Day LXXI

Agnès stood dutifully by the door as Her Royal Highness slumped against the table in her guest quarters here at the Académie. The latter massaged her temples, taking in the steam from her early morning tea sitting under her nose.

"Tell me I didn't cause a scandal last night," she groaned.

"No, Madame Royale. You behaved yourself rather well," the musketeer captain assured her.

Henrietta raised her head and leveled her with a pointed stare. "Don't lie to me."

Chevalier De Milan shrugged, leaning against the wall with her arms folded. It was the truth; Her Royal Highness was the most behaved compared to the antics of the nobility she had seen in her life (and she had seen much in her two decades of existence). "I'm not going to. I told you. You did nothing wrong."

"I've known you long enough to see that you're being too kind. I mean, look at those bags under your eyes. I know I've put you through so much trouble." The Princess tapped the table. "Come on, say it. What did I do?"

Agnès stared back for a long while. There was a lot that had happened in the late hours the previous night. How much of it she was willing to disclose... Well, she could summarize everything. That way, she was not lying and technically was not hiding anything from her. Besides, it was only the two of them here in the room with the rest of the halls empty (save for a few of her subordinates lingering about) and the annex of the guest quarters locked down by the rest of the royal retinue. And it was early in the morning when half the student body were asleep and the other half packing up to leave for home. That was atop the long-standing protective enchantments that covered the walls, further augmented last week by Director Osmond in preparation for Henrietta's visit.

Ultimately, the musketeer captain shrugged and bluntly relayed how her liege nearly made a fool of herself in front of a group of students, including Mademoiselle Louise De La Vallière and her familiar Monsieur Leon De Tartarie and (she inwardly shuddered) Duchess Karin De La Vallière.

The Princess dropped her head into her hands. "Merde. J'ai fait chier la duchesse."

That was a crude way of saying it. "I wouldn't put it that way. You managed to hold your own and Madame la Duchesse De La Vallière departed in good spirits."

"'In good spirits?'"

"She did not...seem unhappy when she withdrew. That and you were starting to stagger a bit when you forced Monsieur De Tartarie to get you another bottle." Honestly, she understood why they provided spirits given the festiveness of the Bal Du Frigg but why the strong ones? A lot of the students here did not look like they could hold their liquor!

"Putain. It's just getting worse and worse..."

"From there, we stepped in to 'encourage' you to retire early."

Her liege sighed. "Oh Brimir merci! Please tell me I was not much trouble afterward."

Chevalier De Milan grimaced a little. "... You managed to sneak away another bottle."

Groan. "And I drank it, oui?"

She nodded. "After that, you began regaling us with your latest dream...about the Wastela—erm—Tartary...and how you helped Sixième cut down a herd of golden bulls through the use of repeating muskets and heavy flintlocks loaded with cannon shot."

"Is that really what I said?"

"I paraphrased."

"Right. Um, what else did I do?"

Dear Founder, reporting something like this was a getting little uncomfortable. Agnès, her cheeks getting a little warm, had to mentally strain her vocabulary for the right words to say. "Afterwards, you...began taking off your clothes...in the middle of the hall...in front of us. We had to, ah, restrain you and, uh, direct you with haste back here to your quarters. As our prerogative, of course."

Henrietta sagged. "I...apologize for that. You were...you were simply doing your duty."

"It is nothing, Madame Royale. Really, it isn't." This was part of their job, after all.

"Is that all? Please tell me that that was all."

Chevalier De Milan breathed deep to silence her consternation. "On the way here, you...ah...slipped free of our grasp and...unfortunately left some of your garments in our hands...which rendered you, um..."

"What? Say it. What is it? What did I do then?"

Despite her rigorous discipline and self-control, she fidgeted and glanced away. "... You slapped me on my breast and yelled, 'tag, you are thine'... Then you ran down the corridor...partially clothed...laughing and, ah, 'colorfully' cajoling us to chase after you and say 'tag, thou art it.'"

The Princess planted her head on the table to muffle the loud groan that followed. "Extend my deepest apologies to the others."

"They are very understanding of your, ah, circumstance, Madame Royale. Truly, there was no ill will borne from this."

"And that was the end of it. That has to be the end of it."

Unfortunately, no. The child's game that they inevitably had to play led to a chase around the school grounds (and chance encounters with staff and some mildly intoxicated students who were sternly ordered to forget what they had witnessed). One of the staff, the head chef Marteau, even complained to them about someone raiding their wine and liquor stocks and causing a whole mess of it. A good thing he blamed 'rowdy students.' The missing bottles, however, ended up...somewhere...

Agnès settled for paraphrasing again. "We kept up with you and retrieved you...in the scullery...trying to make wine out of water."

Henrietta's face twisted into horror, then confusion, then anger, then curiosity. It took her a while to gather her words. "... How...how exactly was I trying to make wine out of water?"

"You were drawing water from a pail into an empty glass bottle with your wand and chanting, 'moon-shine, moon-shine, come forth and be mine.'"

"And...did I actually make moon-shine?"

Agnès blinked. What the hell was moon-shine? "No, you did not."

"Oh." The disappointment was palpable.

"We convinced you to stop and come with us," the musketeer captain continued.

Though, she left out the part where they told the Princess that 'moon-shine' was a water spirit that lived in a pond somewhere in the nearby forest and that disturbing it would render unto her a curse that would forbade her from drinking any more liquor. Or something like that. It was all horse dung but it worked and Her Royal Highness was so horrified that she begged the non-existent water spirit to forgive her for trying to drink it.

"You were cooperative from then on and we escorted you back here where you finally retired for the night." That last bit was troublesome as well but nothing that Chevalier De Milan felt she needed to tell her liege.

Henrietta grasped her cup and, instead of sipping it, took a big gulp. With a grimace and a shake of her head, she asked, "Is the carriage ready? I think I should go. I've embarrassed myself enough here."

Oh, right. The carriage. Yeah. About that. "I believe you scheduled a meeting with Directeur Osmond this morning? He was not present to receive you yesterday and wishes to personally engage with you."

"Yes, yes! I didn't see him at all yesterday. You're right. I should meet with him." The Princess laughed weakly. "There is a lot that we should discuss. Though, I doubt he was ignorant of...last night's mess. Yes, I will go have a talk with him later. At what time?"

"Within a few hours."

Henrietta nodded. "Good. Merci, Agnès. You may...you may leave now."

"I will be nearby should you have need of me," bade Chevalier De Milan. She stepped out into the corridor where she was greeted by the other musketeers. As soon as the door closed, she sent one of them up to the Director's office to inform him that the Princess was coming up to personally discuss some matters of importance with him.

Hopefully, that would buy time until the horses recovered and would be in proper condition to travel. They could have punished the stablehands who were supposed to be managing the stables but Agnès decided on leniency; she could hardly blame them. After all, these commoners could not really turn down an offer of several bottles of spirits from a royal and ordered to share the boon with the horses. At least they had gotten so drunk that they barely remembered any more details.

"Ma'ame Capitaine," whispered a mousy-haired musketeer, Elaine. "If I may, is this going to be a common occurrence?"

Chevalier De Milan sighed. "Pray that it wouldn't be. Goodness knows, Her Royal Highness was not supposed to be like this."

"I blame Monsieur De Hainault," quipped Jeannette, her lieutenant.

The rest of the retinue hummed in agreement. And Agnès could not really argue with them on that.

"Spare clothes?"

"Already packed along with toiletries and other essentials."

"Spending money?"

"Reserved enough for that. No frivolities."

"Secret weapons?"

"No, we don't—excuse me?"

Leon looked up from their equipment list as Chef Marteau helped the coach drivers load their accumulated luggage onto the pair of carriages chartered by the Count De Hainault. The stablehands were busy with the royal entourage—something involving missing drinks and stubborn horses—so the party had to pack up outside the Académie walls with the rest of the other students. At least it was much less constricting out here.

"Louise, did you make room for extra gear?"

Louise furrowed her brow. "Extra...? You're a walking armory, for Brimir's sake!"

He shrugged, the satchels containing all his assortment of concealed weaponry and all other inane baubles juggling around his hip. "True. But I got to limit myself to around seven stone. Legroom, y'know?"

"You packed all of your bollock knives?"

He nodded, tapping the hilt of his main sword sheathed against his hip. "Uh-huh. Don't worry, I had the crossbows and the bolts moved inside, right above the seat cushions for easy access in case we get jumped on the roads."

There was a thump in one of the two carriages followed by Guiche moaning in pain and Verðandi whimpering loudly for its master. Montmorency stuck her head out and, after bleating that it was already cramped inside with their own respective familiars taking up room, demanded why there were weapons stacked above the seat cushions because a crossbow that was hooked to the ceiling had come loose and fell directly onto her fiancé's head.

The pink-haired mage turned to her familiar. "Why don't you just give Tabitha your excess equipment? Sylphid can carry a great load with her wing now fully recovered."

"I was going to but Tabitha had already packed her stuff. There's no room."

"There's no room? Are you serious?" Louise angled her head so she could see the other side of the carriages where Tabitha was reading a book atop Sylphid. A single suitcase, smaller than even Louise's, was tightly saddled behind the Gallian. "Wha...? There's obviously more room!"

As if hearing her, Tabitha shook her head. "No room."

Louise was about to argue before Kirche showed up, practically skipping out the gantry, with Flame in tow. An attendant trailed after her, carrying her two leather-bound and steel-rimmed cases of her luggage which Tabitha levitated over to the space behind her own travel pack.

"So which one am I going to be riding in?" the Germanian asked.

Without looking up from his list, Leon pointed to the fore carriage. "In there with us. Let's see... Bare essentials covered..."

The pink-haired mage whipped her head towards him then to the redhead who giggled excitably while her fire salamander waddled into the vacant coach. Normally, Louise would have refused to share a ride with Kirche. Then again, why would she be so averse? It was not like she would make the trip unbearable. Besides, she was not flirting with Leon as much as she used to and the barbs she would throw her way were not as insulting or infuriating as before.

"You might want to check the interior," Louise told the Germanian. "Leon may have stacked some more of his junk in the corners or something."

"Is that so?" she replied, sizing the young nobleman up. "He looks like he's traveling light."

"Don't be deceived. He...likes to, ah, pack reserves. Just in case, he says."

"I suppose that makes sense. This seems like a long trip and we might be spending our entire vacation in a town that does not have the much of any of the usual amenities."

"We're going to be digging around for treasure."

Kirche smugly poked her finger on Louise's nose, vexing her. "That doesn't mean we won't run into any resistance. We are, after all, uncovering a secret that a whole town strove to keep buried for decades. You may never know what lengths they would pursue to keep it a secret."

The pink-haired mage huffed and folded her arms. "Let's just hope the royal seal will be more than enough to convince those commoners."

The redhead hummed. "I would not always rely on that."

"It's the royal seal. It's the symbol of Crown authority. Absolute. You would have to be suicidal to try to go against it."

Kirche shook her head. "Louise, liebling, I would not underestimate the determination of the plebes if I were you. Especially if they are protecting something they consider near sacred."

Louise bit her lip to keep her from harking on about the redhead's cultural barbarianism with regards to the people of her homeland. Surely, the invocation of Crown authority would force any resistance to stand down. Then again, the plebes have demonstrated time and time again their tenacity and willingness to face noble wrath (and risk near total annihilation) over something that may seem petty to an aristocrat like her.

"... Don't...don't be so negative about that," she hissed. "We will have Siesta accompanying us. Her word should carry enough weight that we hopefully would not have to use the royal seal."

"Again. Not always the case."

"You know what? Just get in." With that, the smaller girl began pushing her bigger companion into the fore carriage.

"I spy with my little eye...something blue!"

"The sky," Louise droned.

"Sylphid," Leon chirped.

Kirche snickered and pointed out the window of their carriage. "Wrong. It's the tulips over there."

The pink-haired mage squinted her eyes. "... How can you see them all the way from here?"

"You tend to develop a sharp eye for certain things," the Germanian sallied with a not-so-subtle wink to the landless nobleman seated across from her.

He chuckled, looking back out the window as Sylphid flew overhead. "Yeah, a lot of eye-catchers out here."

Louise frowned. "My turn. I spy with my little eye...um...a dolphin-shaped cloud."

The other two stared at her. Even Flame, curled up next to Kirche with its lit tail hanging out the other window, tilted its head at her.

"Louise, you're not supposed to say exactly what you're looking at," Leon said.

She folded her arms. "This game is dumb."

"Nah, you're just not good at it."

And thus, their fifth round of banter commenced with Kirche taking the opportunity to poke at the nature of the pink-haired mage's relationship with her familiar. It was quite vexing but not entirely unwelcome. Then Leon mentioned how her temperament reminded him of the time he was nearly banished from a fortified canton...by a foul-mouthed, temperamental child.

Kirche coughed. "Wie bitte?"

Louise raised her brow. "Oh... You mean I sound that rude boy from that underground settlement—what was it's name again?"

"Little Lamplight."

"Yes. I remember now. What an interesting comparison you've made of me. I am not vulgar, by the way."

"Unless provoked."

The Germanian glanced between them, her mouth hanging open. "Am I missing something here?"

The pink-haired girl waved her off. "Just another tale from his homeland. One of the more bearable ones, at least."

"Really." The redhead leaned close. "Do tell."

Louise looked to her familiar and shrugged. "Go on. Tell her."

He scratched the back of his head. "Alright. So yeah... I nearly got kicked out of an underground commune full of kids by...a kid...with a rifle. And he actually knew how to use it."

Kirche raised her brow. "You were threatened and nearly banished by a child? What about the adults?"

"Ah, they, ah...either died or were kicked out."

The mirth left her face and she was stared back in shocked curiosity. "Oh. They either perished or were exiled?"

"Pretty much. I mean, I remember...the rule was if you turned sixteen...or eighteen? Either way, you reach a certain age, you either get kicked out or you bite the bullet. Pretty nasty which way you go about it."

The Germanian blinked several times. "How could they thrive then? Who grows the crops? Do they even have crops? What about trade? What happens if there's a plague?"

Leon shrugged. "Hey, those kids made it work. One of them even tried to sell me actual, working weapons. They even got a pretty nifty system of government."

"What, like proclaim yourself king and everyone obeys you?"

"Ah...something like that kinda happened, I was told. You see, when I showed up, the kid with the rifle was the one in charge. He was thirteen and he was the mayor."

"Because he was armed."

"Not only that but because he was actually the only one capable of protecting the settlement. I'm serious. He's a good shot. Not to mention they were literally between a rock and a hard place. Go any deeper into the caves and you'll run into...some really nasty things. Go outside and...well...it's much worse."

Kirche tilted her head, incredulous much to Louise's amusement. "Can the boy lead though?"

"Oh yeah. Most of the other kids respected his authority. Of course, there was an opposition but...ah...they were a minority."

The redhead narrowed her eyes at him. "You didn't...kill any children. Did you?"

"Fuck, no!" Leon proceeded to lecture her on his convictions and the rationale behind his decision to help and protect Little Lamplight at all costs.

Louise had heard it all before and even shuddered a bit at the images from her more macabre dreams. She shook her head and returned to gazing at miles of the Tristainian countryside. They were still a good distance away from their first destination and that meant long boring hours in a carriage. Then she was dragged into a ridiculous exchange between her familiar and Kirche over the mysteries of his Pip-Boy. Though she had to admit that the two of them badgering him over it made the tedious trip to Mons a bit livelier.

Mons was a beautiful town with marvelous architecture, exquisite goods, and sumptuous food. It all paled in comparison to Tristainia but Siesta regarded the provincial capital of Hainault to be one of the finest urban locales she had ever visited. And she rarely was able to visit such places outside of her work.

"Your food is getting cold," echoed Chevalier Michel Ney.

The maid snapped out of her daze and hurried to finish her meal—an expensive dish paid for by her escort seated across from her. His plate was littered with scraps and bones while his tankard was nearly empty. From his build, it looked like he could have eaten more but he mostly kept his attention to the rest of the patrons here at the largest inn in Mons, situated at the town square.

"Assuming your companions did not dally, they should be here before I would have to leave," the commandant said, exchanging nods with some men drinking in a corner.

Siesta hoped they did. Ney was a busy man, almost as busy as Head Butler Berthier or the count himself. Hence, they could not linger any further than the late afternoon at best. If that were to happen, she would be left to her lonesome here in Mons while her escort rode off to...wherever he was needed. Judging by how most of the people here were looking to him more than they were to her, it was evident he was a common face in a majority of the province's affairs.

Her knapsack nearly slipped off her lap and she snatched it back up. In it was her purse which held a substantially large amount of money. A fraction came from her savings with the rest being the allowance given by Count De Hainault to help her in their mission. So far, she had yet to spend a single coin.

Ney must have traced where her hand had gone and repeated the instructions relayed to her by the count the previous evening. "Remember, ma'amselle, you are on a limited budget. You are allowed to ask for more but only when there is sufficient reason for additional expenses..."

Yes, yes, that was all clear and understood. Siesta could not blame him though for constantly reminding her of that. As a commoner, she was a vulnerable target for anyone and everyone. And she was carrying a lot of money, having been entrusted with much confidence by the provincial governor (though virtually no one else outside of the manor knew that).

"... Am I clear?"

"Oui, monsieur."

"Good. Bear with me. I feel the need to ensure you are efficient. You're not a soldier but it sometimes is hard to do away with certain habits." Ney waved to one of the barmaids for a refill. "You spend most of your day with troops lacking in proper discipline and, well, you tend to forget that you're with ordinary people in an ordinary town..."

Siesta nodded silently. The commandant had already established that facet of himself early on—a military man through and through. Then she learned about his past: the famed 'Red Paladin', the 'Bravest of the Brave' who fought back the Germanians and their allies in that bloody war that almost spelled the undoing of Tristain. There were many heroes that were born from that conflict and she had no idea she had been talking freely to one for over a week now.

Minutes later, and after another round from the bar, Ney leaned across the table and asked, "How is your family, by the way?"

The maid straightened in surprise. That was unexpected of him. "From my last correspondence, they were doing well for themselves."

"Not scraping to get by?"

Close enough. "They are living off of meager wages. There is not much wealth in Talbes itself outside of the...usual trades."

He nodded. "I suppose so. What about your, ah, parents? How is their health?"

Siesta was hesitant to answer that one. She had only ever opened up about this to the other servants back at the Académie, to Leon, a little bit to Mademoiselle Louise, and recently to Count De Hainault. But Chevalier Ney? She barely knew him outside of their daily routines. "... They are in good health, much more in good spirits. Thank you for asking, monsieur."

He nodded again. "Your siblings?"

She really did not want to answer despite the kindness she was receiving so far. "... I have seven. Three brothers and four sisters. I am the oldest."

He smiled briefly. "And the most capable hence you working so far from home."

Out of necessity. "There were better opportunities elsewhere...so I took the opportunity while it was still there."

"Don't hold yourself so modestly, ma'amselle. You are a sublime servant. It is no wonder you were accepted at the Académie. Such earnest diligence is often found lacking in many others and given the school's standards, you have done well to earn your place there. Exceptionally well now that you are with us."

Siesta beamed at the praise. "Thank you, monsieur. I strive to do my best."

He downed his tankard. "For your family or for yourself?"

"For my family, of course."

"And nothing for yourself?" Ney raised his brow. "Surely, you have at least some desires of your own apart from the needs of those whom you care for."

The maid bit her lip. This was getting a little uncomfortable but she could not really back out of this conversation so abruptly. "... I do have wants of my own but...they are irrelevant at this time."

"Irrelevance does not often hinder personal ambition." The commandant once again framed his attention to the rest of the inn, laughing quietly to himself. "I had ambitions of my own when I was a child. To be a hero of great renown. I imagined myself riding on horseback, leading the charge, delivering the pivotal strike that would turn the tide of battle. I dreamt fantasies of being rewarded for my valor with knighthood, land, money, fame...infamy..."

"But you are!" Siesta held her tongue and was glad no one else had heard her raise her voice. "You are, monsieur. You are Le Rouge Palaisin, les Brave des Braves. You are a living hero who helped save Tristain in its darkest times."

"So the stories go." The proud smile on his face began to falter. "I am a 'hero,' yes. But it was not of my own strength. I became who I was because of other, greater heroes. Leaders and mentors, brothers and sisters in arms... I wonder what they would think of me now if they knew what I have been doing since then."

Some of the other patrons got up to leave and on the way out, they passed brief nods to the commandant.

"People know me for my contributions to the battlefield," he continued. "Even today, regardless of my service to Monsieur De Hainault...despite all that I have done...the things that I still do that may damn me...I am still celebrated as a hero."

"Are you not...happy with that?"

The next laugh sounded pained. "... I am happy. Happy as can be..."

Siesta held her tongue as he dipped his head to stare at his empty tankard. He then shook his head, hardened his mien, and resumed his vigilance. She was about to ask more about him when the doors to the inn opened and a gaggle of young mages strolled in with the oldest among them hefting satchels and pouches on his person alongside a sword sheathed by his hip.

Ney waved them over and their reunion was boisterous with Mademoiselle Zerbst ordering a round of drinks much to the protestations of the other students. An hour later, before Siesta boarded the rear carriage, she walked up to the commandant and gave him her thanks, wishing him a safe trip and good health.

He patted her on the shoulder then asked, "You did not bring anything else with you other than your belongings and your coin?"

"No. This is all I have with me."

"And Monsieur De Hainault provided you with nothing more."

"Non."

Ney studied her, looking her up and down. He shook his head and turned away, muttering to himself. A while later, he unclasped the straps to the dagger he carried beside his sword-wand and handed it to her, sheath and all.

"Take it," he ordered. "You're going to need it, I'm sure."

Siesta hesitated. "Monsieur, I...I don't know how to fight!"

"I know Monsieur Walker has an assortment of weapons on his person and even more packed in the coaches but I want you to have this for yourself. It is for your personal protection when you find yourself in the most unfavorable of circumstances. Lend it to no one; this for you and you alone to use."

"Monsieur Commandant, I cannot—"

He shoved it into her hands and folded her fingers over it. "This now belongs to you. It has served me well and I believe it will to you."

The maid stepped away, holding tightly onto the dagger with an ornate hilt sheathed into a lacquered scabbard and wrapped in the leather straps meant to hold it to her waist or her thigh. It was not the first time she had held onto a blade. This was no farmyard tool, however. This had been used to draw blood and the feeling of it pressed to her chest made her feel a little afraid.

"Go now," the Red Paladin said.

"I...this..." Siesta sighed. "Merci beaucoup, monsieur."

He smiled very briefly at her. "You are a good woman, ma'amselle. Je vous souhaite bonne chance."

She stepped back as he saddled on his horse and galloped off. She remained rooted to where she stood, watching him ride away, until was called back to the carriages where she asked Leon to help her fit the dagger around her waist which annoyed Mademoiselle Louise. All the while Mademoiselle Zerbst asked the maid if she had a more personal relationship with the commandant. Siesta firmly denied any such notion.

Henrietta felt her heart stop.

There he was. The man in her dreams. The tall, dark-skinned herald with the twisted hairs and the golden eagled-staff who would sometimes morph out of the darkness, sometimes rising from the sand or emerging out of those red clouds, sometimes walking out of the umbra of Sixième's shadow to echo cryptic messages. Now he stood there before her in golden tasseled Papal robes—vestal sashes and all—with neatly-braided, obsidian locks hung down to his shoulders with his hand around the shaft of that magnificent staff.

"Bonjour, Madame Royale," greeted the man whose true name evaded her. "I am Julio Chesare, Cardinal of Romalia and Supreme Legate to His Holiness Aegis the Thirty-Second. I come with the Inquisition."

It took her quite a moment to find her voice. "... Welcome to Tristain, Monsieur le Cardinal Chesare. Please accept my apologies for arriving rather late. I was not made aware of your visit."

The legate chuckled. "That is of no consequence. The sun may be retiring but our business here has yet to properly begin."

The Princess smiled along while Cardinal Mazarin handled the rest of the pleasantries. She walked alongside them, chancing glances at Agnès to her right and the Queen to her left. They all gathered at the congregational hall where the rest of the inquisitors had been waiting, some of whom were standing guard around a large, golden-rimmed, steel chest. When the doors clicked shut and they had seated themselves around the long table, Henrietta knew her own inquisition had begun.

"Madame Royale," Legate Chesare echoed, his baritone carrying an evocative charm, "we have come here to investigate widespread reports regarding the nature of your conduct as regent and the conduct of your subordinates as servants of the Crown and enforcers of the law in recent months. Of particular interest is the appointment of a new royal messenger who allegedly has been largely instrumental in bringing about drastic changes throughout this kingdom. From there, we have been inundated with a deluge of hearsay and questionable accounts regarding his behavior and manner of conduct that has been widely claimed to go against the laws of the Church..."

Henrietta breathed deep as the litany of accusations continued. She held her composure while chancing glances at the others in the hall. The rest of the inquisitors were largely stoic and unmoved. Agnès, however, was showing hints of disdain that mixed with her stern facade. Her mother and the cardinal remained nonchalant and the Princess wished she had their mastery in false faces given how she was struggling to appear unmoved.

"...and that is the preamble of our investigation," the legate concluded.

Henrietta turned to her mother who only nodded.

"Monsieur Chesare, I believe you will find many of those accusations baseless," the Queen said. "While we have sponsored the efforts of our royal messenger in fulfilling his duties, we were not aware that he would pursue such hasty methods to the achieve the goal of rectifying the many issues plaguing our aristocracy here. Alas, by the time we were able to ascertain the nature of his work, it was too late to effect any changes to his methodology."

"Madame la Reine, are you saying that you cannot command your servants to behave?" Legate Chesare gestured at the Princess and the cardinal. "Surely, the Crown's authority holds strongly here unlike in Gallia or Germania."

Henrietta almost shrunk as her mother continued to argue Tristain's case against the Inquisition. All this was her fault, after all. She had summoned a man who had no qualms of breaking the social order to achieve his aims. She had brought forth a monster willing to cross boundaries for the sake of his objectives. However, a small voice argued, his objectives were noble and he was not acting only for his own interests but in the overall interests of the Crown. His deeds were questionable at the very least and abhorrent at best yet the end result benefited the kingdom and led to greater stability and more centralized control over Tristain's subjects.

At least, that was where the argument went when Cardinal Mazarin voiced his say in the matter.

So far, the Princess had been spared the inquiry and she remained seated, watching the back-and-forth and the wondering how she could resolve this without implicating her in anymore potential scandals. A part of her wished that this day be over—that this whole Inquisition would be over—so she could get back to drinking and planning on how to run a knife through the belly of Reconquista.

The legate's voice boomed across the table. "Madame Royale, may I ask you to explain how you executed the Invocation Familière Sanctifée?"

This was it. This was the moment that could either vindicate her or lead to her ruin. With a deep breath, she answered, "Monsieur Chesare, I executed the Invocation strictly in accordance with how it was meant to be done. I recited the incantation verbatim to the written record and followed every rule including the exact form of the runes and the specificity of the reagents involved."

The legate motioned for her to continue.

Henrietta mentally apologized to Director Osmond and Professor Colbert. "The Invocation was overseen by Professeur Jean-Baptiste Colbert with the complete endorsement of Directeur Antoine-Laurent Osmond. The director was not present at the time, however, as he was attending to his duties at the Académie Royale Tristain Des Arcanes. Should I to evaluate on my case, I see no difference to how I executed the ritual compared to the students at the Académie."

Legate Chesare fell quiet, studying her, scrutinizing her. He stared deep into her soul while his large, bulging arms rested firmly on the varnish, his calloused fingers intertwined.

"Is there anything more you would like to ask, monsieur?"

"No, Madame Royale. Thank you for your answer." He turned to his colleagues and exchanged nods. "We shall end our inquiries here today. However, before we adjourn, allow me to reveal to you the artifact that we have brought with us."

The inquisitors then levitated the chest to the edge of the legate's seat and undid the four heavy locks. Henrietta did not have to stand in her seat or edge close to see what was inside. When the lid was pulled back, the legate dipped his arms in and withdrew a long black metal box polished to a shine. Another inquisitor stepped forward to magically unseal the pair of locks holding it shut. Legate Chesare placed the box onto the table and opened it to reveal...

...a longsword sheathed in an obsidian-colored, gold-lined scabbard and wrapped in a dark velvet blanket. The hilt was marred with age, bearing chips and scrapes, with the grip covered in tarnish and a crack running through the pommel which was comprised largely of a deep blue gemstone.

All in all, it was an old weapon that was not too dissimilar to any aged sword owned by a noble. Albeit, if Henrietta could discern, it had the appearance more of an antique from a distant time with the simplicity of its design hinting that it was probably forged in the days of the ancient Romalian Empire that once encompassed all of Halkeginia including the entirety of Albion, most of Germania, and nearly all of the Holy Lands up to the Rub' Al Khali. In fact, when the legate raised it, the Princess recognized the inscription on the scabbard: old Mitlan, the language of ancient Romalia.

"A blade forged during the era of Brimir himself, a sword blessed with the ability to consume magic and undo any spell known to man, elf, or beast. Behold, Deufelevorum."

Legate Chesare drew the sword, spread the velvet over the table, and rested the blade atop its sheath on the blanket. The balls of mage-light hovering over the sconces on the walls and the light from the chandeliers reflected against the near-flawless steel, showing very little in the way of damage despite the battles it had seen and subsequent centuries that it lay entombed in the Papal vaults. The Princess could gawk at how beautiful it looked...

"You could have done without the introduction," echoed an ethereally raspy voice.

The royals flinched back in their seats while Agnès shuffled forward with her fingers bracing the grips of her flintlocks. In contrast, the inquisitors remained entirely unmoved with Legate Chesare holding up his hand.

"At ease, everyone," he insisted.

Strange noises followed, as though someone was stretching and pulling on their arms and legs, before the voice rasped again. "Ten thousand years will give you such a crick in the hilt, let me tell you."

"You haven't been gone that long," the legate replied a little mirthfully.

"Monsieur Chesare, who are you speaking to?" asked Cardinal Mazarin.

"Don't you have eyes, old man?" the voice snarled. "I'm right here!"

The Tristainians all turned to the sword on the table.

"Is...is the sword actually...speaking?" Henrietta mouthed.

The sword, for lack of a mouth, grunted back from its...hilt. Or pommel. Or somewhere along the handle. "Oh, right. I'm a rarity. Surprise, girl! Yes, I can speak. What, am I the only one left? How long have I been asleep? A thousand years? Two? I could barely remember."

"About a few hundred years," quipped Legate Chesare.

"H-how," the Queen stammered, "how is this...possible?"

"What? Never seen my kind before? Have they gone extinct? Melted down? Left in someone's gut? Tossed into the sea? Buried with some pagan warlord?" The weapons' voice seemed to get hoarser by the sentence. Or maybe that was how magical swords from a bygone era spoke—as though they had been smoking Director Osmond's pipe five times a day for fifty years.

"This...is something entirely new, I admit," Mazarin intoned.

The sword sighed. Or made a noise that sounded like a sigh. "... It's been a long time then. As you have heard from my handler, I am Deufelevorum. But since ancient Mitlan has fallen out of style, or simplified into pidgin Mitlan that you churchmen so love to use in your rituals, you can just call me Derflinger. Much easier on your tongues, I suppose."

"Ancient Mitlan?" the cardinal remarked, furrowing his brows until his eyes widened. "Truly, you were forged during the age of the Romalian Empire?"

"What, don't I look it?"

"You have the distinct form of an ancient Romalian sword," the Princess quipped. "With all due respect, ah, great Derflinger."

The sword barked out a laugh. "She calls me 'great' Derflinger! Oh, I haven't had that kind of reverence since I was last sealed away. About time someone showed some proper respect."

Henrietta almost scratched the back of her head. "Well, you were made at a time when a mighty empire ruled all of Halkeginia and the Holy Lands. Compared to today, that period in time is seen as the golden age of humanity."

"It's been that long, huh? Last I was up and swinging, Romalia was in more of the dark ages with entire provinces breaking off and forming their own kingdoms. I guess time did its magic and rewrote the history books, eh?"

"Pardon me, Deufelevorum," the Queen interposed.

"Just Derflinger, please. I can tell you're having a hard time saying my Mitlan name."

"Yes, of course. Derflinger. May I ask how old you are?"

The sword was quiet for a moment. Then its mutterings were heard; it was literally counting the years in rapid form. At the end, it grunted in frustration. "... Woman, I don't know. My memories are hazy. You know, sentient weapons like myself are not really blessed with good reminiscence. I've probably forgotten far more than I could even recall. Like the last time I was taken out of that damn box and used as an actual weapon. Since then, I was rolled out every now and then for people to stare at but recently, I've had the chance to actually have a chat with the mortals looking after me. Catch up a bit on current events. Then forget most of them."

"The true age of Deufelevorum is estimated to be between three to six thousand years," rejoined Legate Chesare. "I know it is a wide gap. We simply lack the records or the means to accurately piece together the precise details."

"That is...a lot of untold history packed into a single sword," Henrietta mused, her eyes trailing back to the sword, the sheen still radiating off its polished edges. "Wait, does that mean you predate ancient Romalia?"

"More or less. Mind you, girl, this was not my original form. Though, if I recall correctly—and I could be wrong—I had mantled the gladius of one of the first ever Romalian legionaries to march out into the world and conquer it."

The Princess tilted her head. "How does that makes sense?"

The blade chuckled. "I'm more spirit than sword. When the steel breaks or shatters or is completely destroyed, I simply mantle another weapon."

"You're a spirit?" she choked. "That...that explains much, I suppose. You inhabit inanimate things then."

"What? Do I look like an overpowered lamp-spirit who's going to give you three wishes? That only happens at the Rub' Al Khali. Ever heard the legend of Al Haddin? No? Eh, perhaps another time then. Assuming I don't forget that, too."

The Tristainians shared confused and incredulous looks until Henrietta asked, "You've heard stories from the Rub' Al Khali?"

"Not a lot of them I can regale you with...if you're even willing to spend the time listening. Unfortunately, there's only so much this old mind can remember. Don't try asking me for details because I don't know. Not anymore. Most likely forgot them all."

"So...you possessed other previous swords?"

"Possessed is a strong word. I prefer the term 'mantle.' Much less menacing," it drawled. "Now I don't really choose what I end up in. It...just happens. Happened for centuries before I ended up in this...rusty, old spatha. I'm not even as sharp as I used to be!"

The Princess leaned back on her chair, comprehending the depth of experience boasted by this artifact. "Millennia of stories untold, tales lost to time, past users and owners forgotten. Your blacksmith...do you remember who he was?"

"No, I do not."

"What about your previous, um, forms?"

"Not much. If I wasn't sharp enough to go through someone, I was hard enough to break their bones. It's been a cycle of break, mantle, break, mantle, until I finally ended up in this."

Henrietta nodded slowly. "Do you remember any of your recent wielders?"

"A few. They're all dead now, that's for sure."

"How long ago were you sealed?"

The sword was quiet for a while. "... Legatus, care to answer that?"

The Papal legate shook his head. "I apologize, Madame Royale. I am not within liberty to respond to that inquiry."

Cardinal Mazarin chimed in. "We respect that, Monsieur Chesare. This alone is more than enough for us to take in. Thank you for granting us this opportunity to grace such a...sentient relic."

"You are welcome, Monsieur Mazarin." Legate Chesare nodded again at the inquisitors and they spread out across the entire hall, covering the doors and surrounding the table, their hands folded neatly over their waists but close enough to where their wands were tucked.

This, of course, greatly unnerved the Princess, her bodyguard, the Queen, and the cardinal. Agnès was close to whipping out her pistols as she angrily spun around. All exits were blocked and there was at least one inquisitor for every window. The boots of the elite Papal guardsmen echoed outside the room, no doubt they were also covering the doors.

Marianne was not pleased. "Monsieur Chesare, what is the meaning of this?"

"We are exercising precaution with regards to the relic in the room," the legate calmly replied.

"Why now? Why spread your forces out like this to trap us in here when you could have done that before revealing this artifact?" the Queen nearly hollered.

"The reason is so that we may properly ascertain whether or not Her Royal Highness speaks truthfully of how she executed the Invocation."

Henrietta almost screamed. "I have already told you—"

"Shut up, girl, and make this easy for all of us!" the sword thundered.

And the hall fell silent. For who could argue against an ancient artifact from the Papal vaults? No one expected the Inquisition to show up with it, much less the object to have a mind of its own and to be very vocal about itself. It was almost as if an aspect of Brimir had rebuked them.

"Madame Royale," the legate drummed. "Will you please take hold of the handle of Deufelevorum?"

What? The Princess gawked back at him. Then at the sword. The grooves on the grip looked a little too large for her fingers. However, the power contained within the blade, humming, leaking into the air... She could discern its aura.

"Monsieur Chesare, may I ask why?"

Legate Chesare remained sternly impassive. "Madame Royale, please take the sword. I do not want to have to repeat myself."

"I beg to differ," Agnès growled. "Papal representative or not, you do not speak like that to Her Royal Highness."

"Agnès, stand down," Henrietta ordered.

She then turned to the legate and then to Derflinger. She slowly rose from her chair, rounded the table and took in a deep breath before reaching over and grasping the handle. So far, so good. It felt cold and rough but her fingers slid around the grooves nicely. Then she lifted the blade and Brimir above, this was heavy!

She still persisted and, with both hands, managed to balance her grip and raise it above the table. And she felt something. Magic, definitely. An odd yet warm flow that passed through her hands, almost tingling. It was faint but Henrietta could sense it, descry its movements through her body. A moment later, the foreign magic faded.

The blade spoke. "Well, wasn't expecting this result. This is...both a hit and a miss."

The legate raised his brow. It seemed he was not expecting this response. "How so?"

"This girl...is exactly who you think she is. But she is not who I think she is."

"I do not understand," the Princess said.

Interestingly, the inquisitors all exchanged glances, breaking their stoic facades with how their brows creased in confusion. The Papal legate himself was at a visible loss for words. "... I...see."

"You can put me down, now, girl," the sword ordered. "I don't want to be dropped again. Would hate to break your expensive furniture, you know."

Henrietta eased Derflinger back down onto the velvet.

"Legatus, your theory is both correct and incorrect," it continued. "She is a Void mage but not the one that's right for me."

The Princess stilled, her heart racing and the world around her coming to a noiseless halt. She had been exposed...by a sentient sword! Now the Inquisition knew. Now the consequences would come. She would be taken apart, tried before the Pope, sentenced to burn at the stake, and—

"Pardon," her mother interrupted. "What do you mean that my daughter is 'not the right one?'"

Legate Chesare answered for it, "Madame la Reine, we have just confirmed that your daughter is a Void mage. However, she is not the Void mage we expected her to be."

Henrietta did her best to keep her composure when she opened her mouth, "Who then...were you expecting?"

The dark-skinned man thinned his lips into a disconcerting smile. "Madame Royale, I believe it is time we reveal to you the true reasons for why we are here."

Omake

The night before...

"We should make a decision!" Henrietta declared.

"Par les Fondateur," Agnès groaned, hefting her liege by her shoulder down the corridor.

"A very...a very important deci...decision." The Princess struggled to free herself only to slump against her personal bodyguard. "A decision...that would affect, nay, greatly impact the land! From the mountains to the rivers flowing into the se~ea! The forests will tremble at this decision and...and the whole world in feel the power of change..."

Chevalier De Milan had handled drunks before and the best way to deal with a rambler was to let them ramble until they tired themselves. In this case, she endured Her Royal Highness's slurred oration until she got her back to her quarters on the other side of the Académie.

"Yes, this decision must be made!" With that crescendo, Henrietta turned to her. "And you, my loyal chevalier, will help me make it."

Dear Brimir above, let it not be a royal decree that would have to be carried out one way or the other. "Madame Royale, I think it would be wise if—"

"Silence! It is imperative...that we make this decision and, and, and...make change, yes. Hah!"

Agnès sighed and carried on. That was until the Princess cupped her chin and forcefully turned her head to look at her. Despite the clear intoxication, the seriousness was there. The aura of a sort of life-or-death matter or a peace-or-war dilemma radiated from her expression...atop the odor of hard Vallière spirits.

"We need to make a decision," Henrietta worded sternly, sounding almost sober. She rounded her, stopping them both in their tracks, and clapped her hands on her bodyguard's cheeks so tightly that the latter's lips were puckered.

Might as well get this over with. "What ish thish deshishion?"

"Red or blue?"

What?

"Agnès, red or blue?"

Chevalier De Milan blinked several times before wrestling her head out of her hands. She then stared at her and saw that she was serious. Her Royal Highness was actually very serious about this. Hence, the course of action that Agnès took was to drag Henrietta's arm over her shoulder and resume hauling her back to her quarters.

"You need to make a decision," the latter whinnied.

"A decision has already been made," the former groused.

"Well, which is it?"

Ignore her. Keep walking.

"Red or blue, Chevalier De Milan?"

This corridor feels so long.

"Red or blue!?"

"Please do not yell in my ear."

"RED OR BLUE!?"

She nearly dropped the Princess. Thank goodness she confiscated her wand. She even handed to Jeannette who rushed ahead to their destination. Ignoring the mild ringing in her ears (astounding how a person's shriek could mimic the volume of cannon fire), Agnès stopped, turned her head and finally answered, "White."

Her Royal Highness squinted then tilted her head and slurred, "That's not black. Wrong! So what'll it be? Red...or blue?"

What red or blue!? What did those colors have to do with anything? "Madame Royale, you're drunk."

"No, I'm no~ot. I'm Henrietta!"

"And I'm Agnès. Pleased to meet you," snarked Chevalier De Milan.

She laughed. "Hello~o, Agnie. So what'll it be, hein? Red or blue?"

Brimir above... "Blue."

"Aww, really? I want red."

"Fine. Red then."

"That can't be ri~ight... For that, we need to make a decision!"

Agnès breathed deep and endured Henrietta's ramblings until she had finally reached the guest quarters where Jeannette and Elaine were waiting. With their help, they ushered the royal into her room where she wrested free from their grasp, dropped unceremoniously onto her bed, and...started snoring.

The musketeer captain eyed her equally tired subordinates and shrugged. They then proceeded to turn the Princess over to her side until she was laying on her back with her head raised on a large pillow. That way, she would be more comfortable when she woke up...and hopefully not drown in a pool of her own vomit in case she does vomit while sleeping. The rest of their tasks were accomplished like clockwork, erasing any and all evidence they could find of Henrietta's antics tonight. Finally, they put in an order with Chef Marteau to prepare a cup of steaming bitter-root tea to be delivered to her bedside in the morning.

At the end of it, Chevalier De Milan commended the Corps Royal Des Mousquetaires for a job well done. They kept the Princess from harm, kept her from doing any harm, and—albeit failing to keep her from indulging in heavy spirits—successfully contained her drunken caper before she could cause a scandal. Sixième trained them well.

ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: September 1, 2021

LAST EDITED: November 5, 2021

INITIALLY UPLOADED: October 28, 2021

NOTE: First off, thank you very much for the concern and support. I truly wish you all the same in your personal health and well-being. I've been discharged and am recuperating at home. I've already gotten back to work as well. Now my biggest concerns are the long-term side effects, the meds, and the medical bills.

Now the exposition sword shows up but without much of the exposition. As you can tell, I switched things around and played up Derf's value as an artifact. Also, just to add this on, for this fic, I'm having Derf sound like Stellan Skarsgård's character in the HBO series Chernobyl.

The omake was inspired by a podcast episode I listened to years ago where the hosts went on vacation with a lot of friends to Myrtle Beach and got drunk. Then one of their friends started saying, "We need to make a decision. Plus or minus?" And he kept asking that to everyone including the cops. That was a funny episode.