Chapter Five
The Magic Academy, Kingdom of Tristain, 20th day of Feoh.
"Mister Suleiman? What're you doing there?"
Suleiman groaned as he opened his eyes. He blinked, and the blurred image resolved into the face of Siesta.
"Miss Siesta?" he croaked. He tried to move, and realised he was in a sitting position, his stiff muscles aching as he tried to uncoil himself. "Wh...where...?"
"You're behind the Servants' Quarters" the maid explained. "Have you been here all night?"
Suleiman looked blearily around as Siesta helped him to his feet. They were standing in a shadowed space between a large building and the outer wall. His tunic and pants were clammy with dew, and his back ached as he straightened up.
"I..." Then he trailed off as he remembered the events of the previous evening. He remembered running from Tiffania and Saito, fleeing to hide in this dark place. He remembered hugging his knees, tears of shame and despair running down his cheeks, as the darkness closed in around him.
"You shouldn't sleep out in the open like this Mister Suleiman," Siesta admonished. "You'll catch your death."
"Perhaps I should have done," Suleiman replied mournfully.
"And you shouldn't say things like that either!"
Suleiman turned his head to face Siesta. She had a kind face, but there was a deeper quality to it, the knowing look of one who had seen a great deal of life; for better and for worse. It reminded him painfully of Majid.
"You'll feel better after something to eat," she insisted. "There's plenty of food down in the kitchens."
She smiled, and gestured for him to follow. Seeing little point in refusing, Suleiman fell in alongside her.
"So what happened last night?" Siesta asked. "I heard there was some trouble with Princess Guldenhorf."
"Yes, there was."
Suleiman told her of how Beatrice had threatened Tiffania, and how Saito had come to the rescue, while he had stood frozen in fear. Siesta sighed.
"You shouldn't be so hard on yourself," she said. "I'd be wary of confronting a Princess too, even if she's only from a little place like Guldenhorf."
"I should have done something," Suleiman insisted. "I should have stood up for Miss Tiffania."
"And get beaten black and blue by the Luftpanzer Ritter?" Siesta gave him an indulgent smile. "You don't need to get into trouble over something silly like this."
"Saito did."
"Saito is Gandalfr. He doesn't have to be afraid of mages, or knights, or anyone really."
Suleiman saw the admiration in her eyes, and then remembered when he'd seen her together with Saito and Louise. He would've laughed, had he been in a better mood.
"Miss Tiffania was worried about you, you know," Siesta went on. "She even went looking for you."
"She didn't find me," Suleiman retorted; only to feel another twinge of shame at how petulant he sounded.
"Mister Saito stopped her," Siesta explained sourly. "It was getting dark, and he seemed to think you'd come back on your own."
Siesta led him through a narrow door, then down a circular staircase and along a dimly-lit corridor. Suleiman could hear the sounds of the kitchen long before he reached it; a cacophony of voices and footsteps, of clinking and clanking of metal and ceramic, the bubble of pots and the hiss of pans. Delicious scents filled Suleiman's nostrils as Siesta led him along the wall, skirting the edge of the organised chaos.
"It's very busy down here," he commented, as they stepped out of the main kitchen and into a side room.
"It always is at mealtimes," Siesta replied cheerfully. "Breakfast for a few hundred staff and students, not to mention us servants!"
The room was dominated by a long wooden table. Maids in the same black dresses and white aprons as Siesta were clearing away plates and cutlery. They looked up curiously as Siesta sat Suleiman down on a chair at the end of the table. A much younger boy with a mop of green hair looked up from his bowl.
"Oh, and this is Maxwell Grey," Siesta promptly introduced him. "He's the Chevalier la Durant's squire, so he eats down here too. Maxwell, this is Suleiman, Miss Westwood's valet."
"Good morning!" Maxwell greeted him cheerfully. "I saw you yesterday, but I never got the chance to introduce myself."
"Good morning to you, Mister Grey."
"Please, just call me Maxwell," the boy replied, over Siesta's giggling. In spite of everything, Suleiman felt himself smile. There was a friendliness to Maxwell, and to Siesta too, that made him feel better about himself; that he was in good company.
"How very nostalgic!"
Suleiman jumped at the deep, growling voice behind him, and would have leapt out of his seat had Siesta not pressed him down.
"And good morning to you, Marteau!" Siesta greeted the monstrosity. "You wouldn't happen to have a decent breakfast to spare for Suleiman here, would you?"
"Suleiman eh?" The whatever-it-was came clumping round from behind him. Suleiman was relieved to see that Marteau was merely a very tall, very broad-shouldered, and very muscular human being, rather than some sort of terrible giant or troll. He was clad in a double-breasted white tunic, identical to those Suleiman had seen on the kitchen staff, but with a wide red neckerchief and, most curious of all, a tall cylindrical white hat. Blue eyes twinkled under thick brown eyebrows, and a smile creased a craggy, brown-bearded face.
"G…good morning, Sir Marteau," Suleiman babbled. Marteau burst out laughing.
"Don't call me sir!" he managed to say, between volcanic guffaws. "You make me sound like some noble! Call me Chef if you must, but Marteau is fine." He turned and opened his mouth.
"Antoine!" he bellowed, so loud that Suleiman's ears ached. "Broth and bread for Siesta's friend here! The good stuff, mark you!" He turned back to Suleiman, his smile returning.
"And don't you worry about it lad," he declared. "What those nobles don't know what hurt 'em!" He laughed. Suleiman did not have long to be unsettled, as the boy named Antoine returned with a tray and set it in front of him. On it was a bowl full of a thick broth, and a plate with a large bread roll. A tempting, meaty smell wafted up from the broth, making Suleiman's stomach growl.
"I take it you're enjoying that," Marteau commented with a grin as Suleiman tucked into the broth with some gusto.
"It's delicious!" Suleiman replied between mouthfuls. The meat in the broth was lamb, and there was plenty of it. The flavour was plainer than he had been used to in Arysia, but it was finer faire than much of what he'd eaten on the road with Majid.
"Eat to your heart's content!" Marteau wrapped a meaty arm around Suleiman's unsuspecting neck, drawing him close. "Any friend of Siesta's is a friend of mine!"
"Uh…!" Suleiman found this all very uncomfortable. "Would you mind…?"
"Don't worry!" Siesta interjected, smiling. "He's always been like this. He was the same with Saito when I brought him down here."
All at once the atmosphere changed. Marteau's craggy face darkened, and he disentangled himself from Suleiman.
"Don't talk to me about that sellout," he grumbled bitterly. All the other maids and kitchen boys made great shows of looking the other way. Even Maxwell looked nervous.
"Marteau," Siesta growled, her hands on her hips. "Are you still carrying on like this? What happened to our sword?"
"I'll tell you want happened!" the Chef barked back, making Suleiman jump. "He went and became a Chevalier, that's what! Now he's wagging his tail for the nobles!"
"That's not true and you know it!" snapped Siesta indignantly. "Saito won't change just because he became a Chevalier! He only accepted it because the Queen asked him personally! Would you turn down a gift from her Majesty?"
"Well, uh, no, but…!"
"Besides!" Siesta went on. "You've got no business criticizing him, not when you've got more money than most of the nobles here!"
Marteau glared at Siesta, and the maid stared back. Suleiman tried to get up, to flee the confrontation. But each stuck a hand on his shoulder and pressed him back down.
"You've gotten stubborn, Siesta," Marteau commented, through gritted teeth.
"I'm Saito's personal maid," Siesta replied. "If I don't stick up for him, no one will."
The tension lingered, making a few moments seem like an eternity. Then Marteau grinned.
"Maybe you're right," he said, sighing. "Anyway!" He slapped Suleiman on the shoulder, so hard as to almost knock his face into his bowl. "If your friend ever needs a meal, he can come by any time he wants!" He laughed, and strode back into the chaos of the kitchen.
"You'll get used to him eventually," Siesta said, smiling.
"Is it true what you said?" Suleiman asked. "Does he really have more money than the nobles here?"
"He certainly does!" Siesta laughed. "Noble households pay big money for skills like his."
"And this lot are all in hock to little Miss Guldenhorf!" called out a passing maid. Everyone laughed, except Suleiman.
"Guldenhorf?" he asked. "As in Princess Guldenhorf?"
"Princess?!" Siesta let out a laugh. "Well I suppose she can call herself that."
"She's not a Princess?"
"Well, she's allowed to use the title," Siesta explained. "But she wouldn't be able to otherwise. Her family say they're connected to the Royal family through King Philip, but they don't have much land. Their money's in commerce and banking."
"What's wrong with that?" Suleiman asked, noting what might have been scorn in her tone. Siesta began to laugh, then realized he was serious.
"Nobles have rules about things like that," Maxwell chimed in. "They're supposed to get money from land and doing noble jobs, like fighting and using magic. It's not like that where you're from?"
"No," Suleiman replied. "Not in the least. In Arysia, the most powerful are the Merchant Princes of the great cities."
"Arysia?" Maxwell perked up. "I've never met an Arysian before!"
"Well, that's not unusual around here." Suleiman smiled awkwardly.
"Hey you there!" called a voice from the doorway. "You in the blue!" Suleiman looked up to see a maid with brown hair in a ponytail entering the room.
"Yes?"
"You're Suley-man, right?" the maid asked, mispronouncing his name. "What's up with your lady?"
"My…you mean Miss Tiffania?"
"Miss Westwood, yes." The maid regarded him questioningly. "I just saw her a moment ago, heading for the Earth tower. What in the Founder's name was she wearing?"
"I…I don't understand." Suleiman was confused. The maid gave him an odd look.
"What're you talking about, Maria?" asked Siesta.
"She was wearing a funny outfit," Maria replied. "A sort of long cloak with a hood. It was all shades of yellow and brown."
"That sounds like an Elvish nomad's cloak," Maxwell mused. "Did the hood have feathers on it?"
"Yes, now that you mention it." Maria cocked her head. "Why would she…" She trailed off as she saw the look on Suleiman's face.
The tall wooden door loomed in front of Tiffania, as if trying to warn her from her chosen course.
"No" she thought, staring up at the door. "I have to do this. I can't give Saito any more trouble. Or Suleiman…"
Her face fell as she remembered the pain and shame in his eyes. He had been scared too. He had run away from her because he was ashamed of himself, or so Guiche had insisted. He had been ashamed, because he had been unable to protect her.
There was no alternative, no other way out. She had to show them the truth of herself; the truth written in the Elvish clothes upon her body, and the ears beneath her hood. If the truth was out, Saito wouldn't need to worry about her, and Suleiman wouldn't feel like he had to protect her. Neither of them would have to suffer because of her any more.
Tiffania wished he had come back. Saito and Guiche had both insisted that he would come back on his own, and she had trusted them. But she wished she had been able to find him, and tell him that it was all right; that she wasn't ashamed of him, or upset with him.
Too late now.
Steeling herself, Tiffania pushed the door open and stepped inside. All eyes turned to fix on her as she closed the door behind her. She saw their eyes grow wide in surprise, their mouths dropping open. Her classmates, the ones she hoped would be her friends.
"Miss Westwood!" cried a woman's voice. She glanced to her right, and saw Madame Chevreuse standing behind her desk, shock written all over her round face. "What…what kind of clothes are those?!"
She was normally a pleasant, considerate woman, and Tiffania regretted causing her trouble like this. But there was no going back.
"Everyone!" she called out, stepping in front of the teacher's desk, so that all could see her. "There's something very important I have to tell you all! This cloak…belonged to my mother!"
"What're you...what're you talking about?!" Chevreuse babbled. "Only the nomads wear cloaks like that!" The colour drained from her face.
"Don't' tell me…!"
"Yes." Tiffania took a deep breath, and reached up to her hood and pulled it down.
The chamber erupted, screams of terror filling her ears as the students ducked behind their desks or ran up the stairs away from her. Madame Chevreuse cowered behind her desk, whimpering like a child.
"An elf!"
"She'll kill us all!"
"Have mercy!"
Tiffania's heart ached. A part of her had known it would be like this, that they would fear her; maybe even hate her. But for all that, she had hoped it would not be so.
"Everyone!" she called out plaintively. "Don't be afraid! I came to make friends with you all!"
"Liar!" shrieked Beatrice's friend Kitty, hiding behind a desk near the back. "Why would an elf do that?!"
Tiffania lowered her head despondently. What had her mother's people done that that these children should fear them so? What had they done to make those men come looking for her, on that terrible day so long ago?
"I know that elves and humans have fought for a long time," she said. "But…my father and mother fell in love. I am as much human as I am elf."
"So you're a half-elf?"
Tiffania looked up, and saw Beatrice standing behind one of the desks at the back of the chamber. She stood with her hands on her hips, her face set in that same cold mask she had worn the day before. Some of the girls cowered behind her.
"In which case," Beatrice went on. "Which god do you believe in? The dark gods of the desert? Or our Holy Founder Brimir?"
"I was raised in the Westwood, alone," Tiffania replied. "I know nothing of any gods. I was not instructed in such things."
A rumble ran through the room, and Tiffania had a horrible feeling that she had just made her situation a lot worse. Beatrice's small mouth split into a vicious smirk.
"Well then," she said. "We shall have to do something about that. Luftpanzer Ritter!"
The door crashed open, and a half-dozen Luftpanzer Ritter thundered into the chamber, staves at the ready.
"Luftpanzer Ritter!" Beatrice thrust a finger at Tiffania. "Seize her!"
"All right! What's all the racket!?"
Alice swept into the headmaster's office without bothering to knock. A gaggle of teachers huddled around the main window, staring out at whatever very noisy commotion was going on outside. Osman sat at his desk, his curved pipe in his mouth, seemingly quite unperturbed.
"Mademoiselle la Chevalier!" Professor Bardin, a grey-haired man with a short moustache rounded on her as she approached. The Luftpanzer Ritter have attacked the Tower of Earth! The academy is in chaos!"
Alice strode over to the window. She could see the Luftpanzer Ritter's tents, clustered along the wall between the Tower of Void and the Tower of Fire. A crowd of students was gathering nearby, held back by a line of armoured figures that could only be the Luftpanzer Ritter. Another student stood behind the knights, and seemed to be the centre of attention. Alice couldn't see clearly at such a distance, but she had a sneaking suspicion as to who it was.
"Any idea what this is about?" she asked aloud.
"It's Miss Guldenhorf!" replied Bardin. "She had her knights kidnap Miss Westwood! She was spouting some nonsense about an inquisition!"
"Inquisition?" Alice was mystified. "Do we even have a priest here?"
"Miss Guldenhorf is, in addition to being the heiress of Guldenhorf, a Bishop," said Osman. He had not even opened his eyes, let alone looked up from his high-backed chair. "It's a hereditary sinecure."
Alice glanced from Osman to the crowd of rather frightened teachers. Her position at the academy was not formal, and as such this wasn't strictly speaking any of her business. That said, she supposed she should do something.
"Well then?" She fixed the teachers with a stern gaze. "What are we going to do about it?"
"I…I…Headmaster!" Bardin rounded on the remarkably relaxed Osman. "Your orders sir!"
All the other teachers regarded Osman expectantly. Osman took the pipe out of his mouth, and squinted through one eye at its contents.
"Your orders…" he said, his tone very calm. "…are to stay out of it."
The teachers stared at one-another in disbelief, but none among them dared say more.
"This could get ugly," Alice mused, glancing down again. There were no sign of the academy's guards, and she didn't blame them. A handful of men with halberds could do little against twenty of Halkeginia's finest mage-knights, and the Luftpanzer Ritter had a reputation for casual brutality.
"Nevertheless…" Osman sucked on his pipe. "You will stay out of it."
Alice sighed. Her sense of urgency warred with a shrewd caution that had saved her life many times. She was confident in herself and her skills, but not so sure how long she would last against twenty Luftpanzer Ritter. She could not ask the Ondine Knights to help her either; they were too young, too green, for a challenge like that.
At least she could trust Maxwell to stay out of it. The boy had a big heart, but also a sensible head on his shoulders. He wouldn't do anything too dangerous.
Beatrice Yvonne von Guldenhorf was in her element.
She stood tall, flanked by two of her knights, scanning her eyes around the crowd. They were nervous, uncertain, frightened even. That was good, for it meant they took her seriously.
Her knights formed a line in front of her, holding the crowd at bay, and her heart swelled at the sight of them. How fine her Luftpanzer Ritter looked, in their heavy cuirasses and pauldrons, their white cloaks hanging from their shoulders, their faces hidden behind their Totenkopf helmets. They were a worthy symbol of Guldenhorf, of her dignity.
Then she turned her eyes towards Tiffania, who had managed to rise to her knees. It did her heart good to see that infuriating boob monster humbled. But the denouement was soon to come. She glanced to her left, and saw two knights wrestling an enormous cauldron into position. Normally they used it for cooking, but today it would serve another, much better purpose.
"This inquisition is in session!" she proclaimed, loudly enough for the crowd to hear her. "As Princess of Guldenhorf I am also a Bishop, so I will preside!"
She heard the nervous muttering among the students. She enjoyed their disquiet, their fear. If she could not have their adulation, their affection, she would make do with their fear. Either way, she would not be ignored.
"Do you know what an inquisition involves?" she asked. Tiffania was trembling, too frightened to reply. Delicious.
"You said that you were not instructed in any religion," Beatrice went on. "That is not acceptable. As a Princess and a Bishop, I cannot allow an atheist to remain here."
More muttering from the crowd. Beatrice glanced at her friends, and saw the admiration on their faces. A nice little touch of complex theology; something to remind them all of the effort her father had put into her education.
"Therefore, I call upon you to recant your ignorance and declare your faith in our Founder Brimir, who is with God, and who is God."
The knights lowered their heads respectfully, and some of the students crossed themselves.
"What would you have me do?" Tiffania asked nervously. Beatrice felt her face rise into a vicious smirk.
"In a serious case like this, an ordeal is needed. You can prove your sincerity by climbing into that!"
She pointed at the cauldron, which was by now full of water. One of the two knights was applying a flame spell to the base, while the other stirred the already bubbling water. The look on Tiffania's infuriatingly perfect face was priceless.
"Don't worry!" Beatrice almost laughed. "If you truly believe, it will feel just right. If you are a liar," her smirk widened, "then you will boiled alive."
Another flurry of murmurs from the crowd. If that hadn't gotten their attention, nothing would.
"Stop!"
Beatrice turned, and saw Saito Hiraga shove his way through the crowd, his eyes flashing like lightning, only for Guiche and Malicorne to come racing after him and grab him by the arms.
"Let go of me! Are you scared of those knights?"
"You can't Saito!" Guiche pleaded. "It's an inquisition!"
"They'll name you a heretic!" Malicorne added. "And throw you in jail, or worse!"
Beatrice almost laughed. She despised the Gramonts; a bunch of muscled-headed louts who couldn't run an estate to save their lives. She thought even less of Guiche himself, a pathetic womanizing flatterer who had somehow cadged himself a medal in Albion. And as for the rumours she had heard about Malicorne de Grandple…
"Or you could just leave, and go back to the forest where you belong. That way, you won't have to take this chance." She looked down at Tiffania once again, reveling in the fear in those bright blue eyes.
But something was wrong. There was fear to be sure, but something else too. Far from quaking in blind terror, she just looked…pained somehow, hurt even.
Like…
Beatrice's blood turned to ice as she saw another face before her eyes. The face of a boy her own age, looking up at her from the ground, that dark night…
"What an unfortunate person," Tiffania said, standing up.
"What?!" Beatrice spluttered. "What did you say?"
"You're angry, because you didn't get your way. You're still a child."
For a moment Beatrice just stared at Tiffania, unable even to think, let alone react. And then she remembered.
"You're such a girl, Trixie!"
"And you're a dumkopff, Mihai!"
Beatrice shook her head, willing the vision to go away. She would not be tormented by him, not now!
"Luftpanzer Ritter!" she shrieked. "Throw her in the cauldron!"
"Halt!"
Beatrice glanced about, ready to unleash her vitriol on whosoever dared to interrupt. Her wrath turned to surprise as she saw who was rushing over the grass towards them.
"You?"
Suleiman didn't know what he was doing.
He didn't know what impulse had made him run all the way from the kitchens. He didn't know what madness had taken him from safety to the greatest danger. He didn't know what insanity had made him stand there, right in the line of fire.
And it no longer mattered.
"Suleiman!" cried Tiffania, seeing him.
"What're you doing, you idiot!?" Saito yelled. "Get out of there!"
But Suleiman ignored him. He remembered their encounter the day before, and looked straight into her eyes. He saw a flicker there, of anger perhaps, and behind her the dirty looks her friends were giving him. He had an edge, at least for the moment.
"Let her go," he repeated, keeping his tone steady. "She has done you no wrong. There is no justice in this."
He knew how to talk, to debate, to argue. Such things he had learnt from his father, and his tutors, back home in Arysia. Such skills, his father had always insisted, were the mark of a true mirza. At any other time and place, it would have been interesting to see how this Princess of Guldenhorf would match up. But this was a matter of life and death.
"That is not for you to say!" Beatrice snapped back, face twisted with anger and disgust. "She has offended me and the Founder Brimir by her presence here!"
"How is that justice?!" protested Suleiman. "To persecute another at your own whim?"
"She is an atheist who knows nothing of our Founder Brimir!" Beatrice was in a towering fury, or as close to one as girl of her age and build could manage. "She can respect our religion or leave!"
Suleiman heard the mutterings in the crowd, and got the horrible impression that some of them were on Beatrice's side. He had only one argument that might sway them.
"She is an innocent child of nature!" he pleaded. "She grew up alone in the forest, without parents to care for her or priests to instruct her! How can she honour gods of whom she knows nothing?"
The students looked at one-another, some of them casting pitying eyes on Tiffania. But Suleiman's heart ached as he saw the look she was giving him, and he realized what he had done. He had betrayed her trust, revealed something that she had not given him permission to reveal.
"It's the truth!" Saito stepped forward again, turning to face the crowd. "It was the hatred of humans that condemned her to that fate!"
"Silence!" Beatrice barked. She looked rattled, and Suleiman felt a touch of hope. "You're defending an enemy of our faith! That makes you an enemy too!"
"By what law?" demanded Suleiman. "What law condemns him merely for speaking?"
"Shut up!" Beatrice shrieked, rounding on Suleiman. "You dare talk back to me!? You're just a servant, and a cowardly one at that!"
Her smirk returned as Suleiman hung his head, his eyes screwed shut as the shame welled up inside him. There was the chain again, wrapped around his heart. He could feel it there, smothering his spirit, crushing his courage. He could feel it with every panting breath. It said no words, made no argument, but all the same it was there, holding him back, trying to drag him back, away from the danger.
He had enjoyed wandering the roads of Halkeginia, playing his sitar for adulation and a few coins. He had liked being a strolling musician, someone who didn't have to stay, didn't have to worry about the things his audiences had to deal with. He didn't have to face anything, he didn't have to take responsibility. It was an easy, carefree life, with little to fear that he couldn't simply run from.
He wanted to run. He wanted to grab Tiffania and get her away from this place, from those people. There was no way he could fight. If he fought, he would just get killed, and then where would she be?
"Suleiman!"
He shivered, his blood running cold as he remembered those faces; those smiling, evil faces bearing down upon him. He remembered the clink of their jewels, the glitter of the knives.
"Come out Suleiman!"
"This won't hurt…much!"
"It's better this way Suleiman! Don't make us kill you!"
"No..." he hissed. "No more!"
He reached for his headband. He heard Tiffania cry out, Saito yell a warning, but he did not relent. He tore the headband away, felt his long ears spring into place.
And heard the collective gasp from the crowd.
"You?!" Beatrice spluttered, looking at him as if he had sprouted horns.
"Yes!" Suleiman drew himself up. "I am a half-elf, no different from her! I am an Arysian, and as the light of Arta guides me, I will not tolerate this injustice!"
Beatrice looked as if she was being boiled herself. Her face was red with rage, her eyes bulging in a most unflattering manner.
"You…you dare…!" Beatrice screwed up her face and clenched her fists, the image of a child on the verge of a tantrum. "Apostate! Infidel! Luftpanzer Ritter! Throw them both in the pot!"
Suleiman tensed as the two knights flanking Beatrice stepped forward. He remembered his old lessons, and willed his body to relax. The knights stepped closer, armoured hands reached to grab him. He heard Tiffania whimper.
And he moved.
The knight on the right became the centre of his world. Suleiman lashed out with his right hand, knocking the knight's outstretched hand away, then drove his left palm into the bottom of his visor.
The knight grunted and rocked back, but Suleiman was already moving, dancing lightly to the right. He brought his left arm back, wrapping it around the knight's still-extended right arm as he planted his left foot and thrust up with his right knee. The combined momentum brought the unfortunate knight forward, Suleiman's knee catching him under his short breastplate. The knight gave a yell, and Suleiman twirled as he disconnected, sending him crashing to the ground in a clatter of armour plates.
Suleiman did not hear the gasps of astonishment. In his mind was the beat of drums, the clash of cymbals, the skirl of oboes and trumpets. It was the music the soldiers played, the music to which he had performed these arts before his father. It was the music of war, of righteous battle, of the triumph of truth.
His manoeuvre had brought him face-to-face with Beatrice who stared at him in horrified disbelief. But his attention was focused on the other Luftpanzer Ritter, who stepped sideways to shield her from him. The knight charged, jabbing his heavy staff at Suleiman's belly. Suleiman dodged the tip, then grabbed the haft and swung around it as it passed, sliding one leg forward. The knight tripped, and Suleiman broke away as he crashed to the ground, swearing viciously in a language Suleiman had never heard.
Time seemed to slow down. Suleiman stared at what he had wrought, hardly believing that he had done it.
He had beaten them. He had faced armoured warriors and hurled them to the ground. He could do this, he could…
His body erupted in blazing agony. Suleiman screamed as the lightning spell fried his body, its deadly energy coursing through his nerves, burning his flesh. He could smell ozone as he slumped to one knee, just in time to see one of the Luftpanzer Ritter swing his staff at him like a woodcutter's axe. The blow caught him in the stomach, hurling him away over the grass. He landed hard, bounced once, and came to rest.
"Suleiman!" His world was pain, but he could still hear Tiffania's voice. "Suleiman!"
Warm arms enfolded him, raising him up from the ground. Tiffania's angelic face entered his field of vision, and his heart ached at the horror and pain written across it.
"Suleiman!" Her voice was so sweet, so worried. "It's all right! You're safe now!"
"T…Tiffania," he croaked, as his voice returned. "Forgive me…I failed you…"
"Oh Suleiman!" Tiffania's eyes were wet with tears. "Why did you have to be so brave!?"
"Your champion is beaten!" Beatrice's voice cut through the moment. "Now, will you accept my mercy and leave?"
Tiffania looked straight at Beatrice, her face unnaturally grim. Suleiman thought she would defy her, and he hoped she would. His blood boiled as he saw Beatrice's triumphant smirk, even as her face glowed red with fury, her brow gleaming with sweat. Around her, the knights he had beaten clambering to their feet, apparently unharmed.
"I have no choice."
Suleiman's heart sank. A groan went up from the crowd.
"Tiffania!" he pleaded, trying to rise. "You can't!"
"I must," Tiffania replied, smiling down at him again, caressing his cheek with a silk-soft hand. "You're my familiar. I can't let them hurt you anymore."
Tears welled up in Suleiman's eyes; tears of love and shame. He had failed her, robbed her of her chance to study at the academy, to meet other people and make friends with them; her fondest wish. She would have to leave, and give up her dream, because he wasn't strong enough.
And yet still she smiled at him. Still she looked down at him with those eyes; those eyes that hid no feelings and told no lies. Still she wanted to be with him.
Suleiman heard a hiss, and glanced up at Beatrice, half-expecting to see her laughing at them. But Beatrice wasn't laughing; far from it. Her face was a mask of mingled horror and fury, the same as when he had shown her his ears. He wondered what was going through her head.
"Well?! What're you waiting for?!" she barked. "Go! Get out!"
"You get out!" yelled a voice from the crowd. Within an instant the air rang with angry shouts, all of them directed at Beatrice and her knights.
"Leave them alone!"
"You've got no right!"
"This is Tristain! Go back to Guldenhorf!"
"Germanian brat!"
The crowd was alive now, pointing fingers and shaking fists. Some had drawn wands. Beatrice backed away, fear and rage warring for dominance on her face. Feeling the pain recede, Suleiman managed to sit up. He tried to rise, to call out to her, to bid her restrain herself. He knew what was coming.
"Luftpanzer Ritter!" she shrieked, her eyes screwed shut. "Crush them! Destroy them!"
Without a word, the knights levelled their staves. Bolts of lightning flashed from the tips, crackling and bursting in the ground before the students. The angry shouts became cries of fear, and the students ran screaming for their lives.
But not all of them.
With a shout of fury, Saito ripped Derflinger from the scabbard on his back. Now she had done it. Now she had gone beyond the pale. And he was going to do something about it.
"Ready Derf!?" he growled, as he readied himself to charge.
"Any time, partner!" the sword drawled back. Saito charged, sprinting straight at the nearest Luftpanzer Ritter. The knight turned to face him, raising his staff to block. Saito swung Derflinger in a downward diagonal, tearing through the staff in a shower of splinters. The blade struck the knight on the shoulder, with an impact that should have broken Saito's arms. But the Gandalfr's power was equal to the task, and Saito saw the pauldron bend under the blow, heard the crunch of broken bone.
The knight fell, but already Saito was searching for his next target. Two more Luftpanzer Ritter had turned to face him, levelling their staves to blast him with deadly magic. Saito raised Derflinger to en garde position, and the lightning bolts earthed themselves in the glowing blade.
But Saito's confidence turned to fear as he saw, in the corner of his eye, two more knights circling around to his left. He gritted his teeth. He had seen this before, back in Albion on that fateful night. These Luftpanzer Ritter might take orders from a little brat like Beatrice, but they obviously weren't stupid. He saw the flanking knights levelling their staves, and prepared for the pain.
But it didn't come. The two knights paused, bringing their staves around as a pair of grey-green shapes charged past Saito to engage them. It took him a moment to recognize them; their feminine curves and enormous pauldrons, the white-crested helmets and long spears. He turned his head, and his clenched mouth split into a grin as he saw Guiche standing there, in what he must have thought was a heroic pose.
"Onward Ondine Knights!" he proclaimed, sweeping his ridiculous rose-wand around. "Onward for Saito! Onward for Suleiman! Onward for all the pretty ladies!" He swept his rose again, and the ground below him trembled, glowing with arcane light as a half-dozen new Valkryies emerged to join the battle.
Saito had to admit that Guiche was useful in a fight; when he could keep his eyes off the pretty ladies.
Suleiman watched as the Ondine knights engaged the Luftpanzer Ritter.
Malicorne led the charge, a blade of blue light extending from his wand. His girth and soft, fat face made him a comical sight, but the Luftpanzer Ritter weren't laughing. The other six Ondine knights raced past him, picking out their own targets. Those of the students who hadn't fled cheered them on.
Suleiman rose to a sitting position. His waist still ached from the blow it had suffered, but the strange, tingling pain of the lightning bolt had all but faded. Perhaps that particular knight hadn't meant to kill him after all. He stared at the battle, a part of him yearning to run over and join them. The sight of it thrilled him, driving away the pain and shame that had driven him to face those Guldenhorfers alone. It was magnificent! It was righteous!
"Awful…"
Suleiman glanced round, and saw that Tiffania was watching the battle too. She looked on in horror at the violence, her eyes full of sorrow.
"Awful," she repeated. Suleiman's heart ached for her, and he regretted his enthusiasm.
"Miss Tiffania," he said, trying to draw her attention away from the fighting. "Miss Tiffania, I'm sure it'll be all right."
"Are you so sure?" Mage and familiar looked up to see a young man with blonde hair standing casually beside them, as if he were watching a play or a wrestling bout. He wore a long white tunic, covered by a blue cape with a high collar. Suleiman recognized him immediately; he had seen the man mooching around the academy, being drooled-over by the girls. His name was…Julio?
"What do you mean?" he asked. The man was smiling, but there was a grim edge to it that Suleiman didn't like.
"Look closely," replied Julio Cesare, his still on the battle. "The Ondines are brave, but the Luftpanzer Ritter have something more."
Suleiman returned his attention to the fight. Another Luftpanzer Ritter had fallen to Saito's blade, but two of the eight survivors were pummelling him with spells; everything from lightning bolts to gusts of wind to fireballs. Three more had backed off from the melee, and were unleashing spell after spell on Guiche's golems, destroying them almost as quickly as he could summon them. That left three fighting back-to-back, holding their own against repeated attacks by Malicorne and four other Ondine knights. The other two Ondines, one of them Reynald, lay sprawled on the grass.
A cold lump formed in Suleiman's gut as he understood Julio's meaning. The Ondines were fighting as individuals, each his own champion, attacking with sword or spell as he pleased. The Luftpanzer Ritter fought as a team, a band of brothers who knew each-other's every move.
And more of them were coming. Suleiman saw yet more Luftpanzer Ritter hurrying along the battlements towards the battle. He saw them dropping from the wall, using wind magic to slow and control their falls. Twelve more, who in moments would join the battle.
Join the battle, and end it.
"Suleiman!" Tiffania protested as Suleiman stood up. "You can't go back in there! You're hurt!"
"I have to, Miss Tiffania," Suleiman replied grimly. "I have no choice. I…I can't let it end like this."
"What do you have in mind?" asked Julio. Suleiman did not reply, but strode towards the oncoming Luftpanzer Ritter. He heard Tiffania cry after him, but he pressed on, coming to a halt a safe distance from the melee. He willed his heart to slow, and reached within himself.
There it was, as it had always been, every moment of his life. There it was, waiting to be used, yearning to be unleashed. There it was, the truth of himself.
Suleiman cleared his mind, quieting the voices that pleaded with him not to use it. There was no choice now, no going back. His hands came together over his heart as if to pray, and he let out a deep sigh. He felt familiar warmth encompass him, like a fire newly-lit in his heart. He heard Tiffania gasp as white flames engulfed him, leaping up around him.
It came.
He heard Tiffania and Julio's gasps as it towered over them, a vaguely human shape glowing with white light. A hundred spindly arms sprouted from its back and sides, writhing around it like a mass of serpents. A bulbous head sprouted from a thick neck encircled with a string of beads, its narrow face gazing down upon them with a look of distant, dreamy sorrow.
The knights continued their charge, heedless of the danger before them. Behind Suleiman, the melee continued unabated. He was not surprised, for never in his life had he encountered someone who could actually see Guanyin. Only others like himself could see it, or so his father's sages had told him.
The foremost hands came together in a prayer-like posture. The half-closed eyes glowed with a pale, other-worldly light. Suleman moved his hands apart, the giant above him doing likewise. His eyes inspected the charging knights. He knew what he had to do.
"Hundred-Palms Guanyin. Twelve Palms." He thrust his hands forth, as if to strike his foe.
It moved.
Julio stared up at the apparition, lost in wonder.
Never, not even in Albion had he seen anything like it. At first he had thought it a great, spindly golem, cunningly fashioned from a cloud of iron filings; he had seen such tricks done before, by skilled Earth mages. But that had been no golem, he was certain. No golem, no matter what it was made of, could do what he had seen that thing do.
The twelve Luftpanzer Ritter lay sprawled on the grass, unconscious. The combat around the tents had ceased; students, Ondine Knights, and Luftpanzer Ritter staring at Suleiman in horrified disbelief. Julio watched as Suleiman turned, the apparition mimicking his move. Suleiman's face was expressionless, perfectly serene, as if his spirit was in communion with heaven itself. It made a sharp contrast with the faces of the students and Ondine knights.
Something niggled at Julio. Something about the way they looked at Suleiman, at the giant.
"Suleiman!" Tiffania cried. "Suleiman stop it! Please!" But Suleiman did not hear her. He thrust out his hand again, and another silver palm flashed out, sending an unfortunate Luftpanzer Ritter flying. His comrades answered with their magic, unleashing a fusillade of fire and lightning at Suleiman. But the hands moved again, palms moving ever-so-slowly to catch the blasts.
The blasts that were aimed at Suleiman. Not the giant, but Suleiman.
Julio looked over them all again; students, then Ondine Knights, then the Luftpanzer Ritter. He looked over them again, and again. They were alllooking straight at Suleiman.
All except Saito. He alone stared up at the giant.
"They can't see it," he thought. "They really can't see it. But Saito and I…"
He remembered the night he had first met Suleiman, in that tavern cellar in Sottolatorre. He remembered the two of them saying they were from Arysia.
Arysia. Of all the places, of all the dark corners of the whole damned world, it just had to be Arysia!
He knew about Arysia. He had read of it, so many times, in the Papal archives. He had read of the Prophetess named Cyras, who had made the deserts bloom and won over whole nations with words alone. He had read of the accursed Shapur, who had thrown back the Romalian legions a thousand years ago. He had learnt of the thrice-damned Ardashir, who had destroyed the crusader kingdom of Outremer; carved out of desert and scrub by brave crusaders and pilgrims many centuries ago.
The texts had told of hosts that covered the land from horizon to horizon, of horsemen in glittering mail who swept all before them, of arrows that blotted out the sun. They told of men riding great birds, of beasts clad in armour, charmed to obedience by master mages. They told of brave knights slaughtered, of cities overrun, of cathedrals smashed until not one stone stood upon another, of holy relics tossed on the bonfires.
They told of something else. They told of a warrior like no other. They told of dragons torn from the sky, of walls shivered down, of armies put to flight. Again and again, over thousands of years, this lone warrior appeared as Arysia went to war. Never the same person, and never the same power, but always the same name.
Avatar.
A cold knife twisted in Julio's gut. To think that such a power, such a threat, had been wandering Halkeginia unseen and unhindered. Did Henrietta know? If she did, then what plans did she have for such a weapon? And what of the Scarlet Tower? Was that why the Pope had ordered him to have Suleiman and his companion turn back?
Did Joseph know?
"Noisy."
A shiver ran down Julio's spine, and he looked to see what had caused it. He was more than a little surprised to see Louise standing next to him, wearing only a pink, expensive-looking nightgown. She looked like death warmed up, and that was putting it chivalrously. Sunken, black-rimmed eyes gazed with lither loathing at the battle.
"I was having a wonderful dream." Her voice was low, croaking. Julio wondered if she could see it too, but the thought evaporated as he saw her raise her wand.
"Miss Louise!" Tiffania pleaded. "No Miss Louise!"
"Miss Tiffania," Julio interjected, stepping around her to shield her from what was to come. "I think you had best keep your head down."
Beatrice raised her head from behind her arms, just in time to see the two knights in front of her slump to the ground. She glanced from left to right, the roar of the blast still ringing in her ears, hardly daring to believe what had just happened.
Her knights, her Luftpanzer Ritter, were all down. Some lay unmoving, others moaned and struggled to rise. The Ondine Knights were down also, Saito included. She glanced over to Suleiman, fearful that he might have survived the explosion. But he too was unconscious, lying in the arms of that blonde priest, Tiffania at his side.
The only one standing was that pink-haired girl she had seen the day before. She stood there in her nightgown, clutching an expensive-looking wand, a look on her face that could have curdled milk.
"Who are you?!" she demanded, turning her fear and frustration on the interfering girl. "How dare you interrupt an inquisition?!"
"Inquisition?" The girl turned to face her, and Beatrice flinched at her louring gaze. "Under what authority?"
"I...I am Beatrice Von Guldenhorf!" Beatrice shrieked. "I am a Bishop!"
"And I am Louise Francoise le Blanc de la Vallière," the girl replied. "And I say you are a twerp."
Beatrice's retort caught in her throat. There were three whom her father had warned her not to antagonize. First was the Queen, thought that went without saying. Second was Cardinal Mazarin, who also went without saying. The third was the House of Vallière, Royal Dukes of Tristain, with the blood of the Founder Brimir in their veins.
But Beatrice was too angry to think straight, and her pride was wounded. Why should she, the daughter and heiress of Guldenhorf, defer to a girl who couldn't even dress herself properly?
"You're interrupting an inquisition!" she declared, her confidence returning. "I shall report you to her Majesty the Queen and Cardinal Mazarin!"
"Oh will you?" Louise sneered. "You haven't even shown me your authority."
"I…I have the patents at home!" Beatrice snapped. That much was true, but Louise's persistence was getting to her.
"Your bishopric is a hereditary sinecure," Louise went on, loud enough that all around could hear. "And even if it wasn't, you haven't shown me the Papal exequatur, counter-signed by Cardinal Mazarin, giving you the authority to conduct inquisitions. I trust you have it?"
Beatrice felt something cold and hard in her stomach. She tried to reply, to counter Louise's words, but she couldn't speak, or even think.
"Shall I inform my cousin, the Queen, about this?" Louise asked. "Or the Cardinal maybe? I should warn yoy; the Inquisition does not take kindly to having its authority usurped."
Beatrice trembled, as she realised the enormity of what she had done. She looked around for help, for someone to protect her from this reality. But her Luftpanzer Ritter lay sprawled on the grass, in no condition to stand, let alone fight. She looked to her friends, for someone to say it wasn't true; but Constance, Kitty, and Lizette were too busy sneaking away to even look at her.
As she had always known they would.
"We don't know this girl!" pleaded Constance, as the students began to gather once again. Beatrice felt her blood run cold as they began to encircle her, some of them drawing wands. She could hear their angry mutterings as they closed in, surrounding her, engulfing her.
This was it. This was surely it. They would never let her go after humiliating them like that.
"Beatrice." Beatrice's heart clenched as she heard her name. She spun round, and saw Tiffania standing there, staring at her.
"S…stay back!" she pleaded, backing away as Tiffania advanced on her. Her legs gave way, and she fell to the ground. She shut her eyes, waiting for the vengeance of the half-elf.
But nothing happened.
Terrified, Beatrice opened one eye. There was Tiffania standing over her, that cold stare on her face. Beatrice stared up at her, wondering what she intended. She flinched as Tiffania suddenly crouched down in front of her.
And then smiled.
"Beatrice," she said gently. "Let's be friends."
For a few moments, Beatrice was too stunned to even speak. She could only stare into those blue eyes; those warm, gentle, undeceiving eyes. They reminded her of…
Beatrice let out a wail, as the last of her pride crumbled into dust. She buried her face in Tiffania's bosom, weeping like a child. Tiffania held her close, saying nothing, smiling gently.
Nearby, Louise muttered something about silly little girls and stalked off.