Halkegenia Online v1 – Refactored – Chapter 11
Guiche de Gramont, fourth son of the great General Belgen de Gramont, and now an agent proudly in service to the Crown of Tristain, guided his horse at a steady trot, following closely behind his traveling companions.
The journey was peaceful. So mundane was the scenery that one might forget the momentous changes. That was, until the highway cut through some sudden patch of a peculiar forest, or sliced imperfectly into a foreign hillside. To the west, a rising formation of dunes marked where marginal lands had been substituted with desert sands. If memory served, they weren't far from the Faerie city of Gaddan, within the Salamander's zone of influence.
The Royal Highway was a vital thoroughfare, the Crown and Faerie Lords had made its protection a priority. With so much attention lavished upon security, the general atmosphere of the travelers was unworried as the sun began to rise towards noon. Which gave the young Gramont time to consider and admire his two traveling companions.
The first was Viscount Wardes, Captain of the Griffin Knights. Mounted atop his griffin, the legendary beast easily keeping pace with the two mundane horses, both master and mount possessed a sharp and alert posture.
His second companion, and surely the one who had occupied much more of his time, was the swordswoman Midori. Guiche glanced over slyly. The girl rode at the Viscount's side, long black hair swaying with the gait of her horse. Surely the notion of such a creature being at home in battle could be dismissed as ridiculous.
Guiche was certain that she was a foreigner, or at least half foreign. Not Albionian, and certainly not Gallian or Romalian. He was also fairly certain that Midori was not a mage. The idea of that slight frame doing battle without the benefit of magic was unimaginable.
"If we end up in a fight, I won't be a burden," had been all she'd had to say on the matter.
Guiche had been left wondering, and before long they had found themselves stopping briefly at the Gallian border before beginning their ascent into the foothills surrounding La Rochelle, the Gateway to Albion.
"Why place the port on a mountain?" Midori asked as they made their way along a tortuously winding path. This was the back road to La Rochelle, shorter but following steeper and more difficult terrain. Paving stones gave way first to gravel, and then to a simple cart path.
"Are you really ignorant about such things?" Wardes had asked.
"Excuse my ignorance," Midori replied coolly, brushing a long strand of hair behind one ear.
The Captain looked over to her. "An airship's windstones discharge over time, but they are also drained rapidly when the ship ascends."
"So the ship captains like using La Rochelle to avoid wasting fuel?"
"I'm surprised you didn't know that."
"I never needed to know before," Midori had stated with a shrug. "And now I do."
Guiche was occupied coaxing his horse to continue forward when suddenly Midori let out a soft sigh.
"You've noticed too?" Wardes asked.
"Mmm. I was hoping I was wrong."
"Beg pardon?" Guiche looked between the two, confused.
"The ambush of course," Wardes said.
"Ambush?" Guiche's head was suddenly on a swivel. They were currently traveling along the cliff face upon a narrow ledge, there was nobody in sight. "What do you think my sweet?" Guiche asked the familiar traveling at his side. The bear sized mole sniffed anxiously at the ground.
There was a soft rustling noise as the swordswoman slipped down from her horse. "If you don't mind, I'll handle the ones at the front. I'd like to avoid any unnecessary casualties."
Wardes frowned, "Your concern for Mister Gramont and myself is commendable, but I assure you we can handle a few brigands."
"Not us," Midori said as she unsheathed her sword, a simple blade of dazzling silver-white that glinted in the late noon sun. She walked out a dozen mails and then stopped as her boots crunched gravel. "Let's not waste each other's time. Come out now."
Slowly the shadows along the face of the cliff began to crawl. They had been disguised by earthen colored cloaks. Now, a dozen of them were melting into view.
Guiche carefully reached for his wand as he reined in his horse. As if from nowhere another dozen men had appeared behind them. Surely, even with their cloaks, they would have been spotted? Which meant, Guiche blanched, an earth mage.
"Alas, I do believe we're losing our touch lads!" one of the bandits at the front said. The man's face was mostly hidden by his cloak, but enough was visible to make out a thick red beard bisected by scars and an amused smirk. "We got spotted by a little gel!"
Midori closed her eyes. Her posture was carelessly slouched. "Look, we don't want a fight."
"Good!" the bandit said cheerfully. "That makes our job much easier." A lively chuckle was shared. Even Guiche began to laugh nervously, receiving a peculiar look from the Viscount. "Normally we like to give travelers such as yourselves a little show, but since you've already cut to business we can only oblige by doing the same. Lay down your valuables and surrender your mounts, and we'll let you two go on your way."
"Us two?" Wardes asked calmly.
"Aye." The man eyed Midori and licked his lips. "We think this one will be keeping us company for a bit."
Guiche's fear was banished, replaced with righteous anger. Someone needed to stand up for Miss Midori's honor!
A look of mild disgust crossed the swordswoman's face. "Normally I wouldn't mind dealing with all of you. But we have a schedule to keep." Midori assumed a low stance that left Guiche mystified.
The red bearded bandit exchanged looks with his companions. "Aye, a couple of fine mages you must be to need a gel to defend you!" A wand appeared in the leader's hand and as he snapped his fingers, three of the other bandits to the front and one to the rear did the same.
At Guiche's side, Viscount Wardes' sword-wand had seemingly been summoned into the knight's right hand as he tightened his grip on the reins of his griffin with his left.
Guiche could see now why the bandits had chosen this place. The path was too narrow for the griffin to spread its wings, and the cliff face slanted so that the beast would dash itself against the rocks before it could gather the speed to take flight
Still astonishingly calm, Midori stared down the bandit leader. "So, you'll only attack us as long as you have magic on your side. Is that it?"
"We're criminals gel, we aren't stupid," the bandit leader replied lightly.
And then, the strangest thing happened. Midori looked relieved. "That makes things simpler." The swordswoman took one step forward, and then almost vanished in a black, ground eating blur.
The leader blinked owlishly as he held up his focus; the wand's length had been roughly halved. Without stopping, Midori moved on towards the next mage, slicing through his wand too in a fluid, unending stream of motion that carried her towards the third.
Guiche was struck dumb. He had been thinking of this girl as a delicate creature, but that was far from the truth. She was . . . well, Guiche wasn't sure what she was.
"Kill her! Kill her now!"
A sharp -twang- of crossbows filled the air. Four bolts. The first went wide, a clean miss, the second missed only because Midori had already begun moving. She leaned to the side as the third bolt barely creased her cheek. The last bolt had been aimed true. With her face a mask of utter focus, her sword traced a silver arc intersecting the path of the last bolt, sending it whirling away with a sharp clang of metal on metal.
The swordswoman then bypassed the common bandits in favor of the next mage. Stumbling back the man waved his wand to summon a jet of fire.
"No, you idiot!" the leader roared as flames set cloaks alight and sent men rolling to extinguish themselves. But for an instant Midori hesitated, unsure how to get close. That moment's pause left an opening for the other mage remaining at their front.
The gravel at the swordswoman's feet crumbled to sand and then to loose talc. Earth magic. All of her speed was for naught as she sank to mid calf.
A snarl crossed Midori's face as she lashed out with her sword, the tip of her blade just barely missed the fire mage's wand as he leaped out of range. She reached for her belt, retrieving something small and metallic. The mage went from incanting to howling in pain and clutching at his shoulder where the dart had sunk into flesh.
The earth between them rippled and flowed, rising and taking on a crude shape. An earth golem. The construct was nothing like Guiche's own masterful creations, but it would still do. Twice Midori's height and five times as broad.
The golem raised one clumsy arm and swung down in a stone breaking arc. The strike didn't connect, nor did Midori evade. Both the bandits and Guiche were left speechless as the golem toppled forward, suddenly unbalanced by the removal of its right arm.
The point of separation was smooth, cleaved all at once rather than chiseled or sawed. No normal swordswoman, no normal sword.
The mage fumbled directing the golem to right itself. Midori calmly stepped onto the construct's back as it began to rise, balancing so that she was left standing atop its shoulders. She leaped down from her perch. Her blade flashed once and the earth mage's wand was left in ruin. At her back, the golem went still.
Midori gave the man no more regard as she walked back to the still groaning fire mage and stamped down casually on his wand. She placed the tip of her sword to his throat. "Yield," she ordered softly. "That goes for all of you!"
A shriek of pain erupted behind Guiche. The mage leading the rear group of bandits had been similarly disarmed by Captain Wardes by the simple expedient of removing his hand.
Midori gave Wardes a dark look to which the Captain simply shrugged. "You said you wanted to minimize casualties. Mister Gramont?"
"Oh?"
"Do remember that this is a fight. Deadly dare and all."
"Oh, yes!" Guiche fumbled for his wand, leveling the rose blossom on the two nearest men.
The bandits looked to one another, and then reluctantly cast aside their weapons. Slowly Midori stood straight, and with a small flourish returned her blade to its scabbard.
"I'm thankful you've all seen reason."
"Just a gel. Just a little gel!" their leader shouted as he looked at his surrendering men. "How?!"
Midori spared the man only a brief hateful glance. "I don't correct the mistakes of murderers and bandits," she said coolly as she stepped back and glanced to Guiche and Wardes. "Guiche, you're an earth mage, right?"
Guiche sat up in his saddle, mouth working idiotically before spilling out his reply. "Y-yes! Yes, that's correct. How may I be of service?"
The swordswoman gave him an odd look. "Just restrain them so they can't make a nuisance of themselves. We'll report them to the authorities in La Rochelle."
"As you wish." Nodding, as if a waif of a girl had not just destroyed four mages before his eyes, Wardes spurred his griffin past the shocked bandits. "Mister Gramont, close up this road when you're done with the restraints."
A series of simple cantrips served to summon up bronze chains. Then, with a short invocation, the cliff face beside the road flowed outward, pinching off the road. A second invocation served to bottle the bandits away.
Breathing a sigh of relief, Guiche glanced over to the swordswoman. Slapping his cheeks he nodded, here was his opening. "Miss Midori, your swordsmanship was exquisite! Truly the beauty of your technique only serves to complement your own."
"Reach."
"Hmm?" Guich murmured, still smiling politely. This was generally where the girl swooned at the compliment. Perhaps a small blush?
"My swing was off," Midori said softly to herself. "I need to adjust." She remounted her horse and spurred it back into motion.
Wardes nodded slowly. "I must agree with Mister Gramont, your skill is quite exceptional." The Captain's eyes narrowed slightly. "I am curious what that sword style was. It didn't resemble any that I've seen."
"My sword style?" Midori asked, and seemed to give the question some thought. "It is a sword art of the Far East."
"From Rub' al Khali?" the Viscount asked. So she really was from the eastern kingdoms.
Midori's lips twitched in what might have been a faint smile. "Farther than that. What will be done with them?"
The Viscount quirked an eyebrow. "You show striking concern for their well-being."
"Humor me."
"The crime of brigandry alone usually confers either life in a labor camp or execution. The Gallians naturally prefer the former."
"I see."
"You are still concerned for their lives?" the Viscount asked, his eyes narrowed. "I could have sworn you handled yourself like someone who wouldn't hesitate to kill."
With the sun sinking below the peaks it was hard for Guiche to be certain, but if only for a moment, it appeared that Midori's expression had grown ashen. "That is . . . none of your concern, Viscount."
"As you wish," Wardes said.
Sitting atop the highest peak of the tallest mountain in its range, La Rochelle was a curtain of mage crafted stone surrounding a massive ash tree that sprouted from its very summit. Among its branches ships nested like birds.
La Rochelle was arranged concentrically around the port, and from the sky would have resembled an immense spider's web draped over the mountain's side.
It was a city that, by virtue of its trade connections, could afford the best of things. The main street was well enough lit by lamps that Guiche could easily read the signs hanging above the countless inns, taverns, and shops that were clearly planning to do business into the night.
After stopping briefly to confer with the City Watch and inform them of the bandits skulking on the road, they had proceeded onward. They found a booking kiosk at the base of the Port Tree still alight with activity, and discovered that there would be ships leaving for Albion the next morning. This seemed to agitate Midori, who had pressed for any earlier departures.
"I'm sorry Miss," the clerk had apologized sincerely. "The captains are refusing to make the run to Albion unless they fly together. There have been too many pirate raids."
Their vessel, the Lady Gallant, wouldn't be leaving until sunrise the next morning. The Viscount settled on one of the smaller hotels near the port to stay the night, and they dined in the hotel restaurant before being led to their rooms by a valet.
"Is there anything else I can get for you, Sirs, Miss?"
"If you could have a bath arranged," Wardes requested.
"Of course sir," the valet nodded. "I'll have the maids draw one for you at once."
"Miss Midori," Captain Wardes said.
"Hmm?" The swordswoman looked up, she had been distracted since they found themselves delayed.
"I was saying, you should feel free to bathe first," the Viscount said.
"Oh." She gave a faint scowl. "Right."
"Mister Gramont. Would you be so kind as to go down to the stables and make sure that my griffin is being attended to."
"Of course!" Guiche gave a quick bow and hurried to see to it.
The hotel possessed stables fit even for dragons. The Viscount's griffin and Guiche's own precious Verdandi had proved no difficulty. The bear sized mole sniffed happily at her master, receiving a tender stroke on the head and the offer to lick his hand. Deciding that Guiche hadn't brought any food, Verdandi sniffled unhappily and turned around in her pen.
"Verdandi! Don't be that way my darling! Did your meal disagree with you? I must say, ground meat surely is no substitute for proper earthworms, but we must all make sacrifices for the good of the mission!"
The mole snuffled indignantly.
"Let me finish here and I'll let you out to scavenge for some after dinner treats."
Verdandi snuffled again as if to say -Really?-
"Of course my darling!" Guiche promised. "Just let me finish with the Viscount's mount and we shall go."
The mole trundled back fearfully. Verdandi and the Captain's griffin . . . did not get along.
Guiche found the griffin resting quietly in its own pen. As he approached the animal let out a small menacing cry. Guiche checked by visual inspection that the griffin was adequately tied down. Being a temperamental beast to begin with, it was much too dangerous to have loose without its master.
Guiche then unlatched Verdandi's pen and led her outside into the cool night air, enjoying the mountain breeze as his familiar began to happily burrow.
Turning his eyes back to the hotel, Guiche noticed steam rising from a window at the end of the third floor, and was suddenly reminded of the bath. Ah yes, a nice bath would certainly help after a long day riding. The young Gramont son then remembered a more important detail.
Midori was bathing first.
Surely there would be no harm if he were to peek. No, of course not! Beauty was meant to be admired, though naturally a pure maiden would seek to conceal herself from unworthy eyes. That was but the challenge! Whistling softly, Guiche drew the attention of his familiar. Verdandi trundled over, oblivious to the need for secrecy, and gave a small snuffle of attention.
Guiche raised a finger to his lips. "Verdandi my pet, keep watch for your master. Just as we do at the Academy." The mole snuffled again before waddling down the side of the building. She found what she was looking for, the servant's door, and proceeded to block the doorway with her bulk.
'Now, to get up there,' Guiche thought. A trellis had been affixed to the side of the hotel, covered in vines. Sizing it up, he decided it would put him about where he needed to be if he levitated up. Guiche soon found himself at the half opened window, hooking one arm around the trellis and pocketing his wand to observe.
Slowly, he leaned over. The air was hot and humid. Moving in the water, one pale foot emerged enticingly. Guiche's eyes worked upward. Between the shadows and lantern light he could only make out vague outlines as his eyes adjusted, following the line of calves and knees and then the shadow of narrow hips beneath the water. Midori's flat stomach and surprisingly broad chest, and that handsome beard . . .
A brief burst of conjured wind blew away the steam, revealing the occupant of the bath. Guiche stared silently. Captain Wardes stared back.
"Mister Gramont?"
"Captain."
The Griffin Knight betrayed nothing. "May I ask what you're doing?"
"Ah, that is . . . " Guiche stumbled. "Wasn't Midori bathing first?"
"She finished rather quickly," the knight said. "I cannot imagine why."
"Oh," Guiche said, blinking a few times. "Well. I see. Yes. I'll just be on my way then, and . . ." There was an ugly cracking pop from above. Guiche looked up as the pop turned to a wooden groan and then another pop and another. The trellis shook softly. Guiche felt a strange lightness as if gravity was no longer fully asserting itself. "I wish you a goodnight." And then Guiche felt the exhilarating sensation of descent.
There was a loud crash followed by rustling.
"Mister Gramont? Are you alright?" Wardes called.
"Quite good. The bushes broke my fall . . . the rose bushes."
"Just make sure to fix it before morning. We can't be held up," the knight called before sliding his hat back down and kicking his feet up onto the rim of the tub.
Standing awkwardly outside the confines of the small bathroom and tugging at the collar of his shirt, Kirito grimaced. There was no way he was going to bathe as a girl. That would just be too much.
Much to his dismay, one of the maids attempted to follow 'her' into the bathroom, offering to help 'her' undress and to take 'her' clothes to the wash. "That . . . won't be necessary."
After locking the door and tossing his jacket over the keyhole, Kirito began the process of disrobing, stripping down to black shirt and shorts. He dispelled the illusion, the filthy young swordswoman Midori replaced instantly by the equally grime-covered Spriggan Kirito.
Halkegenian baths were western style, unfortunately; that was to say one washed off in the bath rather than prior. Not that he planned on soaking. Sweat and dust were washed away with liberal application of a sponge and a thick bar of some vaguely caustic soap that nevertheless left him feeling worlds better.
Dressing in spare nightclothes, Kirito reapplied his disguise and 'Midori' emerged from the bath, her clothes and equipment folded neatly in her arms.
Thankfully, he'd convinced the Captain that a young lady traveling with two men warranted her own room. He stopped briefly at the door of the room shared by his companions and knocked. The Viscount appeared, peering out from the half open door, hand resting easily on the hilt of his sword.
"Bath's free."
"Thank you." Wardes nodded slowly. "Miss Midori. A moment of your time." He beckoned.
"Is something wrong?" Unlike Guiche, who had made himself a nuisance all the way from the Academy, the Viscount had been pleasantly professional. By unspoken courtesy the two had carefully refrained from any conversation that didn't pertain to the mission.
"No. But it is important, about earlier today."
"Oh."
Kirito nodded reluctantly and accepted the offered seat at a small table. The Captain cast a brief murmured spell and seemed to cock his head as if listening for something before nodding in satisfaction.
"I understand that your mission is of the highest importance to the Crown," Wardes said. "Naturally, I have no intention of asking you about your task. But for the sake of both our missions, I think it best that I have some idea of what you are capable of."
Kirito leaned back in his chair. "I could say the same about you. I think I've proven myself well enough."
"In fact, it is this afternoon that I wanted to ask about," Wardes said. "It is clear now that you aren't merely a swordswoman."
Kirito shrugged, "Shouldn't the Princess's word be sufficient?"
Wardes fixed Kirito with a calm stare. "The Princess is not a soldier, and more importantly, is not here. We have restricted ourselves to need to know information. And I believe I need to know." The Captain's eyes narrowed. "I need to know what I can rely on you to do. If you'll hesitate to kill."
Kirito felt his heart beating faster. Of course that would come up. It wasn't like he didn't have blood on his hands. The subjugation mission against Laughing Coffin and the murderer Kuradeel. It didn't matter if it was digital or real. It was something that he had been forced to accept. An ugly little piece of himself that he'd been trying to keep at arm's length.
Wardes then added calmly. "For what it is worth, I am a Square of pure wind affinity with a specialty in lightning. I have served in the Knight Corps since I entered the service of the Crown ten years ago. I have combat experience in skirmishes along the Gallian border and have conducted missions of this sort before. I was previously assigned to the guard detail of Princess Henrietta."
Kirito nodded slowly, that matched roughly with what he had been told by the Princess. "What do you want to know?" Fortunately, the Duchess Vallière had instructed him in exactly what he was to say if questioned about his physical prowess.
"First, the way you acquitted yourself spoke of experience in battle," Wardes observed. "A great deal of experience."
"More like a great deal of training. But you are right, I have killed," Kirito said quietly. "I won't kill needlessly, but I won't hesitate either. You have my word."
Wardes seemed to weigh up Kirito's answer. "Very well. Then also, earlier in the battle. Your speed and strength were impressive, well beyond what should be possible absent magic. You're a mage . . . Correct?"
Nodding again, Kirito replied. "Or so I've been told." Warde's quirked an eyebrow. "As far as can be said, my affinity is wind, at least, those are the only spells I've had any luck with. But I'm unable to properly conjure. The only thing I seem to be able to cast spells on is myself."
"That explains your speed, but not your strength."
Kirito gave a pensive look before continuing. "That is . . . a bit more difficult. You are familiar with alchemic enhancements, correct?"
Wardes nodded slowly. "I see. That would explain both then."
Kirito gave a small shrug. "Don't expect me to be casting any useful spells. Though based on how long I can keep up my speed, I've been told my willpower reserves are around Triangle class. Does that give you a good enough idea what I'm capable of?"
The Viscount looked thoughtful. "I suppose it does. Thank you, Miss Midori."
"Captain," Kirito said as he departed.
After retreating to his own room, Kirito flopped down onto the surprisingly soft feather mattress. His right hand slid onto the dresser and he tugged a small envelope from the top of the satchel. It was written by Henrietta, the Princess's contribution to the mission.
He held the letter above him, squinting as if he could see through the paper. Not that he needed to. He knew what it said. The contents were brief and simply requested that the Royalists offer whatever assistance they could in retrieving the lost Faeries and delivering them safely to Tristain. Henrietta had told Kirito that if he could deliver the letter into the hands of Prince Wales, then if the Prince Valiant still harbored any fondness for her he would help.
Regardless, he would have to remember to find some way to thank the Princess for all of this. She was the one who had spoken over the Duchess's protests on his behalf. Having guides, one of whom was also a veteran mage, would make getting to Newcastle much easier. Kirito just wished the Princess hadn't been so . . . fascinated . . . by his faction disguise.
Turning over, Kirito's gaze fell on the window and the moonlight that slanted in through the wooden blinds. In the distance, the partially illuminated bulk of the Port Tree dominated the sky, its crest smaller, but so much closer than that of the World Tree.
A crashing noise came from outside and Kirito was suddenly alert. Rising smoothly from the bed and grabbing Split Moon in one fluid motion, he went to the window and peered out. In the light cast by the twin moons, he could see a figure struggling to fight his way free from a particularly tenacious bush. The bush appeared to be winning.
Squinting, his vision focused and the figure resolved into Guiche de Gramont. Judging by the way he was flailing about, the fall hadn't hurt him too badly. The idiot would be okay. Probably. Though why was he even there?
Even though Guiche hadn't fallen behind or otherwise physically inconvenienced Kirito, he was starting to gain a new appreciation for why Asuna had obscured her appearance when not on the front lines.
Wait. The idiot had been climbing the outside of the hotel? Near the baths . . . had he been trying to peep? If his cover ended up blown because of a damned pervert . . .
Members of the hotel staff were already starting to arrive to investigate the disturbance. Kirito returned to bed. Closing his eyes, he waited impatiently for morning to arrive.
Viscount Jean-Jacques Francis de Wardes lay awake. It was not the snoring of the idiot in the opposite bed that kept him up, nor any anxiety about this mission. Years of proving himself in battle, rising through the ranks of the Griffin Knights, and achieving status as a Captain of the Knight Corps had prepared him for much harsher accommodation.
What kept him awake tonight was the swordswoman Midori. She was an unknown variable, and unknowns were always bad. It didn't matter if they aided or hindered. Even an added danger was preferable so long as its quality was known.
First, he believed her when she had stated that she could not cast much magic. Though rare, such afflictions did exist, and Wardes had first hand experience with them through his connection to the Vallière family. However, he was certain she had not told him the whole truth.
Likewise, he was convinced that she had seen battle before. The girl did not hesitate in a fight. But just where had she fought, and against who?
Then came the next question, just what was her mission in Albion? To be assigned at the last moment and with the support of the Duchess de La Vallière no less was a sign that great trust had been placed in the girl. Wardes doubted the illustrious 'Heavy Wind' would vouch for someone who had not proven themselves to her satisfaction.
Three possibilities came to mind. Assassination, retrieval, or insurance.
An agent such as Midori would be uniquely suited as an assassin. No one would expect the strength and speed of that small body, or her deadliness with that sword. Though Wardes doubted she would be able to reach someone as highly placed as Lord Cromwell, eliminating certain key figures could create a power vacuum that would set Reconquista's ambitions back by months.
But the girl seemed genuinely reluctant to kill. She simply lacked the demeanor of an assassin. Still, it would be simple enough to pass word to his contacts in Albion when they arrived. Reconquista would not be caught unaware by an innocent face.
The second possibility was retrieval. Midori's mission might parallel Wardes' own, to retrieve some document or artifact from the hands of the Royalists and return it to Tristain. This too was plausible, but Wardes' instincts were that it was not something so simple as another incriminating document or a Royal treasure. If it were, it would be better to entrust its retrieval to the same agent.
The last possibility was a subset of the second. The letter was of great importance, though Wardes was not privy to its contents. Both Henrietta and Cardinal Mazarin were convinced that if it fell into the hands of Reconquista it would tear asunder the coming union of Germania and Tristain. Under these circumstances, there would be no single agent who could be completely trusted with the mission. So it would only be natural to set one to retrieve the letter and one to watch the retriever.
Wardes grimaced. In the past, he had been called upon to conduct a mission across the border into Gallia to investigate rumors of human experiments. The products of Gallia's twisted research into perverting the Founder's holy gifts had been creatures of incredible strength and speed.
Not only had the alchemic enhancements hardened their bodies, it had granted them a fortitude and viciousness that had forced Wardes to sear them with lightning until skin had burned, muscle boiled, and bone charred.
He had achieved the rank of Square on that mission.
When he had returned victorious to Tristain, the samples and documents he had retrieved had been swiftly spirited away by mysterious members of the Academia. Midori might just be the product of that stolen research . . .
If she really was his watcher and tried to interfere, there were consequences to that sort of enhancement and Wardes knew them better than anyone, she would find the same fate as those monsters years ago.
Vaguely satisfied with his conclusions, Wardes sat up in bed. Taking his sword from the nightstand he waved it in the direction of Guiche. The grating sound of the boy's snoring vanished, leaving behind only blessed silence. The charm would hold until morning. In the meantime, Wardes laid back in bed and closed his eyes.
Sir Dunwell had never been fond of Saint Joshua Palace. The seat of the Tudor family was a place of unfamiliar ostentation, and the changing of hands had done little to change its character.
He was ill at ease in grand halls, whether they flew the blue of Reconquista or were draped in Royal purple, and his unease had only grown in the company they now kept.
Pious men and opportunists, nationalists and revolutionaries, welded together in a common cause. They were one and all possessed of a peculiar manic energy, buoyed by a confidence that verged on prophecy, and which to the logical mind appeared quite mad.
Yet it was a madness that had borne results. Here at the heart of his power, Lord Oliver Cromwell led an army that did not know the meaning of defeat.
Sir Dunwell held the broadsheet between his thumbs and middle fingers. His eyes had not left the page for a full minute as he absorbed the image set in still wet ink.
A long limbed, gangling creature was seated cross legged in a wobbling oversized chair that suggested a childish stature and temperament. Its hands bore talons and its face wore a wide fool's grin pinched between a long hook nose and a pointed chin.
"This must be some form of jest."
"Perish the thought, my Good Captain." The man seated on the far side of the table smiled genially. "It is all very real. As our good friends in Tristain will attest."
Lord Oliver Cromwell was a man who invited false first impressions. Graying in his middle age with features that could charitably be called kindly, and dressed in the modest robes of a simple priest, he could vanish into the tumult of his gaudy entourage. That was, until he deigned to stand out.
Dunwell carefully placed the sheet atop the table. "This is why I was summoned?" The last reports received had told of something transpiring on the Continent, but failed to say just what. After York, news from abroad had become a low priority to his investigation.
Another smile. "I was told that you were observant, Captain. You and your men are the first of our brotherhood to cross wands with the demihumans. And the first to claim victory. I would like to hear your account of these Faeries of Alfheim."
Dunwell leaned back against a straight backrest. It was rare that a lowly Knight would be granted a private audience with the Lord Protector. The time, early morning, and the choice of venue, the Lord's private dining room, seemed an effort at discretion.
The table had been set for breakfast and a trolley laden with porridge and fruit was stationed at either end. Lord Cromwell ate lightly, while the Captain touched nothing.
"I am to speak frankly?" It occurred to Dunwell that he was being asked to tread a fine line.
"In this place?" Cromwell's smile widened. "I would have it no other way, Captain."
"What we claimed was not a victory. Milord." Dunwell waited for the snort of contempt or the scoff of indignation. Cromwell simply raised a brow.
"That is not how I read your report. You detected the demihumans infiltrating York. You prevented their sabotage and drove them off. You picked up their trail again and very nearly ran them to ground. That would seem to be a great triumph against an unknown adversary."
"I must disagree." The Captain meditated on what he was to say next. There was still a great deal they did not know. And still more of what they did know had not been fully examined. "Our infantry achieved complete surprise. Our cavalry controlled the high ground. It should have been a total rout. Instead, these . . . demihumans . . . escaped our ambush and managed a withdrawal in good order. No, I do not believe it was a triumph at all." He thought hard before adding, "Moreover, I do not believe what we encountered represented a true military force."
This seemed to interest the Lord Protector.
"An oversight on my part. It did not occur to me what it might mean at the time," Dunwell admitted. "The remains we collected were diversely armed. There was no rhyme or reason. No sensible combination of arms, and many basic deficiencies." No missile weapons to speak of for instance. Not even a hunting bow. "And their disposition . . ." It was the one detail in the aftermath which had given Dunwell pause.
"There were women and children among the dead."
The Captain was surprised to see Cromwell still smiling. It was a bitter truth of war to which soldiers became reluctantly accustomed. Less so men who had never been in the thick of it.
"Your report mentioned a woman."
"The winged one," Dunwell answered, as their brief exchange flashed in his mind's eye.
"You say she was seen in the company of Wales Tudor?"
"Yes, Milord." Investigating the Prince's whereabouts had led him into the path of the Fae in the first place. It was a coincidence which invited its own conclusions. "They were placed together at Queenswall and at Skiesedge. I believe she is some form of leader."
"Is this a soldier's intuition?" Cromwell held his smile under Dunwell's stare.
"An observation. Her close accompaniment of the Prince. And the way she took the initiative in attempting to kill me."
"Ah." Cromwell nodded. "God must have willed that she did not succeed, Captain, lest we be deprived of your service. In any case, your mission was still fruitful. We now know that the Eagle has been slipping Newcastle's blockade." An out of place look of disappointment crossed the Lord Protector's face. "It saddens me to hear our brothers in the Northern Squadron have proven lacking."
"If I may," Dunwell volunteered at the opportunity to change the topic, "the Eagle's escape at Skiesedge explains a great deal about our failure to apprehend or capture her sooner. Our frigates attempted to pursue the Prince's ship, but once the Royalists were beneath the cloud line we lost them in the turbulence."
"Under-sailing the Isle." Cromwell nibbled an apple slice thoughtfully.
"Flying so close to the landmass that the ship would be caught in the air currents beneath Albion. It is not a feat to be attempted by lesser navigators."
"You doubt the ability of our fleet?"
"Not at all, Milord," Dunwell said, speaking more quickly on familiar ground. "Our own ships are helmed by expert navigators, but the expertise to handle a ship beneath the Isle has been hard earned and closely guarded for generations. We have no navigators of equal caliber in our service. It seems the Royalists are now exploiting that advantage to its fullest."
"And making fools of us at every turn." Lord Cromwell sighed heavily, then brightened. "There is nothing for it but to prevail."
A silver bell chimed. A moment later the high oak doors behind them swung inwards to admit a pale, black frocked woman of severe countenance.
"Ah, Lady Sheffield." Cromwell raised a hand in greeting. "So good to see you this fine morning. Would you care to join us for breakfast? Sir Dunwell has been giving an excellent account of his experience with the demihumans."
"I am afraid I must decline," the woman answered, coolly glancing in Dunwell's direction before returning her eyes to Cromwell. "Milord, your morning commitments cannot be kept waiting."
"Ah yes, the Committee of Public Well-being. Best not to keep them waiting I suppose. It would appear our time together must be cut short, Captain." Cromwell appeared apologetic as he rose from his seat. "Please be my guest and breakfast at your leisure."
"I am afraid I must decline, Milord." The knight stood as well. "My men and I will be returning north to the siege. I suspect I will be spending much of today bringing myself up to speed about events happening abroad." The Continent seemed so much nearer now.
He paused as his eyes crossed the discarded broadsheet.
"Captain?"
"The likeness," Dunwell thought aloud. "It is rather poor. The Fae bodies we recovered possessed distinctive features. My men took sketchings after the battle. They would be more suitable to educate our forces about suspect Faeries.."
"God inspires you, Captain." Cromwell's smile could not have grown broader. "He tests us, you know."
"Milord?" Dunwell tried to keep the doubt from his voice.
Dunwell was a devout man, or at least, he wore the cross and said the prayers, and believed they did some good. He was not so devout as to know what to make of Cromwell's sacrilegious declarations.
"God and the Founder. He places these challenges before us as the eyes of the faithful watch. So that they may set the righteous way and they may follow." There was something of the eagerness of a child in his voice. "We must not fail. By all means, have them sent to our engravers at once."
"And what of the remains we recovered?" Dunwell felt it his duty to ask. Study might reveal some of weakness of the creatures. Something that could be leveraged when they were fought again.
"Ah yes, you did well to have them returned to Londinium." Cromwell nodded. "You have our thanks for that. Examination may shed some light on just what they are and where they come from."
There was a minute pause as Lord Cromwell seemed to contemplate those questions. Thick fingers played idly with a bejeweled ring worn on his left hand. It was, Dunwell noted, the Lord Protector's only concession to vanity.
"We are sure to glean a great deal from the interrogation."
The Fortress of Newcastle still stood, though the city itself was all but destroyed. Weeks of bombardment had reduced much of the town to shattered ruin. Surrounded on three sides by the abyss, the Royalists had prepared to make their last stand.
The signs of destruction were everywhere. Cannon shot from airships had wreaked havoc like a leaden rain. The bombardment had eventually died down, Reconquista did not have an infinite supply of iron and gunpowder to spend on the Royalist problem.
It was among these half ruined buildings and the cellars below that most of the displaced refugees had sought shelter. Two thousand in all. Five hundred able bodied men. Those who could fight manned the walls. The rest, the young, the feeble, and the elderly, waited.
"There are loved ones in the glory Whose dear forms you often miss. When you close your earthly story, Will you join them in their bliss?"
Caramella wasn't quite sure why she'd recalled it now of all times. Her paternal grandmother had taught it to her when she'd visited the States, but she hadn't sung it in years. Not after her parents had had their falling out over . . . well . . . her.
"Will the circle be unbroken By and by, by and by? Is a better home awaiting In the sky, in the sky?"
Surrounding her, children and elderly men and women listened patiently. No one here save Caramella, and maybe some of the other SAO survivors, would have any idea what the lyrics were about. It wasn't like anyone in Halkegenia had ever heard of a 'Christian', much less the Christian revival. That didn't matter. People found their own meaning in the words.
"In the joyous days of childhood Oft they told of wondrous love Pointed to the dying Savior Now they dwell with Him above."
A child, a little girl with messy blonde hair, face pale and dirty, leaned her head against Caramella's side. The adults were polite but anxious around the Faeries, but the children showed no fear.
"Will the circle be unbroken By and by, by and by? Is a better home awaiting In the sky, in the sky?"
The Fortress had been stocked with provisions for six months, but that assumed they would be restocking a full Royal Navy squadron. Which was lucky, otherwise the Royalists might have resented having to feed the extra mouths. Even so, Prince Wales had been forced to fight to make their case. The pointed ears hadn't won them any friends.
"You remember songs of heaven Which you sang with childish voice. Do you love the hymns they taught you, Or are songs of earth your choice?"
Caramella noticed Kino leaning against the door frame of the barracks. Her partner in crime looked like he had something he needed to tell her. Caramella's voice trailed off, receiving groans from the children. "Sorry kids, but I have to get going."
"Sorry to interrupt you," Kino said. "That song . . . it was pretty."
"Eh? I probably butchered it. What's up?"
Kino shook his head. "Asuna and Prince Wales want all the fighters to gather up," he said softly. "It sounds like they've come up with something."
"Of course they have." Those two were scary together, a couple of little schemers.
They weren't far from the Fortress's outer wall, low, thick stone fortifications that traced a zigzag pattern across the land. Nishida said it was something called a star fort, the shape of the walls made it difficult for an attacker to hit them head on with their cannon fire. The Rebels had decided it was pointless to batter the walls down with their artillery.
They didn't seem too crazy about storming the Fortress either. Newcastle was built on a peninsula jutting out from the northern tip of Albion. The defenders only had to worry about a ground assault from one side, and the crossfire from the Fortress's walls made that an exercise in assisted suicide.
They made their way through the inner walls and then hiked up the stairs to entrance of the citadel, a large star shaped structure at the heart of the defences capped by five thick stone towers. They received a few curt nods from passing soldiers along the way.
Most of the Royalists didn't quite know what to make of them. Wales had ordered his men to treat their guests cordially, and the Fae had been given free run of the Fortress. So long as they didn't get under foot or linger in sensitive areas, they could go wherever they pleased.
After three days of pitching in, the general attitude seemed to be cautious acceptance. Even so, Caramella couldn't shake the feeling that she was an animal under observation. For every appreciative look or word of thanks, there was a suspicious glance or a softly breathed curse.
The interior of the citadel was made of cold, gray stone, the windows were small and set high up, and the doors were all constructed of dark hardwood reinforced by iron. But those walls were draped in rich tapestries, the windows allowed in plenty of light, and the heavy doors opened onto well furnished chambers. This Fortress had housed officers of the Royal Navy, a certain degree of luxury was to be expected.
And at the Fortress's heart was a courtyard spacious enough to accommodate a commerce raider like the HMS Eagle with room to spare. Officially, it was an aerodrome meant to dock the Royal Yacht. In fact, it was the entrance to a tunnel system bored straight through the White Isle from top to bottom. At some point in the past architects had expanded on the natural cavity, branching outwards to form storage chambers, galleries, and an extensive dock hidden in the mists below.
They made their way downwards, the smooth stone walls giving way to cruder construction of an earlier era until they came to stand before a pair of towering oak doors. The guards spared them only a brief glance before admitting them into what Caramella could only think of as a medieval command center.
The chamber was pentagonal with a high domed ceiling supported by stout wooden beams and stone pillars. Light from a half dozen chandeliers revealed an immense map of Albion dominating one wall, showing details down to the smallest village, while a table near the center of the room held a painstakingly crafted model of the Isle.
Asuna was leaning over the map table, Prince Wales at her side. Her wings would have made the Maeve hard to miss even if her brilliant white and red coat had not. But more than just that, Asuna simply screamed 'princess'. From the second they had arrived at Newcastle, she had kept the royal advisers, and even the King himself, on the back foot.
"You're late," the curved blade user Shio commented. The man stood leaning against a pillar, his dull red oriental armor seeming to eat up the light around him.
"I'm sorry, we're running on a schedule now? Like normal people?" Caramella asked.
Shio shrugged, "Last one here, makes you late."
'Bite me' she mouthed to the dark haired man.
"If that's everyone," Asuna looked up from the table, "we can begin."
Caramella observed a new gauntness in the Maeve's cheeks. She didn't think Asuna was sleeping much. Or eating much for that matter.
They'd all dealt with death before, there wasn't a single person in Aincrad who hadn't lost someone they considered a friend. This was a different. Nobody could remember a time when so many 'civilians' had been slaughtered at once.
'What the hell kind of business did they have getting themselves killed?' Caramella thought angrily.
"Thank you all for lending us your time," Prince Wales began. "We have asked you here seeking volunteers for a dangerous mission." The Prince's eyes narrowed. "If successful, this will ensure that the final attack is all the more costly for the Rebels." There were nods and muttered comments of approval from Wales' men.
"In exchange for our assistance, the Royalists have agreed to help smuggle us to the Continent," Asuna explained to the Faeries. "They are currently conducting maintenance on the Eagle and preparing her for a blockade run. The ship should be ready by morning."
Wales gestured for the gathered Fae and mages to step up to the table. "For the last several weeks the Rebels have been intermittently bombarding Newcastle. It appears that they have finally resolved the deficiencies in their supply lines. That is, the deficiencies we have not been assisting them with."
Another chuckle rose from the surrounding mages. Men who were laughing in the face of death.
"This is the town of Wallsend, located ten leagues south of Newcastle." Wales pointed to a small dot on a map of the Isle and then to a detailed map of the town itself. "There is a powder mill located outside the town. It is a site of Rebel gunpowder production. We're going to destroy it."
"Prince Wales." One of the mages near the back of the crowd waved to draw the Prince's attention.
"Yes Lucane?"
Lucane stepped forward, a dark haired man with the lean build of a dedicated soldier. "My Prince, this is a vital mission. I speak for every man here when I say I would be honored to join you. But . . . forgive me my Prince, can we trust these Firstborns?"
"And what is that supposed to mean, exactly?" Shio said dangerously. The other Knights of Blood nodded as they traded looks with the Halkegenian knights.
"Lucane, you will explain yourself," Wales ordered.
"I merely mean to say that they are not committed to our cause. Surely our own knights can better see to this mission. On their own."
With every word out of the man's mouth, the urge in Caramella to strangle him grew stronger. They were committed alright. Whether they liked it or not.
Wales stared at his subordinate. "Lucane, you were knighted just after the rebellion began, correct?"
"Yes, my Prince." Lucane nodded. "For proving myself valiantly in battle over the fields of Lexington. My squadron held the the traitorous Dragon Knights at bay for hundreds of our comrades to escape."
Wales nodded. "Dragons are fierce creatures. Tell me Lucane, how many dragons have you slain?"
The knight paused as if not understanding the question. "I slew two Rebel knights and their mounts before my own dragon was killed beneath me." The other mages gave approving murmurs.
"Then you and Lady Asuna share something in common," Wales explained with a sort of casualness that made everything sound like small talk.
"Excuse me, my Prince?" Lucane looked confused.
"The dragons. You've both slain two," Wales explained, watching as Lucane looked to the winged girl still standing calmly beside the Prince. "Of course, Lady Asuna did so on foot, and without the benefit of magic."
"Impossible," Lucane's opinion was shared by the rest of the Prince's men.
"I would have thought the same," Wales replied, "if I had not seen it for myself."
"It was luck more than anything," Asuna added casually. "The dragons were committed to their attack."
The young knight's eyes widened. "Forgive me, my Prince. It seemed too fantastic to be true I . . ." Wales placed a hand on Lucane's shoulder and smiled kindly.
"As I said, I would not have believed it myself. You are correct that the Fae do not wield the advantage of magic, but their physical prowess more than compensates." Wales turned to look back at Asuna, "They are not wed to our cause. This is true. But I do not doubt they will honor our bargain."
"Thank you, Prince Wales." Asuna nodded curtly.
"If that is your decision my Prince," Lucane said, the man looking suitably chastened. "Forgive me for speaking out."
Wales shook his head. "There is nothing to forgive. Returning to the matter at hand. The Wallsend mills are responsible for supplying the forces besieging Newcastle. Until recently, the largest hold up in black powder production has been the Rebels' difficulty in acquiring a steady supply of sulfur, but that appears to have been solved."
"Our few friends on the Continent could only delay their procurement for so long," a gray haired man offered apologetically.
"To every challenge the Founder offers us a solution, Paris." Wales smiled evilly. "And in this, God and the Founder have been most generous in supplying us with the means to destroy the mill and its stocks."
"We'll attack under the cover of darkness and use their own gunpowder stock in a demolition," Asuna elaborated in a clinical voice. "While our main strike force neutralizes the sentries and prevents the alarm from being raised, a second unit will enter the mill and use the black powder to destroy it completely."
"The Rebels are scheduled to take stock of a large shipment at the end of the week. The mill's stores should be near full," Wales added. "This will be a dangerous mission. Wallsend is one of the nearest outposts supporting the siege, it will certainly possess a reinforced garrison."
Caramella raised a hand, "Not to poke holes in your brilliant plan or anything. But this town . . ."
"Yes?" Wales asked.
"It's out there, and we're in here. How exactly are we getting around that little roadblock?"
Wales shrugged. "That too, the Rebels have provided for. Their bombardment has left much of Newcastle a shattered ruin. All the debris makes it difficult for earth mages to take accurate soundings, so Reconquista still does not know the full lay of the city. Under cover of dark a small force may slip by.
Asuna planted her hands on the table. "I won't force any of you to participate. But it needs to be done to pay for our passage. Even if nobody else volunteers, I will still go."
The Faeries were all silent, and for a moment Caramella had to wonder why. It wasn't like they hadn't all volunteered for raids before. And they had all fought and seen people killed before. Then she realized what it was. They'd all volunteered before and they'd all seen people killed before, but they'd never volunteered to kill.
Shio was the first to raise his hand. Caramella followed a moment later, then Kino and Ivan. Slowly the number of volunteers climbed until it reached a dozen. The ones who hadn't raised their hands looked almost ashamed. Caramella didn't blame them. If she could keep anyone else from having their hands stained red then it would be worth it.
When Wales called for volunteers from among his own men, the young knight Lucane was the first to step forward.
"The difficulty of this mission won't just be in the execution," Asuna said. "We'll have a hard time getting into position as well."
"That is part of why I negotiated for the assistance of the Fae. Speed will be of the essence both before and after the mission," Wales explained, "and endurance will also be vital. We will have to cover the ten leagues to Wallsend and then return in a single night. Are you all certain that you still wish to volunteer?"
Though they had been hesitant to step forward, none of the Fae made so much as a move to step down.
The white room was as cold as a morgue and as sterile as a surgical theater. Which was a considerable improvement from the state in which the Tudors had left it.
The Lady Sheffield's heels clicked across the enameled tile, stepping over the many thin channels meant to drain away the blood and less seemly fluids.
The chamber had been cleansed at her instruction and secured behind layers of magical defenses. She had thought it might be useful to prepare such a place in the event she ever happened across an intriguing sample.
In all truth, she had not expect so many.
They were packed to the walls in three rows of ten. Pale ghostly flesh tinged gray in the cold harsh magelight.
Their arms and armor, and any jewelry on their person, had been stripped from them and sent on to her staff elsewhere in the city. She would take the time to examine the artifacts later. But for now, this required her supervision.
The physicians had done their work while the bodies were being transported from Skiesedge to Londinium. Dissecting the dead with the same skill and care they would have employed on the living.
A great deal of what they had gleaned was of interest to Sheffield. To start, even the practitioners of this land had been able to determine that the Fae's bodies had been created, not born.
They were certainly alive. Or had been, in any case. Their organs and gross musculature perfectly formed. But with no sign of ever having grown to their stature. No old injuries among the oldest, no half hardened growth plates, even among the youngest. No signs of age at all in fact. As if they were newborn from whole cloth.
It was a curiosity which eluded Sheffield. Her first thought . . . Windalfr . . . But this was not in line with the legendary accounts of the Right Hand of God. It was not in line with any account of the power of Void.
"Milady." A tall and fiery haired woman waited beside one of the stretchers, her hands clasped neatly, "I have done what I can to repair the damage inflicted by these savages. But I fear my best efforts may fall short."
"I am given to believe the Captain's men had some difficulty dispatching them with lesser means, Isabella," Sheffield answered. Which spoke volumes about their composition.
"I was referring to the surgeons."
"Our hospitality does not meet your standards?" Isabella froze in place like a deer shocked by a sudden sound.
Sheffield was forced to admit the man had talent for making himself appear at will. The dull priestly robes seeming to blur into shape out of the harsh shadows cast into the corners of the chamber.
"I meant no disrespect, Milord," Isabella was quick to explain herself, "simply that Albion is not naturally furnished with the accommodations I am used to."
"It will be of little cause for concern," Cromwell smiled as he examined the Faeries all neatly arranged. "The power granted to me by God shall make it so."
The Lady Sheffield tilted her head. Cromwell had been a useful implement for her master. But usefulness had little to do with his selection. Rather, her master had found the man to be interesting. Very few men could act so sanely in the face of such purified delusion.
Isabella stepped backed. "As you say, Milord."
"Now then. Where shall we begin?"
"We have already selected a suitable candidate." Sheffield stepped in to guide the Lord Protector before he made his decisions on some flight of whimsy. "Judging by his armaments and armor we believe he was of high status, and would be best to begin with."
Isabella led the way to the body of a middle aged man, his features gaunt and severe. He was draped to the chest in white linen, but not even that could entirely mask the damage the Captain had inflicted.
Cromwell surveyed the cadaver thoughtfully. "They appear before us just as our victory is assured, only that we swat them away like flies. Such a waste, wouldn't you say?" And most fascinating of all, Cromwell seemed to believe what he said.
"But there is no reason for us to be enemies now is there." The man placed his left hand over the cadaver's brow and stroked down across its face. A glimmer of light caught in the jewel of his ring and passed from his hand into the corpse's mouth.
There was a moment of stillness that seized the air. Then the soft hiss of breath leaving lifeless lungs. Eyes opened as the body lifted itself at the waist.
Sheffield stood unmoved. She had observed the ritual before, and so there was nothing of interest. But Isabella stood back, ever so slightly unnerved by what she witnessed.
"Fate made us enemies, but in death we shall become good friends." Cromwell spoke with the self satisfaction of a child. "Now then, I shall want you to tell me, tell me all about yourself . . ."
The deck of the Lady Gallant was quiet as the ship sailed onward towards its rendezvous. 'Quiet is supposed to be good,' Guiche thought, or so his brothers had told him. Quiet meant everything was going to plan. But alas, it certainly was boring as well.
Watching the vistas below had been a pleasant enough way to pass the time while they sailed over the continent, but once they had reached the sea it seemed that nothing could be more bland. The monotony of blue beneath them had only been replaced with a monotony of white all around them as they hit the cloud banks surrounding Albion.
In the meantime, there were better things to be using his eyes for. Much better things.
After witnessing her talents first hand, a less ambitious man might have tempered his interest. But such beauty could give courage to even the weakest heart, and a Gramont was if anything an admirer of beauty.
Guiche watched on with admiration as Midori swung her sword through a series of short, controlled strikes. The blade's motion was smooth and fluid, the forms as relentlessly beautiful as the young swordswoman wielding it.
At last Midori ceased, flourishing her sword before returning it to its sheath with a look of reluctant satisfaction. Wiping her brow with a borrowed handkerchief she made her way to the opposite side of the ship, stretching languidly as she went.
Guiche observed carefully as he approached. As with all things worth pursuing, there was an artistry to courtship. In his experience, Midori would be set in her duty. Being seen to interfere would only serve to agitate her. She had to be made receptive, the dance had to be enjoyed by both parties.
"Miss Midori." He played with the idea of conjuring up a bouquet of bronze flowers but discarded it, though perfect for charming some girls, he had the impression that it would be much too direct.
The swordswoman spared him a brief glance and a small nod before returning her attention to the clouds. In the dying light, the white mist was stained a faint, bloody pink.
"You were in masterful form today," Guiche said carefully.
Yes, a girl like Midori was devoted to her craft. In his experience, no doubt beneath her mask lay a pure and innocent maiden waiting to be coaxed from her shell.
She seemed to study him as if deciding whether to answer and then snorted softly. "The footwork was junk," she said. "Just three months to get this soft . . . Or maybe . . . "
Guiche wondered if he should press further but decided against it. "Nonsense," he said. "Even father would have been impressed. Before, you mentioned it was a sword style of the Far East? Then is it from your homeland?"
"My homeland?" Midori suddenly frowned. "Who told you that?"
"Ah, I did not mean to assume." Though he could swear he had seen eyes like that somewhere before. At the Academy perhaps? Certainly in his imagination!
Seeming satisfied with his answer, the swordswoman shrugged. "Well . . . I wouldn't know for sure," Midori said carefully.
Guiche puzzled at the reply, then it all clicked. "Oh . . . I see," he said slowly. Yes, that explained it. The men who led the caravans through the Elven territories had gained a reputation for daring and adventure. It was easy to see how such a thing might come to pass.
"My apologies, Miss Midori," he said respectfully, and found he suddenly meant it. "It must have made life difficult for you."
The girl shrugged. "There are more important things than blood. Anyway, I was loved like their own by the people who raised me, so I can't complain. As for my sword style, some is self taught, the rest is from . . . very far away."
"Well, it does suit you," Guiche complimented. "A sword style of rare grace for a swordswoman of rare beauty." Guiche congratulated himself on that last part and waited expectantly. A strange expression flashed across Midori's face, and then she looked away. Ah, had he perhaps been too forward?
"Please, stop it," she said quietly.
"I beg your pardon?"
Midori turned to face him fully, and even though she had to look up at him, he had the strangest impression that he was being looked down upon. "I've turned a blind eye to it because of our mission, but it's becoming a problem. Just what do you think you're doing?"
Guiche blinked a few times. This was . . . new. He'd lost count of the number of times that a girl had flown into a rage at him. But he had never received this look of simple disappointment.
"Well . . . that is to say . . . " Guiche struggled to offer an explanation before falling back on his old standby. "I was simply admiring your beauty. From the moment I saw you, you captured my heart and . . ."
"I captured your heart?" Midori asked. "Really? What about that girl you were talking about over dinner last night? What was her name? Monmon?"
"Montmorency?" Guiche offered weakly, "You were listening?"
"You wouldn't shut up." The swordswoman coolly brushed aside a stray strand of hair.
"Ah. You misunderstand. Montmorency is a dear acquaintance, and we are tied by much affection. But in romance, she has never held my attentions."
"How many girls have you done this with?" Midori asked with a bite of steel in her voice.
"N-none, I swear." Guiche tried to think quickly. It appeared he had already lost this round, he had botched things from the start. "Perhaps I have been too forward, but that is only because I am certain that this is love at first sight!"
Midori stared, hair blowing in the breeze. Her expression softened. So his last hand had worked! Then why did she look so sad? Midori shook her head slowly. "Guiche, you . . . sicken me."
"W-what?" Guiche stuttered. It was a familiar insult, but never had it been delivered so calmly.
"You can't play with people's hearts like this," Midori said softly. "It's not a game."
Guiche's expression soured and with that came a flush of embarrassment. "What's wrong with making it a game?"
It wasn't like the girls didn't know what was going on. He wasn't that good a liar. They had to convince themselves for the most part, they had to play along. Didn't they?
A spark of anger flashed across Midori's face. "It will rot something that should be very precious. I can't respect a person who whores himself out while calling it love."
Guiche was left speechless. "And what would some savage bastard girl know about love?!" Guiche spat. Really, what right did she have talking down to him like that?
Midori turned back to the clouds, her expression growing melancholic. A closed hand came to rest against her chest, hovering over her heart. "It's not a game. The bonds between people, they are the only thing we have to put our faith in. Don't cheapen them like that."
Guiche's breathing slowed and he blinked rapidly as he tried to understand. Guiche wanted to kick himself, there surely had been signs. "Your heart . . . It already belongs to someone, doesn't it? A lover?"
Her face set in a rigid mask. "My spouse."
Already wed? Not unusual for a girl her age, but then if she was married, what business did Midori have as a soldier? Surely she should be elsewhere seeing to a home and a family. But that didn't excuse his own behavior towards another man's wife.
"Miss Midori, please accept my apology. I've been a bit of a heel it seems," Guiche said awkwardly. He wasn't used to admitting fault like so.
Midori gave another small shrug. "It's okay," she said. "I went too far as well. You're a guy after all." Guiche was left confused by the hint of sympathy in her voice. "Just, please . . . stop this. My mission will be hard enough without you making a fool of yourself."
Guiche began to reply when the sound of approaching footsteps reached him. "Good. You're both here," Viscount Wardes said. The Captain of the Griffin Knights glanced between his two companions. "Am I . . . interrupting something?"
"Nothing," Midori said as if truly nothing had happened.
Guiche simply shook his head in agreement. He spared Midori one more glance, but that pained look had completely disappeared. She was now leaning against the railing, calmly regarding the Viscount.
"Very well . . . I've spoken with the Captain. He says that we should reach York by late evening, the winds permitting. We'll have to hold for inspection once we reach the port."
"Will it be a problem?" Midori asked.
The Viscount waved a dismissive hand. "We have nothing to hide. Once we're in York, we may want to stay in the city until morning."
"More waiting?" Midori asked with another flash of anger. Patience seemed to be the only virtue that she lacked.
The Viscount pulled down on the brim of his hat. "We could always depart immediately. But the roads beyond the city are treacherous, and we could use the time to gain a grasp of the situation as it is."
"Then . . . I'll just have to defer to your wisdom," Midori said calmly.
"We do ourselves no favors by taking unnecessary risks," Wardes said. "And from the news I've heard, Reconquista is not yet prepared to move on Newcastle en mass. The Fortress will still stand in another day's time."
Midori nodded and said nothing more. The skies were growing dark, the evening sky tinged a pale dim blue as the sun sank beneath the horizon. But there was still enough light to see by. And through the clouds ahead, the darkness began to grow deeper.
Guiche squinted. At his side, Midori moved towards the bow of the ship, climbing up on part of the rigging despite the protests of the crew. A shadow was emerging from the cloud banks, taking on depth and substance as it stretched off for as far as the eye could see in either direction.
Guiche licked his lips. Even in the waning light he had no words to describe it. It was like looking end on at the edge of the world, tall cliffs shrouded in curtains of mist which spilled into the clouds.
There were whistles and calls from the men on duty, and the ship's captain began to shout orders to the deck hands, turning the ship north so that they might come in over the gently sloping lowlands.
"Miss, Miss you need to get down from there!" the Captain called. "Blast it girl! We have to bring in those sails. Do you want to get knocked off!"
So softly that Guiche had to strain to hear, Midori spoke. "That's it. Isn't it?"
"Indeed," Viscount Wardes replied. "Albion. The White Isle."