Chapter 2: The River

The late Duke, in what might have been a flicker of foresight or merely a desperate gambit, had laid some groundwork when he'd "assigned" Dias to the State of Waite. Part of this involved a carefully curated list of potential marriage candidates for Dias – individuals whose lineage and standing mirrored their own.

Corneille, now the reluctant inheritor of these ducal machinations, intended for Dias to meet these chosen few. An alliance, after all, could be the key to their survival. Yet, in matters of the heart, he resolved to honor his dear friend's true wishes.

Anne Geneviève de Longueville. Her name was prominent on that list. And now, with a timing so precise it felt like a spider spinning its web, she had materialized just as calamity struck Dias.

"Mademoiselle de Longueville," Corneille’s voice was a low rumble, his eyes watchful. "To what do we owe this… opportune appearance?"

Anne offered a smile as smooth as polished river stone. "It is quite simple, Monsieur. Monsieur de Toledo and I are to be fellow students in the coming term. The esteemed academy has seen fit to appoint me his designated companion – to ease his transition into campus life, acquaint him with our local ways, and, shall we say, smooth any ruffled feathers amongst the student body."

"Is that the truth of it?" Corneille’s gaze remained steady. "A remarkable stroke of fortune, then."

"Indeed. My primary wish was to offer my greetings to Monsieur de Toledo. However," she gave a delicate, almost imperceptible shrug, "to simply… appear before him via teleportation, unannounced? Such a direct approach might be considered… lacking in finesse, according to the customs of your distinguished lands. Thus, I chose to present myself to you, Monsieur Corneille, trusting in your discretion to convey my humble regards."

"I shall see it done," Corneille conceded. "I am certain Dias will find his academic pursuits greatly… illuminated by Mademoiselle de Longueville's companionship." He then made a slight, apologetic gesture. "Regrettably, he is currently unwell, indisposed to receiving guests. I am, in fact, bound for the Academy City to seek the counsel of a physician known to me."

"Ah, the burdens of a life uprooted," Anne murmured, her voice like soft velvet. She extended a slender, elegant hand. "Come, Monsieur Corneille. Permit me to expedite your journey. The Academy City is but a thought away for me."

"You have my gratitude, Mademoiselle de Longueville."

Corneille took her offered hand. His touch, firm and direct – so unlike the hesitant courtesies of Waite’s own men – seemed to elicit a faint, quickly suppressed flicker of surprise in her eyes. The dazzling flare of teleportation magic momentarily blinded Corneille, veiling Anne’s fleeting, enigmatic smile and the almost playful brush of her little finger against his palm.

In the space of a heartbeat, the bustling air of the carriage stop vanished, replaced by the sight of ancient, ivy-clad trees and stern, grey stone statues that guarded the entrance to the Academy City. "Magic," Corneille observed, a grudging respect in his tone, "is an art of undeniable convenience."

Anne’s smile was radiant. "It is my deepest pleasure to be of service to you and to Monsieur de Toledo."

"This favor will not be forgotten. Again, my thanks, Mademoiselle de Longueville. I must now press on."

Anne waved gracefully as she watched Corneille’s tall figure stride with purpose towards the Academy City’s gates. In her perception, a faint, golden aura, like captured sunlight, clung to him.

"'Corneille the Flash,'" she whispered to the empty air, a thoughtful expression on her face. "The moniker, it seems, is aptly chosen."

Though no mortal form stood beside her, a voice, dry as old parchment, seemed to answer from the very air she breathed. "Corneille counts 'the Flash' not as an honor, but as a brand. A symbol of a gilded cage."

Corneille announced his name to the stern-faced gate guards. Within moments, a transit pass was pressed into his hand, and he moved unhindered through the winding streets to a modest, almost hidden building. Here, he found the physician he sought.

The woman who greeted him was a study in organized chaos. Gold-rimmed spectacles were perched precariously atop a wild mane of fluffy, disheveled hair. Its original shade of pale spring green had, through what could only be described as a profound indifference to personal grooming, deepened to the color of a stagnant pond. The white physician’s coat she wore was a canvas of past experiments, its fabric dulled with myriad stains of indeterminate origin, and it exuded an aroma that was… uniquely its own.

This was Cécile, an eccentric and avowed spinster, who had once held the post of family physician within the household of the late Duke Fernando. That Duke, in his desperate, final years, had chased after "miracles" to restore his fading virility, placing an endless stream of outrageous demands upon the witche of Waite.

For the handsome sums offered, Cécile had tolerated much. But even her considerable patience had its limits. She had finally delivered a diagnosis so blunt it had echoed through the ducal halls: the Duke's endeavors were preposterous, a squandering of wealth that would be better spent adopting an heir or, more practically still, legitimizing one of his numerous children born on the wrong side of the blanket.

Their professional relationship, unsurprisingly, had not recovered. Cécile had tendered her resignation shortly thereafter, returning to her homeland and a new, less exasperating, position.

Yet, Corneille held a certain… understanding with her, a piece of knowledge that ensured their lines of communication remained open, even across the miles. For Cécile to sever that tie would have been, from her perspective, an imprudent loss.

Cécile, for all her intellect, had never quite grasped the fundamental truth of their era: it was often the one in debt who held the true power. Corneille, with a pragmatism that bordered on ruthlessness, had expertly played upon the sunk cost fallacy, transforming her from a disgruntled former employee into a surprisingly effective, if occasionally begrudging, asset.

"Doctor Cécile," Corneille said, his voice devoid of pleasantries. "I have need of your skills."

"And what, pray tell, might that be?"

"It is about Dias. His… condition."

"Ah." A single, knowing syllable.

"'Ah'?" Corneille pressed. "What is the meaning of that 'Ah'?"

"It means my curiosity is stirring, warrior. When old Fernando still drew breath, it was the Duchess Angelica herself who plucked you from the obscurity of some mercenary band, was it not? Showered you with resources, with her favor. And you, in turn, repaid her patronage with a string of victories so dazzling they echoed through the Federation. You were, and by many still are, considered Angelica's man."

Cécile gave her spectacles a nudge with a stained finger. "By all rights, you should be firmly in Angelica's camp, a rising power within her court. And yet," a sly look entered her eyes, "your… unexpected loyalties have cost me a rather tidy sum on a certain wager."

Corneille’s brow furrowed. "Wagering on such grave matters, Doctor? Does your conscience not prick you?"

"Conscience is a luxury, Corneille. And at present, you are the one in need." Cécile spread her hands, palms up. "So, indulge this woman. Answer my question: why have you thrown your lot in with our young, beleaguered Duke of Alva?"

Corneille’s reply was quiet, yet unyielding. "The Golden Oath I swore to Lady Angelica extended to the protection of her son. She may have conveniently forgotten the bonds of motherhood, but I have not forgotten my vow. And as things stand, Dias requires my shield far more than she."

Cécile had perhaps hoped for a more salacious tale, one of courtly intrigue and bloody betrayal. Corneille’s stark honesty seemed to leave her somewhat disappointed. She waved a dismissive hand, abandoning her interrogation of his loyalties. "Very well. What ails the boy?"

"The nature of his malady," Corneille admitted, a rare note of hesitation in his voice, "is… difficult to speak of."

This, Cécile inwardly purred, was the kind of conundrum she truly savored. The sight of the stoic Corneille, his face a mask of consternation and unease, was a delight. She intoned a brief, binding oath of magical secrecy, her eyes glinting. Only then, with that assurance, did Corneille recount the astonishing events of the dawn.

Cécile listened, her head tilted, a thoughtful frown creasing her brow. "This," she said at last, shaking her head, "reeks of a witch’s meddling. A potent one, too. But to unmask the perpetrator amongst the shadows of Waite… that will be a hunt for a phantom in the fog."

"My immediate concern," Corneille interjected, "is simply to have you examine Dias. To understand his current state."

"But of course. It has been too long since I last saw little Dias. I confess, I’ve a fondness for the lad. As for my compensation…" she waved a dismissive hand, "we shall speak of such trivialities in due course."

With that, Cécile acquiesced. It took her a full half-hour to assemble her peculiar attire and prepare her equally peculiar medical valise. As she finally emerged, she found Corneille by the doorway, fending off the attentions of an overly enthusiastic local woman. Corneille’s curt rejections, delivered with an icy politeness, seemed only to fuel his admirer’s determination.

Cécile, with a mischievous glint in her eye, intervened. "My, my, Corneille, still breaking hearts, are we? The gatekeeper informed me you arrived in the company of the lovely young heiress of House Longueville?"

"She expressed a desire to offer her felicitations to Dias," Corneille explained, his tone clipped. "To observe the proper courtesies, she sought me out first. She may harbor… other designs, but her assistance was timely, and for that, I am in her debt."

"Or perhaps," Cécile mused, her voice laced with amusement, "young Dias was merely a convenient excuse. A brooding outlander, blessed with that striking black hair, a warrior’s physique, and an air of tantalizingly stern self-denial… you cut quite the enigmatic and alluring figure, Corneille. I daresay you might feature prominently in her dreams this very night."

Corneille shot the doctor a glare that could have frozen fire. "Speak no such foolishness. She is a prospective match for Dias."

"And Dias? How does he regard these… prospective unions?"

"There are several candidates on the list. Surely, one amongst them will prove to his liking."

Cécile’s expression soured slightly. "I was inquiring about his disposition, Corneille, not your matchmaking inventory."

"He is… apprehensive," Corneille conceded, "yet, there is a flicker of hope in him. I will stand by him. We will navigate these social currents together."

"Well, that is something, at least." Cécile seemed to relax marginally. "You know the old adage, Corneille: one cannot step into the same river twice. Not even if it is but a tributary of that self-same river."

"I learn from my mistakes, Doctor," Corneille murmured, his voice barely a breath. "I will not be undone by the same trickery again. That, I vow."

Cécile possessed her own carriage, a rather battered but serviceable conveyance. A whispered word of magic to her driver, and they were soon rattling through the streets towards the Alva ducal villa. The sight of Cécile elicited nods and greetings from several familiar faces amongst the household staff; she returned them with brisk affability before making her way to the second floor.

Corneille used his key to unlock the chamber door. Inside, Dias lay upon the bed, a portrait of tranquility. Her breathing was deep and even, her features relaxed, a healthy flush warming her cheeks.

To witness his friend finally find solace in untroubled sleep – this had been Corneille’s fervent wish for years. He had conjured this very image in his mind a thousand times. But never, in all those imaginings, had the peacefully slumbering friend been a girl.

Cécile murmured an incantation, and spectacles woven from shimmering threads of pure energy coalesced upon the bridge of her nose. She studied Dias for several long moments, then turned to Corneille. "He – or rather, she – sleeps so deeply because her physical mass has lessened. More significantly, her affinity for the ambient magic of Waite has increased a hundredfold with this… alteration."

She elaborated, "Here in Waite, magic itself possesses a certain ambient, restorative quality, particularly for the female constitution. The terrible strain upon her heart and lungs has been dramatically alleviated. It is entirely possible that, at this very moment, she is experiencing a level of physical ease unknown to her in all her fifteen years."

"I refuse to believe such a 'boon' was granted out of pure benevolence," Corneille stated, his voice hard as flint. "This transformation, however it appears, is undoubtedly the opening move in some darker stratagem."

"An assessment with which I wholeheartedly concur," Cécile replied, her eyes sharp. "The kindly witches of children's tales, my dear Corneille, do not reside in Waite."

Cécile gently touched Dias’s shoulder, murmuring her name. The young Duke – now Duchess – stirred, her eyes fluttering open. A veil of confusion clouded her gaze as she focused on Cécile. The doctor offered a reassuring smile. "No, little one, this is no dream. Corneille summoned me."

"Aunt Cécile!" Dias cried out, a wave of pure, delighted surprise washing over her face.

"Tell me, child, are you in any pain?"

Dias shook her head, a look of wonder dawning. "No. In fact… I feel incredibly light. So warm, so… unburdened. Is this your doing, Auntie? Some new potion?"

"Nay, child. I have administered nothing as yet. What you feel is the touch of magic itself."

Corneille gave Cécile a curt nod, then quietly withdrew from the room, closing the door softly behind him. Dias seemed to shrink a little into the bedclothes, her voice barely a whisper. "Is Pierre… is he terribly angry with me?"

"Oh, he is angry, to be sure," Cécile said, her voice surprisingly gentle. "But his wrath is not for you, child. It is for his own perceived helplessness, and for the one who dared to weave this enchantment upon you."

"But it is not his fault!" Dias protested, her voice gaining a touch of strength. "He was under no obligation to follow me to Waite… Ah!" Her breath hitched as Cécile began her examination.

The doctor gently unfastened Dias’s nightgown, her touch surprisingly deft as she placed a cool, metallic diagnostic tool against her skin. A faint hum of magic emanated from it as she began her assessment. "Relax, little bird," Cécile said soothingly. "If there are questions fluttering in that mind of yours, let them take flight."

"Auntie," Dias asked, her voice small and laced with anxiety, "can I be… can I be changed back? I do not wish to be the cause of ruin for Pierre’s endeavors."

Cécile smiled, a complex, knowing expression. "It is likely possible, yes. But this talk of 'Pierre’s endeavors'… such words, little one, would cut him deeper than any blade."

A shadow fell over Dias’s features. "I… I have no great desires of my own. I only wish not to be a disappointment, not to squander Pierre’s unwavering kindness. Power… all this talk of power… what good has it ever brought? For its sake, my own mother cast me out."

"But consider it from another angle," Cécile countered, her voice a soft insinuation. "If you were to grasp that power, you could become another Angelica. You could be the one to dictate the course of fate – your own, Angelica’s… and even Corneille’s."

Dias’s heart gave a sudden, heavy throb against her ribs. The doctor, her senses preternaturally sharp, looked up, her gaze capturing the swift, startling transformation on the young maiden’s face: a fleeting moment of utter desolation, swiftly consumed by a dawning, almost fearful, yet undeniably potent, aspiration.

Cécile had seen that precise alchemy of sorrow and ambition ignite in another’s eyes, many years past. The memory surfaced, sharp and clear: the Duchess Angelica, her face pale but her eyes blazing, as Cécile confirmed that her malaise was not illness, but the first stirrings of new life within her. The Angelica of that distant memory, and the Dias of this very moment, seemed to fuse, to overlap, two reflections in a shadowed mirror.

"My poor, sweet, little Dias," the doctor murmured, an involuntary note of profound, almost sorrowful tenderness in her voice. "You are so very, very like your mother."