Chapter 6: Rex Nemorensis

Cécile, with the silver tongue and relentless zeal of a peddler hawking rare silks, had finally managed to shepherd both Corneille and Mélusine to the point of signing the meticulously penned agreements of confidentiality and employment. Though a fragile accord had been reached, an air of reluctant compromise clung to both parties like a damp river mist.

Mélusine, it was subtly apparent, danced to a tune Cécile played; when addressing the physician, her voice was a hushed murmur, her formidable presence somewhat diminished. Yet, when her veiled gaze turned upon Corneille, her voice regained its bell-like clarity, its resonant timbre, as she dissected each clause of the contracts with the precision of a master swordsman, word by painstaking word.

This delicate parley, a subtle contest of wills and wary concessions, consumed the better part of half an hour before Mélusine, with a rustle of dark silks, finally glided from the chamber and into the study to commence Dias’s inaugural lesson in the arcane arts: What is Magic?

"Magic," Mélusine began, her voice a low, melodious hum that seemed to emanate from the very shadows of her veil, "is a tapestry woven from preternatural power, a force constructed through the focused expenditure of mana – the lifeblood of enchantment – to reshape the very fabric of reality. The mana that fuels such potent workings flows from the twenty ancient Jupiter Trees, sacred sentinels that stand guard within the borders of Waite."

"In the mundane lands of the Federation," she continued, a faint note of something unreadable in her tone, "you know them merely as oak trees. But only these twenty, unique and venerable specimens, nestled deep within the most ancient, most hallowed groves of Waite’s sprawling forests, continuously breathe forth the essence of mana. Over countless, unrecorded eons, this ethereal energy has gathered, its concentration slowly, inexorably, reaching a potency sufficient to weave the most intricate and powerful of spells."

"Through the long, winding centuries, the myriad enchantments birthed by the witches of Waite have been meticulously categorized, ordered into twenty-two distinct and often jealously guarded domains. Each domain, in its turn, is further divided, its secrets classified into two fundamental forms:

Basic Magic: The gateway to these arts is relatively unbarred. With unwavering perseverance and the guidance of a true adept, any soul with the spark can hope to master them. Indeed, it is not uncommon for a student to delve into multiple domains, acquiring a working knowledge of several foundational spells.

Exclusive Magic: These are the deeper, more potent mysteries, their thresholds guarded by specific, often arduous, prerequisites. To even begin the study of such spells, one must meet exacting conditions. Furthermore, to dedicate oneself to the exclusive magic of a single domain is to irrevocably bind one’s fate to that faction, thereby surrendering any claim to the arcane knowledge of other paths."

"Is it, then, like unto a great university," Dias interjected, her brow furrowed in thought, "where a scholar dedicates their entire life to the singular pursuit of mastery within their chosen field of erudition?"

"There are… subtle distinctions," Mélusine replied, a hint of a smile in her voice, "but for the present, your analogy holds a certain serviceable truth." Her tone then shifted, taking on a graver, more somber resonance. "Each of these domains is ruled by a leader, a figure of immense power and influence. At the very pinnacle of this intricate hierarchy stand those known as the Kings of the Wood – in the ancient tongue, Rex Nemorensis. They are the twin sovereigns, wielding dominion over both the mystical and the temporal realms of Waite."

"Rex…" Dias mused, her gaze thoughtful. "That word, it carries a masculine inflection, does it not?"

"Indeed. It is the prevailing consensus amongst the most learned historians of Waite that the first to bear the title of Rex Nemorensis were, in fact, men. However, as the ages turned, women, with their innate affinity for the subtle currents of mana, gradually, but inexorably, gained ascendancy in the intricate dance of magical prowess. Since the shadowed day of the last male King’s assassination, in the forty-fifth year of the New Calendar, all who have worn the crown of Rex Nemorensis have been women."

"So," Dias pondered, her mind clearly grappling with the political complexities, "this shared sovereignty of the Kings… should one envision it as an empowered council of high nobles, a collective body wielding ultimate authority? Or is it more akin to a conclave of twenty-two hereditary monarchs, each reigning supreme within their own ancestral dominion?"

"From the vantage point of a Duke, such as yourself," Mélusine responded, her veiled head inclining slightly, "it is perhaps more readily comprehended in the latter form. Moreover, it has been an accepted tenet since that pivotal year, 45 of the New Calendar, that the Rex Nemorensis of any given domain is also, by definition, the most formidable witch within that particular sphere of influence. This, of course, touches upon the intricate, and often perilous, system by which the title itself is passed from one generation to the next…"

Mélusine’s inaugural lecture on the foundations of Waite’s magic concluded after a full hour and a half had chimed from the grand clock in the hall. As she emerged from the study, her dark robes whispering around her, Corneille happened to be returning from some errand. Dias, her face lit with an almost childlike eagerness, turned towards him like a sunflower seeking the life-giving warmth of the sun, her gaze following his every move.

"Aunt Cécile?" Dias inquired, her voice hopeful.

"She has taken her leave," Corneille confirmed. "I escorted her to the main gate myself; all proper courtesies were observed." His attention then shifted to their enigmatic new guest. "There are several unoccupied chambers on the upper floor, Mademoiselle Mélusine. Which of them might suit your preference?"

Mélusine did not offer an immediate reply. Corneille sensed, with a warrior’s intuition, that her unseen gaze had been snared by the gleaming surface of the shield that leaned, ever-ready, against the nearby wall. A flicker of pride, fierce and possessive, touched his lips. "A truly exceptional piece of armament," he declared, his voice resonating with satisfaction. "Blessed by a deity in ages past, imbued with a permanent enchantment that renders it all but impervious to any mundane weapon. It is, I confess, my most cherished trophy, won in the crucible of war."

"Hmm," Mélusine murmured, her veiled head tilted as if in contemplation. "There is a familiarity to it… I feel as though I have encountered its like, or perhaps its legend, somewhere before." She pondered for a few heartbeats, the memory, like a shy forest creature, refusing to be coaxed from the shadows of her mind. She let it go with a subtle sigh. Addressing Corneille’s earlier inquiry, she said, "In that case, Monsieur Corneille, I shall select the vacant chamber directly opposite your own. The view of the central courtyard from its window, I surmise, will be most agreeable."

Corneille, with his customary efficiency, summoned the leaders of his various household teams. He introduced them, one by one, to Mélusine, his words brief but clear, impressing upon each of them the absolute, unshakeable necessity of maintaining the utmost discretion regarding her presence within the villa. This done, he provided their new, and undeniably mysterious, resident with a thorough tour of the manor, from its deepest cellars to its highest turrets.

Mélusine expressed her profound satisfaction with her new accommodations, her melodious voice offering repeated compliments to Corneille on his discerning taste and his evident appreciation for an environment of comfort and refined elegance.

I cannot help but wonder, Corneille thought, a touch of wry amusement in his eyes, if her effusive praise would diminish somewhat should she ever glimpse the… rather more spartan… and decidedly less organized… state of my own private chamber.

Returning to the quiet solitude of the second-floor corridor, Mélusine paused before her chosen door. With a graceful, almost imperceptible, gesture and a softly whispered incantation, she invoked a teleportation spell. In a shimmer of azure light, her personal belongings, which had been temporarily entrusted to Doctor Cécile’s care, materialized within the room. Dias, who had been observing from nearby, her face a mask of pure, unadulterated fascination, let out a small gasp of delight. "Oh, by the stars! I wish, more than anything, that I might learn to wield such a wondrous spell!"

Mélusine shook her veiled head, a gesture that seemed to carry a hint of regret. "Teleportation, while classified amongst the foundational arts of basic magic, is, alas, an enchantment with a rather… significant barrier to its acquisition. The Longueville family, the ancient and powerful lineage who first developed and perfected this particular art, saw fit to register a patent upon their creation. Thus, one may only utilize this most convenient of spells after subscribing to their… exclusive service, and then, only for the stipulated duration of one’s membership."

"The House of Longueville…" Dias breathed, the name a soft echo in the quiet corridor.

"Does Monsieur Corneille, perhaps, share some… prior history… with that particular noble house?" Mélusine inquired, her voice carefully neutral.

"Nay," Corneille replied. "It is merely that among those with whom Dias is expected to share his academic pursuits, there is a young scion of the Longueville name."

"Perhaps this is but a reflection of my own… jaded personal prejudices," Mélusine said, her voice dropping to a low, serious tone, "but I would implore both of you, with the utmost sincerity, to exercise extreme caution in any and all dealings with the members of House Longueville. They are, in my experience, a lineage singularly devoted to the pursuit of only two earthly desires: men and wealth. Or, to be more precise, in their cold, calculating eyes, men are little more than… desirable commodities, valuable resources to be acquired, managed, and, if necessary, exploited. They are not, I fear, generally regarded as individuals possessed of inherent dignity, deserving of genuine respect."

"Your counsel is noted, and appreciated," Corneille said, his expression unreadable. "Yet, I cannot help but suspect that in the… unique… social climate of Waite, a great many witches share a perspective remarkably similar to that of the esteemed Longuevilles."

A sigh, as faint and mournful as the whisper of wind through winter branches, escaped from behind the black gauze of Mélusine’s veil. "It is precisely because of this… pervasive and rather disheartening attitude," she lamented, her voice tinged with a profound sadness, "that 'love,' that most fundamental and universal of human emotions, has become such a… startling anomaly… within the borders of Waite. An aberration, almost, requiring the formal establishment of a dedicated 'Lovers' domain, a sanctuary, if you will, to shelter its few, beleaguered remaining adherents. However," she added, a faint note of self-deprecating humor entering her voice, "as one who harbors no personal intention of ever entering the bonds of matrimony, it is hardly my place to cast stones or pass judgment upon the choices of others."

Sensing the somber turn the conversation had taken, Dias, her gaze instinctively seeking the reassuring presence of Corneille (without which, she knew, her nerves would likely render her speechless), addressed her new tutor. "Teacher," she asked, her voice small but clear, "what is the cost of this… membership?"

"Thirty thousand dinars, per annum," Mélusine replied, the sum rolling off her tongue with a practiced ease. "For which considerable outlay, one is graciously permitted precisely twenty-two uses of the teleportation spell within the span of a single year."

"Pierre," Dias turned to Corneille, her brow furrowed in earnest inquiry, "when one considers the… extraordinary level of supernatural power involved, is a sum of thirty thousand dinars a year deemed… excessively dear?"

"It signifies, Dias," Corneille stated, his voice dry as desert sand, "that the penalty for being apprehended whilst employing teleportation magic illicitly is, by a considerable margin, far greater than thirty thousand dinars."

Mélusine inclined her veiled head in a gesture of acknowledgment. "A most astute assessment, Monsieur Corneille. Every witch of my acquaintance, without exception, complains most vociferously of the Longueville family’s insatiable avarice and their… creatively extortionate practices. Yet, after carefully, and often fearfully, weighing the potential cost of incurring their formidable displeasure, every single one of them, with a sigh of resignation, dutifully remits the stipulated membership fee."

As the grand clock in the hall chimed the tenth hour, a delicate yawn escaped Dias’s lips. Mélusine, ever attuned to the subtle cues of social propriety, cited the pressing need to unpack her modest belongings and, with a graceful curtsy, politely excused herself for the evening.

Dias, her eyes heavy with a mixture of weariness and excitement, tugged gently at Corneille’s sleeve, her gaze gesturing towards the intricate coiffure at the back of her head. Corneille understood immediately. "I shall re-enter once you have… made yourself comfortable."

A few minutes later, Corneille stepped back into the chamber. With a practiced efficiency, he gathered the discarded feminine garments that lay in a soft, crimson heap upon the floor, their fabric still retaining a faint warmth from her body. Dias, having carefully returned the borrowed jewels to their velvet-lined box, sighed. "A man’s attire, Pierre, is still a far more comfortable embrace. When I am garbed in these… gowns… I scarce dare to look upon my own reflection, upon this unfamiliar form."

"You will, in time, grow accustomed to it."

"Such words are easily spoken."

"And your initial impression of Mademoiselle Mélusine?"

A look of almost reverent admiration softened Dias’s features. "She is a lady of profound mystery, Pierre, and yet… remarkably considerate. She perceived my innate shyness, my fear of strangers, and with a subtle grace, she adjusted her tone, her manner, maintaining a distance that allowed me to feel at ease during our lesson. And Pierre," her eyes shone with a newfound determination, "in my very next lesson, I am to begin the true work! I am to learn the most fundamental of magical arts – to perceive the subtle ebb and flow of mana itself! I shall dedicate myself to my studies, I swear it, so that I may, as swiftly as possible, become a true asset, a source of strength, to you."

"Do not," Corneille cautioned, his voice gentle but firm, "push yourself beyond your limits, Dias. Your first, and most sacred, duty, now and always, must be the careful preservation of your own health and well-being."

Corneille’s strong fingers began to deftly unbraid Dias’s elaborate hairstyle. Suddenly, his brow furrowed. He leaned closer, his nose almost brushing the delicate skin at the nape of her neck, and inhaled, a subtle, appraising sniff. "Dias," he said, his voice carefully, almost unnervingly, neutral, "how many days, precisely, has it been since you last availed yourself of the… cleansing properties of a bath?"

"...How," Dias mumbled, her voice a mortified whisper, her gaze fixed firmly on the floorboards, "how could I possibly bring myself to look upon… upon this body… in such a state?"

Corneille, with his customary foresight, had already ensured a generous supply of hot water was steaming in the boiler room, intending to reward his own day of taxing labors with a long, restorative soak. Now, with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of a thousand unspoken frustrations, he bent, scooped Dias up into his powerful arms as if she weighed no more than a feather, and strode, with grim determination, towards the bathing chamber.

"I shall remain posted directly outside this door," he declared, his voice leaving no room for argument. "And you may be assured, I will not permit you to emerge until you are thoroughly and properly cleansed."

"Pierre…" Dias began, a note of plaintive appeal in her voice.

"Your entreaties, however artfully phrased, will be of no avail," Corneille stated, his tone unyielding. "Personal hygiene, Dias, is a matter of paramount importance. Upon the grim theatre of the battlefield, I have witnessed countless good soldiers lose limbs, even their very lives, to the insidious rot of infected wounds."

"But… but we are not at war, Pierre."

Corneille’s voice hardened, taking on an edge of steel. "Then, would you prefer that every soul within this household, from the highest to the lowest, become aware, through means other than polite conversation, that the Duke of Alva… carries about his person an aroma most… unsavory? Dias, I do not recall you ever being such a willfully disobedient child."

"Ughhhhhh…" A small, frustrated sound, like the whimper of a cornered animal, escaped Dias’s lips.

She was, to put it mildly, thoroughly and utterly displeased with Corneille’s high-handed, almost tyrannical, decree. Yet, her temperament, particularly since her bewildering transformation, had rendered her increasingly, almost helplessly, reliant upon his strength, his guidance, his unwavering presence. To openly defy a direct command from him was a prospect she dared not entertain.

A tiny, almost imperceptible, spark of rebellion, however, still flickered deep within her. She muttered a series of disgruntled imprecations under her breath, her mind conjuring a rather satisfying fantasy: the day would come, she vowed, when she would be the one wielding potent and formidable magic. And on that day, oh yes, on that glorious day, she would compel Pierre Corneille, with an equal measure of unyielding authority, to perform some task equally… distasteful… to his own sensibilities.

All her simmering discontent, however, all her mutinous thoughts, evaporated like morning mist the very moment she slid into the waiting bathtub. The water, heated to a perfect, soothing warmth, caressed her skin, a sensation of pure, almost forgotten bliss. Because of the persistent frailty of her heart, it had been an agonizingly long time since she had been able to indulge in such a simple, yet profound, luxury.

Nevertheless, her profound shyness, her deep-seated aversion to confronting the reality of her transformed female form, had not entirely abated. She dared not linger too long in the water’s comforting embrace. After a hasty, almost furtive, soaping of her hair and body, her gaze carefully, almost painfully, averted from her own reflection in the steamy water, she scrambled out, changed into fresh nightclothes, and emerged from the bathing chamber, her long, blonde hair clinging in damp tendrils to her shoulders and back.

A soft, thick towel descended from above, as if by magic. Corneille’s large, calloused hands pressed it gently but firmly against her head, his fingers moving with a surprising tenderness as he rubbed, absorbing the excess moisture from her hair with an efficient, practiced touch. And for reasons she could not begin to articulate, for reasons that lay far beyond the realm of mere logic or understanding, a wave of pure, unadulterated, and utterly overwhelming happiness washed over Dias, warming her from the inside out.