Chapter 17: The Gentleness of a Late Return

"Were I to entertain 'love' for Mademoiselle Longueville," Corneille declared, his voice as flat as a winter pond, "it would ignite a scandal of ruinous proportions, besmirching names far and wide."

"What I desire is true companionship, a fellowship of spirits," Anne sighed, a shadow crossing her features. "But in Monsieur Corneille’s esteemed view, I imagine, such a pure bond between a man and a woman is but a fanciful dream." A note of weariness touched her voice. "Alas, when it concerns anyone save Monsieur de Toledo, your logic, Monsieur Corneille, is as cold as the northern winds. On that note, I have already sent a rider to inform Monsieur de Toledo that you are a guest within our walls."

Anne then guided Corneille to meet her stepfather, Henry. He was a man in the prime of his years, sturdily built and bearing a rugged handsomeness, though now playing the part of a taskmaster of stern repute. He stood watching over sweating clerks, their quills scratching furiously across vast ledgers. As a consort, having married into the formidable Longueville line, Henry made few forays into the public eye but was granted leave to partake in the household's vital affairs.

Upon recognizing Corneille, Henry’s stern face broke into a smile of genuine warmth. It emerged he was a countryman of Corneille's, sent to Waite by a powerful accounting guild some seven years past. There, he had earned a king's ransom for toil that would break lesser men. During a transaction with Anne’s mother, then a widow of considerable standing, he had captured her gaze, and with it, her hand. Naturally, he had cast aside his former life to become her fourth spouse.

Anne’s demeanor towards her stepfather was as courteous and remote as that between new acquaintances at a king's feast. After the two men had completed their polite dance of carefully worded praise, Anne led Corneille to an audience with the true mistress of the keep, the very heart of Longueville's formidable power – Charlotte Marguerite de Longueville, the reigning Rex Nemorensis of the 'Devil's' domain, the iron-willed matriarch of the Longueville dynasty.

Of the twenty-two domains that comprised Waite, only the 'Devil's Own' was ruled by ancient, feudal decree. The shadowed throne of its Rex Nemorensis was clutched tightly by the Longuevilles, a legacy passed from one generation to the next. More than mere blood however, House Longueville prized the perpetuation of their name. Witches who sought to join the 'Devil's Domain' were forced to renounce their birth kin, taken beneath the Longueville banner, and dispatched to one of the four great branch houses to be forged in the fires of duty and intrigue. Of the twenty-five who had held the title of Rex Nemorensis in the annals of House Longueville, twenty-three had risen from these branch families; only two had been born of the direct bloodline. Anne, it was whispered, might well become the third; she held a formidable lead in the perilous game of succession.

Charlotte’s chamber had been warped by potent enchantments, its dimensions defying mortal ken. The ceiling soared to a dizzying height of more than sixty feet. It was not merely the height; the furniture, the tapestries, even the very robes that lay upon a massive divan were of colossal proportions, as if fashioned for a titaness of old.

Corneille’s gaze was pulled to the chamber's heart, where cascading draperies of gold and blood-crimson veiled an inner sanctum. Upon this veil, the immense, reclining shadow of a human form lay sprawled. The air hung thick and parched, each draw of breath a fiery torment to his lungs.

A colossal shadow-head, crowned with wickedly curving horns, stirred upon the drapes. An unutterable weight pressed down upon Corneille's spirit, his heart a trapped bird against his ribs. His hand flew to his sword-hilt, a warrior's reflex, quelled only by a supreme act of will. Where Isabella's presence crushed with raw power, Charlotte's exuded a chilling, tangible malevolence that crawled upon the skin.

"Hathor," a voice, low and rasping like stones grinding together, issued from behind the veils.

Anne flicked a glance at Corneille. He gave a slight nod. "I have indeed been graced by the Lady Hathor's touch and can channel Her sacred arts."

"So, an Apostle of the Goddess." The voice was heavy with an ancient weariness. "It is... ill-suited... for me to receive callers at this hour. You must pardon this discourtesy. Anne, see to our guest's needs in my stead."

"As you command, Mother." Anne inclined her head to the veiled throne, a courtier's perfect obeisance. Once they had withdrawn from the oppressive chamber, Corneille stated, "Lest there be any misapprehension, Mademoiselle, allow me to clarify: I am no Apostle of Hathor. That is but a title of respect, nothing more, used by the high priests of the official faith."

A muscle twitched in Anne’s jaw. She shot a look sharp as poisoned steel towards her mother's veiled sanctum, then gave a minute shake of her head. "Her mind wanders, her strength wanes," she murmured to Corneille, her voice low. "It is only a matter of time before I take her place."

"Are these words meant for my ears, Mademoiselle?" Corneille asked, his expression unreadable.

"Why else do you imagine I am so diligently seeking your good graces, Monsieur Corneille? The Rex Nemorensis holds three sacred privileges. The second decrees that 'No witch of a given domain may raise a hand against their own Rex Nemorensis.' Thus, to unseat her, your unmatched skill with the blade, Monsieur Corneille, is essential. Swear this to me, and all my resources shall be bent to Duke Alva's cause…" 

A sly smile touched her lips. "A mere jest, of course. Even a witch would not spill her own mother's blood for a crown. The blood of devils does not truly course through our veins, despite the whispers."

A jest it may be, Mademoiselle Longueville, Corneille mused, yet within it, a kernel of truth, at last.

The warm glow of candlelight danced upon polished silver. Anne had orchestrated a repast prepared in the fashion of his own Coastal State. Corneille partook with genuine pleasure; it was the most considerate meal a hand other than his own had laid before him in many a season. The shadows that veiled his life before his name became legend, coupled with his own guarded silence concerning his origins, led most to believe him some otherworldly creature, a kept blade of House Toledo, perhaps a wild Highlander. In truth, his roots lay in the windswept Coastal State, a realm to the north of the rugged Highlands.

"Does the fare please you, Monsieur Corneille?" Anne inquired, her eyes watching him.

"Exceedingly well done, Mademoiselle," Corneille replied, inclining his head.

"You heard my... indelicate jest... concerning the fate of a Rex Nemorensis," Anne said, her voice soft, "yet you did not recoil or seek to flee the coming storm. I gather, then, that you have a need of me as well."

"The Tower of Precepts," Corneille stated. "There is a witch within its walls I must bring forth."

"Her name?"

"That, Mademoiselle, will be revealed when the moment is ripe."

Anne tilted her head, a thoughtful expression gracing her features. "A moment's thought on your recent travels… This bears the mark of Her Imperial Highness of the 'Emperor' domain, does it not?"

"Her 'errand,' as you call it," Corneille affirmed, "is a charge I am bound to fulfill with every fiber of my being."

"Indeed. House Longueville enjoys... cordial ties... with the 'Tower' domain. Your path has led you wisely, Monsieur Corneille. Very well, I will lend my aid."

"Are there others within your circle, Mademoiselle," Corneille pressed, "who command influence within the 'Tower' domain?"

"There are."

"And what price would they ask for such aid?"

"Our own acquaintance is but slight," Anne admitted. "Do you remember our talk in the Istapa quarter, touching upon the Holy Fool Church?"

Corneille nodded.

Anne continued, "Yesterday, as the afternoon sun waned, whilst I rested in my carriage, Sister Helena, of that very Church, sought me out. After the usual courtesies, our words drifted to you – and to Monsieur de Toledo, and that young pup, Polly."

"For what reason?" Corneille’s brow furrowed.

Anne’s smile was enigmatic. "Indeed, a curious turn. Her answer was stranger still. She claimed the three of you were the most... profoundly lost souls she had spied in all of Istapa that day."

Corneille remained silent, his gaze steady.

"Be that as it may, she has marked you, Monsieur Corneille. Perhaps you might... seek her out... at the charity gala Her Highness Isabella intends to host the week's end."

"What cause would bring her to such a gathering?" Corneille asked.

"Coin, Monsieur. Or rather, the lack of it," Anne said with a wry twist of her lips. "The Holy Fool Church, for all its good works, has but a meager purse, and their charity bleeds it dry. They depend upon the generosity of others to continue their sacred mission."

Corneille swiftly tallied the mountains of gold it might take to 'win' the good Sister's favor. A low, musical laugh escaped Anne's lips.

"What amuses you, Mademoiselle?" he asked.

"Monsieur Corneille, that furrow in your brow when you ponder matters of coin... it is most... becoming of a husband." Her eyes twinkled. "You would make a fine master for any household. I confess a pang of envy for the woman who will one day call you hers."

"Your jests are misplaced, Mademoiselle," Corneille said, his tone firm. "In matters of hearth and kin, I am a man best avoided."

"Well," Anne said, her voice turning serious, "I have made some calculations, for your sake and Monsieur de Toledo’s. Forgive my boldness, but I suspect neither your purse nor his is deep enough to truly turn Sister Helena's head." She gestured gracefully to herself. "Such a sum, however, I can provide."

"And what, Mademoiselle," Corneille asked, his voice level, "is your price?"

Anne retrieved a lacquered box. With a grace that belied the gravity of the moment, she moved to Corneille’s side and lifted the lid. Nestled on velvet lay rings, their strange metals glinting – artifacts for the binding of summoning pacts.

"One hundred thousand gold dinars, Monsieur," she stated, her voice a silken whisper. "For this, I ask the right to summon you to my side but three times. Is this a pact you will entertain?"

In the flickering candlelight, Anne's eyes seemed to ignite, her crimson irises holding a lure as potent and perilous as any demon's gaze. A devil's bargain it might be, yet to shatter the chains that bound his current path, Corneille knew he would not refuse.

After a heartbeat of silence, Corneille spoke, his voice resonating with quiet finality. "So long as it brings no harm to Dias, I shall honor this pact and strive to fulfill your call with all the strength I possess."

A flicker of surprise crossed Anne's features. "I confess, I imagined you would require days to weigh such a decision, Monsieur Corneille."

"Before setting foot in Waite," Corneille replied, "I had made my peace with this truth: miracles are not bought cheaply. When the need is dire, my sword arm is a commodity I will trade."

"Then, with your leave," Anne murmured, her eyes bright, "shall I set the ring upon your hand?"

"This pact must remain unknown to Dias," Corneille stated. "I would not have him misconstrue its meaning."

"Agreed," Anne purred. "It shall be a secret kept between us alone."

At Corneille's silent nod, Anne selected a ring. She leaned towards him, her movement fluid and deliberate, to slide it onto his finger. The scent of her perfume, a delicate weave of rose and night-blooming jasmine, drifted to him, light as a summer's dream. Her lacquered nails, sharp as a raptor's talons, grazed his skin, leaving two faint, crimson traces. Her breath, warm and moist as a hothouse bloom, ghosted over the marks, and a curious tingle spread beneath his skin. Anne gazed with open satisfaction at the band of metal now girding the base of Corneille’s forefinger, like a noblewoman admiring her mark upon a newly claimed, most prized possession. The memory of his earlier stoic resistance, now juxtaposed with his submission – bought with coin, no less – sent a shiver of triumph through Anne.

Corneille, for his part, studied the ring. Like its predecessor, it bore a cabochon of deepest amethyst, and at its heart, a slit of obsidian, like the unblinking eye of some night creature, pulsed with a faint, unsettling luminescence. Anne had claimed this unsettling glow was, in truth, a subtle enchantment, a secret art of House Longueville, designed to heighten the wearer's allure in the eyes of others. This glamour, like the ring's very substance, could be summoned or dismissed at Corneille's command. He willed it gone, and the ring itself vanished from sight.

Only as their strange compact concluded did Anne speak of the 'Emperor Killer,' a name whispered in shadows. But here, Corneille's knowledge failed him; the name was as foreign as the dark side of the moon.

As the ninth bell of the evening tolled, Anne escorted Corneille to the gates of the ducal manor. Within his own chambers, all was serene, the space meticulously ordered. A familiar blend of sandalwood and sweet vanilla – Dias's favored perfume of late – clung to the air like a gentle memory.

He found Dias in her sanctum, her brow furrowed in concentration as she wrestled with her first true spell – coaxing water from a simple cup, willing it to coalesce into a shimmering orb. The soft fall of his returning footsteps shattered her focus. The nascent sphere collapsed, water splashing back into its basin, speckling her face with cool droplets.

She snatched a nearby cloth, dabbing at her cheeks, a self-conscious laugh bubbling up. "I meant to dazzle you with my progress, but alas, it seems I've only managed a splash!"

For reasons he could not name, the sight of his dearest friend, so earnest in her new endeavors, struck Corneille with a pang of profound, unsettling guilt. He swiftly clasped his hands behind his back, the new ring a hidden weight. "It matters not," he said, his voice softer than she was accustomed to hearing. "These things require patience. Take all the time you need."

The light in Dias's smile died. A chilling memory surfaced: her father, the Duke Fernando, returning from some clandestine tryst with a woman of no consequence, would often mask his guilt with a veneer of uncharacteristic tenderness towards his current favored mistress. Corneille's sudden gentleness felt disturbingly similar.

A knot of emotions, too tangled for her to unravel, tightened in her chest. Yet, through the confusion, the bitter sting of jealousy was unmistakable. She found herself envying these other women. Strangers to him, known but for a fleeting moment, yet by the simple virtue of their womanhood, they could command his gaze, his consideration. And none, she thought with a flash of defiance, possessed half her own beauty.

The elusive water sphere, which had defied her moments before, now sprang to life in her palm. But fueled by the sudden tempest in her heart, it twisted, reshaping itself from a perfect orb into a small, featureless effigy – a crude, childlike doll bearing an uncanny resemblance to Anne Longueville. Dias stared at the watery caricature for three heartbeats, her expression unreadable. Then, with a small, vicious clench of her fist, she crushed it. The water, now just water, streamed through her fingers, returning to the basin with a soft sigh.