Soon, despite Labassette missing a large section from its original layout, the chateau began to resemble a fortress again. The chateau seemingly formidable because of the large well-armored party camped before its twin towers, firelight blazing from large rectangular windows carved into the tall towers as Labassette was carefully resurrected. Life glowing all-around it.
Of the four days Councilwoman Vidonia spent commanding her auxiliary, it took Kat three to realize that the councilwoman and her assistant harbored no ill will towards her. The two women abruptly ignoring Kat as they instructed the slogging men and women of the councilwoman's auxiliary where to bring this grand wooden chest, or that mattress stuffed with goosedown. For the entirety of the four days, Kat swore the councilwoman did not sleep. The woman preferring to stay up with the moon and the sun as she passed on instructions for her party's nightwatchmen or abruptly voiced her concerns about a failing structure within the chateau to soldiers who woke with the sun. The shrill peal of her increasingly irritating voice rising, the intensity of her screams directly correlating with Vidonia's scant amount of hours spent in a bedroll.
When everything was finished, the halved chateau living up to Vidonia's strict standards by the skin of its old stones, it seemed as if all audibly relaxed. From Vidonia's auxiliary, to the chateau itself—it seemed as if everything had been holding its breath as Vidonia stomped around for four days straight. The nocturnal woman demanding this and ailing for that.
Finally, everything was over.
Even Kat breathed a sigh of relief, despite her nonexistent part in the chateau's resurrection, even she breathed a sigh of relief.
Because this—this would mean that the Chaperon was arriving soon. Definitely. This would mean she'd see Horace again and hopefully Alan. This would mean she'd be able to do what she swore to herself she world—spare Horace's reputation and save Alan's life. This would mean she'd get to go home again.
If the councilwoman didn't force her to go to the Sybil, of course.
Magebane, am I?
Kat was still having trouble believing she could control any sort of Power, much less Blood.
Had her mother truly granted her the ability to touch the crux of the Power—to strip her own blood of the Power? Had she—had she teleported Archmage Ledora away?
And what of Dechamps? Where was she?
“Dead, most like.” Anais murmured after Kat asked her question. The two women waiting outside of the councilwoman's chamber, Katell summoned almost an hour ago. After being left alone for four days straight, she had almost believed that the sorceresses had forgotten all about her.
Almost.
“You were in the field when we arrived, yes? So many dead. Elisedd—,” the heart-faced woman slapped a porcelain palm to her mouth as she gasped, “—Dear me. Do you even know what a highscale is, little one? A changeling? Ah, I keep forgetting you're a southerner!”
The woman wore an intricate gown of royal blue, the square cut of its bodice studded with pearls. Beneath the gown, a hooped farthingale extended the width of her slim hips. Shaping them wider than they ought to be.
Kat fought not to appear jealous of the fact that everyone—absolutely everyone living within these drafty towers, possessed a change of clothes. Everyone except her. Standing next to the pearl studded Anais made Kat feel dirty and unworthy. As if the length of a gown's train, or the cut of her clothes' fabric brought worth to her being. Brought confidence.
In Montbereau, she wouldn't have given a damn. But here...
She felt out of touch. Like a street urchin pushed into some lord's hovel, or a dog in a cat's den. She felt out of sorts.
Was this how northern women dressed? Women from the Capital of the White Rose? Women who profess allegiances to guilds and universities? Was this how the well-endowed northerners distinguished themselves from those of the south? Already, Kat's intelligence had been questioned by Anais. Apparently southerners ignore everything past the Black Forest and their lack of knowledge, their lack of understanding and their wealth of superstitions, made them intolerably unintelligent. According to Anais, at least.
The north—the north possessed a grand spring of knowledge. While the south was absolutely devoid of it.
“Your strong southern ties explains why you know naught of highscales and changelings. Of elves and other lesser beings. Ah, they refuse to frequent the south because your witch-hunting Sonants would purposefully burn them, would they not? Then there is the Hope for Extinction that just murders every strange thing within its undulating path. Both groups are erratic and zealous. Both groups also originate from Southern Reaches, having gathered a bulk of their constituents there...” Anais turned her gaze from the thick oaken door and planted her doe-eyes upon Kat's dirt streaked face, “...does this help you understand why a highscale, a changeling able to shift into a dragon at will, would avoid such a place?”
“Elisedd was the dragon?” Kat murmured.
Anais bowed her head, nodding slowly, “A highscale.” she murmured, “Correct.
“And knowing southerners, magebane,” the shorter woman sighed as she clasped her hands before her wide blue skirts. Her knuckles grazing the deep V end-piece of her bodice, “they would burn you as well if you went back. Knowing what you do now—they wouldn't accept you. My apologies, Katell, however...you might want to avoid going home,” Anais told her, “forever.”
That struck Kat—hard. Like a sharp slap to the face. She was a shieldmaiden—sworn to the Montbereau Guard. Happily working under her cousin—happily escorting her first ever Chaperon so that she might become a full-fledged guard like Horace.
Now, here she was. So far off the Path that she wasn't even sure if she was in Myrine anymore. For a split-second, everything that had happened—everything that had drew her off the Path and brought her here—all of the knowledge she had attained...her mother, monsters, vampires, elves and dragons—everything hit her. Like a harsh blow to the gut—everything hit her. And as the door before them wheezed open, she set her gaze upon Anais. Hawk-eyes narrowed, “You speak as if I have a choice.”
“You're right,” Anais replied, lowering her large eyes with a half-crescent smirk planted upon her pink lips, “I do.”
Shoving her way into the councilwoman's chambers, Kat froze as the corridor behind her fell away. It was an understatement to label Vidonia's chambers as simply crowded. The large stone room was cluttered. Stuffed from its high stone ceiling to the wooden boards of the floor with books or items related to books.
To Kat's right, reached two towering bookshelves that must have had to be deconstructed before shoving them through the room's slender entrance. Squashed between these two bookshelves sat a thick bed of oak, a high canopy of purple lace reaching from its scaffolding to the floor.
Anais pushed past Kat as the shieldmaiden gawked, the shorter woman's hands gentle as they pushed Kat towards the side of the room. Making space for herself as she waltzed in, and approached the desk on the left side of the cluttered chamber.
Before Kat sat a vanity, a tall case of clothing with latticed glass embedded within the wooden doors. Peering through the panes as she froze, she saw a plethora of gowns—their fabrics dyed scarlet. Some gowns threaded in silver, others threaded in sparkling gold.
Kat wondered how many fortunes Councilwoman Vidonia had spent on that.
She had never seen so many well procured garments in her life. The people of Montbereau, her Gran, her cousins—no one really cared for fashionable clothing. They saw it as a waste, as useless court wear that would impede their work and livelihood. Perhaps women from the capital saw things differently. Perhaps their lives depended on how well they dressed.
From Kat's left, Vidonia cleared her throat.
Whirling towards the noise, Kat caught sight of Vidonia sitting behind a simple desk of deep brown oak. The legs beneath the thin desk curved like smoke, the wooden appendages curling towards the floor only to flatten. The wood floor creaked slightly as Anais moved to
stand at Vidonia's right, positioning herself before the paper-strewn table as she clasped her hands before her abdomen.
Leaning back into her checker patterned chair, the seat resembling a throne in Kat's mind, Vidonia steepled her fingers before her chest and tipped her fingers towards her lips in silence.
Kat found it odd that both women tended to wear the same garments. Yet, as Anais stood near Vidonia, the intricacies of the shorter woman's gown seemed to fade. Where Anais' gown was speckled with pearls, Vidonia's gown sported a turtle shaped broach at the very heart of the bodice's square lip atop her breasts. Where the puffed sleeves of Anais' upper arms boasted a singular color, Vidonia's blue sleeves were slashed to reveal a pearly white that shined silver in the dim light of the cluttered chamber. While Anais' bodice showed a multitude of intricate interlacing, blue mixing with thick black embroidery; the interlacing upon Vidonia's gown was flecked with gold. The bodice shining as her chest slowly moved up and down with each calm breath.
Kat stood in awe. She didn't belong here.
Kat brought her right hand behind her back, balling the palm up into a fist.
“At the very least, she'll have to know how to dress.” Vidonia murmured, eyes scanning Kat's body from her head to her toes. “The girl looks like we fished her out of the ocean. How is the Sybil to accept a new magebane they can't stand within five feet of? Her stench alone will ward them off.”
“Yes, councilwoman.” Anais intoned, clasping her hands behind her back as she nodded. Doe-eyes on Kat.
“Shall we test how well you know the Blood?” Vidonia smirked behind the steeple of her fingers, eyes flashing as her gaze snapped to Anais.
Kat bristled. “I've only just come into this...” she swallowed at a growing lump within her throat as Anais dipped two fingers between her breasts and retrieved a thin stiletto, “...Power.” she finished. Her throat threatening to close as her tongue became cotton.
Taking her fingertips from her lips, Vidonia placed her forearm across the desk as Anais slowly turned. “Come.” she commanded, long fingers curling. Beckoning Kat like a tantalizing aroma.
Kat approached, eyes on Anais' silver stiletto as she held it between her ring and index finger.
“Anais,” Vidonia murmured, “begin the Rite.”
Anais was quick—like lightening—as she leveled the stiletto with Kat's right eye and angled the tip down. Towards the floor. Kat breathed in an aching breath as the air thinned and Vidonia vanished. Her throne suddenly empty as two hands clamped around Kat's wrists and forced her arms behind her back.
Kat stared into Anais' glassy eyes. “You'll be all right, sweet one.” she murmured.
Before the tip of the stiletto ripped across Kat's neck. Blood spurting. Scarlet everywhere.
Kat fought to breathe. Blood collecting into her windpipe as she felt her chest become heavy. As her lungs burned, her throat wet and swollen from the sudden incision. From the sudden slit cut across the length of her throat.
“Calm. Calm yourself,” Vidonia's voice scuttled up Kat's wet neck as sweat began to bead upon her skin. As everything began to grow fuzzy and dark. Kat heard her own breath in her ears, then. Heard herself heave and force in a wet breath, only for blood to come surging up her throat as her heart rammed itself against the aching cage of her racking ribs, “to live,” Kat heard Vidonia murmur. The sorceress's voice an echo bouncing around her mind. The voice far as she wheezed, “you must work the Blood.”
TWENTY-NINE
If I return to that place, I shall take you with me.
The phrase was a threat. Accursed words uttered so long ago.
Cast me out and I shall find another way.
A whisper...a siege...a battle which assaulted only her ears.
A phrase trailing upon a gust of cold wind. Snow. Ice.
But it doesn't snow past the Poudurac.
Ledora braced herself, hands splayed upon a terrain of snow-white ice surrounding her face as she opened her one good eye.
It doesn't snow past the Poudurac, she reminded herself. Her breath escaping her lips as steaming white mist. I've failed, then...the words sounded strange in her mind. Ledora's magic never failed—she was an archmage. A High Sorceress. Ledora's magic never failed.
Yet, here she was. Caught in the cusp of a southern wind as she lay face down in the snow.
Yet, here she was.
With veined hands numb as death, Ledora shoved herself to standing in the white drift. She wasn't dressed for this kind of weather—the biting cold, a shower of snow falling all-around her like a sweeping veil of sparkling white.
Beneath the plush satin of her tunic, she possessed no animal fur. She possessed no cotton or thick linen to keep her warm as a chill, cold as morning hoarfrost, swept through the snow sprinkled atmosphere of the dimly lit forest. Ledora shivered as the gust swept past her, the wind charging through the lavish fabric of her tunic and trousers as if her garments were made of thin parchment. Wrapping her trembling arms around herself, Ledora's teeth chattered as her one good eye searched her new environs. Stygian trees reached for her, their sharp black appendages swallowed by a blurring fog that crept from the frozen breath of the silver clouds above. The sun did not show its golden head here. It merely settled behind the clouds, rolling beneath the churning silver above as a bulbous ball of cold shadow.
Warmth. It did not exist here.
Did the Fates mean to bring her here?
Ledora could remember saving Katell—or at least attempting. She meant to siphon Power from the girl. She meant to siphon Power, touch its crux, and use what little Power Katell's body possessed to send the girl farther north. Away from the encroaching northern envoys and, most of all, away from that upstart. Away from Councilwoman Vidonia.
Her mother had been magebane, it was only a matter of time until Katell...
Ledora shook her head, pressing her lips into a grim line as she shivered. The world doesn't need another magebane.
But the fact that Ledora was here—farther south than she had ever ventured before—and the child was not, proved that she had not only failed—but something caused her magic to disrupt. Something caused the Power to spill from her fingers as she muttered incantations—as she willed Katell be transported elsewhere. To the only place a magebane, and thus the entire world, would be safe.
Something siphoned her Power.
Had it been the girl? Katell? Had Katell finally come into her Power?
Ledora sorely hoped not. But nothing else could explain the disruption of her teleportation spell. Nothing else could explain how she ended up here—well past the Poudurac. In the south, she assumed, the Black Forest.
Seraphina's domain.
Ledora cast a flickering gaze over her shoulder as snow softly crackled and crunched behind her. Stygian trees wafted in an unknown breeze as the air seemed to shift. The atmosphere buzzing with thick static as Ledora felt the warm touch of the Power dripping from her icy fingertips like liquid fire.
Seraphina. She'd come for her soon.
If I return to that place, I shall take you with me.
Had Seraphina's threat finally been actualized? Had she gone through Katell—used her own daughter's blood—to bring Ledora to Baate Noir?
“You are selfish.” Ledora sneered, body trembling from the cold as she forced her jaw to still. “Willfully pressuring your own kin into her Power simply to spite me. Forcing the world to see her as magebane—in the past, working the Blood would have meant absolute power to those who possessed the will to control it. But times have changed, Sera. Malefactors stand as counsel to monarchs! Demons tend to the capital, the beasts draped in shadow as they possess the minds of kings...”
Silence as snow-frosted air swirled in a thin funnel of white.
Ledora closed her one good eye, the bone-chilled woman let out a single breath. A single puff of white air that crept from her flared nostrils, the breath riding air made stagnant. Air heavy with the Power.
“...being distin
guished as magebane...as one who can control the Blood and the blood of others...means being watched carefully, Sera. It means entering into another sorceresses service as a servant—as a dangerous being worthy of a collar and chain...” Ledora brought her hand to her neck, rubbing it as her skin suddenly burned against the cold, “...I was the last.” she murmured. “Even with a vast knowledge of magic, our own are extremely wary of those who can control the Blood, Sera. Do you know what happened...” she breathed, “...to the rest of us?”
Ledora did not expect an answer. She expected more snow, more sailing winds. But Baate Noir answered her words with a blast of silent yellow light that glared like an unblinking eye through the curtain of fog and stygian trees before her.
Warmth crept from that light, golden tendrils curving through the air like silken ribbons caught in a curtsying gale. Ledora braced herself against the light, her face twisted into a mask of cold confusion as she spotted a figure standing within the gold. A black silhouette that did not resemble the lithe body of Seraphina stood silent, the bright light blazing at its back masking its features. The silhouette mimicking the herculean body of a man, not a woman.
Not the Night Lady.
The surrounding fog lifted like a curse cast off, a white curtain rising only to reveal death darkened trees and twisted branches.
“What...” Ledora began, ignoring the urge to approach the figure. Her body compelled to move as she planted her chilled feet in the snow.
The figure simply stood, the churning golden ribbons wreathing from the light dangling as they crept towards the snow covered ground. Gold sizzled upon white as the ribbons piled upon the ground, melting snow, burning land, as they piled. Detaching themselves from the light as they grew into a mound of ink mixed light and lengthened into the disheveled body of a human. A human woman bound in light, the tangled tendrils of her hair dark as a starless sky cloaked in midnight.
A pale hand reached towards Ledora, crept like a dying snake as her fingers splayed upon the melting snow. With a groan, the woman lifted her pallid face as she reached for the frozen archmage. Her eyes red, sunken into a skeletal face caked in hoarfrost.
Winterskin: A Dark Fantasy (Kindred Souls Book 1) Page 14
