Chapter Twelve
Kingdom of Tristain, 6th Day of Ansuz
Majid let out a groan as the world swam like oil on water before his aching eyes.
"Ah, you're awake."
The voice was soft and gentle. Majid squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them, blinking a few times as his vision settled.
"I was beginning to wonder."
It was a young woman, of about his own age though he couldn't be quite sure. She was quite tall, with long pink hair spilling around her shoulders. She regarded him with a gentle smile that, even in his current state, Majid could not help but find disarming.
"I…where am I?" he croaked, forcing his head to turn and look around. He was in a small room, the walls covered in white plaster, with a single small window in the wall above his narrow bed.
"You are in the mansion of the Duke and Duchess de la Valliere, my parents," the young woman replied. "My mother found you in the forest near here, under attack by armed men. She brought you here."
Majid shivered as he remembered. Those strange men, dressed as mere footpads yet surely anything but. Those men who had called each-other brother, and tried to take him alive.
"You were quite badly hurt, I fear. But my sister Eleanore is a dab hand with healing potions. Assuming there was nothing too serious we missed, you should be well on your way to recovering."
Majid lay his head back on the pillow, trying to think.
"How long?" he managed to ask.
"Four days now."
Majid's heart sank. Four days. Four whole days. Who knew what had become of his young master in that time?
"You seem pensive," commented the young woman. "Is there something wrong?"
"I…I was looking…for someone."
"Perhaps I can help you," replied the woman, still smiling. There was something warm and gentle about her, almost motherly. Majid found himself wanting to trust her, to tell her his troubles.
Did he dare?
Did he have much choice?
"I was separated from my young master," he said, his voice coming out a little more clearly. "He was pulled through a portal...in Lutece. I have...come in search of him."
"Then you've come a long way," said the woman. "But why come here?"
Majid told her of the Mage he had met in Compiegne, of his meeting with the birdmen in the Arden forest, and his encounter with the water spirit Ondine. She listened quietly, with only the mention of Ondine getting a reaction, a slight twitch of the eyebrows.
"I'm so sorry that your journey ran into such trouble," she said kindly. "But...I must say, one of your descriptions is quite familiar."
"Mademoiselle?" Majid's heart leapt, and he tried to sit up, only for her to gently push him down again.
"The building you mentioned, the keep with five towers," she went on. "It puts me in mind of..."
A loud babble from the doorway cut her off.
"...but milady Cattleya insisted!"
"Oh get out of my way!"
The door thumped open, and a tall, blonde woman strode in. She was dressed very similarly to her counterpart, in a white blouse and long skirt, but hers was purple whereas the woman next to him was in red. A pair of spectacles sat on her nose, the eyes behind them regarding Majid with sour distaste; as if he were a stray dog rolling in the mud.
"Ah, I see he's awake," the woman commented briskly. "You can stop fussing over him now Cattleya. Mother wants to see him."
"Is that entirely necessary, sister?" asked Cattleya, a slight edge to her tone. "He's been asleep for two days, and he's only just woken up."
"I'm sure he needs no coddling, Cattleya." The woman turned her eyes onto Majid. "Well? Can you stand, monsieur?"
Majid stared back at her. It was plain that they were sisters, for their faces were quite similar despite the differing hair colours. But their personalities were clearly very different, as only two siblings could be. There was an edge to her monsieur that he did not like.
"I can stand, mademoiselle." He pulled the blanket aside, and only then saw that he was wearing only a short nightshirt reaching to his knees.
And nothing else.
"Don't give me that look, monsieur," retorted the older sister as he glared up at her, Cattleya giggling behind her hand. "It was necessary to examine you."
Majid felt his face heat up. He could hardly complain, but it was still embarrassing.
"Cattleya, assuming he can stand, bring him down to the cold cellar as soon as he is presentable. Try not to keep mother waiting."
She turned on her heel and strode out. As she passed, a nervous-looking maid pulled the door shut behind her.
"That was my older sister, Eleanore," Cattleya explained, smiling indulgently. "I fear she is rather proud, but also very kind when she feels like it."
"It is of no consequence, mademoiselle." Majid pulled himself around into a sitting position, his feet on the floor. "If mademoiselle would oblige me with my clothes?"
"Over here, laundered and mended." Cattleya pointed to a wooden chest of drawers, upon which sat some neatly folded clothes. Judging by the colours, they were indeed his. His travel bag sat next to them, but there were no sign of his weapons.
"Your things were examined, but nothing was taken or tampered with," Cattleya assured him, seeing his line of sight. "Your weapons are undamaged, but we felt it necessary to store them securely."
Majid felt a twinge of annoyance. Once again he could hardly complain, for even in Arysia it was not done for a guest to carry weapons in another's house. But he felt...naked without them, vulnerable.
Cattleya did him the courtesy of leaving him alone to dress. This done, he followed her down the corridor. Every so often they would encounter a maid or groom, the underling scuttling out of the way and genuflecting as they passed, Cattleya acknowledging each one with a smile and a simple nod. She was clearly a person of importance, and Majid began to feel uncomfortable. For one of her apparent status, she was being a little more familiar than he was used to.
Their journey took them down a set of stairs, and into an underground chamber. Majid soon understood what Eleanore had meant by the cold room, for the air was chilly, the very walls seeming to draw all warmth away.
Cattleya led him on through the low-ceiling chamber, past heavy-looking casks and chests, past tables laden with frost and ice, in which sat fish or cuts of meat, and around a corner into a small side chamber.
Inside stood two women, and a table on which lay an object covered by a canvas sheet. Majid had a sneaking feeling as to what it was, but his attention was taken by the two women. One was the blonde-haired Eleanore; the other an older woman in a maroon gown, with pink hair coiled up at the back. She regarded him through hard, cold eyes.
"I trust your injuries have healed?" the older woman asked, her tone regal but somewhat terse.
"They have healed, Madame." Majid inclined his head respectfully, hoping he had been right to choose madame and not mademoiselle. From his experience of women, especially the high-born ones, she was as likely to take offence with the one as the other.
"Excellent. Firstly, you will tell me who you are and what you were doing on my land."
Majid was a little taken aback, but he forced himself not to retort, or to glance at Cattleya. He was a guest, and just possibly a prisoner. He could not afford pride, not now.
"I am Majid, Madame. I was traveling north from Lagdorian Lake, along the road."
"And I am Karin the Maelstrom, Duchesse de la Valliere, Knight-Commander of the Manticore Regiment of her Majesty's Mage Guards."
The woman paused, letting her words sink in.
"You have met my daughters, Eleanore and Cattleya. Monsieur, you are in my house and under my protection, but as mistress of these lands I require your assistance."
Majid forced himself not to sigh. He would not show weakness, not before those searching, predatory eyes.
"You have saved my life, madame, and succored me in my time of need." He bowed low. "I will assist you in any way I can."
"Excellent." Karin nodded at Eleanore, who stepped around the table and pulled back the canvas. Majid shuddered as he saw the man underneath it; shaven-headed and powerfully built, his pale skin waxen gray, his eyes blank and staring.
"Come closer, monsieur," said Karin, taking position at the head of the table. "Or are you frightened of a dead man?"
Spurred by the mockery, Majid stepped closer to the table. He glanced at Cattleya, who stepped up at his side. She regarded the body with sadness, pity even.
"This was one of the men who attacked you," explained Karin. "As he is, there is little to see. Nevertheless he carried a weapon of remarkable quality for a footpad, and could use magic."
She nodded at her elder daughter, who drew a wand from her waistband. Karin drew her own wand, and mother and daughter held their wands over the dead man's chest.
Majid watched, amazed, as they chanted a long and complicated spell, the words seeming to run into one-another until it sounded like gibberish. Their wands glowed with gathering magic, the radiance shining brighter and brighter in the dark room.
Then he jumped as the dead man erupted with crimson light. Lines of red spread out across his chest and arms and head, glowing bright even under the sheet as they spread down his body. They spread, curled, met and crossed, forming a complex calligraphy that made his eyes ache to look upon it.
And at the centre of the pattern, amid a circle in the middle of the chest, shone the shape of a tall tower.
He had seen it before, somewhere.
"What...is it?"
"A geas, a spell of binding and control," replied Eleanore, looking down at the corpse as if it were nothing more horrid than a pressed flower. "Quite a complex one, and powerful too."
"I don't understand."
"It means that no one, not the North Parterre, not the Inquisition, not even the cruelest Yspano torturers could have gotten anything useful out of him," Karin cut in. "No torture, no magic, nor even a truth potion could have made him talk, even if he wanted to. I would not even have thought to look for it had Eleanore not mentioned the possibility."
"Why are you showing me this, Madame?" Majid was finding it harder and harder to conceal his disquiet.
"To make sure you understand what you are up against." Karin stepped around the table to face him. "Such a powerful geas cannot be forced on an unwilling subject. This man allowed this binding to be placed upon him, with an open mind and a willing heart."
"Poor soul," said Cattleya, and Majid could tell that she meant it. "What sort of life must he have lived, to bear such a curse willingly?"
"Pray for him later, Cattleya," Karin retorted brusquely. "The sign on his chest was that of the Scarlet Tower. Does this mean anything to you?"
Majid could not conceal his reaction, as he remembered what Julio Cesare had said, and that forester's mention of church knights in red mantles.
"I...a priest told me of the Scarlet Tower," he said. "He warned me to avoid them."
"And does this priest have a name?"
"Julio Cesare, Madame."
"Him?" Eleanore was thunderstruck. "The womaniser with the moon eyes?"
"He had the moon eyes," agreed Majid cautiously.
"Him!" Eleanore let out what sounded like snarl. "That snake!"
"Mademoiselle?"
"Your helpful priest is a personal agent of the Pope in Romalia," interjected Karin. "He is also given to hanging around the Magic Academy. Does that mean anything to you?"
"No, Madame."
"Understand, Monsieur." Something hardened in Karin's tone. "The Scarlet Tower are a militant order of the Romalian Church. They are fanatics of the worst kind, ready to murder innocents and damn their own souls in the Founder's cause."
Majid felt sick to his stomach. That such villains were seeking him was bad enough. But what of his young master?
"I desire an explanation." Karin's glare was as cold as ice. "Why are they pursuing you? Why are you of such interest to them that the Pope's own agent intervened to warn you away? What are you, monsieur?"
Majid could not reply. His mind was a whirl, his stomach a cold, churning morass. His instincts rebelled at the thought of telling those strange women anything.
But he could not think of an alternative.
"I am but a servant, who has lost his master," he said, his heart heavy. "We came from Arysia, beyond the Rub'al Khali. My master was drawn through a summoning portal, and I know not where he is. A mage in Compiegne informed me that it was a summoning portal, and the Water Spirit Ondine told me that he had become Lifdrasir, bound to the fourth warrior. It commanded me to travel north, and warn the four warriors of a terrible danger. It told me of one warrior named Saito, and his master named Louise."
He paused. The two daughters were looking at one-another, the elder thunderstruck, the younger fearful. Only Karin retained her icy dignity.
"What you say is…impossible!" snapped Eleanore. "Why should the sublime Water Spirit speak to one such as you!?"
"Tell me again," said Karin icily. "This is your last chance to be truthful. Reveal every detail, and hold nothing back."
Majid told her. Deathly silence filled the room.
"Is it not as I said!?" demanded Eleanore. "He lies!"
"You are certain of that!?" Karin snapped back, so harshly that Eleanore flinched. There was something dark and dangerous behind her eyes.
"What you say is impossible," Karin went on, turning back to Majid. "Common sense implies that you are a liar, an agent of one power or another tasked with spreading falsehoods. Do not glare daggers at me monsieur, I will not tolerate it from one such as you."
Majid had to grit his teeth to vent his fury, forcing his face into the cold mask of obedience his instructors had taught him.
"Nevertheless, there is a simple way to be sure of you."
She flicked her wand. Somewhere in the house a bell rang. A few moments later a nervous-looking maid appeared, carrying a goblet on a wooden tray. Karin took the goblet, and dismissed the maid with a wave of her free hand.
"This goblet contains a truth potion," she said, holding it out to Majid. "If you do not fear the truth, drink it all."
"Mother!" pleaded Cattleya, horrified. "Mother, you cannot…!"
"I have no choice, Cattleya!" snapped Karin, the icy mask slipping for just a moment. Even Eleanore looked unsettled, afraid even.
Majid forced down his fear. He knew what the potion would do to his mind. He had seen it many times. But it was the only way he could convince them that he wasn't lying.
Forcing his hand not to shake, he took the goblet and drank it down. For a few moments he felt nothing, save the strange taste of the potion lingering in his mouth.
And then...
"You may find yourself somewhat nauseous," Karin said, her voice strangely distorted. "Can you hear me?"
"Yes." He answered without knowing why, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He felt entirely calm, as if the world was fading away around him, becoming less relevant somehow. It was like lying in a hot bath, just under the surface, the world flickering and swimming above him.
"What is your name?"
"Majid."
"Where are you from?"
"Cyrasalem, in Arysia."
"How did you come to these lands?"
Majid heard himself describe the journey, of how he and his young master had traveled from Tyrus from Toulon, and then to Romalia, and then all the way up through Gallia to Lutece. He described his journey from there to Compiegne, and then to the Arden Forest, and then into Tristain.
"Describe precisely how you sought the favour of the Water Spirit, and what she told you."
He did so, parroting the same words he had said a few moments earlier.
"Who was the first person you ever killed, and why?"
Majid felt a strange twinge, a sense of wrongness. But still the words came out.
"Duran. He tried to take my food, and I stabbed him."
He could see the looks Karin and her daughters were exchanging, and the wrongness grew stronger, more insistent.
"What are the names of the other three inheritors and their warriors?"
"I do not know."
"What is your master's name?"
"Suleiman Reza al-Karim."
"How did you come to know him?"
"I was wounded in a fight. He found me, and brought me to his father's house. I was healed there, and entered his father's service that I might protect him always."
"And who is his father?"
Then, only then, did Majid finally hesitate. He knew he could not tell her. He knew he could not answer her question. To do so would be to betray Suleiman, to risk the very danger from which the two of them had fled Arysia in the first place.
"He's resisting," commented Eleanore. "Strange."
"I say again," insisted Karin. "Who is his father? Why was it necessary to leave your homeland?"
Majid fought it. Majid struggled against it, even as the world began to swim before his eyes, and his head felt like it was closing in around him. He resisted, even as his stomach churned, and he felt as if he would retch.
"Something's wrong." Eleanore was regarding him closely, her eyes narrowed behind her spectacles.
"Mother, please," pleaded Cattleya.
"For your own sake, answer," said Karin, ignoring them. "Who is his father?"
Majid told them.
Karin stormed into her study, the doors crashing as she flung them aside.
"Mother!" cried Eleanore, hurrying after her. "Mother, what does this mean?"
"You know what it means!" Karin snapped back, rounding on her.
A growl went up from the fireside. Lying there in front of it was a manticore; her manticore, the faithful familiar that had carried her into battle countless times. A moment earlier it had lain there like a great big fat cat; albeit one that could fly as fast and as lightly as a griffon and tear a man limb from limb. Now it was looking straight at her, obviously annoyed at having its nap disturbed, and wondering why its master was so angry.
Karin strode over to the beast, and gave its thick mane a reassuring pat. The manticore let out a snort, and settled down again.
"Tell me it's not true mother!" pleaded Eleanore. She sounded like a frightened child, and even looked like one. "Tell me, mother!"
"What do you want me to say, Eleanore?" Karin turned to face her. "Would you have me deny what we both know to be true? What has been clearly revealed?"
"But Louise...Louise...a Void Mage?" Eleanore looked about ready to have a nervous breakdown. "It can't be true!"
"And yet, there it is," replied Karin. "A human familiar, with the mark of the Gandalfr. A power unlike any known to us, capable of blasting a warship from the sky. And now the word of the Water Spirit. Can there be any more doubt, Eleanore?"
She couldn't blame Eleanore for being upset. The prospect was almost too horrible to contemplate. For what possible reason could the Founder's own Void have returned, after six thousand years? What dreadful happenstance could have brought it about?
"Heaven help us," Eleanore whispered. "Oh, Holy Founder help us..."
Karin squeezed her eyes shut, fighting down the cold, sickening dread. Her daughter was the Founder's chosen. Her daughter, whom she had thrashed and cursed, and tried to marry off to a vile traitor...
No! She had done nothing wrong! She had acted as a careful mother, with sincerity and clear purpose! She hadn't known that her daughter was a Void mage, that no amount of thrashing or yelling or patient tutoring could teach her normal magic. She had not known!
She shook her head. This was pointless. If she had sinned, then no amount of prayers or weeping or flogging herself would undo it. Only by action could she set things right, with God and the Founder, and with Louise herself
Cattleya stepped through the open door, and closed it behind her.
"Majid is entirely unconscious, mother," she said primly. "God willing, he'll recover."
"Good."
She meant it, and not just because she would have need of him later. It was a rare strength, a rare devotion, that made him willingly drink a Truth potion. Few knights of Tristain were half so faithful. It was a strength she could use, a strength she needed.
"Why do you bother yourself with him?" demanded Eleanore, turning on her sister in sudden anger. "Worrying about some foreigner at a time like this!"
"He is our guest," replied Cattleya calmly. "And he's in his current condition because of us."
Karin watched the budding argument through narrowed eyes. She was relieved at the sight of Eleanore's anger; it could lead one astray, but there was nothing like anger to clear the mind quickly. That said, there was more important business to attend to.
"I trust you both understand the situation," she said sternly, her words cutting through their argument like a blade, ending it before it could start. "Louise is clearly a Void mage, and the other three are also active. The word of the Water Spirit cannot be denied."
"Oh Louise," whispered Cattleya, lowering her head in sorrow.
"And now we have the Scarlet Tower sniffing around," added Eleanore grimly.
"Are they truly as terrible as all that?" asked Cattleya, sounding worried.
"Do you know of the La Roche d'Usson incident?"
"That was them?" Cattleya paled, and put a hand to her mouth.
"Yes, it was," Karin cut in, shuddering at the memory.
She had been one of the first to reach La Roche d'Usson, or what was left of it. An entire village reduced to ashes, three hundred people slaughtered; their bodies scorched and shrunken, like so many charcoal dolls. The handful of survivors, hiding in the woods nearby, their burnt clothes hanging off their singed and battered bodies; whimpering and weeping as they told of red-cloaked knights, and the fires.
She strode around her very large desk and picked up the letter lying on it. It had come for her several days earlier, while she was away inspecting some of the Valliere family's far-flung estates; only to encounter Majid and his tormentors as she returned.
"Read this," she said, striding back around the desk and thrusting it into Eleanore's hands. She watched as her daughters read it, their eyes widening, the colour draining from their faces.
"That..." Eleanore began to shudder, her hair coiling like a mass of snakes. "That...that...Louise!"
"Oh my," breathed Cattleya.
"You see our problem," Karin went on. "Louise has disobeyed the Queen and run off with the Margrave of Anhalt-Zerbst's daughter and the Ondine Knights."
"Zerbst!" hissed Eleanore. "That Zerbst trollop! I'll strangle them both!"
"But, surely this helps us?" Cattleya asked cautiously. "Even if the Scarlet Tower is looking for her, she'll be hard to find this way."
"That isn't the point, Cattleya," growled Karin. "Because your father wanted no part in the war with Reconquista, we are thought disloyal. Now your sister has disobeyed the Queen's direct command, and is interfering in the mad King's affairs."
"Mother, really," insisted Cattleya. "Louise is the Queen's dearest friend. Her Majesty would never do us harm."
Karin sighed. She had loved Henrietta almost like another daughter, and had many fond memories of when the little princess had stayed with them. But the princess was now a Queen, and a Queen with a lot to prove. Did she dare overlook such disobedience from a family who had sent no troops to the war? A family whom some whispered were Reconquista sympathisers?
Even if the disobedient one was her precious, probably only friend?
Karin spun around, and strode towards a locked cabinet set into the wall. She flicked her wand, whispered a spell, and the doors split open, revealing the tabard and equipment of a manticore knight. The tabard was faded with age, but still without a tear or wrinkle.
Karin reached behind her back and pulled at her gown's laces.
"Mother?" In the mirrors set into the open doors, Karin could see Eleanore's disbelieving face as her gown slipped to the floor. "Mother, what are you doing?"
"I will go directly to the Queen, and give her a piece of my mind."
As she reached for her armour, Karin saw herself in the mirrors. She still had her curves, despite over forty years of life and three births; her form kept in shape by a tight corset.
"Now?" gaped Eleanore, as Karin pulled on a shirt and breeches, followed by a pair of tall cavalry boots.
"Yes, now."
Karin paused, picked up her wand, and flicked it at the Gallian Window. The twin windows split open, swinging out onto the balcony.
"Yes, that's a hint," said Karin to the manticore. "Get down to the stable, you lazy beast."
The manticore gave her a sour-sounding grunt, pulled itself to its feet, and padded out onto the balcony.
"Both of you remain here, arm the servants, and be wary of visitors," she went on, pulling on a thick buff coat. "Also, send word to Mayor Renard. Have him call out the militia and be on the lookout."
"You think they'll try again?" Cattleya stepped around her and helped her pull her tabard into place.
"They might," she replied, taking a thick leather belt and pulling it around her waist. "Those bodies are the only evidence we have."
She slid her long rapier into its harness, and her wand into a small alcove cunning set into the inside of her tall boot. She then took the wide-brimmed black hat and set it on her head.
Last of all was the mask, a simple curve of metal, enough to hide her face below her eyes. Cattleya helped her tie it in place, while Eleanore draped her cloak around her shoulders.
With that, she strode towards the balcony. Her manticore was already circling around, a saddle strapped to its back. The stable boys had needed no extra prompting.
"I will tell your father of what has happened," she called back. "I should be there by tonight, and will not be back later than tomorrow afternoon. Keep an eye on Majid. We will need his help later."
"Yes mother," Eleanore called out. "Fly well!"
Karin whispered a spell, and felt herself lift into the air. Her manticore saw her, and came around in a tight diving turn, sweeping around and underneath her in a manouver they had performed a thousand times. Karin dropped herself onto its back, and they soared away into the sky.
Petit Troyes Palace, Versailles, Kingdom of Gallia
Problems.
These days, Isabella de Gallia – only daughter of King Joseph de Gallia - had more problems than she knew what to do with. Her normally immaculate desk was piled up with problems; notes, messages, invoices, minutiae and administrative bric-a-brac of one sort or another. That it was all related to the operations of the North Parterre, Gallia's secret order of knights tasked with the most dangerous and politically sensitive missions, did not make it any less mind-numbing or infuriating.
Four more problems stood opposite her desk. Four problems, human in appearance yet in truth anything but. Four problems, with bad attitudes and even worse personalities, who just so happened to be her most capable agents.
She was starting to miss Tabitha.
"So…" She fixed them with her coldest gaze, the gaze she reserved for blithering incompetents and people who talked during the opera. "You let him get away."
"Yes," replied Damien, smiling sweetly. "We did."
Isabella did her best to keep her cold mask in place. Anyone seeing Damien for the first time, or who did not know who and what he was, would have seen a rosy-cheeked, blonde-haired little boy with a smile that could reduce anyone with more maternal instinct than a rock to a warm puddle on the floor.
It did not work on Isabella. And even if it could have, she knew what he was, and what his three siblings were, and what they were capable of.
"Yes, you did," she growled, her eyebrow starting to twitch. "Bart de Castlemount, Knight-Captain of the Order of the Eastern Roses, known friend of the late unlamented Charles d'Orleans, takes a wander out of the Grand Troyes mere days after his old friend's daughter is condemned to a fate worse than death for treason…and you let him go."
Damien smiled at her. It was his trademark cuddle me and give me cake smile, perfectly calculated to get on her nerves, and convince almost anybody who saw it that he was nothing more than a sweet little boy.
It was the last thing many of them had ever seen.
"Don't get angry with us," said Jeanette. She was about Isabella's own age, or at least she appeared to be, with long lilac hair and green eyes in strange, unnatural shade. "We didn't have any orders about him."
"Orders?" Isabella clenched her long fingers into fists. "You need orders to stop a politically unreliable knight from wandering off? Are you really Knights of the North Parterre?"
"If your highness had simply given us the orders, we would have happily slaughtered him," retorted Bleu. A well-dressed blonde youth, he could very easily have been Damien's older brother. "Besides, we had other orders."
"From whom?"
"Sheffield."
Bleu grinned. Isabella didn't.
"So…you're taking orders from her now are you?"
"Not her," said Jacque, the tall one; there was always a tall one. "The King."
Isabella managed not to scream at him, or blast him with her wand, or start throwing paper around. Under better circumstances she would have been quite proud of her self-control.
"I see. And did my father give some reason as to why you were to let Castlemount leave?"
"No reason," replied Bleu cheerfully. "No reason whatsoever. Sheffield just told us to hang back and let him go."
"Get out, all of you, before I have you fed to the dragons."
The Elemental Siblings sauntered out of her office, the doors closing behind them.
Isabella drew a long breath, trying to calm herself and clear her mind. This was the last thing she needed. Bad enough that Tabitha had finally snapped and betrayed the King, her own uncle. Even worse that her father should insist on complicating things by packing her off to Alhambra and dosing her with some bizarre drug. But letting Castlemount wander off like that?
With no one to see her, she began to rub her temples, willing the mounting fury to flow away. She had never thought she would regret taking command of the North Parterre. The job was fairly interesting, and a useful intellectual challenge; not to mention it provided her with a steady stream of useful intelligence about some extremely powerful and important people. But there were times when it made her want to scream.
Damn Tabitha! Why did this have to happen now? As if she didn't have enough on her plate without losing one of her best agents!
She sighed, though it sounded more like a growl. She never liked Tabitha much, not even when she was Charlotte. Back then she had been such a drip! All that weeping and wailing, just because her father got himself murdered, and her mother had drunk some potion and run off with her favourite doll thinking it was her! But if anything, the new Tabitha was even worse.
Always so cold and calm, always so disinterested, as if nothing Isabella could do to her made a blind bit of difference.
As if nothing in all the world could truly hurt her any more.
But for all that, losing her was a damned inconvenience. She was not merely a powerful mage, but had a knack for dealing with tricky situations. Isabella had actually been impressed with her work one or two times, such as that mission with that mage who'd transferred his brain into the body of a minotaur, or how she'd handled her Henri de Navarre – their bloodthirsty delinquent of a cousin - a year ago.
Isabella sighed again. Not for the first time, she wondered if her father really cared about being King at all. He seemed to treat the entire business like some kind of quaint amusement, forcing his ministers and courtiers to take on more and more of his responsibilities. All the while, the provinces ran to rack and ruin; as provincial nobles and local troublemakers settled their scores by force, or pursued their own petty ambitions.
She hadn't expected it of cousin Henri. She remembered a studious, taciturn boy; not unlike Tabitha, funnily enough. But he had never been much good at magic, and his parents had found him an embarrassment; sending him away to their ancestral lands in the south west. After a few quiet years, he had started terrorizing the local bandit community into obedience, and stirring up the provincial nobles against their superiors. By the time Isabella had been forced to step in, he had killed or driven out every noble above the rank of Count and was raising his own army.
Isabella gripped the armrests of her chair, so hard that her knuckles went white.
She'd had to deal with it herself. She'd had to send Tabitha down there, to blast her way into his castle and deliver her offer; the carrot or the stick. Fortunately for her, and for all of Gallia, he had chosen the carrot. Now he was a useful ally, keeping the region's taxes flowing and handling her business in Yspano.
If she hadn't, he might have carved away six provinces and started his own kingdom.
And had her father even noticed? Had the King lifted a finger to save his own kingdom? Had he done anything but smirk? Did he not realize, not care, that his throne hung by a thread?
A thread that she herself was in a near-perfect position to cut?
No. She could not even think it. It was treason, filial and political. It would mean killing her own father.
Her own father, whom she barely knew. Her own father, who had killed his own brother, and reduced his own niece to a mere chevalier, a doer of dirty deeds. Her own father, who was letting the kingdom slide out from underneath him.
Her own father, who was insane.
Her mother had died in childbirth. Apart from Charlotte and her mother, Duchess Marie, she had no other family but her father. Mother and daughter, who had not the slightest reason to love her, or take her side, or even help her cause.
Never in all her life had she felt so utterly alone.