LORD VIRIDIAN AND LADY ANVAERE, such a grand couple. They fit to each other as gloves, and there's nothing more shiny than the eternity rings on their fingers—besides their own narcissism. I've never seen a husband and wife love each other as much as they are in love with themselves. And I'm Catholic—or at least, was. The matchmaker for the House Gentle—which harmoniously is the household of Lord Viridian and his Lady—has to be Gabriel himself. Only the same messenger of good tidings that paired Mary to Joseph could have paired these two. As much as they constantly check their looks over every reflective surface every two seconds or so, they also fawn over each other. They even complete each other's sentences. Theirs is a union that can only be by the touch of an angel. In their case, an archangel.
It's either that or the only other option in sight. Incest. Because their bond is so strong. Come to think of it, they actually look a bit alike; Lord Viridian with his signature rooster top shaved at one side, and his dear wife—maybe sister too—boasting a lighter shade of strawberry tresses. They both wear cute dimples and smile the same. It would be eerie if they weren't such beautiful, engaging souls.
I mean no one can fault me for thinking they're siblings. The proof is in the pudding. And moreso, it is the Middle Ages. Incest during these times is more common than among the Greek Olympians. Just ask Wikipedia.
Lord Viridian Gentle is the one speaking now. He has been doing so for about a minute before I'd zoned out. And he holds the room's rapt attention. His wife's slender arm rests casually over his back, stroking the dip of his spine through his purple gown. Yes, the man wears a gown. Straight to his ankles, Roman style. And he actually pulls it off. They are both on their bellies as Lord Viridian narrates dramatically, facing the long sofas where I lie in between Lance and Yen.
I focus on what he's saying.
"...so of course, my fine friends, you can imagine my plight; being pulled into an unassuming brothel by not one but three disarmingly gorgeous vestals. And by the Flame, did they wear their costumes well?"
This pulls laughter from all around the room. And even I smile. Lance chuckles, also pulled into Lord Viridian's histrionics. You have to give him one; the man can tell a story. He has that crowd pull common only among stage performers and stand-up comedians. An ability to become intimate with listeners through eloquence. He tells a personal account of being seduced into a brothel by roleplaying whores, but makes a joke of it, making it the more appealing.
Now I get why he's so famous among the Nobles.
Couple his princely looks, his I'm-crazy-rich swag, keen ability to hold a conversation while drawing attention at the same time, and the knockout of a wife beside him, and you have one hell of a candidate for Congressman.
In this world though, Lord Viridian has to settle for Nobleman.
As he continues his tale, I find out most of the other Lords in this private banquet are more focused on the quiet pink-haired Lady beside him on the sofa. Intrigued, I listen in—making a mental note to enquire of my trusty Lady-in-waiting just what kind of relationship the House Gentle couple share.
"This was in my youthful years, before I met Anvaere." Lord Viridian looks to his wife beside him, making the features on both redheads all the more similar. "With her now though, I dare not wander into any whorehouse, roleplay or not." He touches his forehead to hers and they rub noses.
Ugh! I squirm on my sofa.
Am I the only one feeling something not quite right between those two?
I turn a glance to my right, to Lance. He is staring fixedly at them, his mouth a thin line of lush pink. His blue eyes are distant. And it's like at the moment he wishes he were Lord Viridian. Not staring at Lady Anvaere per se, but perhaps, to look with such love and warmth and devotion into someone's eyes, and see it reciprocated. I want to be that someone.
"—except I'm with him of course!" Lady Anvaere finishes with her own jibe, earning a fresh bout of laughter from everyone present.
I turn back to the couple. So if she's with him in the brothel it's a different story. Got it. I turn to pass a studious eye over the other Lords and Ladies gathered. We all number fifteen Nobles in total. All of us with royal blood flowing in our veins. Some in drops. Some in floods. It's then I notice the shady glints in some of the Ladies' gazes as they stare at Lord Viridian from the comfort of their own banquettes...and I wonder, just how many here in this room have those two slept with?
Lord Viridian is smart. I can tell. And it's how I know that his joke is not just a joke. It's an offer, an offer to any interested ear. I've seen the look he gives me, when his wife isn't watching and sometimes when she is. They must have an open relationship or something. Because the way the other Ladies are staring...there are some unholy trinities going on here.
Another topic of girl gossip for my fair Lady-in-waiting.
Lord Viridian's subtle offer has left the banquet hall in some state. Silence pervades the room. I can actually hear the wind swishing through the curtains. The rich wine is just beginning to do its work, dulling the senses and opening the mind to certain suggestions.
I quickly clear my throat. The last thing I need is for Lord Viridian to start an orgy. If I'm thinking it, he surely is.
"What's new from the shorelines?" I expertly rephrase my question earlier, careful to stress on the last part—so some redheaded promiscuous Lord doesn't get the wrong idea to go turn a lovely wine tasting soiree into a clip from THE ARISTOCRATS.
I don't even know why that raunchy film spilled into my head. I haven't even finished it yet. I suppose now I'll never get the chance to.
It's Lance who replies my question...several moments later—and because everyone else is too foggy minded to do so.
"The initial Commandants have been displaced like you ordered, Your Majesty." Lance shifts up to a sitting position on the sofa, facing the circle of Nobles with clear eyes. The man can hold his liquor it seems. I've no idea why but it makes me proud. He continues, "Those who'd commandeered the Third and Fifth regiments will be arriving early tomorrow. Leaders of other regiments would follow swiftly. I have assigned a trusted troop to personally escort their caravan to the gates of the Capital. That way there would be no outside interference, mystical or otherwise."
That's pretty good. I give Lance the golden buzzer in my head. He'd followed my orders to a T. And then some. I like knowing I have a dependable Warlord. Someone the hosts of Mythronos can take orders from if I'm otherwise occupied. Because something tells me I'll need a solid right-hand in the near future if we're ever to give Crave a run for his money. Sir Lancelot Grimm is a solid everything.
I shake away the new path of my thoughts. "And the new Commandants?"
"Installed from your very own Queensguard," Lance replies swiftly. "The men cleave unto you like flesh to the bone. Crave would have better luck turning Hellhounds to his cause."
"Good." I nod to Lance, trying to feign indifference at his proximity.
We are together...on a bed. Granted, it's not nearly as large for what I have in mind, and there are people about, but who gives a shit.
"I suppose everything is in order then—" I start to say when the thunder of boots hitting the stone floors dulls out my words.
Lance is on his feet in a blur, brandishing a deadly steel length at the intruders. His sword appears out of nowhere. He has on no defensive armor but he still places himself in front of me. Chivalry should be the man's middle name.
The sound of running feet halt abruptly. "Your Majesty!" A hard male voice booms in respect.
I have to actually look out from behind Lance's back because his tall self covers my view. "Uh, Lance?" I whisper into the rise of his hard masculinity.
He immediately moves to the side, catching my drift and sensing no immediate threat. I blush slightly as he sheaths his sword with fluid ease. But all pink fades from my cheeks—along with every other color from my face—when I hear the announcement of the burly officer who stands saluting by the billowing curtains over at the entrance to the banquet hall.
"My Queen," he begins, not bothering with introduction as his words escape his lips like dry leaves tossed in a whirlwind. "A Witch of the Court has been found dead by the rocks below the Bell Tower at the cliff's edge overlooking the sea. We need you, Light of Mythronos."
I freeze on the crimson banquette.
A dead Witch? Fallen from a cliff?
It screams murder.
In the background, I hear Lance usher out the slightly drunk and confused Nobles into the waiting arms of their stewards to be hopefully taken home to sleep out the wine and the rest of the night. I however am stuck in a haze, all liqueurs and humor forgotten. Lance sees my plight and takes the reins; ordering out the new sentry of guards to fetch the nearest Witches they can find and giving sealed written orders to double the garrison of patrols surrounding the Castle. Everything happens quickly. Everyone is a blur. One minute we're laughing to Lord Viridian's anecdote, the next, Yennara is hurrying out at Lance's behest to fetch me a cup of honey.
And I'm still sitting at the edge of the sofa in the banquet hall when Lester and Miss Chandle arrive.
The two of them are the closet, not-dead Witches.
Like a sprite winding in the song of the wind, I let my feet carry me into an unsure stance as Lester and Miss Chandle link hands with me in the center. Lance moves closer. Yennara stands afar off. And Lester begins mumbling. He's saying words but I can't hear. His chants are soon thunder in my bones, drowning me in only the sound of his voice. He is Casting...
A surge of power ripples through the banquet hall. The wind picks up and the lilac veils are torn right off their stations. A flood of white swamps us and just before we vanish, I see Yennara blow me a kiss. We don't even last a second in the dazzling white before I plummet back into reality. The first thing I feel is hard stone digging into the fine soles of my regal flat shoes.
A rock.
We are standing on a rock.
I look up then, hundreds of feet up and see a high rise of bold steep mountain. On the crest of it, leaning as if to fall down below at any moment now is the Bell Tower. This far down beneath it, I can't see the great silver arch or Blackstone spires of it. It hits me then. We are under the cliff's edge. Several stories under infact. Right where that guard said the Witch died. That means we just covered about ten miles of legwork in a flash.
We'd just teleported.
Lester?
A rolling wave of nausea hits me instantaneously, crumbling my legs and cramping me up in the ferocity of five times period pains.
Fuuccckkkk!
No one tells you teleportation cramps hit this hard.
I bite hard on my lower lip, shaking from the searing light that blinds my vision. The pain nearly tears me asunder, and the urge to vomit isn't helping. My eyes are closed and I think I'm warbling on my feet, about to fall into the cold, frothing waves licking up at my shoe soles. But then a sure hand steadies me. I smell the brine of the sea. The caky scents of wet rock and forming stalactites. But I also smell him...my rock. Bold. Steadfast. Always present.
I open my eyes and sure enough, Lance's frigid blue stares down at me, comfortingly deeper than the rage of the sea beyond.
Lester, Lance, Miss Chandle and I all stand on a small gray piece of rock hundreds of feet below the Bell Tower. I peer out at the grim waters of the sea and spot a small boat being paddled across to a larger ship in the distance. The men paddling are donned in red and gold. Guards. And there's a wrapped thing between them, swaddled in white strips. It's more red than white though, stained in furious crimson.
A body.
The body.
"What was his name?" I whisper into the slapping sound of crashing waves.
"Oro," Lester replies from a foot away, his face grim and even paler than usual. "Oro Smallbone. He was the last surviving Witch of the previous Celestine Court."
My fingers form fists at my side. The Court during my parents' reign?
That meant this Witch knew something the new Court didn't. And it's no coincidence his body was found broken below a cliff about a thousand feet high.
Dear God! This Lord Crave is starting to get on my nerves. This is obviously his handiwork. First, he gets in my head and tries to strangle me. Now, he's drowning witches.
I stare out at the small headland rocks scattered about the one where we all stand. And I see the stain of dried blood, the crimson hues the splashes of the sea can't wash away. The blood of the dead man being drawn up the waiting ship in the distance.
I see the blood of Oro, bright as wet paint on a new house.