Chapter 10: The Sweet Stain of a Kiss

The polite fiction of the public gathering having served its purpose, the other guests, with murmured excuses, began to melt away. Isabella, Rex Nemorensis, and Pierre Corneille, her newfound, if somewhat reluctant, confidant, strolled away from the dwindling throng, their footsteps falling softly on the manicured grass. She possessed a queenly stature, standing at a net height of perhaps one hundred and seventy centimeters, yet the sheer, imposing presence of the warrior beside her, Corneille, managed to cast even her regal form into an almost delicate relief.

Around Isabella’s throat lay a necklace fashioned in the graceful arc of a crescent moon, while her flowing cloak, dark as a midnight sky, was lavishly embroidered with a multitude of glittering stars upon its back and sweeping sides. This celestial iconography was a legacy of the Trastámara family’s ancient and deeply held faith: the reverent worship of Mithras, the stern god of contracts, the radiant sun, the illuminating light, and the unwavering spirit of the warrior. Mithras, however, was a deity whose divine favor was traditionally bestowed upon men. Thus, Isabella, by virtue of her current form, was technically precluded from adorning herself with those symbols granted exclusively to his male devotees – the blazing sun, the wise raven, the life-giving water-bearer, the noble lion, the illuminating torch, and, most sacred and significant of all, the emblem of the bull-slayer. Yet, in these fallen days, with the once-mighty ancient Empire shattered into a thousand warring fragments, such distinctions mattered little. Many of the gods once venerated with fervent devotion by that fallen Empire, Mithras among them, had long since relinquished their intricate ties to the chaotic, ever-shifting mortal realm.

Corneille, ever adaptable, matched Isabella’s unhurried pace. The cool, sophisticated fragrance that emanated from the beautiful, enigmatic woman beside him was undeniably pleasant, a subtle perfume that spoke of power and hidden depths. Yet, the almost palpable weight of unseen eyes boring into his back, the silent scrutiny of those courtiers and guards who lingered at a respectful distance, kept his powerful body taut with a warrior’s ingrained tension.

Isabella, with a delicate hand, covered her mouth, a light, almost musical laugh escaping her lips. Just as Corneille, ever mindful of his precarious position, was about to utter some carefully chosen, perfunctory words of fealty, Isabella spoke first, her voice a silken murmur that seemed to caress the very air. "I invited you for this quiet stroll, Monsieur Corneille, precisely because I wished to escape the suffocating miasma of such empty platitudes. Everyone here is, of course, perfectly amiable, impeccably polite. And yet," a faint, almost imperceptible sigh, "they are also… rather excessively, and tediously, insincere."

This was a conversational gambit for which Corneille found himself utterly unprepared. Seeing the flicker of hesitation, of carefully masked surprise, in his eyes, Isabella inclined her head in a gesture of mock apology. "My sincerest apologies, Monsieur. You possess such a refreshingly… unvarnished, almost rustic, unpretentiousness. It quite tempted me, I confess, to a little harmless mischief."

Corneille remained silent, his expression carefully neutral.

"You possess a most… dangerous sort of charm, Monsieur Corneille," she continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, her amethyst eyes glinting with an unreadable light. "It is a quality that inspires both a certain… primal fear, and yet, at the same time, an almost irresistible urge to observe more closely, to delve beneath that formidable surface. My own heart, I confess, is beating with a rather unseemly rapidity. I can only pray that the tell-tale blush I feel warming my cheeks is not… misinterpreted by any prying eyes."

This, too, was a conversational minefield, a treacherous swamp of implication and innuendo that Corneille was ill-equipped to navigate. He was a soldier, a pragmatist, not a man practiced in the art of flirtatious dalliances, nor was he intimately acquainted with this powerful, enigmatic woman. To engage in lighthearted, potentially suggestive, banter with a Rex Nemorensis, a woman whose social and political standing so vastly outstripped his own, felt like a reckless, almost suicidal, folly.

And yet, a small, disquieting voice whispered in the recesses of his mind, does he truly possess such a perilous charm?

He stole a surreptitious glance at Isabella. Her cheeks, he noted with a sinking feeling, were as smooth and cool as polished jade, her expression perfectly, almost unnervingly, serene. He had been played, he realized with a grim certainty, played with the effortless skill of a master musician upon a finely tuned lute.

Isabella’s laughter, when it came this time, was genuine, a rich, melodious sound that seemed to dance upon the gentle breeze. "No more jests, then, brave Corneille. Let us return to matters of more… substantial import. His Grace the Duke of Alva requires my support, as, indeed, do I his. As you have no doubt observed, I find myself surrounded by those who are either rapidly approaching a state of venerable decrepitude, or who, with a singular lack of subtlety, openly covet my person, my power, or both. I am, therefore, in most urgent need of fresh blood – individuals who are safe, demonstrably harmless to my own position, and possessed of a certain youthful vigor."

"It would be my greatest honor to serve Your Imperial Highness in any capacity you deem fit," Corneille said, his voice a low, formal rumble.

"And the Duke of Alva? How fares his delicate health?"

"His Grace’s condition, I am pleased to report, shows steady improvement."

"I recall that the late Lord Fernando, in his… wisdom… arranged several prospective marital matches for him with witches of suitably noble lineage. How progresses that particular endeavor?" Isabella inquired, her gaze sharp and appraising.

"We have, as yet, only begun to make the initial contacts, Your Highness."

"Then you must endeavor to find a suitable household, and settle the matter with all due haste," Isabella advised, her tone brisk and businesslike. "The witches of Waite, as you may have heard, are renowned for their… mercurial temperaments, their fickle affections. Yet, a matter as grave and binding as a formal betrothal contract, that, at least, they will not easily, or lightly, break."

"I thank Your Highness for your most sagacious counsel."

A faint sigh, like the rustle of autumn leaves, escaped Isabella’s lips. "The recent… misfortunes… of House Toledo, I confess, I find them most regrettable. But I imagine the Dowager Duchess, Angelica, has, in the end, achieved her long-held desires."

"Your Highness is… acquainted with the Duchess?"

A shadow of some distant, unreadable emotion flickered across Isabella’s beautiful features. "Nay. At the time of her marriage to Fernando, I harbored a profound… distaste… for his duplicitous dealings, his treacherous playing of both sides of the political chessboard. I did not, therefore, deign to attend the wedding ceremony myself. Instead, I dispatched a most capable and trusted representative in my stead. He returned to me with a rather… illuminating report. The Duchess Angelica, he informed me, had entered into the sacred bonds of matrimony with a heart consumed by a cold, unyielding hatred. He had, with considerable skill and no small amount of bribery, managed to extract the likely truth of the matter from certain members of the bride’s own retinue: the powerful Barbarigo family had originally intended to wed Angelica’s younger, and presumably more pliant, sister to Fernando. But that young lady, it seems, possessed a will of her own. She had absconded, vanishing without a trace, leaving her family in a most… delicate position. Thus, Angelica, the elder, was made the unwilling sacrifice upon the altar of dynastic ambition."

Corneille remained silent, his face an impassive mask. He had been unaware of this particular, rather sordid, piece of history, but judging by Angelica’s subsequent actions, by the cold, calculating cruelty she had displayed, it possessed the undeniable, bitter ring of truth. He carefully schooled his features, determined to betray no flicker of emotion. Yet, his subtle, almost imperceptible, tightening of the jaw, the fleeting shadow that crossed his eyes, did not escape Isabella’s keen, unnervingly perceptive, gaze. Certain… private suspicions… of her own were thereby confirmed, and a slow, almost predatory, smile of profound satisfaction touched her lips.

Corneille, sensing the shifting undercurrents of the conversation, decided to dispense with any further veiled pleasantries. "His Grace the Duke of Alva stands in urgent need of Your Imperial Highness’s support and most valued guidance," he stated, his voice firm and direct. "We, in turn, are prepared to offer appropriate, and substantial, recompense for your favor."

"For the present," Isabella said, her smile widening, "I can provide you with a small, discretionary sum, for your immediate expenses."

"We are most profoundly grateful, Your Highness."

"If, however," she continued, her amethyst eyes glinting with a challenge, "you and your young Duke can demonstrate true capability, true worth, then what you receive from my hand will be far more than mere… pocket money."

"We shall endeavor, Your Highness, to serve your interests to the very utmost of our abilities, and beyond."

"Monsieur Corneille," Isabella said, her tone becoming more serious, "I trust this initial sum will be put to… judicious and appropriate use. Are you, by chance, familiar with the grim edifice known as the Tower of Precepts?"

Corneille made a subtle gesture, inviting her to elaborate. Isabella continued, her voice a low, conspiratorial murmur, "When the ancient Empire, in its final, agonizing death throes, finally crumbled into dust and ruin, the overseas province of Waite, then a mere Governorate, was likewise gripped by a primal, existential terror. To ensure their very survival in a world suddenly plunged into chaos, they undertook two monumental, almost desperate, engineering projects. The first of these was the Great Forest Barrier, a vast, intricate enchantment designed to ensnare and contain the potent mana emanating from the sacred Jupiter Trees, locking it forever within Waite’s borders. Over the span of a thousand years, the concentration of raw magical energy within this land has steadily, inexorably, climbed, pushing the very boundaries of what magic can achieve, elevating its potential to almost godlike heights. It is my personal conviction, however," she added, a thoughtful frown creasing her brow, "that the slow, insidious decline in the number of viable men in this land also began its inexorable march from that very point in our history."

"The second of these grand undertakings," she went on, "was the structure known as the Empyrean Tower. The ultimate, intended purpose of that colossal project remains shrouded in the mists of time, a secret lost to the ages. But its eventual outcome, alas, was nothing short of catastrophic. Flavius Aetius, the Rex Nemorensis of the 'Tower' domain who presided over its ambitious construction – and who was also, incidentally, the very last male to hold the title of Rex Nemorensis – was brutally, and mysteriously, assassinated. Thereafter, the Empyrean Tower, its original purpose abandoned, its soaring aspirations shattered, became the grim, forbidding Tower of Precepts. And the 'Tower' domain itself was transformed into a desolate repository for guilty witches, a place of punishment and enforced penitence. Other domains, eager to rid themselves of their own inconvenient, unforgivable witches, began to consign them to the 'Tower' domain, to be subjected to the harsh, unyielding discipline and arduous reformation of precept magic."

"Your Imperial Highness means for me," Corneille surmised, his mind racing to grasp the implications of her words, "to recruit witches from this… Tower of Precepts?"

"The ancient laws of Waite," Isabella confirmed, a sly, knowing smile playing on her lips, "expressly forbid the Rex Nemorensis themselves from recruiting, or in any way consorting with, the guilty witches confined within the 'Tower' domain. However," her smile widened, "those selfsame laws say absolutely nothing about… enterprising outlanders… choosing to do so. And the guilty witches themselves, save for those whose minds have been irrevocably fractured by their crimes or their punishment, would naturally, I imagine, welcome the prospect of a… conditional freedom."

Corneille considered this, his brow furrowed in thought. "There are, as I see it, two critical, and potentially insurmountable, obstacles to this endeavor. Firstly, how am I, a mere outlander, to extract these… guilty witches… from their formidable prison? I cannot imagine that the 'Tower' domain will release its charges readily, or without considerable… persuasion. Secondly," his gaze hardened, "guilty witches, by their very definition, are likely to be… problematic… in both character and conduct. How am I to control such volatile individuals? How am I to ensure they serve the interests of His Grace the Duke of Alva, and, by extension, Your Imperial Highness’s own cause, without becoming a greater danger than the one we seek to overcome?"

Isabella bestowed upon him a glance of open, almost maternal, approval. "I shall provide the necessary resources, the initial funding for this venture. For the rest…" her eyes glinted with a predatory light, "let me bear witness, Monsieur Corneille, to the full extent of your renowned capabilities."

"Is this, then, a task Your Highness entrusts to me, or a trial you set before me?"

"It is, my dear Corneille, a measure of both. My own personal inclination, I confess, favors both you and your young Duke. Yet, I must present tangible facts, irrefutable evidence of your worth, to persuade my own… somewhat less enlightened… retainers, who are, I regret to say, often prone to the corrosive influences of suspicion and base jealousy."

Having completed their leisurely circuit of the grounds, they found themselves once more approaching the periphery of the dwindling throng of guests. With a sudden, almost impulsive, gesture, Isabella pressed a rapidly melting ice cream into Corneille’s surprised hand, deftly intercepting a portly nobleman who was, at that very moment, bearing down upon them with the clear intention of offering Corneille a celebratory toast.

"Monsieur Corneille, I believe, does not particularly care for wine, does he?" she said, her voice bright and innocently cheerful. "Please, do enjoy the ice cream here. It is, I assure you, far superior to any to be found elsewhere in the Federation. I sincerely wish you a most pleasant and enjoyable afternoon."

With a graceful nod, Isabella then turned and moved towards another part of the gathering. She was, within moments, a magnet, swiftly attracting a dense cluster of fawning courtiers who effectively, and perhaps intentionally, screened her regal figure from Corneille’s direct line of sight.

Corneille, feeling somewhat bewildered, took a tentative lick of the ice cream. It was, he noted with a flicker of surprise, exceptionally, almost cloyingly, sweet. A second later, his eyes widened. There, at the very edge of the mark his tongue had made upon the frozen confection, was the faint, yet unmistakable, crimson trace of lipstick. Startled, he looked up. Isabella had, as if by magic, reappeared in his line of sight. He saw her, across the intervening space, lightly, almost playfully, tap her own perfectly painted lips with a slender fingertip.

Corneille was utterly perplexed. When, and more importantly, why, had Isabella executed such a bizarre, and potentially compromising, maneuver? Then, with a sudden, dawning, and deeply unpleasant realization, he felt the collective, almost palpable, weight of a dozen envious, resentful gazes converging upon him from all corners of the lawn.

Isabella nodded, a slow, deliberate gesture, a look of profound, almost feline, satisfaction gracing her beautiful features. She mouthed two silent words across the distance, words that Corneille, with a sinking heart, understood all too well: "I forgive."

Only then did the full, chilling import of her actions strike him. This was neither a clumsy attempt at flirtation, nor some whimsical, girlish prank. This was retribution – a cold, calculated, and exquisitely public act of vengeance for the late Duke Fernando’s duplicitous betrayals, his treacherous playing of both sides in the great game of power. Fernando himself was beyond her reach, mouldering in his ancestral crypt. Dias, the current Duke, had not deigned to attend in person. And so, this poisoned dart, this exquisitely crafted insult, wrapped in the sweet, deceptive paper of ambiguous, suggestive flirtation, had found its intended mark in him, Pierre Corneille, the loyal, unsuspecting emissary.

A seasoned politician, even one nursing a deep and bitter grievance, might, in the interests of pragmatism, choose to selectively forget, or at least publicly ignore, such past transgressions. But Isabella Trastámara, it was now chillingly apparent, was one to meticulously, and often theatrically, settle old scores. Just as the intelligence reports had so accurately, if somewhat dryly, suggested, as a leader, she did not possess any remarkable, or indeed, even discernible, talent for true statesmanship. Her actions were often driven by emotion, by pride, by a thirst for petty vengeance.

To pledge oneself to the service of such a mistress… Corneille thought, a cold knot of foreboding tightening in his stomach. The path ahead will be fraught with peril, indeed.

Dias, meanwhile, navigated the bustling corridors and crowded common rooms of the academy in the company of her assigned group members. Their collective presence in the cavernous refectory, with its long, scarred wooden tables and echoing stone walls, was particularly, and often uncomfortably, conspicuous. The other young women, long inured to being the objects of constant, often unwelcome, attention, chattered with an easy, unselfconscious animation. Their lively, ceaseless conversation, a bright tapestry woven from gossip, academic anxieties, and youthful aspirations, gradually, almost imperceptibly, began to draw Dias out of his shell of shy reserve, until he found himself contributing to their discussions in quiet, hesitant murmurs. They spoke of the latest news from the far corners of Waite, of Dias’s distant, almost mythical, homeland, of the rigors and absurdities of their various courses of study, and, inevitably, with a mixture of awe, curiosity, and giggling speculation, of the formidable Pierre Corneille. Dias, in his profound innocence, remained blissfully, almost tragically, oblivious to the fact that his charming, attentive companions were, with a subtle, almost surgical, precision, subtly assessing his potential marital value, his ducal prospects, his overall suitability as a future consort. He simply felt a warm, swelling pride for his dear, and undeniably impressive, friend.

Towards the end of the midday meal, as the clatter of cutlery and the murmur of a hundred conversations began to subside, Anne de Longueville, with a sudden, almost theatrical, exclamation, remarked, "Ah, by the turning of the moons, today is Friday!"

"Is there some particular significance to that day, Mademoiselle?" Dias inquired, his brow furrowed in mild confusion.

One of the other group members, a vivacious young woman with eyes the color of warm honey, leaned closer and explained, her voice a conspiratorial whisper, "Indeed, Monsieur de Toledo. Although you are, of course, an honored outlander, you are nevertheless still required, by the ancient and unyielding customs of Waite, to fulfill your… 'male obligations.'"

Anne, with a sigh that seemed to carry a hint of genuine sympathy, added, "And, as you were unfortunately unable to attend to these duties previously, due to your regrettable indisposition, it is highly probable that this time, your assigned 'male obligation' will involve a task of a somewhat more… arduous, and perhaps less agreeable, nature."

Their predictions, alas, proved to be unerringly accurate. A few minutes before the afternoon’s tedious class on general civic studies concluded, the formidable form mistress, a woman whose stern demeanor could quell a riot with a single, icy glare, read out the list of "male obligations" assigned to the male students of their class. Dias, to his mounting trepidation, was assigned to perform "condolence visits" in the notorious Istapa district, commencing at nine o'clock on Saturday morning.

Anne, her usual vivacity momentarily eclipsed by a shadow of concern, gravely informed him that he absolutely, under no circumstances, must take Pierre Corneille with him to the Istapa district. While not technically classified as a slum, she explained, it was a rough, sprawling residential area predominantly inhabited by coarse, often dangerously inebriated, laborers. Recent, devastating waves of unemployment had further destabilized the already volatile district, making it a veritable powder keg of simmering resentment and unpredictable violence.

Dias, to his credit, maintained an outward semblance of composure. "It is of no great matter," he said, his voice perhaps a shade too steady. "If Pierre is by my side, I have naught to fear."

Anne hesitated, a flicker of some unreadable emotion in her eyes. "Monsieur de Toledo," she said at last, her voice barely above a whisper, "you may… bear witness to certain… occurrences… in that place, that will… profoundly challenge your established worldview. I can only pray that you will find the strength to accept them with restraint, and with a measure of… philosophical composure."

As far as worldview-shattering, soul-jarring experiences were concerned, Dias privately felt that the abrupt, inexplicable transformation into a girl had already been quite sufficient to last him a lifetime. He found it exceedingly difficult to imagine anything that could possibly prove more shocking, more fundamentally disorienting, than that.

After the final bell had dismissed the weary students for the day, Dias found only the stoic, crimson-eyed Polly waiting for him at the academy gates. She informed him, with her customary brusque efficiency, that Monsieur Corneille had already been escorted back to the ducal manor earlier that afternoon. A faint, almost imperceptible, pang of disappointment touched Dias’s heart. Upon returning to the familiar, if somewhat unsettling, grandeur of the manor, he found the door to Corneille’s private chamber standing slightly, invitingly, ajar.

Dias pushed the heavy oak door open. The cloying, almost suffocating, scent of stale alcohol assailed his nostrils, a stark contrast to the usual clean, masculine aroma of oiled leather and polished steel that typically permeated Corneille’s spartan quarters. A damp towel lay half-submerged in a heavy copper basin, the water within now as cold and uninviting as a winter tomb. Nearby, Corneille himself was sprawled, with a distinct lack of his usual martial grace, in a deep, padded armchair, lost to the world in a profound, sonorous slumber.

Dias, with a sigh, carefully retrieved Corneille’s discarded coat from where it had been unceremoniously draped over the back of a chair, and meticulously hung it upon its proper peg. At that precise moment, as if cued by some unseen cosmic clock, the subtle, alchemical effects of the transformative potion began to wane. Swiftly, almost imperceptibly at first, then with a gathering momentum, his body began to shrink, his limbs to slenderize, his hair to lengthen and soften. His innate, almost forgotten, affinity with the ambient currents of mana surged back, a revitalizing, almost intoxicating, energy coursing through her newly reclaimed feminine form.

Under a strange, inexplicable, and undeniably reckless impulse, she lifted Corneille’s heavy woolen coat to her face and inhaled its scent. Beneath the sharp, lingering aroma of potent spirits, she detected another, far more subtle, fragrance – the cool, sophisticated, and undeniably feminine perfume for a beautiful, and presumably powerful, woman, the Cold Beauty. It was less like the innocent, sun-drenched scent of fresh flowers and more like the expensive, artfully applied face powder favored by the ladies of the high court.

A flicker of something sharp and unpleasant – was it displeasure? Or perhaps, a nascent, unfamiliar jealousy? – touched Dias’s delicate features. She carefully placed the coat back on its hanger, then turned to gaze upon the sleeping Corneille. His collar lay open, revealing the impressive, sculpted musculature of his chest, now softened and relaxed in repose, its usually sharp, defined angles strangely, almost endearingly, rounded.

"Honestly, Pierre," she sighed, her voice a soft, chiding murmur in the quiet room, "you are still so utterly, so infuriatingly, careless with your own well-being. Before you presume to take such meticulous care of others, you should, at the very least, endeavor to take proper care of yourself."

Muttering softly under her breath, a litany of gentle remonstrations and unspoken anxieties, Dias searched for a warm blanket to cover her slumbering friend. Suddenly, as she looked upon Corneille’s unguarded, sleeping face, his usually stern features softened by the innocence of unconsciousness, she found herself thinking, with a jolt of surprising clarity, that he looked… rather… endearing. Almost… vulnerable.

She reached out a tentative, trembling hand, her fingertips, light as a butterfly’s wing, brushing against the stubbled roughness of his cheek. Corneille mumbled something incoherent in his sleep, a low, guttural sound that startled her profoundly. She snatched her hand back as if burned, her own hand flying to her chest, her heart hammering against her ribs with a force that was both terrifying and strangely, exhilaratingly, alive.

Taking a series of deep, steadying breaths, she fought to regain her composure. Then, summoning one of the household servants, she requested a fresh basin of warm water. This done, she retreated to the sanctuary of her own bedchamber, quickly changed back into her more familiar feminine attire, and returned to Corneille’s room. With a tenderness that surprised even herself, she began to gently wipe the grime and weariness from his sleeping face with a soft, damp cloth. Slowly, as if drawn from some profound, fathomless depth, Corneille’s eyelids began to flutter open. His gaze, at first, was unfocused, clouded with the lingering mists of sleep. Then, it sharpened, focusing upon her with an intensity, an almost raw, visceral emotion, that made her breath catch in her throat.

Dias knew, with a familiar, aching pang of resignation, that her dearest friend was, once again, in that hazy borderland between sleep and waking, mistaking her for someone else entirely, someone from a past he could neither fully escape nor truly reclaim.

"Good afternoon, Dias," Corneille said, his voice a hoarse, rasping whisper, thick with sleep and the lingering effects of too much wine.

"A 'good' afternoon, indeed, Pierre!" Dias retorted, though her voice lacked its usual sharpness, softened instead by an undeniable undercurrent of concern. "Why, in the name of all the merciful gods, did you feel the need to consume such a prodigious quantity of spirits?" She had the sudden, almost overwhelming, urge to fling the damp towel directly at his uncharacteristically disheveled head. But her conscience, that troublesome, ever-present companion, would not permit such an unladylike, and ultimately unhelpful, display of exasperation. With a sigh that seemed to carry all the weariness of her own strange, tumultuous existence, she took his large, calloused hand, pressed the cool, damp towel into his unresisting palm, and then, without another word, turned and quietly left the room.