Dear
mother,
Two
months have passed since first I came to the Althean Collegium. You know that
before I came here I was hesitant to attend the school; for hundreds upon
hundreds of years, ladies of our family have learned from their mothers,
sisters, and aunts, not from men, and certainly not in the company of simple
peasant youths. I argued and fought against your suggestion, but I must confess
that you were right and I was wrong. I am having a marvelous time here.
So
far, I have not learned very much. The college is very disorganized, or perhaps
only just learning to organize. At the commencement ceremony, Lucien Skye
spoke, giving an encouraging lecture on the place of schools such as the
Althean Collegium in the better Komaru to come. Many things have been said of
Lucien Skye in the past, so I only feel it necessary to add that his presence
is arrestingly commanding. If Lucien Skye's words were enough to shape this
school, I cannot help but think that its organizational problems would be
solved already.
However,
they are not. I have five classes: mathematics, theology, music, language, and
logic. In the fields of language, logic, and music, the instructors are doing
their very best to handle a broad range of students, but they are not entirely
successful. In my music class, I spend my hours strumming chords on my harp
while the instructor teaches peasant girls how to blow his flute. In my
language class, the professor seemed astonished to discover that the peasants
had never actually read from books before. As to logic, well, let me just
suggest that there I am at the disadvantage, and leave it at that. Mathematics
and theology are more straightforward: a merchant explains to us the
interrelationships of numbers, and a Churchman explains to us the Church's
doctrine for the day. Usually, he is at least a week or a month behind the
doctrines of Prophet's Hope; twice already I have noticed yesterday's
conviction become today's heresy. I do hope the Church manages to straighten itself
out soon, or else we'll all be chanting psalms to candles and dancing naked to
celebrate the sunrise.
Certainly,
though, that would not be considered out of place by the denizens of this
county. Althea is everything it is whispered to be: Save for the Royal Capital,
I have never seen such an amazing tangle of passion and politics in any place,
but even in the capital, none of the participants (except perhaps the Sone)
carry on their antics with such gusto. In Althea, vines grow beneath every
second-story window, and nothing matches velvet as well as a stray piece of
hay. This, mother, is what I adore about the school.
I
think that the Count of Althea is hard-pressed to deal with the chaos, but he
is doing his best. The window of my dormitory overlooks his office, and I often
watch him in the afternoon and evening while I study. It is difficult to
remember that he is older than I am, for he looks like a handsome boy. Only his
obvious experience with life and the burdens he must bear mark him as anything
other than another student. He is very popular among the student body, and I
must confess that were I offered the opportunity, I would not fail to do my
best to comfort him for an evening. He is one of our family, after all, and
deserves to be supported in his efforts.
Fortunately,
I know that he is not without allies. Jade Touraine himself returns to Althea
often, and I believe that he and the Count of Althea have become close. I was
quite surprised to see him here, for you told me yourself that he was glad to
be free of Althea. I can only assume that whatever has brought him back was
sufficiently important to convince him to set aside his earlier plans. And he
is just as lovely as you told me! I hesitated at first, but I have given him
the letter of recommendation you wrote for me, and he received me well. He is a
very kind man, and I am glad when he can spare me a moment of his time. But
even when he cannot see me, it is a rare treat to watch him sit with the count
in his chambers, whiling the night away in conversation. Often, I wish I could
listen, or even join them, but it would be crass to be mistaken for one of the
strange Althean peasant women who sneak into the office window at night and do
Light knows what until the guards throw them out.
The
sun is setting, and it appears that Jade has come again this night, so I will
conclude this letter now, mother dearest. I am very glad you forced me to come
here, as I am learning ever so much.
Your
dutiful daughter,
Honesty
Touraine
It
is autumn, and the sun's heat beats down on Felix Ambre as he wipes the sweat
off his brow. Today's harvest lies in great bales behind him, and come tomorrow
he will haul the wheat into the barn to be threshed. But now he is tired, and
his arm muscles ache from wielding the scythe for so many hours. He sighs: he
misses growing rice, doing the heavy hauling while his sisters worked and sang.
Many things are different across the Eastern Furnace, and he reckons he misses
the songs most of all.
Three
hours later, he retires to the tavern in the makeshift village down the road.
Like his house, it is built of stone scavenged from the idiot structures of the
serpents and crafted into a sensible dwelling. Its walls are straight and meet
at right angles, and its roof is thatched and will be proof against the winter
rains. It is a little piece of rural Komaru, here in the middle of the serpent
valley.
He
sits down at the bar beside Frederic Belvior, who raises cattle in a ranch
northeast of the village, and buys his night's meal from Shina Rau, the bar
wench. Shina gets a second piece of copper because she reminds him of a girl he
knew, back across the desert. As he watches her fix his meal, he finds himself
imagining the shape of her body beneath her blouse, and shakes his head to
clear the image. He is certain every lonely farmer in the village dreams of
sharing her bed, and knows she will never choose him out of that crowd. He
takes a bowl of chicken stew from her, smiles awkwardly, and eats his dinner.
Between mouthfuls, he listens to the buzz of conversation around him.
By
the hearth, the tavern keeper Damon Rau tosses on another log and turns to
Philipe Vanya, "You heard that? I heard the Church was going to draft us
all to knock Spearpoint down, and only Numinous Smith's presence saved us from
conscription. He's a hero, is what he is."
Vanya
shakes his pretty head, "He's no hero. The Church promised us whatever
land we could hold, and now it's telling us we can't hold anything beyond the
line the Royal troops form. There are hundreds of families out there who have
to come back and squeeze in with the rest of us or end up outside the Line.
What kind of hero is he to them?" Felix can't bring himself to like the
trader, no matter how good the deals he offers the village are. He has seen the
way the man looks at Shina.
Shina's
father shakes his head, "Well, more fools they, then, for going so far
away from the rest of us. They should have expected it. Besides, none of this
will be a problem when some more soldiers come over. If the Minamet and the
Church weren't having their little squabble, I'm right certain we'd have Church
armies here now – or even Minamet! Light knows why they don't just come out
here and burn all the serpents out. Numini Smith and Courant would do it in a
moment, I'm right certain. Those two – and Numinous Smith in particular – they
know who they're really responsible to. And the troops we have now – they do
keep our lands safe."
Vanya
raises a hand, a gesture Felix finds particularly effete. "Smith, Smith.
Have you talked to the Minamet soldiers sent over? They don't want to be here.
I don't think you'll be seeing more of their ilk, not willingly. If you want
armies, you'd better go break Spearpoint yourself. That, or pray the Regent
sends us more of her men. But I don't think that'll be happening. From what I
hear, she'll need them all to convince that daughter of hers to take a prince.
And even if she does, she'll still need her armies to keep off the other
families – those who don't end up with a Prince Consort. No, I think you,
master Rau, are one of the lucky ones – you and yours stand to make quite a
fortune here, for being in the right place at the right time. Why, your
gracious daughter's future is practically assured already…"
Felix
tears his attention away from the two, not wanting to listen any longer. Beside
him, Belvior clears his throat, and says, "You heard anything of the
Mirepoix boy?"
Young
Randal Mirepoix has been missing for a week now, but Felix hasn't heard
anything new. He shakes his head, and Belvior presses on. "They say he's
not the only one to vanish. Up north, in Greendown, they say whole farms are
found empty. I don't know if I believe it, but it's enough to make a man
think." He takes a deep pull from his tankard, and Felix realizes Belvior
is very, very drunk. "So are the damn birds. Why the Light am I here, and
not in my damn home?"
Felix
cannot help himself, "The birds?"
Belvior
sighs, and stumbles to his feet. "The damn birds. You'll see. Must
go…"
Felix
helps Frederic Belvior out the door, despite the scent of cow manure that
clings to him. Outside, under the half-black sky, Belvior pushes him away,
"I'm alright. I can get home from here." Felix watches him stagger
down the road, each step a little more composed than the last.
He
looks back into the tavern, and sees that Philipe Vanya has taken his seat, and
that he is flirting with Shina. She's laughing, and her eyes are twinkling.
Felix sighs, and feels the ache in his muscles burn twice as fiercely as he
watches Vanya catch the black-haired girl's hand and press it to his lips. She
blushes, and Felix turns his back on the tavern. He trudges down the road, back
to his home.
In
the dark, the shapes of the abandoned serpent buildings, now stripped down to
their foundations, rise in disordered patterns along the road. He is not an
imaginative man, but he cannot help seeing them as shattered teeth and broken
bones. He shivers despite the night's warmth, and redoubles his pace towards
home. When he reaches it, he sighs with relief, and reaches out to slide open
the door.
Then,
he hears the noise from above.
Looking
up, he sees a great emerald bird perched atop his home, its beak as sharply
curved as his scythe. He watches it, and sees it watching him. Its eyes are
lambent gold, and its plumage glitters like metal in the half-starlight. For
half an hour, he stands there, doing nothing but watching it, until at last it
spreads its great wings, broader across than twice his height, and takes to the
air. Felix Ambre watches it fly away until it vanishes into the night. Then,
exhausted, he goes to bed.
Tomorrow
is another day.
It
is autumn, and the warmth of the sun caresses her skin like a lover's touch.
The stone of the marble bench she reclines upon is cool against her bare
shoulders, but the golden light balances the coldness, sending a delicious
tingle down her spine. She sighs in pleasure at the sensation, basks in it for
a moment, and then rolls onto her side and studies herself. She knows that the
years have treated her well: her skin is still as flawless, the lines of her
body still as perfect, as when she turned sixteen. Even motherhood has, she
admits, only made her more beautiful, another pleasant surprise from something
she had so long dreaded. She runs her hands across her body and smiles at the
sensation, her reward for the countless hours she spends honing it, her finest
weapon. Satisfied, she catches the braid that binds her blood-red hair, and
takes a moment to artfully wind it around her body. Save for her jewelry, it is
all she wears.
Beyond
the maze of hedges that conceals her, she can hear that the party is in full
swing. She, of course, has already fulfilled that portion of her social
obligation: she has curtseyed to the new Royal Heir, shown the woman respect
while ignoring the daggers of her gaze. Poor Aimee – one life from the throne,
yet still scarcely older than Adriana herself. She finds herself laughing
gently to herself as she imagines Aimee's life as Royal Heir. Of the many
crimes Arabelle Sone has been accused of, she cannot imagine one worse than
stripping that woman of the many dreams being Royal Heir will tear away from
her.
As
Arabelle waits, she indulges in idle fantasies of Komaru under a Crown Princess
with no comprehension of men. She wonders if Aimee would dissolve her own
marriage, steal her brother back, and make him her Royal Protector or some such
nonsense. Or if she would choose Gahariet Komaru instead, providing herself
with a perfect husband in all respects save the most important. For a moment,
Arabelle imagines Gahariet in her own bed, and smiles at the thought. It would
not be the first time she has assayed that particular challenge, but it would
be too much work to top her previous effort. Her thoughts return to Tohru, bold,
bright, foolish, adorable Tohru. It takes so little effort to understand why
the silly girl would fall in love with him. Arabelle laughs to herself again as
she thinks about the nature of kinship amidst her family, and Tohru's. Arabelle
knows that Aimee, for all her naiveté, is certainly not the only one with
intense feelings for her siblings.
If
anyone needed any additional proof of that, the events of Aimee's ascension as
Royal Heir should have banished all doubt. Arabelle vividly recalls the scene,
now a season past: Aimee took her seat beside Adriana and Kimiko, while Adriana
watched her and hid the faint glimmer of sadness in her eyes. Then the herald's
pike against the marble floor brought the candidates for Adriana's hand
forward, and the glimmer of sadness turned into a battle against angry tears.
The boys presented themselves well, clad in their finest garments and all
proudly bearing their family mon, but Arabelle still cannot think of
them as men, not even the Yuasa, twice the Crown Princess's age. The speed with
which Adriana's tears vanished beneath a schooled face of flat hostility
assured Arabelle that the Crown Princess shared her doubts about their
suitability. The memory brings a flicker of a smile to Arabelle's lips: none of
those children will find Adriana Komaru a willing bride – not when the girl's
first act after escaping her suitors is to run to her brother for solace.
She
hears footsteps beyond the hedge, the sounds of a couple lost in quiet
conversation. She briefly indulges herself in imagining their reaction were
they to find her here, but knows her servants will permit no such thing. She
waits for only one man, and woe betide any other who dares enter her presence
uninvited.
As
her maid sends the couple away, Arabelle twists onto her back to consider Hideo
Sone. Soon, though, her reflections turn to her own brother. She cannot help
but feel a touch of sadness at the memory of devious, dead Toyokuni. For years,
he burned more brightly than any man Arabelle knew, or has known since, and it
came as no surprise to her that his passion was built on a foundation of pure
instability. She stretches out a hand to catch at the hedge behind her as she
thinks about Toyokuni's insanity, the blind, inspiring drive that grips so many
of her bloodline. Knowing what she does now, she fancies that only blind chance
inflicted it upon him and spared her of most of its wrath. Poor, mad Toyokuni,
who killed their mother and showed her who her father really was – some days,
she misses him. Others, she thanks Mourn that he is gone. Despite everything,
she supposes that she loved him.
It
is not an admission that comes easily to her, but it is one she finds herself
making more and more often as she grows older. She never expected to love her
son, but now she finds she enjoys playing with young Celestin, or nursing him,
or even simply holding him in her arms at night. Looking back at her aversion
to having a child, she wonders at it: she, of all people, should have
anticipated the pleasure a family brings. After all, she chuckles as she
realizes, no one will know Celestin as intimately as she does for years and
years to come. That thought leads quickly to another: oh, how she will enjoy
dealing with the women who come to take her son away. She smiles to herself as
a dozen scenarios spring into her mind, and finds herself longing to hold the
boy even now.
Outside
her verdant sanctuary, she hears cheering. Tohru and the Regent have arrived,
the returning heroes of the bloodless battle in the East. She feels a tingle of
anticipation as her plan begins in earnest. Though she cannot see it, she
imagines it as clearly as if she were watching: Tohru by the Regent's side,
crowned in a hero's wreath. Aimee, jubilant, angry, clamors for his attention.
He reddens under the court's adulation, and searches for a way to escape. Her
servant whispers to him that his wife waits for him in the garden, but that she
is not disposed to be presented before the court. He worries about this,
wondering at its meaning – it pricks his interest, and he makes his apologies
to the Regent and his sister, and goes. Aimee considers following, but she
knows enough to sense what is happening, to sense that her involvement will
only leave her with more pain. She desists, leaving Tohru to hurry quickly into
the hedge maze within the garden. Flawlessly, he follows the servant's
directions, until at last she hears the crunch of his boots against the stony
path, and closes her eyes to wait.
"Arabelle?"
he calls, hesitant. "Are you there?"
Her
voice is husky, and it thrills her that it is not all artifice. "I am, my
dear. I'm afraid I have a terrible problem."
She
can tell by the sound of his footsteps that he is close enough to see her now,
and the half-strangled noise he makes confirms this. "Arabelle, your
clothes—"
"Are
not here, rendering me indisposed to be presented at court. I know. That,"
she croons to him, eyes still closed, "is not the problem."
"What…
is?"
She
smiles to herself, and opens her eyes to see him standing above her. "I
don't have a daughter yet, my lord, and I've not welcomed you home
properly." She reaches up, catches his kimono between her fingers, and
pulls him towards her.
Atop
and beside a marble bench, surrounded by the verdure of the Royal Garden, Tohru
Komaru does what he can to solve both of his wife's problems.
It
is spring, and the warmth of the sun cannot penetrate the grey clouds that dump
rain upon the broad brim of his hat. Theo Bellatrix finds the whole situation
as ludicrous as the name of the county it is occurring in. Northtail, northern
edge of the southernmost reach of Komaru, lies between the Western Ocean and
the Plains of Crystal. It is a rocky, dismal land, resembling the north far
more than the pastoral fertility of the south, and though it is held by a
Bellatrix count, it is now filled with Touraine troops gathered within the
lands of two Touraine barons. There are nearly a thousand of them. Arrayed
against them, Theo Bellatrix's forces number scarcely more than two hundred.
Fortunately
for Theo, they are being very polite.
He
has just returned from meeting with their leader, an extremely courteous woman
named Elegance Touraine. Living up to her name, she appeared at the
negotiations wearing a flowing blue dress, an intricate silver belt, and a
silver-threaded snood trimmed with pearls. Had they not been standing between
two armies (or perhaps an army and a fifth, Theo confesses to himself), he
would have imagined she was dressed for court. Firmly but eloquently, she
explained that her army would be passing through Bellatrix territory to
reinforce the Touraine holdings in the south. Politely but with the confidence
of explicit orders, Theo explained to her that she would not be passing into
the south. She seemed faintly sad, as though Theo had turned down an offer to
marry her only daughter. Then, she informed him that he should check with his
superiors, because she was indeed going south, and unless he wanted to waste
the lives of his men in a pointless battle, he would be unwise to stop her.
Then, she thanked him for his tea, complimented him on his charm, and wished
him best fortune in his family's attempts to engage him to the Crown Princess.
So,
here he sits, watching the Touraine army. Faced with an impasse, he has done
the only thing possible: he has sent a message to the Bellatrix at the Castle
of the Sea, and asked them to entreat the Touraine there to decide whether his
troops will die now, or if death will come for them another day.
In
the 225th year of Paraceln's Age, the world is growing smaller and
the distant horizons are vanishing. Under the light of a half-blackened sky,
the substance of what surrounds and envelops the country will soon be revealed.