Chapter 19: Sister Helena

In the days that followed, Corneille became acutely aware that Mélusine was actively, almost studiously, avoiding him. After some consideration, he surmised that the root of her discomfort likely lay in the unfortunate incident where he had emerged from the ducal bathing chamber clad only in his linen underbreeches – an act, he now understood, considered a rather flagrant, if unintentional, breach of Waite’s peculiar and exacting standards of "male virtue."

However, Corneille had no earthly intention of altering his deeply ingrained personal habits to suit the delicate sensibilities of his current, temporary hosts. This was the Toledo ducal manor, his designated home for the foreseeable future. Why, in the name of all the gods, should he, within the supposed privacy of his own residence, contort his familiar customs, his very way of life, merely to appease the easily offended natives of Waite? As for any lasting, detrimental effect his perceived transgression might have had upon the psyche of Mademoiselle Mélusine, he deemed it, with a touch of perhaps callous dismissal, to be utterly and laughably negligible. Mélusine, a witch of the "Lovers" domain who, by her own admission, yet remained conspicuously and perhaps contentiously single, clearly harbored a profoundly pessimistic, almost phobic, view of romantic entanglements and the restrictive bonds of matrimony. Such a timid, herbivorous creature, even if presented with the most golden of opportunities, would likely prove… entirely, and perhaps even comically, unavailing. Thus, the most realistic and indeed the only tangible consequence of the entire unfortunate incident, he concluded with a mental shrug, was merely that the fastidious Mélusine would now need to expend some small measure of her precious time and energy to dispel any lingering… offensively masculine… aroma from the rarefied air of her private chambers.

On Saturday, Dias, in his male guise, fulfilled another "male obligation," this one, thankfully, of a relatively light and innocuous nature. Accompanied by the ever-vigilant Polly, he embarked on a countryside picnic, a carefully orchestrated social event, with a gaggle of chattering female students from various other regional academies. These students, Corneille had been assured, were all ordinary, non-magical young women. And with the formidable Polly stationed nearby, her hand resting with an air of simmering, almost palpable, menace upon the polished pommel of her sword, none among the giggling, blushing assembly dared to cause any undue trouble, or to attempt any… untoward advances. According to the ever-informative Anne de Longueville, these young women, products of Waite’s numerous  girls' schools, possessed on average a mere one-in-three statistical probability of ever securing a husband. These carefully chaperoned "male obligation" encounters, therefore, provided them with precious, if fleeting and ultimately bittersweet, memories of interacting with the elusive and highly prized opposite sex.

It was during these strange, almost surreal, encounters that Dias began to vaguely, yet with a growing sense of unease, perceive a profoundly disquieting truth: in the matriarchal, witch-ruled society of Waite, it was not only men who had been systematically stripped of their fundamental human rights, their inherent dignity. Ordinary, non-magical women, he was beginning to realize, were also, in their own way, oppressed, their lives subtly, yet inexorably, constrained and manipulated, albeit through different, more insidious, means, by those who wielded the power of the preternatural. Consequently, when faced with the enthusiastic, almost desperate, offerings of food from the eager young women – a veritable mountain of sweetmeats, candied fruits, and intricately decorated pastries – Dias, his heart touched by an unexpected pang of empathy, found himself utterly unable to refuse their well-intentioned, if somewhat overwhelming, generosity. Upon returning to the ducal manor that evening and, with a sigh of profound relief, transforming back into "her," she had immediately and rather frantically dragged a bewildered Corneille out into the moonlit courtyard for an extended session of vigorous walking. She had even, in a desperate and rather unladylike attempt to aid her protesting digestion, endeavored some rather ambitious and ultimately ill-advised maneuvers on the parallel bars set up for the guards’ training. As her borrowed skirts billowed around her with an alarming and rather revealing abandon, Corneille, his face a mask of stoic disapproval, had gently yet firmly lifted her down. Dias, it was clear, had yet to fully or even remotely appreciate the inherent, and often rather significant, risks of… unintentional public exposure… associated with the fashionable and undeniably impractical feminine attire of Waite.

"A little more play, perhaps, and then we truly should retire," Corneille said, his voice a low, gentle rumble as he set his surprisingly light friend down from his strong arms. "Her Imperial Highness Isabella, as you well know, is a creature of… mercurial, and often unpredictable, temperament. Your first formal audience with her is of paramount, almost existential, importance. It will, for better or for worse, irrevocably establish her initial and likely lasting impression of you."

Dias’s hand, small and delicate, lingered for a fleeting, almost poignant, moment on the rough, familiar fabric of Corneille’s collar, then, with a soft and almost inaudible sigh, she let it fall to her side. She gathered her cascade of golden hair, tucking it behind one ear, her gaze turning towards the distant, star-dusted horizon with a troubled expression.

Isabella Trastámara, it seemed, was not entirely devoid of a certain… regal magnanimity, or at the very least, a keen understanding of political expediency. She had, after some delay, seen fit to dispatch formal, embossed invitations, elegantly engraved calling cards, and even a personally signed, if somewhat perfunctory, letter of apology to His Grace the Duke of Alva and his esteemed retinue. In the first, rather lengthy, half of this carefully worded missive, she had eloquently explained that her primary reason for not initially extending an invitation to Dias for her previous countryside gathering was a profound, almost maternal, fear that the noisy, overly crowded, and potentially overwhelming environment might prove detrimental to the young Duke’s notoriously delicate and alarmingly fragile health. In the latter, and considerably more candid, half of the letter, however, she had delicately yet unmistakably alluded to the true, underlying reason for the perceived slight: her rather significant and entirely justifiable concerns regarding Dias’s… somewhat precarious… financial situation.

After Corneille’s own initial and eventful audience, he had, as Dias knew, received a "greeting gift" – a polite euphemism for a political inducement – of thirty thousand dinars from Isabella’s own coffers. If a significant portion of this not inconsiderable sum were to be immediately and conspicuously expended at her own upcoming charity gala, it would undoubtedly present a rather… darkly humorous, and politically embarrassing, spectacle to the keenly observant Isabella. She, a Rex Nemorensis of immense wealth and power, had no practical need to recoup funds in such a crude and frankly rather insulting manner. She infinitely preferred, indeed, she expected, her loyal vassals to spend their resources wisely, strategically, on matters of true, tangible import to their shared cause. This, then, had been the primary, if unspoken, motivation behind her initial decision not to invite Dias, lest his already demonstrably… unhealthy… financial circumstances be further, and perhaps irrevocably, exacerbated. However, in her ongoing and rather elaborate efforts to curry favor with the influential, and notoriously fickle, Count de Marsay, she had granted him certain… considerable liberties… including the unilateral right to add personal guests to the official invitation list for her prestigious gala. The Count de Marsay’s subsequent and entirely unexpected invitation to Dias had thereby forced Isabella into a rather awkward and politically delicate position, compelling her to hastily issue a "patch," a revised invitation, lest she inadvertently and perhaps irreparably alienate a potentially valuable, if currently somewhat beleaguered, vassal.

Corneille, having accepted her thirty thousand dinars, was, by virtue of his precarious position and his unwavering loyalty to Dias, more or less obliged to accept Isabella’s carefully crafted explanation at face value. Yet, deep within his pragmatic, warrior’s heart, he harbored a strong and increasingly insistent suspicion that this rather unseemly tug-of-war over the gala’s guest list was, in reality, a subtle yet significant manifestation of some ongoing, undeclared soft power play, a veiled contest of wills, between the ambitious Count de Marsay and the ever-calculating Isabella herself.

Due to his chronic ill health, Dias had been able to participate in only a small, almost cursory, portion of his late father’s elaborate funeral rites. He had not, therefore, had a proper, formal "debut" into society as the newly invested Third Duke of Alva. Consequently, he placed an immense, almost disproportionate, degree of importance upon this upcoming and potentially pivotal audience with Isabella Trastámara.

The following evening, as their carriage approached the Trastámara legation, Dias gazed, with an expression of stunned disbelief, at the seemingly endless, incandescent river of ornate carriages that snaked its way towards the grand, torchlit entrance. "So many people?" he exclaimed, his voice a mixture of awe and trepidation.

Polly, the Canid Guardian Officer, who accompanied them with her usual stoic vigilance, replied, her voice laced with a familiar, weary cynicism, "It is because there are many men of… influence and desirability… expected to be in attendance here this evening, Your Grace. And these particular men, unlike the unfortunate local specimens, do not feel compelled to adhere to any of that damnable, hypocritical nonsense known as 'male virtue.' For the power-hungry, and often rather… amorous… witches of Waite, this place, tonight, is practically… well, let us just say it bears a certain unfortunate resemblance to a particularly high-class brothel. The human mechanism of year-round, indiscriminate estrus, you see, has effectively transformed the sacred, life-giving act of procreation into little more than a… a… morally corrupt, and often rather undignified, form of hedonistic pleasure."

No one present seemed particularly inclined to delve further into a philosophical discussion of estrus mechanisms and comparative morality. Corneille interjected smoothly, "We are likely to be detained within these walls for several hours, Mademoiselle Polly. How do you intend to occupy yourself in the interim?"

Polly, with a sigh of resignation, produced a small pouch of dried meat, a well-used waterskin, and a rather unappetizing-looking loaf of hard, dark bread from the depths of her saddlebag. "I shall remain here, with the carriage," she announced, "and await your eventual return."

"We are, as always, most profoundly grateful for your unwavering diligence, Mademoiselle Polly," Dias said, his voice sincere.

"Oh, and may your own endeavors within prove equally… fruitful, Your Grace," Polly replied, a faint, almost imperceptible, smirk playing on her lips as she leaped gracefully onto the carriage box.

Corneille, protectively guiding Dias through the throng of liveried servants and jostling guests, presented their elegantly engraved invitations at the main entrance and led his charge into the glittering, cacophonous interior of the legation. He remarked, with a teasing smile, "That… spirited… Canid girl seems quite remarkably fond of you, you know, Dias."

A silent, questioning look was Dias’s only reply.

"She reserves, I have noted, her gentlest expressions, her softest, almost cooing, vocal tones, exclusively for you. When addressing any other living soul, myself included, both her facial expression and her manner of speech become quite… remarkably… fierce."

Dias offered a wry, almost pained, smile. "She has a fondness for small children, Pierre. And she, quite clearly, perceives me as little more than a child."

"Still," Corneille countered, his eyes twinkling, "it is undoubtedly better than being perceived as a woman, eh, my friend?"

Dias nudged Corneille sharply in the ribs with an elbow. "Pierre! I implore you, cease your incessant, and rather tiresome, teasing about my… current predicament!"

Isabella, in a nod to the ostensibly "charitable" theme of the evening’s grand affair, had made a deliberate and no doubt highly publicized effort to keep the decorations of the vast, echoing venue relatively simple and tastefully understated. Yet, what an "Empress," even a former one, considered simple, still appeared to the eyes of most ordinary mortals as a display of breathtaking, almost decadent, luxury. Isabella herself, a vision of regal elegance, was holding court on a wide, flower-draped veranda, conversing with a select group of her most favored guests. Tonight, she wore a deceptively simple, yet exquisitely cut, short-sleeved gown of black, shimmering gauze, a garment that revealed a tantalizing, yet entirely tasteful, hint of cleavage. Its artfully draped hemline was daringly shorter in the front and cascaded into a longer, flowing train at the back, a design that served to showcase her slender, impeccably proportioned calves and the delicate, jewel-encrusted high-heeled shoes she wore. In the more conservative and decidedly patriarchal society of the Federation, for a woman of noble birth to so brazenly expose her calves at a formal occasion would have been considered a mark of shocking, almost scandalous, wantonness. But here in Waite, it seemed, almost all ladies’ evening gowns, with a casual disregard for such outmoded notions of propriety, featured hemlines that hovered with a provocative insouciance somewhere in the immediate vicinity of the knee.

"She is… she is truly, breathtakingly beautiful…" Dias sighed, his voice filled with an almost reverent awe. "Wait, Pierre," he added hastily, a warning glint in his eye, "if you dare to utter the words 'not as beautiful as you,' I swear, I shall become quite… monumentally… angry."

"Very well then," Corneille conceded, a teasing smile playing on his lips. "You are, perhaps… just a fraction… a mere infinitesimal sliver… less beautiful than her."

"..."

Corneille tilted his head, feigning concern as he looked at Dias’s indignant expression. "Are you… angry, my friend?"

"No," Dias replied, after a moment of thoughtful silence. "It just… it just suddenly occurred to me how utterly ridiculous it is for me, a man, to be so earnestly, so foolishly, comparing my own physical appearance to that of a woman." It was only then, in that moment of dawning self-awareness, that Dias began to vaguely, yet with a chilling certainty, sense the truly terrifying, almost unimaginable, magnitude of Isabella Trastámara’s dormant magical reserves.

Isabella, with a theatrical flourish that was clearly intended for public consumption, wore no ostentatious jewelry this evening, nor did she carry her customary, imposing scepter. She had, however, with much fanfare and a carefully crafted display of heartfelt compassion, publicly pledged to auction these priceless symbols of her rank and power at a later date, with the entire proceeds to be dedicated to a relief fund for the unfortunate and recently unemployed denizens of Istapa district. She expressed, with a tearful sincerity, her profound, personal regret for their unmerited suffering.

"Our illustrious Highness," Corneille murmured to Dias, "has, it would seem, made her final, definitive statement on the unfortunate affair in Istapa. She has, quite clearly, no intention whatsoever of interfering with the rather forceful actions currently being undertaken there by the city administrators."

"I can… I can understand her position… Alas," Dias sighed, his own heart heavy with a sense of helpless empathy for the plight of the Istapa workers.

The Count de Marsay seized the opportune moment to publicly, and with much self-congratulatory flourish, declare that he himself would be making a generous personal donation of three thousand dinars to Isabella’s newly established "Black Eagle Welfare Foundation" – a sum, Corneille noted with a flicker of cynical amusement, quite typical of the often rather… modest… charitable contributions favored by the elite of the Federation. Under the convenient and frequently invoked pretext of "not wishing to engage in unseemly moral blackmail," the wealthy upper echelons of Federation society would readily, and without a moment’s hesitation, spend ten thousand dinars or more on some frivolous, fleeting amusement, yet would, with an almost religious fervor, meticulously scrutinize every last copper coin when it came to any actual, meaningful act of charity.

Isabella, in turn, her smile radiant, her eyes gleaming with an almost predatory satisfaction, took the opportunity to formally introduce the dashing Count de Marsay to her assembled vassals and courtiers. As the angelically handsome Count, his golden hair shimmering like a halo in the torchlight, performed the intricate, deeply respectful ritual obeisance before the seated Isabella, many of the assembled witches, their faces flushed, their eyes wide with a mixture of awe and unconcealed desire, stared with an almost palpable, breathless intensity.

Dias’s attention, however, was suddenly and inexplicably drawn elsewhere. "Pierre," he whispered, tugging urgently at Corneille’s sleeve, "that… that nun… her attire… it is rather… peculiar, is it not?"

Corneille followed Dias’s surreptitious gaze. The individual Dias indicated was seated in a shadowy, secluded corner of the grand hall, seemingly oblivious to the glittering throng around her, and was, with an almost childlike, uninhibited gusto, voraciously consuming a large, multi-scooped confection of ice cream. Unlike the traditional, severe, and almost entirely all-encompassing black robes favored by the nuns of the Federation’s state religion, this particular nun’s habit was… shockingly, almost scandalously… risqué. Its dramatically shortened hemline reached only to her knees, thereby revealing a pair of remarkably well-shaped and undeniably alluring calves. It was a cunningly tailored, form-fitting design, cinched tightly at the waist by a wide, ornamental belt, a sartorial choice that served, with an almost brazen immodesty, to accentuate her gracefully curved and undeniably voluptuous figure. As if to deliberately draw the eye to the… rather prominent, and indeed, quite breathtaking… topography of her well-endowed chest, intricate, shimmering gold thread snaked its way across the dark fabric of her bodice, depicting a fantastical scene: parched, barren earth cracking open to reveal fertile ground beneath, a mighty oak tree, its roots deep, its branches strong, sprouting forth from the life-giving fissures, its verdant limbs reaching outwards, upwards, radiating life and vitality to the heavens. Her face, or at least, a significant portion of it, and her slender, elegant arms were adorned with delicate, intricately patterned black lace – an enigmatic, almost coquettish, eye mask and a pair of long, close-fitting gloves – lending her an air of both profound mystery and a certain… titillating, almost forbidden, allure. Combined with the… creatively, and rather daringly, modified… nun’s habit, it was an ensemble guaranteed to capture and most assuredly hold the undivided and perhaps somewhat scandalized gaze of anyone who chanced to look upon her.

(A pleasant evening to you both, gentlemen. I am Sister Helena, a humble witch of the Grail branch, from the 'Fool' domain.)

An unfamiliar yet surprisingly clear voice resonated simultaneously, and with an almost startling intimacy, in the minds of both Corneille and Dias. The ice-cream-devouring nun, her silver spoon momentarily suspended in mid-air, looked up from her sweet repast and, with a small, almost secretive, smile, waved a delicate, lace-gloved hand in their direction.

(The ice cream here, I must say, is quite… divinely delicious. Won’t you partake of some yourselves, gentlemen?)

Corneille and Dias exchanged a swift glance. Then, moving as one, they navigated through the glittering, chattering throngs of the grand hall and, with a polite nod, seated themselves near the enigmatic nun. Dias, his eyes wide with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation, noted the breathtaking cascade of her beautiful, long, silver-white hair, which seemed to shimmer and glow with an almost otherworldly luminescence in the flickering torchlight. Corneille, however, his senses honed by years of conflict and preternatural encounters, immediately began to assess her almost imperceptible yet undeniably potent energy fluctuations. This initial, cursory observation caused Corneille’s gaze to fix upon her, his eyes narrowing. He found himself, much to his own chagrin, quite unable to look away.

Everything, absolutely everything, about this Sister Helena was… fundamentally… wrong. Her eyes, which glittered with an unnatural intelligence; her perfectly sculpted, yet strangely immobile, lips; the very tip of her tongue, which darted out, just for an instant, to lick a stray droplet of melted ice cream from the corner of her mouth; the delicate, alabaster column of her throat; her slender, graceful arms; and even her shapely, exposed calves – none of these were composed of normal, human biological structures. They were, instead, he now understood with a chilling certainty, exquisitely crafted, preternaturally animated, magical constructs, almost seamlessly filling the respective places where flesh and blood should have been.

(Is there, perhaps, some small service I might render unto you, gentlemen?) Sister Helena’s voice, serene and melodious, once again echoed softly within Corneille’s mind as he was still desperately, and rather futilely, pondering how best to initiate their delicate and potentially perilous conversation.

Corneille, forcing himself to regain some semblance of his customary composure, exchanged a few carefully chosen, noncommittal pleasantries. He circled the intended topic for a while, employing all the diplomatic evasiveness he could muster. But then, finding himself uncharacteristically, almost painfully, flustered – he was, he knew, not a man skilled in the subtle, treacherous arts of delicate negotiation, but now, thanks to Anne de Longueville, he possessed a considerable sum of money, and money, as he had learned long ago, was often the greatest and most persuasive source of confidence – he decided to abandon all pretense of subtlety and stated, with a blunt directness, "I have been given to understand, Sister Helena, that the Holy Fool Church wields a certain… not inconsiderable… measure of influence within the grim and largely inaccessible confines of the Tower of Precepts."

(It is true, Monsieur Corneille,) the telepathic reply came, smooth and unruffled. (I do, from time to time, visit the shadowed halls of the Tower of Precepts, to hear the heartfelt, and often rather… enlightening… confessions of my wayward, incarcerated sisters.)

"In the not-too-distant future," Corneille continued, his voice firm, his gaze unwavering, "I shall have… certain business… that will necessitate my presence within the Tower of Precepts. And I would hope, Sister, most fervently, to be able to receive your invaluable and perhaps even indispensable assistance in this… delicate endeavor." He then, with a flourish, produced a finely engraved bank draft from within his tunic. "Similarly, I am most acutely and sympathetically aware that your esteemed welfare foundation’s financial situation is… shall we say… less than ideally robust at the present time. This, Sister, is a small token of His Grace the Duke of Alva’s profound sincerity, and his deep admiration for your noble work. I pray you, accept it."

(Then, Monsieur Corneille,) Sister Helena’s mental voice replied, with a swiftness, a decisive pragmatism, that was almost startling, from this day forward, let us consider ourselves friends. My humble faction, I assure you, will continue to provide its unwavering and most enthusiastic assistance to His Grace the Duke of Alva’s noble cause, until such time as our humble contributions have, in some small measure, offset the considerable value of one hundred thousand dinars.)

Sister Helena’s breathtaking forthrightness, and her unabashedly, almost refreshingly, mercenary attitude, caused the delicate and potentially fraught transaction to proceed with an almost unbelievable and deeply satisfying swiftness. Corneille, however, found himself with a lingering and rather pressing question. "You do not, Sister," he inquired, a note of genuine surprise in his voice, "wish to first ascertain the… specific nature… of my intentions within the Tower?"

(The 'Fool' domain, my dear Monsieur Corneille,) the serene voice replied, a hint of something akin to weary resignation in its tone, (already suffers, as you may be aware, quite profoundly and most unjustly from widespread prejudice here in Waite. When one’s public reputation has already sunk to its absolute, unredeemable nadir, most actions one subsequently undertakes, however unconventional, tend to have a… generally positive and refreshingly upward trajectory.)

(Moreover, Monsieur Corneille,) the voice continued, its tone now imbued with a subtle, almost flattering, warmth, (your own personal reputation, in stark contrast, is quite… exceptionally… excellent. To be seen participating in an operation led by a man of your renown, of your unimpeachable character, will undoubtedly serve to significantly improve society’s current and rather unfortunate negative perception of us.)

(Rather, Monsieur Corneille,) the question, when it came, was delivered with a gentle, almost teasing, inflection, (have you perhaps, in your meticulous planning, adequately weighed the potential and not inconsiderable impact of the 'Fool' domain’s… admittedly unfortunate… reputation upon the successful outcome of your own, no doubt most laudable, plans?)

"I do not," Corneille replied, his own voice firm, his gaze unwavering, "judge potential allies by the fickle winds of public prejudice, Sister, but rather, by the cold, hard calculus of their practical utility. You, and your order, are clearly capable of providing the assistance I require. I, in turn, will endeavor, with all the resources at my command, to create the conditions, the incentives, that make it… significantly worth your while… to do so. The matter, in essence, is as simple and as straightforward as that."

Simultaneously, with an impressive and rather unnerving display of mental multitasking, Sister Helena was also engaged in a private and entirely separate telepathic conversation with the increasingly bewildered Dias:

(Monsieur de Toledo,) her mental voice purred, soft and confidential, (my beloved younger sister, Nazani, is, I believe, currently under your most… capable… and considerate… care at the academy.)