“Long live Drakuhl!”
She could feel the answering call in her bones, thrumming with the energy of the crowd. She allowed herself a small smile as she gazed down at her people. This solidarity, this unity of voice, that was her goal. Now she just had to make that an enduring reality instead of a fleeting moment.
Her mother took her hand again and helped her descend the final steps that led from the platform-landing to the polished ballroom floor. Then, the Duchess made a small shoo-ing motion with her fingers, one that said ‘go play’. Then, she was off, striding through the crowd. Durand materialized from the background in a way no man his size should have been able to do. She caught his arm and accepted the glass of alcohol from him.
She watched her parents wander away into the crowd for a moment, before turning to face her people.
With the formality of the presentation out of the way, she should be feeling less nervous. She found that it was the exact opposite. Without the structure of the ceremony, Bette felt paralyzed and unsure. How was she supposed to venture forth into a throng of people she’d never met? They looked at her with hungry eyes, like starving beasts. She felt like a coiled, tense spring. Surrounded by people she didn’t know, she longed for a viable exit strategy. But everywhere she looked, there were more unfamiliar faces.
Windale shifted, reminding her of their presence. Tibitha slipped her arm under her princess’s and beamed down at her.
Not alone. She was not alone. She took a deep, fortifying breath, and marched into the milieu.
People approached her one after another to greet and congratulate her. Now was the time when the nobles of the North offered up their cherished young to the future ruler, jockeying for favor in the hope that their star would rise in Bette’s constellation. She could appreciate their situation— and it was nice to be introduced to possible candidates to join her cadre rather than being forced to investigate and find the willing and able— but she didn’t appreciate the amount of people vying for her attention all at once.
“Your Highness, I am of the Seward barony, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“Mm, you as well.”
“This is a marvelous ball, your Highness!” Someone else squealed. “The decoration is quite tasteful.”
“I’m glad. Please enjoy yourself.”
Although anxiety infiltrated every muscle, made her tongue slow, and her expression blank, she found that she could get away with nodding thoughtfully whenever someone spoke, or using one- or two-word replies. The Duchess Lycrarose was infamous for being unapproachable and it seemed, because she bore such a great resemblance to her mother, Bette was not expected to do much conversing. It made her wonder if this was how her mother felt all the time. Was it anxiety that made her so cold and distant? It was hard to imagine the Northern Star being afraid of people, but if it was so, Bette thought she could understand.
As the night wore on, less and less people came to greet her. Try as she might to memorize every face and title, she knew she would forget most of them by the end of the night. She focused, instead, on nobles who did not attempt to greet her. Some were just nervous: the ones who did not dare approach but instead bowed from afar. They made the sign against evil surreptitiously when they thought she wasn’t looking. Others were more malicious. Some refused to acknowledge her at all, avoiding her gaze and turning away from her.
A few clusters of nobles spoke together in low tones behind fluttering fans, casting frosty glances over the top of them in her direction. They were more worrying than the isolated nobles from far-flung holdings who feared that the raven’s shadow overhead could be a dragon. These nobles were from in and around the capital. They held some amount of power in the social scene and were not scared of subtly offending the Duchess.
They were the ones who smelled blood in the water. They saw a chance to grab for power. Lisbette’s position as the Heir Royale was very strong, but it was not unassailable.
The leaders of the four great duchies ruled as sovereign in their territory while receiving the benefits of the Empire because the Imperial family allowed it to be so. Though her mother was dead set on her daughter taking the crown, she could not force the Imperial family to consent to her coronation. If there was a sizable enough outcry from the nobles of the land, appealing for mercy, the Empress may refuse to acknowledge her as a ruler. Without Imperial consent, Drakuhl would languish as an isolated rogue state with no imports or exports until a ruler approved by the Capital was crowned.
The fact that there weren’t many people of Drakuhl bloodline to take the position from her was not a comfort. It just meant that her enemies would manipulate those close to her—and set them on a collision course that could end in tragedy if she wasn’t careful. Her mother had already denied the possibility of producing another heir. The only alternative was, well.
As if summoned by her thoughts, a flash of gold alerted her to the presence of her uncle. He wove through the crowd, flashing a winning smile at those he passed. She saw more than one person melt under its warmth. He was wearing a guardsman’s uniform—the head guard, in fact. With her coming of age, Lysander’s probation came to an end.
When he stopped in front of her, he tapped a fist to his heart, bowing his head. She bowed in turn, spreading her skirts.
“Congratulations, Betsy,” he murmured, low enough that no one else could hear. “I’m proud of you.”
“Thank you, Uncle,” she said. She found her smile warmed for the first time that night. “Thank you as well for the pendant. I’ve noticed it’s enchanted. What is it meant to do?”
He plucked a glass of wine off the tray of a passing servant and wiggled his eyebrows at her over the top of it.
“That would be giving it away! Consider this a graduation gift.”
And a final test, apparently.
“And you think you aren’t ‘very Drakuhl’,” she scoffed. “Who else but a Drakuhl would give someone a test and call it a gift?”
He laughed. It was a bright, joyous sound that drew people’s eyes. He took her hand and bowed over it, a playful light in his eyes.
“Will you do me the honor of having your first dance, my favorite niece and pupil?”
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“I’m gonna step on your toes,” she promised vengefully and allowed him to lead her to the dance floor.
Lysander had not inherited the towering stature of Drakuhl. He only stood head and shoulders above her, and she imagined she would meet or exceed him in height soon. With a hand on her side he led her through the first steps of a waltz.
She did try to follow through on her promise, but he was too quick on his feet. The music started slow but picked up the pace towards the middle. She had to work just to keep up with the melody and stay in-step. By the time the final chord played, Bette was panting with exertion.
In the lull between songs, everyone was switching partners or retreating from the floor.
Windale met her as she stepped off to the side, holding a glass of water with cubes of ice. She drank it all in one go, and then retrieved the fan from the folds of her skirt to cool her burning face.
“Well done,” a voice cut through the noise of the crowd.
She turned to find an older gentleman making his way towards her. He leaned heavily upon a cane to compensate for a limp, but even so, he was tall and imposing. The ponderous, deliberate method of walking even seemed more intimidating than a regular stride might have been.
Despite having not seen him in the flesh since before she was a toddler, she knew this man at once. Though the black was tinged in silver, his red eyes and their slit pupils left no doubts about his identity
Lisbette spread her skirts and bowed deeply.
“Grandfather,” she greeted, head firmly down. “I am honored by your presence and humbled by your praise.”
He waved her courtesies off with a lazy hand.
“Enough of that. I have not seen my granddaughter’s face since the occasion of her birth. Rise and show me how you have grown, Lisbette.”
She did as he bid her, straightening her spine and holding still for his judgement. She didn’t know very much about her grandfather— he had retreated into his retirement before she was even born— but if he was anything like her mother, she wanted to be very careful.
The former Duke, Lycaron Drakuhl was her mother’s father. Though he had passed the mantle of dukedom onto his daughter, he was still a hearty and hale old man. The limp in his step was an injury sustained on the battlefield in his youth before his own coronation. It had never stopped him from leading his army against invading monsters. It would be foolish to look at his cane or silver hair and see weakness.
He seemed to come to a conclusion, patting her shoulder. “Well done, indeed.”
She wasn’t quite sure what the conclusion he had reached was, however. Well done with… growing?
Uh, she thought. Thank you?
He turned to a woman Lisbette had not seen before, who drifted along in his shadow like a piece of flotsam caught in a tide. She was a tall, willowy woman with washed-out red-orange hair that fanned out around her face like the whiskers of some exotic fish. In the magelight of the chandeliers, it glowed. She wasn’t the pale, almost pallid, tone of the Northern nobles. Instead, she was a warm brown that suited her fiery hair nicely. She wore a gown of silver and turquoise blue with waves of sparkling fabric that evoked waterfalls or burbling streams.
This must have been his current wife and the mother of Lysander, Frieslen.
If anyone was going to have a stake in unseating Lisbette as the heir, it would be this woman.
“She looks so much like her mother,” she remarked, leaning into her husband’s shoulder, “and like you, my love.”
But somehow, Bette didn’t get the sense she was a threat at all. Lysander had never spoken poorly of her. She didn’t seem to be a social climber or have any desire for political power. She was content to host small gatherings and dote on her husband and child. Frieslen was a noble from the South—from Soud St. Tyr, if she remembered correctly. How she came to be in Drakuhl and marry the former duke, Bette wasn’t sure.
She was a mysterious person, made more so by her vague nature and disinterest in the predatory socializing most nobles participated in. While it made her a good match for the Drakuhl clan, it also made it frustratingly difficult to assess her goals.
“Lady Frieslen,” Bette greeted her, “it is an honor to finally make your acquaintance. Uncle Lysander always speaks highly of you.”
“He’s a darling, isn’t he?” She mused, tilting her head just slightly. Her warm brown eyes didn’t land anywhere for too long before taking off again, a bird hopping from perch to perch. “He’s teaching you magic?”
“Yes, Lady.”
“That’s good. That’s very good. He loves magic. It’s good to have someone to talk to about the things we love.”
Bette didn’t let her brow furrow.
“Yes,” she said. “I suppose it is.”
Frieslen smiled down at her with a knowing twinkle in her eyes before she drifted off again, this time in the direction of the buffet-style hors-d’oeuvres.
Her husband watched her fondly.
“I think you’ve got a good head on your shoulders, Lisbette,” Lycaron said.
Caught off guard, Bette blinked up at him. “Pardon?”
“I would never imply that my daughter is less-than, but the social world has never been her basket. Nor mine, if we are being frank. You, though, you strike me as someone who can use the social scene to her advantage.”
Bette felt a little ember of pride catch fire in her chest, though she was still confused at the direction he was taking.
“People will underestimate you because of who your parents are, because you are from the North and we are a people who keep to ourselves and do our work without complaint,” he told her. “Your schooling is accelerating and I realize you will soon attend the Academy. Lycrarose attended only the first level before she returned. Lysander, the second. It has been a good few centuries since the Drakuhl line has produced a Blade for the Empress.”
Bette sharpened up, finally cottoning on. Drakuhl had a good deal of power in a military sense, and it was well-positioned to weather any siege, but the ties of politics between the nation and the Empire were based only in tradition. Drakuhl had no current eyes or ears among the Empress’s retinue. They were owed favors in some ways, but the true course of the Empire was not something they influenced.
“I understand, Grandfather. I intend to represent the best of the North, not only to our own people, but to the Empire at large.”
“I believe you do,” he said, nodding sagely. “Remember that you are our future, Lisbette. And try not to confront any more monsters before you have your own blade.”
Bette felt her cheeks turn red at the reminder of her ill-conceived adventure when she was young.
“I… will try, Grandfather.”
He bid her farewell and went to join his wife, leaving her feeling a little dizzy with the weight of his words settling on her shoulders.
She had intended to complete her education at the Academy and become a Blade of the Empress, but it had not struck her yet how unusual that would be among her family. It occurred to her, now, that their future relations with Centre-Lux and the rest of the Empire may rest on how well she did at school.
As if the pressure of trying to survive a stupid romance game plot wasn’t heavy enough.
Something caught Bette’s eye. A flicker of something, like a cloud passing over the moon. The energy in the ballroom shifted slightly.
She scanned the crowd, looking for something amiss.
“What’s the matter?” Windale whispered, at her side now instead of lurking half a dozen steps behind.
It took her a moment to pinpoint the issue.
“Where’s the Duchess?” She murmured back.
Windale blinked at her, then they too looked around, searching for a tall figure with shining black hair. He pointed out her father, but he was alone, speaking with a group of older noble men. His wife was conspicuously not by his side.
“By the door,” they said.
Bette turned to look. There at the door was her mother, leaning over to listen to the words of a messenger who had slipped in with a harried looking guard. As she watched, her mother’s expression didn’t change, but something in her tightened. That cloud passing over the moon, Bette realized, was a thundercloud.
Though she showed no outward sign of it, Duchess Lycrarose was furious.
She didn’t say final goodbyes to anyone; she simply marched out of the room, dress swirling in her wake. No one seemed to see her go, but Bette felt a kind of terror grip her heart.
What could anger her mother so much that she would leave her daughter’s coming of age ceremony without making any excuses or apologies?
She glanced sideways to Windale, then flicked her eyes towards her cousin, and the beastkin gave her a small nod. Then, they made their way around the dance floor toward the door. Windale ran interference for anyone who tried to approach her. She reached Tibitha with only a bit of hassle.
“Tibby,” she got the woman’s attention. “I think I need that distraction now.”
Tibby had a puzzled look. Then, she slowly broke into a wide grin.
“I’m on it!”