Cross Purposes

by Concolor44

. . .

. . .

. . .

Author's Note:

I have plenty of reasons – but no excuse – for taking so long to complete this chapter and get it posted. Life has been difficult, and the less said about it, the better. But I think I'm back in the groove, so to speak, and ought to be able to update every couple of weeks (for a while, at least). Here's hoping.

Chapter Twenty: Intrigue and Uncertainty

. . .

. . .

. . .

Duchy of Weselton – Wednesday 27 April 1842, late morning

A tiny blue bird fluttered up and down, maintaining its position against a brisk wind. Enough space separated it from the harbor below that any sailor who happened to look in its direction wouldn't see it anyway, but it kept the sun at its back nonetheless.

Elsa rested against Carlos as they lounged on their bed.

[[ I count eighteen warships with lots of busy sailors on them. ]]

[[ Huh … well, we knew they were going to gear up sometime soon. ]]

[[ Still doesn't make me happy. ]]

[[ Can you get close enough to hear what any of them might be saying? ]]

[[ The last time I tried that, someone took a shot at me. ]]

[[ Are there any seagulls there? ]]

[[ Um … yes. A couple of flocks, it looks like, and a few flying around solo. ]]

[[ Just make your bird look like a seagull, then. They shouldn't pay it much attention. ]]

Elsa paused, yawned, and gave herself a mental slap. [[ Ugh. Sorry. Should have thought of that. I think my lack of sleep is catching me up. Hold on. ]]

The tiny blue bird quickly split into two. It had enough altitude that it and its twin were able to regain flight well before hitting the ocean.

[[ Okay, now! Let's see … ]]

In a very few seconds, both birds had grown significantly, and changed their shapes and markings to match the local gulls.

[[ Perfect. ]]

[[ Now see if you can figure out which one is the flagship. ]]

[[ Oh, I'm pretty sure of that. There's one that's a little bigger, and a whole lot gaudier, than the rest. The Duke's Admiral will be on that one, I'm quite certain. ]]

The pair of gulls flew lazily down and perched on the huge ship's figurehead.

[[ This thing's even bigger up close. It's got to be … oh, at least a hundred and ten guns. ]]

[[ What a monster. I'll bet building it set him back a pretty penny. ]]Carlos chuckled. [[ Be a shame if something happened to it. ]]

[[ Hush. I'm trying to listen. ]]

But despite the proximity she was able to gain, Elsa didn't manage to pick up any truly useful information. After an hour and a half, she gave it up as a bad job. [[ Maybe they conduct all their sensitive business in the Duke's office. ]]

[[ We will have to investigate a way to get a spy into his office. ]]

[[ Maybe tonight? Less chance of being seen in the dark. ]]

[[ Works for me. Anything going on elsewhere? ]]

[[ Let me look. ]]

~flicker~

Below her, the village of Råndsto nestled up against a sheltered cove. It was a common stopover point for local shipping traffic. A few villagers were working on a large net in the town center.

~flicker~

A guarded pass in Fenrir's Teeth showed a pair of soldiers at the picket.

~flicker~

The border road to Seljord had light traffic. Everything seemed in order.

~flicker~

That went on for another half hour, with no hint of anything invasion-related going on. Elsa pulled herself back into the here-and-now and looked up at her husband from her vantage point on his lap. Then she snuggled in and bunched up some of his shirt in her fist. "I know how the saying goes about heavy crowns and the heads under them, but I have to tell you: this being a target all the time is getting old."

He laid a kiss on her forehead. "You've already started Arendelle on the road to self-governance. Once that's accomplished, you can toss the crown and we can go somewhere far away and stay blissfully anonymous."

"Heh. Yeah. They'll be sorry when they don't have a Snow Queen to kick around anymore." She pushed his shirt open somewhat and kissed his chest. "All I have to do is live long enough to see it done, and make sure no other force overruns us before that happens." A few more kisses made their way up his throat.

"Madam … are you thinking what I think you're thinking?"

"I'm thinking you have too many clothes on."

"I'm thinking you're right."

. . .

. . .

. . .

Ekørdstør, central Arendelle – 8:35pm

Lena gave Ole a nudge with her elbow. He raised an eyebrow at her, then followed her gaze toward the door of the tiny tavern, where stood a solid, swarthy man wearing a light blue jacket with a red stripe along the bottom. They stared. He spotted them. Held their gaze for two seconds. Then he moved to a chair in the corner by the fire.

The couple took a few minutes to finish their drinks, then strolled outside. Half a minute later, the dark man followed them out, and spotted them wandering onto one of the trails leading out of town to the east. Three hundred paces later, they were in the forest and out of sight of anyone else.

At a bend in the trail where it followed the curve of the mountain, the couple waited. The new-comer didn't waste words. "Do you have a plan to get her alone?" he asked in heavily-accented Norwegian.

"We do."

"What do you need?"

Ole grunted, "To get it ready? Half a dozen strong backs and a week. Maybe ten days."

"Material?"

"We have it already. It's just a matter of getting it set up."

"We will need to examine it first."

Lena nodded. "Of course." She held up a cautioning finger. "But we have to attend that ceremony before we start anything else."

"Ceremony? You're going to let her infect you with her dark magic? Is that wise?"

"It's unavoidable."

"You know there are those who are likening her 'Lens' to the Number of the Beast."

"And once she is dead, so her power will fade, and her evil come to an end." The blonde gave her head a shake. "As close as we will be to Arendelle City when we spring our trap, she would be suspicious if she showed up and we hadn't been 'protected'. Besides that, she'll have her monsters roaming around as soon as the ceremony is over, and I'd rather not meet one without her talisman."

Giving a shudder, Ole added, "I'd rather not meet one, period."

"As you say. But what will happen to you when we take her magic?"

"I don't know." Lena glanced at her husband and shrugged. "Most likely it will all vanish. That's what I'm expecting."

"Eh. Your plan, your risk." He rubbed his hands together, briefly showing teeth. "Where will we be setting up?"

. . .

. . .

. . .

Arendelle, Castle Courtyard – 29 April 1842, 9:45pm

"Elsa, c'mon, you gotta stop already!"

The Queen eyed her sister, scrubbed trembling hands against scratchy eyes, and nodded. "I know. I will. There are only a few more …"

"No! You're wiped out. It took you three tries to get that last Lens created. I'll tell whoever's left that you'll pick it back up in the morning. Right now, Sis, you are going to bed."

"It took … three tries …" Elsa gasped, as a wave of dizziness hit her, "because he didn't trust me. I could tell … he was fighting the magic … right up until the Lens appeared." She swayed and collapsed into a chair. "Dear Lord, I'm exhausted."

Carlos walked up at that point, noticed Elsa's ragged appearance, and scowled. "Dear Heart. You told me you'd stop when you got tired. That would seem to be some time ago."

Anna nodded vigorously. "Right! Listen to him, El, he's making sense."

Her voice small, Elsa answered, "Okay."

Scooping up his wife, Carlos headed into the castle, tossing back, "I'll take care of her, since she seems unable to do that for herself."

"Great!" Anna went back through the main gates and surveyed the torch-lit gathering. Truly, there were maybe only a score left. She cleared her throat and raised her voice. "I'm sorry, folks, but Elsa's all in. We'll see to it that she gets a good night's rest, and she'll be back in the morning to finish up." That brought some muttering and furrowed brows. Lifting her hand, she added, "Anybody here need a place to spend the night?"

Most of them answered in the affirmative.

"Okay, cool, we'll put you up on the royal dime. There are plenty of rooms in the hostels." Motioning to one of the nearby Guards, she instructed, "Go get some chits from Jørgen."

A few minutes later, the Guard returned with a handful of small, stiff papers. Anna looked through them and nodded. "Okay, people, take these. Each one is good for a room, supper, and breakfast at either of the new hostels. Again, I'm sorry for the delay. Couldn't be helped."

The stragglers were glad enough of the royal chits, and thanked Anna loudly.

"Hey, it's no problem. You guys wouldn't be stuck here if not for the proclamation."

One of the men spoke up. "What yeh say is true, Princess, but the proclamation wouldn'a been necessary if that sorry Duke wa'n't tryin' to invade, now would it?"

She nodded again. "Got it in one, sir." Taking in the rest of them, she said, "It's late, and you probably all want your beds, so we'll see you in the morning, okay?"

They cheered her again, then hustled off to the promised rooms.

. . .

Royal Suite, 10:20pm

"I'm not going to fuss at you … although it's no more than you deserve." Carlos kept his voice low so as not to aggravate Elsa's headache.

"Thank you."

Gently easing his wife down onto their bed, Carlos quietly chided, "I told you that you needed to have something to eat! Elsa, you didn't even take a break to use the ley line!"

She mumbled, "Sorry. But the ceremony was a success. You have to admit that."

"Fifteen hours. You were at it for fifteen hours, non-stop."

"They kept showing up. What was I supposed to do? I told them to come, and they came. I couldn't very well abandon them."

"Sweetheart, you can't help anyone if you're too exhausted to stay awake."

She drew a long breath. Let it out slowly. "I know." She turned onto her side, closed her eyes, and vanished her ice dress.

Carlos blinked at her, a grin growing. "Elsa, I know you don't have the energy for-"

"No, I'm too exhausted for that."

"… Well …"

"Snuggle with me. It helps me sleep."

He was shortly spooned up behind her. Not many minutes passed before they were dancing in each other's dreams.

. . .

. . .

. . .

Sweden – Monday 02 May 1842, noon

The upcoming invasion of Arendelle was a closely-guarded state secret. So naturally every officer knew about it. Most of the rank-and-file troops knew about it. Hell, the cook knew about it. That being said, few of them were in favor of it, having heard all the stories about Elsa's ice monsters. Colonel Aronsson was one of the exceptions, and gleefully (if silently) congratulated himself on his situation as he strode purposefully to the main briefing room where the Staff were to have lunch.

This was going to be perfect. Perfect! He'd been willing to bide his time while waiting for the best opportunity to put into action his strategy for advancing his career, but then it dropped right into his lap. He'd spent the last couple of days ingratiating himself with Marshall Bladberg, the King's pick to lead the invasion of Arendelle. (Of course he had no idea what had led the King to order an attack on an ally state, but it fit so well with his plan, he couldn't really bring himself to care.) Only this morning had Bladberg hinted that Aronsson might be named second-in-command for the expedition. Now the Colonel would do all in his power to make sure it happened exactly so.

Thinking again of the tiny vial of poison buried deep among his personal effects, he had to fight to keep the grin off his face. Once he was in command of the operation, he would prove to the King why he should be the next Marshall. Dismissing the tales of Queen Elsa's ice golems, he assured himself any such obstacle could be overcome with proper planning. He would hand Arendelle to Sweden on a silver platter.

Arriving at the door to the salon, he straightened his uniform and put a carefully controlled, utterly neutral expression on his face, took a fortifying breath, and pushed it open.

. . .

. . .

. . .

Mikael's Office in the Castle – Wednesday 04 May 1842, 9:35pm

Elsa stopped in front of the dark, heavy door, glancing furtively left and right before pushing it open. The note her Admiral had slipped her at supper had been highly cryptic, and left her both curious and frustrated. 'Come alone'? He knew she was never exactly 'alone' anymore. And what could be so sensitive that Anna couldn't know about it?

Mikael was sitting at his desk, and rose when Elsa entered. "Thank you for joining me, Your Majesty."

She sighed and rolled her eyes. "No one to impress here, Mikael."

"Heh. Sorry, Elsa."

"So, what is this terribly important news?"

He came around and held her chair for her while she took her seat, then went to stand beside his desk at parade rest. "As you know, I have a rather extensive spy network."

"Yes. And you manage it well enough that I don't feel inclined to get involved. What of it?"

"You may also know that I recruited Nicolai Petrov as one of my agents."

"True. He didn't fit in with the Guard. They either resented him or didn't trust him. Or both. I take it your news has to do with Petrov?"

"About five weeks ago I gave him a mission. He reported back to me this afternoon. I felt you would need to learn the facts as soon as practical."

Elsa quirked a slim brow. "Well? Don't leave me in suspense."

"Cardinal Papella is dead."

She blinked and sat a little straighter. [[ Dear? Did you hear that? ]]

[[ I'm on my way. ]]

"Mikael, Carlos will be joining us shortly."

"I suspected he might."

"Then why did you want me to come alone?"

"I wanted to give you the news personally, and allow you to do with it as you wished. You, Elsa, are my Monarch, and as much as I like Carlos, and as much respect as I have for him, he is not you, and does not command my loyalty as you do."

"Why, Mikael. I'm touched."

"And I'm gratified."

The door opened at that point, admitting Carlos. He closed it quietly, then said, "So that rancid old sinner finally died. Saved me the trouble."

"You're welcome."

Two pairs of eyes blinked at the Admiral. Elsa asked, "What does that mean?"

"The mission I gave Nicolai made use of his primary skill set."

Carlos had to grin at that. "An interesting choice of words. May I assume the true manner of Papella's death is not generally known?"

"He died of old age, as far as anyone else knows."

"Capital."

"However, before shuffling off this mortal coil, he imparted some information you will need. It seems the Cardinal hired that Assassins' Guild to find an item for him to use against Elsa."

The royal couple leaned forward. Carlos asked, "Item? What item?"

"He called it 'the Hand'. He said it had the ability to nullify Elsa's powers."

"How?"

"He didn't know. He either didn't concern himself with – or didn't have the capacity to understand – the way the thing works."

"What does it look like? Is it an actual hand? A figurine?"

"We have no way of knowing … yet. I have my men scouring the cumulative legends of Europa for clues about it. If such knowledge exists, we'll find it."

"But," said Carlos darkly, "will we find it in time? How is it used? Is it a ranged weapon? Does it have to touch her? Who has it, if Papella didn't?"

"He had given it to his agents. That's all we know."

Elsa drew a quick breath. "The ships."

Mikael nodded. "That was my first thought."

Frowning deeply, Carlos asked, "You think it will be aboard one of the ships in the invading fleet? If so, it must be a ranged weapon." Looking at his wife, he said, "We'll just have to keep you away from them."

"But … but if I can't … no! I won't leave Arendelle defenseless!"

"Calm, Dear. They don't know about me. If they do come into Arendelle's waters, I will personally go relieve them of all their sails. If that doesn't deter them, I'll sink their damn navy!"

"And what if it affects you, too? What if you fall into the ocean and drown? What if-"

"Elsa!" He put his hands on her shoulders. "Sweetheart, listen. This thing, whatever it is, was targeted specifically at you. Something that damps or combats ice magic isn't going to touch fire. It might even make me stronger."

"You don't know that!"

"No, I don't. We still need a great deal of information. But now we have some clues, and can take measures for defense that don't need to involve you directly."

"Like what?"

"I'm thinking a phalanx of coastal ice cannon. You can set some up around the entrance to the fjord. If they decide to be stubborn, your Marines can fire ice ballista bolts at them."

That gave her to pause, and she thought it over for a minute. "Very well. Let's say I can do that – and I'm not sure I could get it done in time – what's to say this Hand won't keep them from working?"

"Sweetheart … we have to strike a balance between being prepared and borrowing trouble. There's an old military saying to the effect that no plans made in advance of a battle survive contact with the enemy. I can testify to that from personal experience in a double-dozen skirmishes. We will have to play things by ear at some point. But now that we know about this Hand, we can make contingencies." He used a thumb to clear the shimmer from her lower lids. "We'll make it out of this. I can't promise 'unscathed', but we'll make it."

Drawing several long breaths, she clasped his hands in hers and whispered, "I'm holding you to that."

Carlos turned to Mikael. "So. Where do we start?"

. . .

. . .

. . .

The Vatican, Rome – Thursday 05 May 1842, 10:05am

A worn leather bag made a dull thunk on the desk's dark wood. "Lorenzo."

The man on the chair behind the desk turned rheumy eyes upward. "Giuseppe."

"Got a few for Papella."

That pulled a sigh from the seated man. "Again?"

"You know word gets around slow. Ain't that many outside of Rome what knows he croaked, and a damn sight fewer that give a crap."

The first sigh was joined by an echo. "Fine. I'll take care of it."

"Like you took care of the last batch?"

"… Meaning what?"

"Meaning Father Torrolli chewed me a new one for not deliverin' his parish report, when I know good and well I gave it to you."

Eyes narrowing, Lorenzo tried to think of an excuse. His brain wasn't cooperating.

Giuseppe laid a scrap of parchment on the desk. "Got a list of ever' message in that bag. This is my copy. Sign it."

Grumbling darkly, Lorenzo did as he was told.

"And here's yours." Giuseppe gave the man another list, and a brief, sardonic salute. "See you next week."

"Humph." He watched with poorly masked disgust as the delivery man slipped out the door. "Bastard."

Despite his family connections, Lorenzo Rossini was not bright. Nor ambitious. Nor particularly energetic. Thus, his satisfaction with his job, at least until quite recently. Coincidentally, these were also the qualifications that Cardinal Papella had prized, since the man's complete lack of curiosity made him the perfect one to handle the old sinner's correspondence. Lorenzo received the missives and passed them on, took Papella's answers and sent them out, and spent most of his time napping at his desk. (You know: a typical government job.) He didn't know what was in the letters, and truly did not care.

The late Cardinal's untimely death ("untimely" only in his mind, as the remainder of the people he'd worked with felt nothing but relief) had turned his placid existence on its ear. Now, he had been told, he would be expected to go through the letters and reports (BORRRRRING!) and decide who needed to know about them. The College had appointed Cardinal Berigno to step in as the Pope's temporary Secretary until everyone could decide on a replacement. Gregory hadn't given said position much thought yet.

With a muffled curse, Lorenzo upended the satchel, spilling several envelopes and packets on the smooth wood. He shuffled through them, briefly looking in vain to see if any were addressed to someone other than his late employer. Leaning his elbows on the desk, he rubbed at his scratchy eyes with the heels of both hands, took a few long breaths, and pulled a nearly-empty bottle of brandy out of the lower right drawer. Considering how much difficulty he had with reading, this would likely take all afternoon.

. . .

5:20pm

The longer Cardinal Berigno delved into the affairs of his late predecessor, the more disquiet he felt about it.

Papella had one room dedicated to the Pope's business. It was a paragon of order and efficiency, and the new proprietor was delighted to take it over. But it was only one room of the eight he'd occupied, and the story in the rest of them was decidedly different … almost as if Papella hadn't wanted anyone to find out what he was doing. Now, after Berigno'd had a few days to sift through it, he was certain Papella had been involved in some kind of espionage. At a minimum.

It was in this frame of mind that he absently said, "Come," when someone knocked on his door.

Lorenzo pushed the door open slowly and shuffled across to the Cardinal's desk, standing silently until Berigno looked up. "Ah. Rossini." He glanced at the large packet in Lorenzo's hands. "Is that correspondence for Papella?"

Giving a sullen nod, Lorenzo handed it over, executed a minimal bow, and slumped out.

Berigno gave a quiet groan. I'm going to have to do something about that man. How Papella ever put up with him … He let that thought taper off and considered the circumstances for close to a minute, frowning grimly. Perhaps there was method to that decision as well? Shaking his head, he opened the packet and began reading.

. . .

. . .

. . .

Ulm, German Confederation – Friday 06 May 1842, noon

From the road, this humble tavern wouldn't entice anyone of good sense to turn in for a drink. 'Disreputable' hardly covered it. A third of the roof was moldy thatch, the rest rotten shakes. There had been a porch at some point in the past, but now two simple planks propped against the threshold were all that led into the building from the mud outside. Of the four windows facing the road, two were boarded up and one broken. The last was barely clean enough to pass light, much less see through. The only thing positive about its appearance was the sign over the door, a relatively newly-painted board proclaiming it "The Turk's Head".

Inside, the front room's cramped space held two scarred tables and five three-legged stools. The fireplace wouldn't draw, so the room pressed a perpetual damp chill into anyone unlucky (or unwise) enough to patronize the bar. That bar served one kind of beer. It was sour and flat.

None of this was by accident.

Two years before, an anonymous buyer had purchased the abandoned tavern (paid in gold, no questions asked) and spent a few weeks "renovating" it. They did employ a bar-tender, since they had to keep up appearances, but he rarely had anything to do. It was all a front for the real business of the location, that taking place in the back, behind solid, heavily-locked, even-more-heavily-guarded doors.

A rotten woodpile at the rear of the hovel masked a secret entrance, and it was behind that portal that most of the important issues got handled. Case in point …

The man at the small desk, one Hans Brahms, had a formidable appearance, tall and broad, bald and scarred, with gray eyes that missed little, under beetling brows of the same shade. He glanced up when he heard a key turn the lock on the narrow door opposite. He laid a hand on the pistol on the bench beside him.

The man who entered looked enough like the other that they could pass for brothers. They were, however, totally unrelated. Hans Kemperner wasn't even from Austria, instead calling eastern France home.

Of their gang of a dozen, four had the given name of 'Hans'. The others (and, eventually, the ones with that name) took to calling them B-Hans, K-Hans, F-Hans, and M-Hans.

B-Hans relaxed and studied K-Hans, giving him a quick up-and-down. "You look undamaged."

K-Hans snorted. "You were worried? How cute."

"About you? Please." He stood and gathered papers into a small pile. "And the witch? What was her name? Strange … something?"

"Lestrange."

"Right. Lucretia. That was one weird bitch."

"Yeah, loony."

"So, dead?"

"Dead," K-Hans answered with a nod. "Finally."

"Good."

"They're a lot harder to kill than we'd been led to believe."

"Didn't have to burn her at the stake, did you?"

"Funny man. We thought getting that stick away from her was the hard part."

"No?"

"Had to lop her head off. The poison didn't work, and stabbing her just made her mad."

"Damn."

"Yeah. She was a piece of work."

"No matter. With her dead, the last one that could rat us out is gone."

K-Hans scanned the pile of papers. "From the higher-ups?"

"Yeah."

"When are we moving the Princess again?"

"Tomorrow night."

"Good. She's been here nearly a week. Starting to make me itch, it is."

"Got that right."

"Hey, is there any of that schnapps left?"

B-Hans nodded toward a cabinet. "Help yourself."

. . .

Across the road, the land sloped up, forming a set of short, steep hills, most of them thickly wooded. Concealed in among the trees, pressed up to the gnarled bole of an old oak, stood a man in a long, gray-green coat. He held a powerful telescope, with which he scanned the thin scrub beyond the tavern. His informant assured him that if he was patient enough, he would discover what he wanted to know at this tumbledown shack.

Patience, he had in plenty, and it had served him well many times. What he lacked was the luxury of enough time to exercise it. Settling down, well out of sight, he considered his options, liking none of them. Once he accomplished his objective, he would need time to travel to their safe-house, write out a message, and send the pigeon. His Master would need to have the information by the final week of the month, and that left him with a narrow margin, indeed.

Hunkering down into a hollow between the twisted roots of the ancient tree, he found a comfortable position and resumed his surveillance.

. . .

. . .

. . .

Monday 09 May 1842, 7:30am

The Pope, in keeping with his history as a Benedictine monk, kept excruciatingly regular hours, and Berigno knew them well. He was waiting when the leader of the Roman Church finished his breakfast and strode out of the dining hall.

Considering he had seen the passage of over seven and a half decades, Pope Gregory XVI enjoyed robust heath. No cane or walking stick for him; he had walked everywhere he went practically his whole life, and held a dim view of those who couldn't keep up. Giving a slight nod to his new Secretary, he continued on his way, knowing the Cardinal would fall into step at his side. "Must be something important on your mind, Alberto."

"Indeed, Your Holiness. But what I would like to discuss should wait until we are in more secure quarters."

That brought a quirk to the Pope's brow. They were silent until arriving at the Apostolic Palace, and Gregory's apartments. The old man took a seat and gave Berigno an expectant look.

The Cardinal clasped his hands behind his back and cleared his throat. "Holiness, how well did you know Cardinal Papella?"

"That's an interesting question, Alberto. Why do you ask? Have you found something … unusual in his rooms?"

"Yes. To be blunt, he was carrying on a number of quasi-military operations against foreign powers."

"… Would you care to explain that?"

"I will, of course, but first I have another question."

"Go on."

"Are you aware of the tales circulating around Europa concerning Queen Elsa of Arendelle?"

"I have heard some, though many of them contradict each other. Supposedly she has some sort of control over the weather. The nature and origin of this ability is suspect."

"Yes. I have confirmed to my satisfaction that she does, indeed, have that power. She can apparently create ice."

"Create ice?"

"Yes. From nothing."

"Sorcery? We will have to do something about that."

"Possibly not sorcery. My sources all agree that she was born with the ability."

That scotched the Pope. "Surely she is not wielding Holy Power! Norway is Protestant! She's not of the Faith!" He frowned. "And what does this have to do with Papella?"

"Papella had a huge vendetta against Queen Elsa. From what I've managed to piece together so far, he hired a mercenary band – more probably pirates – to attack Arendelle and depose her. When that failed, he contracted with an assassins' guild to capture her and bring her to Rome."

"Surely you jest. Abduct a reigning monarch? Such an act would precipitate wars all over the continent. Papella may have held ill feelings, but he wasn't stupid."

"No, that he certainly wasn't. But he did seem to have a blind spot where this Queen is concerned. In any case, to the best of my ability to determine, his agents are still after her."

"What, you mean now?"

"Yes, Holiness. I have no fewer than three progress reports outlining their recent actions." He paused. Drew a breath. "One of his, ah, thrusts … one of the things he did to provoke an attack on Arendelle … um …"

"Spit it out, man."

"He, ah, hired a team that, um … kidnapped Princess Eugénie of Sweden."

"… . . . … . . . … What?"

"Yes. On the twenty-third of last month. At this time, they are hiding in the German Federation. They will only return her unharmed if King Charles invades Arendelle."

"Are you …" Gregory leaned forward, hands flat on his desk. "Are you telling me one of my Cardinals incited war with Sweden? Is that what I'm hearing?"

"Sweden, yes. And Arendelle, which may or may not be the larger threat."

Gregory thought furiously for a minute. "Who else knows of this?"

"I can't say. In Rome, probably no one. I don't know if King Charles knows who is responsible for the kidnapping, and even less whether Queen Elsa knows anything of the imminent attacks. I can tell you that Papella's agents are thus far unaware of his passing."

"Well and good. Alberto, call a council. We must make plans, and do so quickly."

. . .

. . .

. . .

End Note:

Hopefully this was long enough to make up for my lengthy absence.

Elsa and Carlos (and Mikael) are falling into the trap of making assumptions on incomplete data. Since they had been chewing on the notion that an attack from Weselton must mean he had some way around her magic, that led naturally to the idea that the Hand would be on one of the ships. This oversight will have consequences.

Pope Gregory may be a stodgy conservative whose goal is having the Church dominating all of Europa ... but he's not slow, and he can recognize a lightning bolt when it's aimed at his head. The Papal States are in no shape to wage a war with Sweden, and he knows it. Thus his panic.

Happy Reading! All comments welcome!

Con