Familiar of the Fairy: Zero no Tsukaima Fanfic

[Zaru]

Any critique for the new prologue ladies and gents? Also Juubi me thinks you're good to post the next chapter whenever you get the chance.

 

[Scify]

I think it works much better. It establishes two distinct sets of characters and gives us some idea of what's going on without laying everything out, in addition to giving us an idea of where we are in the timeline without (as best as I can tell) retreading ground already covered in canon.

 

[Juubi-K]

I think it works much better. It establishes two distinct sets of characters and gives us some idea of what's going on without laying everything out, in addition to giving us an idea of where we are in the timeline without (as best as I can tell) retreading ground already covered in canon.

Click to shrink...

I'm glad you like it. It was a good suggestion on your part, and I'm grateful.

 

[Juubi-K]

Chapter One​

Romalia, Ausonian Peninsula, 10th Day of Feoh

Romalia was a beautiful city.

The architecture was of a style that had been popular for the last century or so. The buildings were of pale grey stone, the roofs covered in curving tiles. The wide streets were paved with close-fitting slabs of sandstone, with lines of trees running down the middle of the widest boulevards. Each boulevard led to an open plaza, decorated with statues, elegant fountains, or sometimes both. Romalia was not merely a holy city, but an airy and easy city, as comfortable to commoners as it was to clerics or nobles.

The buildings might have been recent, but the foundations and street plan dated from many thousands of years earlier, when Romalia had been the centre of a mighty empire reaching into Gallia, Germania, and even the Rub'al Khali. The long, wide streets were reminiscent of that era, as were the sewers below them. The most important buildings were of gleaming white marble, many of them dating back to the glory days themselves. The Papal cathedral itself was a reconstruction of the old Royal palace, serving the Popes as it had Romalia's long-dead Kings.

To Vittorio Serevare, Saint Aegis the 32nd, Shield of the Founder, Pontifex Maximus of the Holy Church, the apparent irony of this coming-together of old and new was a reminder of one of life's harshest and most valuable lessons.

All things end.

All tangible things, all constructed things, even the lives of men. Only a thought could live forever, if it had but one heart in which to reside.

This lesson was the truth of Romalia's history. Millennia ago Romalia had been a secular kingdom, almost identical to the guardian kingdoms of Gallia, Tristain, and Albion. The only difference was that whereas they had each been founded by one of the Founder Brimir's sons, Romalia had been founded by his apprentice, Saint Forsythe, around whose tomb the city of Romalia had been built.

It had been the only difference, but a big difference. Whereas the guardian kingdoms had practiced hereditary succession, the Kings of Romalia had come to be selected by the senate or by their predecessors, meaning that would-be Kings had a great deal to prove. And during Romalia's imperial adolescence, the most effective way to prove one's worth was conquest.

Romalia's empire had reached its height under Julio Cesare, who had conquered half of Gallia to earn the crown. But over a century following his murder, the empire's territories were gradually nibbled away. The seemingly immortal glory that was Romalia was reduced to dust on the wind.

Only the faith had survived. Only the church had stood, when all else was lost. Even as imperial control retreated, the worship of the Founder advanced. Even as the last Romalian legions withdrew from Gallia and Germania, all of Halkeginia worshipped Brimir in the Romalian fashion. The glory of the empire had faded, but the truth that was the divine Founder had lived on, shepherded and guided by a succession of Popes.

Vittorio sighed as the shuffle of robes behind him drew him from his reverie.

"You must forgive me, archbishop," he said, knowing who had been standing there awaiting his pleasure. "My thoughts were…over-wrought."

"It is I who should ask your forgiveness," replied his guest, bowing his head respectfully, "for requesting audience at this difficult time."

"It costs me nothing," Vittorio said graciously, holding out his signet ring to be kissed. "For I have need of your counsel."

"And I am glad to give it, your Holiness."

Archbishop Fernando Sotomayor, Grand Master of the Order of the Scarlet Tower, straightened up before him. Like Vittorio, he was a relatively young man for so important a position. He was tall and lean, his body clad in a white cassock over which was hung a mantle of crimson and gold, emblazoned with the emblem of his order. His skin was pale like Vittorio's own, but his hair was a short, curly silver, in contrast to the young Pope's long, straight gold. His purple eyes were full of sincerity.

"Walk with me a while, Archbishop," Vittorio gestured along the long gallery. Fernando fell in beside him as they strolled along, the Pope's crozier clinking on the polished malachite.

"It seems that matters grow ever more complicated," Vittorio mused. "You have, I trust, been following the war in Albion?"

"I have, your Holiness. I keep hearing of a…curious incident near South Gotha a few months ago." Fernando's smile remained in place, but his purple eyes fixed on Vittorio's own.

"You refer to the incident," Vittorio replied, smiling indulgently, "involving the young Madame de la Vallière, her familiar, and the flying machine named the Dragon's Cloak?"

"Yes, your Holiness." Fernando looked contrite. "Please forgive my presumption. Be assured that the secret is entirely safe with my order."

"Don't apologise, Fernando my brother." There was a twinkle in the young Pope's eyes. "It just means I can talk with you about it without fear. Yes, Grand Master, it is my firm conclusion that Louise de la Vallière is indeed the bearer of the Void, and that her young familiar is the legendary Gandalfr. I thank the Founder that he survived."

To hear it said aloud was enough to make Fernando Sotomayor shiver, though he already knew it in his heart to be true. That the Gandalfr had faced down the heretic Reconquista army and come out alive was, in his eyes, all the additional proof he needed.

The Void, the legendary Fifth Element, the source of all magic, had manifested at last. Manifesting, as was prophesied, within the four nations, and bound to the Founder Brimir's four familiars.

Gandalfr, the Shield of God, bound to Tristain.
Windalfr, the Flute of God, bound to Romalia.
Myzothirirn, the Mind of God, bound to Gallia.
Lifdrasir, the Heart of God, bound to Albion.

So it had been prophesied. The time foretold was upon them at last.

"That makes three of them now," he said, his voice almost hoarse with the weight of it. "And Myzothirirn is bound to a madman."

"Indeed," Vittorio agreed darkly, the smile falling from his face. "I fear what Joseph of Gallia might do with such power, and what he might already have done."

"I for one never expected him to stab Reconquista in the back like that," Fernando commented. "To betray an alliance so quickly."

Pope and archbishop were silent for some time. The distant sounds of the city reverberated along the arched corridor around them.

"What was it you wished to see me about?" asked Vittorio, changing the subject.

"As your Holiness knows, I have been in Germania these past months," Fernando replied gravely. "This was mostly to oversee certain matters of my order's business in the Palatinate. However, I thought to oblige your Holiness by seeking audience with Emperor Albrecht."

"Ah yes. How is his Imperial Majesty?" Fernando paused, and Vittorio knew what the answer would be.

"His condition weakens him with every passing day. He does his utmost to conceal it, but the truth is plain to those who know how to seek it. His physicians inform me that the cause is a malignancy in the stomach."

Fernando's words hovered in the air like dark cloud.

"Could they offer a prognosis?"

"The Emperor is being well cared-for," Fernando replied cautiously. "He may linger on for many months, though I doubt his regime will last that long. The Imperial magnates will begin to suspect, if they do not already." Vittorio sighed as he took it all in.

"Also, your Holiness, the situation is growing more complicated." Fernando paused. "I don't know if you're aware of it, but Duke George of Kurland has himself passed beyond."

"I am aware, Fernando. May the Founder comfort him."

"Are you aware, your Holiness" Fernando went on, "that the late Duke willed his territory to the King of Varangia?"

"So it is true then," Vittorio mused darkly. "I can't imagine the Duke of Selonia took the news well."

"He is, to use the vernacular, hopping mad," Fernando replied sourly. "The Dukes of Selonia have coveted Kurland for centuries. If the Emperor's sickness were to become known, his grace might be tempted to take matters into his own hands."

"Resulting in a war that could set all of Germania aflame." The Pope sighed a world-weary sigh. "You do know, Fernando, how this will complicate things for me?"

"I have a shrewd idea, Holiness."

Vittorio strongly suspected that he did. Despite his carefully-constructed image of quiet and sincere piety, Vittorio knew that Fernando Sotomayor was ambitious. Ambition was not necessarily a sin, in moderation, but it tended to lead a certain kind of person into the upper echelons of the Church. Such people tended to be good at acquiring and interpreting information, particularly about the ambitions and intentions of their colleagues.

He wondered how much Sotomayor truly knew. Did he know how many of the cardinals still supported the recusants against the Varangian crown and the Protestant magnates of Germania? Did he know how many were willing to go beyond rhetoric? Did he know what they might be willing to do to get their way?

Did he know what would have to be done if humanity was to survive?

"Your Holiness," Fernando went on, suddenly serious. "You must not be swayed by the cardinals. These troubles are an irrelevance, a distraction from our true goal."

"You are right of course," Vittorio replied, equally serious. "Our long-awaited crusade. Soon we will reclaim the land of our Founder Brimir, and fulfil his sacred intent."

"His will be done," Fernando intoned piously. They were silent for a while, savouring the moment; the glorious shared purpose that bound them together.

"Will you be staying in Romalia, Archbishop?"

"For a few days, your Holiness, or else as long as you have need of my presence."

"Fear nothing, Fernando." Vittorio managed to smile. "I ask only that you come tomorrow. There is another matter we must discuss. Until then, my good Archbishop."

"Until then, your Holiness." Fernando bowed low, brushing his lips over Vittorio's signet ring, then backed decorously away down the gallery. Vittorio watched him as he reached the appropriate point and turned his back, keeping his eyes firmly on the retreating figure until it disappeared around the bend in the corridor. He felt himself relax at the soft footsteps approaching him.

"That man," said a very familiar voice, "is dangerous."

"Of course he is dangerous, Julio. His profession attracts dangerous men."

Vittorio's smile widened as he turned to regard his Familiar. Julio Cesare's hair was blond like his own, but much shorter and far less tidy. It struck out in long spikes, giving him a devil-may-care look that matched his personality. When combined with his face, with its high cheekbones and tapering chin, it was enough to make maidens all across Halkeginia curse the day he embraced the priesthood.

Then again, they could be forgiven for not even guessing that he was a priest, for he did not dress like one. His long white coat and tall boots, to say nothing of the rapier at his hip, were better suited to some young saber-rake or officer than to a man of the cloth.

Not that Vittorio minded. He more than forgave Julio's eccentricities, for his value to the Church, and to Vittorio himself, was beyond compare.

"You know how I feel about…inquisitors, Holiness." Julio's handsome face twisted with distaste. "But there's something more to him than any of the others. I've never seen…eyes like those."

"But I have, Julio. Many times."

Vittorio turned to look his Familiar in the eyes. They were his most distinctive feature, one being blue and the other red. Moon Eyes they were called, for they matched the blue and red moons that orbited the world. Some thought the Moon Eyes a blessing, a sign of divine favour or providence. Others thought them a curse, a presage of disaster. For his own part, Vittorio knew in his heart what the answer had to be.

"Are you afraid for me, Julio?" he asked teasingly. "Do you fear that I can't handle someone like him?"

"No," Julio replied, barely suppressing a blush. "I only ask that you be careful. He is not above murder, and worse things besides."

"If I condemn him for that," Vittorio retorted dryly, "I would have to condemn half the aristocracy of Halkeginia."

"Oh at least." Julio cut in, his smirk returning. The sight of it made Vittorio smile again, for he was glad to see it.

"By the way," Julio went on. "I've just gotten a very strange report from Toulon."

"From Toulon?" Vittorio cocked an eyebrow. "Whatever could it be?" Without a word, Julio handed him a slip of paper. Vittorio read it, his smile falling from his face.

"Where are they now?"

"They were seen crossing the border into Liguria two days ago."

"Liguria?!" Vittorio almost swore. "The road will take them right under the Scarlet Tower! If they're taken…!" He trailed off, an image of Sotomayor's face flashing through his mind.

"If I leave now, I can intercept them at Sottolatorre," Julio said determinedly. "Archbishop Rumpoli is heading north by that road. I can attach myself to his party to avoid suspicion."

"Yes, yes of course," Vittorio mused, thinking fast. "I'll write you an order."

---

Liguria, Ausonian Peninsula, 14th Day of Feoh.

The village was a pleasant place, or so Suleiman thought.

It was named Sottolatorre, which apparently meant Below the Tower in the local tongue. The buildings were of buff-coloured sandstone, with perpendicular angles and sloping tiled roofs. The larger buildings came with plain, square columns and triangular lintels over the doors. It was a style of architecture Suleiman had seen before, in Toulon and Tyrus, both of which had been colonies of the Romalian Empire. Whereas those cities over-awed with buildings of garish, gleaming white marble, the softer sandstone of Sottolatorre gave the place a warm, inviting air.

The villagers were very much so. Located just next to the main road to Gallia through the northern mountains, the village was accustomed and welcoming to travellers, evidenced among other things by the bevy of taverns and coaching inns clustered near the road. In theory it should not have been difficult to find somewhere to stay.

"I really can't understand it," Suleiman commented as they strolled along the street. "To think that so many would be completely full."

"Young master must not settle for just anything," Majid replied darkly. "Young master must remember who he is."

"As you keep telling me, Majid." Suleiman glanced up at his taller, rather taciturn companion. Majid was a ghulam, a slave given the honour of bearing arms, but Suleiman head never thought of him as such. For as long as he had known the man, he had always been at least a dear friend, at most a second father, or the older brother he never had. He loved Majid, but his companion's attitudes were not always helpful.

"In any case," Suleiman went on, as they approached another establishment. "We should…"

He was cut off as the doors in front of him burst open and something flew through them, hitting the street with a thump. Majid dived in front of him, his travelling cloak blowing aside as he reached for his scimitar.

"And don't you try coming back!" barked a female voice from inside. Suleiman and Majid stared as a young woman of about Suleiman's age stepped out into the street. She was rather pretty, with long brown hair, large dark eyes, and a small nose, her prettiness marred only by her towering fury.

"Abrienne! My love!" protested the object in the street, which turned out to be a young man. "My angel!"

"Don't you my angel me!" Abrienne shrieked back. Suleiman noticed, having finally drawn his attention from her bust, that she was carrying a lute. This she raised high above her shoulder, grasping it in both hands. The young man had just enough time to turn pale in the face before the lute struck him, shattering as the impact hurling him away down the street. Abrienne threw the severed head of the lute after him, and snorted with derision. She turned to storm back inside, then stopped suddenly as she saw Suleiman and Majid. There was an awkward pause.

"Might we," Suleiman began, trying not to sound nervous, "ahem…trouble you for…a room?"

The girl stared at him for a few moments, then sighed.

"Sorry about that." Her fury spent, her voice sounded more normal. "You said you wanted a room?"

"If you have one."

"Oh, sorry." She looked and sounded apologetic. "We'd have something normally, but Archbishop Rumpoli's holed up in my function room eating me out of house and home, and his cronies have taken all my rooms. I just hope he deigns to pay me."

"Oh," Suleiman said, crestfallen. "I suppose it can't be helped." Abrienne regarded him with what might have been sympathy, but there was calculation in her eyes.

"Best I can offer you is room in the cellar," she said. "It's not much, but I can have the girls set you up beds down there if you're willing to wait. And it's half price. It's that or the stable, and there's dragons in there."

"We'll take it," Suleiman replied, smiling.

"No we won't!" Majid interjected angrily.

"Yes we will!" Suleiman insisted immediately, forcing his smile to stay in place.

"Young mas…!"

"Yes we will!" Suleiman shot Majid an angry look, and the ghulam fell into sullen silence. Abrienne regarded them dubiously, her eyes falling on the object just visible over Suleiman's shoulder.

"That on your back," she pointed at it. "Can you play it?"

"This?" Mildly surprised, Suleiman pulled the instrument over his shoulder. It was somewhat like a lute or guitar, but with a long neck that made up most of its length.

"It is a sitar," he said, more than a little proudly. "And I play it well."

And he had, in any number of taverns and inns all across southern Gallia. It was his personal joy, and a nice little earner, though Majid had grumbled about the indignity of it.

"Then I'll do you a deal!" Abrienne replied quickly. "Beds in the cellar up front, and ten ducats if he pays me, if you'll play for the Archbishop!"

Taken aback, Suleiman did not reply straight away.

"Ten ducats!" Abrienne insisted. "Proper gold, not like those lousy Ecus!"

"Oh, by all means!" Suleiman proclaimed, smiling again. "If it is to help you, then you need not…"

"Twenty ducats!" Majid growled, cutting him off. "My young master is of no common order! Double if they aren't pure!" Abrienne gave Majid a hard look, and Suleiman blushed with embarrassment.

"Fine, twenty," she said eventually. "But that's only if that old blubber heap bothers to pay me!"

"By all means!" Suleiman replied, beating Majid to the mark.

They followed Abrienne through the doors and into the inn. The ground floor was full to bursting, with all the round tables taken and the bar positively heaving with customers, the only sound the rumble of conversation punctuated by the occasional clink of glass on glass. Young girls moved here and there waiting tables. Suleiman could not help but think there were too few for such a crowd.

Abrienne led them around the throng and through a side door into a narrow corridor, then through another door and down a set of narrow steps.

The cellar was considerably better than Suleiman had expected, being neither half so dank nor so foul-smelling, nor so dingy. Abrienne led them between the stacked bottles and casks, some of them taller than Majid, to the rear of the cellar.

"Here's the best place for sleeping," she said. "I'll have the girls bring pallets and sheets down straight away."

"Thank you." Suleiman set down his pack, Majid doing likewise, and both removed their travelling cloaks. Both were dressed in a manner common in Arysia, with baggy white trousers tucked into sturdy boots, long-sleeved white shirts and short-sleeved blue jackets with open v-necks. Both wore red sashes about their waists, the loose ends hanging down. The outfits caught Abrienne's attention.

"I've never seen clothes like those," she said, looking at them with what might have been suspicion. "Where'd you get them?"

"At a market, in Toulon," Majid replied. Abrienne seemed to accept the explanation.

"Anyway, what's your name?"

"Lei."

"Okay, Lei, you'd better come now or the Archbishop will start getting antsy. Oh, and you won't need any of those." She gestured with her finger at the scimitars sheathed at Suleiman and Majid's hips. "His guards will never let you up there armed."

"As you wish." Suleiman pulled the scimitar from his sash and laid it with the rest of his meagre accoutrements. Majid stood stock-still, returning Abrienne's gaze.

"I mean it," she said. "Leave it here or stay, but you're not going up there with all that."

She had a point, or so Suleiman thought. Along with his scimitar, a set of round chakrams also hung at Majid's waist.

"Majid, it's all right," he said, hoping to calm his friend. "I'll be safe up there." Majid gazed into his eyes, as if gauging what he found there.

"You know I will be," he thought. "I don't need a sword to protect myself."

"As you wish, young master." Majid inclined his head, and Suleiman headed off after the slightly exasperated Abrienne.

And he was alone.

The sensation was strangely unsettling to Majid. He had been so close to his young master for so long that to be suddenly separated left him feeling bereft, as if some inner part of him had been suddenly removed. Or was he just afraid for his young master's safety?

He willed himself to calm. There was no obvious danger, and his young master had that to draw upon if all else failed. If nothing else, he would know for certain that his young master needed him.

---

"Forgive me for asking, Miss Abrienne," Suleiman asked as she led him through the labyrinth that was the cellar. "But is this inn yours?"

"It is," Abrienne replied, her tone harsh. "Got a problem with that?"

"Oh, not at all!" Suleiman protested, blushing. "I was just surprised. It seems out of the ordinary in…well, these lands." They stopped, and Abrienne gave him an appraising look.

"Well, if you want to be pedantic, it belongs to my father's cousin, but he's down in Aquilea. He and my father bought the place a year ago, but he died so I run it now, which is as good as owning it when you get right down to it."
"I see." Suleiman felt his spirits wane. "I'm…so sorry."

"What for?" There was a flash of bitterness in her eyes. "It wasn't you who killed him."

There was an awkward silence, and Suleiman felt sadness well up from within him.

"My father…is also dead," he said, trying to break the silence. "For what it's worth…"

"No, I'm sorry," Abrienne apologised, sighing. "Couldn't stop myself."

"I should apologise," Suleiman pressed. "It was not for me to ask."

"If that's the case," Abrienne replied, some of her hard edge returning, "why don't you tell me something Lei, if that really is your name. What are you really?"

"I don't know what you mean." Suleiman's tone was level and reasonable, belying his pounding heart.

"You've only spoken Gallian since you came in here," Abrienne went on. "But not like any I've ever heard. Your clothes aren't fine enough for a noble, and you certainly don't act the way some of them do. But you've got a servant, and there are gracious nobles as well as arrogant bastards. So which is it Lei? Commoner like me? Or noble like them?" she jerked her thumb towards the main room.

Suleiman tried to gather his thoughts. He had encountered nobles as well as commoners in the course of his travels, and knew he didn't really fit into either category. She had no reason to think he was an Arysian, and Majid was probably right in thinking that it wasn't something they should declare openly. But if he lied, he was chancing his imagination against her life's experience, and she already thought his Gallian was a bit strange.

Or was it something else she was worried about?

"Please be assured, Miss Abrienne," he said, as calmly as he could manage. "My friend and I mean you no harm, nor anyone else for that matter. We're just passing through on the way to Romalia."

"It's not me who might get hurt," Abrienne replied darkly. "But I'll trust you for now."

Not sure what to say, Suleiman followed as Abrienne led him back up the stairs, and then up the main stairs to the first floor. Whereas the back corridors had been plain, the area into which she led him was finely-decorated, evidently meant to give an air of style and sophistication. A pair of double doors stood up ahead, evidently the entrance to the function room. Two tall men, their bodies swathed in white cloaks topped with pauldrons and gorgets of polished metal, flanked the door.

A third man was standing ahead of them, clad in a long white coat and white trousers, a rapier at his hip. He had rather unkempt blond hair, and eyes that sparkled in amusement as they fell on Abrienne and Suleiman. Suleiman met his gaze, and noted with some surprise that one eye was blue and the other red.

"Ah, Abrienne!" the man proclaimed, evidently pleased by their arrival. "You found another musician!"

"I did, Father Cesare" Abrienne confirmed. "This is Suleiman, and he says he's very good."

"In which case I, Julio Cesare, will put my trust in you." Julio, for that seemed to be his name, shot Suleiman a friendly grin. "Why don't you inform his grace, Abrienne, while I show our young virtuoso to the players' box."

"As you wish, Father Cesare." Abrienne dropped a curtsy and headed for the doors.

"This way." Cesare led Suleiman over to what appeared to be a patch of wall. It was only when the priest pressed one of the wall panels in that Suleiman realised his intent.

"Unfortunately you still count as a servant," Julio quipped as closed the door behind him. "Which means you have to go unseen."

Before long they reached the players' box. This turned out to be a very small room with a bench, the only source of light being the latticework that made up most of one wall. Suleiman guessed by the noise coming from the other side that it was the function room, and that the event involved large amounts of food.

Despite the privation, being their felt strangely nostalgic. A memory flashed into his mind, of sitting on his father's lap in a little room like that, a rumble of conversation coming from beyond the lattice. He remembered glancing up at his father, seeing the intent look of concentration on his face as he listened to every word.

"I should get back." Julio patted him on the shoulder. "Impress me, maestro." With that, he headed back down the passage.

Suleiman sat down on the wooden bench, and began to check his sitar. His hands acted in reflex, tightening and loosening the strings with delicate finesse, his ear picking up the slightest shift in timbre.

As he straightened up, he heard a bark of laughter from across the lattice.

"Ah! Music at last! Tell him he can start right away!"

"Yes your Grace," said Abrienne's voice. "Please don't hesitate to request anything you need."

"Now," Suleiman thought, letting the music rise inside him. "That one…"

The music came, flowing from his heart, out through his hands, and into the strings. The music emerged from the strings, the delicate sounds reaching out into the box, and then into the function room. Suleiman felt himself relax as the music washed over him, his fingers moving as if by themselves.

After what seemed like an eternity, the piece came to an end. It took Suleiman a moment to realise that the rumbling noise from the chamber beyond was applause.

By the time he heard the function room filing out, Suleiman had lost count of the number of pieces he had played. But his fingers were aching, and his throat was dry, so he was glad of the halt.

As he emerged from the secret passage, he found Abrienne waiting in the foyer for him, grinning from ear to ear.
"As promised." She held out a small leather purse. "Twenty ducats, and a friend in Abrienne Minnelli." Suleiman smiled and took the bag. It felt reassuringly heavy.

"Aren't you going to count it?" she asked, as he made to fasten the bag to the belt under his sash.

"No need," Suleiman replied. "You don't seem like someone who'd cheat me." Abrienne blushed.

"You're nice," she said, sounding like an embarrassed little girl trying to talk to her favourite boy. "But I'd feel better if you did."

"Well if you insist."

Suleiman poured the coins onto his hand. Twenty, thick and golden, emblazoned with an escutcheon that looked like an open oval with a pair of wings. He pulled the touchstone from the bag on his belt, and rubbed one of the coins against it as Majid had taught him.

"You were right," Suleiman said, beaming. "These coins are very pure. Whose sign is this?"

"Why that's the Pope's sign." Abrienne made some sort of gesture over her chest, too fast to make out. "His gold's good, not like some of them. Oh by the way, Father Cesare's down in the cellar with your man. He said he wanted to talk."

"Oh. Thank you."

"Just come on up if you want something to eat."

They headed down the stairs, going their separate ways at the bottom. Suleiman all but skipped down the stairs to the cellar, eager to show his earnings to Majid.

Then stopped suddenly, when he saw the scene taking place.

He saw Majid, his narrow face hard with anger, a gleaming chakram in each hand. Julio Cesare was there too, rapier at the ready, smirking as if the whole situation were a mere amusement. Both were statue-still, tension coming off them in waves.

"What's…." Suleiman gaped, frozen in fear.

"Young master," Majid hissed, glancing at him. "Run!"

"Majid…"

"Calm yourselves," Julio said, in a level tone. "I came here to talk, not to fight. I mean no harm."

"Majid," Suleiman said, voice quavering with fear. "Let's hear him out."

"Young master!"

"Majid," Suleiman pleaded. "Please, trust me."

Majid's eyes flickered from Suleiman to Julio, to Suleiman, to Julio, back and forth again and again. Then, after what seemed like an eternity, he lowered his chakrams. Visibly relieved, Julio likewise lowered his rapier.

"Thank you," the priest said, sheathing his weapon. "Maybe now I can explain myself."

"I think you should," Majid replied coldly, as Suleiman hurried to his side.

"Our meeting was no coincidence," Julio said, ignoring his terseness. "Though it was pure chance that it took place in this building. Though I am ostensibly accompanying the Archbishop, my intention here was to find the both of you."

"For what purpose?" Suleiman asked, intrigued.

"To tell you both to turn back." The smile vanished from Julio's face. "For your own sakes."

"But why?" Suleiman asked, confused and a little hurt. "What wrong have we done?"

"As far as some in these lands are concerned, you were born," the priest replied. "People tend to take religion very seriously in Romalia, perhaps too seriously. And you are, after all, from the Rub'al Khali." Something in his eyes told Suleiman that he wouldn't accept any denials.

"That…is true," he said, not daring to look Majid in the face. "We are from Arysia."

"From Arysia." Julio rolled the word over his tongue. "I wasn't sure, but I suspected you might be from Arysia."

"May I ask why?"

"Because of certain things I hear in sailors' taverns." Julio smirked, leaning his arm on a rack of smaller casks, as if he were telling a friendly anecdote. Following his movement, Suleiman's eye fell on a strange mark on the wall, barely visible behind the casks.

"Yes," Majid drawled darkly. "You seem like the type."

"I hear there's been some trouble in Arysia" Julio went on. Suleiman could almost see lightning crackling between their eyes. "The Sultan is dead. Blood runs in the streets of Cyraszalem. The Merchant Princes are gathering their armies." His smirk widened. "And here the two of you are, having cleared out of Arysia in a considerable hurry. Methinks you had good reason."

Suleiman's heart hammered in his chest. There was no way he could know, was there? He couldn't possibly know.

Could he?

"Fear nothing," Julio reassured them. "I'm not here for your secrets. All I want, and all my…patron wants, is for you both to turn back. You won't be entirely safe anywhere, but you've half a chance so long as you stay out of Romalia."

"If my young master is in danger," Majid replied. "We'll leave now."

"No, not now," Julio warned. "The Scarlet Tower isn't far from here, and they patrol the roads at night. They're not actually hunting you at the moment, but if they catch you out there it won't go well for you."

"The Scarlet Tower?" Suleiman asked. "Who are they?"

"People you really don't want to meet on a dark night." Julio sighed. "I should be going, but will you give me your word you'll both leave tomorrow morning?"

"Yes, of course."

"Then I'll take my leave." Julio gave them a shallow. "I'm only sorry we had to meet under these unhappy circumstances." He swept out.

"He's right, young master," Majid said darkly. "You are not safe in these lands."

"Safer than in Arysia, my good ghulam," Suleiman replied tersely, irritated by the verbal poke. Majid looked away, sullenly. Suleiman sighed, and began undoing his headband.

"I know what you're thinking," he said, as the headband fell away. His ears, long imprisoned by the white cloth, sprang into place. "You think we should have travelled to the homeland of the Pari, to Nepthys."

"Young master." Majid's face remained sullen, but Suleiman could see that he understood.

"My father once told me," he went on, half-sour, half-sad. "Humans, they merely despise. Elves who walked out on them, they hate. These," he flicked one of his long ears ruefully, "would bring me no succour there, and far less for you, Majid."

Suleiman knew very little of the Pari, as his people called the elves, beyond what his father had taught him. The only Pari he had ever met were Arysians like himself, the half or full-blooded descendants of the nomads who had followed the Prophet Cyras in times long past, and taken humans as their companions. His own father had been full-blooded elf, born to two half-blooded parents. Such births were unusual, and regarded as a portent of great events.

"Young master." Majid finally looked him in the eyes. "It is not for you to care what happens to me. If you could be safe in the Elvish lands, I would endure anything to bring it about."

"You don't know the Elves," Suleiman retorted, trying to sound decisive. "And neither do I. Besides." He managed a tired smile. "I would rather die than see you suffer for my sake, Majid." Majid looked away, and Suleiman could have sworn he was blushing.

"We should get some sleep, young master."

"Yes, we should." As Majid headed for the low bed set up for him by the staff, Suleiman tied his headband back in place. There was no point in taking chances. This done, he was about to turn in himself, until he was suddenly reminded of the strange mark on the wall.

It took only a moment to find it again, behind the stack of casks. Leaning close to peer at the mark, he saw that it was shaped somewhat like a tower, of the sort he had seen on noble escutcheons or street signs. He wondered what it meant.
"What is it, young master?"

"Oh, nothing."

He put the matter aside, and headed for his bed.

---

Margraviate of Anhalt-Zerbst, Germanian Empire.

A masterpiece.

Professor Jean Colbert, formerly of the Royal Tristain Magical Academy and currently in the service of the most noble House of Anhalt-Zerbst, had tried for many years to cultivate true modesty. He had managed it for the most part, limiting himself to the life of a humble teacher, trying to atone for a single, terrible mistake.

But despite his efforts, there was still a part of him that yearned to reach for the stars. It was the part of him that invented things, coming up with new uses for old spells, or new spells for new needs, or ways to do things without recourse to magic at all. It was the part of him that yearned to use his talents, to let the fire within him burn without limit.

The ultimate expression of that tendency loomed in front of him. His greatest achievement, his one undeniable success, and the ultimate proof of what he had come to believe.

Ostland.

The Margrave had insisted on secrecy, but there was no building in Halkeginia large enough to house what he had wanted built. They had been forced to use a mountain crag, shaped to purpose by Earth magi, with canvas sails strung over it on chains, keeping out the elements and prying eyes. Forges and blast furnaces had been built around it, fed by cartload after cartload of iron ore and coal brought down from the mines that were the lynchpin of Anhalt-Zerbst's wealth and power. When the carts proved insufficient, the Margrave had ordered the wagonways extended from the nearest mines, the wooden tracks snaking through the mountains and over the landscape like great wooden serpents.

What a joy it had been to witness it all. In all his life Jean had never thought he would witness such energy, such industry, and in the winter to boot.

He had overseen every part of it, involved himself in every aspect, every process. He had watched wind mages funnel air into the blast furnaces, while worker drained away the slag and poured out the glowing liquid steel. He had persuaded the Margrave to provide coke for the furnaces, so as to heat the metal more cheaply, and anthracite to strengthen it. Using anthracite had been a calculated risk, and he could tell by the looks on the old sweats' faces that they hadn't expected it to work.

They hadn't expected to have to work with mages either. Nobles were generally happy to enrich themselves by investing in industry, but thought it déclassé to actually get involved. Those who did tended to be the disgraced and desperate, individuals of unpredictable ability and intent. Only in Germania could he have found willing and capable mages so easily.

The fruit of their labour, the union of their effort and his genius, loomed before him. It was quite large, at a hundred mails from prow to stern and a hundred and fifty mails from wingtip to wingtip. He had heard in telling that Varangia was experimenting with cladding their ships in iron or steel, as the Elves had been doing for some time, and as he had done with the lower hull.

But nowhere in all the world, not even in the Elvish lands, was there a ship like Ostland. His Ostland.

Jean scanned the mighty vessel from bow to stern, almost needing to lean on his staff. Even then, still shrouded in scaffolding and gantries, it was an overwhelming sight. He took in the gracefully-curving upper hull, made from timber planks cut and shaped to order at lumber mills all across the margraviate. He saw the steel-clad lower hull below it, flaring out in symmetry with the upper hull. His eyes drew him to the mighty swept-back wings, one of the vessel's most revolutionary features. Made entirely of steel and lined with vertical steering rudders, whole new riveting techniques had been invented in order to build them. But the most revolutionary features of all were located halfway along each wing, with another set into the stern. It was because of them that the Ostland had no masts.

Jean had wanted to see a steam engine ever since he had first heard of them about a year earlier. The device he eventually found atop one of Anhalt-Zerbst's many coal mines had not disappointed, neither in its wonder nor its simplicity. Water was boiled, allowing steam to rise through a valve into a cylinder, which pushed up a piston. This in turn forced up one end of a rocking beam, forcing the other down in the process. Water would then be released into the cylinder, condensing the steam to create a vacuum which drew down the piston, thus hauling down the beam.

The result was a constant up-and-down motion capable of handling very heavy loads, ideal for pumping unwanted water out of a mine. All Jean had needed to do was come up with a way to make it turn a horizontal shaft, a simple matter of rigging it with a connection rod and cam.

Or at least, it had seemed like a simple matter at the time.

Jean sighed as his eyes fell on the stern of the ship, the engine housings still incomplete. Only the stern engine had actually been installed, in accordance with his revised specifications. He just hoped it would work this time. The Margrave had been more than generous already without…

"Oh Jean darling!"

Jean froze as a pair of uncomfortably familiar arms hooked through his right arm. The arms tightened, pressing his arm into something warm and soft while hot breath tickled his ear.

"Are you admiring the fruit of our love, Jean?"

"Miss Zerbst…"

Despite the reputation he had acquired back at the Royal Tristain Academy of Magic, Jean Colbert had been involved with women, at least back in the day. But that had been a couple of decades ago, and he had long since assumed that, with his less than fashionable hobbies and his balding head, further involvement was unlikely. He had certainly not expected to have Kirche Augusta Fredericka von Anhalt-Zerbst, heiress to the Margraviate of that name and one of his students to boot, throwing herself at him as if there were no tomorrow.

As uncomfortable as he felt, Jean could not stop himself from turning his head. Her face drew slowly into view, wearing a smile that had led many a young man to nights of sensual pleasure. Her skin was an exotic bronze, possibly the result of plentiful sunshine, her red hair spilling down her back and curling down over her face, concealing her right eye. The left eye, the colour of polished copper, sparkled lasciviously.

"Oh Jean," she purred, her voice alone enough to make his face flush. "You don't know how unutterably manly I find you, standing here in the presence of your magnificent creation."

"I…I must confess," Jean stammered, trying to control himself. "I did not expect you to find it so…interesting."

"Come now, Jean." Kirche gave him an indulgent look. "It's a question of scale. Those little toys back at school weren't going to impress anyone. But something like this…" Despite his best efforts, Jean found his eyes wandering down her neck, over her collarbone, down to the plunging neckline of that dress.

She had been carrying on like that since the moment he'd arrived. As tempting as it was to give in to her blandishments, Jean had thus far resisted. He knew her well enough to know that, while by no means a bad person, she had no long-term interest in him. It was the thrill of the chase that drew her on, the challenge of getting him to submit to her wiles. The more he resisted, he knew, the harder she would try, until someone else took her fancy.

He heard a croaking noise from beside her feet. He glanced down, glad of the distraction, to see a pair of reptilian eyes gazing up at him. Jean shivered at the sight of the great red salamander, his body low-slung and powerful, a bright flame leaping from his tail end. His name was Flame, and though he had never attacked anyone without a command from Kirche, Jean could not help but feel uncomfortable with the look it was giving him.

"Miss Zerbst," he said, managing to drag his eyes back up. "Are you by any chance with…?"

"Daughter!" The shout answered Jean's question for him, in the worst possible way.

"Your Grace!" he spluttered, trying to disentangle himself as a red-haired man approached, clad in the slashed doublet, baggy trousers and high boots currently fashionable in Germania. "I…I was just…!"

"Daughter, oblige me by climbing off the Professor," Margrave Benedict von Anhalt-Zerbst said waspishly. "I wish to speak with him before he begins the engine test. Go and keep our guests distracted."

"As my father wishes," Kirche sighed, separating herself from Jean. She shot him a wink and sashayed off towards the gaggle of well-dressed notables gazing up at the Ostland. Seeing them made Jean even more nervous.

"Your Grace!" He returned his attention to the Margrave. He was tall and solidly-built, and had given his daughter her eyes as well as her hair. But whereas Kirche's eyes were warm, indulgent, inviting even, his were cold and hard. "Your Grace! I hope you don't…!"

"I am well aware of my daughter's predilections, professor," the Margrave replied. "I trust she has not distracted you too much?"
"Oh, not at all your Grace!" Jean laughed nervously. "I wouldn't not dream of letting you down, not after you have been so generous!"

"Generous indeed." There was something unsettling in the Margrave's tone. "Yet all you have to show for it is slightly exotic airship. Was omitting the masts entirely wise, Professor?"

"I have absolute confidence in the new engine configuration," lied Jean. "It will provide the necessary power."

"Then perhaps you'll allow me to watch the test you were about to carry out."

"By all means, your Grace." Jean led the Margrave towards his observation tower, wondering if the Founder Brimir was punishing him for something.

If so, he had a pretty shrewd idea of what it was.

The tower was made out of scaffolding poles and wooden boards, with a ladder running up to the top. Jean was a little embarrassed to have to inflict such an indignity on a noble, but Margrave Benedict proved equal to the challenge, following him up the ladder without difficulty or complaint. Once at the top, they had a clear view down onto the central engine, which would remain uncovered until the final configuration had been decided upon.

"So what exactly have you done with it, Professor?" the Margrave asked, gazing fixedly at the engine. Smoke was already rising from the great black chimney set into the Ostland's stern.

"I decided that one piston was simply insufficient," Jean replied, warming to his work. "It could make the shaft turn, but not fast enough for our purposes." He gestured to the propeller, with its long, curved blades that would displace air and drive the Ostland forward. "Thus, as you can see, I have added additional pistons."

"How can that be?" the Margrave asked, mildly incredulous. "How can the beams turn the shaft if they are hanging over it?"

"They can, because I have redesigned the shaft!" proclaimed Jean, almost bouncing with excitement. "Rather than a single straight shaft, I have fitted it with cams that reach out and away from the line of the shaft. Between each pair of cams is a rotating pin, which is in turn fitted to the connecting rod. Thus can the rods turn the shaft without fouling it!" He beamed like a child. "It's not dissimilar to the shaft I found in the Dragon's Cloak, but it wasn't until now that I realised why!" He suddenly realised that the Margrave was giving him a dubious look.

"I cannot help but wonder," he said, cocking an eyebrow. "This Ostland will be yours, of course. But you must know that I will build more of them, and arm them for war. You do not find this objectionable?"

"Why should I?" Jean retorted sourly. "Doubtless you have your reasons. And I am in no position to criticize."

"You're right, I do," replied the Margrave. "You do not object to these vessels being used for war, yet I know that you despise war. If not for war, then for what did you build it?"

"For what?" Jean scanned his eyes over the Ostland once more, his smile returning as he did.

"Why your grace, I built it to see if I could." The Margrave was silent for a moment, then chuckled.

"You are a unique man, Jean Colbert."

"Thank you, your grace."

Jean waved his hand at a worker standing on the quarter deck. The man waved back, then hurried into the rear cabin. It was time for the test.

"Did you miss me, Jean?" Jean sighed as Kirche sidled up beside him, wondering how she had managed to climb the ladder without her hearing him. He heard a croak, and knew with a terrible sinking feeling that her wretched salamander had come too. The Margrave paid neither his daughter nor her familiar any mind.

Jean shivered, this time with anticipation. He needed to be where he was, to see the engine work from the outside, but a part of him still wanted to be at the controls. He had told the workers what to do, and since many of them had used to work on the pumping engines they seemed to understand what he meant. But he could not help but worry.

His eyes fixed upon the row of four beams above the shaft, willing them to rise and fall. He felt a cold weight in his chest, and wondered if one of the pipes had burst, again.

He heard a hiss of steam, and his heart leapt as the beams began to move. First the outer two, then the inner two, as he had arranged them. There was a groan of metal on metal as the propeller began to turn. One revolution, and then so very slowly another, and then another.

"It goes no faster," commented the Margrave.

"A moment, your grace" Jean pleaded. "Let them build up the steam pressure." Though the engine was aimed out away from the mountains, he could feel the wind against his face. The propeller revolved again, and again, with stubborn, agonizing slowness. Jean began to wonder what they were doing down there. Were they being too cautious with the steam pressure? Or had they seen something he hadn't?

The tower creaked, and Jean could have sworn that the wind on his face was stronger than a moment ago. The propeller was indeed accelerating, spinning faster and faster, the wind buffeting the tower. Jean clutched at the handrail, almost jumping for joy as the propeller blades whirled. Within a moment they were barely visible, a shimmering circle in the air about the shaft.

"It's working!" Jean exclaimed, exultant. "It's working!" He barely heard the cheers and applause from the bottom of the tower. He barely noticed Kirche clinging to his arm, shouting for joy.

Ostland would fly.

---

And here is Chapter One. Most of what you've read here will become relevant later. Also, I thought a little scene with Colbert and Kirche would be funny if nothing else.

 

[Zaru]

Don't worry about the lack of traffic Juubi. SV does have a love for ZnT... just more of the Crossover variety. And they pretty much worship Worm.

Trust me I know. Outcry has like, over 472k views and it's a crossover with a niche NintendoHard Video Game

Just keep at it. Besides, the critique here has been constructive. More so than on FF.net, that's for sure.

If you want to post ONE here and make edits with the new current stuff(ala, adding Euro Britannians to the earlier chapters) that cna be cool too. Besides, I think readers would be intrigued by a Code Geass/Gundam 00 crossover, especially one considering it has it's own TV Tropes page

 

[Juubi-K]

Well, I've come this far. And the critique has been most helpful.

I think I shall post ONE here after all. I just need to think a little on what to change.

 

[Juubi-K]

Lore Post: Magic

Trying to make sense of Familiar of Zero's magic system has caused my brain to almost melt several times. I am indebted to Zaru for hearing me out so patiently, and the many tireless posters of Spacebattles.com for collating so much data.

Additional thanks to all fictions, for providing a much-needed update and corrections. Also, I shall refer to the two worlds of ZnT as Saito's World and Louise's World respectively.

As I see it, Magic is a basic force in the universe, up there with Gravity and Electromagnetism. Brimir himself describes Human Magic as involving 'grains' while his Void magic involved 'grains within grains', hinting at atomic and subatomic particles respectively. This is a clear indication of the mindset behind Human Magic, namely an empirical, scientific mindset that seeks to rationally understand magic at the deepest possible level.

Spirit Magic, by contrast, is based on a very different philosophy. Its users are the Firstborn races, which include Elves, Birdmen, Goblins, Vampires, and Rhyme Dragons. Elves and Birdmen speak of a 'contract', by which they use Spirit Magic only through the good offices of 'Spirits' of one sort or another. These Spirits seem to have no particular motive or interest in what they are being called-upon to do, but simply do whatever the supplicant requires. Spirit Magic appears to be more powerful than Human Magic, but has two noticeable weaknesses. One is that it does not seem to allow for Alchemy, or the alteration of substances beyond their natural forms generally; a problem Elves overcome through mundane technology. The other is that Spirit Magic is bound very much to the Earth, meaning it is very difficult to use in the sky.

Despite these differences, these two branches of magic are essentially the same at a deeper level. The difference lies in physical differences between Humans and the Firstborn, specifically in the brain. Vampires are clear evidence of this, as they gain the ability to use Spirit magic when turned. The Elemental siblings are further evidence,

Spoiler

as they were experimented-on as part of a scheme to create Vampire-Human hybrids, and thus gained the ability to use Spirit Magic.

. The brain connection comes from a mage whom Tabitha once encountered; who had transferred his brain into the body of a minotaur, and actually increased his magical prowess.

The deeper similarity between Human and Spirit Magic is evidenced by the relevance of the elements. Human Magic is based entirely around the elements, with individual mages possessing elemental affinities, and magic being taught in terms of the elements. Spirit Magic users do not refer to the elements half so often, and they seem to have little direct bearing on the magic itself. But the connection is mentioned from time to time, usually in reference to the Spirit Stones which Elves can both create and use.

Spirit Stones can be thought of as Spirit fossils; essentially Spirits or Spirit energy that have congealed together underground. Spirit Stones are divided along elemental lines; with Windstones being the best known, but Firestones, Earthstones, and Waterstones also appearing from time to time. Windstones are well-known for their ability to defy gravity, for which they are used to make airships fly. Firestones seem to be used as a heat and light source by the Elves, when they can be bothered to acquire or create them; but when exposed to Void magic they become terrifyingly powerful bombs. Earthstones get a mention in one of Tabitha's side stories, where they are used as a power source for golems.

Wands

The most common form is the 'wand'; a small, Harry Potter-style implement used by nobles and academy students, but also sometimes by soldiers. In the manga, Wardes used such a wand as his primary weapon. They are used primarily for spellcasting, but it is also possible to generate a magical blade from the wand, making a lightsaber of sorts.

The most common wand type after normal wands are the various sword-like wands. The most common form is essentially a scaled-up wand with a sword hilt, around which a magical blade is generated. Wardes uses a rapier-hilted version in the anime, while some Mage-knights use two-handed versions; however, they are also shown carrying normal swords and wands.

Staves and sceptres also appear from time to time. Staves are supposedly favoured by Priests, but Tabitha also carries one. Henrietta and Louise's father carry sceptres, which seem to be a halfway-house between wands and staves. Menvil and his followers carry something approximating to staves, but somewhat shorter and fitted with mace-like heads.

It's unclear what difference this all makes, and it may be nothing more than personal preference. Small wands are certainly more convenient and user-friendly than larger implements, while a wand-sword is better adapted for combat. As for staves, it is possible that a larger implement attracts more magic, or allows more magic to be focused, possibly at the cost of fine control.

 

[Zaru]

I trust that Juubi's explanation on the magic was sufficient for the audience and on those who follow ZnT religiously??

 

[Juubi-K]

World Map

Note: This map is non-canon. I worked some things out as best I could from the canon material, but don't quote me on it.

 

[Juubi-K]

Chapter Two​

The Royal Palace, Kingdom of Tristain, 18th day of Feoh

The hallway rang with the sound of heavy boots on marble.

The cause of the racket was Agnes de Milan, Captain of the Guard and Captain of the Queen's Musketeer Company. As she strode along the corridor, the columns and gilt-framed windows looming tall around her, maids and lesser functionaries scampered out of her way. Few in the palace, even among the nobles, dared risk her wrath.

They were wise not to, especially not in the morning. Her day had begun just before dawn, with a bucket of icy water and a breakfast of bread and milk. She had then overseen the changing of the day and night guards, the latter gratefully retreating to their barracks to eat and sleep. She had spent the following hours inspecting the walls, the gates, the doors, the armoury, and all of a thousand-and-one little things that had to be checked daily if the palace was to be kept secure.

Then, and only then, was she ready to perform her single most important duty; her daily audience with the Queen.

A handful of richly-dressed nobles were already hanging around the double doors of the Queen's apartments. No doubt they hoped she was in the mood to grant them audience before the rush started. In an hour or so that outer chamber would be crammed with petitioners, officials, courtiers, and other hangers-on, seeking the Queen's attention for one thing or another.

The nobles looked up at the sound of her approach, and began removing themselves from her path in as nonchalant a manner as they could manage. For the most part their expressions were carefully neutral, but Agnes could still see it in one or two pairs of eyes; the contempt, the disgust, the humiliation that her presence, her mere existence, condemned them to endure. As a commoner, and a woman, she would ordinarily have had no place in that magnificent hall except to clean it. But she was a Chevalresse, in the blue-green surcoat of the Musketeers, emblazoned with Tristain's lily in white, a sword at her hip and a pistol holstered at her waist. Her presence, her mere existence, was an overturning of what Brimir had ordained.

It was also a reminder that the Queen no longer trusted them. It reminded them of their shame, of Reconquista.

Two of her fellow Musketeers were standing either side of the door, each carrying a ceremonial halberd. As she drew close, both rapped their halberds on the floor, the blows reverberating like thunderclaps through the marble hall. The doors opened, and there stood a portly gentleman clad in finely-tailored white and gold, a silver staff of office in his white-gloved hand. It was Francois de la Porte, the Grand Chamberlain, whose myriad duties included managing the never-ending flow of audience-seekers.

"Agnes, Chevalresse de Milan, Captain of the Guard," he declared. "Her Majesty is expecting you."

Without waiting for her to respond, he turned on his heel. Agnes fell in behind him, following him along another corridor, and turning right into the Queen's private office. The Queen was seated at the great desk, the elderly Cardinal Mazarin at her side. She looked small in the high-backed chair, her pale blue eyes gaze fixed on a document. Though she looked every inch the Queen, clad in a gown of purest white, a silver tiara in her purple hair, her countenance was gentle, almost innocent.

But Agnes' eyes were fixed on the young woman standing across the desk from the Queen. She was about Agnes' age, with dark skin, a narrow nose, and long black hair. She wore a short, expensive-looking buff coat with leggings and high boots, and a rapier sheathed at her waist. She had an air of easy confidence about her that grated on Agnes' nerves.

"The Chevalresse de Milan, your Majesty," La Porte introduced her. The Queen looked up, her frown of concentration replaced by a friendly smile.

"Ah, Agnes," Henrietta greeted her. "So good of you to come. Are your rounds complete for the morning?"

"Yes, your Majesty, all is well." Agnes forced herself not to stare at the interloper, instead inclining her head respectfully to the Cardinal; who acknowledged her with the slightest of nods.

"Excellent. Since you're here, there's something important I wish to share with you." The Queen gestured at the newcomer. "This is the Chevalresse Alice la Durant, formerly of the Griffon Squadron. She has been carrying out a mission for me in Germania. Alice, this is..."

"Agnes de Milan." Alice stepped towards her, holding out a gloved hand. "I've heard much of your exploits."

She was smiling, but there was something in the smile that set Agnes' teeth on edge. It was that same easy confidence, the self-assurance of one who had spent her entire life being what Agnes could never be, not matter how hard she tried.

"Madame la Chevalresse." Agnes took the proffered hand cautiously, knowing it was expected of her. "I fear you have the advantage of me."

"Alice has also done good service in Albion," the Queen explained. She smiled pleasantly, and Agnes got the impression she was pleased with the way the encounter was going. "Thankfully, she was not involved in the treachery of the Mage Guards."

"I am glad to hear it," Agnes said, fixing the Chevalresse with a hard gaze. She would not soon forget those dark days, when it had seemed all was lost. She would not soon forget that terrible night, when the old Queen, sick and dying, had handed her a list of names and bidden her do her duty. In her darker moments she remembered their faces, their eyes, staring through the prison bars. Some had raged, banged on the doors, called her a peasant whore and vowed all manner of horrid vengeance. Others had wept despairing tears, pleaded their innocence, begged on their knees to be allowed to go into battle, to prove that they were not traitors.

Some of them had been released quickly, and had been allowed to prove themselves in battle. Some had remained longer, waiting out the war while their homes were searched, their friends and families questioned, their lives sifted, weighed, and measured for the slightest speck of treason. For those found wanting, there could be only one fate.

Agnes did not regret it. She had no right to regret it.

"Unfortunately, that connection is relevant to our business here today," the Cardinal interjected grimly. "The Chevalresse has just come from Lusatia, bringing a message from Prince Frederick and Princess Elizabeth."

"I'm not familiar with that place," Agnes admitted, biting down her embarrassment. Another unwanted reminder that she had not been born to stand in that chamber, or wear that uniform. Her education had gone little beyond reading and writing, the most that might be expected of an orphaned peasant girl.

"It's one of Germania's two principalities in the east," Alice explained, still smiling. "The larger and nicer one. Her Majesty asked me to deliver a message of congratulations on their recent accession, and to sound out their future intentions."

"I don't follow."

"Perhaps it would be better to explain from the start, Alice," the Queen asked. "I'd like to hear your findings."

"As your Majesty wishes." Alice cleared her throat. "As far as I could ascertain, the Prince and Princess were enthroned as compromise candidates between the Protestant and Orthodox factions in the Imperial Diet. My sources tell me the meeting dragged on for three days and involved at least one duel, which means they were taking things seriously."

"I suppose it's no surprise," the Queen comment. "Tell me, from whence does Prince Frederick hail?"

"He was the Count of Furztviel, in Lubeck," Alice answered. "He was only tolerable to the Orthodox magnates only because of his marriage to Elizabeth."

"Ah, yes, Furtzviel," the Queen mused awkwardly. "A very…pleasant place I'm told. Well known for…beans, I believe and…leather shorts?"

"It sounds like a dump," said Agnes sourly.

"It is a dump," Alice agreed. "Frederick only got Elizabeth because he had a shot at being Landgrave of Lubeck. From what my sources told me, the Emperor put him forward as a compromise candidate; a Protestant with an Orthodox wife of Royal blood, with no real power base of his own."

"Royal blood?" Agnes asked, intrigued.

"Elizabeth was a Stuart by birth," the Queen explained. "She has a claim on the crown of Albion, albeit a weak one. The Duke of Marcillac is Regent for the moment, but he isn't getting any younger, and he depends on Handenburg's army to maintain control."

"I take it you see the problem?" hazarded Alice.

"When Marcillac dies or retires, Elizabeth may take the throne," Agnes replied, forcing herself to ignore Alice's condescension. "She will be Queen of Albion, with a Germanian husband, a Germanian army, and beholden to the Protestant magnates."

"Three out of three!" Alice proclaimed cheerfully.

"I'm sure you can see the danger, Captain," added the Cardinal grimly. "Albion will become little more than a Germanian province. Romalia will not take this lying down, and there's no telling how Gallia will react, not with that madman Joseph on the throne. As for the Orthodox magnates…" He trailed off, and to Agnes he looked so very, very old. She looked again at the Queen, who seemed to be deep in thought.

"The half-elf?" Agnes almost shivered as she thought of that innocent girl, born of a Duke of Albion and an Elvish woman, who had lived all her life in the forest. That innocent girl, who was the niece of Albion's last King.

"Could she possible mean to…?"

"I almost forgot to ask," the Queen spoke up. "What news have you of the Emperor?"

Alice's smile faded. She drew a long breath.

"I was unable to gain an audience," she replied. "The business of government continues, but he has not been seen in public for over a month. There are…rumours of a stomach problem."

"You're saying the Emperor is dying?" demanded Agnes, a cold knife twisting in her gut.

"If so, the consequences may be dire." The Queen's countenance was grim. "He has not named an heir, and the magnates may not be able to decide on one among themselves. If it comes to civil war, the whole of Halkeginia may be drawn in."

The atmosphere in the chamber had turned gloomy. Agnes understood in that moment why the Queen had entrusted her to listen to such business. In months, or weeks, or maybe even days, Tristain could be at war once again, with all or part of Germania, and Founder-knew who else.

"I am at your disposal, your Majesty." It was all she could think of to say.

"I never doubted it, Agnes." The Queen seemed to find her resolve. "After what happened in Albion, it is clear that we must reconsider the kingdom's defences. We must mend the roads, stockpile supplies, and see to it that the border fortresses are manned. It may be necessary to raise a permanent army."

"The expense will be considerable, your Majesty," warned the Cardinal. "The towns already voted a considerable sum to cover the Albion war expenses, and to replace your Majesty's furniture. They may not take kindly to new calls for funds."

"We will have to take it slowly," the Queen replied. "Also, Agnes, I am considering expanding my guards." She looked at Agnes expectantly. "Do you suppose another company of musketeers would be viable?"

"By all means, your Majesty," Agnes declared. "My officers and I stand ready to train the new recruits as soon as you wish it."

"Excellent!" The Queen suddenly smiled. "I wonder if it should be a company of male musketeers this time. In blue perhaps?"

"Y…your Majesty!" Agnes spluttered, shocked at the suggestion. "Your Majesty…your Majesty's position!"

"Oh calm down Agnes!" The Queen giggled, while Alice let out a barking laugh. "I'm not going to give them your company's duties! You think I want young men staring at me in my bath?"

Agnes bit down her anger. She felt foolish for having been teased. Of course she wasn't going to raise male guards for such duties. It was unthinkable for a Princess, or a Queen, to be seen by a man while in her bed, or her bath, or at her toilette. The all-female musketeers had been raised for precisely that reason.

"Agnes, since your musketeers guard me, your company shall be senior," the Queen went on. "But if I were to raise a company or two more, would you do me the honour of accepting overall command?"

Agnes felt her cheeks burn. Command of many companies? A whole regiment? She never would have imagined it!

"I…it would be my honour to accept your commission, your Majesty!" Agnes snapped to attention and bowed.

"And you, Alice?" The Queen turned to Alice. "Would you care to remain in my service?"

"Of course, your Majesty." Alice smiled and bowed. "Though with the Griffon Knights disbanded, I fear I have no position here."

"Nevertheless, you have proven your worth, and I would have you remain." The Queen cocked an eyebrow. "Unless you wish to return to Gallia?"

"I am in your Majesty's service, for as long as you wish it."

"Excellent!" The Queen beamed, and Agnes saw something of the young girl she still was. Alice turned to face her, and held out her hand.

"I would be pleased to serve alongside you, Agnes Chevalresse de Milan." Agnes looked down at the hand, then up at Alice. Her eyes were sincere, at least.

"And I you, Alice Chevalresse la Durant." She took the proffered hand, and hoped she would never regret it.

---

Lutece, Kingdom of Gallia, 22nd Day of Feoh

There were not many cities like Lutece.

None in all of Halkeginia could match it for size, or magnificence. Some five hundred-thousand men, women, and children lived within its sprawling limits, reaching over several thousand mails either side of the Shire River. Warehouses and docks crowded along the riverside, storing and transferring the river trade that brought the city so much of its wealth. Magnificent bridges spanned the wide river at regular intervals, masterfully constructed to as to let the river boats and barges pass effortlessly beneath them.

The city had been extensively remodeled during the reign of King Joseph's father. The ramshackle rookeries had been burned and built over, condemning their inhabitants to seek shelter elsewhere or else wait in crowded camps around the city. The sewers, first installed in the days of Julio Cesare, were repaired and expanded. New buildings of brick, stone, and marble had replaced the wood, wattle and daub that had gone before. Narrow alleys had been widened and equipped with pavements, ostensibly for their beautification, but also to make it harder for rebellious citizens to barricade them. The main streets had been widened into long, broad boulevards, lined with trees and statues. These connected all the main buildings and quarters of the city, as well as providing a fine venue for religious and civic processions, and even the newly fashionable military parades.

But on this particular night, the city was more magnificent, and more vibrant, than at any other time of the year. Merry chaos reigned amid music and dancing. Every fountain flowed with wine of every colour known, and well before midnight were strewn with paralytic revelers. Nobles and commoners reveled alike, barely knowing each other for their masks and costumes. Every street was a riot of colour and a cacophony of joy.

Not that any of this impressed Majid. The city was not bad by Halkeginian standards, at least in the daylight, but it still could not compare to the glory of Cyrasalem, or Tehdad, or Damas. At least the streets were well-paved, which was more than could be said for some of the places he and his young master had passed through.

It was the debauchery all around him that truly got on his nerves. Rich and poor alike had squandered their wealth on sumptuous costumes and masks, all for the purpose of cavorting in the streets, throwing dignity and propriety to the wind. He had watched in disbelief and disgust as they stuffed their mouths with food, and poured liquor down their throats as if it were water, the object in both cases seeming to be to get as much on themselves as in their bellies.

The second-worst part was that his young master seemed to be loving every minute of it. He had actually enjoyed wandering from tavern to wine shop to drinking pit, regaling the revelers with music they were too inebriated to possibly appreciate. Worse, they found the bawdy folk songs of Gallia and Romalia far more entertaining than anything Arysian he had sung for them.

But even that, even all that, could not compare to the desecration inflicted on his ears.

"Majid!" Suleiman called, his voice slurring noticeably. "Why the long face?"

"I don't have a long face, young master."

"Come on Majid!" Suleiman swigged from a bottle of Cyras-knew-what he had acquired at their last venue. "It's carnival night! Try smiling!"

"I am smiling." And this was true, strictly-speaking. His current facial expression was about as close to a smile as it had ever been.

"Come now Majid!" Suleiman proclaimed fulsomely. "It's a glorious night! And those ears make you look distinguished!"

Majid shuddered. It wasn't enough that his young master had insisted on exposing his ears during the festivities. He had somehow been talked into letting some hack of a mage alter his own ears to match. It wasn't painful as such, and the mage had assured him that his ears would return to normal by morning. But he couldn't seem to forget that they were there, and it seemed like every other person they encountered was staring at them.

A strange whooping cry shocked Majid out of his funk. He turned to see a group of richly-dressed revelers pointing at them.

"Oooh look! Elves!"

"Elves are in the city!"

"Oh save me, save me!"

Majid's hand dropped to his chakrams, and froze there as the obviously inebriated partygoers burst into peals of laughter. Suleiman was laughing too.

"Fear not, fair maiden!" proclaimed one of the revelers, an aristocrat from the look of him, wearing an oversized hat with several very large feathers sticking out of it. "I shall unleash the power of my mighty wand!" He reached under his cloak, and with a flourish swept out a very long sausage. His companions fell about laughing. Majid was resisting the urge to grab the indecent food item and bludgeon the infuriating sot to death with it. He wasn't entirely sure how he would do this, but he was certain it would come to him.

He was about to give it a try, when Suleiman suddenly pushed his half-empty liquor bottle into his hands.

"Flee puny humans!" he exclaimed, raising his hands in a series of bizarre gestures. "Flee before the power of the Elves! Fear the thunder and the wind!"

He let loose a particularly long and loud burp. The revelers laughed even louder, some of them rolling on the ground. Suleiman beamed, evidently enjoying himself.

"Young master!" Majid snarled, on the verge of losing his temper. The sight of his young master clowning around in the street, for the benefit of a pack of reprobates, was enough to make his blood boil.

"Oh lighten up Majid!" Suleiman slurred, with just an edge of irritation, taking back his bottle. "We never get to…" he hiccupped, "loosen up any!"

"It's the troubadour!"

The exclamation took both of them by surprise. It had not come from Suleiman's erstwhile audience, for they had wandered off. Both looked, and saw that it had come from a young girl standing close by. She looked to be about Suleiman's age, with long blue hair and turquoise eyes. Her shapely body was clad in a blue gown bedecked with ribbons and lace, much like what the other female revelers were wearing, and she held a blue dragon mask in her hand.

"Kyui!" the girl proclaimed.

"Young lady!" Suleiman's face split into a drunken grin as he bowed rather unsteadily. The girl giggled, but not with the amused contempt Majid would have expected. Despite her appearance, there was something distinctly innocent about her, almost childlike.

"What do you want?" he demanded, regarding her coldly. "Can't you see we're having a conversation?"

"You're not having a conversation!" the girl retorted, smiling too much. "You're yelling at him!"

"It's…!" Majid was so surprised that his words failed him. "It's none of your business!"

"Yes it is!" the girl replied, still smiling.

"No it isn't!" Majid snapped back.

"Yes it is!" Suleiman interjected, eyeing her with evident pleasure.

"No it isn't!"

"Yes it is!" The girl slid her arm through Suleiman's own. "I'm Irukuku! My big sister wants to say hello! And she wants you to play nice music, so Irukuku can sing pretty songs!" She winked at him, and Suleiman had a vision of paradise.

"He's not going anywhere with you!" Majid snapped, grabbing Suleiman's other arm. She was obviously nothing but trouble.

"Yes he is!" Irukuku insisted, pulling on his arm. "Big sister sent Irukuku to get him!"

"Let go of him!" Majid roared. He pulled, but to his surprise the girl's grip did not slacken. She was stronger than she looked.

"You let go!" the girl retorted, pouting in annoyance as she pulled.

"Ah-hah, Majid!" Suleiman laughed as his old friend and a cute girl pulled him back and forth. "Come on! No reason to fight!"

"Unhand my young master!" Majid barked. "Naughty lady of the night!"

"Let go of big sister's troubadour!" Majid could have sworn that Irukuku's canines were growing longer. "Big meanie!"

---

The Magic Academy, Kingdom of Tristain

All was quiet.

Or rather about as quiet as a place the size of Royal Tristain Academy of Magic could ever be. The students and faculty had long since retired to their rooms, but the servants would not do so for at least another hour. The maids performed their final rounds of the classrooms, laboratories, offices, and common rooms, ensuring that all was clean and in order. Down below stairs, the kitchen staff finished scouring the remnants of the evening meal from the cooking pots and crockery, while others stoked the great ovens with coal, ready for them to be lit the next morning.

But for the occasional maid, the corridors and gardens of the academy were deserted. As such, no one noticed the two cloaked figures hurrying from shadow to shadow.

"Keep up!" hissed the one in front. "Don't let anyone see you!"

"Yes!"

Both came to a halt, pressing their backs against the cold stones as they approached their final destination. The one in front, also the shorter of the two, poked her head around the corner.

"Miss Louise," the taller figure behind whispered nervously. "Are you sure this is all right?"

"What're you babbling about?" the shorter girl hissed. "Of course it's all right!"

"But then why are we…?"

"Come on!" The shorter girl grabbed her companion's hand and pulled. The taller girl squeaked in surprise, holding down her hat with her other hand as they hurried along the wall, coming to a halt by a wooden door. The shorter girl rapped a quick tattoo, and a hatch slid open at eye height. A pair of eyes glanced out at them, then the hatch slid shut and the door opened.

"Ah!" the shorter girl breathed, as the door was closed behind her. "We made it."

"Isn't Master Saito coming?" asked the maid, as she locked the door.

"No, Siesta, he isn't!" replied Louise la Blanc de la Valliere tersely. "We don't need him interfering!"

"But why would Mister Saito interfere?" Tiffania cocked her head, seemingly confused by her words. "I thought we weren't doing anything wrong."

"We aren't!" Louise gritted her teeth, trying to regain her composure.

She ought not to get angry. It wasn't appropriate for a noble, especially not one of her high birth, to lose her temper over someone who wasn't even trying to annoy her. But just about everything about Tiffania Westwood seemed to have been maliciously calculated to drive her to distraction. It wasn't that she was taller, by a considerable margin. It wasn't that long blonde hair, or that snow-white complexion, or the permanent look of guileless, child-like innocence in her bright blue eyes. It wasn't those perfectly-proportioned hips, those long legs. It wasn't even that Saito couldn't seem to keep his eyes, or his hands, off her for more than five minutes.

Louise wanted to scream. She could match that girl in every particular! Where Tiffania was tall, she was petite. Where her hair was blonde and straight, Louise's was an exotic pink and rather curly, but just as soft. Where Tiffania's eyes were a pretty blue, hers were an alluring purple inherited from her mother. Yes, she had something to offer for anything that girl could.

Except those…things. Those oversized…indecent…buxomly bouncing…

"I'm so grateful, Miss Louise," Tiffania said. There was something in her tone, something sincere, that eased Louise's anger. "It's so kind of you to help me like this."

"I…" Louise stammered, mastering herself. "It's really nothing at all, Tiffania. Think nothing of it!"

"It would be so wonderful to have my own familiar." Tiffania clasped her hands over her chest, closing her eyes as if to better visualize her wish. "I can see how happy everyone is with their familiars. They love each other so much."

"Well…yes, of course!" Louise tried to sound fulsome and wise. "To receive your familiar is…a very important step on your road to becoming an excellent mage!"

"And in getting away from my familiar, you top-heavy half-elf!" she thought, resisting the urge to smile villainously.

"After all," Tiffania went on. "You and Saito have such a loving bond."

Louise gaped like a fish, the words catching in her throat. Siesta doubled over, screeching with laughter. Tiffania looked from one to the other, bewildered at their reactions.

"Miss Louise…"

"I do not have a loving bond with that dog!" Louise shrieked, her anger inflamed by Siesta's laughter. "He's a lecherous beast who tries constantly to debauch me! And when he's not doing that, he's cavorting with the maid!" She jabbed finger at the guffawing Siesta. "And her Majesty! And Tabitha! And that Zerbst woman! And…!"

She ran out of breath, and her tirade came to a halt. Saito had always been a libidinous wretch, but ever since returning from Albion he had gotten worse and worse. He was carrying on as if she were not his master, but his wife.

It wasn't that the prospect didn't appeal, in either context. But she would be a lot more enthusiastic if he would stop provoking her all the time. She could never be quite sure whether he chased those other women because he desired them over her, or because he just couldn't control himself, or because he got some bizarre pleasure from driving her to distraction.

Louise mastered herself, her pleasure returning as she remembered her intent. In a few short hours, if even that, her latest competitor would be out of the running, perhaps for good.

She was taking a risk; a big risk. For a first year student to summon a familiar was not unheard-of, but was against both tradition and the rules of the academy. Tiffania knew nothing of this, and Headmaster Osman was both generous and a colossal pervert, so she had nothing to worry about. Louise on the other hand…

She drove the thoughts away. She was Louise Francoise la Blanc de la Valliere, daughter of a Royal Duke, with the blood of Kings and the Founder Brimir in her veins. She was a bearer of the legendary Void, by dint of that sacred inheritance. Nobles such as herself did not bow to petty rules, or fear punishment.

"Anyway, come on!" she hissed, turning on her heel and heading for the stairs. "Quickly, before someone sees us!"

---

Lutece, Kingdom of Gallia

"Slattern!"

"Big bully!"

Suleiman watched as Majid and that rather attractive young lady continued their verbal bust-up. Majid roared and ranted, fists clenched at his sides, while Irukuku stamped and shrieked like a little girl. A small crowd of revelers had gathered to watch the entertainment, laughing and catcalling, mostly on Irukuku's side.

"Silence you stupid girl!"

"No! You got booze on Irukuku's pretty dress! You're a big meanie!"

Suleiman sighed. It had been fun at first, but the booze was starting to wear off. Besides, though he loved Majid like a brother, he wouldn't have spilt his drink all over Irukuku's delightful outfit if he hadn't been pulling so hard.

"I ought to put you over my knee!"

"Just you try! Big sister will turn you into a nematode!"

"What in the name of Cyras is a nematode?!"

"Irukuku doesn't know, but she'll turn you into one!"

Suleiman sighed again, and decided the time had come to stop the confrontation. He stood up, willing his drink-addled mind to think of something to say.

Then he saw it.

It was just hovering there, in the alley opposite. With their attention focused on Majid and Irukuku, no one seemed to have noticed it.

Curious, and glad of an excuse not to deal with those two, Suleiman headed towards it. His head felt as if it were stuffed with Damascene wool, and his gait was unsteady, but he managed to stagger into the alley. He blinked, and rubbed his eyes.

It was still there, hovering in mid-air in front of him. A circle surrounded a pentagon, which in turn contained a pentagram, glowing with unnatural light. Curious, made unwary by drink, Suleiman reached out to touch it.

All at once he was moving, falling through utter darkness. For an instant Suleiman's heart froze in blind terror. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out.

There was a crack, and the darkness fled, replaced by white smoke. Suleiman felt himself hit something, which fell to the ground with a thump. He landed on top of it, something warm and soft.

And then he was still.

For a few moments, Suleiman could not think. His mind was a blank, and he could not see or move. As his thoughts began to clear, he wondered what had happened.

"This is…my familiar?" said a voice from very close by.

He looked up, his blurring vision focusing to show a young woman's face. She had hair the colour of fresh straw, bright blue eyes, and skin the colour of milk. Despite his inebriation, he registered the pointed ears reaching out from her golden hair, and the expression of mild astonishment. His face felt very warm and comfortable, as if it were nestled between two soft pillows. A quick glance down confirmed what his addled mind was trying to tell him.

"Am I in paradise?" he slurred. He could not have imagined seeing anything so beautiful in any other place.

"Oh fie!" Another voice drew his attention upward and to his left. He saw a young girl with very long pink hair, little more than a child to judge by her figure, gazing down at him with a look of undisguised contempt. "Tiffania! You've summoned a drunkard for your familiar!"

"I'm sorry!" the girl upon whom Suleiman lay replied. Her voice was very high-pitched, but Suleiman could not quite understand what they were saying. It sounded like Gallian, but his grasp of the language was still limited.

"Oh but never mind!" the pink-haired girl went on, suddenly enthusiastic. "Kiss him and complete the ritual! Quickly before someone comes!"
"Oh, all right." Suleimen felt two warm, soft hands cup his cheeks. A moment later he was looking straight into that angelic face.

"My name is Tiffania Westwood." Her voice was soft and gentle. "Pentagon that rules the Five Powers, bless this humble being and make him my familiar." She leaned in close.

And in the instant before he fell unconscious, Suleiman tasted paradise.

---

I finally got this done. Sorry for the delay; the middle part needed some rewriting.

 

[Zaru]

Any questions or comments anybody?

 

[Feng Lengshun]

Well, it took a while, but finally all those intro paid off and we finally get to the meat of the story, the titular "Familiar of the Fairy". I honestly felt like there are way, way too many background set-ups in this introduction, and I'll admit that I skimmed down a few. The main problem is that I couldn't really see how some of those connect to the story immediately. So, yeah, I hope you guys could focus on Suleiman for a while now?

That said, I find it fitting that Tiffania summoned Suleiman of all people. It's a much better fit than Saito if nothing else, and I can see the troubles that could come from the nature of those two's history. They look like they could hit off much, much better than Saito and Louise could, though. Might also be a catalyst in moving up with their relationship.

If there's a question I've been wondering about, it's the Arysian's culture. Is it like pre-Islam Arab? Something like the end of the Caliphate's golden period? Ottoman Kingdom of a certain point? Something like around the time of (one of) the Holy Crusade(s)? Maybe just modeled out of other series, like Arslan Senki or the Sulaiman TV series?

 

[SaltyWaffles]

Questions:
1) Is that map canon?
1b) Is the whole "Halkegania is basically Europe, especially from a bird's eye view" thing canon?
2) Why would a civil war in the "Empire" cause wars to break out in Halkegania? I'm confused...

Anyway, that was a good update, save for the first scene, which is a shame, as I kind of got lost when I started reading it the first time and didn't come back to the chapter until recently. I have no idea who those characters are, why what's going on there is important (or what's going on there in general), and no idea how it even ties into the rest of the story at all.

Aside from that, I liked pretty much every other scene. Agnes and Henrietta were enjoyable, and Alice is intriguing (though she hasn't shown enough to properly judge her yet). Tiffania summoning Suleiman was a nice twist, and I'm looking forward to more of that dynamic. Although I'm seriously worried about Majid, now. He's got to be losing his shit by now, and I honestly have no idea how anything regarding him will be remotely okay for quite some time. His charge just disappeared while he wasn't looking, and he has no idea that Suleiman is now very far away (let alone that such a thing is even possible), all in the middle of a busy city at night.

 

[Juubi-K]

Well, it took a while, but finally all those intro paid off and we finally get to the meat of the story, the titular "Familiar of the Fairy". I honestly felt like there are way, way too many background set-ups in this introduction, and I'll admit that I skimmed down a few. The main problem is that I couldn't really see how some of those connect to the story immediately. So, yeah, I hope you guys could focus on Suleiman for a while now?

That said, I find it fitting that Tiffania summoned Suleiman of all people. It's a much better fit than Saito if nothing else, and I can see the troubles that could come from the nature of those two's history. They look like they could hit off much, much better than Saito and Louise could, though. Might also be a catalyst in moving up with their relationship.

If there's a question I've been wondering about, it's the Arysian's culture. Is it like pre-Islam Arab? Something like the end of the Caliphate's golden period? Ottoman Kingdom of a certain point? Something like around the time of (one of) the Holy Crusade(s)? Maybe just modeled out of other series, like Arslan Senki or the Sulaiman TV series?

Click to shrink...

Fair enough I suppose. I'll need to think that over, but it should all become relevant at some point.

Since you mention it, a question regarding the next chapter. I was going to have a scene in which Isabella chews out Tabitha for failing to capture Suleiman, and brings up the Germania crisis again. I liked it originally, but I'm not sure it adds all that much, and it would be mentioning the crisis for the third time. Do you concur with me dropping it?

Zaru and I developed Arysia between us. It's broadly a mixture of Safavid Persia and the Ottoman Empire with some other elements thrown in. Zaru can explain with more authority than I can, at least until I can get a proper lore post up.

I confess I'm not familiar with Arslan Senki. It looks interesting though.

 

[Juubi-K]

Questions:
1) Is that map canon?
1b) Is the whole "Halkegania is basically Europe, especially from a bird's eye view" thing canon?
2) Why would a civil war in the "Empire" cause wars to break out in Halkegania? I'm confused...

Anyway, that was a good update, save for the first scene, which is a shame, as I kind of got lost when I started reading it the first time and didn't come back to the chapter until recently. I have no idea who those characters are, why what's going on there is important (or what's going on there in general), and no idea how it even ties into the rest of the story at all.

Aside from that, I liked pretty much every other scene. Agnes and Henrietta were enjoyable, and Alice is intriguing (though she hasn't shown enough to properly judge her yet). Tiffania summoning Suleiman was a nice twist, and I'm looking forward to more of that dynamic. Although I'm seriously worried about Majid, now. He's got to be losing his shit by now, and I honestly have no idea how anything regarding him will be remotely okay for quite some time. His charge just disappeared while he wasn't looking, and he has no idea that Suleiman is now very far away (let alone that such a thing is even possible), all in the middle of a busy city at night.

Click to shrink...

1) No, it isn't. I should probably add a note to that effect.

1b) I'm not sure. It seems to be more of a fan consensus, thought it broadly fits the material. That said, it involves some geographical oddities; such as Gallia having deserts on its eastern border.

2) Civil wars have a nasty habit of spreading, especially when they tie in to other, wider matters. Henrietta is assuming that Gallia will react badly to a Germanian-backed King and Queen on Albion's throne; and it would also make Tristain vulnerable. The Church is also interested, since they want the Orthodox (aka Church-loyal) faction to be dominant in Germania.

Maybe I should have made that an interlude chapter. It won't become important for some time.

About Majid, you're pretty much right.

 

[SaltyWaffles]

About Majid, you're pretty much right.

Click to shrink...

So, uh, how long before he starts leaving a trail of bodies in his wake? And how long before he dies from an aneurysm from sheer, constant, overwhelming stress?

 

[Zaru]

In addition, the other nations have interests in Germania as it has numerous nobles and provinces to their credit. If war breaks out? Those interests come under fire, plus Germania is bordered with both Gallia, Tristain, and Romallia. War reprocussion will be felt.

As for the map, we went with what we know and expanded upon it.

For Arysia, yes it is basically a mix of ole Persia and the Ottoman Empire, along with elements of Kushan India thrown in as well. If you call Gallia France, then Arysia would be Iraq, Iran, the numerous southern 'stans' and a pinch of India and a hint of Israel. Sotomayor does call this place the holy land(Cyrasalem=Jerusalem) after all, and it is the home of both the Prophet Cyras and Brimir.

 

[Juubi-K]

So, uh, how long before he starts leaving a trail of bodies in his wake? And how long before he dies from an aneurysm from sheer, constant, overwhelming stress?

Click to shrink...

Well, for the moment he's done the sensible thing and cleared out of Lutece. He's also trying to find out as much as he can about summoning circles, and how Suleiman might be found. This will keep him occupied for a while, but with just enough hope to keep him sane.

I wouldn't want to be anyone who crossed his path in the wrong way, however.

 

[Juubi-K]

Chapter Three​

The Magic Academy, Kingdom of Tristain, 18th Day of Feoh

Suleiman could hear the voices. They were distant, faded, as if he were listening through a very heavy door.

"…ing like that!"

"…since we…"

"…smells like…"

He could feel himself waking up, the voices becoming clearer.

Then it hit him.

A long, low moan erupted from his dry, foul-tasting mouth. His head felt as if some malignant spirit was remodelling the interior with a sledgehammer.

"Ah!" proclaimed a voice from his left, the sound reverberating between his ears and making his headache even worse. "The kraken wakes!"

"That's pretty mean, Louise," admonished another voice. This one was deeper, more masculine, than the one before.

"Miss Louise!" wailed another female voice. "He's suffering!"

"He's hung-over!" retorted the first voice, apparently unimpressed. "Really Tiffania! Summoning a drunkard for your familiar!"

"And who are you to criticize?" demanded the male voice. "You're the one who talked her into summoning him!"

Suleiman's eyes fluttered open. He could see the figures standing nearby; two were blurs of white and grey, the other of blue. He tried to rise, opening his mouth to speak, but only a dry croaking came out.

"No don't!" exclaimed a high-pitched voice. One of the blurs was upon him in a flash, pressing him back down with hands as soft as silk. "Don't try to get up! Oh you poor thing!"

As his vision cleared, Suleiman forgot the pain in his head. He was spellbound by the face looking down at him, the face of the angel that had drawn him through the portal.

The portal…

"Let that be a lesson to you!" barked the other female voice, the sounds reverberating inside his head like the blows of a hammer. Suleiman turned his aching head, and saw the same pink-haired girl he had seen before, staring down at him with a look of undisguised contempt. "You must amend your drunkenness!"

"Uh, Louise," interjected the male voice. "Don't we have something more important to ask him?"

Suleiman finally saw the source of that voice. It was a young man of about his own age, with black hair and skin noticeably darker than that of the two young women. His face reminded Suleiman of the horse nomads who inhabited the northern steppes. He was also dressed differently; whereas the two girls wore buttoned white shirts and dark grey pleated skirts, the boy wore a long-sleeved blue and white coat reaching to his waist.

"Yes Saito, we do." The pink-haired girl, who was apparently named Louise, loomed over Suleiman. "Who and what are you?"

Suleiman tried to answer, but his throat betrayed him once again, and his throbbing head could not seem to fashion the words.

"Damn your wine-sodden eyes!" the girl cursed. "Where is Siesta with that pick-me-up?!"

"Here, Miss Valliere!" The door opened to admit a black-haired young woman with a cheery disposition. She wore a black dress, covered by a long white apron, while a white hairband crowned her head. Balanced effortlessly on one hand was a silver tray, upon which sat a glass full of a dubious-looking substance. Suleiman could see where this was going, and he wasn't sure he liked the idea.

"At last!" Louise sneered. "Administer it at once!"

"Miss Louise, are you sure about this?" pleaded the angel named Tiffania, looking nervously at the glass. "Is it safe to drink?"

"Fear nothing, Miss Westwood!" Siesta proclaimed cheerfully. "This will have the young sir up and about before you know it!" She held out the tray to Suleiman, an expectant look on her face. It took Suleiman's addled brain a few moments to realise what was expected of him. Reasoning that it couldn't be worse than the current state of his head, Suleiman took the glass in an unsteady hand and downed it in one swallow.

His eyes bulged as his throat erupted in pain, burning as if he had swallowed powdered ginger.

"Gah!" he bellowed. "Are you trying to poison me?!"

"Is young sir feeling better now?" the maid asked, beaming.

Suleiman was about to tell her just what he thought of her pick-me-up, when he realised that the dull fog clouding his mind was gone. The pain in his head had receded, but a strange itching, almost stinging sensation in his chest remained.

"It worked…" he said, blinking as he took in his surroundings. The walls were whitewashed, with wainscots of dark wood decorated with rose carvings. There were two wardrobes, a dresser, and a table and chairs, all made of the same wood. He was lying in a large four-poster bed, the curtains tied back.

A horrible thought occurred. Suleiman glanced frantically around the room, panic rising in his chest. His eyes fell on the table, and a familiar-looking bundle lying on it. The girls cried out in surprise as he leapt from the bed and darted to the table. Sure enough it was his pack, the head of his sitar poking out of the top as it always did. Dreading what he might find inside, Suleiman tore the pack open.

The panic faded. His beloved sitar was intact. So relieved was he, that he barely noticed the red-scabbarded scimitar lying on the table next to it. As important as the sword was, it could not compare to his sitar.

"Is everything okay?" the boy named Saito asked, sounding a little worried. "I promise we didn't touch anything."

"It's all right," Suleiman said, feeling his heart slow. "I was afraid it was damaged." He turned to face them, his eyes falling upon Tiffania. There was something so very captivating about those enormous blue eyes, and that look of almost maternal tenderness. It reminded him of a time long past, when all was gentle, and there was nothing to fear.

It was only then that he noticed the enormous white hat covering most of her head. It was strange to see, for Suleiman was quite sure he had seen her without it.

Yes, he had seen her without it. That night, when he had fallen through that strange…whatever-it-was. He remembered seeing it in the street, while Majid was…

"Majid!" he exclaimed, his heart clenching as he realised. "Where is Majid?!"

"Who?!" Saito asked, taken by surprise. "Hey, slow down a minute!"

"Majid!" Suleiman was in a blind panic. He grabbed his boots, which were standing by the dresser, and began to pull them on. "I have to find Majid!"

"You're going nowhere!" Louise swept around the table to stand between him and the door. "A familiar can't just up and leave his master!"

"Familiar?!" Suleiman was incredulous. "Master?! What're you talking about?!"

"Tiffania summoned you!" Louise barked, jabbing her finger at Tiffania. "Therefore you are her familiar! Even a half-elf like you should understand that!"

A cold shard ran through Suleiman's heart. His hands flew to his exposed ears, though his secret was already out.
"You don't understand!" he pleaded, pulling the strip of cloth from his pocket, where it had mercifully remained, and began to tie his ears back. "I have to find Majid!"

"No, you don't understand!" Louise stormed over to Saito and grabbed his left hand. Ignoring his shout of protest, she held the hand up. Suleiman could see the strange signs carved into it.

"These runes mark Saito as my familiar!" Louise explained, full of noble hauteur. "The runes on your chest mark you as Tiffania's familiar! Look for yourself if you don't believe me!"

Suleiman unfastened his jacket, a cold knife twisting in his gut. He pulled his shirt open and, sure enough, there were those same signs.

"This is…"

"You see," Louise said. "Now, no more of this leaving nonsense."

"Louise!" Saito snapped. "We can't force him to stay! Not if he needs to find someone!"

"What do you mean?!" Louise shrieked, rounding on him. "He's Tiffania's familiar! This is where he belongs!"

Suleiman did not hear their argument. He was staring down at the runes, at the marks carved into his living flesh as if it were marble.

He was marked, branded. They were the stigmata of his mistake, a permanent reminder of his folly. Now, once and for all, he knew the price of incaution.

If he tried to leave, would they let him? Would the fact that he was a reasoning, feeling person matter in the slightest? And even if he could fight his way out, could he hope to find Majid? Was his faithful servant, his friend, even alive? Would he want to be with him anymore, after being abandoned like that?

His shoulders slumped. He shuddered, his breath catching as a lump rose in his throat.

"It's all right," said an angelic voice. "Please don't cry."

Suleiman opened his mouth to deny it, then felt the tears on his face. He looked up, and saw Tiffania's gentle smile.

"There's nothing to fear. You see…" Tiffania took off her hat, and Suleiman's heart skipped a beat as he saw her ears, the same ears he saw every time he looked in a mirror.

The ears he had seen that night.

"Yeah, about that," Saito said awkwardly, massaging the back of his head.

"I never thought it would happen." Tiffania's smile was pure and bright, and Suleiman could have sworn there were tears in her eyes. "I never thought I'd meet another…like me."

"Another?" Suleiman thought. "Are half-Elves so rare in these lands?"

His eyes fell on hers, and it was as if her soul was reaching to him, drawing him in. He could not move, let alone resist, as Tiffania stepped forward to enfold him in her arms.

"It's all right." Her voice was sweet music, so close to his ear. "I'll take care of you. I'll help you find your friend."

Suleiman wanted to say something. He wanted to impress her, to thank her, to show her the grace he'd been raised to. But no words would come. He could only relax into her embrace, sliding his arms around her slim waist to press her closer.

He did not see the triumphant looks Louise and Siesta were giving him.

---

Grand Troyes Palace, Versailles, Kingdom of Gallia

It really was an impressive map.

The green hills and valleys of Halkeginia undulated across the table before him, the mountains rising craggy and grey. Rivers, lakes, and even seas of reflective glass glittered in the sunlight streaming in through the windows. Miniature towns and cities speckled the landscape, connected by tiny silver roads. The man who had made it was now a count, with a substantial estate in the Auvergne. Joseph de Gallia sometimes marvelled at what his subjects could create when he offered sufficient incentive.

Most in his court thought it a bauble, a mere toy for their incompetent and foolish King to amuse himself with. But as with so many other things they saw only what he wished them to see. The map was not only beautiful, it was also very useful.
Joseph's smile widened as he took in the clusters of figures placed here and there about the display. The toy soldiers representing his armies and those of his neighbours, his air and naval fleets likewise represented by little toy ships. His eyes gazed proudly upon the fleets clustered at Brest, Toulon, Harfleur, and La Rochelle, the fortresses at Alhambra, Bayonne, Besancon, Briancon, and Verdun. Fifty airships of the Royal fleet, one hundred and twenty warships of the Marine Royale, fifty thousand troops in his garrisons, and money and officers to raise three times as many more.

What could a man not dream of if he commanded such strength? What might a man seek if he were King of Gallia?

"A moment of remorse?"

What he truly wanted, no armies or fleets could give him. What his unhappy heart yearned for, all the money in the world could not buy.

Joseph reached into his box of playing pieces, fingering through them for one piece in particular. Finding it, he drew out a simple human figurine, made of solid silver, and held it up to the light.

"Miodaitnir," he whispered, to the empty room around him. "I would look upon you."

"Sorry for keeping you waiting," replied a familiar voice from the shadows. "My lord Joseph."

Joseph turned to regard Miodaitnir, otherwise known as Sheffield. Her lithe form was pleasing to his eye, as were those raptor-like eyes, but her skill at magic pleased him even more, as did her ability to get certain things done. There were few he valued quite so much as her.

"Come Miodaitnir," he gestured towards the table. "Come see the world."

Sheffield stood up, still smiling, and sashayed over to the map table. Joseph stepped around it, standing next to Tristain.

"Do you know, Miodaitnir, what my daughter told me this morning?"

"No, my lord."

"She…regretfully informed me that the young Arysian has managed to give her the slip, and in a most unusual way."

"My lord?"

"He escaped…through a summoning portal." He glanced sideways at Miodaitnir, his smile widening. "You know what this means, don't you?"

"The Void user," Sheffield breathed. "Lifdrasir."

"Indeed." Joseph held up the silver figurine for her to see. "All four are now in play. But where, I wonder?" He glanced around the map. "We have Gandalfr in Tristain, Windalfr in Romalia, and you here in Gallia, leaving…"

"Albion."

"Albion, indeed." Joseph leaned over towards the island, making to put the silver figurine down, then hesitated.
"Unless…" he glanced up at Miodaitnir, "you know something."

"A…possibility, my Lord."

"Oh-ho?"

"Something I discovered in Albion, my lord." Sheffield's brow furrowed. "Regarding Archduke John and his elvish mistress."

"I know that story, Miodaitnir."

"There was a child, my lord."

Silence.

"I see." Joseph straightened up, and then chuckled at the thought of it. "Well, I knew it could not be Marcillac, or any of the others. What know you of this child?" Sheffield took a deep breath.

"I know, my lord, that Valliere and her companions were up to something in the Westwood," she said, her voice almost hoarse with the enormity of what she was about to say. "And that Henrietta sent a ship to collect them afterwards."

"Yes." Joseph chuckled again, placing the silver figurine in Tristain. "What a lucky little Queen. Now she has two Void mages at her disposal; and one of them with a better claim on the throne of Albion than she and the incumbent combined."

"My lord!" Sheffield fell to her knees. "Please forgive me! Had I not failed to capture Valliere…!"

"It's all right, Miodaitnir." Joseph stepped away from the table to stand in front of Sheffield, placing a fatherly hand on her head. "There will be more opportunities."

"My lord is so kind to me." Sheffield took his hand and pressed it to her porcelain-smooth cheek. Joseph smiled, allowing her that small pleasure. It made her happy, and he did not begrudge her happiness.

"Marcillac is a nonentity," he said, turning back to the table, allowing the smile to fall from his face. "He calls himself Regent, yet merely enacts the will of his master the Emperor, while Margrave Handenburg and twenty thousand troops keep him in power. Even if little Henrietta could deal with Handenburg and his army, she could not handle the Emperor."

"They say he's dying, my lord."

"And if he does, we won't have to worry about Germania for a good while, but little Henrietta will still have to worry about us."

"My lord." Sheffield stood up again. "Please allow me to go after Valliere one more time. I know how vital she is to your plans."

"You can go, Miodaitnir, but not for the moment." He turned to face her again. "We'll leave them a while, let them think they safe. I want you to go and check on Jormugandr for me, and ensure our pointy-eared friend is keeping up his end of the bargain." He cupped her narrow chin in his fingers. "Can you do that for me?"

"Of course, my lord."

---

The Magic Academy, Kingdom of Tristain

Suleiman did his best to look suitably noble and self-assured. This was rather difficult, as his stomach was currently trying to escape via his throat.

He was standing in front of the Headmaster's desk, Tiffania beside him. The office around them was in much the same style as the room he had woken up in, and sparsely furnished but for the long, broad desk in front of him, and some wardrobes along the walls. Suleiman was mildly surprised by this. In Arysia he would have greeted a guest in his selamlik, a place of wealth and welcome. Yet here he was, standing in front of a desk like a supplicant.

Which he pretty much was.

Suleiman glanced at Tiffania, and his heart ached to see the fear in her eyes. That in itself was a surprise, for he had known her only a few short hours. It was true that had been kind to him, but he couldn't just care about someone, just like that.

Could he?

"So, you are the new familiar," the very old man seated at the desk said. He had very long white hair and a long white moustache and beard. Small, piercing eyes gazed out at him from under a heavy brow lined with bushy white eyebrows. "I am Headmaster Osman. Welcome to our academy."

His tone was pleasant, almost grandfatherly, and Suleiman felt his fear recede. Perhaps was there was nothing to fear from this old man.

"Miss Westwood." Osman turned his attention to Tiffania. "You are a third-year student, but the rules of the academy require that Familiars be summoned during the formal ceremony."

"I…I am sorry, Headmaster!" Tiffania wailed. "I…I just wanted my Familiar so badly." She lowered her head, and Suleiman saw her lip wobbling. "Everyone is so happy with their familiars. I thought it would be…so wonderful."

"Have no fear child," the Headmaster said kindly. "No great harm has been done, and you were led astray by Miss Valliere in any case. Don't bother trying to deny it."

Suleiman suppressed a chuckle. Osman was either quite astute or knew his students very well. But there was another question; why would Louise have manipulated Tiffania into summoning him? And what did it mean for him to be a familiar?

"The real surprise," Osman went on, "was that you were able to summon a familiar at all. That is, until I saw that your Familiar is a boy. There is only one explanation."

"Begging your pardon, Headmaster," Suleiman spoke up. "But I do not understand. What does it meant to be a familiar?"

Osman paused, seemingly surprised by the question.

"It would take a little while to explain," he said. "Might I at first know your name, young man?"

"I am Suleiman Reza Al-Karim," Suleiman introduced himself, bowing his head in respect.

"A fine name," Osman commented. "Though I must ask…are you by any chance from the Rub'al Khali?"

"I am from Arysia, Headmaster, which is beyond the Elvish lands."

"I see." Osman seemed to be thinking very hard. "I thought that might be the case. The term Al-karim sounds like a dialect of Elvish."

The word Elvish sent a shiver down Suleiman's spine. He was glad of the strip of cloth concealing his pointed ears, and of the hat hiding Tiffania's. Both Saito and Louise had insisted they be hidden, and Suleiman suspected it was with good reason.

"If I understand correctly, it means the meritorious. Am I right?"

"Yes, Headmaster." Suleiman felt himself blush to hear the epithet. He glanced at Tiffania, who was looking at him with wonder in her eyes.

"Ah, excellent." Osman beamed behind his beard. "It would appear that whatever allowed the young Chevalier d'Hiraga to understand our language has also worked in your case. That should make things easier."

"But Headmaster," Suleiman pressed. "Might I ask, why was I summoned?"

"Fate, Mister Suleiman," Osman replied, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "The spell known as Summon Servant calls the one fated to be the summoner's familiar, be they in this world or another. There is no way to predict it, or to undo it."

Suleiman's heart sank. He felt a little better for knowing that no malice had been intended, but only a little. It did not solve his main problem.

"But…I have a responsibility!" he pleaded, the force of it making Tiffania cry out in surprise. "Majid is waiting for me!"

"Majid, you say?" the old man mused. "A friend of yours?"

"He is my ghulam, my companion!" Suleiman choked back the lump rising in his throat. "I can't abandon him! I can't leave him alone!"

"I see." Osman ran a gnarled hand through his beard. "That complicates things."

"Suleiman." Tiffania turned to face him, taking his hands in hers. "I said I'd go with you, wherever you want to go." Her eyes were full of sympathy, of pity. Suleiman felt as if his heart would burst.

"But…" He faltered, his soul roiling like the ocean in a storm. "I don't even know where to start. It could take months. I…I can't take you away from here."

"I was the one who brought you here," Tiffania insisted, smiling. "I'm responsible for it."

"But…"

"Perhaps there is another way to handle this," Osman interjected gently. "Mister Suleiman, where did you last see your companion?"

"In Lutece, Headmaster. We were there for the Carnival."

"Ah, the Carnival! That takes me back!" Osman chuckled a particularly dirty chuckle. "But fear not young man. I have certain…influence in Lutece, and also the ear of the Queen. I'm sure her Majesty will be able to help you."

"Headmaster…" Tears of joy welled up in Suleiman's eyes. "How can I express my gratitude?!"

"By staying here with Miss Westwood, in safety." Osman was still smiling, but something shifted in his countenance. "I should warn you, Suleiman. Arysians are all but unknown in Halkeginia, so your presence is bound to attract interest in…certain quarters. I am certain her Majesty would agree that you had best remain here."

"I am grateful, Headmaster." Suleiman bowed again. He opened his mouth to speak again, but faltered as he saw Osman holding his hand up to his wizened ear. Suleiman narrowed his eyes as he focussed on the hand, and saw a small white mouse sitting on it. If he didn't know better, he would've thought it was whispering into the old man's ear.

"White you say?" Osman was agog. "Silk? Oh my!"

Tiffania cried out, clasping her hands to the hem of her skirt and her face flushing red. Only then did Suleiman realise what he was talking about.

---

Scarlet Tower, Liguria, Romalia

The wind moaned in the distance. The candle flame flickered, casting dancing shadows in the corners of the chamber. The only other sound was the slow, regular crackle of turning pages, followed by the occasional scratch of a quill on paper.
Fernando Sotomayor gazed down at the book before him, his eyes following the elegantly curving script. He was one of only a handful of scholars in the Church, if not all of Halkeginia, who could read it.

He hated the very sight of it. It made his stomach churn, and his blood boil; a reminder of secret, forgotten sorrows. But his will was strong, and his faith stronger. He was one of the Sinceres, one entrusted to peruse such forbidden material. Against the sacred will of the Founder Brimir, mere written words were as ash blowing on the wind.

He smirked. It wasn't even as if the book contained anything truly corruptive. The book was a rather formulaic treatise on alchemical metallurgy, packed with technical information yet lacking in the kind of heretical philosophy or concepts that might lead an unwary reader astray.

Yes. It would be quite safe to translate this one in full. The knowledge of it would be very useful to the order. Very useful indeed.

Fernando heard the low thump of footsteps in the corridor outside. It was late, and everyone in the monastery knew his habits. Whomsoever was about to disturb him was on very important business.

Or a glutton for punishment.

Sure enough, a heavy hand banged three times upon the door. Fernando did not look up, but a flick of his finger set the lock to unlocking.

"Come." The door clunked open, admitting two figures in the red mantles of the order. Fernando knew who they were the moment they stepped over the threshold. Their walks were very familiar.

"Brother Carloman, Sister Charlotte." He glanced up from his work as his two subordinates strode in and halted before his desk, bowing their heads respectfully. "I trust this is…important?"

"The dispatch rider has brought news from Lutece, Grand Master." With his bald, bullet head and chiselled jaw, Carloman the Deathstroke looked as grim as he sounded. He handed a sealed letter over the desk. Fernando took it, noting the order's seal, and tore it open. The silence loomed as he read it. Carloman and Charlotte stared hard at him, both yearning to ask, yet neither daring to speak.

"Things have gotten…complicated," he said, folding the letter and dropping it on the desktop.

"The North Parterre, Grand Master?" Carloman asked bullishly.

"Yes, but not in the way you're thinking," Fernando replied. "It would appear that they attempted to apprehend two…interesting persons during the Carnival. One of them, if this report is correct, disappeared through a summoning portal, while the other made his own escape."

"A summoning portal?" Carloman was incredulous.

"That can mean only one thing," Charlotte said, her eyes hard.

"Yes." Fernando paused a moment, staring at his two principal subordinates. Carloman was no great intellectual, but he was brave, pious, and above all, completely loyal. Charlotte had a soul as pure as spring water, as bright as a freshly-polished blade, as unrelenting as a tidal wave. Never in all his years of pious service had he encountered a spirit quite like hers, a spirit capable of anything the Church required of her.

These two he could trust. Them and Thibault…

"A week ago, I received a letter from our Priory near Toulon," he said. "Two men whom Prior-Commander Hugo believed to be Arysians got off a ship from Tyrus, and headed east towards the Romalian border."

"Arysians?" Carloman's eyes flashed. "Here?"

"But the Toulon road runs just below us!" protested Charlotte. "How could we have missed them?"

Because someone, and I suspect I know who, persuaded or forced them to turn back," replied Fernando sternly. "The two persons described in this letter match the descriptions provided by Prior-Commander Hugo."

"And one of them was summoned," Charlotte breathed. "Grand Master, you have taught me much, but I know of only one explanation."

"As do I, Sister Charlotte." Fernando straightened in his chair. "The fourth Void mage has summoned his or her familiar. The prophecy is in motion."

He sat in silence for a few moments, letting his words sink in, waiting until he was sure they truly understood.

"The Four," Charlotte whispered, her eyes bright with fervour. "The Four are gathering."

"And the North Parterre is interfering!" barked Carloman. "Joseph will ruin everything!"

"He may, at that," Fernando agreed grimly. "But it is too soon to move against him. The Cardinals are still hesitating, and the business in Germania is distracting everyone else."

"Grand Master, let us handle it!" pleaded Carloman. "Your knights are strong enough! If we strike at the right time, and in the right place, we can destroy Joseph and ensure the prophecy! If Thibault is with us, even the North Parterre cannot save him!"

Fernando sighed. He could not bring himself to rebuke Carloman, not with that look in his eyes; that desperate, pleading, yearning look he had first seen a few years before, from beyond a set of prison bars. And he knew what it would mean to Carloman, and to Charlotte, and to all the Chamber Militant, to have Thibault by their side again.

"Brother Carloman, I do not doubt your strength or your sincerity," he said patiently. "But assassinating Joseph is not the answer, not yet at least. We must give him rope, and let him hang himself. In the meantime, we must continue our search for the fourth Void mage."

"Find the Arysian," Carloman said bluntly, "and we find the Void mage."

Fernando smiled at him in a fatherly way. Carloman might not be the intellectual sort, but he was quick on the uptake when it mattered.

"Precisely. Send word to all our priories to be on the lookout." He paused, as he saw how dark the room had become.

"It's getting late." He twitched his finger, and the door unlocked. "You should both attend to Thibault before Compline."

He saw the look in their eyes, the same look as before, as it had always been. Their feelings had not changed, and he suspected - he prayed - they never would.

"Of course, Grand Master," replied Charlotte. The pair bowed their heads, and left him alone with his thoughts.

---

The Magic Academy, Kingdom of Tristain

"You have to sleep there! You're her familiar!"

"But I can't! It's improper!"

Saito sighed. Just when he thought things were finally under control, Louise had to find something to cause trouble over.

"Louise," he said, in what he hoped was a suitably placatory tone. "He doesn't have to sleep in here if he doesn't want to."

"But this is his master's room!" Louise barked, waving her wand in the air. "As her familiar, it's his duty to sleep on the floor by her bed!"

"But she is not my wife!" protested a panic-stricken Suleiman.

"What's that got to do with anything?!" demanded Louise, ignoring a shriek of hysterical laughter from Siesta, who stood behind her with an armful of straw.

"It's really none of your business Louise," Saito complained. He was getting sick of this.

"Saito!" Louise growled, rounding on her familiar-slash-boyfriend. "Just because I have given you…certain privileges…doesn't mean you can go around giving other familiars ideas! Standards have to be maintained!"

"Oh yeah," Saito grumbled. "Privileges."

Louise had some nerve talking about privileges. They had been sharing a bed for months, yet every time he tried to take things further she got violent. She had even blown him up that night at the palace, after she had promised to let him, and had the gall to call him a water flea. It was enough to make him wish he'd stayed in the forest with Tiffania, except thanks to Louise and Siesta he'd already missed his chance.

"What privileges are these?" Tiffania asked innocently.

"Mister Saito sleeps in Miss Valliere's bed every night!" Siesta proclaimed gleefully. "Though he finds little to satisfy him there!"

Tiffinia squeaked and covered her reddening face. Suleiman stared at Saito in what looked like a mixture of awe and disbelief.

"How dare you?!" Louise screeched, spinning round to loom over the maid; which was quite an achievement considering that Siesta was a head taller than her. "What are you suggesting, you importunate maid?!"

"I was merely suggesting," Siesta replied, her smile intact, "that Suleiman might like to sleep in Miss Westwood's bed, as Mister Saito sleeps in yours!"

"But she is not my wife!" repeated the very embarrassed boy, whose name was apparently Suleiman. "Nor is she my kinswoman! It would be improper!"

"You are a disobedient familiar!" Louise snapped. "Tiffania! Use the riding crop to discipline him!"

"I…!" Tiffania raised the riding crop in a trembling hand, her eyes big and watery. "I…I…I don't want to!"

"You have to!" Louise barked. "Or else he'll be full of himself, like this lecherous beast over here!" She jabbed her wand at Saito.

"Lecherous beast am I?!" Saito snapped, losing his temper. "How about a spoiled little miss who won't keep her promises?!"

"How dare you speak to your master like that!?" Louise shrieked. "I always keep my promises!"

"You promised we could do it that night, then you exploded me!"

"I made no such promise!"

"Strictly speaking she's right," Derflinger commented from his scabbard on Saito's back.

"Belt up Derflinger!"

As the couple continued their argument, Tiffania and Suleiman took the opportunity to slip out into the corridor.

"I'm so sorry, Suleiman," Tiffania said. "I don't understand why Miss Louise is being so hard on you."

"It's all right, Miss Tiffania," Suleiman replied, as kindly as he could manage. His embarrassment was fading, replaced by a seething anger at the way Louise de la Valliere was treating him. It would seem that as a Familiar, he could expect to be treated with contempt. He would not treat a ghulam in such a way, even one who was not Majid.

"Miss Louise is very particular," Tiffania went on. "But Mister Saito is very considerate. I'm sure he'll be willing to help you too."

Suleiman wasn't sure what he thought of Saito Hiraga. He didn't seem to be a bad person, but he didn't seem overly willing to oppose his 'master', at least not for his sake. There was also a strength and competence to Saito that Suleiman found quite intimidating. He was certainly a cut above the effete-looking nobles he had seen around the academy.

"Excuse me, young mistress and master." Both looked up to see Siesta ease herself through the door, her arms still laden with hay. "I take it you will not be requiring the hay?"

"No Siesta, thank you," Tiffania replied. "I'm sorry Miss Louise troubled you with it."

"Think nothing of it, Miss Tiffania." Siesta was smiling cheerfully as she used her foot to pull the door closed, muffling the argument still going on.

"Siesta, do they always argue like this?" Suleiman asked.

"Oh yes, Mister Suleiman!" Siesta proclaimed happily. "Though I imagine the argument will end soon."

"How, Siesta?"

A clap of thunder roared from behind the door, reverberating down the corridor. Tiffania cried out; Suleiman yelped, jumping away from the door. He caught Siesta's outstretched foot, and toppled straight into Tiffania, his head plunging into her breasts. In his terror Suleiman clamped his arms around her, burying his face in her bosom.

"Like that, Mister Suleiman," Siesta replied. "Miss Tiffania, please allow me to dispose of this hay, and I shall have another room made up." And with that, she skipped off down the corridor.

"Suleiman." Tiffania stroked his head. "Suleiman, it's all right."

Suleiman managed to straighten up, his face flushed with embarrassment. He felt ashamed of himself for panicking like that, though he had never heard such a terrible sound in all his life, except in a thunderstorm.

"Oh, forgive me!" He backed away, mortified at what where he had put his head, pleasant though it had been. "It was…wrong of me."

"No." Tiffania shook her head, still smiling. "It's all right. You were scared, that's all."

It should have been a shameful thing to hear from a girl, but Suleiman did not feel shame. Something soft and warm had wrapped itself around his heart, and for a moment he wanted nothing more than to gaze into those blue eyes forever and a day. It was a feeling that made him want to sing, and maybe even dance.

"Would you like to…eat dinner with me?" Tiffania held out her hand, and Suleiman thought his heart would jump out of his chest.

"Yes, of course," he replied, feeling foolish. He took her hand, and almost shivered at its warmth and softness. Everything about her was warm and soft.

They walked away together, followed by the angry voice of Louise, and a sound like meat being tenderized.

---

Compiegne, Kingdom of Gallia

Another foul street, in another foul city.

Majid hunched his shoulders as he trudged along the unpaved street, ignoring the disconcerting squelch-squelch beneath his feet, and the nauseating stench that accompanied it. He pulled his heavy travelling cloak tight around him, both for disguise and for protection. There was no telling what might come flying out of the windows above him, and he didn't particularly feel like having to spend another cold evening washing and drying his clothes.

Again.

The bulk of his attention was on the people in the street with him. He could see them leaning on walls, or skulking in the narrow gaps between the houses, alone or in twos or threes, engaged in whatever sort of business occupied such people. Majid had a pretty shrewd idea what that was, and knew not to drop his guard for a moment.

He was tired, damp, footsore from a night and a day spent on the road. When his young master had vanished into that…whatever-it-was, he had been mad with fear, panic-stricken. That blue-haired girl had blathered something about a magic portal, and had started screaming for her big sister.

He had fled. There was nothing else he could do. He had no way of working out where his young master was; be he in Lutece or on the other side of the world. Nor could he stay in Lutece, a city he didn't know, with no ally or protector therein. To run had been the only option, to get away from that strange, blue-haired girl and her mysterious older sister. He had seen too much danger, too many bizarre things, to underestimate a young woman with blue hair and fangs.

He was sure she had fangs.

Thus he had walked, and walked, head lowered against a mercifully light shower. He had not stopped until the sky was beginning to darken, and he found himself on the outskirts of a large town; a garrison town from the looks of it, with short, thick walls and bastions reaching out like the points of a star. A quick word with a passing traveller had revealed its name to be Compiegne, and a coin in the hand of a weary-looking watchman had earned him the name of the town's foremost expert on less-than-orthodox magic.

His destination was a house like any of the others; two floors tall, made of wattle and daub, leaning drunkenly over the street. The only thing to make it stand out was the blue and red rags hanging over the door, a distinction that had cost him a gold coin and several minutes of his life in a particularly malodorous drinking pit.

The door was on the first floor, up a set of dirty and rickety-looking steps. The wooden door rattled as he rapped his gloved knuckles on it. For a moment he thought it might fall in.

For a few moments there was silence, broken by the sound of what might have been shuffling feet. The door creaked open as far as a rusty chain would allow.

"Who's there?" croaked a voice from the musty darkness.

"Is this the house of the wizard Eusebius?" Majid asked dubiously.

"Who wants to know?"

"Someone in need of magical services."

There was a pause, then the chain clinked as it fell free. Majid stepped inside, but could not see who had opened the door.
"What services would those be, monsieur?" Majid snapped his head round, and saw a bent, elderly-looking man with long grey hair standing at the other end of the small room, his thin form swathed in heavy, rough-spun robes. There was a wand in his gnarled hand.

"I need someone found," Majid replied, closing the door with his foot.

"Finding, finding," the old man commented, seating himself on the opposite side of a rough wooden table and gesturing for Majid to do likewise. "Who am I looking for?"

"A friend," Majid replied, pulling a bag of coins from his belt as he sat down. "I can pay you gold up-front."

"Let's see it." Majid opened the bag and dropped a single gold coin on the table; one of the big ones from Romalia. He could've sworn the old man's eyes had bulged at the sight of it. It was probably more money than he saw in a month.

"Well, monsieur, I'll surely do my best for you," the old man said. "Of course, this could be rather tricky, and…rather long-winded."

"I don't care how long it takes or what you have to do!" Majid barked, his tone harsher than he'd intended. "Can you find my y…my friend or can you not?!"

"Well that depends, monsieur." Majid saw the look in the old wizard's eyes, and cursed himself for the slip of the tongue. He might be old, but he was far from senile. "May I ask how you lost your friend?"

Majid gritted his teeth. He could tell that the old man was leading him with the question, but he had no choice.
"He was taken from me," he began awkwardly. He suddenly realised that he didn't really understand what he had seen. "It was…a strange thing, like a circle drawn in light in the air before me. My friend touched it, and suddenly he was gone."

"Ahhh," the old man proclaimed. "A Summoning Circle. Now that is interesting."

"In what way, interesting?" Majid asked suspiciously.

"That depends on what you find interesting," the old mage replied, chuckling. "But it's difficult to explain to a layman. How much do you know about magic?"

Majid tried not to look blank. He knew of magic, of course; living in Arysia he had been surrounded by it every day. But the various practitioners of that magic kept their secrets to themselves, and few would entrust a ghulam with even the simplest knowledge.

"I take that as nothing whatsoever." The man turned and reached into a dusty bookcase, packed with scrolls and grimoires. Majid wrinkled his nose at the cloud of dust blown up as Eusebius withdrew a scroll and unrolled it on the table, pinning it down with a couple of nick-nacks. It showed a pentagram, decorated with writing Majid could not read.

"No one knows where magic comes from, not really," the old man began. "The Church insists that it comes from Brimir's Void, but others think not. What matters is that it enters the world, and manifests in the forms and forces of the natural world." He tapped a gnarled finger on the points of the pentagram. "Earth, Wind, Water, and Fire."

"I don't understand," Majid cut in.

"Of course you don't," the old man scoffed. "There are people with doctorates from Lutece who don't understand. But the fact remains that magic flows into the world, and settles on these elements, and thus we mages are able to employ it. We can interact with the element directly, and thus use magic to affect other substances. Through water, a mage can alter the composition of a potion, or even the functions of the human body."

Majid shivered. In his mind's eye he saw the blood boil in his veins, or the water itself leeched from his flesh, drying and wrinkling before his eyes. Then he remembered that day...

"Don't worry monsieur." The old man laughed a strange, clucking laugh. "There are few who can kill with Water magic, aside from poisoning of course."

"Do not mock me!" Majid shook his head, forcing down the nausea. "How is this relevant?"

"Your friend was drawn through a Summoning Circle," Eusebius went on. "This means that he fell victim to a Summoning Spell."

"And?"

"This is not a common spell, monsieur. It cannot be cast through the power of the four elements. Rather it is called-upon, a favour left to us by the Founder Brimir in life."

"You say that as if he's some sort of God." Majid's curiosity had gotten the better of him.

"The Church believes that he is God," Eusebius replied, with a strangely dubious air. "That he became one with God upon the death of his mortal body. Regardless, there are a handful of things that can be done by calling out to him, or to his power, in the proper way. Summoning Portals are one of them."

"But who summoned him?" demanded Majid. "And for what purpose?"

"That depends. Some portals open randomly, littering the land with strange objects from other worlds. Such an occurrence is very common in the Holy Land, strangely enough. It may be that your friend was drawn into such a portal by sheer chance, though it seems unlikely. The only other explanation is that was the Summon Servant ritual."

"Summon Servant?" Majid narrowed his eyes.

"A mage summons a familiar as part of his or her training," Eusebius explained. "A familiar is a mage's companion, bound to him by magic and the power of destiny, as ordained by the Founder Brimir."

"Bound?" A cold, sick sensation wrapped itself around Majid's heart. Could such a thing have happened to Suleiman? Had his young master become the plaything of some Halkeginian whelp? Had he become a slave?

"I see that this is not what you want to hear, monsieur." The old man sounded sympathetic. "I can think of no other explanation, but it is certainly strange."

"Strange?" Majid turned again to the wizard. "How?"

"The summoning should only work on animals, monsieur. Occasionally strange creatures are summoned from other places, but for a mage to summon a human familiar is unheard-of. Such a thing has not happened since the Founder's time."

"That's all very well!" Majid snapped, frustration boiling over inside him. "How does this help you find my friend?"

"Not in the slightest."

It took Majid a moment to register what the wizard had said.

"Then what am I paying you for!?" He reached for the gold coin, but a gnarled hand beat him to it.

"Consultation," Eusebius growled. "Besides, I never said I could find your friend, only that I'd do my best for you."

"And much good you've done me!" Majid spat. He felt a fool for having been swindled, but he could not bring himself to rough up an old man over money. "What good are you to me if your magic can't find my friend!?"

"Mine cannot," Eusebius replied, sliding the coin into the sleeve of his robe. "But there are others who can."

"Who, exactly?" Majid was intrigued. Any hope, no matter how slim, was worth clinging to.

"Others who use magic." The old man grinned a gap-toothed grin. "The Firstborn."

"Pari!?" spluttered Majid, catching himself too late. The mage's grin widened.

"I take it you mean the Elves," he said, chuckling. "Well you can try, but what I had in mind was the birdmen of the Ardenne Forest. They're a little more…approachable than the Elves. I'm sure you know what I mean."

"Where can I find them?" Majid asked, ignoring his comment. If Eusebius had figured out that he was an Arysian, there was nothing he could do about it now. "These birdmen?"

"In the Ardenne Forest monsieur, as I said."

"The Ardenne Forest is vast, you old reprobate!" Majid barked. "Even I know that!"

An exaggeration, but he had heard it spoken-of plenty of times in the course of his journey from the south. Eusebius did not reply, but just sat there, grinning at him. Majid rolled his eyes, and dropped another coin onto the table-top.

"Thank you monsieur." The coin vanished into Eusebius' sleeve. "A good place to look for them is the village of Eginheim, in Aldera Province. They're on…remarkably good terms with the birdmen."

"What do you mean by that?"

"That's information monsieur, and good information costs money." He smirked. Majid muttered something very rude in his native tongue, and dropped yet another coin onto the table.

"Tell me everything," he growled. "And this had better be good!"

 

[Zaru]

Hope you don't mind us adding in stuff srom the manga(ala Birdmen and stuff. IIRC, Tabitha came across them). And plots and schemes began to twist and turn...

 

[Feng Lengshun]

Since you mention it, a question regarding the next chapter. I was going to have a scene in which Isabella chews out Tabitha for failing to capture Suleiman, and brings up the Germania crisis again. I liked it originally, but I'm not sure it adds all that much, and it would be mentioning the crisis for the third time. Do you concur with me dropping it?

Click to shrink...

Well I wouldn't know if it's a good idea. It depends on how essential and how good you can pull it off - it basically always boils down to the execution. Just think whether it would be more interesting to include it, not include it, or put something else instead.

 

[Juubi-K]

Well I wouldn't know if it's a good idea. It depends on how essential and how good you can pull it off - it basically always boils down to the execution. Just think whether it would be more interesting to include it, not include it, or put something else instead.

Click to shrink...

I decided to drop it after all, for the reasons you describe. I don't think it really added anything, beyond letting the readers keep up with Tabitha.

Otherwise, I tend to include small 'aside' scenes like that in order to cover scene changes in the main narrative. I find that if you have to cover every little thing the main character is doing as he moves from scene to scene the narrative can get dull; but by the same token if you just do a direct jump, then the narrative feels disjointed. I suppose its a question of making sure the asides are sufficiently interesting to keep the reader involved.

 

[Zaru]

I decided to drop it after all, for the reasons you describe. I don't think it really added anything, beyond letting the readers keep up with Tabitha.

Otherwise, I tend to include small 'aside' scenes like that in order to cover scene changes in the main narrative. I find that if you have to cover every little thing the main character is doing as he moves from scene to scene the narrative can get dull; but by the same token if you just do a direct jump, then the narrative feels disjointed. I suppose its a question of making sure the asides are sufficiently interesting to keep the reader involved.

Click to shrink...

I take it there will be a scene with Tabitha and Isabella in the future? I think we should at some point...

Also, time-wise as you can see, this is after meeting Tiffania and then before Beatrice goes full bitch.

 

[Juubi-K]

I take it there will be a scene with Tabitha and Isabella in the future? I think we should at some point...

Also, time-wise as you can see, this is after meeting Tiffania and then before Beatrice goes full bitch.

Click to shrink...

Yes, at some point.

Agreed. That incident will come up in the next chapter or so (depending on how I decide to split them up).

 

[Juubi-K]

Apologies for leaving this thread for so long. I've had a rather difficult couple of months. Just wanting to show that this thread is still alive so long as anyone's still interested. I'll have the next chapter up ASAP.

Thanks.