Chapter Two
The Royal Palace, Kingdom of Tristain, 18th day of Feoh
The hallway rang with the sound of heavy boots on marble.
The cause of the racket was Agnes de Milan, Captain of the Guard and Captain of the Queen's Musketeer Company. As she strode along the corridor, the columns and gilt-framed windows looming tall around her, maids and lesser functionaries scampered out of her way. Few in the palace, even among the nobles, dared risk her wrath.
They were wise not to, especially not in the morning. Her day had begun just before dawn, with a bucket of icy water and a breakfast of bread and milk. She had then overseen the changing of the day and night guards, the latter gratefully retreating to their barracks to eat and sleep. She had spent the following hours inspecting the walls, the gates, the doors, the armoury, and all of a thousand-and-one little things that had to be checked daily if the palace was to be kept secure.
Then, and only then, was she ready to perform her single most important duty; her daily audience with the Queen.
A handful of richly-dressed nobles were already hanging around the double doors of the Queen's apartments. No doubt they hoped she was in the mood to grant them audience before the rush started. In an hour or so that outer chamber would be crammed with petitioners, officials, courtiers, and other hangers-on, seeking the Queen's attention for one thing or another.
The nobles looked up at the sound of her approach, and began removing themselves from her path in as nonchalant a manner as they could manage. For the most part their expressions were carefully neutral, but Agnes could still see it in one or two pairs of eyes; the contempt, the disgust, the humiliation that her presence, her mere existence, condemned them to endure. As a commoner, and a woman, she would ordinarily have had no place in that magnificent hall except to clean it. But she was a Chevalier, in the green surcoat of the Musketeers, emblazoned with Tristain's lily in white, a sword at her hip and a pistol holstered at her waist. Her presence, her mere existence, was an overturning of what Brimir had ordained.
It was also a reminder that the Queen no longer trusted them. It reminded them of their shame, of Reconquista.
Two of her fellow Musketeers were standing either side of the door, each carrying a ceremonial halberd. As she drew close, both rapped their halberds on the floor, the blows reverberating like thunderclaps through the marble hall. The doors opened, and there stood a portly gentleman clad in finely-tailored white and gold, a silver staff of office in his white-gloved hand. It was Francois de la Porte, the Grand Chamberlain, whose myriad duties included managing the never-ending flow of audience-seekers.
"Agnes, Chevalier de Milan, Captain of the Guard," he declared. "Her Majesty is expecting you."
Without waiting for her to respond, he turned on his heel. Agnes fell in behind him, following him along another corridor, and turning right into the Queen's private office. The Queen was seated at the great desk, the elderly Cardinal Mazarin at her side. She looked small in the high-backed chair, her pale blue eyes gaze fixed on a document. Though she looked every inch the Queen, clad in a gown of purest white, a silver tiara in her purple hair, her countenance was gentle, almost innocent.
But Agnes' eyes were fixed on the young woman standing across the desk from the Queen. She was about Agnes' age, with dark skin, a narrow nose, and long black hair. She wore a short, expensive-looking buff coat with leggings and high boots, and a rapier sheathed at her waist. She had an air of easy confidence about her that grated on Agnes' nerves.
"The Chevalier de Milan, your Majesty," La Porte introduced her. The Queen looked up, her frown of concentration replaced by a friendly smile.
"Ah, Agnes," Henrietta greeted her. "So good of you to come. Are your rounds complete for the morning?"
"Yes, your Majesty, all is well." Agnes forced herself not to stare at the interloper, instead inclining her head respectfully to the Cardinal; who acknowledged her with the slightest of nods.
"Excellent. Since you're here, there's something important I wish to share with you." The Queen gestured at the newcomer. "This is the Chevalier Alice la Durant, formerly of the Griffon Squadron. She has been carrying out a mission for me in Germania. Alice, this is..."
"Agnes de Milan." Alice stepped towards her, holding out a gloved hand. "I've heard much of your exploits."
She was smiling, but there was something in the smile that set Agnes' teeth on edge. It was that same easy confidence, the self-assurance of one who had spent her entire life being what Agnes could never be, not matter how hard she tried.
"Madame le Chevalier." Agnes took the proferred hand cautiously, knowing it was expected of her. "I fear you have the advantage of me."
"Alice has been away for some time," the Queen explained. She smiled pleasantly, and Agnes got the impression she was pleased with the way the encounter was going. "Thankfully, she was not involved in the treachery of the Mage Guards."
"I am glad to hear it," Agnes said, fixing the Chevalier with a hard gaze. She would not soon forget those dark days, when it had seemed all was lost. She would not soon forget that terrible night, when the old Queen, sick and dying, had handed her a list of names and bidden her do her duty. In her darker moments she remembered their faces, their eyes, staring through the prison bars. Some had raged, banged on the doors, called her a peasant whore and vowed all manner of horrid vengeance. Others had wept despairing tears, pleaded their innocence, begged on their knees to be allowed to go into battle, to prove that they were not traitors.
Some of them had been released quickly, and had been allowed to prove themselves in battle. Some had remained longer, waiting out the war while their homes were searched, their friends and families questioned, their lives sifted, weighed, and measured for the slightest speck of treason. For those found wanting, there could be only one fate.
Agnes did not regret it. She had no right to regret it.
"Unfortunately, that connection is relevant to our business here today," the Cardinal interjected grimly. "The Chevalier has just come from Lusatia, bringing a message from Prince Frederick and Princess Elizabeth."
"I'm not familiar with that place," Agnes admitted, biting down her embarrassment. Another unwanted reminder that she had not been born to stand in that chamber, or wear that uniform. Her education had gone little beyond reading and writing, the most that might be expected of an orphaned peasant girl.
"It's one of Germania's two principalities in the east," Alice explained, still smiling. "The larger and nicer one. Her Majesty asked me to deliver a message of congratulations on their recent accession, and to sound out their future intentions."
"I don't follow."
"Perhaps it would be better to explain from the start, Alice," the Queen asked. "I'd like to hear your findings."
"As your Majesty wishes." Alice cleared her throat. "As far as I could ascertain, the Prince and Princess were enthroned as compromise candidates between the Protestant and Orthodox factions in the Imperial Diet. My sources tell me the meeting dragged on for three days and involved at least one duel, which means they were taking things seriously."
"I suppose it's no surprise," the Queen comment. "Tell me, from whence does Prince Frederick hail?"
"He was the Count of Furztviel, in Lubeck," Alice answered. "He was only tolerable to the Orthodox magnates only because of his marriage to Elizabeth."
"Ah, yes, Furtzviel," the Queen mused awkwardly. "A very…pleasant place I'm told. Well known for…beans, I believe and…leather shorts?"
"It sounds like a dump," said Agnes sourly.
"It is a dump," Alice agreed. "Frederick only got Elizabeth because he had a shot at being Landgrave of Lubeck. From what my sources told me, the Emperor put him forward as a compromise candidate; a Protestant with an Orthodox wife of Royal blood, with no real power base of his own."
"Royal blood?" Agnes asked, intrigued.
"Elizabeth was a Stuart by birth," the Queen explained. "She has a claim on the crown of Albion, albeit a weak one. The Duke of Marcillac is Regent for the moment, but he isn't getting any younger, and he depends on Handenburg's army to maintain control."
"I take it you see the problem?" hazarded Alice.
"When Marcillac dies or retires, Elizabeth may take the throne," Agnes replied, forcing herself to ignore Alice's condescension. "She will be Queen of Albion, with a Germanian husband, a Germanian army, and beholden to the Protestant magnates."
"Three out of three!" Alice proclaimed cheerfully.
"I'm sure you can see the danger, Captain," added the Cardinal grimly. "Albion will become little more than a Germanian province. Romalia will not take this lying down, and there's no telling how Gallia will react, not with that madman Joseph on the throne. As for the Orthodox magnates…" He trailed off, and to Agnes he looked so very, very old. She looked again at the Queen, who seemed to be deep in thought.
"The half-elf?" Agnes almost shivered as she thought of that innocent girl, born of a Duke of Albion and an Elvish woman, who had lived all her life in the forest. That innocent girl, who was the niece of Albion's last King.
"Could she possible mean to…?"
"I almost forgot to ask," the Queen spoke up. "What news have you of the Emperor?"
Alice's smile faded. She drew a long breath.
"I was unable to gain an audience," she replied. "The business of government continues, but he has not been seen in public for over a month. There are…rumours of a stomach problem."
"You're saying the Emperor is dying?" demanded Agnes, a cold knife twisting in her gut.
"If so, the consequences may be dire." The Queen's countenance was grim. "He has not named an heir, and the magnates may not be able to decide on one among themselves. If it comes to civil war, the whole of Halkeginia may be drawn in."
The atmosphere in the chamber had turned gloomy. Agnes understood in that moment why the Queen had entrusted her to listen to such business. In months, or weeks, or maybe even days, Tristain could be at war once again, with all or part of Germania, and Founder-knew who else.
"I am at your disposal, your Majesty." It was all she could think of to say.
"I never doubted it, Agnes." The Queen seemed to find her resolve. "After what happened in Albion, it is clear that we must reconsider the kingdom's defences. We must mend the roads, stockpile supplies, and see to it that the border fortresses are manned. It may be necessary to raise a permanent army."
"The expense will be considerable, your Majesty," warned the Cardinal. "The towns already voted a considerable sum to cover the Albion war expenses, and to replace your Majesty's furniture. They may not take kindly to new calls for funds."
"We will have to take it slowly," the Queen replied. "Also, Agnes, I am considering expanding my guards." She looked at Agnes expectantly. "Do you suppose another company of musketeers would be viable?"
"By all means, your Majesty," Agnes declared. "My officers and I stand ready to train the new recruits as soon as you wish it."
"Excellent!" The Queen suddenly smiled. "I wonder if it should be a company of male musketeers this time. In blue perhaps?"
"Y…your Majesty!" Agnes spluttered, shocked at the suggestion. "Your Majesty…your Majesty's position!"
"Oh calm down Agnes!" The Queen giggled, while Alice let out a barking laugh. "I'm not going to give them your company's duties! You think I want young men staring at me in my bath?"
Agnes bit down her anger. She felt foolish for having been teased. Of course she wasn't going to raise male guards for such duties. It was unthinkable for a Princess, or a Queen, to be seen by a man while in her bed, or her bath, or at her toilette. The all-female musketeers had been raised for precisely that reason.
"Agnes, since your musketeers guard me, your company shall be senior," the Queen went on. "But if I were to raise a company or two more, would you do me the honour of accepting overall command?"
Agnes felt her cheeks burn. Command of many companies? A whole regiment? She never would have imagined it!
"I…it would be my honour to accept your commission, your Majesty!" Agnes snapped to attention and bowed.
"And you, Alice?" The Queen turned to Alice. "Would you care to remain in my service?"
"Of course, your Majesty." Alice smiled and bowed. "Though with the Griffon Knights disbanded, I fear I have no position here."
"Nevertheless, you have proven your worth, and I would have you remain." The Queen cocked an eyebrow. "Unless you wish to return to Gallia?"
"I am in your Majesty's service, for as long as you wish it."
"Excellent!" The Queen beamed, and Agnes saw something of the young girl she still was. Alice turned to face her, and held out her hand.
"I would be pleased to serve alongside you, Agnes Chevalier de Milan." Agnes looked down at the hand, then up at Alice. Her eyes were sincere, at least.
"And I you, Alice Chevalier la Durant." She took the proffered hand, and hoped she would never regret it.
Lutece, Kingdom of Gallia, 22nd Day of Feoh
There were not many cities like Lutece.
None in all of Halkeginia could match it for size, or magnificence. Some five hundred-thousand men, women, and children lived within its sprawling limits, reaching over several thousand mails either side of the Shire River. Warehouses and docks crowded along the riverside, storing and transferring the river trade that brought the city so much of its wealth. Magnificent bridges spanned the wide river at regular intervals, masterfully constructed to as to let the river boats and barges pass effortlessly beneath them.
The city had been extensively remodeled during the reign of King Joseph's father. The ramshackle rookeries had been burned and built over, condemning their inhabitants to seek shelter elsewhere or else wait in crowded camps around the city. The sewers, first installed in the days of Julio Cesare, were repaired and expanded. New buildings of brick, stone, and marble had replaced the wood, wattle and daub that had gone before. Narrow alleys had been widened and equipped with pavements, ostensibly for their beautification, but also to make it harder for rebellious citizens to barricade them. The main streets had been widened into long, broad boulevards, lined with trees and statues. These connected all the main buildings and quarters of the city, as well as providing a fine venue for religious and civic processions, and even the newly fashionable military parades.
But on this particular night, the city was more magnificent, and more vibrant, than at any other time of the year. Merry chaos reigned amid music and dancing. Every fountain flowed with wine of every colour known, and well before midnight were strewn with paralytic revelers. Nobles and commoners reveled alike, barely knowing each other for their masks and costumes. Every street was a riot of colour and a cacophony of joy.
Not that any of this impressed Majid. The city was not bad by Halkeginian standards, at least in the daylight, but it still could not compare to the glory of Cyrasalem, or Tehdad, or Damas. At least the streets were well-paved, which was more than could be said for some of the places he and his young master had passed through.
It was the debauchery all around him that truly got on his nerves. Rich and poor alike had squandered their wealth on sumptuous costumes and masks, all for the purpose of cavorting in the streets, throwing dignity and propriety to the wind. He had watched in disbelief and disgust as they stuffed their mouths with food, and poured liquor down their throats as if it were water, the object in both cases seeming to be to get as much on themselves as in their bellies.
The second-worst part was that his young master seemed to be loving every minute of it. He had actually enjoyed wandering from tavern to wine shop to drinking pit, regaling the revelers with music they were too inebriated to possibly appreciate. Worse, they found the bawdy folk songs of Gallia and Romalia far more entertaining than anything Arysian he had sung for them.
But even that, even all that, could not compare to the desecration inflicted on his ears.
"Majid!" Suleiman called, his voice slurring noticeably. "Why the long face?"
"I don't have a long face, young master."
"Come on Majid!" Suleiman swigged from a bottle of Cyras-knew-what he had acquired at their last venue. "It's carnival night! Try smiling!"
"I am smiling." And this was true, strictly-speaking. His current facial expression was about as close to a smile as it had ever been.
"Come now Majid!" Suleiman proclaimed fulsomely. "It's a glorious night! And those ears make you look distinguished!"
Majid shuddered. It wasn't enough that his young master had insisted on exposing his ears during the festivities. He had somehow been talked into letting some hack of a mage alter his own ears to match. It wasn't painful as such, and the mage had assured him that his ears would return to normal by morning. But he couldn't seem to forget that they were there, and it seemed like every other person they encountered was staring at them.
A strange whooping cry shocked Majid out of his funk. He turned to see a group of richly-dressed revelers pointing at them.
"Oooh look! Elves!"
"Elves are in the city!"
"Oh save me, save me!"
Majid's hand dropped to his chakrams, and froze there as the obviously inebriated partygoers burst into peals of laughter. Suleiman was laughing too.
"Fear not, fair maiden!" proclaimed one of the revelers, an aristocrat from the look of him, wearing an oversized hat with several very large feathers sticking out of it. "I shall unleash the power of my mighty wand!" He reached under his cloak, and with a flourish swept out a very long sausage. His companions fell about laughing. Majid was resisting the urge to grab the indecent food item and bludgeon the infuriating sot to death with it. He wasn't entirely sure how he would do this, but he was certain it would come to him.
He was about to give it a try, when Suleiman suddenly pushed his half-empty liquor bottle into his hands.
"Flee puny humans!" he exclaimed, raising his hands in a series of bizarre gestures. "Flee before the power of the Elves! Fear the thunder and the wind!"
He let loose a particularly long and loud burp. The revelers laughed even louder, some of them rolling on the ground. Suleiman beamed, evidently enjoying himself.
"Young master!" Majid snarled, on the verge of losing his temper. The sight of his young master clowning around in the street, for the benefit of a pack of reprobates, was enough to make his blood boil.
"Oh lighten up Majid!" Suleiman slurred, with just an edge of irritation, taking back his bottle. "We never get to…" he hiccupped, "loosen up any!"
"It's the troubadour!"
The exclamation took both of them by surprise. It had not come from Suleiman's erstwhile audience, for they had wandered off. Both looked, and saw that it had come from a young girl standing close by. She looked to be about Suleiman's age, with long blue hair and turquoise eyes. Her shapely body was clad in a blue gown bedecked with ribbons and lace, much like what the other female revelers were wearing, and she held a blue dragon mask in her hand.
"Kyui!" the girl proclaimed.
"Young lady!" Suleiman's face split into a drunken grin as he bowed rather unsteadily. The girl giggled, but not with the amused contempt Majid would have expected. Despite her appearance, there was something distinctly innocent about her, almost childlike.
"What do you want?" he demanded, regarding her coldly. "Can't you see we're having a conversation?"
"You're not having a conversation!" the girl retorted, smiling too much. "You're yelling at him!"
"It's…!" Majid was so surprised that his words failed him. "It's none of your business!"
"Yes it is!" the girl replied, still smiling.
"No it isn't!" Majid snapped back.
"Yes it is!" Suleiman interjected, eyeing her with evident pleasure.
"No it isn't!"
"Yes it is!" The girl slid her arm through Suleiman's own. "I'm Irukuku! My big sister wants to say hello! And she wants you to play nice music, so Irukuku can sing pretty songs!" She winked at him, and Suleiman had a vision of paradise.
"He's not going anywhere with you!" Majid snapped, grabbing Suleiman's other arm. She was obviously nothing but trouble.
"Yes he is!" Irukuku insisted, pulling on his arm. "Big sister sent Irukuku to get him!"
"Let go of him!" Majid roared. He pulled, but to his surprise the girl's grip did not slacken. She was stronger than she looked.
"You let go!" the girl retorted, pouting in annoyance as she pulled.
"Ah-hah, Majid!" Suleiman laughed as his old friend and a cute girl pulled him back and forth. "Come on! No reason to fight!"
"Unhand my young master!" Majid barked. "Naughty lady of the night!"
"Let go of big sister's troubadour!" Majid could have sworn that Irukuku's canines were growing longer. "Big meanie!"
The Magic Academy, Kingdom of Tristain
All was quiet.
Or rather about as quiet as a place the size of Royal Tristain Academy of Magic could ever be. The students and faculty had long since retired to their rooms, but the servants would not do so for at least another hour. The maids performed their final rounds of the classrooms, laboratories, offices, and common rooms, ensuring that all was clean and in order. Down below stairs, the kitchen staff finished scouring the remnants of the evening meal from the cooking pots and crockery, while others stoked the great ovens with coal, ready for them to be lit the next morning.
But for the occasional maid, the corridors and gardens of the academy were deserted. As such, no one noticed the two cloaked figures hurrying from shadow to shadow.
"Keep up!" hissed the one in front. "Don't let anyone see you!"
"Yes!"
Both came to a halt, pressing their backs against the cold stones as they approached their final destination. The one in front, also the shorter of the two, poked her head around the corner.
"Miss Louise," the taller figure behind whispered nervously. "Are you sure this is all right?"
"What're you babbling about?" the shorter girl hissed. "Of course it's all right!"
"But then why are we…?"
"Come on!" The shorter girl grabbed her companion's hand and pulled. The taller girl squeaked in surprise, holding down her hat with her other hand as they hurried along the wall, coming to a halt by a wooden door. The shorter girl rapped a quick tattoo, and a hatch slid open at eye height. A pair of eyes glanced out at them, then the hatch slid shut and the door opened.
"Ah!" the shorter girl breathed, as the door was closed behind her. "We made it."
"Isn't Master Saito coming?" asked the maid, as she locked the door.
"No, Siesta, he isn't!" replied Louise la Blanc de la Valliere tersely. "We don't need him interfering!"
"But why would Mister Saito interfere?" Tiffania cocked her head, seemingly confused by her words. "I thought we weren't doing anything wrong."
"We aren't!" Louise gritted her teeth, trying to regain her composure.
She ought not to get angry. It wasn't appropriate for a noble, especially not one of her high birth, to lose her temper over someone who wasn't even trying to annoy her. But just about everything about Tiffania Westwood seemed to have been maliciously calculated to drive her to distraction. It wasn't that she was taller, by a considerable margin. It wasn't that long blonde hair, or that snow-white complexion, or the permanent look of guileless, child-like innocence in her bright blue eyes. It wasn't those perfectly-proportioned hips, those long legs. It wasn't even that Saito couldn't seem to keep his eyes, or his hands, off her for more than five minutes.
Louise wanted to scream. She could match that girl in every particular! Where Tiffania was tall, she was petite. Where her hair was blonde and straight, Louise's was an exotic pink and rather curly, but just as soft. Where Tiffania's eyes were a pretty blue, hers were an alluring purple inherited from her mother. Yes, she had something to offer for anything that girl could.
Except those…things. Those oversized…indecent…buxomly bouncing…
"I'm so grateful, Miss Louise," Tiffania said. There was something in her tone, something sincere, that eased Louise's anger. "It's so kind of you to help me like this."
"I…" Louise stammered, mastering herself. "It's really nothing at all, Tiffania. Think nothing of it!"
"It would be so wonderful to have my own Familiar." Tiffania clasped her hands over her chest, closing her eyes as if to better visualize her wish. "I can see how happy everyone is with their Familiars. They love each other so much."
"Well…yes, of course!" Louise tried to sound fulsome and wise. "To receive your Familiar is…a very important step on your road to becoming an excellent mage!"
"And in getting away from my Familiar, you top-heavy half-elf!" she thought, resisting the urge to smile villainously.
"After all," Tiffania went on. "You and Saito have such a loving bond."
Louise gaped like a fish, the words catching in her throat. Siesta doubled over, screeching with laughter. Tiffania looked from one to the other, bewildered at their reactions.
"Miss Louise…"
"I do not have a loving bond with that dog!" Louise shrieked, her anger inflamed by Siesta's laughter. "He's a lecherous beast who tries constantly to debauch me! And when he's not doing that, he's cavorting with the maid!" She jabbed finger at the guffawing Siesta. "And her Majesty! And Tabitha! And that Zerbst woman! And…!"
She ran out of breath, and her tirade came to a halt. Saito had always been a libidinous wretch, but ever since returning from Albion he had gotten worse and worse. He was carrying on as if she were not his master, but his wife.
It wasn't that the prospect didn't appeal, in either context. But she would be a lot more enthusiastic if he would stop provoking her all the time. She could never be quite sure whether he chased those other women because he desired them over her, or because he just couldn't control himself, or because he got some bizarre pleasure from driving her to distraction.
Louise mastered herself, her pleasure returning as she remembered her intent. In a few short hours, if even that, her latest competitor would be out of the running, perhaps for good.
She was taking a risk; a big risk. For a first year student to summon a Familiar was not unheard-of, but was against both tradition and the rules of the academy. Tiffania knew nothing of this, and Headmaster Osman was both generous and a colossal pervert, so she had nothing to worry about. Louise on the other hand…
She drove the thoughts away. She was Louise Francoise la Blanc de la Valliere, daughter of a Royal Duke, with the blood of Kings and the Founder Brimir in her veins. She was a bearer of the legendary Void, by dint of that sacred inheritance. Nobles such as herself did not bow to petty rules, or fear punishment.
"Anyway, come on!" she hissed, turning on her heel and heading for the stairs. "Quickly, before someone sees us!"
Lutece, Kingdom of Gallia
"Slattern!"
"Big bully!"
Suleiman watched as Majid and that rather attractive young lady continued their verbal bust-up. Majid roared and ranted, fists clenched at his sides, while Irukuku stamped and shrieked like a little girl. A small crowd of revelers had gathered to watch the entertainment, laughing and catcalling, mostly on Irukuku's side.
"Silence you stupid girl!"
"No! You got booze on Irukuku's pretty dress! You're a big meanie!"
Suleiman sighed. It had been fun at first, but the booze was starting to wear off. Besides, though he loved Majid like a brother, he wouldn't have spilt his drink all over Irukuku's delightful outfit if he hadn't been pulling so hard.
"I ought to put you over my knee!"
"Just you try! Big sister will turn you into a nematode!"
"What in the name of Cyras is a nematode?!"
"Irukuku doesn't know, but she'll turn you into one!"
Suleiman sighed again, and decided the time had come to stop the confrontation. He stood up, willing his drink-addled mind to think of something to say.
Then he saw it.
It was just hovering there, in the alley opposite. With their attention focused on Majid and Irukuku, no one seemed to have noticed it.
Curious, and glad of an excuse not to deal with those two, Suleiman headed towards it. His head felt as if it were stuffed with Damascene wool, and his gait was unsteady, but he managed to stagger into the alley. He blinked, and rubbed his eyes.
It was still there, hovering in mid-air in front of him. A circle surrounded a pentagon, which in turn contained a pentagram, glowing with unnatural light. Curious, made unwary by drink, Suleiman reached out to touch it.
All at once he was moving, falling through utter darkness. For an instant Suleiman's heart froze in blind terror. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out.
There was a crack, and the darkness fled, replaced by white smoke. Suleiman felt himself hit something, which fell to the ground with a thump. He landed on top of it, something warm and soft.
And then he was still.
For a few moments, Suleiman could not think. His mind was a blank, and he could not see or move. As his thoughts began to clear, he wondered what had happened.
"This is…my Familiar?" said a voice from very close by.
He looked up, his blurring vision focusing to show a young woman's face. She had hair the colour of fresh straw, bright blue eyes, and skin the colour of milk. Despite his inebriation, he registered the pointed ears reaching out from her golden hair, and the expression of mild astonishment. His face felt very warm and comfortable, as if it were nestled between two soft pillows. A quick glance down confirmed what his addled mind was trying to tell him.
"Am I in paradise?" he slurred. He could not have imagined seeing anything so beautiful in any other place.
"Oh fie!" Another voice drew his attention upward and to his left. He saw a young girl with very long pink hair, little more than a child to judge by her figure, gazing down at him with a look of undisguised contempt. "Tiffania! You've summoned a drunkard for your Familiar!"
"I'm sorry!" the girl upon whom Suleiman lay replied. Her voice was very high-pitched, but Suleiman could not quite understand what they were saying. It sounded like Gallian, but his grasp of the language was still limited.
"Oh but never mind!" the pink-haired girl went on, suddenly enthusiastic. "Kiss him and complete the ritual! Quickly before someone comes!"
"Oh, all right." Suleimen felt two warm, soft hands cup his cheeks. A moment later he was looking straight into that angelic face.
"My name is Tiffania Westwood." Her voice was soft and gentle. "Pentagon that rules the Five Powers, bless this humble being and make him my Familiar." She leaned in close.
And in the instant before he fell unconscious, Suleiman tasted paradise.
And again. This one's a little shorter than the others, but I like how the first part turned out.