Book 9: Chapter 22
I WAS STANDING next to one of the stone walls in the courtyard of the house where Maître Brisot and his troupe were staying. The sun’s warm rays were pouring into the area between the walls, sliding across clay roof tiles and windows and jumping onto a roughly-crafted stage (which had been made, at least in part, from one of the wagons).
The air was filled with the smell of fresh paint and glue. Maître Brisot had shelled out quite a bit, and the troupe had acquired some new decorations, costumes, props, and musical instruments. A series of nearby tables were covered with bright clothing, mock weaponry, lamps, lanterns, and all sorts of other miscellanea.
I watched the whole joyous scene in the courtyard and tried not to attract any attention. Maître Brisot had just returned from the municipal administration offices, bringing permission to perform in the Royal Palace during the upcoming holidays in honor of His Majesty’s recovery.
Judging by the stunned look on his face, Monsieur Brisot still couldn’t quite believe what was happening. Not even in their wildest dreams had he, or anyone in his family, ever thought that such a thing could happen to them.
As I watched Étienne and Bridget dance (the latter holding the hallowed scroll with the Royal Seal in her hand), I was absorbed in my own thoughts. I was thinking about Verena.
Based on what the first-born had found out, the Princess was being moved at irregular intervals between two different locations: one was Carl’s suburban castle, the other the Royal Palace in the heart of the capital.
Alas, both places were protected by powerful witching charms, which were powered by portable crystals. These weren’t as massive as the ones I had found in the underground temple, or the lands of the Lao, but they were powerful enough that I couldn’t simply neutralize them like the runic circle in Madleyn’s garden.
Given more time, of course, as well as uninterrupted access to the crystal, I could have repeated the same maneuver I had performed in the underground chamber with the massive brown brut. But the King’s Shadows patrolled the territory of both the castle and the Palace, and their presence made that virtually impossible.
I would be discovered quickly, and then I’d have to fight off several dozen experienced combat mages, some of whom (if I was accurately remembering my previous visit to Carl’s suburban castle) were avants. Basically, a frontal assault would be extremely expensive in terms of blood — that of humans and first-born alike. All for the sake of freeing one single young woman (admittedly a Princess), who, if she could have just sat tight and kept a low profile like I had asked, would never have ended up in such a situation in the first place. Basically, I didn’t like the frontal-assault option at all. Especially since I had a different way into the palace, which would be quite a bit less risky.
I had decided to use Maître Brisot’s troupe. Official permission to enter the King’s palace, as part of the celebration of his recovery, could serve as a perfect opportunity to get closer to where I needed to be.
Walking into the place legally, alongside other acting troupes, holding up official papers with the city’s seal as we stepped right through the front gates, would be vastly easier than breaking my way in.
Sure, it would mean using the Brisot family without their knowledge, but they were hungry for the glory and success the performance would bring them. Moreover, they weren’t actually risking anything themselves. The recent scandal, in which the Brisot name had featured so prominently, had already been washed out of the city authorities’ collective memory by that point. The war between criminal bands in the Lower City, the fires down at the port, the appearance of the fugitive Princess of Astland, the arrival of that same Princess’ allies shortly thereafter, as well (undoubtedly) as some of her enemies... All these things had overshadowed the little tussle that had broken out in the courtyard of some apartment building.
There was only one event that might have pulled the memory of that evening back into some people’s minds, and that was the shameful repulse of the Count de Gramont and his men from the doors of the Fox Den. Étienne and Bridget, who had authored the famous “Fox and the Rat with the Painted Tail,” spent the week after the assault walking around looking proud of themselves. After all, the event had given their brainchild a whole new surge in popularity. That said, the song itself was much more widely-known than the names of its authors. Every minstrel in the capital was singing it at the time.
As it happens, my omnipresent scouts had told me about my uncle’s plan to seize the Fox Den quite some time before it actually happened, and as such I was already well prepared for such a turn of events. Even before leaving for the war, I had spoken to my aunt the Duchess and realized that Heinrich de Gramont was still suffering from some maniacal compulsion to take the Fox Den back from me. Apparently, he seemed to think that this would somehow constitute a victory over me, and serve as vengeance for all his previous humiliations.
In that, he and Pascal Legrand had quite a lot in common. But while the Count’s anger had an obvious source, it was still hard to understand why Max’s grandfather was so intensely aggressive. I mean, I had managed to establish a pretty good working relationship with my aunt, his daughter Isabelle. But the old man’s hatred for me was so intense that he had actually gotten involved in shady dealings with Bauffremont, which had cost him very dearly indeed.
The first-born believed in something called Predestination. By that, they mean the idea that one’s past actions serve as the basis for one’s present condition, as well as any calamities or strokes of fortune that might come in the future. It seemed virtually certain that the old merchant’s misfortunes were part of his foreordained destiny, even if I had played a small role in the eventual outcome.
The nisse, whom I had sent out to scout, had come back to me to report that Pascal Legrand had suffered some sort of aneurysm after hearing about the fire, and that he was still lying in bed, partially paralyzed. He wouldn’t see anybody; in fact, he didn’t even recognize anybody. He just kept muttering quiet curses at me under his breath, and also mentioning something about a young girl.
Alain had returned home by that point, but the old man didn’t recognize him either. Long story short, everything was in Isabelle’s hands. Max’s aunt was trying to fight off her creditors as best she could, but she wasn’t having the best of luck. All in all, you could say that the threat from their direction had been neutralized.
The de Gramonts, however, were a different story. I wasn’t done with them yet. I could have opted for a bloodier end to their little “assault,” but I had chosen an option calculated to do even more damage to their reputation. I had decided that my “beloved” uncle would suffer far more from a loss of face than a loss of blood, and that a bloody solution to my family squabbles might actually harm my own reputation. I felt certain that after his ridiculous stunt, my uncle the Count would go down in de Gramont family history as the most disgraceful person ever to have served as head of the family.
More generally, Henri the Shrimp had done me a number of reputational favors with his absurd attempt at grand theft. First of all, very few people would be willing to do business with him after that. Bauffremont, for one, would almost certainly turn his back on him.
Second, given what he’s tried to do, nobody would be particularly surprised if I were to challenge Heinrich de Gramont for the role of head of the family.
And third, everyone in the city, down to the mangiest stray dog, would henceforth be aware that the Fox Den was a place best avoided. Even when far from home, its master was obviously still in full control of everything that happened on its premises.
The fact that the Fox Den had acquired a peculiar reputation all its own was confirmed for me as I was observing some of the servants from Lucas’ hotel, whom he had brought over to clean up the mess that the de Gramont family visit had left in the mansion. I could see the poor servants jumping and leering at every little rustle. Needless to say, they took care of their work quickly, and made sure to leave the place in tip-top shape.
By the time they left, the mansion was virtually brand-new. Ready for another batch of uninvited guests, if any should have the boldness to stop by. That, however, would be the responsibility of several young first-borns, whom I had assigned to work under the nisse’s direction...
A happy noise in the courtyard pulled me away from my thoughts of the castle. I noticed that the children were dancing merrily along to the song about the red-tailed rats, and couldn’t resist a little chuckle. Judging by the happy looks on Étienne and Bridget’s faces, they seemed to think it was their song specifically that had opened the path to the Royal Stage.
In actual fact, one of the main reasons for their sudden success was a combination of gold and adeptly-pulled strings, of whose existence neither of them had the faintest idea. Everything had been taken care of by Mathieu Chabrolle, my personal attorney, who had been delegated the task by Lucas. Several gold imperials had been enough to get the Brisot Troupe on the list of performers.
True, a separate payment had induced the official in question to warn Monsieur Chabrolle that the coming days would see a “random” check-in from the constabulary, just in case anybody had any doubts about the idea of employing a heretofore-unknown troupe of actors. Lucas had several dozen silver crowns up his sleeve for just such an occurrence — enough, I felt certain, to dispel any doubts in the minds of the constables who came to “check.”
As I looked on at Étienne and Bridget (who were red in the face by that point), I knew that they would quickly become the center of attention once they started their performance in the Palace, and that at least a few of the competition would recognize them as the authors of the song about the fox and the rats.
This specific scenario was what eventually inspired me to introduce a new character into the play: the Tiger King. A noble ruler, who had fought for his people and been wounded in battle.
Meanwhile, we mixed in some plot elements to direct criticism at certain “deceivers,” who had taken advantage of the King’s wound to start imposing their arbitrary whims on the populace, using the name of the King’s loyal vassal Fox as cover. Now that the Tiger King was better, however, Fox’s enemies were in for a rough time. I figured this version would be easier to sell at court.
Étienne and Bridget reacted to my edits with caution. But the elder members of the Brisot family, who understood just how serious these little street songs mocking the nobility could be, were fully and unanimously in support of my changes.
After watching the troupe frolic and play for a little while, and feeling convinced that everything was more or less in order, I turned and made for the exit. I still had a lot of preparation to do before heading up to the Palace.
* * *
Vestonia. Herouxville
The Royal Palace
The spacious main hall of the Royal Palace was lit by massive chandeliers hung from its vaulted ceiling. They flooded the entire space with a soft, warm light. Soft music played rang through the air from a special box where an orchestra was seated.
Ladies in sumptuous dresses and gentlemen in fashionable courtly dresses chatted with one another in soft voices, exchanging pleasantries and bows. Princess Sophia-Verena stood next to a carved stone column, replying absent-mindedly to an endless series of bows and greetings. Everyone around her sought her attention — both the local Vestonian nobility and the Astlanders who had long ago put down roots in Herouxville.
Verena was lost in thought. It had been exactly one month since the day when the Royal Jester had taken her from the Duchess du Bellay’s home.
The Princess had spent the first few days in a half-dazed stupor, as if everything that had happened were some sort of unpleasant dream. She had spent so many years living in fear, keeping her origins carefully veiled behind a fake name, that upon finding herself in the Royal Palace (where she was also transformed immediately into the center of attention), she initially just clenched her fists in frustration and prepared to attempt an escape at the first possible opportunity.
Everything frightened her — she jumped every time a door closed, or a brightly-dressed footman unexpectedly appeared. At such times, the young woman’s heart started pounding, screaming for her to find a way to freedom immediately. It didn’t matter how: all she wanted was to get as far away from Herouxville as possible. One other thing that stood out very clearly was how much she wanted to have Max by her side. Oh, how she regretted not having been more careful...
For the first few days, it felt like her soul had been torn in half. On the one hand, she wanted Max to find out about her captivity as soon as possible. On the other, though, she feared for his safety. Because if Max came to free her (and Verena had no doubt in her mind that he would), he would be throwing down the gauntlet — not just to one King, but two.
With time, however, the situation began to change. As soon as news got round the capital that Conrad V’s daughter had “risen from the dead,” Astlandic nobles started to gravitate toward her. Many of them turned out to be survivors from the wreckage of her father’s cause, who had dispersed throughout Vestonia after the end of the civil war in Astland. Verena was amazed at how many of them there were.
Their presence, their attention, and their genuine, heartfelt joy gave Verena food for thought, and she often found herself wondering: was she really the Princess they imagined she was? The procession of stern-faced aristocrats, gray-haired and noble, kept bowing to her with the same reverence with which they had once sworn fealty to her father. And while Verena may have been slightly afraid of this sudden promotion in society, a feeling of responsibility, and a realization of her own importance, gradually awakened within her mind as time went on.
She received several old portraits of her relatives as gifts — pictures of those who had fallen in heroic battles against her house’s enemies. As she looked at the faces of her ancestors for the first time, Princess Sophia-Verena felt a strange mix of grief and pride: this was her bloodline. This was her dynasty.
And now that (for better or for worse) she could once again wear her family’s coat of arms emblazoned on her chest, she felt another, very different feeling blossoming and taking the place of the terror that had once consumed her. It was a feeling of quiet awe — awe at her own position, and the role fate had allotted her.
It wasn’t just Carl III who was paying attention to her, either, although she had already had several audiences with him. Vestonian and Astlandic nobles were constantly swarming around her quarters, vying for her attention. Verena was receiving expensive presents and invitations to exclusive receptions. Her heart ached as she heard stories of the Astland of old, of the golden age it had experienced under Conrad V, and of the other Kings of her dynasty.
Slowly, Verena had begun to get used to the idea that she would wake up every morning to fresh flowers from some nobleman or other, and the fact that, every single day, people would approach her staff with bowed heads and nervous anticipation in the hopes of securing a place at her lunch table.
With nervous excitement, she began to understand that no desire of hers, no matter how trivial, would ever again be ignored. On the contrary, her servants were already scrambling over one another to make those desires reality as quickly as possible.
Verena also acquired a personal entourage consisting of several ladies-in-waiting, just like a reigning Princess. Some of them were daughters of noble Astlandic houses. Oh gods, she thought! She even had access to the Royal Library!
Every little change helped get rid of the fear of loneliness and alienation she had initially felt. Slowly but surely, she stopped feeling like a hostage. A new world was forming around her, and although she didn’t fully understand it yet, it was a much bigger world than the one she had known as a simple fugitive.
And even though a deep sense of anxiety still moved within her soul — Verena hadn’t forgotten, after all, that she remained a bargaining chip in the hands of a much more powerful monarch — she nevertheless felt like the blood of a Princess had awakened in her veins. It was a feeling of pride and heritage that she had never quite managed to sense during her years on the run. It can be hard to think of one’s dynastic heritage, after all, when one’s insides are wrenching themselves to bits with hunger.
A desire to protect those who had placed their trust in her as the daughter of Conrad V began to burn brightly in her soul (although it still had to coexist with an all-too-familiar feeling of fear). And now that she no longer yearned to escape, a new anxiety rose up in Verena’s soul: what would happen if fate really was preparing a place for her on the throne of Astland? Could the nightmares of the past still return, together with the same hostile forces that had once destroyed her family?
“Your Highness.” A powerful female voice tore Verena away from these unhappy thoughts.
She turned and beheld a young woman, frozen before her in a bow. Verena took the woman for an Astlander at first, but then she recognized a Northlandic accent. The Princess was worried about using her Seer’s gift, but she didn’t really need to in this case: the necklace of red bruts around the northern woman’s neck gave her away as a healer.
“Who are you?” Verena asked in perfect Northlandic.
The courtly tutor who had taught the young Princess her foreign languages had always regarded the northern tongues with mild disdain, considering them little more than dialects that had deviated from Astlandic. But Verena tried not to think about that as she spoke.
“Oh!” The northerner replied with a big, heartfelt smile. “Your pronunciation is superb, Your Highness! Ah, yes... And please, forgive me. My name is Helga...”
She didn’t have time to finish; Verena suddenly remembered that several nobles had already told her about this woman. And she had also heard about Helga from Max.
“Helga the Valiant,” the Princess quickly finished the woman’s sentence for her.
“You’ve heard of me?” Helga seemed surprised once again.
“Yes,” Verena nodded.
“The Northern Savage,” Helga snickered, shooting a derisive glance at several young noblemen who were standing a short distance away. “That’s what they’ve nicknamed me here. Or have you heard something else?”
“You haven’t guessed it yet,” smiled Verena. “I first heard about you from a friend of mine.”
“Oh?” Helga’s eyes narrowed. Her eyes flashed like those of a cat on a hunt. “You’ve intrigued me. What did this friend of yours have to say about me?”
“That you’re a very powerful healer,” the Princess admitted. “And that he has a deep respect for your bravery and your loyalty to your family.”
“Oh?” Helga raised her head slightly. “May I ask his name?”
“Of course,” Verena nodded. “It’s Maximillian de Valier.”
At the mention of the Margrave, Verena noticed that the northerner seemed to wake up from a sort of pleasant trance. Helga straightened her posture just a little bit. Her eyes widened ever so slightly. Her breathing had also picked up speed. For just a moment, the Princess realized that she had somehow made her guest feel a little bit more at ease.
Helga’s reaction didn’t exactly bother Verena, but she did feel a slight pang of jealousy at seeing a beautiful, powerful young woman liven up so suddenly at the mention of Max’s name. Especially since he had spoken very highly of her as well...
The northerner, however, didn’t seem to have noticed any change in her host’s demeanor. She leaned forward a little bit and replied:
“That was unexpected, and quite flattering.”
“Why unexpected?” Verena asked immediately.
“Because Max... ahem... His Lordship didn’t seem to be in any hurry to pay me compliments the last time he and I encountered one another,” replied Helga with a strange, pensive sort of smile.
The familiarity suggested by Helga’s referring to the Margrave as “Max” upset Verena. More upsetting still, she realized that she was jealous. Which was all the worse, as it was something she had never felt before. Even when the Duchess du Bellay or Valerie had started listing off the names of young noblewomen who might potentially make suitable brides for Max. Verena had never been bothered by those lists. But now... As she stood there, looking back at a woman whom Max had praised, Verena could feel her heart beating faster than before.
And this time, Helga noticed. The look on her face changed. She looked slightly surprised. This, in turn, caused Verena to tense up. Could it be, she wondered? Was Helga really a Seer as well?
A moment later, however, Verena relaxed. She remembered that healers could hear a person’s heartbeat very clearly, and determine whether or not a person was worried based on the sound and frequency.
“That sounds a lot like Max,” nodded Verena.
She couldn’t resist the temptation to refer to the Margrave by his given name. It felt good, whatever the case. Helga’s expression changed again; she had become even more intrigued.
“I intend to continue on my way after the coming holidays,” Helga unexpectedly announced, lowering her voice as she spoke. “And it just so happens that I’m headed to the Margraviate de Valier.”
Verena was startled by this, and leaned in a little bit closer.
“You’re going to see him?”
“Yes,” replied Helga as she took a short step forward. “On assignment for Princess Astrid and Prince Louis. I’m bringing him an invitation to their wedding. I’m basically a diplomat, in other words. As such, my baggage and personal effects are inviolate. I know what you’ve been through. I know that Max saved you. Should you desire it, I can bring him a letter from you.”
Verena felt blood rush to her face. Had she been a young, naïve Princess, she would undoubtedly have grasped this opportunity without thinking twice. But years of life as a fugitive, surrounded by fear and betrayal, had taught her many valuable lessons.
Nevertheless (and without changing her friendly tone), she asked:
“Why would you help me?”
Helga cast a demonstrative glance around the hall, then lowered her voice even more as she replied:
“I know you’re in a cage here, even if it’s a golden one.”
“That’s not what I meant,” said Verena. Her tone was suddenly colder. “What are you going to ask me for in return?”
Helga stopped smiling. Her gaze transformed into one of appraisal:
“It seems that this city and this court have begun to change me. I’ve already started to forget how bluntly people speak up north.”
“With me, you can speak in whatever way you’re accustomed to,” said Verena.
Helga rested a finger on the bridge of her nose for a moment, staring firmly into the Princess’ eyes as she mulled over the question:
“Could we discuss that matter in a more private setting? There are too many ears around here at the moment. I know that you receive guests here at the Palace.”
“Very well,” nodded Verena. “I’ll send you an invitation.”
“I thank you, Your Highness,” said Helga, before dipping into a bow in the Vestonian manner.
When she raised her head again, she saw a frightened look on the Princess’ face. She followed Verena’s eyes and saw a group of Astlandic nobles swarming around the Queen of Vestonia and one of her ladies-in-waiting. She was a tall woman, with sharp, harsh facial features.
Next to her were three more ladies-in-waiting, one of whom was instantly familiar to Helga from her days at the Guild. The Astlander was a combat mage.
Judging by the vicious, hate-filled glares the Astlanders kept shooting at Verena, they were partisans of Otto II.
Helga bade the Princess farewell; she was trying to stay as far away from that whole mess as she possibly could. Before stepping away, she glanced at Verena one more time and suddenly froze.
The Princess’ eyes had taken on a strange, barely-perceptible hue. A shiver ran down the healer’s spine. It couldn’t be... Her great-grandfather had told her about that look. It seemed that Verena possessed the rare gift of the Seer. It was very, very rare for someone to be born with such a gift. Astrid had to know about this immediately!
Helga turned back to look at the Astlanders and frowned. What, she wondered, had the Princess seen to make her so frightened that she couldn’t even keep her fear concealed?