Lisbette was at the bottom of a very deep and dark well. The water sloshed and churned around her, moved by some unseen force, and it was so bitter cold it made her whole self go numb. It made it hard to think. She could feel the ice creeping up her limbs, moving closer and closer to that little ball of warmth within her, hungry and eager to devour her whole.
This should have been scary, she thought, but the ice at the back of her skull made it hard to focus on the way it felt. She could hear her heartbeat thumping in her ears. Sluggish. Waning.
There was light above, and sound and motion and energy, but down in the depths there was nothing but cold, empty water. Glimpses of the world passed before her eyes, but none of it made much sense.
Lysander couldn’t be here, for one. He was back at the castle, or on horseback. And if Lysander couldn’t be here, Lycrarose definitely couldn’t. Why would she, even? Surely, a little place like Closkill did not warrant a response from the Northern Star herself. But even that curiosity was mild and muffled. It was so very far away, so what did she care about it?
This has happened before, she thought vaguely. I have died like this before.
Something about that idea unsettled her. It kindled something in her chest, and that something felt like rage and sorrow.
How many times must I die before I cease to be? I’ve been ground down so much—when will I break apart entirely?
Bette was drifting lower and lower. The water was draining, leeched away by some crack or hole. She was being hollowed out. There was no floor to hit, though, just an endless void beyond. It would tear her gossamer self to shreds if she fluttered through that aperture.
It was that thought which spurred her onward. She didn’t know why it was important, but she knew that she must not come to an end here. She had important things to do before she could rest.
She pushed against the current, fighting her way to the surface. A thick coating of ice blocked her path, and it made her so angry. What was this to block her path? It was nothing. It was nothing compared to her.
A surge of fury had her battering her useless, frozen fists against the bottom. She screamed a wordless, voiceless war cry. Heat surged through her breast and down her arms, igniting where it hit the water. Her fingers grew claws and she raked them across the ice over and over until it shattered.
Her fire surged outward.
It hungered. It devoured.
There was nothing here that was not already hers.
She may well come undone, but it wouldn’t be today.
The pain she felt upon plunging back into her body was unreal. It had a mind of its own and it fought for control of her muscles. It took effort to even open her mouth, let alone force the words to form on her useless tongue.
Thank goodness her uncle was so quick-witted.
The pain washed out her senses, dyeing the whole world in black and red. It was worse, so much worse, than the pain of death. Part of her wanted to let go and retreat into that frosty void again, to abandon the fire and misery here.
But Bette was stubborn.
She clung to it, dug herself into the pain and made a home there.
It hurts, she thought. She let that one thought overwhelm all sensation. She let it anchor her to flesh and bone.
It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts
it hurts it hurts —
“…ot even sure what she’s doing! Anything I try may negate whatever is keeping her alive…”
— it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts
it hurts it hurts —
“…flare! Where are we needed, your Grace?”
“Center! I can handle…!”
— it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts
it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts —
“…just returning’ the favor. Don’t want pity or mercy or whatever it is yer offerin’–“
“I am offering gratitude. You have done a great favor for my House. It is only expected that I…”
— it hurts it hurts ithurtsithurtshurtssomuch —
But it is only pain. It will pass.
Eventually, it did.
“Bette…?”
The sleep-muffled voice drifted into her mind, and she waited for it to drift away again.
But this time was different. It spoke again.
“Bette, are you… are you awake? Can you hear me?”
A quiet urgency filled the voice, and then there was a warm vice clamped around her fingers as though it was trying to anchor her.
It did help.
“Bette, please, don’t go back to sleep!” A sob peeked out through the desperate tone, teetering between hope and despair. “Open your eyes, Lisbette!”
Because no one told Lisbette Drakuhl what to do, her eyes remained stubbornly closed.
But she squeezed the hand gripping hers, and a joyful squeal was the background to her dreams as she faded away again. She settled comfortably, but did not sink again.
The next moment Bette was present for was one that stayed.
Her eyes fluttered open. There was a hand on her forehead, cool and kind and dry to the touch. Despite the wrinkles, it was strong and sure.
Simun gave her a gentle smile. Bette didn’t return it, but she felt something relax within her.
She turned her gaze.
Tibby was perched on a chair, gripping the headrest for dear life. She was crying, but it seemed to have past the point of sobs and devolved into only silent tears and hiccups.
A strong, broad shouldered silhouette was barely visible in the gloom. When her eyes found her, Denever bowed, fist tucked against her chest.
Across the way, in another bed, Lysander was lain up in bandages and shimmering anti-infection wards. He was quiet and still, which was not like him at all, but he smiled at her all the same.
Oh, she thought. I’m home.
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To say that Bette was in a great deal of trouble was an understatement, but she didn’t have the vocabulary to properly assess how deep in the shit she actually was. Once Bette had been woken from her comatose state, there was a flurry of activity.
It was like the world of the castle Zenith had been paused, like the city itself held its collective breath and only now could sigh in relief. The staff of the medical wing worked around the clock to ensure that she was never uncomfortable nor unsettled.
Simun spent a great deal of time by her side, tending to her mana circulation. The damage she had done to her channels was extensive. He told her outright that he didn’t know how she had survived it. However, because she was indeed still alive, he worked to bring her system back in alignment. This meant hours spent being poked and prodded.
Additionally, a second healer was summoned, someone who specialized in what Simun called “resonances.” This seemed to involve using mana-laden crystals and needles to redraw the lines of her native circuitry. The process was painful, time-consuming, and meticulous. Jallabi ti Sofur—the specialist in question—was apparently a sought-after therapist for a great many maladies that could not be cured by ordinary means.
Her presence in the North was evidence of the force of the Duchess’s desire to see her heir returned to health.
Beyond her convalescence, things were less clear.
Between fits of tears and sullen attempts to ignore her while remaining at her side, Tibby attempted to tell her what she had transpired during the weeks (weeks!!) Bette had lain dormant in the medical wing. Her cousin’s jumbled narration was left incomplete when the girl was whisked off by nurses and maids. Bette put the story together with the bits and pieces of gossip she heard from the staff as they bustled about. After a few days, she had managed a cohesive narrative:
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Lysander and a few other knights were drawn to the courtyard by the sound of her take-off. Lysander had immediately tried to call her down and even attempted to replicate her act. When he could not, he leapt on his horse and galloped after her, abandoning his supplies in an effort to travel lighter. For naught, as it seemed he had lost sight of her quickly. His fellow guards caught up to him, bearing the supplies, and more besides. Part of their cargo was Simun, Bette’s physician, who had demanded he be taken along.
(The image of Simun, the little withered old man, browbeating a young knight into carrying him with them made Bette fiercely proud.)
At some point the Duchess had been informed by a guard who had stayed behind to relay the news. As expected, she did not take it well. Her aides’ and her husband’s pleas went unheeded. Despite having recently returned from a tour of the Horizon, Lycrarose expended her mana-driven superhuman strength in order to chase down the rescue party. Then she pulled Lysander off his horse and continued running all the way to Closkill.
Whereupon she fought at least two hellhounds to a standstill, and possibly fought all of them—the maids were divided on which was the truth. Lysander was there, too. They didn’t precisely know what role he played but they were certain he looked dashing doing it.
A flare relay from the surrounding border towns drew a troop of soldiers from the Horizon, and they joined the battle under the Duchess’s command. With her at their helm and the might of a master mage, the hellhounds had been rounded up and eradicated.
Trackers followed the path the hellhounds took, erasing any sign of their passage to prevent other hounds from retracing their path.
An enormous, mana-enriched elk had been found somewhere on the way. The nurses seemed fairly certain it was this beast that had lead the hellhounds to form a hunting pack. The messenger who spotted them had caught their attention by using magic. The hellhounds predictably gave chase.
Other things were much less clear.
No one knew—or at least, no one spoke of—how the hellhounds had breached the wall.
There was also no consensus on what had happened to Bette. Her feat of flying was apparently unheard of, even in the realm of higher level study. No one who knew anything about magic seemed sure what to make of it. Some people had more fanciful ideas—some even claimed she’d grown wings like a dragon and soared through the air.
Bette scowled. That would do nothing for her reputation.
The whole episode was one failure after another on her part. What had she even accomplished, aside from putting herself in danger and consequently dragging her uncle and mother into it as well?
I’m a fool, she berated herself. But was she sorry she had tried? No. No, she wasn’t sorry to have tried, only sorry to have failed so badly. She had to re-evaluate.
Her first mistake was following her impulses without a solid plan, and a close second was not using the resources at her disposal; there was a reason she had retainers! She had to rely on them and wield their strengths effectively. She didn’t know if she could have carried someone with her, but if she could have, Lysander would have gotten to Closkill much sooner. Perhaps they could have even bolstered the walls with magic and prevented the hellhounds’ entrance.
Stupid, stupid, stupid! She had so far to go yet, to become a leader worthy of the North.
----------------------------------------
Her mother came to see her a week after she’d woken up.
Lycrarose threw open the doors to the hall and ordered everyone to leave with a single glance. The staff at once made their bows and wisely fled. Bette, who could only manage short walks to and from the toilet, watched them leave with envy. When the last had scurried away and closed the doors behind them, the hall was eerily silent.
Lycrarose stood at the foot of the bed across the way, the one Lysander had lain upon when she first woke. Her face was blank, placid. It gave nothing away. There were no clues in her body language, which was as tight and controlled as always. She was dressed in a fine outfit, gray trousers tucked into boots and a navy blouse with a ruffled collar. A cloak was thrown over her shoulders and it hung heavily on one side, nearly obscuring her arm. Not entirely, though, and Bette could see that her mother’s arm was splinted and wrapped heavily in gauze and bandages. It was done up in a sling.
Bette paled. Her mother had gotten hurt rescuing her. Her stomach squirmed guiltily.
She attempted to slide off her bed to greet her mother properly.
“Sit,” the woman barked.
Bette fell back against her pillows, feeling like a bird paralyzed before a snake.
They stared at each other for a moment. Rather, Lycrarose stared at her, and Bette stared at her boots, unable to meet her piercing red eyes.
“I went through a great deal of trouble to bring you into this world,” the Duchess said finally.
Bette flinched.
“It was a terrible experience, and I do not wish to do it again.”
Bette lowered her head.
“If you ever,” Lycrarose’s voice grew in anger. Then she stopped herself. She spoke again, quietly and intensely, “If you ever put yourself in harms’ way like that again, Lisbette Calla Typheria Drakuhl—“ Bette startled to hear her matronymnal name, the names of her paternal and maternal grandmothers— “so help me, I will have you whipped.”
Bette bit her lip against the tears that wanted to leave her eyes. She bowed her head to the bed, submitting to her mother’s judgment.
“As it is, I thought of having your legs broken so you couldn’t run off and do something so foolish again,” Lycrarose continued, “but the consequences of your own actions are serving to keep you in bed well enough.”
Lycrarose sighed heavily.
“Lisbette, look at me,” she commanded.
Bette did, hoping her red-rimmed eyes and burning cheeks were not as obvious as she feared. She deserved every word her mother said. She had no business crying as if it were an injustice.
The Duchess met her daughter’s eyes steadily.
“As a ruler and a mother, I am angry with you,” she said. “However, in those roles I must also acknowledge the seed of pride I bear. I am proud you care so deeply about your country and your people. Such affection will make you a beloved sovereign some day. But it must be tempered, my child. You must always hold your position in your mind, first and foremost. No matter the danger, or the challenge, you must not allow yourself to be swept along by emotion. You may order a general into battle or a hospital to be built but you cannot do these things yourself.”
“Perhaps it is unfair of me to criticize you for something I am guilty of myself,” Lycrarose pondered. “You are too much like me, Lisbette. But I do not want you to carry my faults forward. I want you to be better than me. You are my Heir, my only heir.”
“Do not value yourself so lightly, again.”
By the time she had finished saying her piece, Bette was well and truly weeping for the pain she’d caused. Not only Tibby and Lysander, who looked at her like wounded puppies, but her own mother. The Duchess had thrown herself into danger because Bette had done so. She had endangered her whole life and the whole of the ruling family. Lycarose, the current monarch, and Lysander, the next in line after Lisbette, had both followed her foolish path and put their lives on the line for her.
“I’m sorry,” Bette managed through her tears. “Mother, I am so sorry.”
Lycrarose let her weep for a while, waiting patiently until her tears had run dry.
“Your official punishment will be handed down at the end of this week. Prepare yourself accordingly.”
“Yes, your Grace,” Bette murmured.
Lycrarose watched her for a moment, then spun on her heel and left.
----------------------------------------
As her royal mother had said, a formal ceremony was set on the final day of the week. Though Bette was still aching and sore and had far longer to go in recovery, it could be held off no longer. A royal decree of punishment was the only way to close the episode without setting off a scandal.
The throne room was as oppressive as she remembered. It sat at the top of the main central tower. It was mostly a ceremonial meeting room, used for properly greeting visiting dignitaries or issuing proclamations. The high-backed chair made of blackened wood and soft navy upholstery was mostly for show. Lisbette had never once seen her mother sit in it. There were two other chairs, one that sat just behind the monarch’s and another off to the side. This smaller chair was Bette’s. Or rather, it traditionally belonged to the heir.
The room itself was an octagon of stone and wrought iron. The dais upon which the thrones sat was a raised platform, beyond which lay only the antechamber from which the Duchess entered. Thick black curtains hung between floor-to-ceiling windows, each at least thirty feet long and glistening with silvery thread that painted a subtle pattern upon the velvet. The windows themselves were frosted—letting in only a little diffuse light. The top of the tower was almost entirely made of steel and stained glass. It cast a gorgeous pattern of reds and blues and yellows upon the marbled floor in the vague shape of a dragon’s head.
It was impressive, and deliberately so.
Bette sat at the front of the small crowd before the dais, separated from the throne by the image of the dragon, their namesake Drakuhl. Arrayed beside and behind her were her retinue and a handful of nurses and other physicians who were on standby should the heir take a turn for the worse.
No one dared utter a single word in the thick atmosphere. It made the gathering feel more solemn and severe.
The Duchess swept into the room in full glory, clothed in gorgeous fabrics that almost seemed to mimick the shape and colors of the stained glass above them, but muted enough that her long, trailing cloak of black and navy blue did not clash. The effect was much like a painting come to life, or a human woman emerging from the image of the dragon above.
Bette’s mouth was dry.
Lycrarose ascended the steps to the platform and faced the crowd, cloak draping artfully over her shoulder and hiding perfectly the damaged arm Bette had seen before.
She wasted no time with trivialities.
“Come forth, Tibitha Camerie Carroll.”
Tibby tiptoed into the center of the room, looking very small and sad. She wore a simple, black dress trimmed in tasteful lace. Her hair, for once, was done up only in a single bun, held in place by a lily pin. She dropped to her knee and lowered her head, an act of supplication before her monarch.
“You stand charged of being remiss in your duties to your sovereign. What have you to say?”
“Th- this servant is a- a- at fault, your Majesty,” Tibby stuttered through tears.
“Very well. Your punishment shall be as follows: your position as personal maid will be hereby lessened to that of chambermaid. You will serve your Lady only during toilette in the morning and at night. Otherwise, you will be occupied in lessons regarding the proper care and protection of your charge. Is this understood?”
“Yes, I he- hear and obey, your Majesty.” Tibby bowed her head once more, then rose to her feet and shuffled back into place beside the butler and the head maid. He patted her shoulder. She gave him a tearful glance, then hung her head.
Lycrarose called out: “Lysander Drakuhl, step forward.”
Her uncle strode forward, full dress uniform of the royal guard on display. He knelt before his sister, fist tucked against his chest over his beating heart.
“You stand charged with neglecting your duty to your sovereign. What say you?”
“I am at fault, your Majesty,” he answered, head still bowed.
“For your punishment, you are hereby suspended from your duties as head of the royal guard. You will pass your duties to your second in command. Until further notice, you are to remain within the palace on standby at my leisure.”
“Yes, your Majesty, I hear and obey.”
He rose and backed away. Marjoram came silently to his side, and he passed his cape and badge to her. She bowed to him, and then to Lycrarose, and they both retreated.
Finally, it was her turn.
“Lisbette Drakuhl, first daughter of my blood and heir to my throne,” Lycrarose said, red eyes locking on Bette, “Come here.”
Feeling like a prisoner on the execution block, Bette took her position at her mother’s feet, dropping down to both knees and bowing low.
“You have forsaken your duty by placing yourself in harm’s way and thus endangering the Crown itself. How do you plead?”
“I have no excuses, your Majesty,” Bette said. “I am entirely at fault.”
“Indeed. Your punishment will be as follows: you will be confined only to your private chambers. You will meet with your tutors and take your convalescent sessions there. You will meet with appointments only in the drawing room, and only after requesting and receiving my permission no later than three days in advance. Furthermore, your schedule will be determined by me alone, and I will brook no argument. Am I understood, Daughter?”
In other words: you’re grounded. It was not a terrible punishment, especially not so when Lycrarose had threatened to have her whipped. The real punishment lay in the punishments of her retinue, her people, as a consequence of her own actions. This, too, was a lesson: the world would not separate the hasty actions of a little Princess from the actions of her servants. Everything she did reflected upon them, and every punishment doled out to her would fall upon them two-fold.
“I hear and obey, your Majesty,” Bette said, bowing so low her forehead touched the floor.
“Very well. Dismissed, all of you.”