Chapter 11: Consultation

The potent spirits, surprisingly, had gifted Corneille a night of deep, untroubled slumber. That evening, he appeared at the dining table, much of his usual formidable composure restored, a spark of his old fire rekindled in his eyes.

"My apologies," he began, his voice a low rumble, offering an unsolicited explanation, "for allowing you to witness my rather… undignified state earlier. I harbored no true intention of imbibing to excess, but the sheer number of goblets raised in toast, each brimming with an ill-concealed and rather pointed envy, proved… difficult to evade. In truth, I would have far preferred they simply formed a line and challenged me to honest duels."

Dias cast a worried glance in his direction. "Was there… a disagreement?"

Corneille took a spoonful of hearty broth, swallowing before he spoke. "I had an audience with Her Highness Isabella. She is a woman possessed of a… rather perverse sense of amusement, it would seem. My subsequent inebriation was entirely her doing – that thrice-damned ice cream she so 'graciously' offered transformed me into the unwilling, and rather conspicuous, star of a malicious little comedy of envy."

"The Cold Beauty?"

"Indeed. She must have used cosmetics with such a fragrance. How did you know?" Corneille inquired.

"Because your coat," Dias said, her voice a little tighter than intended, "carried the distinct, and rather cloying, scent of an unfamiliar woman." A flush crept up her neck as the words left her lips; her tone, she realized with a pang of self-reproach, was uncomfortably reminiscent of a spurned lover, a role she had witnessed her father’s many mistresses enact with practiced, tearful proficiency throughout his lifetime.

Corneille’s attention, however, remained fixed on the subject of Isabella. "Dias, when next you find yourself in her presence, you must tread with the utmost caution. As a witch, her power is a palpable, undeniable force; as a leader, however, her methods are… unorthodox, and often, deeply questionable."

Dias was no fool; she understood her friend’s implication. "Because Father played both sides, she now dislikes us by association?"

"Irinan, in his time, was often described as 'a man not known for his forgiving nature,' one who held grudges like treasured heirlooms. Isabella, it seems, is cut from the same cloth. However," Corneille conceded, a grudging respect in his tone, "she is far more… poised… now than when she walked the world as a man. And she understands, with a chilling proficiency, how to deftly wield her considerable charm to bind others to her will."

"Is Her Highness truly so… charming?"

A dry chuckle escaped Corneille. "In outward appearance, she is… undeniably flawless. A masterpiece of arcane art and feminine allure. But," he added, a familiar teasing glint in his eye, "not nearly as fair as you, my dear friend, in your current, and rather fetching, incarnation."

Dias’s cheeks puffed out in a familiar, if now slightly more delicate, show of indignation. It was not merely Corneille’s relentless teasing about her appearance that irked her, but the subtle, almost imperceptible, evasion in his voice. He hadn't truly answered her question. Which meant, her heart gave a strange little lurch, that for at least one fleeting, unguarded moment, Pierre Corneille had been captivated, however briefly, by the enigmatic Isabella. Dias found she could not quite… comprehend it. Isabella, after all, had once been an older, and by all accounts, rather unremarkable, man. When she, in her current, dazzlingly feminine form, had turned her potent charms upon Corneille, had he truly not found the entire encounter… profoundly… unsettling?

Corneille’s spoon moved with a steady rhythm; he was parched. Only after finishing his bowl of hearty broth did he speak again. "How fared the academy today?"

Dias then recounted the sprawling layout of the Merida Academy of General Studies, its impressive edifices situated in the southern precinct of the vast Academy City, divided into three distinct, and often rival, campuses. He, of course, was enrolled in the prestigious First Campus. Roughly half the student body, he explained, resided within the hallowed, ivy-clad walls of the campus itself, while the other half commuted daily from various quarters of the city.

There were four hundred students in Dias’s year, seventy of whom were male. However, Dias felt that only about fifty of the male students were actually in regular attendance, and they had already fractured into small, tight-knit, often fiercely exclusionary, cliques, their relationships a complex, shifting tapestry woven from fleeting friendships and deeply held, bitter grievances.

Among the female students, the demarcation was stark and absolute. The seventy witches, their auras thrumming with palpable power, were the undisputed mistresses of this domain, and the two hundred and sixty ordinary, non-magical young women were, in essence, their devoted, and often subservient, attendants… though even these attendant positions, he had learned, were highly coveted, secured only through the fiercest competition and the leveraging of countless influential, and often expensive, connections. To serve a witch, it was understood, meant the promise of better job prospects upon graduation, faster, almost guaranteed, opportunities for advancement, and a far more advantageous selection of potential marriage partners in Waite’s fiercely competitive matrimonial market.

Dias gave a wry, almost pained, smile. "As an outlander, I am, thankfully, exempt from the… rather peculiar… 'Male Virtue' course. But the local Waite boys… they treat it as the most sacred, most important subject of all. Their very futures, it seems, hinge upon the scores given to them by the omnipotent Men's Administration Bureau."

Corneille nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. "In the current, rather twisted, vernacular of Waite, men are indeed regarded primarily as 'resources,' as 'symbols of honor,' rather than as… fully actualized human beings. Their value, their very lives, are almost entirely structured around, and dictated by, the whims and desires of women. It is, in every conceivable way, the precise, and rather unsettling, inverse of how things are ordered in our own lands."

Dias continued, his voice a low murmur, "Yes, I confess, I do not… I cannot… subscribe to such a philosophy. But as we are, for the present, upon their soil, within their domain, I deem it wisest to say nothing. Other than that," he brightened slightly, "things are… generally acceptable. The academy gardens," a flicker of genuine appreciation touched his voice, "are a masterpiece of horticultural art, exquisitely manicured, a riot of vibrant color and intoxicating fragrance. Near the cavernous refectory, there stands a dueling ground, a vast, sanded arena as large as any ancient hippodrome, where the witches frequently, and often quite spectacularly, engage in duels of magical skill. If one is fortunate enough to time one’s meal correctly, one can enjoy the dazzling, and occasionally terrifying, spectacle as a rather… unique… form of after-dinner entertainment. The refectory’s rather uninspired fare, I find, I can just about tolerate. Mademoiselle Longueville has been of considerable assistance, as, indeed, have the other members of my assigned group… Oh," a sudden thought seemed to strike him, "and that reminds me," he added, a note of something unreadable in his voice – was it resignation? Or perhaps a faint, almost bitter, amusement? – "all the members of my assigned study group are, by some grand, cosmic coincidence, the very same young ladies who were on your meticulously compiled list of… prospective marriage candidates, Pierre."

Corneille offered a teasing smile. "And have any of these… estimable young ladies… managed to capture your discerning eye, Dias? Mademoiselle Longueville, I have noted, seems quite… particularly taken… with you."

"I feel… nothing of particular significance… for any of them," Dias replied, his gaze dropping to his plate. "Truth be told, Pierre, I am still happiest, most at ease, when I am simply… with you. Pierre… why are you looking at me in that rather… peculiar… fashion?"

Dias’s artless reply, his casual dismissal of any romantic potential, sent an unexpected, and rather disquieting, flicker of unease through Corneille. He found himself studying his friend’s face, searching for some hidden meaning, some unspoken sentiment. After a few charged seconds, however, he mentally chided himself for his… overactive imagination. Dias had only just made the acquaintance of these young women. It was perfectly natural, entirely understandable, that he should feel no particular… attachment… as yet.

After dinner, Corneille accompanied Dias for a quiet stroll in the cool evening air. This was "Théresias’s" first true outing beyond the familiar confines of the manor, and she was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions – a thrilling excitement warring with a profound, almost paralyzing, apprehension. Her fingers, unconsciously, found and clutched the thick, reassuring fabric of Corneille’s tunic.

"Will people… will they whisper… will they gossip?" she asked, her voice a small, tremulous breath against the stillness of the night.

"It is of no great import," Corneille reassured her, his voice a low, comforting rumble. "We shall confine our perambulations to the immediate grounds of the manor."

Corneille set a slow, leisurely pace, and Dias, her steps light and hesitant, followed closely by his side. The moonlight, like a vast, shimmering swathe of silvered white gauze, carpeted the sleeping earth, casting two long, intimately, almost impossibly, entwined shadows that danced and swayed before them. From a darkened window on the second floor, the veiled Mélusine drew back a heavy velvet curtain by a mere fraction, her unseen eyes observing the two friends below, like she was savoring a delectable after-dinner sweetmeat.

After lingering for a time in the fragrant, moon-drenched courtyard, they returned to the quiet solitude of the second floor, the intoxicating scent of night-blooming jasmine and honeysuckle clinging to their clothes like a lover’s caress. As they reached the landing, they both spoke at the exact same instant: "Dias (Pierre), I have a matter of some gravity to discuss with you."

"You may speak first, my friend," Dias said, a soft smile touching her lips.

"Her Imperial Highness Isabella," Corneille began, his voice low and serious, "has graciously condescended to offer us her support, her patronage. However, she is not one to invest blindly, without expectation of return. She wishes first to bear witness to our capabilities, to the extent of our… usefulness. Her trial for me, a task designed, I suspect, as much to test my limits as to serve her own inscrutable ends, is to venture into infamous Tower of Precepts and recruit a witch – a powerful one, no doubt – from its lightless, forgotten depths."

"As for myself," Dias said, his own voice taking on a more somber note, "I am, as you know, scheduled to perform my… 'male obligation'… in the notorious Istapa district on the morrow."

"The Istapa district," Corneille mused, his brow furrowing in thought. "I have not, as yet, had the… dubious pleasure… of visiting that particular locale. But I have heard it whispered, in hushed, fearful tones, that it serves as a volatile, uneasy buffer zone between the city’s festering, disease-ridden slums and its glittering, oblivious enclaves of unimaginable affluence. A place, it is said, of… delicate negotiations, and often, sudden, brutal, and entirely senseless violence. Perhaps," he added, a thoughtful, almost calculating, expression settling on his rugged features, "we should seek the counsel of Mademoiselle Mélusine on this rather… troubling matter."

Mélusine, ever the gracious, if enigmatic, hostess, received her two unexpected visitors with an offering of fragrant, steaming tea and a platter of delicate, sugar-dusted pastries. Her private chamber was a haven of meticulous neatness and quiet order, the air within faintly, yet pleasantly, scented with the sweet, intoxicating aroma of ripe peaches. A heavy, floor-length curtain of dark, figured velvet partitioned off the bed and wardrobe into a separate, secluded alcove, their outlines only dimly, suggestively, visible in the soft lamplight. The largest portion of the chamber, however, was dominated by a long, heavy oaken table. Its polished surface was almost entirely covered by a breathtakingly detailed, hand-crafted model of a formidable, multi-turreted fortress, complete with exquisitely rendered miniature siege engines and tiny, perfectly formed leaden soldiers, all set upon a vast, intricately hand-painted map depicting a rugged, unforgiving, and entirely simulated, terrain. Around this impressive, and clearly well-used, diorama were scattered neatly arranged stacks of sharp, lead pencils, several decks of intricately illustrated, and suspiciously arcane-looking, cards, an assortment of oddly shaped, multi-faceted dice carved from bone or polished jet, and a number of thick, leather-bound, and undoubtedly ancient, books.

Noticing Corneille’s intrigued, appraising gaze, Mélusine offered a faint, almost apologetic, smile from behind her ever-present veil. "This," she explained, "is merely a popular diversion amongst the more intellectually inclined witches of Waite. We utilize the meticulously documented historical accounts of great battles and sieges as a foundation, a framework, upon which to construct these rather… complex strategic games for multiple participants. I would be most pleased to instruct you in its intricacies when you have the leisure, gentlemen. But I presume," her veiled head tilted slightly, "that is not the primary purpose of your unannounced visit this evening?"

"Indeed not, Mademoiselle," Corneille replied. "She," he inclined his head towards Dias, who stood a little behind him, her expression a mixture of curiosity and apprehension, "is scheduled to perform her 'male obligation' in the Istapa district on the morrow. And I, for my part, have been tasked with the… rather delicate… mission of recruiting a witch from the Tower of Precepts. We had hoped, perhaps, to gather some… pertinent information… from one as knowledgeable as yourself."

"...That," Mélusine said after a long, thoughtful pause, "is… most unfortunate. For both of you."

A silent, questioning look passed between Corneille and Dias.

"The Istapa district," Mélusine elaborated, her voice now laced with a genuine concern, "is a powder keg with a dangerously short, and rapidly burning, fuse. I have heard whispers, through certain… well-placed friends… individuals whose discretion I trust implicitly… that the city administrators are, even now, locked in heated, and increasingly acrimonious, debate over the pressing necessity of dispatching heavily armed peacekeeping forces into that volatile quarter." She then turned her unseen, yet undeniably intense, gaze upon Corneille, her tone growing more serious, more urgent. "I know not who, in their infinite malice or their profound, unforgivable ignorance, put such a perilous, and likely fatal, notion into Monsieur Corneille’s head, but I would most strongly, most vehemently, advise you to be exceedingly, almost preternaturally, wary of that individual, whoever they may be."

"Your counsel, Mademoiselle," Corneille acknowledged with a grim nod, "is undoubtedly sound."

"Monsieur Corneille," Mélusine continued, her voice dropping to an almost conspiratorial whisper, "would surely seek to recruit an individual possessed of… immediate and demonstrable combat capability. And any guilty witch confined within that lightless pit who fits such a description would, by definition, be burdened by crimes of the most… heinous and unforgivable nature. The absolute, non-negotiable prerequisite for extracting any one of these unfortunate, and likely deeply resentful, souls from that living tomb is to somehow almost miraculously clear her name of the transgressions for which she was so publicly, and so irrevocably, condemned. And the very act of attempting such a feat, of daring to question the original, sacrosanct verdict, means directly damaging the unassailable authority of the powerful witches from both the 'Chariot' and the 'Justice' domains – the very factions, let us not forget, who consigned them to that lightless, forgotten hell in the first place. It could also bring you into direct and potentially lethal conflict with the formidable, and notoriously unforgiving, 'Judgment' domain."

"'Chariot'," She mused, "is, perhaps, of little true concern. The 'Judgment' domain, I suspect, can be… persuaded… through careful negotiation, and the judicious application of appropriate incentives. But the 'Justice' domain," Mélusine stated, her voice flat and heavy with a grim finality, "will, I fear, become Monsieur Corneille’s sworn, and implacable, mortal enemy."

Corneille nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. "That, Mademoiselle, is precisely one of the intended objectives of this particular trial. Extracting a witch of sufficient power from the Tower of Precepts will, inevitably and publicly, offend the 'Justice' domain. Only thus, by such a bold and unequivocal act of defiance, can His Grace the Duke of Alva demonstrate his unwavering and potentially invaluable stance to certain… interested parties."

"A blood oath upon the altar of expediency, then?" Mélusine murmured, her veiled head tilted in contemplation. "I do not mean to disparage your courage, gentlemen, nor to question your resolve. But at this… delicate… and exceedingly precarious stage of your affairs, to deliberately, and so openly, antagonize the 'Justice' domain seems… remarkably, perhaps even suicidally, unwise."

Corneille shook his head. "Firstly, Mademoiselle, we find ourselves in desperate, almost existential, need of the patronage, the protection, of House Trastámara. Therefore, even a trial as fraught with peril as this one must be undertaken, and successfully completed. Secondly, I have no intention of approaching the Tower of Precepts directly, like some blundering, ill-prepared fool. Instead, with the ultimate goal of eventually… breaching… its formidable defenses, I shall first seek out those individuals within the other domains who possess influence, who wield power, who might be… persuaded… to see the mutual benefits of an alliance. Only when I have cultivated a sufficient network of such… connections… only when the time is right, and the odds, however slim, are tilted in our favor, will I make my move."

Mélusine folded her arms across her chest, her veiled form a study in thoughtful, silent contemplation. After a long, charged moment, she finally replied, her voice a low, almost regretful, murmur, "On a purely personal level, Monsieur Corneille, I sincerely, and most fervently, hope that you succeed in this… audacious endeavor. The 'Justice' domain, when viewed with a cold, objective, and entirely dispassionate eye, has long been perceived by many within our sisterhood as a stifling, repressive force – one that actively, and often arbitrarily, restricts the witches' fearless exploration of magic’s furthest, most uncharted frontiers, binding our hands, and indeed, our very spirits, with outdated, suffocating laws and an almost fanatical, unyielding dogma. For that very reason, they are… almost universally, and quite deservedly… despised."

Though her words, on the surface, carried the weight of a heartfelt blessing, a sincere wish for his success, Mélusine’s true, unspoken meaning was clear: a polite, yet firm, refusal to become personally entangled in this dangerous, and likely fatal, affair. This, Corneille acknowledged with an inward sigh, was not entirely surprising. What was unexpected, however, what sent a jolt of almost electric premonition through his very core, was their sudden, and entirely unforeseen, encounter with Anne de Longueville on the very following day.