> “True, the Dukesmoot itself only lasts a couple of days, but these balls, salons and parties go on for a tenday to either side. And mark my words, darling, far more of the business of state gets done at these soirées than at the Moot itself…” —The late Duke Einharth of Enerlend to his daughter, overheard at a party

DRESSING FOR THE SALON

Auldenheigh, Garanhir Earthmote 09.05.15.12.11

“There. You look almost perfect.”

Ellaenie considered herself in the mirror and had to agree. If there was one thing to be said for nearly exhausting herself with healing spells a week earlier, it had certainly left her looking fashionably skinny. Not that magical overexertion was a terribly wise approach to watching her figure, but…she did look good.

“I swear, there’s a third kind of magic in the worlds, and you two are masters at it,” she said, turning this way and that. Her gown flowed and spread at the ankles as she did, just the perfect amount.

“Mm.” Adrey fussed around her with some rouge. “And speaking of magic, whatever happened to that lovely opal magestone I gave you? I rather designed this entire outfit to match it…”

“Oh, Adrey…” Ellaenie cringed. “You’re going to hate me for this…”

“Don’t tell me you lost it somehow?”

“I left it on King Eärrach’s earthmote,” Ellaenie confessed. Actually, she wasn’t entirely sure that was completely true: the glade and altar she’d actually left it on might be right here on Garanhir. But the whole experience had been so otherworldly and dreamlike that it was true enough…especially seeing as the sacrifice had been important to her. She wasn’t about to go back and retrieve it.

“Oh. Well!” Adrey paused. “I…imagine you had rather a lot on your mind, then.”

“I really did. Still…I’m sorry. I loved it so much…”

Adrey sighed, but she just wasn’t the sort of person to get too upset over such a thing. “You’re forgiven. But do take better care of your things in future, won’t you?”

Ellaenie nodded solemnly.

Lisze leaned forward. She’d relaxed quite a lot since their return to the city and a return to normalcy, and now her face was alight with the need for gossip. “What is he like?” she asked.

“Overpowering. Incredible. Terrifying.” Ellaenie shook her head, trying to convey that those three words fell far short of an adequate description. Then, because her experiences had definitely loosened her buttons on some matters, she dropped her voice conspiratorially. “He propositioned me.”

“Ellie!”

“It's true! He showed me a vision of what lying with him would be like.” Ellaenie grinned at Lisze’s shocked expression and Adrey’s more intrigued one. “It was rather a vivid vision, too.”

“My goodness!” Adrey was, in many ways, much less innocent than Lisze. She gave Ellaenie a knowing look. “Were you tempted?”

“…Briefly,” Ellaenie replied, with affected primness.

Adrey smirked, then turned to go dig through the jewelery boxes. “I’d have accepted.”

Lisze’s expression turned scandalized, and quite crimson. “Addy!”

“Oh don’t be such a prude, Liz. Some experiences are worth risking a little scandal.”

Ellaenie covered her mouth to fight back her giggles. “He’s…rather too much for me.” she said, softly.

“What about Rheannach? Did you meet her?” Lisze asked.

“I did.” No need for the full truth.

“What is she like?” Adrey asked, holding up a black jet and silver necklace before setting it aside as a ’maybe.’

Ellaenie sighed. Rheannach hadn’t returned since flying out the window in bird form, though she was still in touch. Sometimes, Ellaenie could tell she was in the herald’s thoughts: the feeling was rather like being aware of a strong swell of affection, like hearing a soft noise in an adjacent room. “She’s…very easy to fall in love with.”

“I suppose that would make sense. She is the goddess of love.”

“Yes. I miss her terribly.”

She caught the curious look Lisze and Adrey gave each other, and hastened to clarify. “I don’t mean—she just…she stepped right into the hole in my heart where Mother used to be. I haven’t felt like that since she and Father were taken.”

There was a long, sad silence. Adrey stopped what she was doing and gave Ellaenie a hug. “Now. Don’t start weeping, or we shall have to re-do your makeup and then we shall be even later than we already are,” she chided.

And that was what best friends were for. Somehow, she transformed Ellaenie’s mood from sorrow to laughter in just one sentence. “Right! Yes.”

“And don’t worry about the magestone. Maybe you’ll go get it back from him at some point and he can have his way with you after all.”

Behind her, Lisze buried her glowing red face in her hands. Ellaenie grinned, then stage-whispered. “You know, I might just do that.”

“You are both wicked and vile!” Lisze exclaimed. She looked like she was about to start steaming, but there was amusement fighting for dominance over the blush. Adrey laughed, clapped her hands, then turned and picked up up a black velvet choker strung with emeralds.

“Here. An adequate replacement.”

“I like it,” Ellaenie agreed. “Is there anything else?”

“Lisze? Her bag?”

Lisze cooled enough to collect it and take inventory. “Let’s see…dance card, fan, a little rouge for touch-ups, some coins to tip the driver and footmen, a couple of well-charged magestones for an emergency—I am never letting you go anywhere without them ever again—

“Fair,” Ellaenie agreed.

“—and I asked that new cook of yours, Mrs. Baker, to make some toffees for if you get faint.”

“Then I think that’s everything,” Adrey declared. “Come on, you’re already fashionably late. Let’s not make it insultingly late. Besides, we don’t want to cut into your dancing time.”

Ellaenie nodded. It was a peculiar fact of her life as duchess that she spent a lot of her time being ordered around and told where she had to be. Between her equerry, her ladies-in-waiting and nowadays Saoirse, days where she actually got to set her own schedule had become nonexistent.

Not that she particularly minded, as such. So, she amiably allowed them to escort her out to the waiting carriage, where she sat and re-read the guest list and reminders of who was who and other minutiae of a social function throughout the short ride to Lendwick Place.

“Oh dear…that is an awful lot of well-connected young men of about the right age and station, isn’t it? Why do I get the feeling one of this dukesmoot’s foci will be the battle to marry me?”

“Rather obvious, isn’t it?” Adrey agreed.

“Who looks good?”

“Oh, they’re all…suitable,” Adrey allowed. “I suppose it depends what you’re after and which House you feel most inclined to strengthen ties with.”

“And which one will least get in your way,” Lisze added. “You don’t want a husband who’s going to come in and think he can shove you aside and relegate you to pretty arm decoration.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that, Lizzy” Adrey replied, breezily. “Men are much too simple creatures to get the better of our dear duchess. She’ll run circles around any husband, I’m sure of it!”

Lisze laughed softly, watching the streets roll by out the carriage window. “Why not put it off though, Ellie? It’s not like you’re in any danger of being an old maid, you’ll be the most eligible lady in the worlds for years yet! You have your studies, this business with the Oneists…do you really need to add a courtship to your complications?”

“If I don’t, it will just become a perennial distraction at every Dukesmoot,” Ellaenie pointed out. “Better to sort it out now. Besides, the right man for me will be an ally and asset, not a hindrance.”

“A rare creature indeed,” Adrey commented, drily. “You’ll be waiting a good long time to find a useful man. Take my advice, snap up a nice meek one who’ll be happy to spend his days reading and shooting while you get on with business.”

“Addy, I don’t want meek,” Ellaenie complained. “Who wants a boring husband? I’d rather have one with some fire in him.”

“Good luck. When it comes to men, your options are handsome, intelligent and passionate, pick two. At best.” Adrey went digging in her own bag and found a mint humbug. “None of them will ever live up to King Eärrach, you know.”

“I don’t expect them to! But one of these days you’re going to have to tell me which absolute cad gave you such a poor opinion of men.” It was really quite sad to see the knot of disappointed resentment burning in her best friend’s soul. Worse still, Ellaenie was pretty sure it was a wound she would never be able to heal herself. That would depend on Adrey finding the right man…and being open to him.

“Every single one I have ever known,” Adrey sighed.

Lisze frowned at her. “Oh, now that seems unfair. I’ve met some wonderful men. And what about your father? I’ve certainly never heard you utter one bad word against him, and I rather like him myself…”

“Not to mention he’s quite the silver fox,” Ellaenie added, unable to resist the chance to tease both her friends at once.

“Ellie!” Adrey objected, equal parts shocked and tickled. “Oh, Raksuul’s love, no!”

Hot pinkness spread instantly across Lisze’s nose and cheeks, even reaching her eartips. Ellaenie had, apparently, struck a nerve. “Oh, no! I mean…well, yes, but—that is…he is, yes. But he’s far too old for me, of course…” She fidgeted with her bag.

“Lizzy!” Adrey tried to glare at her.

“Why should that matter?” Ellaenie disagreed. “There’s a certain special beauty in an autumn-spring romance, I think…”

Adrey groaned, in an attempt to pretend she wasn’t giggling. “Ellie, you are the worst!”

“I’m just saying, the poor man has been a widower since you were born. He deserves to find love again.”

“Maybe so, but Lizzy darling? Don’t you dare. Though I love you dearly, I could not survive having you for a step-mother!”

“Maybe I should marry him, then,” Ellaenie quipped.

“Winter’s tits!” Adrey cursed. “Kill me now and spare me the suffering!”

Lisze snorted into her palm, and that was it for them. They descended into an entirely unladylike fit of the giggles that lasted until their carriage turned through the gates of Lendwick Place. The Earl of Lendwick, Eckard, was her mother’s cousin, technically making him Ellaenie’s second cousin. But she’d always known him as her uncle. He and her mother had been close as siblings all their lives, and now, he was doing her the great favour of coming to Auldenheigh to support her through the Dukesmoot.

The last one had been, for lack of a better word, an ordeal. She’d been younger in so many ways, still mourning her parents, still uncertain of herself, still having no real sense of being ready for the role. She’d made it through, but left with the sense that the other dukes had taken the opportunity to take a few bites out of Enerlend…or would have, if not for Uncle Eckard.

This year was different. Her apprenticeship under Rheannach and Saoirse, the experience of meeting (and being flirted with by) one of the Crowns, the swell of public support she’d gained after the riots in Whitten…she felt confident this year. Like she was walking into a situation she knew and could navigate, rather than stumbling unprepared into an arena. So, her arrival at Lendwick Place was suitably regal. She tipped the coachman as she alighted, then stood on the gravel a moment to take an appreciative breath. Her aunt Brenilda had a favourite trick of infusing the lightstones with an olfactory enchantment, so that they cast a bouquet of sweet scents to match their colorful blend of pink and orange glow.

Adding to that effect was the misty night, aftermath of a rainy day. The colors lit the fog and filled the air, closing the whole world down into a fine, beautiful, warm bubble that promised magic of a sort that was neither Art nor Craft. The magic of fun.

Lendwick Place was a fine house, nearly as grand as the palace in its decor and details, though obviously much more modest in scale. With its large ballroom and spacious conservatory it was the perfect place to hold a salon, and Ellaenie had many fond memories of playing with cousins and friends amongst its gardens, a lifetime ago. Now, she smiled at Major Droles as he trotted down the stairs to chaperone her.

“Good evening, major.”

“Good evening, your grace.” He took her hand bowed to kiss her knuckles, then fell in alongside to escort her up the stairs to the front door.

“How is it tonight?” Ellaenie asked as a couple of younger officers from Droles’ regiment bowed to her, waiting to escort Lisze and Adrey.

“So far, all very amiable. Her grace Thaighn Saoirse is holding court in the piano room. She and your aunt are already firm friends, it seems.”

Ellaenie giggled imagining her aunt and mentor both holding forth on matters personal and political. “How much gin have they got through?”

“Only half a bottle, so far.” Droles’ waxed moustache didn’t so much as twitch: he was the most effortlessly poker-faced, dry-witted man Ellaenie had ever met. “The night is still young, of course.”

They paused before entering the ballroom, received the nod from the announcer and entered to the sound of Ellaenie’s full styles and titles. ”Presenting her Grace the Duchess of Enerlend, Ellaenie of House Banmor, Earl of Vathelan, Earl of the Heighlands, Baron of the Old City, Warden of the Unworn Crown, Guardian of the Vacant Throne, Steward of the Dukesmoot, Dame Most Learned of the most excellent Order of the Veil! Her companions: Adrey Mossjoy, Countess of Whitcairn, Dame Celebrant of the most wonderful Order of the Rose. Lady Lisze Bledel, baroness of Fiveroads—”

And so on. The music stopped, room stood to bow and curtsey, Ellaenie dipped a curtsey in return, and the formalities were duly observed. She smiled as the dance resumed where it had left off, thanked Droles for escorting her, snapped her fan open with a flourish she'd been practicing, and mingled.

The etiquette in these moments had always struck her as ridiculous. The dukes were expected to avoid each other at first, so as to avoid any unseemly sense of urgency. The first quarter hour, in fact, was spent meeting debutantes, a trickle of fresh-faced delights dismayingly not that much younger than Ellaenie herself.

The second quarter hour, for an eligible young woman her age, was to be spent scouting potential suitors. But, importantly, absolutely not actually interacting with them. Just…survey. And then gossip about them with Lisze and Adrey, whose job it was tonight to ensure only the ones who truly caught her eye would ask her to dance…

“Hmm. I like that uniform, “ Lisze commented, pointing out a relaxed and smiling officer by the fire. “The Cantrese First of Foot, am I right?”

“Mhm. And it does look rather good on him doesn't it?” Ellaenie agreed. “…He's familiar, I swear.”

Adrey giggled. “Familiar? Yes, he should be. You remember six years ago, after that summer visiting the Countess of Frudlend? You came back complaining of this dreadful boy who followed you around like a lost puppy…”

“Oh, Crowns! Is that him? Uh…Betrem.”

“Yes indeed. Lord Betrem Telliker, your third cousin on your father's side.”

Ellaenie considered him anew. Six years had been very kind to Betrem. Not just in his looks, which had grown broad-shouldered and military, and quite cleared up his spotty complexion, but in his self as well. She didn’t even need the witch-sight to tell his boyhood desperate arrogance had softened into well-earned poise and easy charm.

He glanced her way and caught her considering him. And to his credit, he took it in stride: a small bow of his head, while holding eye contact. Ellaenie fanned herself thoughtfully a moment then, without looking away, she leaned closer to Lisze and said, “definitely yes.” She watched him realise what she'd said and why. Watched a complicated flower of hope and anxiety blossom behind his confident facade, slightly eroding it. She flashed a small parting smile and looked elsewhere.

There were others, of course. Plenty of good matches, many of them handsome, all politically suitable. But perhaps it was because she'd know Betrem before and could see how improved he was, she found herself looking forward to dancing with him the most.

Alas, there was no more time for surveying: the time had come to greet her fellow dukes. There was an etiquette for the order in which they should be met, too, most geographically distant first, closest last. Which would normally mean Duque Diago la Forjar de los Oderos.

But Thaighn Saoirse Crow-Sight was equal in stature and formality to a duke, and she was from much, much further away. So, etiquette demanded she be greeted first.

Saoirse of course was not overly troubled by Garanese manners, and in any case was enjoying the Lendwicks’ excellent gin. She was sitting by the piano, wrapped in her nicest tartan shawls and fine silver brooches, and though she didn’t rise—arthritic knees were apparently a great though painful excuse for skipping certain formalities—she did stretch up to give Ellaenie a grandmotherly hug.

“’Tis a funny thing, these Garanese parties,” she said, as though picking up a conversation they’d both been in the middle of a couple of hours ago. “The food an’ drink are fair delicate, the conversation e’en more so, the music an’ dancin’ are as strained a hen layin’ a swan’s egg…an’ yet, I’m havin’ a grand time.”

Ellaenie laughed, and turned to give her aunt Brenilda a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “I hope she’s not giving you too much trouble,” she said.

Saoirse snorted and sipped her gin. Oh, you wee terror.

Auntie Bren gave Ellaenie a tight squeeze and shook her head. “On the contrary. She’s already chased off some of the most boring people imaginable. I haven’t had this much fun at one of these things in years! More gin, Saoirse?”

“If’n I say no, it’ll be because I’ve fallen asleep or dropped dead,” Saoirse promised.

“A woman after my own heart.”

“Aye, indeed. Anyway, ye’ve done ‘yer duty by comin’ and greetin’ the foreign dignitary ye’ve no doubt had enough of by now anyway, Ellaenie love. I cannae spare you havin’ to meet the others.”

Ellaenie gave her aunt and the Thaighn a quizzical look, wondering just how much Saoirse had actually shared—

Saoirse met her eye. More than ye’d like. And she had some right embarrassin’ stories of ‘yer youth to share as well. Now go on! Leave us be, maiden witch.

Oh dear. Oh well. Ellaenie shook her head in defeat. “I’ll see you both later after the dancing, then.”

“Splendid. But I’d love to dance with you a little later, if you can find room on your card for me,” Bren said.

“I’ll find it,” Ellaenie promised, and left them both to continue becoming fast friends.

Next up, the Duque of Oderlend. Fortunately, Duque Diago was not one to stand on formality either. He flung his arms wide as soon as they were brought together and boomed, “Ellaenie! My darling! Let me look at you!” He took a step back, ran a smiling eye all up and down her. “Ah! The most beautiful young lady to walk Garanhir!”

Ellaenie smiled, genuinely pleased by the compliment even though she knew it was pure etiquette, and stetched up on her toes to kiss his bearded cheeks: Diago replied in kind, with a flourish and a “Mwah! Mwah!” sound.

“It’s been far too long, your grace,” she said, and linked arms with him to take a stroll around the room. “I hope the Duquesa’s health is improving? I was quite sorry to learn she wouldn’t be coming this year.”

“With every day, thank you. The air of Gideon’s Reach seems to agree with her. And your own health? We all heard about your act of charity, healing the poor…”

“I’m quite recovered, thank you. It was necessary.”

“Yes…” Diago’s neat salt-and-pepper beard shifted a little as he thought. “These Oneists. You are quite worried by them.”

“They tried to foment a riot,” Ellaenie pointed out.

“That is…not neighborly of them, it is true.”

“I believe it was just their first exploration. An opening move, to get the measure of me.”

He nodded solemnly. “You intend to bring this matter to the Dukesmoot, yes?”

“Of course.”

“I can see why. And given it was your late father who helped me put down the upstart Navarro, and Navarro’s daughter who murdered your parents, I feel I owe you support in this matter. But are you certain of this accusation? To baselessly accuse a church that shows much charity to the poor is a precarious move…”

“Their charity to the poor is all part of the ploy,” Ellaenie retorted. “After the riot, I had my people reach out to make a show of cooperation. They dodged it. If they really had the people’s interests in heart, if they were really concerned with reform for the betterment of all, they would be eager to work with me. Instead, they have withdrawn.”

“I see.” Diago looked around the room thoughtfully. “I imagine your greatest obstacle will be Duchess Brigitte. The church has a strong footing in Cantre and has done much for her people. She will be…leery, of taking a stance against them. Maksovar, of course, is your loyal cousin and friend, I do not think he will hesitate for a moment to follow your lead.”

“I hope you’re right…”

“I always am. But, we are getting ahead of ourselves. The Dukesmoot is not for another five days, is it? Come. I want you to meet my nephew, Bastilo.”

Ellaenie put on her smile. She knew Bastilo as a name on a family tree of course, and had predicted this move. Ever since the Oderan King’s uprising, Oderlend had been in a state of political isolation to match its physical isolation from the rest of Garanhir, beyond not just one, but two quite challenging mountain ranges. A marriage between Duque Diago’s nephew and herself would go a long way to healing that rift. In fact if Ellaenie’s father had still been alive, it was probably the union he would have preferred to arrange.

Ellaenie would never have chosen to trade her parents for the freedom to make the choice herself. But she was, nevertheless, a little glad that the decision was hers to make and none other’s. Given the choice, she’d much rather marry for affection than for politics.

She needn’t have worried. Bastilo was as hirsutely handsome as his uncle, dark and tanned and tall, with interestingly dark eyes and a euphonious accent she enjoyed listening to. They didn’t have the time to converse about anything substantial, but he did reveal an interest in the Art, and a love for poetry she found quite charming…

As she parted ways with Duque Diago, Ellaenie whispered to Adrey to make room for Bastilo on her dance card.

And so she came to Brigitte of House Rothwaker, the Duchess of Cantre.

The relationship between Cantre and Enerlend had never failed to be strained, even now hundreds of years after the war for the throne had ended in stalemate and the Dukesmoot had been established in place of a monarch. Ellaenie had an entire shelf on the various battles of Throne Pass, where Enerlish and Cantrese forces had clashed again and again over the generations. Even though the last such was long since consigned to the annals of history, the two duchies still maintained a certain animosity: Enerlish tradition had it that the Cantrese were like little yappy dogs: quick to pick a fight, quicker still to run at the first sign of real opposition, and utterly unmovable in refusing to acknowledge defeat.

Duchess Brigitte, from what Ellaenie remembered of her, did nothing to defy that image. Indeed, in what must surely be a calculated statement, she was carrying a small dog, a stout and large-eared little fellow with a flat face like somebody had smacked him in the nose with an oar, who growled at all who came near.

Ellaenie knew how to handle that, at least. She wove a subtle glamer of calmness and likableness around her as she approached, directed at the dog’s simple mind. He yawned, and the stumpy little landscape at the point of his rump where once his ancestors had boasted a tail waggled happily at her. Brigitte shot the dog a faintly surprised look, then hoisted a smile into position.

“Your grace!” she bobbed a shallow curtsey. “How wonderful to see you! I do hope whatever delayed your arrival was nothing too vexing…”

Ellaenie bobbed a curtsey of her own. “I hope you have not waited long, your grace. My gown needed taking in a little.”

“Oh my dear thing, yes. You really are looking quite willowy. I do hope your exertions haven’t entirely robbed you of your strength.”

“I feel quite strong now, thank you,” Ellaenie replied, smoothly. The trick was to have a skin like stone, don’t let the barbs and hooks sink in.

“Oh, I am glad.” Brigitte tickled affectionately at her dog’s nose as if this might somehow reset his belligerence, then forged on stoically when he entirely failed to start hating Ellaenie. “I must ask, dear, if you will accept some advice from one who has occupied this role rather longer than you, if you have entirely considered the damage being seen getting your hands so dirty will have done to your image.”

“I am sure there are some, especially among the nobility, who believe I have debased myself,” Ellaenie agreed, carefully. Through witch-sight, Brigitte’s real meaning was almost painfully loud: You stupid girl, do you have any idea just how much trouble your little stunt has caused me? Now we’re all expected to go grubbing in the dirt like you.

“Debased? Oh, no, my dear, I’d never say such a thing.” To your face. “I just thought it was worthy of us both to remember the dangers of undue populism. Not out of our own selfish interests of course, but out of a duty to the general public.” The plebs don’t know the first thing about maintaining civilization and you, you thoughtless little class traitor, are dancing to their tune.

Ellaenie nearly reeled from the sheer veiled hostility, but contained herself. She paused a moment to accept a glass of champagne from a passing server, and used the time to compose herself, and her reply. “I daresay there’s a balance to be struck between excessive populism and heeding the valid concerns of the people,” she said, meaning don’t insult me by assuming I didn’t think about this. “And in light of the populist riot incited by the Oneists, I thought it best to take personal action to discredit their slander. I’m sure you can see the value in such a stratagem.” Or are you really so witless that you would have played straight into their hands?

Brigitte did not stiffen as such, but there was a moment of stillness on her face, which she covered for by waving and smiling at a passing somebody. “An exceptional response to exceptional circumstance is certainly understandable, my dear. I just wonder if you have considered the longer-term ramifications.” Give them an inch and they’ll take a mile, any idiot knows that.

“Of course,” Ellaenie agreed, nodding. Of course I considered the longer-term ramifications, you condescending hag. “I think of it as an investment in the city’s future. A small concession now, to head off larger demands later.” Crowns, woman, do you really not understand that we’re never more than a few bad weeks from revolution? Sometimes you have to give them a mile so they don’t take your damn head!

“Precisely. The future, my dear, is about more than just your own sensibilities. Yours is quite a delicate position, you know.” You have no heir. If that mob had turned violent and killed you, what would have happened to Enerlend and Garanhir?

Ellaenie paused, covering for it by sipping her drink. There, at least, Brigitte actually had a point. The strongest successor to Enerlend’s rule was probably Duke Maksovar of Betlend, being her second cousin and also of House Banmor. But Maksovar himself was also yet to father an heir, and if the Dukesmoot decided that one duke could not rule more than one duchy (which Ellaenie guessed they almost certainly would) then that would leave either Betlend or Enerlend without a clear ruler.

Throughout Garanhir’s history, the consequence of such constitutional crises was usually war.

And she could see Brigitte’s follow-up coming a hundred miles off: Have you met [unmarried male relative of suitable age]?

But Brigitte surprised her. “And of course…if you’ll permit me to speak plainly, my dear?”

I wish you would. “By all means.”

“There is much scurrilous rumour concerning your friendship with Thaighn Saoirse and her companion.” You’re a witch and everyone knows it. Did you think we were stupid enough not to guess? “Rumour that, frankly, if you do not quash it, could make it difficult for you to find the best possible match.” The scandal will destroy you just as surely as an angry mob you silly, debauched little girl.

“Thaighn Saoirse and Calyah have been good friends to me in the aftermath of my parents’ death,” Ellaenie replied, stiffly.

“I am glad. And I am sure their friendship and support has been of great comfort to you.” Bullshit. “Still, a hunting trip in the woods where you went missing for a couple of days, her own unabashed claiming of the title 'witch-thaighn…' from what I heard, you returned from your adventures in the company of King Eärrach himself. My understanding is he prefers to go about…déshabillé.”

"Whatever his habit, I myself was quite well clothed throughout my time in his company, I assure you.” There was no need to mention her evening with Rheannach, of course.

“Still, the Craft is widely known to be a form of magic practiced by those who explicitly reject civilization. There is much talk of naked dancing and intoxicants and orgies. It’s hardly a dignified and appropriate pursuit for a duchess of Garanhir, my dear.” At last, the polite veneer slipped off entirely, and Brigitte voiced her disapproval directly. “I do not believe a young lady of your station can long survive in the estimations of her public or her peers if she is believed—fairly or not—to be indulging in such…fornication.”

“I was not aware the company and friendship of the Crowns themselves was such an impediment,” Ellaenie retorted. “But allow me to be candid, your grace. I have not, at any time in my life, fornicated. Nor will I ever. My meeting with His Majesty was educational, transformative even, but nothing more. I remain perfectly virginal, thank you very much, and I must add that any further insinuations on that subject do not seem a fit topic for this or any other evening.”

She added radiant indignity to her glamer, and to her immense satisfaction Brigitte at last lived up to the ‘little dog’ stereotype and shied away from the very fight she’d started.

“I meant no aspersions, of course—”

“Of course,” Ellaenie echoed, interrupting her. “But I hope you will please excuse me. I do not wish to snub the Duc d’Urstoin.” This was a complete waste of my time.

Even as she thought it, though, a second thought came to her: On the contrary. She just embarrassed herself while I maintained my dignity for all to see. I can use that at the moot.

The third thought that followed was a note of self-caution. Brigitte had been right about one thing, she’d been doing this since long before Ellaenie herself was born. Surely somebody so experienced couldn’t really be so clumsy a harridan, could she?

…Perhaps.

In any case, having made her polite but firm exit from the conversation, Ellaenie turned her attention to Duc Michard, and to the rest of the party. She had a long night ahead of her, and one unpleasant conversation was not going to be sufficient to spoil her mood, of that she was determined. And it certainly wasn’t going to spoil her fun when the time came to dance, later.

If only Duchess Brigitte was not tangentially correct about one thing: Ellaenie would need to be judicious in her choice of man. She would need one who could be open-minded and thoughtful enough to see the Craft as just the other side of magic’s coin, rather than some hedonistic pursuit of the terminally rebellious. How had that slanderous interpretation ever got started in the first place?

Feeling out her suitors and choosing between them would be a subtle and lengthy process, but Ellaenie was eager to begin. Having seen for herself what Rheannach and Eärrach had, a love that could transcend and rebuild from even a deep wound, she found herself inspired and eager. And the fact was…she didn’t want to be Maiden forever. The transition to Mother was both part of life and a sacred threshold of the Craft. She wanted to experience it, in all its hardship and joy. And the road to that moment might well begin tonight.

She was eager to get started.

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

> “The Most Excellent Order of the Veil is one of the four Enerlish orders which honour the Crowns. The Order of the Veil pays tribute to Lady Haust and is awarded to those who demonstrate mastery of the magical and political arts. The Order's ranks are Knight/Dame (OV), Knight/Dame Scholar (KSV), and Knight/Dame Most Learned (MLV).” —Aton d’Traffe, The Knightly Orders of Garanhir

TARGET PRACTICE

The Airship Cavalier Queen, docked at the Wandering isle 09.06.03.06.11

“Ready?”

“Any time you are.” Jerl braced himself, waggled his fingers near his pistol’s grip to ready himself, and waited.

Derghan nodded, then—

In slowed time, the motion of him throwing a handful of old weevily ship’s biscuits up in the air was oddly interesting to watch. The way he dropped into his bent knees a little, the bunch and ripple of force moving through his body as he reversed course, tensed, heaved, pushed against the ground. All that unconscious strain in such a short span of time—

Six hard-baked chunks of spoiled food flipped and spun almost balletically from his palm, trailing crumbs as they climbed upwards and upwards. By the time the last of them had cleared Derghan’s fingertips, Jerl’s pistol had cleared leather. He actually had to take care in its course, guiding it slightly sideways, around and up to avoid muzzling Derghan.

He was actually on target and aiming for nearly ten subjective seconds before he felt comfortable firing. Squeeze—

The hardest part was definitely the recoil. When he’d done this against the elves he’d strained against it, fought to keep the gun straight and level in his palm. Which, of course, was impossible. He’d battered his forearms and palms to agony in the attempt. In subsequent practice sessions he’d been a little too loose and relaxed with it, and the gun had slipped from his hands a couple times.

He was starting to feel like he’d found the balance of it, now. Like surfing the ship on a zephyr, he let his pistol shove firmly into his palm, let it blow off the worst of its force, then caught it and adjusted and fired again.

And again. And again.

He let go of Time after the sixth one and stepped back into the regular flow of the Worlds. Derghan sped up, snatching his hands back away from the cloud of pulverized hard tack he’d made. “Woah! Valkyr’s arse!”

“You okay?” Jerl asked him, lowering his weapon.

“That will…never stop being really fuckin’ intimidating.” Derghan shook himself. “You should hear it from the outside. I didn’t even know revolvers like yours could shoot that fast.”

“I’m not hurting them, am I?” Jerl wondered. Derghan held out a hand, offering to check. Jerl nodded, flipped the weapon over, and place it in his palm, and sat waiting patiently while he gave them a good looking-at.

“…I don’t think so…no, they’re in good order. Just go easy on ‘em when you reload. Soft hands, right?”

Jerl heard Mouse chuckle from his spot nearby, sitting on the quarter deck stairs, and grinned when Derghan jumped and did the increasingly familiar double-take.

“Winter’s tits, that’s eerie! I keep forgettin’ you even exist.”

“I know. It seems to be permanent.” Mouse shrugged.

“You think it’s eerie for you…” Whisker was out on deck today, getting some fresh air. He was well on the mend by now, recovering his strength in leaps and bounds that were quite heartening to see. “Imagine forgetting your own son.”

“You don’t need to feel guilty about it, Dad. It’s not your fault.”

“Easier said than felt, kid.”

“It could have been a lot worse,” Jerl pointed out. “We could all be affected. Running the Queen if the crew kept forgetting its skipper, quartermaster, engineer and navigator all existed would be…”

“Challenging,” Amir suggested. “Speaking of challenges, I note you are not in any obvious discomfort this time.”

Jerl nodded. Actually his arm was feeling quite fatigued, but it was nothing like the searing deep-tissue spasming agony he’d endured after the first time. “Nuh. It’s getting easier.”

“Your body is conditioning to it. And, I daresay, your mastery of the Word is growing as well. As is Mouse’s.”

“Yeah, speaking of the Word—” Derghan interjected. “I notice we’re still carrying the bloody thing around with us. There any reason for that? Why not do what you did with Time and throw it over the edge?”

“I don’t have a premonition either way on that one,” Jerl said, thumbing new rounds into his pistol. “With Time, I knew for a fact that all the good futures started with that moment. When it comes to Mind, I don’t have that. So, we’re going with Mouse’s plan.”

“Which is?” Whisker asked, looking at his son.

“I want to be certain,” Mouse said. “The first chance I get to to absolutely, definitely, positively throw it out of the worlds and into the Outside, I’ll take it. If I bury it somewhere, there’s a chance Civorage could recover its location and dig it back up. If I throw it away forever—”

Amir sucked air through his teeth, thoughtfully. Mouse looked at him. “You don’t approve?”

“If Time needed to be thrown away, so be it,” Amir said. “But I do not think we should discard the Words lightly.”

“Or use them lightly,” Mouse replied.

“I was not going to suggest using them lightly. Only that the time may come when we need more than one master of Mind. Civorage had that word for ten long years, it has consumed and changed him into something far beyond human. If we are going to oppose a force like that, we need an equivalent force. And no offense, but I do not think you and he are equals, yet.”

“Makes sense to me,” Derghan agreed. “An’ if we don’t throw it out, then the second-safest place it could be has gotta be bein’ carried by the man everyone forgets about, yeah?”

“I don’t…really want it near me,” Mouse said, shaking his head. “I don’t want to become what he did.”

“Eh. I reckon he started off a complete bastard. You’re alright. Little skinny though. You should definitely eat better.”

“Derghan meanwhile has the opposite problem,” Jerl commented, earning some chuckles.

“Hey! If we crash-landed down on the Unbroken Earthmote, a thousand miles from civilization, I’d be the last one to starve!”

“Or you’d be the one we cook first.”

“And how are you lot going to bang together a big enough cooking pot without me to weld it?” Derghan shot back, grinning.

“Urgh,” Amir pulled a face. “I know the Custom of the Skies is a thing, but must we?”

“You of all people, who was elbow-deep in my blood just a few days ago, are so squeamish?” Whisker asked him.

“Well, I apologize if the possibility of our demise has been rather heavily on my mind of late.” Amir rose to his feet and looked up to the skies. “…If I may change the subject, I believe we may have to part ways with our host soon, if we wish to fly to Mehoom.”

“Why, what’s the Isle doing?” Jerl asked.

“Curving spinward-by-pedestal, slowly. And sinking. Imdura and I are of slightly different minds where it will end up—I suspect it’s fallen into Stórsteinn’s influence, he thinks it more likely we’ll loop back around and come up on the Craenen from behind. Either way, we are as close to Ilẹyede now as this Isle is ever going to take us.”

“Then it’s time to move on,” Jerl agreed. “We’ve got enough supplies for the voyage? Or are we gonna have to eat Derghan after all?”

For all his protesting, Amir did chuckle at that one, while Derghan scoffed and aimed a good-natured vulgar gesture Jerl’s way. “We have enough,” he promised. “Sinikka was quite pleased by your deal with Cerkos. She—Mouse?”

Mouse had groaned suddenly and put a hand to the side of his head. A moment later, they all felt it: a swell of the most intense sorrow, regret and disappointment rolled through their minds with enough power to stagger. Jerl leaned on the railing and groaned at the pressure of an unfathomably powerful will’s terrible self-recrimination…then gasped in release as it ceased.

Almost as soon as it was gone a baleful, brilliant flash of light cast new and deep shadows sideways across the deck, forcing them all to flinch away and shield their eyes, crying out in alarm. It faded almost instantly, but left Jerl blinking away a horrible purple-green blind blob from the center of his vision.

Whisker was the first to speak, in a strained groan. “Crowns fuck me! What was that?”

“That was…oh, shit.” Mouse groaned and seemed about ready to claw his hair out by the roots. “That was the Crowns. That was Eärrach himself.”

“Doing what?" Derghan asked. Her rubbed at his eyes, then squinted out into the sky, looking toward where the light had come from. “…By my ancestors.”

Jerl followed his gaze. Far away, out among the cloud sea, an ocean of flame was boiling silently in the sky, curling in on itself as it drifted in exactly the same way as a titanic smoke ring might. One by one, they moved to the rail to watch it, too slack-jawed and stunned to speak.

Jerl became aware of a faint ticking beside him. Amir had produced his pocket watch and was holding it. his lips moved silently in calculation as he counted down the seconds, then minutes, until at last…

What hit them wasn’t anything so pedestrian as noise. There had never been such a thunder in all the worlds’ history, Jerl was sure of it. Sound so solid it felt like a hefty slap on the back slammed through him, then was gone and past, leaving behind only a dull infernal roar as it raced onwards, surely to be heard and wondered at all over the nested worlds, perhaps to bounce and echo for hours.

“…Caernnenas’ wrath,” Whisker muttered.

“Yeah.”

“I don’t suppose we’re lucky enough that was Civorage, was it?”

Jerl shook his head. “Every future where they tackle him directly ends badly one way or another, and they know it. Talvi said as much, and I saw it was true for myself.”

“Bugger.”

“I can still feel Civorage out there too,” Mouse added. “This was…something else.”

“The last time they took action directly against anyone led to the creation of the Nornfey,” Amir pointed out. “I can certainly understand why they don’t do it often. Somebody must have truly irritated them.”

“Heh! Let’s hope it was those Ordsiwat bastards,” Derghan chuckled. “That’d fuckin’ brighten my day, sure enough.”

Jerl nodded, and watched as dense cloud enshrouded the distant flame, until finally it faded from view. It felt like an opportune moment. “…Right. Well. Suddenly this feels like exactly the right time to head out. Let’s make preparations, aye?”

He turned and looked back inland toward the inn and its gardens. Sinikka was never difficult to pick out, nobody else was as white as paper. She, like everyone else on the island, had dropped what she was doing and watching the distant devastation. He stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled sharply to get her attention, then circled a hand in the air above his head: Round ‘em up!

She raised a hand to acknowledge the instruction, and those of the crew who’d seen the communication followed suit. Good. Time on the isle hadn’t dulled them.

It was a shame to leave, and there was always the worry that the Ordsiwat would come back for revenge. But what was Jerl going to do, retire here? No. He didn’t even need to glance down that timeline to know he’d be dooming the world to a fate rather more complete than slavery.

The only way forward was Ilẹyede. He wasn’t sure what was going to happen there, or who they were going to meet, but that was frankly alright. It would have been maddening to know everything before it happened. He’d have felt like he had no choice or influence at all.

Which was why, when he looked back out at the boiling dark clouds far away across the worlds and wondered what had happened, he felt a smile come on. There were still mysteries. The worlds were still spinning on and things were happening without him having to drive them. He might have taken on an important mantle without ever wanting or meaning to…but the worlds didn’t revolve around him alone. It was a comforting thought.

He savored the sensation of normalcy for just a moment longer, then traded a smile with Mouse, clapped Derghan on the shoulder, and set to work.

They still had a long flight ahead of them.

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

It wasn’t a completely easy departure. Jerl had, of course, found the time to meet with his crew and tell them the full story. Some hadn’t believed him, others had been profoundly disturbed by the idea they’d all died in that first timeline. Most had said some variant of ’that’s the weirdest story I ever heard, but thank you for telling me’ and then reasoned that they’d rather part ways at an actual airship port, if they parted ways at all.

Four requested to stay on with the Isle and go wherever it took them. Jerl tried his best to talk them into staying on, but in the end he couldn’t blame them one bit. One was a family man quite reasonably not interested in getting tangled up in an adventure that had already gotten him killed once in a different history, one was rapidly falling madly in love with one of Cerkos’ nieces, and the last two were just convinced their skipper had popped his bag and didn’t want to stay on with a madman.

Jerl could tell he was going to lose a few more at Mehoom, but such was the price of honesty. The lads were ordinary working men just looking to get by in life, none of them had signed up for the weirdness now dropping on them from such a great height.

Gebby, Marren and the twins entirely failed to surprise him by stoutly declaring they were staying on come what may. In Marren’s words, “I wouldn’t walk away if you paid me to, skipper. This shit’s interesting!”

Jerl gave the leavers all the pay they were owed plus a small bonus for the trouble, and parted ways with no hard feelings.

Parting with Cerkos went the other way. The Isleman was understandably eager to have the two superhuman fighters around (He’d forgotten about Mouse, of course) to protect his family in case the Ordsiwat came back. Jerl sympathized of course, but held firm. In the end, Cerkos gave him a bottle of the family’s excellent apple brandy as a keepsake, and promised there would always be welcome for Jerl and the Queen’s crew on this isle, if they should somehow ever cross paths again.

After that…

The Cavalier Queen lurched a little as she slipped off the mooring cradle and wallowed a little more on the bag. Jerl smiled at that heavy, full-bellied feeling of having a storeroom full of provisions under his feet, and stood waving on the quarterdeck until the isle was out of sight.

They’d travelled a long way during their time with the Islemen. So far in fact that he could now see all of Alakbir looming low in the sky but definitely above now. The Isle had carried them several degrees around the worlds’ arc.

Ilẹyede was higher still in the opposite direction. The familiar roughly triangular shape, one side slighty concave and the other slightly convex so the whole earthmote bent around like an overlarge comma. The smallest and least populous of the three major Sayfi earthmotes…and, if Sin was to be believed, the one place in all the Worlds where they would enjoy both an escape from the Oneists, and the presence of allies.

Speaking of whom, he could hear the sound of a guitar from up on the forecastle. Sin’s little ritual for leaving port, that she’d been compelled to neglect by urgency the last few times. He smiled, and decided to join her for his own traditional good-luck smoke to set the voyage off right.

Most airshipmen had a leaving port tradition. When you lived or died on the integrity of a bag full of gas and the strength of a bunch of ropes and well-tied knots, a little superstition was no surprise, so Jerl leaned against the rail and thumbed some leaf into his pipe, listening. Apparently she’d first picked up the instrument a hundred years ago, and though he’d never heard her try to sing, Sin had a way of finding slow, lazy chords that felt like travel, somehow.

Her heart clearly wasn’t really in it today, though. He’d barely had time to settle in before she made a dissatisfied noise and stopped playing.

“…You alright?” she asked.

Jerl nodded. “Yeah. Guess your mind’s on something else right now, huh?”

“Feeling…troubled.” She strummed a half-hearted chord, then sighed and set the instrument aside for the moment. “The last time the Crowns raged like that, it left us with the Nornfey. I wonder what new horror they’ve just added to the world this time.”

Jerl frowned as he puffed the bowl up to a nice cherry glow. “You have a complex relationship with them, huh?”

“If you were in my position, I daresay you would too, nay?”

“I suppose. But new horrors?”

Sin shrugged. “Maybe. Between the Shades and the Nornfey and…and myself, and what all my people became, I suppose I think the Four are just as stumbling blind as the rest of us. Every action of theirs seems to come with an unanticipated cost, nay?”

“What do you think they did?”

“Oh, I don’t think it’s an accident it happened so soon after the Ordsiwat Set picked a fight with you, mellwan.” She turned her gaze out toward the distant dark stormclouds where whatever the Crowns had done still bruised the sky. “If that was Ekve and his followers, they’re probably going through what Talvi did to me, now.”

Jerl frowned, trying to figure out if she sounded glad, upset, vindicated, afraid…there was a lot of subtle emotion gently vibrating the foundations of her voice. She hadn’t actually explicitly told him what Talvi had put her through, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know for certain. His guesses were daunting enough already. Anything that could harrow a monster like the Laughing Death enough to turn her into the woman he knew and trusted was…daunting.

“Well…if that’s the case…I mean, you turned out okay,” he pointed out. “I don’t see any terrible consequences in your case, at least.”

Her only reply was an old look.

Jerl scoffed. “Aside from the fact you’re a moody bitch.”

Finally, a hint of humor cracked her face. She folded her arms and looked away from him. “…Asshole.”

“Love you too, big sister.”

She sighed, hung her head and shook it, but she was smiling now. “…You know what I envy about humans? You love and let go so easily. You and, um…whatsisface….”

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

“Mouse.”

“Right. Fuck, forgetting like that is unnerving. But yeah, you two seem to have got close real quick.”

Jerl shrug-nodded. “Surprises and all.”

“Heh, yeah. Nearly had me fooled, too. But there’s no fooling this nose.” She tapped it wryly. “But what about you? You don’t mind? I thought you preferred men.”

Jerl shrugged. “Mouse is man enough for me.”

“And there it is. That’s it exactly. You’re so quick. Me…” She looked out to the sky again. “…Bekhil and Ekve were lovers for two thousand years. And even after all this time and all these lives and coming to hate everything we were and did, I can’t quite shake it off. The thought of Ekve going through what I went through at Talvi’s hands…it hurts, nay? I wouldn’t wish her punishment on anybody. Least of all somebody I loved for so long.”

“You’d rather they kept on being a monster?”

“No…but there are consequences to making the world a better place, Jerl. It pushes back, and all too often what you end up doing is like trying to flatten bubbles in the wallpaper. You smooth one down, and it just pops up somewhere else, or merges to form a big one.”

“Should that stop us from trying?”

“No. But…it should make us pause and think. And I think that’s why the Crowns are so slow to act. I guess what I’m worried about now is if they decided to act hastily, without thinking things through enough. Things like them…when they make mistakes, they make big fuckin’ mistakes, nay?”

“How often do they really make mistakes, though?” Jerl wondered.

“On current evidence? More often than I’d like.” Sin shrugged, and picked up her guitar again. “I don’t know. I’m of two, three, five minds about the Crowns. Some days I love them for this life and for the redemption Talvi gave me, other days…they remind me just how powerful they are. And then I remember that the greater the power, the worse the consequences of misusing it.”

“They’re old enough to know that.”

“Maybe. But when it comes to this world and its own unique challenges, they’re exactly as old as I am. And I fuck up all the time.”

Jerl barked out a small “heh!” and sat back to relax. “Is it odd that I find that thought comforting?”

“You find it comforting that the gods make mistakes?”

“Certainly makes me feel better about my own mistakes.” Jerl shrugged. “You’d prefer perfection?”

Sin sighed and turned one of the tuning pegs slightly, twanging a string. “If they were perfect, I wouldn’t have any doubts. As it is, Talvi’s fallibility will always be a source of…uncertainty. Did she really do the right thing by me? Was she too soft? Was she too harsh? What if I’m the wrong person now, and the world would somehow be a better place if I was still the Laughing Death?"

“I don’t see how it could be.”

“Me either. But the question gnaws at me anyway. Not, very much, or often. But at times like these…O feyen, advatem ki tred hako vayolir.”

Jerl concentrated. She’d been teaching him Feydh since he was fifteen, with mixed success. It was a simple enough language to learn the basics of, but capable of endless subtlety if the speaker really wished it. Sin wasn’t usually one for wasting time with needless complexities, though.

“…For elves, the future is a path you all must tread,” he translated.

“Mhm. But for humans, the future is a gift you leave to other people. Sometimes I envy you for that, I imagine it…cushions you, somewhat. From your anxieties. You won’t live to see the truly long-term ramifications of your folly.”

“Whereas you’ll inevitably have to sleep in the bed you made. I get it.” Jerl put an arm around her and gave her a squeeze. “But that’s not entirely fair on humans. We do want to leave a good world for our children and successors. ‘The great plant trees whose shade will never cool them.’”

Sin hugged him back. “Sure. But that’s an ideal. It’s not direct.”

“I thought each life was its own? Like, what was your name in your previous chal?”

“I was Romon Cradhcan Bekhil.”

“Sounds masculine.”

“Mhm. I was a man in that life.”

“Were you hot?”

She laughed. “I pride myself that I’m hot in every life, thank you!” She thumped her knuckles into his chest by way of a minor chastisement, then sat back again. “But…oh yes. I was nearly as big as you, and dark brown as walnut. I had the set’s sooth tattooed on me in white ink. I was…pretty damn striking. Didn’t live too long, though.”

“Why, what happened?”

“It’s a little embarrassing.” She grimaced. “The man I was pledged to was a Betlender barge merchant. You know those ones who carry goods across the Blue Sea and up the Heigh?”

“Sure.”

“Well…the barge sunk halfway across the Blue.”

“Ooh. Bad luck.”

“Yup.”

“Guess that explains how you know what drowning feels like.”

She shrugged. “I must have died just about every way there is. Though, not often from old age and disease. Chal-an-chal means it’s usually violent deaths, or accidents. I’ve probably drowned…half a dozen times? Been stabbed and cut up more times than I care to think of, and when humans invented guns, oh yes, that took a while to adjust to. I’ve even been executed a few times, those were interesting.”

“Interesting,” Jerl echoed, flatly.

“Mhm. I don’t recommend decapitation, by the way. It hurts a lot more than humans assume it would. And hanging is the worst. Garroting is alright though, you just sort of feel dizzy and then you fall asleep.”

“How did this conversation get so morbid all of a sudden?”

“I don’t know. It’s funny, we’ve known each other all these years, and I’ve always held my cards quite close to my chest, nay? But now…”

“I suppose once your biggest secret comes out, there’s no reason to keep the little ones.”

“True enough…” She strummed an idle chord. “…Do you want to know the best way to die?”

Jerl frowned at her. “Sin, I think your Laughing Death is showing.”

She shook her head vigorously. “I just mean, as a friend, if I can spare you some suffering…well. There’s a lot of suffering in the world. And if what you told me about the power of the Word is true, how you left yourself the ability to step back in time at the moment of your death and do things differently, well, then you’re in something like an elf’s position. You might suffer the sting of a mortal wound a few times before this thing is done, without the peace of limbo to wash it away. I’d like it if you didn’t find it too traumatic, so…I thought maybe I’d share some insights.”

“Hmm. I appreciate the sentiment, but no thanks.” Jerl blew a smoke ring and watched it vanish astern.

“As you wish.”

They sat in silence for a time. Jerl rested his head and listened to the sounds of his ship: the rush of wind over the bag and through the ropes, the creak of cables and wood, the sounds of his crew playing dice on the deck, preparing the galley, doing the many small tasks that kept a ship in the sky and orderly. Sin played her guitar a little while, a gentle travelling song that Jerl knew the words to but didn’t feel like singing along with, for the time being. He just smoked, and enjoyed the peaceful moment.

And then, moment enjoyed, he turned his thoughts to the job before them again.

“So, I’ve been thinking.”

She nodded, though she didn’t stop playing. “Same. What’s your thought?”

“That meeting the Rüwyrdan Set isn’t a plan in its own right. We need an idea beyond that, we need to start figuring out how we can gain ground on Civorage and oppose him."

“Gathering allies is part of that.”

“Allies who fall victim to his will at the first glance aren’t allies at all,” Jerl pointed out. “Right now, there’s only two people in the worlds that Civorage can’t turn into a puppet. And I don’t think Mouse and I can finish this fight alone.”

“…I don’t think I entirely like where this is headed, but go on.”

“I think we need to dig up more Words.”

“And that confirms it.” She stopped playing and set the guitar aside again. “Jerl, we got fantastically lucky that the power of the Words is in your hands. You I trust implicitly. Mouse, I can barely remember to know whether to trust him.”

“You trust Derghan, don’t you?”

“I suppose.”

“But?”

She remained silent for several long seconds. “…But nothing.”

“Sin, come on. Talk to me.”

“No, that’s just it. The idea makes sense. He’s a good man, dependable, solid, far cleverer than he likes to pretend and if I was willing to love anybody, I’d love him.”

“You do love him, Sin. Don’t wrap it up in thin paper and pretend we can’t see it.”

“Well maybe that just implies my judgement in this case is compromised,” she retorted. “He’s a good man and I’m…I am very fond of….you’re right, I do.” She sighed and glanced over her shoulder, belatedly checking nobody could overhear.

“I’d trust him with it. Why wouldn’t you?”

“It’s not about trusting him. It’s about…he’s already lost and given up so much. I want to protect him.”

“From what?”

She gave him a patient look. “Jerl, even if we win, do you really think there’s any going back for you and…uh…Mouse? You’re not really naive enough to believe normalcy is an option for you any longer, are you?”

“Is it an option for anyone around us, now?”

She made the disgruntled noise of one who didn’t like his suggestion one bit, but couldn’t think of a good argument against it. Eventually, she shook her head and gave up. “You’re the boss. And I suppose any direction is better than none. Just…be careful. Mind already twisted one man into something terrible, and made another impossible to remember. Mouse could get away with anything and no-one would remember he even exists to suspect him.”

“I trust Mouse.”

“Good. I hope he’s worthy of it.”

“He will be,” Jerl predicted. “But you’re right, the Words demand caution, and and I’m not planning on letting anybody else touch Mind. Pretty sure Mouse isn’t either. And Time is gone. So the challenge in front of us is finding new words, before Civorage can.”

“Where do we even start?”

“We go to the very beings who first hid them away. We go to the Crowns.”

“…Which one?”

“Sayf. But first, we go to the Rüwyrdan, because the crew didn’t sign on for this shit and I’ve no right to ask it of them. Most will leave, I think, and we’re going to need replacements who fully understand what we’re doing and are willing to go through hell in the pursuit of it. I can think of no better starting place than a tribe of penitent elves.”

“Nor I,” she agreed.

“Alright.” Jerl stood and stretched. “I’ll be in my cabin. You have the watch.”

“I have the watch, aye aye.”

Jerl nodded and strolled away back toward his cabin. He had paperwork and thinking to do, and a long voyage to settle in for. Even so, Sin’s worries stuck with him a little. He paused at the cabin door and looked out toward the distant bruise in the sky once more. It would probably have faded entirely in another hour or two, but for now, he could still see the signs of the Crowns’ terrible work.

He wondered briefly if Sin was right. What consequences might follow from such an act of destruction? Were they just blundering along as uncertainly as him? If so…perhaps the chance to speak with Sayf would yield more than just guidance.

He watched the clouds a moment longer, then returned to his work.

Those were questions for later.

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

> “The Order of the Rose honours Prince Sayf, and is awarded to those who give service to the artistic pursuits, such as composers, artists, singers, dancers and poets. It is also often awarded to the ladies-in-waiting of the most senior women of the ducal household, for services to their graces’ beauty and fashion. The order’s ranks are Knight/Dame (OR), Knight/Dame Celebrant (COR) and Knight/Dame Sublime (SOR). —Aton d’Traffe, The Knightly Orders of Garanhir

LENDWICK HOUSE SALON

Auldenheigh, Enerlend, Garanhir Earthmote 09.05.15.12.11

Dancing could be a welcome escape from politics, which was why Ellaenie preferred the lively ones. Swirl, weave, take hands, turn about, pass through…the sheer joy of movement was such a good way to blow out the cobwebs after so much prosaic small-talk.

And that was the point of course. A little exercise to settle the mind, then some slower dances to rest the body and facilitate conversation again.

Lord Betrem Telliker, she was delighted to confirm, was easy and relaxed. There wasn’t a trace of the anxiety that had once driven him to obnoxiousness, and although his compliment—“You dance beautifully, your grace,”—was entirely the expected thing, he seemed like he meant it.

“I’m glad I am doing well enough to seem so,” Ellaenie replied as they circled each other. “My tutor despairs of me.”

“Tutors always do, in my experience.”

“Are you sure? I cannot imagine your dance tutor can find anything to criticize.”

“Somehow, he manages. And my music teacher claims I have the singing voice of a frog.”

“Oh, that is hardly an insult is it?” Ellaenie objected, already amused. “I rather like the sound of frogs at night!”

“I don’t think I quite support the note as well as they do,” he replied, and made a gesture evocative of his throat ballooning up hugely above his collar. The absurd image almost reduced Ellaenie to a fit of the giggles on the spot, and it took her several seconds to regather her composure.

“…No, no I imagine you do not,” she agreed, somehow managing to maintain a straight enough face. Betrem had an unexpectedly humorous twinkle in his eye, and the dance progressed through a series of slow partner-swaps before they could return to their conversation.

“If you will permit me…I wished to apologize to you,” he said as they reunited.

“Whatever for?”

“For being a witless clod last we met. I shudder to remember it.”

“Oh, I’m sure I was awful to you in ways I did not even notice,” Ellaenie demurred. “Nobody can be blamed for youthful inelegance, can they?”

“Perhaps not, but whatever your misbehaviours to me may have been, I do not remember them.”

“I...would be a most terrible liar if I did not acknowledge I left with quite a poor opinion of you,” Ellaenie admitted. “But you seem to have redeemed yourself quite handsomely.”

“Oh, I knew I had been a dreadful cad from the end of the first day, and by the time you left I had come to quite despise myself.” Bertrem revealed. “My father took me aside afterwards, and imparted to me the thought that a gentleman must always be his own worst critic, and always be working to improve. I have endeavored to live by those words ever since.”

Ellaenie didn’t have time to reply to that, as the dance called for another separation. She didn’t even notice who she swapped to and circled with: instead, she was focusing the witch-sight to get a proper measure of him.

It was exactly as Eärrach had cautioned her. His mind really was cage-shaped, a wrought iron edifice within which he held the perverse, cowardly creature that was simultaneously drawn to her and afraid of her. It pulled his eyes toward her figure, face and eyes, it shook at the bars and howled at how wonderful she smelled, but at the same time cringed in terror at the mere thought of her least disapproval.

The bars were strong, though. They didn’t rattle in the slightest.

And Adrey thinks men are simple.

“Well, whatever may be in our past,” she assured him as the dance brought them back together. “this reunion has been nothing but pleasure.”

He actually blushed. She watched him glance inward, consult himself and a mental effigy of his father, then reach a conclusion. He cleared his throat. “I am glad. Perhaps we might—”

“Your grace!”

Ellaenie turned. Gilber Drevin was at her elbow, having appeared there as silently and darkly as a bat, and looking quite out of place in his plain blue coat and brown weskit. A moment’s eye contact was enough to convey that something was terribly wrong.

Ellaenie lowered her voice. “Gilber? What happened?”

He offered her his arm. “I need to get you out of here right now, your grace.”

“I—oh. Lord Telliger, please forgive me.”

He bore his disappointment with great fortitude, took a step back and bowed tightly, raising a hand to his chest. “Not at all, your grace. I hope we shall have the pleasure again soon.”

Ellaenie favored him with a brief smile then took Gilber’s arm and let him lead her briskly away, keeping up the appearance of a happy party-goer just until they were alone enough to whisper, “Alright, what’s happened?”

Gilber’s voice was an urgent hiss. “I just got a message from one of my agents. He saw Nils Civorage leaving Speaker Orwin’s house. He’s coming here.”

“What?” Ellaenie hissed back, feeling the bottom fall out of her stomach. “I didn’t even know he was on Garanhir!”

“Nor did I.”

“How is he on the guest list?”

“I don’t know.” Drevin cast a paranoid eye around the room. “Maybe he got to your aunt and uncle—”

“No, not Eckard, or Auntie Bren. I’d have felt it.”

“One of their staff, then. Ellaenie, we cannot let him get to you.”

“Gilber, it’s not just me. Half the dukes are here!” In her mind, she sent a desperate call to Saoirse. Civorage is coming here!

“I know. One problem at a time…shit.” He stopped in his tracks at just the same moment Ellaenie felt a tickle of…pressure. An entirely too familiar pressure, the weight of a terrifyingly vast presence nearby. But this one didn’t feel a fraction so wholesome as King Eärrach.

“He’s here!” she gasped. In her mind, Saoirse’s reply was just as terse and tense as she felt: I sense him. Get out, lass. I’ll find my own escape.

Gilber looked around sharply, then pulled on her arm. “…This way!”

Ellaenie hadn’t even noticed the servants’ door he guided her through, so masterfully camouflaged as an ordinary piece of wall. It admitted them into a narrow passage that smelled of unvarnished and unpainted wood. They bustled down it, Ellaenie hitching up her skirts to follow “Lisze and Adrey! If he gets to them—”

“Major Droles is getting them out. For now, we worry about you.”

They emerged into the kitchens. A number of cooks gawped at them in surprise then jumped back from their stations to curtsey: several utensils clattered to the countertop and floor as they were dropped.

“Carry on as you were,” Gilber told them firmly, then pointed at the closest, a girl of perhaps fourteen. “You, which way out?”

The girl bobbed a deeper curtsey and pointed. “Th-this way, milord!”

Ellaenie focused. Her witch-sight was thrumming with the growing, threatening pressure of Civorage’s malign mind far too close by, but there was no hint of the Circle in the girl’s wide, astonished eyes. Good. “Show us,” she said.

Seconds later, they burst out of the servants’ entrance, and nearly got run over by Drevin’s carriage. This being no time for gentlemanly manners, Gilber sprang up into it and reached down to pull Ellaenie up after him, and then they were away, moving at a brisk trot even over the gravel.

“We’ll need to address the gossip,” Gilber pointed out as she settled into her seat. Sure enough, there was a carriage at the front of Lendwick Place, liveried in blue and white, the colours of the Clear Skies merchant guild. “Somebody like you doesn’t flee a party on such short notice without it being the talk of the town the next day.”

“I was taken faint. Lingering ill health from my magical exertions the other day,” Ellaenie suggested.

“Plausible enough, I suppose.” GIlber sat back and scowled. “That was much too close…”

“Did you feel that power?” Ellaenie asked. “I’ve not felt an oppressive mind like that since King Eärrach.”

“Like a thundercloud, yes.” Drevin scowled out of the window, then tugged down the blinds. He furrowed his brow and Ellaenie sensed the Craft at play in the way his expression flickered and shifted subtly for a few seconds. “…Major Droles and your ladies-in-waiting have been successfully smuggled out through the conservatory. But Thaighn Saoirse is—”

“She’s making her own arrangements,” Ellaenie reassured him. “But Gilber, now that Civorage has the run of that party, he can get to half the dukes! He can get to my aunt and uncle!”

“I know. I’m sorry, your grace. I should have foreseen this.”

“Maybe,” Ellaenie admitted. “But we’re playing against a dangerous foe, Gilber. He’s going to get the better of us sometimes.”

“Unacceptable, when the stakes are this high.” He growled in frustration, then abruptly vented his feelings by punching his own left palm. “I didn’t even know he was in the city! How does a man like him slip my nets?”

“We’re just witches. He has the power of a Word of Creation.”

“…That…is quite a handicap, it’s true.”

“So what do we do?” Ellaenie asked. “If he gets the dukes under his spell and arranges for them to invite him to the Moot, then I can’t avoid him.”

Gilber shook his head, his whole scalp furrowed with worry. “…The only thing I can think of is we mustn’t let him have long enough to get to all the dukes,” he said. “We need to force the salon to break up. A fire, maybe.”

“That could get people killed!”

“Not ideal, I know. But the dukes would be the first to escape. If I had more time I’d arrange for some ruffians to attack the place, smash some windows, chant some anarchist nonsense. But on such short notice…”

Ellaenie rifled her own memory, exerting the Craft and applying it to delve through her mental library. It was a trick she’d been practicing with Saoirse, one which should, once mastered, let her recall everything she’d ever read…something in her alchemy textbooks, maybe?

“What about…nitre and sugar? Lots of smoke, without the fire!”

“What nitre, your grace? I’m not in the habit of carrying it with me,” Gilber pointed out. “No, I don’t see a good option here that doesn’t involve taking the risk. I’m sorry.”

Ellaenie muttered an unladylike curse. But the time to decide was now, and the consequences for dithering, enormous. If Civorage could draw any of the dukes into his Circle, even one, it would be a grievous blow. For him to have unrestricted accss to the ones at the salon…

“…Give the order.”

Gilber nodded grimly, and Ellaenie felt the flicker of his will as he cast his thoughts and instructions to his agents.

After a second, he looked up. “It’s given.”

Ellaenie heaved a big breath and swallowed around a suddenly dry mouth. “Crowns…if anyone dies…oh, if Uncle Eckard or Auntie Bren is hurt…!” her fingers twisted fretfully in her lap. “And if word gets out I gave the order—!”

“It won’t, your grace. I’m the only one who knows you gave it.”

Ellaenie nodded. “…And if Civorage gets to you to extract that knowledge and make it public, then all is lost anyway. Right.” The thought contained a grim sort of comfort that was in no way comfortable.

Gilber nodded darkly. “Neither of us can afford to be caught off-guard by him. As for the guests, I ordered my men to make it convincing, but not terribly dangerous. Hopefully, nobody will be hurt.” He drummed his fingers on the upholstery next to him for a few seconds, gathering his thoughts, then leaned forward. “But candidly, your grace…we need to be prepared for the possibility that this is a battle we cannot win.”

Ellaenie opened her mouth to protest, object, insist he should have more faith, but stopped herself. Much as her spirit revolted at what he’d just said, she knew now was the wrong time to stop heeding Gilber Drevin’s experienced counsel. “I…what do you mean?”

“I mean, Civorage’s power is overwhelming. He is here, walking among us, and has a Word of Creation at his command. Any man he meets and speaks with can become his agent if he but wills it. In the face of that…” Gilber trailed off, clearly unsure what to say. “…We need contingencies. If he gets to me, what will you do? And don’t tell me. You need to make that plan on your own. And make it good, because I’m quite sure I could anticipate your first two or three ideas.”

And the fourth and fifth, Ellaenie imagined. A sense of creeping horror was settling on her as she realized just how dangerous their adversary was, and how little they had to oppose him with.

“…I wish you weren’t, but you’re right. He might claim neither of us but still take Auldenheigh and Garanhir. We need to play a longer game,” she said.

“Yes. This is a far more delicate and less balanced situation than any game, your grace. Everone we lose becomes one of Civorage’s assets, but not the other way around. If we aren’t very careful, you will find yourself checkmated by your own pieces.”

“And the Dukesmoot forces my hand. I must be here. So we don’t have the luxury of withdrawing our most valuable assets to a safe remove. Crowns damn it!”

They rode in silence a ways, until Gilber tilted his head and listened to something only he could hear. “…It seems the fire was a success. Enough smoke to send everyone scurrying, but Lendwick Place suffered no real damage, and it seems nobody was hurt.”

“Oh, thank goodness!” Ellaenie sagged. She wasn’t sure how she could have taken being responsible for an innocent’s death. “The dukes?”

“Evacuated to the embassy manors. Civorage barely even had time to walk in the door before the alarm was raised, and he pretty much immediately stormed back to his carriage and returned to the Speaker’s house. I’d say we thwarted him, tonight at least.”

“A poke in the eye is satisfying, but now his anger might focus and inspire him,” Ellaenie fretted. “I can’t help worrying. Saoirse and Rheannach predicted our aggressive response to the riot would provoke an aggressive response in kind, and Civorage coming here in person fits. After tonight, the gloves may have come off entirely.”

“Yes. And the fact is that if he really is so powerful as I fear, merely not being invited to the Dukesmoot won’t stop him. He could walk up to the front gates and instruct the guards to let him in.”

“Crowns. How do we fight this?”

“I don’t know. For now, I think the best we can achieve is slowing him. If we put enough guards and enough locked doors in the way, you can warn the Dukesmoot of the danger he poses as a first order of business. Then, if he does come marching up to the doors, it’ll be evidence backing your claims against him. We’ll have gathered allies, at least. But as for a route to actually ending the threat he poses…the only one I can see is to kill him.”

“And that may be easier said than done.”

“Indeed. I don’t know enough about the power he wields. I can’t risk sending a man face-to-face with him. A good marksman at range, maybe? But what if he can sense hostile intent?”

Ellaenie shook her head. “One piece of advice my father gave me, not long before he passed, was that overestimating your enemy is just as bad as underestimating him. Civorage isn’t omnipotent, Gilber. He has weaknesses. We just need to find them.” She became aware that he was giving her a complicated look. “…What?”

“I’m reflecting on how different you are to who you were just earlier this year.” He smiled sadly and scratched at his stubbled chin. “I worked a long time with your father, and I miss him terribly. He was a damn good friend, though he never did know I practice the Craft. Still, I was the first to congratulate him on your birth, and the greatest charge he ever gave me was to ensure your safety, even ahead of his. So I feel…very responsible for you. I’m afraid of failing you. I’m afraid of failing him. I suppose that fear is making this difficult for me.”

Ellaenie smiled, scooted forward in her seat, and took his hand to hold it warmly between hers. “I’m afraid for you too,” she said. “You’re family. And you’ve been my rock ever since they passed. I don’t know what I’d do if Civorage got you…but we can’t let it stop us, can we?”

He nodded, the muscles around his mouth twitching as he held his expression tightly under control “No.”

Ellaenie nodded, and sat back again before turning her gaze out the window with a sigh. They were entering the palace grounds now. Up until now, she’d thought of it as a sanctum, but now it was dawning on her…just how many servants came and went, and how freely they roamed around the place, through small side corridors and backroom ways, or through the halls if they were about the buisness of the house. Any one could fall under Civorage’s sway. Any one could be the gap in her armor.

Her thoughts turned to Betrem Telliker and all the other men she’d fancied to meet and be courted by tonight, and she bit back a sudden feeling of both disappointment and stupidity. She’d allowed her happy envy of Rheannach’s and Eärrach’s passion to wrap her up in romantic fantasies. How could she fairly bring any man into her life, now? When she was confronting a danger he couldn’t understand, and couldn’t be allowed to know until he was already endangered by it?

How could she ever, in good conscience, drag a suitor into peril he couldn’t even knowingly consent to face?

But for a long second, her heart ached at the thought she would have to confront this fight without a partner of the heart. She had her friends, her mentors, her advisors, her Mother and Beldame. But a lover?

She would have to do without, it seemed. Gilber’s tearing her away from the dance had been accidentally symbolic.

‘Twas not a silly fantasy, love.

Ellaenie sighed and relaxed slightly. Saoirse’s touch in her mind still felt normal, like herself. The witch-thaighn had escaped Civorage’s influence. You were silent for so long I was worried.

The carriage rattled to a stop, and to her astonishment, Saoirse opened the door for her.

“How—?”

“I cannae turn into a bird like Rheannach, but there’s plenty o’ tricks in this old hag yet,” Saoirse’s eyes wrinkled kindly as she helped Ellaenie down. Ellaenie made eye contact with her, bewildered.

Still me, maiden dear. Saoirse’s thoughts were an amused veneer over a serious core. “But I warned ye, did I not? Ye responded to him so strong, ‘twas inevitable he would reply in kind.”

“I didn’t expect him to come in person.”

“Why would he not? Garanhir is important, love. O’ all the earthmotes, this is the one he most needs to rule, if he wishes tae rule all.”

“We should discuss this in private,” Gilber pointed out. “We need a response, and a plan.”

“We should,” Ellaenie nodded. She cast a wary glance at the gates as they headed indoors, as though Civorage’s blue-and-white carriage might come galloping out of the misty night at any second. What would they do if it did?

What could they do?

Well…they could put a few locked doors in the way, at least. So, they bustled through the halls, past bewildered palace staff who hadn’t expeected them back yet, and up, up into Ellaenie’s tower.

She’d changed it quite a lot over the past several months, as her training progressed and as she embraced the Craft over the Art. The result was an eclectic collection. The library was mostly intact, The magestone collection was now relegated to decoration on high shelves, for a start. The shelf that had once borne them now bore Ellaenie’s growing collection of medicinal ingredients, and the matched pair of buck antlers she’d taken as her favorite fetishes.

Saoirse preferred crow skulls and ram’s horns, while Rheannach wore feathers, but Ellaenie found the antlers fit her, quite wonderfully. They felt like extensions of her arm, somehow. The Art’s literature universally derided fetishes made from animal sources as ‘polluting’ the energy stored within them, but Ellaenie had come to think of it as more like…flavor. Or perhaps the tonic note. The echo of life still resonating faintly within a fetish certainly did change the timbre of magic…but once one adjusted to that and worked with it rather than against, a fetish became obviously the superior tool for Craft-magic.

Just seeing the antlers again made her feel a little more confident. It was like walking into an armory and having a favorite set of swords close to hand.

Even so, she found herself touching a few black feathers left alongside them on the shelf and sighing. “I wish Rheannach was here.”

“She’ll come in a heartbeat if ye call for her, ye know she will,” Saoirse pointed out, settling into her preferred chair by the fire.

“I…I know.” Ellaenie sighed. “Do you think we should?”

Saoirse mused on it for a moment, looking out the windowand contemplating the landscape of mist and rooftops beyond. “Truthfully? Though I’d find it comforting to have her near, I dinnae know that she could do any different to us. And ‘tis likely good to keep her away from Civorage so he does’nae suspect her involvement…No. I say we let her have her time an’ joy wi’ her husband. We’ll surely have tae call her soon enough.”

“There’s something else too, isn’t there?” Ellaenie observeed.

“…Aye, there is. Civorage’s magic is that o’ creation itself. I’m no’ certain if even a Herald is beyond his power. And I would prefer no’ to find out unless we must.”

“Now there’s a dread thought,” Gilber prowled the far end of the room with his hands behind his back and his head bowed. “However terrible any of us falling to him would be, for him to subvert a Herald…”

Saoirse nodded, equally grim. “King Eärrach would’nae accept it for a second. His wrath would be fierce. And the consequences, unknowable.”

“Then I guess we’re just going to have to keep on missing her.” Ellaenie sighed. “…What do we do right now?”

“Right now, we perform a ritual.” Saoirse stood. “There’s nae a force so strong that ye cannae at least make some preparation for it, which may be the difference between life an’ failure. Somethin’ tae contain ourselves, keep our thoughts between ourselves only…”

Ellaenie nodded, rose, and took up her fetishes. “What’s my role?”

“Ye are the supplicant. Lord Drevin, if ye will be the guide, an’ I shall be the crux. Maiden, Brother and Beldame, eh? ‘Tis close enough.”

Gilber chuckled, dipped his hand into his coat’s inside pocket and produced a handsome clam shell on a leather cord, which he slipped around his neck and tucked under his shirt. “Close enough,” he agreed.

It took a few minutes to set up. There was incense and oils to prepare, burners to light, the circle to draw anew. Ellaenie took her shoes off and left them by the door, along with most of the more refined details of her party clothes. She stood in the middle of the room while Gilber and Saoirse worked around her, chalking out the stave on the floorboards and filling the room with scented smoke. Her job was to remain still, breathe deep, and allow her mind to fall into the magic.

She drew a thread of it from each fetish and let it knot together in her heart as Saoirse patrolled around the circle’s edge, spinning a cleansing veil. Ellaenie’s anxiety, her fear, the distant feeling of threat faded away as the constant magical background hum of the worlds stilled and settled, like a cup of water after being set down and left to rest. She let the sensation flow out to her fingers, down to her toes, up into the roots of her hair. Magic. Not the cold, sterile, stiff stuff of the Art but as alive and dirty and moving and fertile as good earth, eager to grow into something rather than be chiseled and shaped.

No wonder she’d struggled so hard at studying the Art. It didn’t fit her nearly so well.

The music, the beat, seemed to come from nowhere. It was entirely in her head, heard with the soul rather than the ears. It came to her as an irresistible urge to sway, as a pulse that only began in her heart, but extended far beyond it. The first few times she’d done this, it had felt awkward, foolish, embarrassing.

Her dance with Rheannach had changed that. Now, it would have felt far more foolish to resist what the magic wanted to do. Especially when she spun and felt it fling outward from her to crash against the stave’s walls like water. She felt the moment it reached Gilber, and almost gasped: his energy was so different to Rheannach’s it came as a surprise. Rheannach was a mountain, Gilber was a rock. She was an inferno, he was a coal. She was the very incarnation of divine femininity, he was a mortal man. But it didn’t feel wrong at all. He felt like…

He felt like someone she loved and trusted. And when her feet started drumming out the rhythm of the magic they both felt, he had no trouble following her: he hummed, a steady note at just the right pitch, guided by the energy rather than by thought so that when Saoirse joined in with her bodhran, it all fit together seamlessly, as if they weren’t so much making music as allowing the music that had always lurked behind the noise of the world to be heard.

As they found it, Ellaenie raised the fetishes above her head as she spun. She was now something like the dynamo in a tinker’s engine, her every movement and breath and step adding power to this spell. She could feel Saoirse’s experienced mind reach out and grab the threads she was spinning, weave them together with purpose. It was protection, counter-charm, a zone of silence. It was a suit of steel around all their minds, built to encourage just as much as to protect.

But the specifics were not Ellaenie’s to focus on. Her focus was to drive it, to pour the raw power of youth and movement into it until it was complete. Her focus was to lose herself in it until her guide brought her back out.

And lose herself she did. She’d set out tonight to dance, and though circumstances had conspired to ruin one dance, they had brought her to a different one. One with just as much purpose and which, if she let it, could be just as much fun.

She smiled, tipped her face to the sky, spread her arms, and fought back with witchcraft.

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

> “Many scurrilous inches of ink have been spent on the subject of how little the Eni-Ilẹyedu people choose to wear, and it is true their standards of modesty are different to the Garanese norm. But this is a practical concession to the heat and humidity rather than prurience, and what they do wear is so colorful and beautifully made that one’s eye is drawn more to what is worn than what is bare.”

>

> —Prince Ruber of Valai, My Travels

MEHOOM

The Oho’anga grasslands, Ilẹyede Earthmote, Sayf 09.06.03.08.08

There was something extra in the air above Ilẹyede, Jerl thought. But then, that was true of every earthmote. Even the ones that orbited at much the same altitude and ought to have about the same climate differed in subtle ways. The Craenen and his own native Garanhir for instance were quite decidedly different, and Garanhir itself was a good deal hotter and more arid toward the dexter end than the sinister.

The three major Sayfi earthmotes—Alakbir, Prathardesh and Ilẹyede—were all hot, but that was about where the similarity ended. Alakbir was scorched, not just arid but dry as only an endless expanse of sand could be, except where a little water gathered in oases and rivers. Prathardesh was opposite, a land of near-perpetual warm rains and steaming jungle where the humidity turned the heat lethal.

Ilẹyede was both, and neither. Somewhere in between those two extremes was a balancing point where the rains came regularly enough to cover the land in lush green, but a dry breeze chased the moisture out of the air before it could simmer. Ilẹyede was both verdant and comfortable, and safe from Eclipse. It ought to have been the most populous earthmote in all the worlds.

But if the Ordfey lived on anywhere, it lived on here.

Not directly, of course. The Ordfey itself had been overthrown here just as everywhere else, but their slave-built monuments, statues and pyramids dotted the entire earthmote, carefully maintained by the humans for thousands of years. Where every other culture of every other land had systematically torn down the empire’s works and symbolically erased them from thought and memory, the Eni-Ilẹyedu haad painstaking preserved everything they could, as a reminder and warning. And because they remembered, so intensely, what so many others had deliberately forgotten, there was a mistrust of anything that even resembled the Ordfey’s old ways.

Such as, for example, large cities.

Mehoom was, by Ilẹyedu standards, a major settlement and a thriving hub of commerce. To Jerl’s sensibilities, it was a town. His own home city of Antage was far larger, and Auldenheigh would have swallowed Mehoom and barely called it a district. Mehoom itself was entirely dwarfed by the huge, sculpted stone elf-face that loomed over it, carved out of a red sandstone mountain and forever pouting at the world with whorls and stipples of vibrant paint still standing clear and vivid on its cheeks.

From the air, it was immediately obvious that a large part of the people presently in the city were nomadic visitors, here to trade. The landscape for miles around was dotted with tent circles and campfires, and Jerl could see small groups of people and their animals following well-worn trails into town and back.

Such was the way across nearly all of Ilẹyede. The Eni-Ilẹyedu lived nomadically, and by and large viewed civilization as a trap one must brave from time to time, to be escaped from as soon as one had snatched the treasures with which it was baited. Modest, small cities were a necessary burden rather than the focus toward which their culture worked.

And so, for all its size and comforts and treasures, Ilẹyede was sparsely populated. And as the Cavalier Queen came in low over Mehoom’s modest airdock and let down her ropes, Jerl could see no sign of a Oneist circle house anywhere.

“Engines shut off and fuel pumps drained, skipper”

Jerl turned, dragged from his thoughts as Derghan came to join him while wiping his hands clean on a rag. “Thank you Mister Vargursson. How’s she running?”

“Sweet and clean as you could ever ask for.” Derghan grinned and patted the Queen fondly before look up at the Red Face of Mehoom and whistling. “Damn.”

“Impressive isn’t it?”

“I’ll say. That must have taken lifetimes.” Derghan scratched his beard as he considered the huge sculpture. “Skilled work, too. No sign that anyone ever sabotaged it. You’d think generations of miserable slaves would’ve done sloppier work.”

“Nah, see, I remember this. Last time I was out this way with my Dad, I got to hear a storykeeper recount it. The ancient Eni-Ilẹyedu really did believe the elves were the Crowns’ chosen people. They bought into the Ordfey’s whole doctrine and considered it a noble privilege to be chosen for an elf’s plaything.”

Derghan pulled a face. “The past is a fuckin’ weird place, huh?”

Jerl shrugged. “The present’s pretty fuckin’ weird too.”

“True enough…” Derghan agreed. His eyes were still scanning the city, and apparently he was impressed. “I gotta say…Mehoom’s not what I was expecting.”

“What were you expecting?”

“Fuck if I know, exactly. I heard they don’t wear much on this earthmote, so I guess I figured they wouldn’t know how to build well either. But lookit that stonework! You couldn’t fit a razor in the cracks, I bet.”

“Well, if you think about it, a culture that’s preserved ancient monuments in such good condition for thousands and thousands of years is probably gonna be pretty good at it, right?” Jerl had to agree though. Mehoom might not be a large city, but the buildings and streets were a testament to exquisite stonemasonry, in every color and variety of stone one could ask for. The roads were paved in the same ruddy brown stuff the Red Face was carved from, but the buildings gleamed white in the sun, and those of them that had tiled roofs showed off a veritable mineral rainbow.

The message, if indeed there was a conscious message, seemed to be if one must have a city, then it should be small but wondrous. Or perhaps Mehoom itself was an Ordfey monument?

A new voice joined them at the rail. “Bag’s heavy, skipper. The tower has us.”

“Thank you, Mister Marren.” Jerl nodded his gratitude.

Andony Marren leaned on the rail as well, his work temporarily done. “Wondered if I’d ever see that big head again,” he commented, tipping his brow toward the Red Face.

“You’ve been here before?”

“Once, while I was working for Captain Ollender on the Blue Belle. Nice city to look at from the air, but a dull place for shore leave.”

“Dull?” Derghan asked.

“There’s not one decent pleasure house anywhere in that lot,” Marren explained, gesturing vaguely to the beautiful buildings before them. “For folks who don’t wear aught but paint and beads, they’re oddly prudish. And their music is so…solemn.”

Jerl chuckled. “You’re thinking like an Urstlender, Andony.”

He shrugged. “What can I say? I grew up surrounded by flowers, honey and people who love life. Each to their own of course, it’s their land and their rules. But I say any place you can’t buy a little good company after a month aboard ship is hardly worth the visit. Now, away up the other end of the mote you've got Arthenun Ilẹyeda, that's the place to be. It's everything this place ain't, like the Eni-Ilẹyedu crammed all their brothels, bars and gambling halls into one city to keep 'em out the way. Bloody paradise, I tell 'ya.”

“Heh!” Derghan chuckled. "You're gonna get a terminal case of cockrot one day, Andony."

“Worth it. The beer here is good, though,” Marren conceded. “They put honey, dates and spices in it.”

“Sounds nice.”

Jerl nodded. “Well, we’re not staying long. Just long enough to get an idea of where the Rüwyrdan Set might be. So, dull shore leave won’t be an issue.”

Marren nodded, glanced over his shoulder to check how the bag was faring as the ground crew winched them down into the cradle, then leaned in to lower his voice. “So this is where we’ll be letting them as want to leave step off, I take it,” he said.

“Yup,” Jerl agreed. “How many are we losing?”

“All the family men, the guys who’ve only been with for this one season, Wilks and Ledzer….about half the crew, all told. Me an’ the twins are staying on, so’s Gebby.”

Jerl nodded, honestly quite gratified at how many were staying. “Well, I’ll make the formal announcement after we’ve found the elves. You won’t have an issue working alongside them will you?”

“Far from it. If Miss Sinikka’s anything to go by they’ll more’n pull their weight, especially in a fight.”

“Assuming they agree to it,” Derghan pointed out.

“Chal-an-chal," Jerl said. "These guys are penitents, they’re looking for a chance to do some good and pay for their old evil. Why d’you think the Eni-Ilẹyedu even tolerate them? Of all the people in all the worlds, these are the folks who most remember what the Ordfey was like.”

“Mm.” Marren straightened up. “Alright, well, I’ll let them as plan on leaving know they’ll have to sit a touch longer.”

“Thank you, Andony.”

As Marren went to pass along the news, Derghan leaned closer to Jerl. “I have a question.”

“What?”

“Traveling all over the worlds, feeding the crew and fuelling the Queen isn’t going to suddenly get cheaper just ‘cuz we’ll have elves on board, even if they don’t draw a wage,” he pointed out. “How exactly are you planning on funding this big adventure?”

“We’re still a merchant. In fact, last I checked we still have half a hold full of furs, whisky and wood, and a coffer full enough to buy new cargo. And seeing as chasing leads is going to involve traveling all over the worlds anyway…”

“Business as usual? Valkyr’s arse, that’d be nice.”

“What do you call the last two months?” Jerl asked.

“Running. Looking over our shoulders. Watching part of the fucking sky explode…and I’ve had this nagging feeling for days now like there’s something I’m forgetting…”

He almost jumped out of his skin when Mouse tapped his elbow and said. “Me, maybe?”

“Crownshit! Fuck! Yes! You!" Derghaan shook himself with an irritated snarl. "You enjoy that far too fuckin' much!”

“Yup.” Mouse shot him a brilliant grin and leaned up against Jerl, before looking over the rail. “Shit, I guess what they say about the Eni-Ilẹyedu is true. Those guys are really fuckin’ naked, huh?”

“That’s their way,” Jerl agreed. Actually, the crew of men hauling on the ropes down below were all wearing a small cloth to keep everything contained and controlled, but that, Jerl knew, was just a practical concession to workplace safety and the foibles of foreigners. Back in Cantre, they’d certainly have been called naked. And over in the Yunei Empire, they’d have been executed for public immorality. But modesty was a function of culture, not a universal constant, and as Marren had noted there were things the Eni-Ilẹyedu were extremely modest about that were much more relaxed back home. They wore practically nothing by habit, but were otherwise remarkably buttoned-up.

Different knots for different ropes.

Mouse shot a cheeky grin up at him. “So. You gonna go native?”

Jerl smirked and shook his head. “You can if you want to.”

“Heh! No thanks.”

There was a solid sound as the keel finally met the cradle, a few more rope pulls brought the Queen firmly down into position, and the locking bolt was driven across to pin her in place. The docking tower creaked slightly as the ground crew tied off their ropes, and their voyage was, at last, complete.

Jerl turned away from the rail. “Alright. Mouse and I are going to track down a merchant and the Rüwyrdan Set, in that order. Derghan, you help Sin get the goods ready to send ashore once we’ve found a buyer, and remind the lads we still need ‘em until the elves come aboard.”

“Gotcha.”

“Understood.”

“Alright. Don’t dawdle here. Mehoom’s not big, but all it takes is a single Oneist missionary and Civorage will know we’re here. Let’s get going.”

They nodded, scattered to their respective tasks, and Jerl went to grab the necessary documents, books and coin for the port authority. The time might come soon where he’d have to falsify the Queen’s identity, and Whisker had promised he and Imdura could achieve that. But for now at least…

Well, it just seemed wrong to hide his ship behind a fake name and fake documents. For now, she was still the Cavalier Queen. No matter where she flew and who crewed her.

He just hoped these elves would be easy to find…

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

Thirty minutes later, Jerl was reflecting that hoping for a city without Oneists really had been too much to ask. The cult was everywhere, and if not for Mouse’s powers, they would have blundered into the first missionary right outside the air dock.

She wasn’t a local, at least. She was a Garanese woman, pale skin gone quite red where her wide straw hat and many layers of thin linen weren’t protecting it. She looked miserable, covered as she was in a sheen of perspiration and flakes of peeling nose, but the fervor in her expression was chilling.

Mouse found her especially hard to look at.

“It’s like Civorage scooped her out of her own head and replaced her with puppet strings,” he muttered as they bustled past. Thanks to his own efforts, the missionary didn’t even glance at them. She just kept waving her pamphlets and calling plaintively.

“—you maintain the Red Face, you maintain the memory of that ancient time. You know what the Ordfey was, and you know the Crowns did nothing! For thousands of years, the Four stood aside and allowed human slaves to suffer and die by the million! All those people crying out for salvation, and it fell on deaf, uncaring ears! No more! To be One with the Circle is to have your every prayer heard! You will be known, and cared for, and loved like the brothers and sisters you are—”

…And so on. Honestly, it was persuasive stuff, wrapped in enough truth and aimed so squarely at a real human need that Jerl could see how it would lure somebody in. If they were desperate, hurting, alone, or even if they were just dealing with the ordinary burden of being alive, what harm in checking out just one Circle meeting and seeing what it was about?

Damn Civorage. He’d had a tremendous insight into what people needed, and rather than do the decent thing and give it to them, he’d used it to bait a wicked hook.

“Makes my fuckin’ skin crawl,” Jerl muttered, reflecting gratefully that at least this missionary only spoke Garanese. Most of the Ilẹyedu wandering past just gave her an uncomprehending frown and continued on their way, perhaps trading a comment in their own language. Somehow, Jerl doubted their accidental immunity would protect them for long.

Mouse fidgeted awkwardly with his shirt. “Yeah.”

“You okay?”

“Crowns, Jerl. You ever had that nagging, horrible feeling like somebody’s following you on a dark knight, and they’ll drive a knife into your back if you let them?”

“Occasionally.”

“Well, right now it’s all the time. I can feel him out there, looking for us. In the background, you know? And he’s seething. But that preacher…” Mouse glanced over his shoulder. “She’s like a lighthouse. Just being near her makes me feel exposed.”

Jerl nodded, and gestured toward a nearby building. A sign written in Ilẹyedun, Craenen and Garanese proclaimed that an office at the end of the street belonged to ‘Awolowo & Laird, Imports and Exports.’ “The sooner we sell, find the elves and move on, the better, then,” he said.

“Right.” Mouse shook himself and refocused. “Same act as before? I pass beneath notice, feed you insight and hints?”

“Feels a little unfair, but…yeah. We need every edge we can get.”

Mouse glanced over his shoulder, back toward the missionary. “…Yeah. We really do.”

Jerl nodded, and ducked through the door, pushing his professional merchant’s smile into place as he slid through a rattling bead curtain and into the surprisingly cool space beyond. The office was simple, lined floor to ceiling with shelves and documentation and lit by magestones, which probably explained the pleasant temperature, too: useful magic, that.

The man sitting behind the desk llooked up, and Jerl saw the way his eyes skipped briefly to Mouse, glazed, forgot, then re-alighted on Jerl’s face and lit into a professional smile. “Welcome! You must be the captain of that merchant brig I saw docking earlier.”

Jerl grinned. Suddenly, he was back in his element. Running from Civorage, sneaking into mansions, stealing Words of Power, fighting elves…none of that was who he truly wanted to be. This here, the moment when a captain with a hold full of valuable goods locked horns with an importer who wanted to buy them as cheaply as possible? This was his passion. His professional smile turned into an honest grin, and he stepped forward to shake hands and haggle.

“That I am,” he agreed. “And as it happens, there are two things I hope you can help me with…”

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

Three days later, he was still riding high on the thrill of securing a good deal, and the information he needed. Thanks to Mouse’s help, he’d comfortably shifted all the barrels of spirits at a premium rate, leaving the Queen’s coffers too full to close, even after handing out the crew’s pay and after buying a consignment of Mehooman decorative tiles that should hopefully turn a tidy profit, somewhere.

More importantly though, they’d found the Rüwyrdan.

As Sin had predicted, the Mehoomans only barely tolerated the elves. Thousands of years of committed penitence weren’t enough to earn any real trust, it seemed, and so the elves were watched closely at all times. When they entered the city, they did so under guard. When they roamed the grasslands and river delta, a number of Mehooman scouts followed them and tracked their movements. It had taken some negotiation and bribery, but Mouse had managed to learn their current whereabouts.

It wasn’t terribly far. The elves were apparently following a migratory herd of deer-like creatures about two hundred miles trailing-by-sinister of Mehoom. For the Queen that was a short jaunt, which Jerl spent most of chatting with the crew, alternately wishing them best of luck and thanking them for staying on.

The elves weren’t trying to hide. They had no reason to. Once the column of smoke from their campfire came into view, it was simple to hone in on their collection of tents and animals, and from there the hardest part was a wilderness stop.

Airships really did need the infrastructure of a dock to be able to set down safely, especially if the captain wanted to fly away again on short notice. Jerl knew from experience that the Queen was incredibly tough, far tougher than he’d given her credit for: her crash-landing in Gül Nornacha had proved she could take a heck of a beating. But why put her through it if he didn’t have to?

So, instead of even trying to land, he left the ship in Amir’s hands, and went down via rope ladder. By the time his boots crunched dry grass, a party had come out from the village to welcome him.

Pyrfey could never be mistaken for a human. Human skin all rested on a shared spectrum of tans and browns, of which “black” was merely the darkest extreme. Elf-skin, though, was radically different: just as Sinikka’s skin was as entirely, inhumanly matte white as snow, so too was a pyrfey’s skin entirely, inhumanly matte black as charcoal.

Against that backdrop, the silvery white inks they tattood themselves with stood out like a magestone in the night. As did their intense red and orange eyes, and the decorative metals on their vamdraechi.

Sinikka landed next to Jerl with a thud, having simply jumped down from the ship. As she did, the approaching elves raised their weapons in a challenge of sorts: she held up both empty hands and flip-flapped them back and forth to show they were empty, then pressed her hands to her own vamdraech, palms inward, and bowed, one leg behind the other.

The result was curious. There were no smiles, as such, but the mood relaxed greatly. Weapons were sheathed, posture softened. The tall man leading the group approached Sin, and greeted her by gripping her elbows, a gesture she mirrored.

“Vaya, set-chaer?”

“Vayako tenmellen. Akuki Sinikka Nerissith Bekhil.”

“Bekhil!” A complex smile flowered on the spokesman’s face and he drew her in for a hug, while the rest of the group gathered around to say their own hellos, or in one case ran back to the village to share the news shouting ‘Bekhil! Bekhil menhod!' The spokesman took a good look up and down, and nodded approvingly. “Kyrsiika, mellwyrd? Akuki Sevise chalen…”

Sin’s smile pulled at a flimsy attempt to deadpan. “Nay. Kyrsiikova, Lladri.”

He laughed and pulled a look of mock affront. “Uka wyrd mirddko…Ke wight?”

Sin chuckled, and stepped aside to welcome Jerl into the conversation.“ Jerl Holten, this is Sevise Rüwyrdan Lladri, Soothnadhar of the Rüwyrdan Set. That’s, uh…’truth-keeper,’ which is about as close to a leader or chief as Penitent sets have.”

“Ah. Garanese?” Sevise nodded amiably. “I, uh…rusty. Think I remember. But has been long time, many chal since I live there.”

“I understand,” Jerl nodded. “Hako Feydh e…wan.”

“No matter. You have weak Feydh, I have weak Garanese, Bekhil has good both.”

“Sevise has completed his penance,” Sin explained. “He doesn’t need to go on the pilgrimage any longer. But, he still lives by the penitents’ Sooth and so he guides the tribes.”

“You tell him all, huh?” Sevise asked, giving Jerl a curious look. “First time you tell a Wight about Bomirdd, I think”

“Jerl is…special. It’s a long story. Ithmatra gifet ir henko.”

“Ice-mother herself?”

“She didn’t give me the duty, as such,” Jerl corrected. “It’s more…if I don’t do it, nobody else can. But she was the one who explained it all to me.”

“…Is long story, I can see. Come and talk.”

“Gladly. But first…one last introduction. This is Mouse.”

Watching Sevise turn, frown, then almost jump out of his tattoos at seeing Mouse waiting patiently behind him was tremendously gratifying. Jerl had no idea what exactly the elvish curse that exploded out of him meant, but it sounded very welcome.

“Where…how did he—?”

“All part of the long story. It involves…terrible power, a great evil. And I need as many pilgrims as you can spare to swear chal-an-chal to me.”

Sevise glanced at Sin, who nodded seriously. He frowned a moment, then nodded. “Come. We sit, eat, I listen, I decide.”

“Fair,” Jerl agreed, and followed him. He wondered briefly how many more times he’d have to tell his story, and to how many people?

Well…as many as he needed to. The Rüwyrdan would be his second allies after the Street Rats, but there would need to be many, many more before they were ready to confront Civorage directly. He could feel the pressure of them in the future, waiting to be met and known. Some of them, he almost felt he could see their faces.

But, that was for later. Here and now, he had the Rüwyrdan to win. So he followed Sevise to the fire, sat, accepted a drink of some kind of tea…

And told his story again.

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

> “We are not made to be lonely individuals. Look through all of human history and you will find families, friend groups, tribes and communities. As a species, humans are defined by other people, by the legacy we leave and by the greater whole to which we belong. The search for personal fulfillment begins with the search for a cause, and reaches its end when we tear down the prison walls we built around ourselves and become one with our circle.”

>

> —Nils Civorage, “The Circle”

RESTLESS SLEEP

Ducal Palace, Auldeneigh, Enerlend, Garanhir Earthmote 09.05.15.12.12

Ellaenie was not only tired, but also knew perfectly well that she should get a good night’s sleep if she wanted to be sharp and capable for the morrow. She had ducal parties to welcome, Dukesmoot business to plan, meetings with First Baron of Parliament, and first thing in the morning would be a briefing with Gilber. Crowns alone knew how he was going to be sufficiently rested, but then, she’d always wondered that. He seemed to survive on cat-naps and tobacco, while she needed a solid eight hours a night just to get up in the morning. So she did, quite urgently, want to sleep…

But actually falling asleep was proving a different matter entirely.

Her mind wouldn’t stop grinding away like a millstone, and no amount of breathing slowly, focusing then relaxing her magic, chamomile tea or turning the pillow over to find the cool side was doing a damn thing to settle it. The anxiety had faded to nothing during their ritual, but afterwards it had crept back up on her, and now it was crashing in her ears like a drumbeat.

Eventually, sheer physical discomfort drove her from between her sheets. She rose, took off her sleeping mask and gestured at the magestone that was always glowing above the bed until the room was fully bright, then stood in the middle of the rug where she pressed her knuckles to her eyes until she saw strange, dark colors. It didn’t help.

Out the window, the mist that had lingered all night had cleared away, granting her a wonderful view of the city. It was bright tonight, every street lit by magestones on full glow, and Ellaenie vaguely remembered there was an Eclipse predicted for two in the morning…

She glanced up at the small, silent clock on her dresser. Any minute now, then. She took a step closer to the window and looked up, considering the white glow of distant snow on the Unbroken Earthmote, and trying to spot the earthmote that was about to—ah. There. Not a large one. A minor mote, perhaps fifty miles wide. It would be past in a couple of hours, and not even make Auldenheigh that dark.

Still. The moment its course carried it in front of the Sun and the Roil was definite. There was a distinct feeling of darkness, the sense that something wholesome was now occluded…

Ellaenie looked down at the lawn. Out there in the middle, where the palace lights were weakest, a handful of small, skinny black shapes did their best to slip sideways into reality and be.

A freezing sense of terrible misery and longing washed over her as she watched them, and part of her wondered, as it always did…could those be her parents? Or, what was left of them? Did some part of them remember this place as home, where their child lingered? Was there still a fragment of them, somewhere, that still longed to see her, still…loved her?

She hoped not. Let them be truly gone. Let them be dead. Let them be anything but those tortured things out there.

But Crowns, feeling that sense of terrible, mindless loss made her know it was a futile hope. She turned away from the window, unable to bear the view any longer and…

There were footsteps in the hallway that shouldn’t have been there. One step she recognized, Lisze’s dainty, quiet tap-tap-tap. But Lisze should have been asleep in her own rooms. And the other…

A large man, wearing heavy boots. Nobody in the palace that she could think of matched that description.

On a surge of intuition and paranoia, she darted to the door and locked it. Then, knowing perfectly well that would not stop a determined man of any real size or strength, she turned to the dresser and thrust her hands toward it.

Moving an object by magic was just as fatiguing as moving it the ordinary way, and so not usually worth the trouble. But Ellaenie was far more adept in matters of magic than she was in matters of the body, and her will was strong. She dragged the heavy wooden object across the room with a tug of her mind and a grunt of effort, and had it up against the door with a bang and a clatter at exactly the same moment as the unseen figures outside tried to open it.

“…Ellie?” Lisze’s voice. “Ellie, are you alright?”

“Who’s with you?” Ellaenie asked. Her witch-sight was humming, shrieking at her. She sent a desperate thought to Saoirse, a warning, a plea for help…and hoped to goodness she wasn’t panicking over nothing.

Lisze’s next words drove that possibility out of her mind. “You missed him at the party. He’s come a long way to meet you, Ellie.”

“Lizzy, for Valkyr’s sake, it’s the middle of the night! You’re not in your right mind!”

“It’s important…” Lisze sounded dreamy, like she wasn’t really hearing or understanding a thing. “It’s really important, Ellie. You’ll be so glad you met him, I promise.”

Ellaenie went to ring the service bell, summon the guards but…but no. Too late. They couldn’t do anything, not against—

“I think your Lady-In-Waiting has done well enough, don’t you Your Grace?” The new voice that spoke was deep, urbane, calm and filled her with a terrible chill. It was quite a handsome voice, really. Soft, warm, even kindly. But all those properties that should have made it so soothing instead made Ellaenie feel like ice cubes had rattled down her back.

Saoirse!

“Oh, you do have a strong will, don’t you, your grace? That was loud. But the mind is my domain, and everyone else is just a guest. She cannot hear you.”

Ellaenie backed away from the door, calculating furiously. For all his bluster, Civorage had already revealed one major flaw in his power. As beguiling and soothing as he tried to make his voice, she didn’t feel a thing, not a flicker of positive emotion toward him. So long as he couldn’t see her, she was fine.

She gestured sharply at the curtains to close them, then put herself back to the task of figuring out how to escape from this trap.

“Besides. What do you imagine an old hag would do to stop me?” There was a heavy slamming sound, and a crunch of breaking wood: the door lock broke, and the dresser lurched an inch. Ellaenie rammed it back into place with a stab of will and held it with magic.

“You can’t keep this up for long, you know,” Civorage pointed out, in a voice that was more yawn than threat. “That big, heroic expenditure of magic last week left you quite skinny, I’m told. Quite drained, hmm? I bet you’re already feeling fatigued…”

Ellaenie wanted to challenge back that her reserves were deeper than he guessed, but…it was true. Just moving the dresser twice was already maching her body ache.

“There’s nothing to panic over, really,” Civorage continued. “To you, this has all been a sudden blitz, hmm? I imagine you can’t believe I would be so brazen. You thought we were in the opening few moves of our little game. But this night has been planned out for a while, little duchess. Your good cousin Duke Maksovar, has been a good friend of mine for months, now. I’ll admit to being irritated by your sudden departure, it seems your spy network is more competent than I’d planned for. But the riot, your public display of virtue, that feeling of a net closing around you that’s been gnawing at you? All planned.”

He chuckled, and Ellaenie heard him lean comfortably against the wall. “Maksovar’s insights were most useful. You’re far too aggressive in the early game and don’t support your attack enough. A winning strategy against an amateur, but I, your grace, am no amateur. I am a master of the mind. And while yours is certainly impressive…you don’t have what I have. Now…Open The Door.”

Ellaenie nearly obeyed. His will was a sledgehammer blow that left all the protections they’d ritually built around her mind just hours before dented and deformed, but somehow they held. She snatched her hand back just before reaching out and moving the dresser.

There was a pause. When Civorage spoke, there was a distinct quaver of irritation in his voice. “…You impress me. Truly. But there is no escape. Submit.”

Ellaenie staggered, her ears ringing. In an effort to recenter herself, she snarled out the first words she’d said to him. “Fuck you!”

“Oho! Duchess! Such unladylike language!” Civorage’s amusement was a ruse, an act. He was unused to being opposed, and it was making him angry now, she could feel it.

Well…it was a slim opening, but an opening nonetheless.

“Let’s try that again, shall we? Op—” Civorage tried. Ellaenie stuck her fingers in her ears and hummed loudly.

It worked. It was entirely ridiculous, but it worked. She couldn’t hear his command, so she couldn’t be compelled to obey it. But she was buying herself seconds now, she knew.

Saoirse!!

Nothing. And she still didn’t know what Saoirse could do, or—

Civorage finally got fed up. He was a big man, tall and well-built. When he put his shoulder into the door and barged through, he knocked the dresser over violently enough that the door was left wide for him to swagger through. His cold blue eyes were seething with…

Eyes…

Ellaenie felt a splitting headache come on as the full force of his power turned her way and started to melt her defenses like ice under a blowtorch. She retreated to the window, threw up her hands, flung everything she had into trying to push him out of her mind, but she may as well have tried to hold back an earthmote. As desperately as she tried not to, she couldn’t help but stare into his chilling blue eyes and feel herself being drawn out like a loose thread, to be unravelled and rewoven into—

A four-foot length of solid Craenen bog oak cracked sharply into the back of Civorage’s head. “Get away from ma’ Maiden, ye scunner!”

Civorage staggered and the sensation of being melted away flickered and failed to be replaced by disbelief, shock, fury and umbrage. It almost sparked off the walls, intense enough to drive Ellaenie to her knees, but Saoirse looked him right in the face and swung her walking stick again.

Civorage fended it off. Ellaenie could feel him fighting not to lose his balance; the blow to the head really had quite badly stunned him. But he was still up, still conscious, and a lot larger, younger and stronger than Saoirse.

“Hag!” he snarled.

“Beldame,” Saoirse corrected him, then raised her walking stick in front of her. The bone fetishes fastened to its top shimmered with power. “I am Thaighn Saoirse Crow-Sight o’ Crae Vhannog. No man e’er born has dominated my will, an’ ye shall’nae be the first!”

Ellaenie had struggled to her feet: the ensuing psychic battle knocked her down again as blood burst from her nose. In the doorway, a wide-eyed and anxious Lisze collapsed in a faint. Above it all, Saoirse’s voice was a shrill thunder as the fetishes on her staff blazed.

“A hex on thee! May thy victories be sullied, may worst worst foes escape your wrath, may ye ever snatch defeat frae the jaws o’ victory! Wi’ all my power, I curse ye, Nils Civorage! Doom upon all thy works!”

A wave of sheer will blasted the glass from the window frames. Above the bed, Ellaenie’s lightstone spat and blazed bright enough to clear all the palace grounds. Saoirse’s indignant fury raged through the room, and Civorage’s face became a mask of agony as the force of it pushed him a step back.

“What…is this?” he groaned.

“There are powers in this world far deeper an’ more powerful than Mind, foolish boy!”

I love ye, child. Farewell.

Ellaenie blinked. The thought had been not merely tinged, but flooded with grief, sorrow, pity, warmth…and terrible determination. Panic rose in her as she realized what Saoirse meant by it.

No—!

But it was too late. With the furious roar of a narcissist knocked down a peg, Civorage surged across the room snatching a wicked three feet of basket-hilted steel from its scabbard, and plunged it into Saoirse’s unresisting, unprotected chest.

There was a crackle like thunder, a feeling like the world slipping and breaking somehow. The blazing light of Saoirse’s fetishes flickered, faded…

She spat blood in his face.

…and died.

All Ellaenie’s hope went with her. Her tears did nothing to impede her view as she watched Civorage lay her friend and mentor’s frail, skinny corpse to the ground, tug the bloody rapier from her, and stand. Sway.

Turn.

“…Submit.” He ordered.

It was a hammer blow again, and Ellaenie’s defences were gone, her will broken. There was no fight left in her at all…

And yet, something stopped her from falling into him and becoming another slave. Something like a warm hand on her shoulder that pulled her back just before she toppled forward. Something like…

There was a beat, a rushing, soft bloom of air as from an enormous wing. She looked up, and indeed there were wings. Two of them, wider than the whole room, as white and black and iridescent as a magpie’s but mightier than any eagle’s. And between them, with tears of terrible, vengeful grief flooding her cheeks, was Rheannach.

But this was not the soft, quiet, warm Rheannach whose arms Ellaenie had slept in. This was Raksuul in her war panoply. This was her embodiment of love’s flip side, the power of a broken heart, a spurned love, a protective mother and an avenging widow.

Civorage turned to face her, his scowl at first deepening before it darkened into a wicked smile. “…Even you are lesser to my power, Herald. I wonder what I can do with you?”

Rheannach’s reply, at first, was hateful silence.

Then she gestured, a sharp swipe of her hand, and Civorage was gone in a twist of blinding power the color of rejection. The several feet of rug, floor and wall around him went too, leaving behind twisted, shattered wreckage.

She descended through the broken window and her bare feet crunched, unscathed, in the shattered glass. She knelt by Ellaenie, wrapped her in an arm and a wing.

“Damn it, Saoirse…” she whispered.

Ellaenie couldn’t even speak. She buried her face in Rheannach’s feathers and shook, too full of grief and pain and confusion to even think.

They mourned in silence for a long minute. Ellaenie kept expecting her guards to come running to the huge crash and blast and all the commotion, but none came. There was only quiet, and tears, until finally her thoughts came limping back without order or purpose.

“Is he…did you…?”

“No. I sent him away. Far away.”

“Why?”

“…There will be time to explain later, beloved.” Rheannach rose to her feet. “For now, you must leave.”

“But…Enerlend. The Dukesmoot.”

“No. He has them. We failed. The only thing he didn’t claim was you, and he cannot claim you.”

There was meaning in her words that Ellaenie could feel and read even through her fatigue and sorrow. There is more at stake through you than just Garanhir.

“But…Saoirse…”

“I know. I’ll…we’ll tend to her. I promise. But right now, you need to be somewhere else before one of his puppets comes.”

“…To your husband?”

“At first.” Rheannach looked up at a banging sound, far away in the palace, and what was unquestionably the sound of many running feet. “We—”

“I know.” Ellaenie nodded. She looked down at Saoirse, then risked a precious few seconds to lean over and kiss the old woman on her forehead.

I love you too…

And then there was no more time. She took Rheannach’s hand, there was a violent twisting of the world, and the ruined room vanished from around them to be replaced by a lake, a log cabin, and daylight.

Ellaenie hadn’t thought to be back here again, so soon. It didn't feel welcoming or wonderful this time. Even as she gathered her breath and her bearings, the feeling of loss constricted her heart again.

Saoirse…

But not just her. Lisze. And Adrey. And all the dukes, all of Garanhir…

All of the life and future she’d imagined for herself and her people.

It was too much. She turned to Rheannach as her friend, witch-mother and saviour furled her wings in and in until they were gone, opened her mouth to say…something…

…And fainted dead away.