposes nearer to fruition.

There is only so much one can do with knowledge without actions.

She whirled around, feeling the soft fabric’s friction upon her skin, the heat of the brazier, the visual assault of a myriad of colors - all these simulations to the senses which pulled now upon her high-strung disquietude. And she saw Esme at the opposite window, sitting sullenly in her own thoughts and mind-numbing boredom. And there was the lady Galilea, who even now had resumed her flitting around the room, picking up and dropping off articles for a new combination, endlessly humored by a meaningless game she herself devised.

Amusing how those two were so different and yet familiar. A young girl dreaming of being a knight to vanquish evil. A settled woman having no more than prettiness of the present. Yet both were favored, were wanting. One was the Maiden of Gods, destined for great things, and bad things too, but no doubt favored over the rest of humankind. One was the sweetheart of a powerful and wealthy lord, who could have all the riches and clothes in the world if she but asked. Both wanted something their privileges would not give them. Not if they remained in their current place, sitting rooted to the slumberous stone of an old castle.

What could Galilea ask that her fawning husband would not give? And what could the Maiden of God not overcome if she but picked up the sword? Dangers and confinement meant little to them both. And unlike Cordelia, they had the means but not the opportunity to obtain the things they lacked. Only a small cataclysm was required, a push to put things in motion. For Esme to make another step towards knighthood and maturation. For the lady Galilea to get a taste of the real world. And for Cordelia to finally confront that foe lurking in the shadow.

“You do realize, ma’am,” she began, gazing straight into the lady’s eyes full of meanings, “you have a personal guard now. If you want to relieve your boredom, why not ask your husband to let you accompany him next he marches the countryside? Beg him, why don’t you? Does not the thought a fun excursion, mayhap full of pleasant surprises, ring rather nice? I’m sure even your husband would yield to a little push.”

And so the Temptress tempted.