Chapter 20: The Audience

This pronouncement struck Dias with the force of a physical blow. He had, after all, been a student at the academy for a full week, and his rather limited social interactions had been confined exclusively to the young women in his assigned group. None among them possessed hair of such a startling, silver-white hue.

He stammered, his mind reeling, "Er, forgive my ignorance, Sister, but might I inquire as to your identity…?"

(I am Nazani Barmak’s elder sister, child.) The voice in his mind was serene, yet held an undercurrent of undeniable authority.

"Ah?" Dias exclaimed, his astonishment palpable. Nazani Barmak, he recalled, was a creature of delicate, almost elfin, charm – petite and undeniably adorable, with a shy, reserved personality and twin pigtails of a rich, date-red silk that framed her small face like soft, vibrant tassels. Aside from the ever-enigmatic Anne de Longueville, Dias had found himself most at ease in Nazani’s gentle company, precisely because she was the shortest, and indeed, the only one among his array of potential marriage candidates who was noticeably shorter than himself. This small, almost trivial, detail had, rather absurdly, allowed him to cling to a fragile, yet precious, shred of his beleaguered masculine pride.

Helena claimed to be Nazani’s sister, but Dias, try as he might, could perceive no discernible resemblance between them. Setting aside the vast difference in their facial features, Sister Helena towered over him, her height easily exceeding 170 centimeters. Could two sisters, born of the same blood, truly exhibit such a dramatic, almost startling, disparity in stature?

(My innate talent is greater, thus the mana spurred my full development. I entered the 'Fool' domain, and so the date-red hue faded from my hair.)

(Although I no longer bear the name 'Barmak,' I still pay necessary attention to the potential marriage candidates of my blood-related younger sister.)

Dias found himself holding his breath, his heart thrumming a nervous tattoo against his ribs.

(Do not be anxious, Monsieur de Toledo,) the voice continued, its tone softening almost imperceptibly. (You are both, in the grand scheme of things, still mere children. I would not dream of pressuring you with the harsh, unyielding expectations of adult society. I perceive that you are… bewildered… your young mind burdened with thoughts too heavy for your years. These things, child, are not conducive to healthy growth, neither of the body nor of the spirit.)

(If ever the opportunity should arise, and if your heart feels so inclined, I invite you to visit the humble sanctuary of Redemption Town, which lies nestled on the outskirts of Merida. There, I will gladly listen to your confessions, to the burdens you carry, and perhaps, if the spirits are willing, offer you some measure of… corresponding enlightenment.)

Sister Helena rose then, a figure of serene, almost ethereal, grace, and departed as silently as she had appeared. Corneille and Dias exchanged a few hurried, whispered words, discovering, much to their mutual surprise, that the enigmatic nun possessed the remarkable and rather unsettling ability to conduct two entirely separate, yet equally coherent, telepathic conversations simultaneously. The ultimate endpoint of both their dialogues, however, had been precisely the same: a gently insistent invitation to the mysterious Town of Redemption.

Not long thereafter, Helena reappeared, now standing with a quiet dignity at Isabella Trastámara’s side. Isabella, her voice resonating with a carefully calibrated sincerity, spoke some exceedingly fine and no doubt politically astute words – pronouncements generally concerning the pressing need to eliminate all forms of discrimination against the witches of the "Fool" domain, and eloquently championing the noble cause of promoting equality and understanding among all preternatural beings.

Corneille and Dias, meanwhile, had retreated to a relatively inconspicuous corner of the grand hall, where they had, with a polite but firm resolve, declined several rather… insistent… invitations from various local witches to accompany them on a moonlit stroll – an invitation that, just as it was in the more familiar social landscape of the Federation, was, in essence, an unambiguous and often rather predatory form of courtship. Some of the witches who possessed of a modicum of grace and social decorum had merely smiled, wished them a most pleasant evening, and then turned, with a gleam in their eyes, to seek out their next, perhaps more amenable, quarry. Others, however, less refined and considerably more persistent, had seemed intent on employing tactics of relentless and almost suffocating attrition. Corneille, with a sigh of weary resignation, had simply placed his hand upon the worn pommel of his sword, – a subtle, yet highly effective, deterrent that had, in every instance, persuaded even the most determined of these amorous aggressors to reluctantly and often resentfully depart.

After a time, Isabella, from across the crowded, glittering expanse of the hall, cast a single, fleeting, yet undeniably pointed, glance in Corneille’s direction. It was the gaze of a Rex Nemorensis – sharp, imperious, and utterly impossible to ignore. Corneille, with an almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgment, gave Dias a gentle yet firm nudge. "Go now, my friend," he murmured. "It is time. Fulfill your audience."

Dias’s face, already pale from the evening’s accumulated anxieties, turned a deathly, almost spectral, white. The charity gala, he knew, was attended by a formidable assembly of both influential local dignitaries and distinguished, high-ranking guests from the Federation. He dared not even begin to imagine the catastrophic, far-reaching consequences if he were to… bungle… this crucial first impression. Yet, his own crippling social ineptitude, his lifelong struggle with public interaction, made such a disastrous outcome seem not merely possible, but terrifyingly, almost inevitably, probable.

"I… I had made some… meticulous preparations… for this moment," he stammered, his voice barely a whisper, "but now, at this critical juncture… I find I cannot recall a single, solitary word." He covered his face with trembling hands. "Forgive me, Pierre," he choked out, his voice thick with shame and self-loathing. "I am… I am truly, utterly useless. A mere parasite, a burden, leeching shamelessly off the strength and resilience of your life." The accumulated weight of his frailties – his chronically weak body, his father’s thinly veiled contempt, the constant, insidious whispers and rumors that had shadowed his every step, and, most devastatingly, most unforgivably, Angelica’s cold, calculated betrayal – these had all conspired to forge a spirit almost fated to a lifetime overshadowed by a crushing, inescapable sense of self-doubt and profound, pervasive negativity.

Corneille’s heart ached with a surge of profound sympathy for his tormented friend. Yet, he knew, with a warrior’s unyielding pragmatism, that this was not a moment for soft words or gentle reassurances. He adopted a tone slightly sterner, more commanding, than usual. "Dias," he said, his voice a low, resonant rumble that seemed to vibrate with an inner strength, "stand up!"

Dias, his limbs moving with an almost unconscious, ingrained obedience to Corneille’s will, slowly, shakily, rose to his feet. Corneille continued, his gaze steady and unwavering, "As long as Her Highness Isabella has not entirely taken leave of her senses – and she is, despite her… eccentricities… a woman of considerable political acumen – she will undoubtedly, and with a practiced grace, accommodate your… particular situation. She will ensure that you are allowed to maintain your dignity, your composure. Dias," his voice softened almost imperceptibly, yet lost none of its underlying steel, "if you display weakness now, if you falter, I will be… most deeply… saddened. Not," he added, his gaze intense, "because of the potential mockery of these assembled strangers, nor even for the perceived waste of our considerable efforts. But rather, because it would feel as if you, my dearest friend, had scorned my own abilities, my own unwavering belief in you. Can I not, even now, inspire some small measure of pride, of confidence, within your heart?"

Dias’s eyes, already shimmering with unshed tears, welled up at this stern yet profoundly, almost fiercely, affectionate reprimand. His complex was, he knew, in no small part, a yearning, a desperate, unspoken plea, for the paternal strength, the unconditional acceptance, he had so cruelly been denied throughout his young, blighted life. The young Duke, drawing strength from a wellspring of emotion he did not fully understand, visibly straightened his slender shoulders, his mind fiercely, almost desperately, repeating a single, empowering mantra: "Only look forward. Only look forward." Corneille, sensing the shift in his friend’s demeanor, deliberately allowed his own footsteps, as they began to move towards the dais, to become heavier, more resonant upon the polished marble floor – a tangible, reassuring sign of his unwavering presence, his unshakeable support, designed to further bolster his friend’s fragile courage.

Corneille’s encouragement, perhaps, proved to be a trifle too… effective. Dias, his mind suddenly, almost miraculously, clear, recalling with perfect clarity the meticulously prepared words of his address, performed the intricate, ancient rituals of his first formal audience with an almost startling, if slightly overwrought, vehemence – a display that brought a slow, genuinely pleased smile to Isabella Trastámara’s beautifully sculpted lips.

"Though his outward appearance," Isabella declared, her voice a rich, melodious contralto that carried effortlessly across the suddenly hushed hall, "is that of a delicate, almost ethereal and undeniably beautiful young man, our dear, beloved Duke of Alva clearly hides a fierce, untamed tiger within his noble heart. Excellent! Most excellent! A true man," she proclaimed, her gaze sweeping across the assembled dignitaries, "should indeed possess such… formidable spirit! However," she added, a playful wink directed at the still-flustered Dias, "such… fiery intensity… does not always, I fear, make it easy to win a young lady’s tender affections." Isabella’s lighthearted yet artfully delivered teasing skillfully, and most graciously, masked Dias’s slight, residual awkwardness, instantly easing the palpable tension in the grand hall, transforming a moment of potential social disaster into one of shared, indulgent amusement.

She then, with a warmth that seemed entirely genuine, inquired in considerable detail about Dias’s life in Waite, his studies, his accommodations, his general well-being. Afterward, with an air of almost casual intimacy, she kept him by her side, moving with a regal grace through the glittering assembly of guests, personally introducing him to the various high-ranking nobles and influential dignitaries present. With the formidable Isabella Trastámara herself as his personal escort and sponsor, everyone, without exception, showed the young Duke of Alva the utmost respect and a profound, if perhaps somewhat calculated, friendliness. Dias, in turn, found himself with no choice but to adopt a suitably ducal demeanor, to engage in the intricate, often exhausting, dance of courtly pleasantries and veiled political discourse.

After making a full circuit of the grand hall, Dias’s limited stamina, already sorely tested by the day’s events, began to visibly wane. Isabella, her keen eyes missing nothing, astutely noted his flagging energy and, with a charmingly maternal solicitude, used the convenient pretext of "young men possessing such hearty appetites that are, alas, so very quickly depleted" to gently yet firmly send him off to rest and refresh himself, thus skillfully preventing him from displaying any unseemly or potentially embarrassing signs of fatigue before the assembled company.

"My dear, precious Duke," Isabella said to Dias, her voice a low, intimate murmur as he prepared to take his leave, her gaze laden with a profound, almost sorrowful, meaning, "you possess a most… exceptional… attendant. A true pearl beyond price. If you wish to secure your place in this treacherous, unforgiving world, if you desire not merely to survive, but to thrive, then grasp his hand, young Alva, and never, ever, let it go. Not even in the cold, unyielding embrace of death itself."

Dias, his heart pounding, hastily executed another deep, formal bow. "I thank you most profoundly for your invaluable counsel, Your Imperial Highness. And I swear, upon my sacred ducal honor, to forever follow your noble, righteous cause."

"There is no need, child, for such… breathless trepidation."

"It is not trepidation, Your Highness," Dias replied, his voice gaining a surprising strength, "but rather, I am merely… deeply moved… by Your Highness’s unparalleled graciousness, by your most generous and unexpected courtesy. I thank you, from the very depths of my soul, for treating me not as a curiosity, not as a pawn, but as a true, and equal, Duke."

A wistful, almost melancholic, look entered Isabella’s amethyst eyes. "In you, young Dias," she said, her voice soft with an unexpected tenderness, "I see a faint, yet undeniable reflection of the self I once was, so very long ago. Like you, I was not my own father’s favored chosen instrument. Yet, due to a series of tragic and entirely unforeseen accidents, I found myself thrust into a role I had never envisioned, burdened with responsibilities I had never, in my wildest imaginings, desired. How I yearned then, with every fiber of my being, for a guiding hand, for a steadfast ally, for someone, anyone, to simply… help me. But the ultimate outcome of that desperate, youthful yearning was… alas… most regrettable. And so now, in helping you, in offering you what small measure of aid and comfort I can, it feels, in a strange, almost cathartic way, as if I am helping that lost, frightened self I once was. And that, my dear Duke, that brings me some small, yet precious measure of solace."

Her gaze softened further, taking on an almost maternal warmth. "Moreover," she continued, her voice a low, confidential murmur, "you are, if I may be so bold, the only truly… clean… untainted… person in this entire, glittering assembly. My own… unique… and rather notorious experiences… have made it so that others, almost without exception, look upon me with eyes that are… disturbingly impure: clouded with lust, with avarice, with ill-concealed disdain, with calculating, predatory suspicion… Only you, young Dias, only you look upon me with eyes that reflect genuine curiosity, and perhaps, a touch of youthful, idealistic admiration. Oh," a faint, almost rueful, smile touched her lips, "and also, I perceive, just a tiny, fleeting spark of righteous anger, because I dared to… playfully tease… your most cherished and fiercely protective friend."

"I have often thought," she mused, her gaze distant, almost lost in some private reverie, "that if I were ever to be blessed with a child of my own, I would wish, with all my heart, to raise him to be as pure, as unspoiled, as fundamentally good, as you appear to be. I am, at heart, a creature of sentiment, of deep, often inconvenient, emotions. And such thoughts, I confess, cannot help but make me wish to… look after you, to shield you from the harsher realities of this world… Forgive my unseemly forwardness, my dear, precious Duke. An aging woman, one who has never known the joys of her own children, is, I fear, often prone to such… excessive sentimentality, to these inexplicable and perhaps rather foolish fits of maternal fancy."

"Not at all, Your Highness," Dias replied, his own voice surprisingly steady, his heart unexpectedly moved by her words. "I am, in fact, most deeply pleased, and indeed, honored, to hear Your Highness’s heartfelt, confidential words. And I thank you, most sincerely, for your kind and most generous solicitude."

"Go then, child," Isabella said, her voice once more regaining a measure of its customary regal composure. "Go and rest."

Dias returned to Corneille’s side, his body aching with exhaustion, yet his cheeks flushed with an almost feverish, triumphant crimson. "I believe," he whispered, his voice hoarse with emotion, "I believe I have successfully… passed muster?"

"I would say, my friend," Corneille replied, a rare note of genuine warmth in his own voice, "that you have far exceeded any and all reasonable expectations. A resounding, an unqualified, success. I confess, I had not entirely anticipated that Her Highness Isabella would be quite so… demonstrably amiable, so unequivocally willing to publicly endorse your formal debut."

Dias, his strength returning with each passing moment, nibbled thoughtfully on a small, sweet, cream-filled bread roll. "I find myself truly wishing to praise her, to think of her as a kind, benevolent aunt. But… it is impossible, is it not, Pierre? She… she did something unpardonably cruel to you. Therefore, by definition, she cannot possibly be a truly good person. And yet," he paused, a look of genuine perplexity on his face, "and yet, I cannot shake the feeling that she spoke truthfully to me just now. That she is, at her core, a creature of deep sentiment. That she does see me as… clean, untainted. That in me, she perceives both a poignant reflection of her own lost past, and a deep, unfulfilled yearning for the child she never had. And that it was these genuine emotions, not mere political calculation, that prompted her to show me such… unexpected kindness."

"Emotional factors, Dias, undoubtedly account for a significant portion of her actions," Corneille conceded, his gaze thoughtful. "As for the elements of pure, pragmatic self-interest… I suspect her favor towards you also serves as a convenient, and rather effective, means of counterbalancing the rising influence of the ambitious Count de Marsay." He watched the aforementioned "angel," a figure of almost preternatural beauty and grace, flit from one admiring group to another like an exotic, brilliantly-hued social butterfly. "He is, let us not forget, an illegitimate son. His ties to the Holy State, and thus, to the Tri-State Alliance, are demonstrably far stronger, far more deeply rooted, than any allegiance he might profess to the Royalist cause. Isabella, I believe, wishes for him to shine brightly here in Waite, to be a glittering ornament at her court. But she does not, under any circumstances, wish for him to shine too brightly, to become a power in his own right."

"Because," Dias surmised, his own political acumen slowly awakening, "he can never truly, unequivocally, be one of her own."

"Precisely," Corneille affirmed. "And in stark comparison, you, Dias – of legitimate, noble birth, currently stripped of your rightful power, and therefore, almost entirely dependent upon the continued goodwill and patronage of House Trastámara – you, my friend, appear far more… conveniently endearing. Oh, but then again," a teasing glint returned to his eye, "Dias always did possess a face that all the world finds irresistibly lovable."

"Pierre!" Dias exclaimed, his cheeks flushing a delightful shade of crimson. "You are teasing me again, you wretch!" He snatched a small, iced pastry from a nearby platter and, with a surprisingly swift movement, playfully stuffed it into Corneille’s laughing mouth.

……

The Count de Marsay, his social radar preternaturally acute, did not for long neglect the figures of Dias and Corneille, lurking in their relatively quiet corner. He approached them with his customary, effortless charm, inquiring solicitously after Dias’s health and general well-being. He then greeted Corneille with a display of great, almost effusive, warmth, extending a cordial invitation for both gentlemen to honor him with their presence as his personal guests at his own estate in the near future.

"Monsieur Corneille," the Count said, his jade-green eyes gleaming with an almost unsettling intensity, "you are, I sense, a man capable of truly, profoundly, changing the very destiny of the Federation. For you possess a power that is both enviable and, if I may be so bold, as yet not entirely, not fully, realized to its ultimate potential. On that momentous day when you finally, irrevocably, write your glorious name into the eternal annals of history, let us, by all means, meet again." The Count de Marsay, like Isabella before him, chose to conclude their encounter with a series of cryptic, deeply ambiguous and rather unsettling words. Corneille, lacking any further, more concrete intelligence upon which to base a sound judgment, could only, for the present moment, reluctantly categorize them as the grandiose and likely meaningless ramblings of an overly imaginative poet.

The grand charity banquet continued its glittering, relentless course, but Dias’s assumed male form, Corneille knew, had a mere two hours of precious time remaining. As a necessary precaution, he discreetly caught the attention of a passing attendant, requesting that he convey their most sincere apologies to Her Highness for their unavoidable and regrettably early departure.

Polly, the Canid Guardian Officer, was perched with an air of profound boredom atop the roof of their waiting carriage, stifling a series of enormous, jaw-cracking yawns. Upon seeing Dias approach, however, she instantly leaped down from her vantage point, her lithe form moving with a surprising grace, and trotted eagerly towards them, her expressive black tail wagging with an almost puppy-like, unrestrained excitement.

"Did you," she inquired, her crimson eyes bright with curiosity, "have a… suitably pleasant and enjoyable… time, Your Grace?"

"It was… acceptable," Dias replied, a faint, weary smile touching his lips. "I only regret, Mademoiselle Polly, that you were so… regrettably neglected… during our attendance."

"Oh, it is nothing, Your Grace, nothing at all!" Polly chirped, her tail thumping a happy rhythm against the cobblestones. "It is merely the sworn duty of a Guardian Officer! But now, at long last, my shift is finally, gloriously, over!" The sheer, unadulterated joy of a diligent worker finally released from her toils brought a smile to everyone’s face.

Polly’s delight, however, proved to be a trifle… premature. After Dias had carefully and somewhat unsteadily boarded the carriage, Corneille, on the rather flimsy pretext of needing to "exchange a few final, urgent words" with Her Highness, turned and strode back towards the grand, torchlit entrance of the legation. This unexpected delay left Polly so utterly, so incandescently, incensed that her normally expressive tail stood out straight and rigid with pure, unadulterated indignation.

Isabella, a figure of enigmatic grace, awaited him in the deep, concealing shadows of a grand, colonnaded portico. Corneille, his own expression unreadable, inquired, "Your Imperial Highness. What further guidance, what wisdom, do you have to impart to your humble servant?"

"I fear," Isabella began, her voice a low, silken murmur that seemed to blend with the shadows themselves, "that I was somewhat… excessive, perhaps even a trifle cruel in my teasing of Monsieur Corneille previously. I wished, therefore, to offer my most sincere apologies, and to make some small, tangible measure of amends. Considering the rather exceptional, indeed, almost unprecedented courtesy and favor I have shown to the young Duke of Alva this evening, might Monsieur Corneille perhaps find it in his noble heart to… forgive my earlier transgression?"

"Your Highness speaks with an unnecessary gravity," Corneille replied, his voice carefully neutral. "It was merely a harmless, if somewhat pointed, jest. I assure you, I have given it no further thought."

"That," Isabella purred, a slow, enigmatic smile playing on her lips, "is most gratifying to hear. Your recent activities, your rather impressive display of initiative, have pleased me greatly. Your burgeoning connections with the influential House Longueville and the surprisingly useful Holy Fool Church; the invaluable assistance your rather eccentric… physician acquaintance has provided in expanding your network of useful contacts; and, of course, your rather spectacular repelling of a former, and not inconsiderable, Rex Nemorensis…" Isabella laughed, a soft, melodious sound that held no true warmth. "These things, my dear Corneille, benefit us as well. If I were to offer no tangible acknowledgment, no sign of my imperial favor, I fear it would dishearten a man of such evident, and potentially invaluable, talent. Come closer, Corneille. Come closer."

Corneille took a few measured steps forward. Isabella, her eyes gleaming like amethysts in the torchlight, beckoned again. He moved to a distance that, by any normal standard of social etiquette, was already far too intimate, yet still, Isabella, with an almost imperceptible inclination of her regal head, gestured for him to approach even further. Finally, he stood at an exceedingly, almost scandalously, intimate distance – so close that he could feel the subtle, radiating warmth of Isabella’s body, so close that the cool, sophisticated fragrance of the Cold Beauty, mingling with the rich, heady aroma of fine wine, created an almost dizzying, intoxicating sensation in his senses. Isabella’s perfectly shaped lips moved with a tantalizing slowness, drawing close to Corneille’s ear. Before her warm breath, like a summer breeze, touched his skin, a stray, silken strand of her vibrant purple hair brushed, with an almost electric lightness, against his arm. She was undeniably, breathtakingly beautiful. But she was also, he knew with an absolute, bone-deep certainty, terrifyingly and almost inhumanly powerful. Every fiber of Corneille’s being, every muscle, every nerve, was primed, not for acquiescence, not for surrender, but for instantaneous, lethal defense.

A few agonizingly long seconds later, Isabella’s whispered words, like a silken blade, shifted his attention, his entire focus, in a direction he had not, in his wildest imaginings, anticipated.

"The witch," she murmured, her voice a breath against his ear, "the one currently concealed within the supposedly sacrosanct walls of the Toledo ducal manor… her unique, and rather formidable, abilities could, I believe, prove to be of considerable utility in your coming endeavors. And, as it so conveniently and rather amusingly happens, her own overbearing family is, at this very moment, making strenuous and increasingly desperate attempts to retrieve her. This, my dear Corneille, provides you with a most opportune, and indeed, rather delightful… moment to place her irrevocably in your debt. These are not mere speculations, warrior, but undeniable, verifiable truths. Seize this chance, Corneille. Seize it with both hands. Make her your ally. Make her… yours."