Chapter 5: Repetitious Succubus Bemoaning
A Green Sun Illuminates the Void
Chapter 5: Repetitious Succubus Bemoaning
"You tried to st-stab me through the b-back!"
"You dislocated one of my arms and g-gave me a concussion!"
"Attempted m-m-murderess!"
"I could say the s-same to you, Zero!"
In retrospect, it might not have been the wisest opinion to put Louise Françoise le Blanc de la Vallière and Montmorency Margarita la Fère de Montmorency in the same room of the medical ward. Unfortunately, as they were assured by the chief healer, they were suffering a minor outbreak of pentapox among the first years, and so they had to keep the infected isolated, meaning they had a shortage of beds. The two of them were merely injured, and so could be put in the same ward without the risk of spreading the infection.
And so the two of them were lying in bed in the white-painted infirmary, glaring at each other as the sunset streamed through the windows. Louise was flushed, sickly-feeling, with a temperature and nausea; her waist was constrained by the almost corset-like layers of bandages which bound her midsection. The wound wasn't infected; water magic had made sure of that, and the healer had diagnosed it as an imbalance in her physiology caused by the shock of the injury.
They hadn't mentioned that the injury was healing faster than it should have, quite notably so.
And in the other bed, Montmorency was bandaged up, the white soaked in many places where a nasty-smelling blue potion had been used to clean out the wounds. Although her dislocated arm had been put back in its socket and healing magic applied, she was still in a state that only bed rest could really fix her problems.
In essence, neither girl was exactly capable of doing much, apart from insulting each other and bickering.
"Fair lady, though I may say so myself, you are capable of doing much more that merely bickering with this defeated foe! Pain should mean nothing to you, you and I know this! And you have much more important things to do!"
'Shut up! I want to lie in bed, and don't want to have to go to classes.' Inside her head, Louise was humming with... well, she wasn't quite sure what she was humming with. Prosaically, possibly the fever that the healers were claiming that she had, that her body temperature was notably higher than it should be. And she was feeling rather sick. But on the other hand, the headmaster had come in, and told her that the investigative tribunal against her was being dropped! That she had been observed using magic, in a way which an inexprimé clearly could not, and hence there were no grounds to proceed! It was glorious!
... now, on the other hand, he had also informed the two of them that they were going to be punished by the school, for illegally duelling, and possibly it would be taken to the Crown, because – and the old man's eyes had suddenly turned stern – from a certain point of view, they had both tried to kill each other.
But still! She wasn't an inexprimé! She wasn't a failure in that specific way! And so she should get to spend a few days in bed doing nothing but resting, rather than forcing herself to do anything!
She nodded, distractedly, at the dark-haired maid, who placed a fresh cup of water by her side, following the figure idly – and to the neomah's appreciation – as she delivered a second glass to... argh, Montmorency. She winced, slightly, as she sipped at it, not enjoying the bitter taste, which reminded her far too much of the smell of some of the medicinal elixars which had to be kept back at the estate for Cattleya.
If only 'the Flood' wasn't here with her, preventing her from relaxing properly, when Monmon was the one who'd starting the 'hurting people' business. And she wasn't starting to worry about the more serious consequences that might have come about from duelling like this. And Marisalon wasn't nagging her about...
"... but, my Lady, you remain tasked with your cause in the name of the Reclamation of Creation from the cowards and traitors who most cruelly cast down those who crafted it from inchoate chaos. You must infiltrate the city of Paragon, and most nobly covert the Perfect of that place, whether the current one or his... successor, should you choose to retain that system of governance after your inevitable triumph, to the glorious cause! Only then may the worship of those who Created the world be spread properly across the South!"
... something or other. That wasn't her prime concern. No, it was something deeper. More nagging. More concerning.
She hadn't felt any need to go to the toilet since... well, since whatever had happened that had jammed Marisalon into her skull. Via... ahem... either path. She didn't feel any urge to either, right now. And she pretty sure that... she counted the days on her fingers... she was pretty sure that four days was getting to the 'unhealthy' level, especially since she had been drinking a lot of fluids, as she had been told by the healers.
It wasn't exactly a subject that she felt that she could broach with the infirmary staff, either. She didn't feel sick, or ill, or feel like she needed to go.
It was just embarrassing.
"Headmaster." The man in the blue-trimmed white robe, a neat clerical collar underneath came scurrying up to the old man, and Osmond squinted at him, as if trying to remember his name. "I am Abbé Cotin, headmaster," he reminded the older man, "... although you..."
"Ah, Charles!" Osmond said jovially, "How are you doing nice to see you I really must go..."
"With respect, sir, I am an abbé, and it is improper to..." He had to jog a few paces, to catch up with the older man, who was moving with unexpected speed. "I really must object to you making me put those two in the same room!"
With surprising force, the headmaster grabbed him by one sleeve, and pulled him into the nearest room. Which happened to be one of the dusty cupboards where the staff kept the fire safety equipment, in case of accidents with young Fire mages.
"Nonsense," the white-haired man whispered conspiratorially, after a bout of coughing, leaning close to the priest's ear. "It is my will that it be so!"
"But, sir," Abbé Cotin said, himself choking on the layered dust. "I don't think that..."
"No so loud! It might be heard by... them..."
A blank stare. "By... who?"
"Them!"
"With respect, I don't know who..."
"Them!"
"Just saying..."
"Them!" The old man's brows were creased, his eyes wide. "Do not ignore me, man! I cannot tell you of them, for they could be listening to us right now! Just like how they add too much salt to my food!"
The healer blinked, and squinted, tugging back a lock of greying hair. "The two girls? Miss de la Vallière and..."
"No. Them." Osmond tilted his head. "Well, and the girls, too. Wouldn't want them to realise that that you were deliberately putting two teenage girls in a place filled with plump, plump pillows and making them wear those delightfully thin hospital gowns, would we, Charles?"
Abbé Cotin puffed himself up. "The infirmary is a place of healing and prayer," he said, in an outraged tone, "not... not base perversion like that!"
"He he." The two words were spoken, rather than laughed. "That's what you think, but you should keep a better eye on your commoner nurses. I certainly have been!"
The clergyman was turning redder and redder at every word, not helped by the choking dust in the storage cupboard. He spluttered an incoherent response, before storming out, leaving the headmaster alone.
Osmond smiled, a slow, lazy laconic smile, which was almost reptilian in its age. "And that, my dear Mótsognir, is how I resolve the problem," he told the mouse, which crawled out of his sleeve. "That dear foolish man will have been so outraged by my insinuations, that he will keep a closer eye on those two young ladies who have caused me so much trouble. And he does annoy me, so; how dare the Crown 'suggest strongly' that I hire an Abbé for this position! This will keep him off guard, and give him something interesting to tell his masters. Think I'm crazy? Hah!"
The mouse squeaked at him.
"Ah, no, my dear Mótsognir. Your suggestion was foolish, and too overt. We shall not interfere with Miss de la Vallière. No matter how much you feel she is a threat to the security of the school, she is too... unusual. Now, what else was I going to do?"
Another squeak, and the mouse ran back inside his robe.
"Oh, yes. I was going to go to Miss Emmanuelle Leterme, and show my 'appreciation' for her lessons and how well she's settled in. I do love these Gallian beauties; why, were it not for that commoner hair colour, she could well be a member of Les Lignées Triomphante. I don't know how I'd cope without you, Mótsognir, I really don't. Even if you are rather lacking in subtlety."
Montmorency stirred, lifting her head up. She was feeling better, overall; it no longer hurt quite so much to move, but she still ached. Especially her right arm; she had peeked under the bandages, and the arm was ringed in bruises, purple and green blossoming around all of the joints, and hand-shaped swellings at her wrist. The blonde flexed her wrist, and immediately regretted it, because it hurt.
The girl gasped for breath, the mix of the medicinal scent of the infirmary and the spring air filling her nostrils. Ow. Yes. It still wasn't much better. With her other hand, she reached over to the table beside her, and picked up the glass, tucking it under the crock of her injured arm. Then, taking her wand in her left hand, she wetted the end, and, muttering to herself, applied a simple pain-killing spell, sinking back in relief as the coolness hit.
She had panicked when the healer had warned her about using magic. With two older brothers who were inexprimé, unable to inherit and good for nothing apart from marriages to commoner mercantile houses or joining the church, the fear of anything happening to her magic was a long-held, albeit irrational terror of hers. It had been reassuring to hear that it was simply because her right arm needed to heal, and the arm gestures for casting would put unnecessary stress upon the damaged flesh.
Although, what kind of a mage needed to cast spells using their dominant hand? Surely a rather inflexible one. Wouldn't anyone who knew any healing spells make sure that they could cast the basic ones, like the ones that clotted bloodflows, and stopped pain, with their weaker hand, if only because in a case where you couldn't use your right hand, that's exactly when you'd want the spell that stopped you dying?
Of course, that chain of thought led back to the girl in the other bed, who seemed to be dozing again. Yes. Such a trick wasn't much use against a berserk maniac like the Zero. Montmorency shook her head. That kind of thing, it was associated with Germanian nobles, or... the girl smirked, slightly, the nobles of the upper reaches of Albion, the ones who were said to get up to unspecified but clearly foul and peverse things with orcs.
What was up with her magic? She blew things up, couldn't manage even the most basic controlled spell, and then in that fight... well, Monmon knew that she hadn't been feeling at her best by the end, because she'd been burning through her willpower to pull off some of the tricks, but... the girl shook her head, still feeling slightly light-headed. She'd managed to break that Water Wall, and that was a Line-level ability. The blonde had been so happy when she'd managed to do that for the first time, and... there had been that green light and then everything had gone fuzzy. And hurty.
There was a gagging noise from across the room, and Montmorency saw the pink-haired girl, who was actually looking fairly green herself right now, grab for the bowl by her bedside table.
And then she started retching, nosily.
Montmorency quickly looked away, out the window, and clasped her hands over her ears, humming to herself to drown out the sound of the other girl.
By the time she looked back, the pink-haired girl, although still looking unwell, was at least no longer throwing up. Louise grimaced, and stared back at her. "Don't be sick when you don't have anything in your stomach," she managed weakly, no acrimony in her voice. "It hurts."
"Um..." The blonde paused, one finger twirling in a ringlet. "Thanks for the advice, I suppose? Have you..."
"Mmm hmm. I think you must have been asleep. Last night. And the night before it." One pale, shaky hand was wiped across a pale face. "At least I don't get the cold sweats anymore," Louise muttered, to herself.
Montmorency had overheard her. "Oh, that's nice," she said, acidly. "It's nice to see you feel no guilt or anything about trying to kill someone!"
"I wasn't talking about... hey! You started it! You f-fired a magical spear at my f-face!"
The debate resumed. With ice-cold witticisms. And much vitriol.
{0}
Miss Chevreuse may have been giving a class on the base elements, and their transitive properties which were retained within higher-order transmutations, but only limited attention was being paid by the class. For one, the spells discussed here were only of very limited use to non-Earth mages, and were in fact another symptom of what the Academy called 'the holistic approach to magic to better understand it and its uses', but which newer, leaner schools called 'the lack of specialisation hampering the progress of students'. For two, it was almost dinner, and the attention of the students fell rapidly as hunger consumed the mind.
And for three, there were other, more interesting discussions going on.
"So, how you holding up, Guiche?" Malicorne asked, the rotund boy leaning back in his seat.
The blond flicked his hair. "Oh, it is nothing," he said. "I am of course worried for my dear Monmon, hospitalised like this in such fell circumstances, but..." his voice dropped, "... she didn't mean it when she claimed that we were through. That was just her way of showing bravery when fighting the Zero!"
The boys to either side of him rolled their eyes.
"Yep, she left you. And that's rough, buddy," Charles Alexandre de Calonne said, once again showing the unbelievable levels of empathy he possessed, even by the standards of teenage boys. "Now, on the other hand, we can always return to the much more interesting topic of Louise the... well, I don't think we can call her the Zero anymore."
"No, of course not! I'll win her back, and next time, I will fight the Zero with my bronze golems, casting her down into the depths of ignominy," Guiche continued, who quite clearly hadn't been paying attention. "And in the heights of my triumph..."
"Master de Gramont," snapped the teacher. "Silence yourself, or I will silence you!"
There was a pause, as they waited for her attention to drift.
"Heh," Malicorne remarked.
"Heh," agreed Charles.
The blond's fingers tapped against the table. "What would you two know about it?" he hissed. "I note the remarkable lack of success from both of you in the romantic field."
"I don't need to be successful. My parents have a marriage set up for me," Charles said, drily. "And I'm just saying, now you're free to pursue Katie in public without being afraid of Montmornecy freezing your blood to ice." He blinked. "And before that. Yes. Louise... we can't call her a Zero. That was actual, useful magic she showed there."
He didn't mention that she had been casting it without a wand, which was something that almost no dot-level mages could do, and which required specialist training, like that which was given by organisations such as the Griffin Knights, or the Church's Knights of the Iron Rose. He wasn't quite sure what to think of that yet.
"... still zero familiar," Guiche said sullenly.
"I'm serious." The dark-haired boy's eyes were narrowed. "A dot-level fire mage shouldn't be able to burn through a line-level water barrier. The elements are in classical opposition. And that was... freaky green fire," he said, eloquently. "Where do you get green fire?"
"The dead ones," Malicorne muttered, staring down at his desk.
Charles blinked. "Uh. Um. I was about to suggest that she's Fire and Earth, because copper burns green, and I saw... well, I think she deflected a blow using sand or something. It looked like it was about to hit her in the head or something. Makes sense as Fire and Earth. But... the dead ones?"
"The lands in our family estate are... swampy," Malicorne said, glumly. "There are water spirits there, but they're... wrong. They burn these greenish lanterns, and my father says that our peasants sometimes drown because they're lured off the path by them." He shuddered. "And then they say that the dead sometimes come back and rap at the window, and if you see a green light outside, you should never answer the door."
"... so, what you're saying... have you ever seen one of these sprits?" Charles asked.
"No, but..."
"Because, I mean, I know that marsh gases are Wind, with the essence of Fire bound within them, which can be released by a single spark, and which can burn funny colours. So, really, what you're saying is that your peasants sometimes get lost in the swamp and drown?"
"Sure." It was a single, flat word. "If you say so."
And then Miss Chevreuse started to ask questions of the class, and there was no more time to talk.
In the woods around the Academy, it was dark and smelt of leafmold and clay and dampness. The blue moon had not risen yet, and so Taksony alone shone down upon the lands, casting things into a fell red light. Under this illumination, it was hard to see anything straight on; one saw best out of the corner of the eye. It was easy to miss things.
None could miss the sealed and barred gates to the Academy, standing strong and fortified. They were vast, imposing, layered in magical wards and could – and had – take a cannon barrage straight without leaving a dent on the heavy iron framework. Under this crimson light, when viewed from certain angles, they glinted, the light reflecting off them not-quite-right, while from other angles, they didn't reflect light at all. They were a sign of a magical strength of Tristain, that, despite the fact that it was the smallest of the Brimirian nations, it had preserved the strength of the blood best, and had the most number of mages per commoner of any of them. That they could build something like this was a sign of this strength; it rivalled anything outside the Vatican.
And that served Siesta just fine, as she softly closed the door to the servant's way behind her. A shortly after the building had become a school, the headmaster had decided that it was an inconvenience to have to open and close the gate to receive deliveries, and let the servants get in or out. So there were additional doors added, which were far less impressively magical, but could be moved without vast clanking chains and grinding mechanisms waking everyone up.
Now, of course, this was an obvious weak spot, and at the time, the headmaster laid down strict instructions that the doors were always meant to be guarded.
Emphasis on 'were always meant to be'.
Siesta darted into a pool of shadow, and paused, her breathing slow and steady, eyes scanning the walls, looking for guards picked out in the light of the red moon Taksony. Raising her gloved hands, she checked that her hood was up properly, breaking up her profile and veiling her hair, and sunk lower, the garment pooling around her. The human eye looked for human shapes, after all.
Some people thought that the best way to sneak around was in an expensive black hooded cloak. They were almost without exception spoilt nobles. A dark greenish-greyish-brown was both far more effective, and, helpfully far cheaper than black velvet.
And the guard patrolling the walls was gone, and she was off again, into the woods. She was one of the serving staff, and she had learned things. Like where the arboretums, where, under expensive Romalian-imported glass, the school grew certain less-common alchemical ingredients. Many of the herbs within had been imported from exotic climates, from the isolated islands in the west which only a few Gallian traders had ever visited, and some seeds even from strange Rub' al Khali, beyond the lands of the elves.
It was such an irritation that it was still spring, this early in the season. She wouldn't have had to have risked this later in the year, as deadly nightshade or foxglove would probably have sufficed. Probably. She thought.
Although her mother had taught her these things, she hadn't actually used them for more than spiking a particularly... pushy noble brat's soup once, and smirking as the boy had apparently voided his bowels in class. She hadn't actually... you know, made anything to poison anyone properly. Even a vile anathema. That's why she had been stealing ingredients from the healers, under the pretext of bringing them meals, and using them on the de La Vallière girl, who was... um... well, she was being sick, but didn't seem to be dying or anything more than that. Probably something to do with the terrible tales of the anathema she had been told as a little girl, and how hard they were to kill. She'd thought they were just tales, things that didn't really exist, and after her grandfather had confirmed their existence, she had prayed that none were really around.
Now one was. She was the only one of the family around.
And Siesta was running out of time. The noble healers at the infirmary were getting suspicious about the girl's 'illness', and would probably start to look beyond her injuries soon. She needed something stronger. More potent.
Or, in actual fact, what she was going to do was grab as many things as she could recognise, or which looked nasty, and mix them together in something with honey. That would have to be lethal, right?
Sensible flat shoes echoing down the corridor, Miss Loungeville turned the corner, and entered the sweltering heat of the school kitchens. The appetising scent of roasting meat was already filling the room, and she felt her mouth water slightly, even as she averted her eyes from where a bulky man with a meat-cleaver was busy de-boning a cow's ribcage, the gore covered bones going into their own cauldron.
Although the finished product would look perfect, she didn't want to see the messy guts of the preparation process. Everything was so much less elegant , if you knew how the trick worked.
Tapping her foot, she waited for one of the senior chefs to pay attention to her. After a minute and a half of that, she actually went and approached the exceptionally busy people, and ordered them to find the head chef, who was, after a search, found in a backroom berating one of the new scullery girls for her ineptitude at sorting the spices.
"... and you placed the rosemary on the top shelf, which is saved for the most sensitive of flavourings, which is an unforgivab..." he turned, and smiled genially, his chins bulging. "Ah, yes. The headmaster's secretary, yes?" he asked, the faint accent of a native of the border with Gallia present in the way he rolled his Rs.
The woman smiled, the expression not reaching her eyes. "Yes," she said. "The headmaster requested that I personally deliver his instructions for dinner tomorrow night... not that I didn't have better things do to," she added, to herself. "I mean, it's not like I have his reports for the Palace to file..." she shook her head, and handing him the note.
The man smiled, nonetheless, at the words. "Ah, yes please, Miss." The wax seal was broken, and he scanned down the note. And his face fell, fat sagging in folds around his neck. "He... wants the meal unflavoured," the chef said, slowly.
"Yes," the secretary said, lips pursed. "He..." she coughed, "... he believes that it has been... oversalted for these last few days. He... ahem..." she trailed off, clearly trying not to speak ill of him. She said nothing at all, instead.
The chef was not so constrained. "Foolish," he declared, in an extravagant gesture. "No salt, no flavour! And it means that salted meat is off the table... ah, the fancy nobility might not like to hear it spoken of, but how many of their glazes, of their toppings, of their garnishings need the hint of salt for the flavours to work! It is impossible! It is an outrage! And..."
"Beg pardon, sir," said the scullery girl, "but if he's the one'se not happy, why not just make'em a separate one?"
"Aha! Excellency itself! My sweet, all is forgiven! Return to your duties, over by the pans," he ordered, giving her a friendly pat on the bottom, making her squeak and giggle.
Miss Loungeville rolled her eyes. "His orders explicitly state that 'no flavourings or salt are to be used'. He wants everyone to have plain, unflavoured food tomorrow."
"Well, then it is madness!"
"Madness?" The woman shrugged. "Perhaps. But this is the Tristain Academy of Magic, and he is the headmaster."
The man slumped, deflating. "Fine," he grunted. "Get out, then, while I call for the others to see how we'll do this."
The woman smiled faintly as she left.
The suns were high in the sky, green and gold together shining straight down into the crater-like arena, providing no shade at all. The heat was enough to veil everything apart from the area around her, but she knew about the onlookers, because the roar of the crowd was a physical force beating at the ears and mind. And then there were the... the lizards-bird things, much larger than a man, but dressed in... in what looked like jewellery, over their brilliant green plumage and patches of over colours.
As she stared around, Louise gasped, as she realised that she wasn't wearing anything.
Actually, from an objective point of view, that wasn't quite true. She had a short leather kilt, which seemed to mostly serve as a place to hang the multiple brass icons, and there was also the bodypaint. Each hand was encased in wickedly bladed gauntlets, claw-like, made of something which looked like glass, but which, somehow, she knew was grown rather than cast. But this wasn't clothing! This was just... there. She was exposed, completely and utterly, like some kind of slattern!
And her opponent was before her, 'dressed' in the same way, although the other woman was painted in yellow, where she was daubed in green. Upon catching her eyes, her foe spread her arms wide, face raised to the skies, flagrantly flaunting her mostly-unclad form to the heavens and the crowd. Which, Louise realised with a shriek, as she squinted through the haze, was composed of the same lizard-creatures.
Somewhere, a gong sounded, and the other woman... if that was the right word, as Louise was pretty sure that she was about the same age, even if she was built more like Kirche, began to circle her, rhythmically clashing her crystal claw-gauntlets together in a way which made the air hum with the resonance.
"What's going on?" the pink-haired girl yelled, moving not so much as to guard from any attack, as to cover herself.
The only response her foe gave was to lunge forwards, towards her throat.
And Louise Françoise Le Blanc de La Vallière opened her eyes with a yell, sitting bolt upright. And then gasped again as her back protested at the aggravation of the mostly-healed wound. She moved, reflexively, to wipe her brow, only to find it desert-dry. She gazed around with sleep-bleary eyes, around the white-walled infirmary, and out into the spring dawnlight. No burning heat, no twin suns beating down upon the world.
The girl let her head slump down into her arms, and groaned.
"Huh? Wuzzat? Someting heppn'ing?" Montomorency on the bed opposite to her groaned, blinking awake with slurred words. "Some'ne screm?"
"No! Of course not!"
"You did, my fair lady. I was quite in awe at the sheer majesty of the potency of your lungs," Marisalon said, calmly.
'Shut up,' was her thought response, as she tried to parried the aggrieved remarks from the blonde, who didn't much appreciate being woken up. Couldn't she get a proper night of sleep? It was getting to the stage that if she couldn't have a dreamless night's sleep, she would prefer not to sleep at all. Well, at least she hadn't been sick in the night, Louise thought, with no small amount of happiness. Maybe the dreams would go if she was getting better. Although...
'Marisalon, what do you know about nightmares?' she asked.
Mentally, she felt the neomah shift. "What kind?" it asked idly. "The kind you get if you get caught out in the Typhon of Nightmares? Or the kind when you're bound under certain plates? Or the kind where you're in the middle of the City, and you suddenly realise that it's gone all quiet and the musical instruments aren't playing and you can see a sort of reddish hint in the wind? Or..."
Louise furrowed her brow. Interesting. It seemed that the neomah didn't know what happened when she dreamed. A spark flared in her soul. No, she wasn't going to say anything about it. It was enough that it was always in her head watching what she did and... and perving on her classmates and being annoyingly smug and generally just very annoying in a vaguely helpful, but still annoying way. She was going to keep her dream her own, even if they were nightmares of nakedness and being attacked.
At least it wasn't that recurring one, the one that she had had since she was very small, where she never ever got magic and was sent by her parents as a failure to live with the peasants on their estate, and even they mocked her for it. Compared to that one, a little bit of nakedness and a woman trying to kill her was nothing.
Reaching for her bedside table, Louise took a deep gulp of water. It was nice that for the first day in a while, she wasn't waking up with the taste of sick in her mouth. Maybe she was on the mend, which meant...
"Fair lady, it is time to talk about your progress towards finding your way to Paragon. To such a delightful place, you must bring the worship of the true rulers of Creation, so that all may revel in the glory of those who crafted the world."
... that Marisalon was going to start nagging her. It was getting annoying, because no-matter how many times she told the... the damn perverted head-thing that she had no idea where Paragon was, it just wouldn't listen! She'd even got one of the healers to fetch one of the books she knew had a map of the world in, but the neomah had the cheek to complain of the 'lack of greater context', and then ask her if she knew where the realm was, relative to where she was located!
Argh! She had carefully explained to the thing that there were lots of realms around here, and even explained the difference between the Brimiric nations, Germania, and the lands of the elves and other barbarians to the east. And all that had produced was a claim that wherever she was, she was somewhere in the west, which was obvious looking at the map.
And she had had enough, and couldn't face another day of it.
'I don't care!' Louise mentally snapped. 'I have no idea where Paragon is, and... I don't care! I'm staying in bed until I feel better, rather than running off after a place I've never even heard of! Why should I care about it! No way!'
And then she felt it. A slight mental weight, a presence within her skull that smelt of cinnamon and lilies and the hot scent of baked earth, and felt like sand between her fingers. It was gone, yes, gone within a second, but she shivered in the unreal breeze, at the increase in pressure within her mind.
Marisalon sounded just as smiling, just as flirtatious, as usual. " Take over Paragon, and use it as a centre for spreading the worship of the Yozis across the South, my fair lady. That is your task and your role. Perhaps you could go to the library, and ask the librarian. You will find out everything about the city. I believe you can do it, for nothing is outside your talents."
Curling into a ball, the girl only stuck her head under the covers, trying to escape the pleasant voice in her head. This was going to be a hard day indeed.
Chapter 5: Repetitious Succubus Bemoaning
{0}
"You tried to st-stab me through the b-back!"
"You dislocated one of my arms and g-gave me a concussion!"
"Attempted m-m-murderess!"
"I could say the s-same to you, Zero!"
In retrospect, it might not have been the wisest opinion to put Louise Françoise le Blanc de la Vallière and Montmorency Margarita la Fère de Montmorency in the same room of the medical ward. Unfortunately, as they were assured by the chief healer, they were suffering a minor outbreak of pentapox among the first years, and so they had to keep the infected isolated, meaning they had a shortage of beds. The two of them were merely injured, and so could be put in the same ward without the risk of spreading the infection.
And so the two of them were lying in bed in the white-painted infirmary, glaring at each other as the sunset streamed through the windows. Louise was flushed, sickly-feeling, with a temperature and nausea; her waist was constrained by the almost corset-like layers of bandages which bound her midsection. The wound wasn't infected; water magic had made sure of that, and the healer had diagnosed it as an imbalance in her physiology caused by the shock of the injury.
They hadn't mentioned that the injury was healing faster than it should have, quite notably so.
And in the other bed, Montmorency was bandaged up, the white soaked in many places where a nasty-smelling blue potion had been used to clean out the wounds. Although her dislocated arm had been put back in its socket and healing magic applied, she was still in a state that only bed rest could really fix her problems.
In essence, neither girl was exactly capable of doing much, apart from insulting each other and bickering.
"Fair lady, though I may say so myself, you are capable of doing much more that merely bickering with this defeated foe! Pain should mean nothing to you, you and I know this! And you have much more important things to do!"
'Shut up! I want to lie in bed, and don't want to have to go to classes.' Inside her head, Louise was humming with... well, she wasn't quite sure what she was humming with. Prosaically, possibly the fever that the healers were claiming that she had, that her body temperature was notably higher than it should be. And she was feeling rather sick. But on the other hand, the headmaster had come in, and told her that the investigative tribunal against her was being dropped! That she had been observed using magic, in a way which an inexprimé clearly could not, and hence there were no grounds to proceed! It was glorious!
... now, on the other hand, he had also informed the two of them that they were going to be punished by the school, for illegally duelling, and possibly it would be taken to the Crown, because – and the old man's eyes had suddenly turned stern – from a certain point of view, they had both tried to kill each other.
But still! She wasn't an inexprimé! She wasn't a failure in that specific way! And so she should get to spend a few days in bed doing nothing but resting, rather than forcing herself to do anything!
She nodded, distractedly, at the dark-haired maid, who placed a fresh cup of water by her side, following the figure idly – and to the neomah's appreciation – as she delivered a second glass to... argh, Montmorency. She winced, slightly, as she sipped at it, not enjoying the bitter taste, which reminded her far too much of the smell of some of the medicinal elixars which had to be kept back at the estate for Cattleya.
If only 'the Flood' wasn't here with her, preventing her from relaxing properly, when Monmon was the one who'd starting the 'hurting people' business. And she wasn't starting to worry about the more serious consequences that might have come about from duelling like this. And Marisalon wasn't nagging her about...
"... but, my Lady, you remain tasked with your cause in the name of the Reclamation of Creation from the cowards and traitors who most cruelly cast down those who crafted it from inchoate chaos. You must infiltrate the city of Paragon, and most nobly covert the Perfect of that place, whether the current one or his... successor, should you choose to retain that system of governance after your inevitable triumph, to the glorious cause! Only then may the worship of those who Created the world be spread properly across the South!"
... something or other. That wasn't her prime concern. No, it was something deeper. More nagging. More concerning.
She hadn't felt any need to go to the toilet since... well, since whatever had happened that had jammed Marisalon into her skull. Via... ahem... either path. She didn't feel any urge to either, right now. And she pretty sure that... she counted the days on her fingers... she was pretty sure that four days was getting to the 'unhealthy' level, especially since she had been drinking a lot of fluids, as she had been told by the healers.
It wasn't exactly a subject that she felt that she could broach with the infirmary staff, either. She didn't feel sick, or ill, or feel like she needed to go.
It was just embarrassing.
{0}
"Headmaster." The man in the blue-trimmed white robe, a neat clerical collar underneath came scurrying up to the old man, and Osmond squinted at him, as if trying to remember his name. "I am Abbé Cotin, headmaster," he reminded the older man, "... although you..."
"Ah, Charles!" Osmond said jovially, "How are you doing nice to see you I really must go..."
"With respect, sir, I am an abbé, and it is improper to..." He had to jog a few paces, to catch up with the older man, who was moving with unexpected speed. "I really must object to you making me put those two in the same room!"
With surprising force, the headmaster grabbed him by one sleeve, and pulled him into the nearest room. Which happened to be one of the dusty cupboards where the staff kept the fire safety equipment, in case of accidents with young Fire mages.
"Nonsense," the white-haired man whispered conspiratorially, after a bout of coughing, leaning close to the priest's ear. "It is my will that it be so!"
"But, sir," Abbé Cotin said, himself choking on the layered dust. "I don't think that..."
"No so loud! It might be heard by... them..."
A blank stare. "By... who?"
"Them!"
"With respect, I don't know who..."
"Them!"
"Just saying..."
"Them!" The old man's brows were creased, his eyes wide. "Do not ignore me, man! I cannot tell you of them, for they could be listening to us right now! Just like how they add too much salt to my food!"
The healer blinked, and squinted, tugging back a lock of greying hair. "The two girls? Miss de la Vallière and..."
"No. Them." Osmond tilted his head. "Well, and the girls, too. Wouldn't want them to realise that that you were deliberately putting two teenage girls in a place filled with plump, plump pillows and making them wear those delightfully thin hospital gowns, would we, Charles?"
Abbé Cotin puffed himself up. "The infirmary is a place of healing and prayer," he said, in an outraged tone, "not... not base perversion like that!"
"He he." The two words were spoken, rather than laughed. "That's what you think, but you should keep a better eye on your commoner nurses. I certainly have been!"
The clergyman was turning redder and redder at every word, not helped by the choking dust in the storage cupboard. He spluttered an incoherent response, before storming out, leaving the headmaster alone.
Osmond smiled, a slow, lazy laconic smile, which was almost reptilian in its age. "And that, my dear Mótsognir, is how I resolve the problem," he told the mouse, which crawled out of his sleeve. "That dear foolish man will have been so outraged by my insinuations, that he will keep a closer eye on those two young ladies who have caused me so much trouble. And he does annoy me, so; how dare the Crown 'suggest strongly' that I hire an Abbé for this position! This will keep him off guard, and give him something interesting to tell his masters. Think I'm crazy? Hah!"
The mouse squeaked at him.
"Ah, no, my dear Mótsognir. Your suggestion was foolish, and too overt. We shall not interfere with Miss de la Vallière. No matter how much you feel she is a threat to the security of the school, she is too... unusual. Now, what else was I going to do?"
Another squeak, and the mouse ran back inside his robe.
"Oh, yes. I was going to go to Miss Emmanuelle Leterme, and show my 'appreciation' for her lessons and how well she's settled in. I do love these Gallian beauties; why, were it not for that commoner hair colour, she could well be a member of Les Lignées Triomphante. I don't know how I'd cope without you, Mótsognir, I really don't. Even if you are rather lacking in subtlety."
{0}
Montmorency stirred, lifting her head up. She was feeling better, overall; it no longer hurt quite so much to move, but she still ached. Especially her right arm; she had peeked under the bandages, and the arm was ringed in bruises, purple and green blossoming around all of the joints, and hand-shaped swellings at her wrist. The blonde flexed her wrist, and immediately regretted it, because it hurt.
The girl gasped for breath, the mix of the medicinal scent of the infirmary and the spring air filling her nostrils. Ow. Yes. It still wasn't much better. With her other hand, she reached over to the table beside her, and picked up the glass, tucking it under the crock of her injured arm. Then, taking her wand in her left hand, she wetted the end, and, muttering to herself, applied a simple pain-killing spell, sinking back in relief as the coolness hit.
She had panicked when the healer had warned her about using magic. With two older brothers who were inexprimé, unable to inherit and good for nothing apart from marriages to commoner mercantile houses or joining the church, the fear of anything happening to her magic was a long-held, albeit irrational terror of hers. It had been reassuring to hear that it was simply because her right arm needed to heal, and the arm gestures for casting would put unnecessary stress upon the damaged flesh.
Although, what kind of a mage needed to cast spells using their dominant hand? Surely a rather inflexible one. Wouldn't anyone who knew any healing spells make sure that they could cast the basic ones, like the ones that clotted bloodflows, and stopped pain, with their weaker hand, if only because in a case where you couldn't use your right hand, that's exactly when you'd want the spell that stopped you dying?
Of course, that chain of thought led back to the girl in the other bed, who seemed to be dozing again. Yes. Such a trick wasn't much use against a berserk maniac like the Zero. Montmorency shook her head. That kind of thing, it was associated with Germanian nobles, or... the girl smirked, slightly, the nobles of the upper reaches of Albion, the ones who were said to get up to unspecified but clearly foul and peverse things with orcs.
What was up with her magic? She blew things up, couldn't manage even the most basic controlled spell, and then in that fight... well, Monmon knew that she hadn't been feeling at her best by the end, because she'd been burning through her willpower to pull off some of the tricks, but... the girl shook her head, still feeling slightly light-headed. She'd managed to break that Water Wall, and that was a Line-level ability. The blonde had been so happy when she'd managed to do that for the first time, and... there had been that green light and then everything had gone fuzzy. And hurty.
There was a gagging noise from across the room, and Montmorency saw the pink-haired girl, who was actually looking fairly green herself right now, grab for the bowl by her bedside table.
And then she started retching, nosily.
Montmorency quickly looked away, out the window, and clasped her hands over her ears, humming to herself to drown out the sound of the other girl.
By the time she looked back, the pink-haired girl, although still looking unwell, was at least no longer throwing up. Louise grimaced, and stared back at her. "Don't be sick when you don't have anything in your stomach," she managed weakly, no acrimony in her voice. "It hurts."
"Um..." The blonde paused, one finger twirling in a ringlet. "Thanks for the advice, I suppose? Have you..."
"Mmm hmm. I think you must have been asleep. Last night. And the night before it." One pale, shaky hand was wiped across a pale face. "At least I don't get the cold sweats anymore," Louise muttered, to herself.
Montmorency had overheard her. "Oh, that's nice," she said, acidly. "It's nice to see you feel no guilt or anything about trying to kill someone!"
"I wasn't talking about... hey! You started it! You f-fired a magical spear at my f-face!"
The debate resumed. With ice-cold witticisms. And much vitriol.
{0}
Miss Chevreuse may have been giving a class on the base elements, and their transitive properties which were retained within higher-order transmutations, but only limited attention was being paid by the class. For one, the spells discussed here were only of very limited use to non-Earth mages, and were in fact another symptom of what the Academy called 'the holistic approach to magic to better understand it and its uses', but which newer, leaner schools called 'the lack of specialisation hampering the progress of students'. For two, it was almost dinner, and the attention of the students fell rapidly as hunger consumed the mind.
And for three, there were other, more interesting discussions going on.
"So, how you holding up, Guiche?" Malicorne asked, the rotund boy leaning back in his seat.
The blond flicked his hair. "Oh, it is nothing," he said. "I am of course worried for my dear Monmon, hospitalised like this in such fell circumstances, but..." his voice dropped, "... she didn't mean it when she claimed that we were through. That was just her way of showing bravery when fighting the Zero!"
The boys to either side of him rolled their eyes.
"Yep, she left you. And that's rough, buddy," Charles Alexandre de Calonne said, once again showing the unbelievable levels of empathy he possessed, even by the standards of teenage boys. "Now, on the other hand, we can always return to the much more interesting topic of Louise the... well, I don't think we can call her the Zero anymore."
"No, of course not! I'll win her back, and next time, I will fight the Zero with my bronze golems, casting her down into the depths of ignominy," Guiche continued, who quite clearly hadn't been paying attention. "And in the heights of my triumph..."
"Master de Gramont," snapped the teacher. "Silence yourself, or I will silence you!"
There was a pause, as they waited for her attention to drift.
"Heh," Malicorne remarked.
"Heh," agreed Charles.
The blond's fingers tapped against the table. "What would you two know about it?" he hissed. "I note the remarkable lack of success from both of you in the romantic field."
"I don't need to be successful. My parents have a marriage set up for me," Charles said, drily. "And I'm just saying, now you're free to pursue Katie in public without being afraid of Montmornecy freezing your blood to ice." He blinked. "And before that. Yes. Louise... we can't call her a Zero. That was actual, useful magic she showed there."
He didn't mention that she had been casting it without a wand, which was something that almost no dot-level mages could do, and which required specialist training, like that which was given by organisations such as the Griffin Knights, or the Church's Knights of the Iron Rose. He wasn't quite sure what to think of that yet.
"... still zero familiar," Guiche said sullenly.
"I'm serious." The dark-haired boy's eyes were narrowed. "A dot-level fire mage shouldn't be able to burn through a line-level water barrier. The elements are in classical opposition. And that was... freaky green fire," he said, eloquently. "Where do you get green fire?"
"The dead ones," Malicorne muttered, staring down at his desk.
Charles blinked. "Uh. Um. I was about to suggest that she's Fire and Earth, because copper burns green, and I saw... well, I think she deflected a blow using sand or something. It looked like it was about to hit her in the head or something. Makes sense as Fire and Earth. But... the dead ones?"
"The lands in our family estate are... swampy," Malicorne said, glumly. "There are water spirits there, but they're... wrong. They burn these greenish lanterns, and my father says that our peasants sometimes drown because they're lured off the path by them." He shuddered. "And then they say that the dead sometimes come back and rap at the window, and if you see a green light outside, you should never answer the door."
"... so, what you're saying... have you ever seen one of these sprits?" Charles asked.
"No, but..."
"Because, I mean, I know that marsh gases are Wind, with the essence of Fire bound within them, which can be released by a single spark, and which can burn funny colours. So, really, what you're saying is that your peasants sometimes get lost in the swamp and drown?"
"Sure." It was a single, flat word. "If you say so."
And then Miss Chevreuse started to ask questions of the class, and there was no more time to talk.
{0}
In the woods around the Academy, it was dark and smelt of leafmold and clay and dampness. The blue moon had not risen yet, and so Taksony alone shone down upon the lands, casting things into a fell red light. Under this illumination, it was hard to see anything straight on; one saw best out of the corner of the eye. It was easy to miss things.
None could miss the sealed and barred gates to the Academy, standing strong and fortified. They were vast, imposing, layered in magical wards and could – and had – take a cannon barrage straight without leaving a dent on the heavy iron framework. Under this crimson light, when viewed from certain angles, they glinted, the light reflecting off them not-quite-right, while from other angles, they didn't reflect light at all. They were a sign of a magical strength of Tristain, that, despite the fact that it was the smallest of the Brimirian nations, it had preserved the strength of the blood best, and had the most number of mages per commoner of any of them. That they could build something like this was a sign of this strength; it rivalled anything outside the Vatican.
And that served Siesta just fine, as she softly closed the door to the servant's way behind her. A shortly after the building had become a school, the headmaster had decided that it was an inconvenience to have to open and close the gate to receive deliveries, and let the servants get in or out. So there were additional doors added, which were far less impressively magical, but could be moved without vast clanking chains and grinding mechanisms waking everyone up.
Now, of course, this was an obvious weak spot, and at the time, the headmaster laid down strict instructions that the doors were always meant to be guarded.
Emphasis on 'were always meant to be'.
Siesta darted into a pool of shadow, and paused, her breathing slow and steady, eyes scanning the walls, looking for guards picked out in the light of the red moon Taksony. Raising her gloved hands, she checked that her hood was up properly, breaking up her profile and veiling her hair, and sunk lower, the garment pooling around her. The human eye looked for human shapes, after all.
Some people thought that the best way to sneak around was in an expensive black hooded cloak. They were almost without exception spoilt nobles. A dark greenish-greyish-brown was both far more effective, and, helpfully far cheaper than black velvet.
And the guard patrolling the walls was gone, and she was off again, into the woods. She was one of the serving staff, and she had learned things. Like where the arboretums, where, under expensive Romalian-imported glass, the school grew certain less-common alchemical ingredients. Many of the herbs within had been imported from exotic climates, from the isolated islands in the west which only a few Gallian traders had ever visited, and some seeds even from strange Rub' al Khali, beyond the lands of the elves.
It was such an irritation that it was still spring, this early in the season. She wouldn't have had to have risked this later in the year, as deadly nightshade or foxglove would probably have sufficed. Probably. She thought.
Although her mother had taught her these things, she hadn't actually used them for more than spiking a particularly... pushy noble brat's soup once, and smirking as the boy had apparently voided his bowels in class. She hadn't actually... you know, made anything to poison anyone properly. Even a vile anathema. That's why she had been stealing ingredients from the healers, under the pretext of bringing them meals, and using them on the de La Vallière girl, who was... um... well, she was being sick, but didn't seem to be dying or anything more than that. Probably something to do with the terrible tales of the anathema she had been told as a little girl, and how hard they were to kill. She'd thought they were just tales, things that didn't really exist, and after her grandfather had confirmed their existence, she had prayed that none were really around.
Now one was. She was the only one of the family around.
And Siesta was running out of time. The noble healers at the infirmary were getting suspicious about the girl's 'illness', and would probably start to look beyond her injuries soon. She needed something stronger. More potent.
Or, in actual fact, what she was going to do was grab as many things as she could recognise, or which looked nasty, and mix them together in something with honey. That would have to be lethal, right?
{0}
Sensible flat shoes echoing down the corridor, Miss Loungeville turned the corner, and entered the sweltering heat of the school kitchens. The appetising scent of roasting meat was already filling the room, and she felt her mouth water slightly, even as she averted her eyes from where a bulky man with a meat-cleaver was busy de-boning a cow's ribcage, the gore covered bones going into their own cauldron.
Although the finished product would look perfect, she didn't want to see the messy guts of the preparation process. Everything was so much less elegant , if you knew how the trick worked.
Tapping her foot, she waited for one of the senior chefs to pay attention to her. After a minute and a half of that, she actually went and approached the exceptionally busy people, and ordered them to find the head chef, who was, after a search, found in a backroom berating one of the new scullery girls for her ineptitude at sorting the spices.
"... and you placed the rosemary on the top shelf, which is saved for the most sensitive of flavourings, which is an unforgivab..." he turned, and smiled genially, his chins bulging. "Ah, yes. The headmaster's secretary, yes?" he asked, the faint accent of a native of the border with Gallia present in the way he rolled his Rs.
The woman smiled, the expression not reaching her eyes. "Yes," she said. "The headmaster requested that I personally deliver his instructions for dinner tomorrow night... not that I didn't have better things do to," she added, to herself. "I mean, it's not like I have his reports for the Palace to file..." she shook her head, and handing him the note.
The man smiled, nonetheless, at the words. "Ah, yes please, Miss." The wax seal was broken, and he scanned down the note. And his face fell, fat sagging in folds around his neck. "He... wants the meal unflavoured," the chef said, slowly.
"Yes," the secretary said, lips pursed. "He..." she coughed, "... he believes that it has been... oversalted for these last few days. He... ahem..." she trailed off, clearly trying not to speak ill of him. She said nothing at all, instead.
The chef was not so constrained. "Foolish," he declared, in an extravagant gesture. "No salt, no flavour! And it means that salted meat is off the table... ah, the fancy nobility might not like to hear it spoken of, but how many of their glazes, of their toppings, of their garnishings need the hint of salt for the flavours to work! It is impossible! It is an outrage! And..."
"Beg pardon, sir," said the scullery girl, "but if he's the one'se not happy, why not just make'em a separate one?"
"Aha! Excellency itself! My sweet, all is forgiven! Return to your duties, over by the pans," he ordered, giving her a friendly pat on the bottom, making her squeak and giggle.
Miss Loungeville rolled her eyes. "His orders explicitly state that 'no flavourings or salt are to be used'. He wants everyone to have plain, unflavoured food tomorrow."
"Well, then it is madness!"
"Madness?" The woman shrugged. "Perhaps. But this is the Tristain Academy of Magic, and he is the headmaster."
The man slumped, deflating. "Fine," he grunted. "Get out, then, while I call for the others to see how we'll do this."
The woman smiled faintly as she left.
{0}
The suns were high in the sky, green and gold together shining straight down into the crater-like arena, providing no shade at all. The heat was enough to veil everything apart from the area around her, but she knew about the onlookers, because the roar of the crowd was a physical force beating at the ears and mind. And then there were the... the lizards-bird things, much larger than a man, but dressed in... in what looked like jewellery, over their brilliant green plumage and patches of over colours.
As she stared around, Louise gasped, as she realised that she wasn't wearing anything.
Actually, from an objective point of view, that wasn't quite true. She had a short leather kilt, which seemed to mostly serve as a place to hang the multiple brass icons, and there was also the bodypaint. Each hand was encased in wickedly bladed gauntlets, claw-like, made of something which looked like glass, but which, somehow, she knew was grown rather than cast. But this wasn't clothing! This was just... there. She was exposed, completely and utterly, like some kind of slattern!
And her opponent was before her, 'dressed' in the same way, although the other woman was painted in yellow, where she was daubed in green. Upon catching her eyes, her foe spread her arms wide, face raised to the skies, flagrantly flaunting her mostly-unclad form to the heavens and the crowd. Which, Louise realised with a shriek, as she squinted through the haze, was composed of the same lizard-creatures.
Somewhere, a gong sounded, and the other woman... if that was the right word, as Louise was pretty sure that she was about the same age, even if she was built more like Kirche, began to circle her, rhythmically clashing her crystal claw-gauntlets together in a way which made the air hum with the resonance.
"What's going on?" the pink-haired girl yelled, moving not so much as to guard from any attack, as to cover herself.
The only response her foe gave was to lunge forwards, towards her throat.
And Louise Françoise Le Blanc de La Vallière opened her eyes with a yell, sitting bolt upright. And then gasped again as her back protested at the aggravation of the mostly-healed wound. She moved, reflexively, to wipe her brow, only to find it desert-dry. She gazed around with sleep-bleary eyes, around the white-walled infirmary, and out into the spring dawnlight. No burning heat, no twin suns beating down upon the world.
The girl let her head slump down into her arms, and groaned.
"Huh? Wuzzat? Someting heppn'ing?" Montomorency on the bed opposite to her groaned, blinking awake with slurred words. "Some'ne screm?"
"No! Of course not!"
"You did, my fair lady. I was quite in awe at the sheer majesty of the potency of your lungs," Marisalon said, calmly.
'Shut up,' was her thought response, as she tried to parried the aggrieved remarks from the blonde, who didn't much appreciate being woken up. Couldn't she get a proper night of sleep? It was getting to the stage that if she couldn't have a dreamless night's sleep, she would prefer not to sleep at all. Well, at least she hadn't been sick in the night, Louise thought, with no small amount of happiness. Maybe the dreams would go if she was getting better. Although...
'Marisalon, what do you know about nightmares?' she asked.
Mentally, she felt the neomah shift. "What kind?" it asked idly. "The kind you get if you get caught out in the Typhon of Nightmares? Or the kind when you're bound under certain plates? Or the kind where you're in the middle of the City, and you suddenly realise that it's gone all quiet and the musical instruments aren't playing and you can see a sort of reddish hint in the wind? Or..."
Louise furrowed her brow. Interesting. It seemed that the neomah didn't know what happened when she dreamed. A spark flared in her soul. No, she wasn't going to say anything about it. It was enough that it was always in her head watching what she did and... and perving on her classmates and being annoyingly smug and generally just very annoying in a vaguely helpful, but still annoying way. She was going to keep her dream her own, even if they were nightmares of nakedness and being attacked.
At least it wasn't that recurring one, the one that she had had since she was very small, where she never ever got magic and was sent by her parents as a failure to live with the peasants on their estate, and even they mocked her for it. Compared to that one, a little bit of nakedness and a woman trying to kill her was nothing.
Reaching for her bedside table, Louise took a deep gulp of water. It was nice that for the first day in a while, she wasn't waking up with the taste of sick in her mouth. Maybe she was on the mend, which meant...
"Fair lady, it is time to talk about your progress towards finding your way to Paragon. To such a delightful place, you must bring the worship of the true rulers of Creation, so that all may revel in the glory of those who crafted the world."
... that Marisalon was going to start nagging her. It was getting annoying, because no-matter how many times she told the... the damn perverted head-thing that she had no idea where Paragon was, it just wouldn't listen! She'd even got one of the healers to fetch one of the books she knew had a map of the world in, but the neomah had the cheek to complain of the 'lack of greater context', and then ask her if she knew where the realm was, relative to where she was located!
Argh! She had carefully explained to the thing that there were lots of realms around here, and even explained the difference between the Brimiric nations, Germania, and the lands of the elves and other barbarians to the east. And all that had produced was a claim that wherever she was, she was somewhere in the west, which was obvious looking at the map.
And she had had enough, and couldn't face another day of it.
'I don't care!' Louise mentally snapped. 'I have no idea where Paragon is, and... I don't care! I'm staying in bed until I feel better, rather than running off after a place I've never even heard of! Why should I care about it! No way!'
And then she felt it. A slight mental weight, a presence within her skull that smelt of cinnamon and lilies and the hot scent of baked earth, and felt like sand between her fingers. It was gone, yes, gone within a second, but she shivered in the unreal breeze, at the increase in pressure within her mind.
Marisalon sounded just as smiling, just as flirtatious, as usual. " Take over Paragon, and use it as a centre for spreading the worship of the Yozis across the South, my fair lady. That is your task and your role. Perhaps you could go to the library, and ask the librarian. You will find out everything about the city. I believe you can do it, for nothing is outside your talents."
Curling into a ball, the girl only stuck her head under the covers, trying to escape the pleasant voice in her head. This was going to be a hard day indeed.
{0}
