Blade and Soul: A Dark Fantasy (Kindred Souls Book 2)

by C. M. Estopare

  “That's enough!” Ghyslain screeched, his fingers tightening upon the book at his chest. “Enough! That's quite—,”

  “I apologize Monsieur Ghyslain, but the area of your murderer's reach seems to shorten considerably around your family.” she paused, hoping he'd realize the gravity of this situation. Ghyslain seemed entirely too happy to be a man who had lost his daughter only to find her in a coffin with the dead. Losing an ex-wife yet finding a daughter may not have been something to cry over, but it was something even the worst of men would deem worrisome.

  At the very least, of course.

  “Monsieur Ghyslain, I respectfully request the details of the contract, as well as our charges,” she pointed to the rampart, “here.” Now, she wanted to add—her lips closing as Ghyslain looked her over with clenched jaw and pressed lips.

  Ghyslain brought his gaze to Lucius, who stood with arms crossed. An amused smirk brightening his face. “The Bann recruits women now?” Ghyslain questioned, spittle flying from his lips. “Have the Bann's well of prospects dried up, Agent?”

  Lucius clicked his tongue, “Hopefully, you do not think that the Bann has been unaffected by these...southern winds, Monsieur Ghyslain.” Lucius quipped, avoiding the question. “Barring her outburst, the mademoiselle is right. Why wait to assign us to our posts when you've already got blood on your hands and in your halls, Monsieur? Let us protect what is left.”

  Marceline's breath escaped her lips in white puffs—somehow the air had gotten colder as tension charged.

  Ghyslain kept his lips pressed as he brought his eyes to the lavender horizon. The sun crested rolling blue mountains far to the right of them. The rolling blue ridges of the mist blanketed mountains far from the pearly walls of the citadel.

  “Of course.” Ghyslain whispered, his voice strained. “To ignore the inevitable is foolish,” he chuckled somewhat—a strangulated sound with a brunt of force behind it. “Come, agents.”

  ENTERING THE CHATEAU, they removed their cloaks and marched through its gaudy halls and chambers. The blatant garishness of it all made Marceline frown. If these people were so rich—why subject themselves to living around those they deem suspicious? Or enemies? On their journey through the maze of Chateau Victoire's halls, Ghyslain grinned with a twinkle in his eye to some ornately dressed men wearing heavy chains over protruding bellies; but to others, he bowed with pressed lips and hands clenched so tightly they became pale and white.

  Everyone living in the chateau was not family—that much was obvious to Marceline. It was the duchess's domain—the deceased duchess. If the woman was dead—what was their motivation to stay? As far as Marceline knew, the Slayer of Safrana did most—if not all—of his slayings here. If Ghyslain cared enough about his family to hire protectors for them—why not move them out? Why not stay away?

  The answer? Marceline sneered as they came to their final destination, doors of deep cherrywood and long latticed glass panes. Ambition—ambition and power. This place reeks of it. The stench—almost unbearable.

  They entered a room doused in scarlet furnishings and intricately detailed portraits of pompous lords, their faces stoic. Frozen in time and expensive paint. A gaggle of five roamed about the room, some lounged in plush armchairs, as others gathered around long windows that gave the room a pristine view of the blue mountains below and beyond. Ghyslain called for attention with his hands and his voice. With a fleeting grin, he introduced them all.

  Marceline did not care to meet the entire Savatier brood. Only her charge mattered.

  And, as Ghyslain spoke, she let her mind wander, her eyes scanning each of Ghyslain's family members. Though her face remained stoic, her gaze was questioning—after the ire Ghyslain showed at a female agent being attached to his contract, she was quite surprised to find that all of his family members were...women.

  Marceline didn't care to learn their names—they were porcelain dolls, all of them. Perfect and pristine—Marceline tasted bile as she scanned each of them before setting her gaze forward.

  She hated this assignment and hated the Masters for attaching her to this contract. It was what the Bann called a “nanny” assignment. Instead of a target, an agent got a charge. Instead of a knife, an agent got paperwork.

  She felt like it was purposeful—her getting attached to this contract. It certainly had to have been.

  Within moments, Ghyslain assigned them to their charges—or rather, introduced them. With a tilt of his silver head and a wave of his manicured fingers, he directed Marceline towards a woman she could only describe as an angel. Or, perhaps, a graceful swan transformed into a beautiful human.

  “Reine,” Ghyslain chuckled, a hint of warning sharpening his tone, “be civil.”

  Her eyes were a darker shade than her father's. Fluffy locks of sun-spun gold adorned her slender neck. The wavy ringlets danced down her high cheek bones as large dark eyes grew darker and light pink lips twisted slightly into the ghost of a scowl. “Yes, father.” she sang, her voice a breath of lavender.

  The agents and their charges filed out of the scarlet room and into the palace. All but one pair remained.

  Reine Savatier refused to move as she sized Marceline up with a harrowing glare. Gracefully, she crossed her arms over the light yellow bodice of her bell-shaped gown, “I do not need you.” Reine declared as she turned away from Marceline and glared over the puffed fabric of her shoulder, “I do not want you. And because my dear father forces you onto me—I do not like you.”

  The urge to roll her eyes was tempting, like dangling a live rat before a snake. Marceline ignored it. Throwing her cloak onto her shoulder, she clasped her hands behind her back and met Reine's glare with eyes vacant of all emotion. “So,” she sighed, “you were the one who hid within a coffin, thus cheating death?” her lips stretched into a smile, “Magnifique, Mademoiselle.” Marceline nodded in approval as Reine opened her mouth only to shut it, harrumphing instead.

  “Of course you do not need me,” Marceline continued, nodding once more, “it is Ghyslain—your father—who needs me, Mademoiselle. Is this not true?”

  “Perhaps.” Reine shrugged, tossing hair from her shoulder with a graceful flick of her chin, “Perhaps you are right.”

  Marceline nodded, of course I am.

  “You will trail after me—disrupting things and putting the other courtiers on edge. It is your job, non? The career you've saddled since birth—if what my sources tell me is correct, of course.” she looked Marceline over with a disapproving eye, “Where are your weapons, agent? How will you protect me if I happen upon the slayer once more?”

  “You won't.” Marceline deadpanned.

  Reine smirked, tilting her head slightly. “My life will be yours and I do not like to share.”

  “I am my own person. I will be your shadow.”

  Sighing, Reine turned. Giving Marceline her back. “Very well then, agent.” She brought her hands before her and began to wring them, muttering to herself in whispers. Arguing with herself before sliding a sidelong glare over her shoulder, “Whatever coin father has invested in you, agent, I will put to good use.”

  THREE

  Dimitri

  “Without the sun, would trees know where to grow? Would they know where to spread their leaves and stretch their branches?”

  The sun sat high in the sky, its golden rays penetrating the high glass dome of the courtroom's arching ceiling as the three men found their places in the gathered crowd.

  “Why be so cryptic, uncle?” Loris scoffed, “Is this what you've been dealing with, Dimitri? Five long years of riddles?”

  Dimitri shrugged, immediately regretting the gesture as every elbow in the room seemed to stab at him, “I haven't complained.”

  “You've always been good at keeping your gripes to yourself.” Loris chuckled, somehow finding the space to slap his younger brother on the back, “Has uncle made you keep a diary?”

  The crowd surrounding them surged with chatter, the inside of the sun-drenched
courtroom buzzing like a kicked beehive. Far before them, upon a raised dais of deep cherrywood, sat three rectangular tables arranged into a square. At the heart of the square sat a man in silk robes, his visage blurred by the hundreds of heads bobbing up and down as the crowd roared and heaved. People fleeing the sun's rays as they shoved their way away from the center of the audience box, only to return and seethe. The seats on the very edge of the courtroom, free of the sun's rays were taken or reserved. Thus, forcing many to pile in towards the center and endure the sun until the meeting was over and a decision had been made.

  “If the sun no longer existed,” their uncle went on, shouting over the cacophonous din, “plants would grow as they please. A tree's branches would no longer go up—towards the sun as it ought—they would spring out in rebellion! They would do what they must to survive!”

  A line of people began to pour in through the courtroom's entrance, the line flanked by chateau guards covered in glinting silver plate. The guards fanned out, shoving the crowd away as the line of people made their way towards the raised dais at the front of the room.

  “Odd that they'd suit up for a meeting.” Loris murmured, grunting as a large man stomped on his boot.

  “We are like trees without the sun, men.” their uncle intoned, his eyes on the raised dais as four more men in black silken robes entered and sat before the positioned tables. “Without Duchess Mariett to lead us...”

  “We never needed that woman.” Loris hissed, meeting his uncle's eye with a smirk upon his square face.

  “Watch your tongue,” Dimitri snapped, “lest I cut it out.”

  Loris's eyes narrowed as he looked down at his younger brother. Of the two, he was the largest, the most athletic. Five years spent apart made no difference between the brothers, there was still a hint of malice poisoning the air surrounding them. A hint of hatred and rivalry. It made the crooked scar upon Dimitri's face burn.

  Dimitri cut eye contact, crossing his arms. His brother chuckled, “Watch yourself, little brother. Unless you want another scar to match.”

  “Shush. You're grown men, leave your bitterness in the past.” their uncle chided, pressing his hands to both of their shoulders, “Five years gone. This is the first time you've seen each other and already...”

  The room hushed as a gavel was slammed. Dimitri shrugged off his uncle's hand, met Loris's eye and nodded.

  They'd need to speak later. Arthur was right, it had been a long five years and it was time to let things go.

  The corner of Loris's lips dipped into a sharp frown before he snatched his gaze away.

  Or, perhaps not.

  With the council seated upon the raised dais, the deliberations began. The five men robed in silk sat like vultures as the head of the council stood from his place at the heart of the square and spoke to the audience before him.

  “I'll summarize for you.” Loris whispered as the councilman droned on loudly, “Duchess Mariett died—you know. But she never produced a successor. Father summoned you to the chateau because...” Loris threw their uncle a sidelong glare, “...he would have ignored a summons.”

  “Fontaine is above himself.” their uncle remarked, “Which explains why he sits in the aisle of the audience box. Close enough to the council, yet far enough from the sun.”

  “Our family has climbed high in my absence.” Dimitri murmured as the councilman before the audience box returned to his seat. A woman stepped forth from the line of people standing outside of the audience box.

  “We were privy to the duchess,” Loris replied, “before she died.”

  “And how did she...?”

  Loris shot Dimitri a look. He shrugged, “Bone rot. It ran in her family.”

  Beside Dimitri, their uncle spat.

  “You see the courtiers standing before the dais?”

  Dimitri nodded.

  “They are what is left of the Duchess's close friends. Her handmaidens, all but one of her ladies-in-waiting, an ancient governess and strategist—gone. Murdered.”

  “And so this 'slayer' exists?” Dimitri asked, “The 'Slayer of Safrana'?”

  Loris chuckled, throwing his head back slightly. “No! You've lived with peasants for so long that you're starting to believe their stories and myths! Gods—no!” Loris choked—silencing himself before turning to Dimitri with a smile, “Wait—don't tell me. You still believe in the gods as well, don't you?”

  Dimitri pressed his lips together, the long scar upon his face twisting, “Who are these people?” he pointed, “Explain their importance.”

  “Well, one of them has seen this 'slayer'.” he snorted, rolling his eyes. “The waif-like one, built like a wilting flower? She's wearing white—probably to hint at her purity—though the entire court knows she's a—,”

  Arthur squeezed Dimitri's shoulder, “Pressing news, son,” he whispered, leaning into Dimitri's ear, “I'll see you sometime later.”

  A hunchbacked man stood behind Dimitri's uncle, a board of wood with a thin stack of papers clipped to it with a bit of tarnished metal. The hunchback kept his gaze to the ground as Uncle Arthur pressed a hand to the mutant's leather clad shoulder and turned on his heel.

  “...That's the court's Odette—you do remember what that is, little brother?”

  “No—,” pinching the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger, Dimitri sighed, “...please...fill me in.”

  “She is—was—Duchess Mariett's favorite dancer. And whatever the duchess loves, the court must love too...”

  Dimitri craned his neck, “Is that her stepping forward?”

  “Truly? Oh—this will be good.”

  Beneath the harsh rays of the noontime sun, the courtroom became an oven. Men snatched berets from their heads and women whipped out fans as the courtroom became a sweltering hotbox. Even those protected by the shade of the courtroom's outer aisles felt the heat, as men unbuckled collars and swiped sweat from their glistening foreheads.

  Despite the heat, the entire courtroom leaned in as the Odette prepared to speak. Producing folded up parchment from her lacy white bodice, she approached the circled councilmen only to turn on her heel and address the audience.

  “Mademoiselles et Messieurs! Your attention, please!” her trailing sleeve of tissue peeled back upon her arm as she raised it, “I have before you, and the entirety of Safrana, Duchess Mariett's final words before her passing!”

  The crowd erupted into a storm of heated conversation, some accusatory, some sorrowful.

  “Can you not let her die?!—”

  “Another of the Savatier brood attempting to take the throne for themselves...”

  “Ah—my lady, the duchess...oh...”

  “Let us hear what she has to say!”

  Beside Dimitri, Loris chuckled, “Do you remember the Savatier family, brother?”

  “No.”

  “Non?” Loris chuckled once more. Crossing his arms, he lowered his head and shook it, “And do you know why?”

  Dimitri shrugged as a gavel was slammed, the head councilman calling for order with the shriek of a dying songbird.

  “Because they are nonexistent—because they emerged from the muck of the eastern citadel and have not a drop of noble blood in their veins...”

  The roaring clamor soared above the slam of the gavel, angry chatter bubbling with acidic ire as the audience split into two.

  “...but they mattered to Duchess Mariett, so much so that she raised them up before she passed away.”

  “Then they aren't truly nobility.” Dimitri muttered, “Why does it matter?”

  Loris snorted, “Are you blind, brother? The Odette—she is a Savatier. And look,” Loris pointed towards the outer aisle of the courtroom, “her father sits near ours.”

  “I will have order!” shouted the head councilman, the gavel reaming into the table. Wood splintering. The hammer leaving a dent. “Continue, Mademoiselle.”

  The Odette sucked in air hungrily, relishing the silence.

  She shook the
parchment folded in her hand once more before turning and facing the head councilman. “Monsieur Councilman, in this letter Duchess Mariett explained to me who she would want sitting the glass throne upon her...unfortunate...departure from our world. Monsieur, I—,”

  The head councilman silenced her with a flat palm, “I see the seal upon your letter is broken, Mademoiselle. How is Safrana's council to trust an opened letter? You could have easily forged this.”

  “I swear upon my mother's grave.”

  The courtroom gasped.

  “Your mother has...recently died, young one.” the councilman said, “Are you sure that is...wise?”

  “I swear.” she repeated, her voice faltering. “I swear!”

  “Then we shall see.” the head councilman stood, the scrape of his chair reverberating around the courtroom, squelching the silence. “I request the aid of Duchess Mariett's Seneschal, Arthur Roux.”

  Dimitri cringed as Loris cursed.

  “Tell them the Seneschal has stepped out,” Dimitri said, “I'll go get him—he can't have gone far.”

  Loris bristled, “You do not command me.”

  “This is no time for—,”

  “Do it yourself.”

  Dimitri clenched his fists.

  “Seneschal Arthur Roux! Head Councilman Acel Dubois summons you!”

  Loris smirked, crossing his arms.

  “Head Councilman Dubois!” Dimitri bellowed, raising a hand to identify himself in the crowd, “I am Vicar Seneschal Dimitri Couture—Seneschal Roux has stepped out. I will go fetch him!”

  The head councilman walked around the assembled tables. Stepping down from the dais, he clasped his hands behind his back and picked Dimitri out of the crowd. Raising his hand, he motioned for Dimitri to come.

  The crowd parted around Dimitri, the people pulling away from him as if he had the pox. His brother disappearing.

  Five years. Five years away from this place and I am already sick of it.