Chapter Fourteen
Sierhagen Castle, Margraviate of Anhalt-Zerbst, 7th day of Ansuz
All was set.
The sun washed over the mountaintops, bathing the castle in golden light. Beside the mooring tower hung the mighty shape of the Ostland. With bunkers and water tanks full, and her hold packed with supplies, she was ready to go.
To Benedict von Anhalt Zerbst, Margrave of Anhalt-Zerbst and Magnate of the Empire, it was a sight to be proud of. He had watched it slowly take form, on the floor of a specially-built foundry in a nearby valley. He had overseen the whole process; the recruiting of mages and metallurgists, the provision of wood, of iron ore, of coal, of magnesium, and a thousand and one other things that Jan Colbert had needed for one reason or another.
It wasn't quite what he had in mind. He had envisaged a mighty warship, encrusted with guns and clad in armor, a worthy symbol of the glorious new age the Ostland represented; not to mention his own ambitions. With a mere handful of such ships, he could rule Germania's skies.
And that would only be the beginning.
Standing on the main deck, Benedict watched as his young guests arrived in ones and twos, while his servants lugged the last of their luggage onto the ship and down to their quarters. Jan Colbert was there, fussing over them as if they were young children off to a picnic, not a band of heroes off to rescue their friend...or die trying.
He hadn't told the Professor about the new ship under construction in the foundry; though he had probably figured it out for himself. He hadn't told Kirche either; his daughter did not need to know about that. Not yet anyway.
He had to admit, it had been rather fun to have them around. They made a change from his usual guests; the stuffed-shirt nobles clamoring for favors, the snooty ambassadors from his fellow magnates, always looking down at the decor and reading some hidden meaning in the smallest gesture or comment.
If only his wife felt the same way. Antonia had not deigned to come and see their guests off; citing the earliness of the hour, and promising that she would say goodbye to Kirche in private before she headed down.
He didn't know what this had involved. Had it been a warm heart-to-heart, a final breaking down of frosty barriers that had kept mother and daughter at loggerheads for so long? Or had it been a few cold words exchanged in the corridor?
Had she even bothered?
No point in worrying about it. His wife would not be induced to do something she didn't want to do; especially when it involved their daughter. She had never been the most affectionate of mothers, and relations had taken a distinct downturn the day Kirche set young Siegfried Wessel's pants on fire.
It had been funny, until Antonia had started raging. Lady Wessel was one of the closest of her few friends, and she had hoped to see Kirche married to young Siegfried. Fortunately, young Siegfried had actually apologized for whatever slight or boorishness had provoked his would-be fiancée, and Lady Wessel was not the sort to hold a grudge, or abandon a friendship, over a children's quarrel.
But Antonia had never entirely let the matter go. Her daughter's wilfulness had driven her to distraction, and never more so than during that...incident at the Vindabona academy.
He watched Kirche as she ordered the Ondines around, and bantered with a nervous-looking Colbert. He had never thought to see her so happy, so confident, ever again. Evidently her time in Tristain had done her good. She had made friends at last, true friends, of the sort she would treasure for all her days.
Silently, he thanked God for Tabitha, or Charlotte d'Orleans, or whoever she really was. She had awakened something better in his daughter, helped her to find the courage and noble strength she would need if she was to rule after him. She had redeemed the mistakes of the past, and become his daughter's first friend.
Her first friend, since that one before. The one she no longer remembered, the victim of the cruelest deed he had ever committed.
No. There was no point in sadness, no point in remorse. He would survive the trials that awaited him, and claim the ultimate prize. And with that, he would finally undo that dark deed that had haunted him for ten years, and all would finally be made right.
He emerged from his reverie as Kirche strolled up to him. On her face was a confident, somewhat wry smile.
"Just two more, and we'll be on our way," she said. "We'll be out of your hair soon enough."
"Ah, don't say that." He allowed himself to smirk. Best to let her believe that all was well, and send her on her way with a smile.
"Father...thank you." She spoke with perfect sincerity, the first time he had ever heard her do so. "I know I've caused you trouble, bringing them all here."
"Well if it bothers you that much!" he declared fulsomely, "them why not do me a favor and grab yourself a husband!"
"Father! Really!" retorted Kirche, half-embarrassed, half-amused, her words barely audible over his belly laugh.
"So, who's left to come aboard?" he asked, not quite ready for the moment to end.
"I sent Siesta to go and look for Irukuku." A series of strange squealing noises turned her attention to the tower. "And I think this is them now."
The maid Siesta emerged from the tower, dragging the blue-haired young woman behind her.
"Come along Miss Irukuku!" admonished Siesta, her pretty face red with exertion and probably embarrassment too. "You've had quite enough to eat!"
"Mrfffle ummphhll umph!" protested Irukuku, struggling against Siesta's grip. She had an enormous ham in her mouth, and what appeared to be a side of beef, a side of bacon, several large sausages, and several loaves of fine white bread under her arms.
"I'm terribly sorry about this, your grace," pleaded Siesta as she hauled the struggling glutton onto the deck. "We found her in one of the pantries, eating herself silly!"
Irukuku squealed wordlessly as Siesta dragged her past.
"Ah, a healthy appetite!" proclaimed Malicorne, clutching his cheeks in delight.
"How does she eat so much without getting fat?" complained Montmorency. "It's not fair."
"Everyone!" Kirche clapped her hands like a schoolmistress. "Now that little miss bottomless stomach is aboard, we can finally be on our way. If there's anything you've forgotten, now's the time. Otherwise get yourselves below and get set. We'll be going fast and high, and it gets very cold at high altitudes."
"You don't have to tell me!" griped Malicorne, rubbing his arms and shivering. "I was in the fleet! I've never been so cold in all my life!"
The other Ondines laughed. Seeing the look Kirche was giving him, Benedict stepped forward to address them.
"Ladies and gentlemen, friends all," he began, falling into the fulsome manner he had long since mastered. "It's been a privilege to have such fine youngsters as my guests. And it does my old heart good to know that my daughter has made such excellent friends. Know that your names, and the name of the Ondine Knights, shall be held in honor in these land while yet I live. May God be with you on your mission, and in all the trials you must face."
He fell silent. A moment later, Guiche de Gramont stepped forward with a flourish.
"Ondine Knights, as one together! All hail his grace, the Margrave of Anhalt-Zerbst!"
"Long live his grace! Long live Anhalt-Zerbst!"
Benedict grinned, enjoying their adulation. Such sincerity was a rare pleasure these days.
"And you, young Saito." He turned his attention to Saito Hiraga.
"Yes, your grace!" replied Saito, with an almost soldierly snap, a smile on his face.
"You take care of yourself, you hear?" Benedict said, his grin widening. "We can't have a young hero like
you dying too soon! Not until you've made a woman of little Miss Valliere, anyway!"
Saito let our a nervous chuckle. Louise de la Valliere gave him a sour look.
"Now now, we can't miss the wind!" Kirche hustled her companions towards the stern, then turned to face him one last time.
"If all else fails," she said, holding out her hand, "I shall die worthy of your name."
"Foolish daughter. You'll bring us glory."
He chuckled, and grasped her wrist in the warrior's grip. He was glad she had not embraced him. He might not have been able to let go.
He released her wrist, and strode away into the tower, forcing himself not to look back. Behind him, the drawbridge clunked back into position, and the mooring ropes were hauled in.
"You're a little late, my lady," he said.
"Unlike you, I'm not a sentimental fool," retorted Antonia.
"Then why come at all?"
Antonia glared at him. He laughed, and strode out onto the wall. The Ostland was already drifting away from the tower, the propellers whirling faster and faster
"I wonder, my lady," he said, as the Ostland picked up speed. "When are you going to end this pointless enmity with our foolish daughter?"
"When she admits the wrong she has done us," replied Antonia coldly. "And agrees to live as a daughter of Anhalt-Zerbst should."
"I think she's shaping up quite well. I almost wish I could go along."
"So you can both get yourselves killed!?" Her porcelain features twisted in anger, and something else. "What will become of us if she dies? What has it all been for if she...?"
She trailed off. Benedict sighed, knowing only too well what she truly meant to say.
"My lady, I think you would be much happier if you did not conceal your true feelings."
"What do you know of my happiness?" snapped the Margravine. "What do you know of my pain? My prayers?"
Benedict brought up a hand and gripped her shoulder; gently enough to not hurt her, yet firmly enough to get her attention.
"Did I not say, my lady, that I would hold our union sacred? Did I not promise you, my lady, that I would never abandon you?"
"More promises!" Finally she looked him in the eye, and he saw the true root of her ill-temper. "Don't think I don't know what you're planning! Never believe you can get anything past me, my lord husband!"
Benedict sighed again. He supposed he was going to have to tell her the truth sooner or later. Probably for the best that Kirche was well on her way.
"That's the way the game is played, my lady," he said, wistfully. "Once you've won, you have to go on winning. The only way is up, or straight down."
"And my brother?" she demanded, hard-eyed. "Is he in on your little scheme? Or will you kill him to clear your path?"
"Klaus will not stand in my way." Benedict hardened his tone. "He will not, because even if he wants the crown, he will not face the trial. He will not risk leaving Dietlinde and little Erika all alone."
"But you will leave me alone?" There was something wild in her eyes, a fearful desperation that made his blood run cold. "You will die in the Grunwald, and leave me with nothing?"
Benedict forced himself not to snap at her, to curse her for being so damned neurotic. She had always been like this, and a part of him loved her in spite of it, but it was hard to bear at times.
"That, my lady, is all the more reason to settle your grudge with your daughter," he said, with forced calm. "If by some bizarre chance something should happen to me, she will be your comfort and protector."
Antonia turned away from him, and Benedict could tell that she was fighting some hidden battle within.
"If she had just listened to us, she would be Kaiserin by now," she complained.
"Yes. Kaiserin to a dying Kaiser, and knowing old Albrecht without even a child to show for it." Benedict smiled ruefully, in spite of the mood. "I think she got the better of us on that one, my lady."
"Even so!" Antonia turned to face him again, almost pouting with irritation. "She could at least do us the service of marrying someone suitable. You need all the allies you can get, my overconfident husband. If Kirche wants my forgiveness, she can marry a good husband and stop behaving like a harlot."
Benedict barely managed to stop himself from laughing. His wife was a proud woman indeed, and would do anything rather than apologize or admit defeat. A lot like the Valliere girl, come to think of it.
He turned back towards the mountains. The Ostland was ascending, and still accelerating; almost out of sight.
"God go with you, my daughter."
The Scarlet Tower, Romalia
There were few pastimes more relaxing than playing the piano.
Fernando smiled as he closed his eyes, letting his fingers move easily over the keys. It was a piece he had found in the Papal archives, in a box of miscellaneous leftovers that no one seemed to know what to do with. Mastering it had been…diverting, to say the least.
Every so often, a slight hiss punctuated the music. His smile widened as he turned his head to glance back, regarding the source of the sound.
A shape lay in the centre of the chamber, a broken thing that had once been human. A filthy shift, little more than a sack, covered its ruined body. It hissed as it arched its back, contorting in a shape no human body should have been able to manage.
"This can all end, my child," Fernando whispered, focusing on the piano. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see the skeletal fingers, high above in the darkness. The fingers moved, and the girl let out a gasp as her back arched even tighter.
She was long past screaming.
"This can end, if you will but answer."
He tapped a key, harder than was necessary. The girl gasped again as her arm jerked, the bones snapping like twigs.
"We know you are Varangian," he said mildly. "You should have worked a little harder on your accent, and not been quite so friendly with that priest. That sort of thing attracts attention, my child."
He continued to play. The woman rose to her feet, and began to dance on broken feet. Her toes were a mass of dried blood, the nails long gone. Each step elicited a whimper, each twirl a hiss.
She had an iron will, this one. But no amount of will would save her, and he would take as long as he needed.
"I will settle for a name, my child. The name of your spymaster, the one to whom you report. That will be quite sufficient."
One name. In this game, a name could be worth a King's ransom. To catch one agent was no great achievement, for any competent spymaster would ensure that his minions knew as little about him and their fellow agents as possible. But even a name, even the smallest hint of the spymaster's identity, could make all the difference.
"His name, my child." He picked up the tempo, improvising this time, his music picking up in mood and bombast. "His, and any others you might feel the need to name. Others like yourself, and that one; soiling our Halkeginia like flies on a cake."
He turned his head to grace her with a lazy smile.
"Also…were you to renounce your false god and acknowledge our Founder Brimir's divinity…it would help your case a great deal."
A cough, a whimper perhaps? Fernando paused in his playing, and stood up from the piano. His prisoner stood still, her body shuddering, yet held in place as if by a puppeteer's strings. He stepped closer, leaning in to listen.
"A name for me, my child?"
A sound, a sound a lesser interrogator might have mistaken for agonized gurgling, and then a long, guttering breath.
Fernando straightened up, and strode out of the chamber. Outside stood two brothers of the Chapter Militant, their red tunics and breeches spotless, their heads covered by gleaming sallets and red masks, leaving only their eyes visible.
"This one has expired. Dispose of it."
The pair bowed silently, and stepped around him into the chamber. Fernando paused a moment, not bothering to look as they carried the corpse out of the chamber and down the corridor.
He had a name, at last. It wasn't much, but she wouldn't have lasted much longer anyway, not after the horrors he had inflicted on her body. No, he had a name.
That it was exactly the name he had suspected was icing on the cake.
"Grand Master."
The voice was deep, familiar. Fernando looked up to see a tall figure striding along the corridor towards him. He wore the crimson mantle of a Scarlet Tower knight, and over it armour that shone like gold, his entire head hidden within a golden helmet fashioned like the face of a lion.
"Thibault." Fernando greeted the Seneschal. "It's good to see you up and about, my brother."
"I am well enough, Grand Master." Thibault halted, and bowed respectfully. "Have you had any success with the Varangian girl?"
"I got a name out of her before she succumbed," replied Fernando, lip curling at the thought of it. "But we should not speak of it here. Let us go out into the gardens, and talk freely."
"As you wish, Grand Master."
They walked side-by-side through the long corridors, emerging at last into the gardens. Like the fortress they served, the gardens were cut straight into the mountainside, offering a fine view of the Romalian Alps. The mountains stretched away into the sunset, going on for what seemed like forever, the falling sun dappling the white peaks in reds and pinks.
Only one road could reach the fortress. The Strada di Guidizio, the Road to Judgement, leading from the small town of Sottolatorre via the forest of auburn trees known locally as the Scarlet Wood, and then to the mountains. From his vantage point, Fernando could see the road clearly, snaking up through the forest and then across a great long bridge, its spans among the widest in Halkeginia, its columns taller than most castles, and thick and strong enough that even a dragon's fire would do little but blacken them.
It was a glorious place, a fortress as magnificent as it was mighty, a refuge of piety, a crucible in which the worthy were remade.
"I'll never grow tired of this sight" the silver haired man said, taking a deep breath of air. "All of the world laid before us."
"The Tower is higher than most castles in the Kingdoms" Thibault said, his voice echoing through his armor. "So I have read, Grand Master."
"Indeed. We tower over them, and see where they cannot. We are the eyes of the Founder, his watchers from on high. We alone may weigh and measure, and find wanting."
"And we alone shall be the hammer of his judgement," replied Thibault.
For a few moments they said nothing, allowing the moment of shared piety, of common purpose, to linger a while.
"Yes, the name." Fernando said, remembering his business. "It seems her spymaster was Hugh de Montfort."
"Him again," mused Thibault, his voice a hiss through his helmet grille. "He serves Varangia then?"
"It would seem so." Fernando's face set into a grim mask as he stared out over the valley. "I thought he was just another failed knight, Thibault, a leftover of Reconquista. I never expected him to have such a knack for the dark arts. Perhaps I'm losing my touch."
"Even you are not omniscient, Grand Master," admonished the Seneschal. "Men like him are commonplace in times like these. Men who have lost everything, men who seek purpose, redemption."
"You are right of course, brother," replied Fernando, allowing his tone to soften. "What was it you wanted to tell me?"
"I was informed by the Master-at-Arms that several men did not return to a watchpost in eastern Tristain. Apparently they were following the Arysian, and were last seen heading into the Valliere lands on the eastern border."
"And the Arysian?"
"No further sightings, Grand Master."
"If they had him, they would have returned by now," mused Fernando darkly. "Karin de Valliere was a deadly warrior in her youth. Could she have taken them?"
"It is possible, Grand Master, but even she would not have gotten anything out of them. They were of the Blessed."
"Ah yes."
That was reassuring. The holy geas placed on the order's purest and most devoted agents, tasked with the most secret and dangerous missions, was a guarantee of secrecy. Even under truth potion, or the cruelest torture, or even seduction, it would not let them reveal anything. He doubted the Duchess would even know to look for it, let alone find it.
"May Brimir receive them," he said piously. Even if taken alive, there was little he could do for them. But they had known the risks, and their souls were prepared.
"And take them into his presence, now and forever," replied Thibault, completing the prayer.
"But all the same…" Fernando glared out over the valley. "It's taking too long. How hard can it be to find one Arysian?"
"The older one is a survivor, that much is clear," said Thibault. "He has evaded our search teams, and those of the North Parterre. Of the younger one, there has been no sign since he disappeared at Lutece."
"Yes…" mused Fernando. "Vanished through a summoning portal. Either someone of unusual ability has taken an interest in him, possibly not a benign one, or he was summoned as a Servant."
"A Void familiar," breathed Thibault. Nothing rattled the taciturn warrior, but even his hissing voice now had an edge of awe. "The fourth has been summoned."
"You see our problem, old friend." Fernando turned to face him. "We have identified all the other Void mages, but not the fourth. If we are to help his Holiness bring the four together, and unlock the divine power of the Void, then we must identify the fourth."
Thibault did not reply. Fernando knew his old friend well enough to know that something was badly wrong.
"Grand Master, there is something else." There was that edge to his tone, that cold, dark edge that frightened even him at times. "Five days ago, there was an incident at Tristain's Magic academy. An unknown Mage attacked the academy, leading to a brief battle, and one of the students fled the scene on the back of a blue dragon. A day after that, Queen Henrietta visited the academy, and that evening several students left the academy aboard an airship; an airship of a type unknown to us. The airship was last seen heading into Anhalt-Zerbst."
"Anhalt-Zerbst, eh." Fernando grimaced as he arranged the facts. "Yes, his daughter is at the Tristain academy, if I recall rightly. She was involved in the Battle of La Rochelle, along with a friend of hers who rode a blue dragon, a girl named Tabitha."
"If the rumors surrounding the academy and the Royal Court are true," Thibault went on. "The party also included Louise de la Valliere and her familiar, the Gandalfr Saito de Hiraga, along with several members of the Ondine Knights, and a new student; a half-elf from Albion by the name of Tiffania Westwood."
"The half-elf went too?"
Fernando gritted his teeth. He had been shocked, and he was rarely shocked, to learn that Queen Henrietta had granted a place in her magic academy to a half-elf. Half-elves were vanishingly rare in Halkeginia, and rarely welcomed. Yet if the stories his agents had tricked out of drunken houseboys and gossiping maids were true, she had brought a personal servant with her; a dark-skinned half-elf in strange clothes.
He hadn't known what to make of it. Dark skin was not all that unusual, especially not in warm lands like Yspano, southern Gallia, some parts of Romalia, and even Germania. As for strange clothes, his sources were not exactly dressmakers, and had provided only the vaguest descriptions. Under normal circumstances, he would have dismissed it as a mere curiosity.
But now she had gone gallivanting off on some strange mission, doubtless taking her servant with her, in the company of Louise de la Valliere. What could it mean?
"I think I know where the young Arysian is," he growled, his hands clenching into fists beneath the wide sleeves of his robe. "I think he has been under our noses all this time, along with the fourth Void Mage."
"The half-elf?"
"Yes, Thibault. The little Queen is becoming quite the schemer. She somehow identified Tiffania Westwood as the Void Mage, and hid her in plain sight at the magic academy. Why else would they allow a half-elf within their walls? And then she just happens to go and summon her familiar, and the young Arysian disappears from a crowded street."
He smirked bitterly, as it all fell into place in his mind. All those hours spent pouring over the reports, searching for the smallest details, had finally paid off. Unfortunate that the reports had come too late for him to put two-and-two together, and their birds had flown.
"Even stranger that this should happen now," he went on. "When only a few days ago, our spies at Alhambra reported a ship arriving at the fortress; when the regular supply run isn't due for another week, and the land has been quiet for some time."
He paused again, letting his implication sink in.
"They are going to Alhambra then, Grand Master?"
"My instincts tell me so, Thibault. I think that Henrietta thinks that something is going on at Alhambra, something Joseph doesn't want anyone else to know about. Why else would she allow both of her Void mages to go gallivanting off like that? Young Miss Valliere is the Queen's dearest friend, it is well known; and she would never act without her Queen's orders. No, old friend, this cannot be a coincidence."
"What are your orders, Grand Master?"
"We must gather what ships we have available immediately," Fernando ordered. "They must be underway by sunrise tomorrow at the latest. We must capture the two Void Mages and their familiars, and discover what Joseph is doing at Alhambra."
"Grand Master, that would be highly precipitous," replied Thibault. "The whole thing may be nothing more than a misunderstanding, and Joseph will not take kindly to us attacking one of his fortresses."
Fernando fought down a surge of irritation. Back when they were boys at the orphanage, it was Thibault who had been the reckless one, and he the cautious calculator. How the times had changed them both.
"That is why our troops must leave no witnesses," he replied sternly. "Our force must include siphonatores…and Minerva."
He could have sworn Thibault had shuddered at the mention, and he did not blame him. But there were few more talented at raw destruction than Minerva the Infernal, especially with siphonatores to back her up.
"The fortress must be cleansed, and we will take it for ourselves," he went on. "We will say that Elves had infiltrated the place, and none will be alive to gainsay us. If Joseph chooses to over-react…then his Holiness will have the pretext he has been looking for."
Yes, Vittorio would be pleased. But better that he never know precisely how the boon was purchased. It would only upset him, and so tender a conscience could only bear so much villainy.
Speaking of tender consciences…
"I will command this mission in person," he said, softening his tone. "I will spare the townsfolk, so long as they do not get wind of what we are doing. If we do this properly, all they will see is fire, and all they will know is what we will tell them."
"I would accompany you, Grand Master, if it pleases you."
"I cannot risk your health," insisted Fernando, unsettled. "Besides, you must command this fortress in my absence."
"Grand Master, I am well enough to fight," pleaded Thibault, desperation in his voice.
"Obey me, Thibault."
His tone was hard, harder than he would have liked, but he knew what it took to get the grim warrior to listen.
"I understand your intent, but you must remain here, and allow Charlotte to examine you regularly. You are too valuable to this order for your health to be allowed to fail. Do you understand me?"
Thibault stared back at him, and for a moment Fernando wondered if his Seneschal would defy him. There was no one else in the fortress - nay, the entire order - who might even consider it. For after all that Thibault had endured, the holy agony that had brought him into blessed unity with the divine purpose, and condemned him to hide his form behind armour and helm, there was little that could intimidate or control him. Pain no longer had any meaning, and death was blessed release.
He remembered the face that hid behind that lion mask, the mirror of all his sins, of his first and greatest failure. It was enough to awaken what little sympathy he could still muster, but it could not compare to the shame of failure. He had failed as a priest, failed as a friend, failed in the eyes of God and the Founder. Thibault the Agonized, Thibault of the Lion Helm, was a living reminder of his failure, a reminder that even such as himself lived in the shadow of God and the Founder. It was only right then that Thibault serve as his Seneschal; his helper, his right hand, and his conscience.
Could he deny his conscience?
"I understand, Grand Master, and will obey."
"Good." Fernando forced himself not to sigh with relief. The Founder had decided in his favor, for now at least. "Come then. We must make our preparations.
Aboard the Ostland, somewhere over Southern Germania, 8th Day of Ansuz
"A moment! A moment please, gentlemen!"
The Ondines grumbled as they lowered their instruments, and Suleiman felt a twinge of awkwardness. He had thought being their music master might be fun, and it wasn't that they lacked ability. But it was clear that they didn't enjoy having to go over every little detail, over and over and over again. It was clear they were starting to get irritated.
"What is it this time?" complained Gimli, one of his two oboe players. "I thought we had it!"
"It's just a minor quibble," pleaded Suleiman. "But monsieur Robert, you began your section two beats late."
"Two beats?" griped Robert Joscelyn, holding a horn of Germanian manufacture, a type with which Suleiman was not familiar. "Surely this piece can survive a delay of two beats!"
"You're just not making an effort!" snapped Baldwin de Ascalon, waving his drumsticks at Robert. "I've been banging this drum all morning, and you're still not getting it right!"
"You and Sevrin can bang away all day and night," retorted Robert, eyes hard with anger. "But it won't grant you any talent!"
"Say that again, blower of horns!" barked Sevrin, rising to his feet.
"Sit down!" Malicorne stepped up behind him and brought his cymbals together on the sides of Sevrin's head. Suleiman's ears ached in sympathy as Sevrin sank shuddering to the floor.
"Fellow knights, this bickering is pointless!" declared Guiche, flourishing his flute. "Our friend Suleiman has gone the trouble of teaching us music! It would be stain on the reputation of the Ondine Knights if our performance were to be anything less than sublime!"
"Sublime?" spluttered Reynald, another oboe player. "We've got another day at the most!"
Suleiman, though he would never say so aloud, had little choice but to agree. Individually they could handle their instruments quite well, but there was so much more to performing than that. At their current level, they would last all of five minutes in the souks and theatres of Cyrasalem; let alone some of the taverns he had played in.
A week, maybe two, and he would feel a little more confident. He understood that Kirche was eager to get underway, but she might at least have told him what she had in mind.
"We can only do our best," he said, in what he hoped was a pleasant, conciliatory tone. "In the meantime, let us take it from..."
"How's the rehearsal coming along!?"
Suleiman heard Kirche come sweeping in, followed by several others whom he assumed to be the other girls; whom she had dragged off earlier that morning. He was about to call out to her, when he saw the strange looks on the faces of the Ondines; looks of utter adoration, of dream-like bliss. Confused, he half-turned himself to face the girls.
And froze.
"I see these costumes went down well!" proclaimed Kirche, striking a pose.
"Kyui! The boys love it!" squealed Irukuku, bouncing up and down in excitement. "Just like you said!"
"It's...a little embarrassing," added Tiffania, her hands clasped bashfully behind her back.
Suleiman stared. He could not do otherwise. All three young women were clad in identical costumes. Very skimpy costumes, so skimpy in fact that they seemed less like costumes and more like afterthoughts with a few random pieces of cloth.
Suleiman didn't know what to make of it. They seemed to be a bizarre Halkeginian interpretation of the costumes worn by the sacred dancers of his homeland; though those costumes contained a lot more...well...costume. There should have been wings of translucent silk hanging from the arms and waist, with matching pantaloons and a drape hanging from a glittering crown, making their every movement swish and flutter as if they were butterflies.
Swish...
"Come out Suleiman!"
His blood ran cold, his body freezing up. Unbidden the memories came, like storm clouds on a sunny day. He could not move, nor speak, nor think.
"This won't hurt, Suleiman!"
He tried to force them away, to force himself not to see, but all the same they came. The sounds of running footsteps on marble, the swish of silk, the shikt of daggers being drawn.
"Oh?" Kirche stepped closer, bending over to look at him more closely. "It seems Mister Suleiman is lost for words."
"Kyui! He's frozen up!" Irukuku did likewise.
"Are you all right, Suleiman?" Only Tiffania actually looked worried. She bent down alongside the others, laying a soft, cool hand on his forehead. "You've gone all cold."
"You can't hide forever Suleiman!"
"Oh come now!" proclaimed Kirche, feigning offence. "Surely you're not frightened of our glorious bodies?"
"Frightened?" Irukuku sounded confused. "Why?"
"Suleiman, is something wrong?" Tiffania asked gently. "Please tell us."
Suleiman felt himself shivering. He was no longer there, no longer himself. He was that child again, running for his life, running from those who had, only hours before, smiled and clapped when he played his sitar for them. He had thought that they loved him. He had thought they were family.
"It's better this way, little Suleiman!"
He could see them behind him, advancing on him, daggers at the ready. Their beautiful smiles were gone, replaced with vicious smirks.
"Once it's done, you can stay here forever, with us. We'll take care of you, little Suleiman."
He was running, searching, looking for someone to protect him, to save him from them. Servants scattered as they approached, running for their lives, not daring to intervene. Still he ran, his heart thundering like a drum, his whole body ice-cold with blind terror.
"Majid! Majid help!"
"Suleiman?" Tiffania cupped his cheek in her hand. "Suleiman, please tell me what's wrong."
And there she was, right in front of him. Looking down at him as if she'd just seen a ghost.
What had she seen? What had he done? What had he said?
"Oh, forgive me, Miss Tiffannia!" Suleiman shook his head furiously. "I was just a little distracted, that's all. Allow me to..."
His head came to a stop, and he found himself staring at all three girls, bending down in front of him, their bosoms a hands-width from his face.
"Now that's more like it!" declared Kirche, as his face went bright red. "Oh, but where are those two? Get in here you two!"
"No! Wait!" It was Montmorency, and what sounded like a struggle.
"Get in there you silly girl!" retorted Louise, also from outside. "You're no worse off than the others!"
Suleiman stared as Montmorency was pushed, pleading and struggling, into the room. She wore the same outfit as the others, though hers had much less to hide.
"Ah, Montmorency," breathed Guiche.
"Tiffa..." sighed Malicorne.
"I'm so glad Saito isn't here," added Reynald, in the same dreamy tone.
"No!" shrieked Montmorency, trying fruitlessly to cover herself. "Don't look!"
"Oh stop being a drama queen!" Louise flounced in behind her. Unlike the others she was fully dressed, in a dirndl consisting of a dark red bodice and matching skirt, with a white puff-sleeved blouse and frilly apron.
"Oh how cute!" cooed Kirche, clutching her face. "You look like a little peasant girl!"
"I'd rather look like a Germanian peasant girl than a harlot of any nation!" retorted Louise. "Anyway, lets get on with it!"
"Fine, fine," sighed Kirche. "You three stand over there with Louise, while I show you how it's done."
She took up position in the centre of the room, directly in front of Suleiman, and struck a pose.
"Musicians, give me something sultry!"
And here we are again.
I took a few risks with this one. The first part was a convenient opportunity to use the Margrave's point of view, and drop in a little hint about Kirche's dark past. The details for that will come out in a later chapter, so that's just some foreshadowing.
I confess I wasn't sure about the part with Fernando and Thibault. There's a lot of info in there, but I think I can justify it on the basis of a lot of threads coming together quite suddenly; not to mention Fernando ironically jumping to conclusions.