Doctor, Duchess, Soldier, Spy

Aliya set down her tenor viol on its display stand. Dana likely hand-selected the tonewoods herself, expert that she was. Then there was that stamp visible through the holes on the body: Mercutio, the finest viol craftsman in Cyrine. This thing must have cost a fortune.

Such a fine instrument is wasted on me.

She was a duchess now. How many lords would procure such precious gems, only to squirrel them away in some unused library or dusty spare room? No, even if it was just thirty minutes a day, she would work to recapture her former glory. The muscle memory was still there, after all.

Three hard knocks struck the door. She rushed back to her desk and picked up some of the briefs she was reading in an effort to appear mid-work and not having just spent the last half hour playing her new instrument.

“Come in!”

Malin pushed the door open from the outside. “’Ard at work, Your Grace?”

She shot a wry look towards the man. “Paleblood, please don’t call me that when it’s just the two of us!”

“Gotta be official for the guards outside, yeah?” he snickered as he shut the door. “Lovely concert you put on, though.”

Her face went from light brown to beet red as she realized she’d been had. It must have been much louder—or the room far less soundproof—than she thought.

“I-It was only thirty minutes, I swear!”

Her friend couldn’t hold back his laughter. “I believe you! Folks outside said you’re the best they’ve ‘eard in a while.”

She sighed and sunk her forehead into her hands, half-hiding behind a wall of documents.

“So, Aliya,” Malin continued, straightening out his tone. “I’ve come to talk about Serafal.”

Nodding, she straightened her posture and glanced at some of the papers scattered across her desk. “From what I’ve read, Gabrière is on its road to recovery and the port is up and running, but… There’s a food problem.”

“Ain’t there always after a war?”

“It’s not that there’s no food,” she frowned. “There’s plenty, but more than half needed to feed the duchy has been stolen.”

“Vileblood, we know who?”

“Baron…” She flipped through her files. “Baron Robert Stiel of Selcosé.”

“Never ‘eard of it or ‘im.”

“He wants an audience with me.”

Malin rolled his eyes. “Course he does.”

Fresh rapping came from the door, drawing both of their eyes.

Punctual, as always.

“Expectin’ someone?”

“Mind getting the door? That should be Serritt Ovazdz.”

“Oh? Been some time!” Malin walked over with sprightly steps and pulled the door wide. “Master Ovazdz? How are you today, sir?” he said, forcing out a rare bout of properness.

“Hello again, Master Seth. I am well, thank you.” The new arrival stepped into the room as the moonkin pushed the door shut behind him.

The spymaster was an unremarkable-looking man of medium height and build. His head and face were immaculately shaved, revealing a smooth complexion free of scars and blemishes. Even his clothes were plain—well suited for the palace, but on par with the swarm of unimportant courtiers. It was fitting for someone who preferred to avoid attention.

“Your Grace.” He bowed as she beckoned him to her desk. “Have you had the opportunity to get through any of the intelligence?”

“I have,” she huffed. “I’m most concerned about the food.”

“Indeed. Baron Stiel’s rebellion in the north is greatly complicating Serafal’s recovery.” He set his folder down on the corner of the desk, ensuring its edges aligned with the table’s, and took a seat.

“Grab a seat, Malin,” she said, motioning to the additional empty chair.

Once all were seated, Aliya cleared her throat. “Selcosé is really far from Gabrière. That’s where all that food is hoarded?”

Serritt nodded. “The far side of the duchy and its northernmost settlement.”

“Forgive me, I still have reading to finish, but… how did things get this bad? I thought the only remaining lords in Serafal were loyalists?”

“Indeed, the Baron fought against the Union and helped throw the Starmgardians out of Serafal. However, his issue appears to be owing fealty to a beastkin liege.”

Malin bared his fangs. “Course that’s the bloody reason. What’s the whoreson want, then?”

“According to our latest reports, he wishes to stay loyal to the crown, but be exempt from the Duchy of Serafal. His ambition is for Selcosé to be declared a separate county, loyal solely to the Imperial throne and not you, Your Grace.”

“And he wants me to sign a treaty agreeing to this in exchange for the food? He’s got awful timing. I have to attend the peace talks in Cyrine and it’s already the Philosopher’s tenth day. I’d be lucky to make it there before winter.”

“It’s more than just food,” added the spymaster, his face growing sullen. “Two hundred beastkin hostages are held in the fortress. Mostly women and children who assisted the war effort from behind the frontlines.”

“How the blood did this ‘appen?” snarled Malin.

Serritt clicked his tongue. “Frankly, it caught us all by surprise. Lord Tyban Grimm, the current regent of Serafal, chose to focus on rebuilding Gabrière along with the railway and ports. A good decision, all things considered. He left the gathering of Serafal’s surviving harvest to trusted subordinates.”

Aliya shook her head. “Trusted indeed,” she growled. “Any others throw in with the Baron, then?”

“No-one of consequence. Lord Grimm is attempting to negotiate with Baron Stiel for more of the food.”

“Is he considering taking the fort?”

She noticed Malin shift uncomfortably. He knew what that would mean for the hostages. It didn’t make him uncomfortable enough to speak up, though. The necessity of sacrificing a few to save the many was a reality they had grown quite accustomed to.

“Aside from insufficient forces and the hostages, the Baron would burn the granaries as a last resort.”

She leaned forward and planted her chin on a curled fist. “And starve everyone? Really is a bastard.” She paused for a moment to think. “We can only afford to import so much from the south… Is giving him what he wants under any consideration?”

“No. The Emperor does not wish for any negotiation with nobles who would further fragment the Empire at a whim.”

“Is he committing forces?”

“He is. The order was given but an hour ago. You will have to provide a ducal commander to accompany them.” He eyed Malin.

The duchess shrugged as she turned to her friend, forming an apologetic smile. “I was going to ask.”

He bared his signature vicious grin in response. “’Appy to fight. Not sure if I’m all too good at negotiatin’ an’ strategy, though.”

“I wouldn’t concern yourself with that,” replied the spymaster. “Lord Grimm is an excellent strategist. You would, essentially, be under his wing once you reach Gabrière. Consider it a form of apprenticeship.” He narrowed his eyes at the moonkin. “Your presence is important and a matter of legitimacy.”

“I trust you, Malin,” added Aliya. “But I don’t want you charging into battle again if you fear you’re not ready.” She shook her head angrily. “Paleblood, you of all people deserve a break.”

“I’ll be fine, Aliya, but it sounds like a breach ain’t bein’ considered. We ‘ave a plan that won’t torch the stores?”

“We do. A demonstration of overwhelming force and a declaration from the Emperor demanding that Baron Stiel surrender himself for judgement, his crime being treason.”

The two moonkin cocked their eyebrows. “Overwhelming force?”

“It will be a bluff, mostly,” he continued, stretching his fingers until they cracked. “You will have siege cannons, ships, and magic archers. Most of the cannons are no longer functional, but that will not be discernable from the fortress walls. There will only be one magic archer that is the genuine article. The rest will be there for show, although they are skilled in traditional weaponry. As for the ships, Selcosé is not a fortress that can be taken by sea. Their purpose is for transportation only. Weapons, troops, and then the food.”

Nothing works, but it’ll sure look intimidating from a distance.

The spares for the siege cannons would take at least another six months, and that was an optimistic estimate.

“So, the plan is to inspire a mutiny?”

“That is the expected outcome. Many of the Baron’s men have fought for the Empire across campaigns beyond the civil war. We will appeal to their former honor and patriotism. The Emperor also wants it made clear that there is no future for those siding with the traitor. Should they not surrender and turn over the Baron, it will be their last winter.”

“Can we rally the Church’s martial orders?”

“Sadly, your status as an acolyte does not grant you the authority to command the paladin brotherhood nor the knight sisterhood. Even Mount Nasvian will not intervene.”

“Really?”

“Appointing a member of the Nasvian Choir as an Imperial noble—a duchess, no less—is enough to significantly change the power dynamics of Sorcis. The peace talks, mediated by the Church, will establish a new order going forward. Even Serafal’s borders may be a point of debate.”

That made some sense to her. Serafal and Ducai were the first provinces to come under attack by Union forces during the war. Now, an attack on Serafal would be an attack on the Church’s highest authority. That, seemingly, tipped the balance of power towards the Empire.

月

Malin and Serritt retired for the evening, leaving Aliya alone in her study. She would see them off in the morning and was already dreading their departure. The longest time she and Malin had been apart since the war started was a week at most. Even when she had temporarily been a prisoner of the Church, her friend had visited her daily. He always found a way to raise her spirits, even in her darkest moments.

She looked at the clock on the wall. The doctor was seventeen minutes late and about to be eighteen. Was he more doctor than herald? The tardiness certainly matched a doctor’s.

Stacks of untouched documents still rested upon her desk. It was likely enough paperwork to stack higher than a dozen copies of Trial Unto Dawn—the unabridged version with the glossary at the back.

What kind of pretentious fool puts a glossary at the back of a work of fiction?

She much preferred reading that required her to puzzle things out. At least the literary classic wasn’t written in first person, a far graver sin for a fantasy novel.

Finally, there was the long-awaited knock at the door. Just the one.

“Com—”

Oh, he’s coming in.

After abruptly entering, Iosef closed the door behind him and approached. His outfit had changed to something much cleaner and befitting of a high-ranking member of the Church. Most notable was his dark grey coat emblazoned with golden runes from the Payl Illumina.

“You’re late.”

“Apologies, Aliya, I had some arrangements to take care of.”

She tapped a finger to the tip of her chin. “Straight to first names, then?”

“We’re going to be stuck together for some time. Might as well make it as painless as possible.” His weary eyes scanned the room, settling on the viol Dana had gifted her. “Relearning an old skill?”

“You seem to know quite a bit about me.” Her voice grew bitter. “Along with those I deeply care about.”

“Ah… she did seem genuinely upset. I consider that a good sign.”

His response only incensed her. “A good sign? We’re going to have a problem if this is how you treat my loved ones.”

The doctor shook his head. “No need to concern yourself. I have confidence Lady Dana will never betray you.”

“What are you getting at?”

“Would you care to take a walk?”

“What? Now?”

“How about the northwest overlook?”

The pair stepped outside and met the cold night air. Even this late, Sancrés was still abuzz with activity as red and golden glows lit up windows or danced like fireflies among its many streets. Beyond the city limits was the darker countryside that led up to Mount Nasvian, its titanic form illuminated by the pale moon. Aliya wondered if Iosef had rode all the way from the Nasvian fortress to the grand cathedral in the span of a single morning, all to deliver the message that would spare her life.

“Are you familiar with House Grey?” began the doctor.

“Just Oswald Grey and the fact that his house isn’t taking my ascendance well.” She recalled the fiery noble who had attempted to tame Lightbringer during her trial, along with his spectacularly bloody failure. His family and allies were now known to her thanks to Serritt’s reports.

She also remembered her harrowing encounter with the mage after the trial. “You did something to him, didn’t you?”

Iosef nodded. “Most injuries of that severity would require treatment for weeks until discharge.”

She hadn’t considered that. The noble had, indeed, recovered from his lost hand far too quickly. “That’s not what I meant. His memory and demeanor were… off.”

“Trauma of that caliber can often play with a man’s awareness and memory.”

She wasn’t buying it.

A frown crept across the doctor’s rough face. “You don’t believe me?”

Folding her arms, she shot him a cross look. “Trust is important between a student and her mentor.”

“That it is,” he replied, nodding as his pressed his lips together and sighed through his nose. “Oswald’s attitude to the high council aside, House Grey is an old family with generational ties to the Church. You know well how those pious nobles view the beastkin.”

Third of the Archdevils, the Temptress! Archon of Sin and Lust! The witches and whores of Humanity submitted to her call from beyond the Golden Veil and, twisted by Frenzied Will, spread their legs for Demons. From their tainted wombs sprouted the first Beastkin!

She recalled the passage from The Century of Betrayal in the Payl Illumina. Some nobles were known to brand their beastkin slaves with these passages.

“I know the type,” she grumbled.

“In a sense, that man is simply another victim.” He smoothed out his grey moustache. “His hatred was nurtured and rewarded since a young age to the point that it became a part of him. I made alterations to make him less hateful.”

“You took his memories?”

“No, the memories remain, but the hatred associated with those memories… It’s gone.”

She wasn’t sure whether to take comfort in that statement or not. Was taking away emotions within the capacity of the Order of Healers? She had never heard of such a terrifying treatment. Mayhap this power was of the Nasvian Choir alone.

The pair wandered up to the overlook’s balustrade, a deadly drop of over a hundred strides just over the edge.

Iosef rested his scarred hands on the guardrail while surveying the city. “I doubt we have heard the last of House Grey. As you already know, they share their hatred of beastkin with a fair number of nobles and clergy.”

“Do you know who?”

“Unfortunately, besides Emmett Cordgeon, I only know the names of some minor nobles.”

Her disdain for the archbishop was still fresh. “Will the Church itself be of concern going forward? Even if I’m with the Choir?”

“It’s likely, but the Church is not the monolith most see it as. There are many factions within it and, despite the institution-wide oath of loyalty to the Philosopher’s Throne and Nasvian Choir, that oath has not been truly tested in living memory. Those who forsake their oaths, however, will find themselves with the Choir’s full attention.”

“I see.”

He scratched the top of his head while heaving out a burdened sigh. “More concerning is a conspiracy against you I have learned of. A group of powerful individuals who are well-organized and paranoid. It seems that their highest members use all manner of tricks to conceal their identities from their agents and allies. A name did come up, though. La Fidélité, Romantique for—”

“The Loyalty,” Aliya interrupted. “Not exactly hard to figure out.”

The doctor flashed a vanishing grin and nodded in agreeance.

“Serritt mentioned nothing of a highly-organized conspiracy, just the grievances of House Grey and their most likely allies.”

“This is my own intelligence gathered from interrogation. Serritt Ovazdz is talented, but he has solely relied on observation for these matters.”

She let out a half-growl, half-sigh while rubbing the ridge of her brow. “So, I’ve got be wary of everyone, then? You are right in that Dana would never betray me. I doubt Count Senvoire would either. While I’ve only known him since the start of the war, Angiers didn’t earn its reputation overnight.”

“And the spymaster?”

“Same stance. Ilhan trusts him a lot, for what it’s worth.”

“Don’t completely disregard them as threats. Even the most stalwart allies may falter under duress.”

It was hard for Aliya to imagine the Blackberry Count or Serritt in such circumstances. Then she started considering hypothetical scenarios involving Ilhan’s captured niece. If the count had to choose between Emilia and Aliya, would he not choose family?

Something like that would never come to pass. Right?

She grasped the side of her head, growing tired of the twisting maze of possibilities—some bordering on impossible—that had formed in her mind.

Iosef patiently studied her hesitation. “We can only move forward cautiously. Given time, we shall pull their schemes into the light.”

It was the best they could do, she figured. No use pursuing conspiracies until there was solid proof. “Is Baron Stiel affiliated with La Fidélité?”

“Ah, the rebellion in the north? I doubt he is aware of the conspiracy given the publicity of his actions. But it is entirely plausible La Fidélité stoked the embers.”

This type of thing was to be expected—she had agreed to shoulder such burdens in exchange for a homeland for her kin. She stared pensively at the moon, wondering if there was such a thing as a ruler living free of such concerns.

How long has it been since I dreamt of the moonlit lake?

“Don’t worry yourself too much, Aliya. We, the Choir, have the advantage.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “What’s that?”

“Our sacred weapons. The mage nobility and high council know little to nothing of our full capabilities.”

She wasn’t terribly convinced she could best a cadre of mages with Lightbringer. One-on-one, she would win unless she went up against someone with the prodigious skill of Ilhan Senvoire or the raw power of Lucien Fourier. Two to three would be a toss-up. Four or more…

Doubt crept across her face as she forced out a weak smile. “So, you have a sacred weapon? Is it like mine?”

“I do, although they are nothing alike. As to whether the weapons are equally matched? That very much depends on the user.”

“Meaning?”

“You are an amateur, but you will grow stronger and more skilled with training.”

She was annoyed by that remark. Thousands of lives had been saved at Prashen when she destroyed the undead with magic that took her mere moments to deploy. Surely, she was no amateur.

“Excuse me?” Her tone had grown pointed and defensive.

“Your display at Prashen, while impressive to the masses, demonstrates a significant lack of control.” His expression turned quizzical. “Have you considered that such a technique targeted more than just the undead?”

Now she was incensed. “What nonsense are you spouting? It only burned the undead to ashes!”

“To ashes? Perhaps, but there were quite a few burns among the beastkin who had taken part in the assault.”

“You’re lying!” she snarled. “I talked to many of them after the battle and my best fr—”

“Malin? Not every beastkin is as genetically fortunate as that warrior.” Iosef’s voice grew sterner. “I am not here to antagonize you, Aliya. But you need to know that Lightbringer does not mimic the Golden Veil. You have already used it to harm humans, no? How do you determine who is and isn’t harmed by its magic? Your gut feeling?”

Now she was doubting herself, wondering who she could have hurt. “If what your saying is true, why did no one tell me? Why did that not come up at the trial?”

“Have you considered that the afflicted beastkin would do anything to spare your image as their divine savior? Even doctors treating their wounds could scarcely get the truth out of them. Besides, the burns were minor and I was able to treat them swiftly.”

“You—you were there?”

“I was.” He paused for a moment and took in her crestfallen expression. “I’m sorry. That was… unfair of me. You saved thousands that day. A few minor burns are a small price to pay in comparison. It is not so different with medicine, you know. Causing some small damage to save something much larger.”

“Is that what happened in Ionos?” she barked. “A small sacrifice for a greater good?”

She instantly regretted her outburst. There were far more tactful ways to bring it up. Maybe she simply wanted to spread her newfound guilt to its provocateur.

The doctor’s voice grew deep and raspy. “That is one thing we cannot talk about. Not yet. When you are formally inducted into the Choir, I will be able to answer all of your questions.”

“You cannot even answer that? Whether you sacrificed a few to save the many?”

“I… am not sure that I did.”