Chapter 9: Isabella Trastámara

"His Excellency Pierre Corneille, Emissary of His Grace the Duke of Alva, arrives!" The herald’s voice, clear and resonant, cut through the murmur of the assembled nobility.

The southern fringes of Merida were a tapestry of grand manors and charming countryside villas, all built in the ostentatious style favored by the Federation’s elite. Lawns, emerald green and flawlessly manicured, stretched towards the horizon like a verdant carpet, radiating a vibrant, life-affirming warmth under the benevolent gaze of the spring sun. Above, birds, like curious aerial acrobats, wheeled and soared in the vast azure expanse, their sharp eyes fixed upon the colorful, almost theatrical, commotion unfolding on the sprawling grounds below.

Archways, whimsical and festive, had been fashioned from a profusion of brightly colored balloons. Circular tables, draped in fine linen, groaned under the weight of glistening mountains of ice cream and tankards of ale chilled to a perfect frost. The air was thick with the tantalizing, smoky aroma of roasting meats, mingling with the carefree laughter of children chasing brightly colored kites that danced and dipped on the gentle breeze. Noblewomen, their gowns a riot of opulent fabrics and somewhat anachronistic designs, drifted across the lawns like elegant, perfumed swans, while uniformed guards, their livery crisp and their bearing martial, stood at stoic attention. It was a scene steeped in an almost aggressive, self-conscious nostalgia, a deliberate evocation of a bygone era, designed to transport its participants to a golden age that perhaps had never truly existed.

Corneille, a man of stark pragmatism and unadorned realities, felt like a discordant note in this carefully orchestrated symphony of gilded remembrance. Yet, every individual whose gaze chanced to fall upon him – every perfumed lady, every bejeweled lord – paused in their leisurely promenade to engage him in animated conversation. In these perilous, uncertain times for the Royalist faction, the unexpected emergence of such an apparently steadfast and devoted supporter was, at least on the polished surface of courtly etiquette, met with a chorus of universal, if perhaps somewhat hollow, acclaim.

In the stark chambers of his own heart, however, Corneille harbored little genuine loyalty to their gilded cause, nor did he possess any particular reverence for the hallowed traditions they so fiercely, and often so performatively, espoused. He looked upon these assembled scions of ancient houses, these meticulously preserved relics of a fading age, as if they were exquisitely beautiful, poetically eloquent revenants, risen from their ornate, velvet-lined sarcophagi to enact one final, poignant masque. Yet, his profound inner bewilderment, his almost anthropological detachment, did not prevent him from exchanging the most cordial of pleasantries, from greeting individuals he had never before laid eyes upon as if they were cherished, lifelong companions.

As a liveried attendant, his voice echoing with practiced formality, announced his name and title, a palpable ripple of interest, a subtle, almost predatory, stirring, passed through the assembled guests. They were, it was clear, growing weary of the stale wine of their own familiar company, their jaded palates craving the spice of novelty, the invigorating tang of some new diversion. The sight of a fresh face, an unknown quantity, drew them in with the inexorable, silent pull of sharks scenting fresh blood upon the water.

The swiftest, most eager, of these metaphorical "sharks" was a high-ranking retainer of the illustrious Trastámara family. He approached Corneille with a bow so deep it bordered on prostration, his voice a low murmur of profound respect as he extended an invitation – nay, a summons – to a private audience with "Her Imperial Highness."

Corneille, his bearing proud and unyielding as a mountain crag, his gaze steady and direct, strode forward. The glittering, chattering crowd parted before him as if by an unseen hand, the waters of society receding before the prow of a great warship. He arrived at the very epicenter of the countryside gathering, a shaded, secluded enclave distinguished by the formidable presence of impeccably equipped guards, their armor gleaming, their expressions impassive, and a retinue of courtiers whose aged, careworn faces bore the indelible imprint of long, often thankless, service. They attended, with a deference bordering on worship, upon a young woman. She was clad in a gown of breathtaking artistry, its fabric a shimmering ombre of rose-pink and regal purple, its skirt cunningly fashioned to resemble a budding flower, its petals just beginning to unfurl. In her slender hand, she held a scepter of polished ebony, its head a fearsome, double-headed eagle wrought in blackest obsidian.

Isabella Trastámara. Rex Nemorensis of the "Emperor" domain. Former matriarch of the Trastámara dynasty, erstwhile First Consul of the Hathor Federation, and, in a life that seemed a distant, almost mythical, echo, the last reigning Emperor of the Neo-Hathor Empire.

Her story was a legend whispered in hushed tones across the Federation. Born in the year 1189, she had first entered the world as Irinan Trastámara, the first-in-line male heir to the imperial throne of the Neo-Hathor Empire, that crumbling, decadent precursor to the current Hathor Federation.

He had ascended to that precarious throne in the year 1204, inheriting a realm already teetering on the very precipice of cataclysmic collapse. The common populace, crushed beneath the weight of generations of misrule, seethed with a barely suppressed, volcanic discontent. The imperial coffers, plundered by generations of corrupt officials, lay barren and empty. Powerful ministers, their loyalties as shifting and treacherous as desert sands, harbored their own dark, insatiable ambitions. And in the outlying provinces, the formidable Tri-State Alliance, like a patient, circling wolf pack, steadily encroached upon the dwindling imperial territories.

Irinan, by all accounts, possessed no spark of strategic genius, no iron will to command. During his ill-starred reign, the authority of the imperial crown continued its precipitous, inexorable decline. When his myriad opponents, their own rivalries momentarily set aside, finally forged an accord and resolved, with a chilling unanimity, to abolish the ancient institution of the monarchy itself, Irinan, in the fateful year of 1217, had bowed to the overwhelming, irresistible pressure and, with a stroke of his trembling quill, announced his abdication.

At that critical juncture, the provincial factions, their banners proudly displaying the sigils of the Tri-State Alliance, held the undeniable upper hand. However, bitter, intractable disagreements over the division of the spoils of victory, coupled with the inconvenient fact that the Trastámara family and their still-numerous loyalists retained vast swathes of land, considerable private wealth, and formidable, battle-hardened armies, prevented the newly ascendant provincial powers from acting with undue, or potentially self-destructive, rashness.

Thus, a fragile, uneasy compromise was struck. The ancient privileges of the Trastámara family, and indeed, of most of the established nobility, were formally, if grudgingly, recognized by the nascent Hathor Federation. The last Emperor, the erstwhile Irinan, in a move of surprising political expediency, was appointed as the Federation's First Consul.

The provincial factions, their victory incomplete, intended to employ a strategy of slow, insidious attrition, a patient, relentless erosion of the power and influence still wielded by the former imperial house and its die-hard supporters. Unexpectedly, however, Irinan, a man widely, and perhaps unfairly, dismissed as a mere mediocrity, a puppet dancing on the strings of fate, undertook a series of bold, almost reckless, actions entirely inconsistent with his previously perceived character.

In the year 1224, he launched a swift, audacious "invasion" of the reclusive, matriarchal State of Waite. Within that same year, with a speed that stunned his political rivals, he signed the Treaty of Merida, a document that formally incorporated Waite into the Hathor Federation as its tenth constituent state.

It soon became chillingly apparent to all astute observers that this was no mere conquest, but a meticulously orchestrated transaction, a pact initiated by the powerful witches of Waite themselves, who were, at that time, grappling with a severe, and potentially existential, demographic crisis stemming from an alarming scarcity of viable men. The most astute political analysts within the provincial factions swiftly concluded that Irinan, in a desperate bid to reclaim his lost power, intended to hire an army of formidable witch-mercenaries and launch a bloody counter-offensive to re-establish his dominion within the Federation.

The Tri-State Alliance, thoroughly alarmed by this unforeseen and terrifying prospect, hastily employed a potent combination of bribery, veiled threats, and strategically advantageous alliances to seize a significant portion of the spoils of Irinan’s Waite campaign before he could fully consolidate his control over his newly acquired territory. This cunning maneuver effectively hamstrung Waite, preventing it from acting as a unified, cohesive force in his service.

However, this, as events would soon so dramatically prove, was a monumental, almost laughable, strategic miscalculation. Irinan Trastámara’s next, and utterly unforeseen, move after "conquering" Waite was not to raise an army, but to ingest a potent cocktail of transformative alchemical medicines. He underwent a complete, and apparently irreversible, gender change, and then, with a singular, almost obsessive, focus, immersed himself in the study of the indigenous magic of Waite, swiftly becoming a witch of considerable power. Then, through the arcane and often perilous ritual known as the "Golden Bough Succession," she – for he was now, in every sense that mattered, a she – became the Rex Nemorensis of the prestigious "Emperor" domain. She reappeared in the astonished public eye under the new, and undeniably feminine, identity of Isabella Trastámara.

Having become a Rex Nemorensis, Isabella, in a transformation that seemed to defy the very laws of nature, regained the vibrant bloom of her youth. She then, with a newfound confidence that bordered on arrogance, summoned the leaders of the Tri-State Alliance to the negotiating table. There, she unveiled her new, and utterly devastating, weapon: her young, undeniably fertile body, a vessel capable of bearing heirs and forging powerful dynastic alliances.

She issued a stark, uncompromising threat to the assembled provincial factions: if they dared to continue their insidious strategy of slowly dismantling the Trastámara family and the Royalist cause, she would not hesitate, not for a single moment, to forge marriage alliances with other major continental powers, thereby granting them a legitimate, and irresistible, pretext for direct military intervention in the affairs of the Federation.

The leaders of the provincial factions, men of power and ambition themselves, knew, with a cold, sinking certainty, that the Hathor Federation, situated as it was in a strategically crucial, and therefore highly coveted, position on the continent, had long been the object of avaricious gazes from other, more powerful, entities. Isabella’s proposed marriages would not merely invite foreign interference; they would, in a stroke, legitimize it.

Forced into an untenable corner, their carefully laid plans in ruins, the provincial factions reluctantly signed the Treaty of 1225 with Isabella. In it, they agreed to maintain the existing status quo, thereby ushering in an uneasy, almost suffocating, peace – a peace fraught with barely suppressed hostility and the ever-present, chilling threat of renewed conflict.

Soon after this diplomatic coup, however, the ascendant Republican faction found an opportunity to strike a telling blow against Isabella, not on the grand stage of Federation politics, but within the very heart of her own ancestral domain. Isabella's dramatic transformation, her very existence as a powerful, youthful witch, placed her eldest son, Alfonso, in an exceedingly awkward, almost untenable, position. The issue was not, as some whispered, the scandalous fact that his father had metamorphosed into a beautiful, alluring young woman. No, the crux of the matter, as always in the rarefied world of high nobility, was the thorny, intractable question of inheritance.

Alfonso's claim to the Trastámara legacy, his very identity as heir apparent, rested entirely upon his status as "Irinan's eldest son." When Irinan, the man, the Emperor, became a mere footnote in the annals of history, and Isabella, the woman, the witch, the Rex Nemorensis, became the undisputed head of the Trastámara family, Alfonso’s claim was immediately, and vociferously, thrown into question. The questioning itself was a bitter pill to swallow; but the far more terrifying prospect was that if Isabella were to remarry, to take a new consort and produce fresh offspring, that child, as Isabella's "eldest," would pose a direct, and potentially fatal, threat to his own precarious inheritance. Irinan’s casual, almost callous, abandonment of his wife and son to pursue the power offered by the title of Rex Nemorensis was, in itself, a stark and brutal indication of her profound disregard for Alfonso’s future, for his very birthright.

The insatiable, corrosive hunger for power, a poison that flowed freely in the veins of all Trastámaras, drove Alfonso into an unholy, if pragmatic, alliance with the Tri-State Alliance. By subtly, yet unmistakably, threatening Isabella with the very real possibility of a catastrophic schism within the Trastámara family itself, and by extension, within the already fractured Royalist party, they compelled her to sign a supplementary, and deeply disadvantageous, treaty to the original Treaty of 1225.

This new, binding accord stipulated that as long as the Tri-State Alliance scrupulously adhered to the terms of the original Treaty of 1225, Isabella was forbidden to marry. Furthermore, any children she might bear, through whatever clandestine means, would possess no legitimate right of inheritance to the Trastámara titles or lands. In a further, humiliating concession, Isabella was forced to relinquish her position as head of the Trastámara family, formally ceding that authority to Alfonso. She also resigned from her prestigious post as First Consul of the Federation. In return for these sweeping sacrifices, she received a substantial, if ultimately inadequate, annual compensation of three million dinars from the coffers of the Tri-State Alliance.

From that day forward, Isabella Trastámara had taken up permanent, and largely reclusive, residence in the city of Merida.

Alfonso’s calculated betrayal had once again shifted the delicate balance of power, plunging the beleaguered Royalist cause from a precarious position of equilibrium back into the familiar, chilling shadows of disadvantage. Yet, few among the pragmatic, power-hungry nobility openly condemned his actions. After all, when Isabella, in her pursuit of what she perceived as the "greater good," had so casually, so ruthlessly, placed Alfonso himself upon the sacrificial altar, he was, by any reasonable measure, under no moral or filial obligation to prioritize a "greater good" that so clearly, and so painfully, excluded him.

Isabella, despite these setbacks, despite the betrayals and the humiliations, remained a potent, almost totemic, central figure for the Royalist cause. But whether the entirety of the sprawling, fractious Trastámara family still heeded her commands, whether her word still carried the weight of absolute authority within her own house, was a question whispered in shadowed courtyards, a matter of intense, and potentially explosive, speculation.

Corneille, his face a mask of perfect, deferential humility, acting as emissary for His Grace the Duke of Alva, executed a deep, impeccably correct bow before the seated Isabella. "There is no need for such elaborate formality, Monsieur Corneille," Isabella said, her voice a rich contralto, clear and commanding, yet with an underlying silken smoothness that hinted at hidden depths. "Raise your head, if you please. Allow me to have a proper, unobstructed look at this renowned paragon of unwavering loyalty."

Corneille straightened, his back as straight and unyielding as a spear shaft. Isabella’s gaze, sharp and unnervingly perceptive, swept over his powerful, warrior’s physique not once, but two or three times, a slow, deliberate assessment that missed no detail. Her eyes, the color of amethysts in shadow, finally came to rest, with a flicker of something unreadable, upon the sword at his hip and the shield slung across his back.

Corneille’s sword, a magnificent blade named "Gryphon," earned its moniker from the intricately carved golden winged lion that formed its hilt. It was a weapon of legend, said to have been part of Angelica’s lavish dowry from the powerful Barbarigo family, and later gifted by the Duchess herself to her most trusted protector, Corneille. Whispers claimed it was blessed by Minerva, the ancient goddess of wisdom and warfare, its edge forever keen, its balance perfect.

His shield, "Sulina," was a work of art in its own right, its burnished surface bearing the lovingly painted image of a sacred fig tree and a gentle-eyed cow, with a single, luminous turquoise stone, the color of a summer sky, set into its exact center. All three – the fig tree, the cow, and the turquoise – were potent, revered symbols in the Federation's state religion, the ancient and deeply ingrained worship of the goddess Hathor. This shield, a trophy of a hard-fought victory, Corneille had taken from the legendary warrior Don Roderick of the Holy State, after a duel that had passed into the annals of military lore. Legend further whispered that Sulina was the name of Don Roderick's beloved daughter, a child of ethereal beauty who had been cruelly snatched away by fate in the bloom of her youth. After being gifted a shield blessed by the goddess Hathor herself, the grieving warrior had named the protective armament in her cherished memory.

"A truly fine specimen of a man," Isabella declared at last, her voice resonating with a note of open, almost possessive, admiration. "Indeed."

Corneille, in turn, allowed his own gaze to linger upon Isabella, his warrior’s senses assessing her not as a woman, nor even as an empress, but as a potential adversary, a force to be reckoned with. An astonishing, almost palpable, wave of raw energy emanated from her, a silent, invisible pressure that prickled at his skin. If Mélusine’s magical power was akin to the warm, steady glow of a candle flame, then Isabella Trastámara was a roaring, untamed blast furnace, a vortex of incandescent power. Were all who bore the title of Rex Nemorensis so terrifyingly potent? Or was Isabella, with her strange, almost unnatural, history, a unique and singular phenomenon?

Only after his mind had processed this initial, overwhelming impression of her arcane might did Corneille truly take note of her physical form. Like all those timeless beauties celebrated in the classical odes and epic poems, Isabella possessed a face of perfect, harmonious ovoid shape, a broad, intelligent forehead, deep-set, luminous eyes, skin as smooth and pale as alabaster, and a statuesque, almost regal, figure that filled the rich fabric of her gown with an impressive, undeniable presence.

The very magic that coursed through her veins had imbued her long, luxuriant hair with an almost unnatural, yet undeniably captivating, vibrant purple hue. Her eyes, a shade lighter than her hair, shimmered with an inner light, as if reflecting the myriad stars of a midnight sky. She was a living paradox, a creature of breathtaking contradictions: both exquisitely innocent and profoundly alluring, regally conservative yet hinting at a wild, untamed openness. Her elegant, almost ethereal, demeanor commanded a respectful, almost reverent, distance. Yet, the daringly short hem of her gown, which reached only to her knees, and the tantalizing glimpse of slender, silk-clad calves beneath, stirred a primal, almost irresistible, urge to draw closer, to shatter that icy composure, to profane that regal, untouchable beauty.

After a moment that seemed to stretch into an eternity, Isabella rose from her thronelike chair, her movements fluid and graceful as a hunting cat. She set aside the imposing, eagle-headed scepter. In its place, she took up a slender, almost delicate, walking stick, its head intricately fashioned into an openwork floral coronet of silver and pearls. She turned to her assembled attendants and courtiers, her voice, though soft, carrying an undeniable note of command. "Go now, all of you. Disperse and find some amusement for yourselves. The sole purpose of a countryside picnic, after all, is for everyone present to be merry, to cast off the burdens of rank and duty, if only for a fleeting afternoon. As for myself," her amethyst eyes flickered towards Corneille, a slow, enigmatic smile playing upon her lips, "I find I wish to speak with Monsieur Corneille… alone."