Explain to Maia what exactly Deiza said to make you try and hit her, and try to explain why it upset you: 21
Try to tell Maia how you felt when she smiled at you after the fight with the mercury ants: 16
Tell Maia a story about the first time you kissed a girl, and hopefully lead things around from there: 5
In a real sense, explaining yourselves is more arduous than the actual fighting had been.
The five of you — Amiti, Darting Fish, Deiza, L'nessa, and yourself — ended up having a long discussion with several staff members where you were asked, in detail, to explain and justify your actions. As with all things at the Heptagram, you're left with the strong impression that this is being used as a learning experience.
Darting Fish, having recruited a number of younger students to assist him with an experiment that had gone disastrously and nearly gotten two of them drowned or eaten, was subjected to the greatest amount of scrutiny. You'd been correct in that your scant evidence that Peleps Nalri had been directly involved had not been enough to sway the school against her, although the way Instructor Zadaki's eyes had narrowed when you brought her up leads you to believe that someone, at least, will be keeping a closer watch on her.
In the end, Darting Fish is tasked with helping to restock the cliff-face's depopulated chimerical guardians, a highly unpleasant task that will also be greatly helpful to his research, if he pursues it diligently. Out of you younger students, the only one who has been tasked with assisting him is Amiti, for the sheer excess of her methods of keeping the guardians off of you and Deiza.
You would have argued that this was unfair, if Amiti herself had seemed to have any interest whatsoever in avoiding this task. She's only barely managing to not look outright delighted at the thought of it.
"We can't let her get away with this," Maia says, later that night.
"I intend to make her regret her actions, at some point in the future," you say.
Maia sits on her bed, hunched in on herself. "You could have been killed. It should be more than just a bit of regret," she says. Despite the vulnerability in her posture, there's something very serious and harsh in her tone. The combination is... distracting.
"Maia, be careful about saying such things," L'nessa says. "She's a Peleps. Please, try to remember your family's debts."
Maia doesn't look up, instead seeming very intent on contemplating the floorboards. "I always do," she says.
L'nessa frowns, pausing where she is. She's been pacing the length of the room this whole time, fretfully shedding a few leaves as she goes. From experience, you can tell when she's on the verge of going from friendly advice to friendly lecture, which will take more time than you'd like. You interrupt:
"Maia, may I speak to you?" you ask. "Alone?"
Maia gives a slight start. "What about?" she asks.
You hesitate, ignoring L'nessa's raised eyebrows. "I will explain in private," you say.
"We're close to lights out," L'nessa says, watching Maia slide off the bed, and back into her boots. Amusement and nervous energy are clearly winning out over L'nessa's earlier concern. You're depressingly certain she has a good idea of what you want to talk to Maia about.
"We'll have time," you say, rising from your desk chair. Silent and confused, Maia follows you out of the dorm, and back into the rapidly emptying halls of the school.
You move quickly, feet almost automatically taking you to a place you know will be quiet at this time of night. Your route goes up a level, and around to the library tower. That familiar quiet atmosphere overtakes you both. You wait until you're a ways in, with no sign of anyone else, before you steel yourself, and turn around.
Alone in the stacks, with Maia staring at you uncertainly, you're uncomfortably aware that this is precisely the sort of secluded place in the library tower that Deiza and Keric had been using for their unorthodox 'language studies'. The silence stretches on for long seconds as everything that you'd prepared to say on the way here seems to evaporate out of your mind. Finally, you just say: "You asked about what Simendor said to me."
"I... did," Maia says, plainly only more confused.
"She implied that I wanted to get you into bed. And that you'd agree to it, because it would be good for your family. That's why I tried to hit her." The words are blunt, abrupt, and Maia takes a second or two to digest them. To your concern, she seems to hunch in on herself slightly, looking a little like you've just slapped her in the face.
You frown. "What's wrong?"
It takes Maia a second or two to find her voice again. When she does, it's very quiet, and very carefully measured. "Nothing. It is... unforgivably crass that Simendor Deiza would imply such a thing about you." Wait, about you? That isn't the part that had made you mad! "If you will excuse me, my lady, I have... tasks to complete." The formality cuts you like a knife, painful enough that you can't immediately respond. Maia gives you a respectful half bow, and turns stiffly on her heel, already beginning to walk away.
You know, instantly, that if you let her get out of sight, you will never find her while she doesn't want to be found. You take two long strides, catch up to her, and physically grab Maia by the wrist, pulling her back around to face you. She looks up at you with plain startlement. "I wasn't angry that she thought I was interested in you!" you say, your voice a frustrated hiss. "I was angry because she was making it sound like you wouldn't want... me, but you'd go along with it anyway!"
Maia continues to stare, genuinely shocked at your outburst. You're aware, suddenly, of how close you're both standing, of her deceptive delicacy. She doesn't pull away, and you don't let go of her arm, despite the sensation of a dagger hilt digging into your palm through her uniform sleeve. "And you think that she's right?"
"I..." frustration wells up in your chest. You're filled with the sudden, intense urge just to pull her close to you and kiss her, to make things as plain as possible as simply as possible. You do lean in closer to her — improperly close — but instead of closing those final inches between you, you whisper: "Just... tell me you want this. Or that you don't." It comes out as a lot closer to a plea than you'd intended.
Maia swallows, opens her mouth, visibly trying to find words that aren't immediately coming to her. Then she puts her free hand behind your neck, leans up, and gives you a quick, darting kiss, lips soft and awkward against your own. "Since a month after I met you," she says, almost too quietly to hear. You can feel her hand, warm and trembling, against your neck. "I hope that answers—"
The rest of her answer is cut off in a sharp gasp you pull her back in for another, far deeper, kiss, keeping your hold on her wrist even as you wrap your free arm around her back. She relaxes into your arms, and it's exactly what you've wanted for over a year.
When you finally break off for air, Maia stays in close against you, her head finding its way to your shoulder. "It was a good answer," you say, smiling with almost undignified relief.
Maia giggles, stifling the noise against your school tunic. You feel a small, metallic snake head against your throat, and realise that Verdigris has slipped out of your sleeve at some point, and is now draped across Maia's narrow shoulders.
"I had to say something, after today," you say, a little quieter.
"Because you nearly died," Maia says, voice cracking a little.
"Because I could have died," you say, the correction gentle. "I do quite well in these situations, I think. And I wasn't stuck holding up the ceiling this time." Even if you had to keep Deiza from going over the cliff instead.
"I'm... really what you thought of first, after all that?" she asks.
Almost literally. "To be fair, I think about you more than you seem to have guessed."
She nods, a shallow movement you feel more than see. Then, reluctantly, she pulls away, and you let her. "We need to get back soon," she says.
She's right, but you're not really worried — you feel better, just now, than you have in a long time. "L'nessa is going to be insufferable about this," you say, turning back the way you came.
Maia laughs again, and falls in beside you.
"What's going to be insufferable," L'nessa says, the next morning, "is sharing a room with you two for the next four and a half years. This is going to be an ongoing thing, yes?"
"It is," you say, trying not to be too annoyed as you begin to address your breakfast.
"Well, good," L'nessa says. "Maia would take that very hard. She's been nursing that infatuation with you since first year, after all."
"How did you know that and I didn't?" you ask.
"Honestly, I ask myself the same question," L'nessa says.
Your glower for her melts into a genuine smile as you see Maia approaching the table from across the room. Her own smile is a little nervous as she slides into the spot beside yours.
"Oh, good, here you are," says L'nessa, wasting no time. "Ground rules!"
"... Ground rules?" Maia asks.
"For you two, while we're all rooming together," L'nessa says, simply. As if this topic isn't even a little mortifying. "I am, of course, thrilled for you both, but I will require some basic consideration and restraint when it comes to..."
You and Maia listen as L'nessa lays out a number of very reasonable and slightly embarrassing requests for the sake of her peace of mind, phrased delicately enough that you could not possibly complain. This doesn't stop Maia's face from growing redder and redder as she goes on.
You're grateful, sometimes, that your complexion doesn't show a blush like that. Not that that would currently be a problem, of course.
As L'nessa winds down, though, you can't help but notice a strange pair of students exchanging tense looking words out in the hallway beyond the meal hall. Sola, her expression serious but calm, is seemingly talking to Simendor Deiza out of earshot of the general breakfast crowd. As you watch, Sola says something that makes Deiza nod once sharply, turn on her heel, and walk away, not even bothering to head in for breakfast.
Sola sighs, walks into the meal hall, and heads straight for your table.
"What was that about?" You ask.
Sola shrugs. "Nothing it would reflect well on me to repeat," she says, with a light sort of tone that tells you this is the most you'll get on this subject.
"Did she ask you to let her see the sword again?" Maia asks. Sola is already wearing the daiklave on her belt at this time of morning, because she always is.
"That, I think, she's given up on," Sola says. Which is almost surprising to you, given House Simendor's slightly unseemly fixation on orichalcum. "Speaking of which, you went out and fought half the cliff guardian flock, and you brought Amiti?"
"The plan involved a great deal more studious note taking and carefully controlled experimentation," you say. "And she acquitted herself quite well, honestly."
"'Oh, I have a great spell for cleaning bones!'" L'nessa's voice takes on a good enough imitation of Amiti's inappropriately cheerful tones that you can't help but smile. Maia is trying very hard not to giggle "Turns out, it cleans bones still attached to living things pretty well too. Rather revolting, if very useful under the circumstances." She's more amused than actually condemning.
"I'd promise to take you to the next disaster, but ideally that's the most excitement we'll have for a good few months," you say to Sola. Who has the gall to look faintly skeptical as she chews a mouthful of breakfast.
"Oh, was it the most excitement you've had lately?" L'nessa asks, voice innocent.
Maia starts to sink down in her seat, face slowly reddening all over again.
"You," you say, completely without heat, "are an evil woman." L'nessa laughs. Unseen beneath the table, your hand brushes against Maia's. Not enough to be unseemly in so public a place. Maia doesn't exactly stop blushing, but she seems a little reassured.
Sola glances between the three of you, eyebrows raised. "Is there something you want to tell me, or are we only communicating in cryptic hints, right now?"
Naturally, the entire school knows inside of a week.
Apart from the ongoing issue of Peleps Nalri, there is only one final incident to put a bow on the whole misadventure. At the time, you don't pay it a great deal of heed.
Days later, you come out of the lecture hall near the rear of the group, only to find Simendor Deiza loitering around the exit. She makes eye contact with you, then glances away. Wordlessly, you continue onward. While you're of course not one to entertain any childish grudges, if she wants to talk to you, she should say so.
Out of the corner of your eye, you see Mnemon Keric standing beside her, giving her an uncharacteristically forceful sort of glare. Whatever it is she sees in his eyes, Deiza sighs and moves to catch up with you.
"Do you have a moment?" Deiza asks, feigning casualness.
You give her a shallow nod, stepping to the side of the hallway with a dignified sort of air. You look at her expectantly, having no idea what is going to come of this.
Deiza takes in a breath and lets it out, as if steeling herself for something deeply unpleasant. Then she bows — it's shallow, a formal gesture among social equals, but you're too shocked by even this much from her to quibble over familial standing. "Lady Ambraea, allow me to apologise for the insult I offered you earlier this term. It was uncalled for."
You're quiet for a moment. Then, with slightly less than your usual grace, you say: "So, you can act like a Dynast when you want to."
Deiza shoots you an irritated look, immediately dropping the formal tones. "Oh, just accept it or tell me to go away." From over her shoulder, you see Keric wince in a mortified sort of way. This was no doubt his idea.
"Your apology is accepted, Lady Deiza," you tell her, relenting. "We will consider the matter behind us."
"Well, it's good we're doing that," Deiza says. You choose not to read any dryness into her tone.
"Quite," you say, and coolly walk away.
Not every schoolgirl grudge needs to be nursed until it's something worse. You'll have enough to worry about this term... And enough to look forward to, without dragging this on more than it needs to be.
Descending Wood, Realm Year 761
Two years, seven months before the disappearance of the Scarlet Empress
There are always serious considerations for the academic break. As ever, it is your opportunity to make an impression on Dynastic society in between your long months of study. You'd be lying if you said that that's the first thing on your mind now, however.
"I hope that you will call on me at your convenience, as we discussed," you say. Your tone is staid, proper. Not nearly as affectionate as you'd like.
Maia bows. "Your regard humbles me, my lady. I will be certain to do so soon." While not as expensive as what a Dynast could afford, you can't help but think that the cut of her clothes — dark blue and flowing in the Incas style — lend her a more graceful look than the Heptagram's student uniform.
You incline your head graciously. You're in public, at the docks in Chanos, having just disembarked from the ship. You sense many eyes on the two of you, whether incidental or appraising.
You wish you could touch her.
The connection you two formed has deepened over the course of the previous term. However, between your studies and the fact that you both share a room with your niece, it has been a thing of furtive glances and stolen moments, and very little of the sort of privacy you'd like.
As Maia straightens, you catch sight of Demure Peony over her shoulder, standing patiently at a respectable distance. Something about the apprehensive set of Peony's shoulders makes you take a second look, however:
A young man stands beside her, resplendent in the colours of an Imperial messenger, patiently waiting for the Dragon-Blooded to finish talking. A twist of nervousness stirs in the pit of your stomach. "Excuse me," you say to Maia, "but I think that's probably for me." She turns to follow your gaze, but you're already walking over to the messenger.
Peony bows low at your approach, but doesn't speak — the young man is already stepping forward. He bows as well, not a hair out of place or a speck of dirt on his clothing, holding out a sealed letter to you with enough reverence that it might have been made of solid jade. "For the Lady Ambraea, Beloved of Pasiap, by Imperial decree."
You accept the letter wordlessly, spending a few precious seconds to take in the seal — brilliantly red wax, shot through with precious red jade dust. Even hardened, it's warm to the touch. You break it without further hesitation, and read the contents with grave efficiency. When you finish, you go back to the beginning and read it again, frowning thoughtfully.
"I hope it isn't bad news?" Maia asks, choosing her words carefully.
"No," you say, the half-truth coming easily off your tongue. "I have been asked to attend the Imperial Presence, at the Imperial Palace, at my earliest convenience. I could never call this anything but an honour and a privilege."
You regard the messenger coolly, and say: "Thank you. As I will be traveling faster than your reply could, you have carried out your duty. My handmaiden will see your service appropriately complimented." Wearing Imperial colours or not, it's a poor Dynast who can't afford at least a coin for a messenger.
Peony seems to parse at a glance that you'd like a moment's privacy, and skillfully draws the messenger away in order to see to a suitable tip.
"You'll be leaving immediately, then?" Maia asks.
You consider this. 'At your earliest convenience', from your mother, has very little leeway, for someone with access to sorcerous means of travel. "No," you decide. "First thing tomorrow morning. I will need the rest of the day to make arrangements, and then... a good night's sleep."
The need for haste is very good at chasing away any nervousness you might have at the implication you're leaving in the air.
To your great relief, Maia allows herself a slight smile. This time, there's only the faintest trace of colour coming into her face. "I understand," she says.
It's a thought that buoys you onward for the rest of a busy day.
Article:
Ambraea has been summoned back to the Imperial City in order to speak to her mother in person, a rare enough occurrence to make this a source of both dread and excitement. It will also be an opportunity to see her father, as well as others who she hasn't seen in three years.
Mundane means would be far too slow to carry her all the way to Scarlet Prefecture and back. Fortunately, Ambraea has other means at her disposal, and is plainly being expected to make use of them. How is Ambraea traveling?
[ ] A favour from Diamond-Cut Perfection
On the metaphorical wings of a lesser elemental dragon, the distance shrinks considerably. Perfection will be available to make the trip, and will be able to get Ambraea and Peony there safely and in a timely manner. Needless to say, this will be an extremely ostentatious method of travel, and Perfection will ask for a reasonable favour in return afterward.
[ ] A favour from V'neef Darting Fish
Ordinarily, it would be slightly outrageous to ask an acquaintance to take you and your handmaiden all the way to Scarlet Prefecture on such short notice. However, Darting Fish owes Ambraea, and would not resent the request, as inconvenient as it might be. Traveling in Darting Fish's small, sorcerously-summoned ship will be far faster than any mundane means of travel and will allow you to arrive relatively quietly, although it will be considerably slower than flying, and leave you open to the vagaries of sea voyages.
[ ] A summoned lesser elemental
Ambraea can simply summon a flying elemental to carry her and Peony. This spirit will be obedient, but newly formed and not particularly intelligent. She will arrive in a timely enough manner, but the creature's unpredictable nature will cause unforeseen problems on the way, and the trip will be less comfortable than what Perfection might offer.
Maia's presence still carries that heavy, cool quality at the edge of your senses, like the still air before a storm warning of torrential rain. As it happens, however, that is a very nice feeling to get when you're warm and safe in your own bed, sheltered from the weather and the scrutiny of the outside world. For the first time in what already feels like many years, simply letting yourself be close to someone you care about.
When the gentle knock comes on your door in the early hours of the morning, your requested wakeup call, you try to slip out of bed without waking her. You think you've succeeded, until a small hand closes around your wrist. There's no force behind the grip, but it stops you short.
"Were you leaving without saying goodbye?" Maia's face is lit by the dim morning light filtering through your curtains, her eyes dark and drowning-deep as she looks up at you.
"I didn't want to wake you," you say. You settle yourself back down, sitting on the edge of the bed. She draws in closer to you.
"You're not that stealthy, Ambraea." A smile tugs at her lips. It's endearing, even if it's really not fair to compare you against her standards of what constitutes stealthy. Absurdly, Maia had had five hidden daggers and a set of lockpicks in her clothes last night, now left piled on your bedroom floor — you'd both laughed over it, even if you have to wonder if she ever really feels comfortable without such precautions.
You put a hand under Maia's chin, drawing her up into a firm, almost fierce kiss. She returns it with unresisting enthusiasm. "I'm going to miss you," you tell her.
"I will too." She flings her arms around you, giving you a brief, tight hug. "Don't forget about me while you're in the capital?" It's a joke, but at the same time, it isn't.
"You are a much less forgettable person than you seem to think," you say as she lets go, voice affectionately dry.
As expected, a small amount of relief creeps into her posture. Maia's insecurities are unavoidable, sometimes. You don't mind assuaging them. "I mean what I said before, though," she says. "I won't be jealous, or anything, if there's someone else while you're in the capital. Just as long as I'm still... special, when you see me again. I don't want to be too clingy."
"I like it when you're a little clingy," you say. She's making it very hard not to want to just get back into bed with her, for all that you don't have the time. Surely a few more minutes can't hurt, though. "I admit, I've barely thought about what I'll do with myself in the Imperial City after my audience."
Maia examines your face closely, and gives a small frown. "You're nervous about this, aren't you?"
It would be very easy to just say yes. But if you can't be entirely honest here with her, where could you ever be? You glance away from her, studying the pattern of sunlight on the brightly patterned carpet. Then, fighting not to swallow the words, you make yourself say: "I'm... afraid."
"Of seeing your mother?" It's not really a question that this is what you meant, but she seems to know you need the prompting. You feel her arms slip around you again — this time, she sits up straighter, and draws you in. It's a startling feeling to be the one being held like this. You don't pull away.
"I am happy she's sending for me," you say, truthfully. "But, yes. She's..." Infamously capricious — you won't say that even to Maia. "... unpredictable. I never know what she wants from me."
"You're the best in our year," Maia says. You feel the whisper of her gentle voice against your skin as she presses her face into your hair. "Won't she be pleased by that?"
"Hopefully. Probably." You take in a slow, steadying breath, trying to regain your equilibrium, as nice as it would be to keep letting the fault lines show. "You don't talk about your family very much," you add, without really thinking. The same family that had clearly raised her to be someone's terrible sorcerer-assassin. Such things are both alarming and noteworthy in an individual sense, but far from unheard of in the Dynasty, and Maia's family has a patron Great House.
"That would take longer than we have right now," Maia admits. The way she's holding you, you still can't see her face. "You'll have to ask me another time."
The reminder of your time limit makes you understand that if you don't get up now, you might not get up anytime soon. You gently push yourself back up, and out of Maia's arms. "I'll see you again near the end of summer," you say.
Maia nods. Her mood has definitely fallen, presumably because of the farewell. "Good luck on your journey," she says. "I hope— Wait!" This last word is accompanied by her diving half off the bed to snatch something up from the floor, holding it out to you hilt first.
"A knife?" you ask, examining it with a perplexed air. The blade is both slender and flat, designed to be easily concealed. You don't test the edge — you know how Maia keeps any blade she carries.
"Well, it's, um... my favourite knife!" she says, face colouring. "This would be a great time to have some kind of meaningful piece of jewelry I could give you and say, 'wear this over your heart', but, uh... this is what I have onhand."
You look up from the little knife and smile. "I'll be sure to wear this over my heart, then," you say.
Interlude 03: A Mother's Fond Regard
You feel the little sheathed blade against your skin, hanging from the same chain as Diamond-Cut Perfection's scale does, tucked safely under your clothes. Through the carriage window, you watch the outskirts of Chanos give way to farmland and stretches of rugged, scrubby hill country. The mountains loom large and picturesque behind it all, the Imperial Mountain stabbing upward into the slate grey sky.
After leaving Maia, you'd hurriedly washed, gotten dressed without assistance, and allowed Peony to braid your hair with the efficiency that no one else had ever quite been able to match. Breakfast had been similarly rushed. For all your dallying in the bedroom, no one will have cause to believe you were anything but prompt in departing.
"When I told you you didn't have to come with me, I meant it," you say, voice quiet.
Across from you, Peony starts out of whatever private thoughts she's using to try and soothe her obvious nerves. "I... yes, my lady," she says.
"It isn't entirely fair for me to expose you to powerful spirits like them, beyond what can't be helped." Peony is your servant and has a responsibility to you, obviously, but a Dragon-Blood does likewise have a responsibility not to be reckless about the spiritual health and wellbeing of mortals under her care. Serving a sorcerer is always going to toe the line in that regard, but that's different from expecting Peony to make a long, two-way trip in the company of a lesser elemental dragon. Verdigris, curled up in your lap, doesn't count nearly so much, you'd like to think.
As far as more practical matters are concerned, Peony is obviously a little bit terrified at the prospect.
She shifts uncomfortably, almost looking you in the eye. "I... will manage, my lady. You'll be there, after all. And it wouldn't do for you to arrive in the Imperial City with no one to attend you." The impropriety of arriving via lesser elemental dragon would rather eclipse this, but you don't interrupt. "And, it has been several years since I have last seen my mother as well." She adds this second point tentatively, like she's uncertain of how it should be received.
"Well, you'll get the chance soon, then," you say. For all that you wanted to offer Peony the option to back out, you can't say that you're not relieved at her coming with you. "I've missed your mother as well."
"I'm sure she will be proud to see how you've grown, my lady," Peony says.
You raise your eyebrows. "Just proud of me?"
Peony doesn't answer, but she does give a small smile.
The road marker is a carved stone pillar at a crossroads, indicating how far to Chanos and several outlying settlements. A small Immaculate shrine is set back a ways from the road, one of many in the countryside this close to the prefectural capital.
Today there are only two figures in sight. One of them, you're here to meet. The other, you're apparently going to have to deal with.
"I will ask again, spirit," the woman is saying, choosing her words carefully, "would you be so kind as to explain your business here today?"
"And I will answer again," says Diamond-Cut Perfection, "I'm waiting on a friend. Nothing sinister or untoward. And, look, here she is!"
The dragon is in their human shape, lounging on the base of the road marker, looking a little incongruous in their spotless finery. The woman standing over them is a mortal, but one dressed in the robes and trappings of an Immaculate monk. When she sees you emerging from your carriage, she is both startled and relieved. Even mortal monks receive special training to prepare them to deal with the supernatural, but if she has any inkling of what Perfection is, she knows full well that they're far above her pay grade.
"Good morning, Sister," you say, approaching the two of them. Behind you, Peony and the driver see to the small amount of luggage you intend to bring with you. "I hope that my friend is not causing any undue trouble?"
The monk gives you a respectful bow. "They alarmed some of the local farmers when they flew in," she says. "I have been trying to ask after the reason for their presence here unannounced."
"And, I told you, I was waiting for a friend," Perfection says. They twine a finger through their white-blonde hair, their smile as flawless as it is insufferable. "Hello, Ambraea. You look lovely this morning."
You're wearing your black and gold jacket over practical travel clothes, your sabre belted on at your waist. It has a new sheathe — a birthday present sent to you from your father, adorned with a quotation from the Immaculate Texts praising Pasiap's resilience in face of adversity, as well as an intricate pattern of triangles meant to put one in mind of mountains. Verdigris is currently out of sight beneath your jacket, but you're quite certain that lovely is perhaps overstating things, going by the monk's reaction. You think she might recognise your name.
"Diamond-Cut Perfection," you say, sparing them a nod. Looking back to the monk, you continue: "I must shortly depart for Scarlet Prefecture, by Imperial request. My friend has offered to take me there far more swiftly than I would be able to travel otherwise. Please, convey my apologies to your superiors. I take it they have already been informed?"
"Yes, my lady," the monk says. If nothing else, she can be pleased that the dragon will be leaving soon. "I had sent word ahead to Smile-of-Hesiesh Temple. I am certain someone more... Equipped to handle a being of your 'friend's' stature will be arriving shortly." Meaning, someone Exalted, and likely more than one. There's no open reproof in her words, given your relative statuses, but you hear it nonetheless. The Immaculate Order takes a dim view of sorcerers who allow summoned spirits to wander freely, where they might injure or corrupt ordinary people. That this is not quite what your relationship with Perfection is makes the impression all the more galling, but you're not about to get into the finer points.
"And thank goodness you're here to smooth this all over. And to think, when we first met, you asked why I wanted to make a pact with you in particular." The scale around your neck goes subtly colder as Perfection's voice speaks in your head. They sound so pleased with themself that you briefly entertain the fantasy of telling the monk that they're a dangerous criminal.
"As I have said, please convey my apologies. Should your superiors wish to discuss the matter with me upon my return, I will be happy to assuage their concerns. But for now, I must depart as swiftly as possible. I trust you have no objections?" You're being more respectful than you technically need to while speaking to a mortal monk, but you don't have any desire to make a habit of antagonising representatives of the Immaculate Order. The woman is only doing her duty, after all, and quite bravely, considering what manner of spirit she's been stalling.
"No, my lady," the monk says. "May the Dragons guide you on your journey." She bows again, retreating to a safe distance.
"Well, that's taken care of," Perfection says. "Which one is coming with us?"
You follow their gaze, seeing Peony standing by the carriage holding both your bags, the driver attempting to calm down a pair of horses made nervous by Perfection's presence. Peony interprets your look as a signal for her to approach. She does an admirable job of keeping her earlier nerves hidden, although you're willing to bet that her heart is still hammering.
"This is my mentor, Diamond-Cut Perfection, Lesser Elemental Dragon of Earth," you explain to her. Peony takes her cue perfectly, setting the bags down and bowing deeply. "This is my handmaiden, Demure Peony," you tell Perfection. "She will be accompanying us, as discussed."
"Charmed," Perfection says. "Now, I gather that we're in a hurry." They take a few steps away, and in a crystalline flash, they're in their draconic shape, glittering in a thousand different shades. This startles all three mortals, to say nothing of the horses. Perfection deigns to lower their coils to the ground with a mildly earth-shaking thud.
You note a decorative chain around their serpentine throat, each metallic link larger than most humans could comfortably carry.
"Hence the rope you asked for," you say, having expected something like this.
"Well," Perfection says, "if it's beneath your dignity, I could always just carry the carriage the entire way."
Tempting, but you can well imagine the roof tearing away at an inopportune time. You, with the help of a slightly pale looking Peony, set about climbing up onto Perfection's back and securing yourselves to the chain with a length of sturdy rope. You make sure that Peony is in front of you, holding onto the luggage, so you can put a practical arm around her.
She seems on the verge of protesting that, but falls silent when you tell her: "Propriety matters less to me than having to explain to Lohna that you fell to your death off of the back of a dragon, Peony."
"... yes, my lady," she says.
"And, remember, where would I be without your singular grace and dedication?"
"At this moment, my lady, I couldn't possibly tell you."
Almost sooner than you expect, Perfection pushes themself back up into the air, and all three of you are flying.
It is not a fun journey for Peony. While you are in somewhat of a better position to enjoy the stunning views and novel speed that this mode of transportation affords, you do have to admit that it's far from the most relaxing trip you've ever taken.
While you travel, the wind is cold and sharp as a knife, and howls so loudly that it's a struggle for you and Peony to say anything to each other without literally shouting in one another's ear, and you're forced to speak to Perfection exclusively through your scale. Verdigris burrows into your jacket and refuses to come out, disliking being so far above the ground.
During the day, Perfection flies over snow-capped mountain peaks and secluded valleys, cutting their way across the North-Eastern Blessed Isle at a diagonal that only sometimes intersects with roads far below. The miles eat away shockingly fast below you — over the course of mere hours, you make a journey that would have taken weeks by conventional travel.
You spend nights at a series of settlements ranging from mountain hamlets to small towns. In every case, your arrival is heralded by equal parts fear and awe, the local residents wasting no time in insisting you take whatever the best accommodations they have available. Peony emerges from these flights unsteady on her feet and slightly chilled, but you made sure she was at least dressed for the trip. Her initial fear gives way to a sort of grim determination as the days go by. She's as studiously polite to Perfection as you'd expect, but avoids inappropriate familiarity with the spirit.
For your part, you and Perfection end up conducting lengthy, mental discussions about sorcery, spirits, and other arcane matters. That these conversations are productive matters a little bit less to you than the helpful distraction from your mounting nerves.
Shockingly fast, the mountains give way to foothills, and then to plains, and then you're flying over the Imperial River Basin, following the river's course toward the sea. The Basin is the most heavily populated region of the Blessed Isle — where before there had been tracts of scarcely inhabited wilderness beneath you, now you see city after city, town after town, farmland stretching on and on to feed them all.
It's late morning when you finally arrive, less than a week after you set out, a pace which Perfection smugly describes as "leisurely". The Imperial City seems strangely small on the horizon at first, but rapidly grows to a size that better fits your memory. And as you make your final approach, you see the city spread out from above, spires and domes and mile upon mile of sprawl radiating out from walls that have never once been breached. Even this high up, you can pick out familiar sights: The multi-coloured domes of the Palace of the Deliberative gleam in the sun, each a breathtaking masterwork. You pick out plazas and avenues you've been borne through, each lined with splendor hard won from every Direction -- temples to defeated gods, captured monuments turned into trophies of conquest, the shattered remnants of manses and palaces rendered into paving stones at your mother's command. And there, shining like a jewel at the city's heart behind high walls and gates gleaming with jade, is the Imperial Palace -- the truest home you've ever known.
Although...
"Something wrong?" Perfection asks, their thoughts somehow carrying the feeling of a grin.
Of course there's nothing wrong. You're looking down at the greatest city in all Creation from a vantage that few have ever gotten to see. It's merely... different, from how you normally see it.
"Oh, I see!" they say. "You don't normally see those parts, do you?"
Admittedly, you do not -- the Imperial City's great buildings and major streets are cleverly arranged to present a view worthy of the Realm's crowning glory to those of means. From above, though, you can see what had always been hidden from you, even from the highest towers of the Palace: Thousands upon thousands of homes crammed in amidst factories, workshops, slaughterhouses, and all the other small and petty drudgeries that make a city run. Teaming masses of peasant laborers and beasts of burden and slaves throng in those narrow streets, making up the lion's share of the more than a million souls living within the Imperial City's protection.
It isn't really discomfort you're feeling. Just surprise. Inside your coat, Verdigris stirs, nuzzling a scaly head against you. You ignore Perfection's laughter in your head, and try to join Peony in simply taking in the view.
Not wanting to find out exactly what supernatural defences the walls have against aerial assault, you don't land in the city proper. Instead, Perfection sets down in the middle of a broad avenue half an hour out from the nearest gate. It's a neighbourhood for relatively well-off peasants: artisans and businesswomen and other such folk settle their families here, where their money stretches farther than it would within the walls. You're surrounded by comfortably modest looking homes, many with quaint little gardens all the more charming for their simplicity. Anyone out on the street immediately runs for cover as Perfection lands — this gives you and Peony time to climb down with your things before anyone immediately bothers you. Peony has the air of a woman who has weathered a tribulation and isn't certain how she emerged unscathed on the other side.
"Believe it or not, I have things of my own to attend to," Perfection tells you, "and it doesn't involve answering a thousand suspicious questions from humans who watch my every move."
"Yes, that's probably for the best," you agree. "Thank you for your assistance." You incline your head at an appropriate angle.
'I've always wanted to see this part of the Isle," Perfection says, flicking their tail as if the whole business was just a whim. "I'll be in touch — I have a task for you while we're both here, I think." Then they're winging up and away in a rush of wind and a riot of gems gleaming in the sun.
And so it was that when the group of distinctly nervous Black Helms come to investigate the reports of a dragon setting down in the suburbs, the only one they find is you.
"Excellent timing," you tell the officer, as if your presence here is entirely normal and expected, "I have urgent business at the Palace, and require proper transportation. I trust you will see it arranged?"
Your mother's presence has always been overwhelming, the sheer weight of her attention like a vast bonfire — the palace itself often felt a little like that to you, whether or not she was in it at any given time. Like the very architecture of the place had taken on some of her essential being. Now, far more attuned to the mystical energies of the world than you had been when you last walked these halls, you recognise that this was never your imagination. Her sorcery permeates every part of the vast building, the power of it a constant background hum.
"Our revered Empress has of course been notified of your arrival, lady Ambraea," the well-dressed mortal woman tells you. Her tone is deferential but confident. As a deputy to the Keeper of the First Imperial Seal. "She will send for you at her convenience, but I shouldn't expect that to be before tomorrow."
You don't resent that — it gives you a chance to be clean, rested, and fed by the time you face your mother. "Of course," you say, "I am happy to await her pleasure."
You follow the deputy down a hallway that you know of old, one wall made up of high archways leading out to a vast and splendid courtyard garden. This time of year, it's host to a riot of flowers from across Creation, brightly coloured birds singing in the branches of ornamental trees.
As you pass one such arch, you briefly eye one of its large, marble pillars, and have to refrain from rubbing at your nose in a distant memory of pain. From her place beside and slightly behind you, Peony follows your gaze. The trace of a smile on her lips is so faint that no one could have credibly chided her for it.
There's an itch at the back of your neck intruding on your sense of childhood nostalgia. You eye one of the archways up ahead critically. On a hunch, you let your fingers brush along a massive vase of polished silver as you're led past it, putting a thread of Air into it as you go. In the distorted reflection, you can now see a figure standing in the archway, tireless and intangible, inhuman eyes tracking you all as you pass.
You take your hand away from the vase, and pointedly don't look at the arch again. You'd always known, abstractly, that more than the Silent Legion guards this place. Reasonably, this changes nothing.
You leave the courtyard behind, following the deputy down a route you could have walked in your sleep, through the grand corridor adorned with Zephyrite wall hangings, up the flight of red marble stairs, and finally coming to a halt at a particular door on the landing above. The deputy bows. "Your rooms have of course been prepared, my lady, and a meal will be delivered shortly. Do you require anything else?"
"No, thank you," you tell her, nodding in acknowledgement, "You have been most helpful. I'm sure you have many duties to attend to."
"Very well," the deputy says, seeming to approve this answer. "I wish you a good day, my lady." With that, she strides purposefully away with the air of a woman already mentally readjusting her day's schedule down to the minute.
You take a moment to take a deep breath and let it out again, savouring the moment of relative solitude. "Well, welcome home, I suppose," you tell Peony, reaching to open the door to your private chambers. As a child of the Scarlet Empress, you have your own dedicated suite of rooms here, maintained in your absence in anticipation of your eventual return. Whether that be after a month or a decade.
The foyer is exactly as you remembered it. You step through onto an intricately patterned carpet, the space decorated with antique mahogany furniture. Prasadi artwork on the walls, gifted to you very belatedly by your paternal grandmother to mark your Exaltation, aniconic designs in a style both exotic and striking to Realm sensibilities. Also familiar is the servant woman standing here waiting for you, carefully putting some finishing touches on an arrangement of fresh flowers sitting on a table. As you enter the room, she turns around, smiles respectfully, and bows very low. "My lady Ambraea," she says.
Lohna's hair is darker than Peony's, and closer to a kelp green than Peony's seafoam blue, but she has the same dense curls, the same narrow frame, and the same warm, brown complexion. Her dress is simple, but clean, cut to plainly expose the brand burned onto her neck — the version of the Imperial household's mon used to mark your mother's personal property. You'd had many nannies and tutors over the course of your childhood, but Lohna had been among the most consistently present. She'd nursed you as an infant, helped teach you to walk, and to speak your first words. She'd been the one you would always run to with scraped knees or hurt feelings, a sternly kind presence, affectionate in the way a servant is permitted to be.
She's older than you remembered, for all that you only saw her three years ago, with grey in her hair and lines on her face you're sure weren't there before. For a moment, you're filled with the childish urge to hug her. You don't, of course. "Hello, Lohna," you say, smiling. "It's good to see you."
This acknowledgement gives her permission to straighten, relax. "And you as well, my lady," she says. "I am happy to see that Chanos has agreed with you so well. I trust my daughter has been taking good care of you?"
"As always," you say.
"I do my best," Peony says. There's a subtle loosening of her posture here — you can tell she's already glad she came with you, however much she hated the journey.
"You look healthy enough," Lohna decides, plainly satisfied. "I was worried; I don't trust Northern food."
"We didn't exactly go to Whitewall, mother," Peony says, but she's smiling.
"The food in Chanos is perfectly adequate," you say. You won't complain about the school food, but you pointedly do not include it in that assessment.
"I'm sure you're right," Lohna agrees, without giving the impression that she's sure of anything of the sort. You're fairly certain that she's never been North of Pangu Prefecture, just across the Imperial River, and possibly never will. "I'm sure you'll both enjoy a change of pace, regardless. I hope the journey wasn't too difficult — I've heard rumours about you flying in on a dragon, but I'm sure that can't be true."
You open your mouth, but you're cut off by a knock at the door. Instantly, both Lohna and Peony straighten up to a more formal posture. At a glance from you, Peony moves over to the door, and opens it. You smile again at the sight of the man on the other side. "Father," you say. "This is sooner than I'd expected to see you."
"I suppose it would be," he says, lightly. He glances at Lohna and Peony, then back to you.
"If you would give us the room?" you say to the servants. You know they'll be grateful for the chance to speak to one another alone as well. They both bow, and retreat in the direction of Peony's bedroom, leaving you alone with your father.
He closes the door behind him, and to your startlement, moves to clasp you by the shoulders. "Look at you," he says, smiling down at you, "I barely recognise that girl I sent away."
"I'm sure the sword helps," you say. You don't pull away from him.
He laughs. Burano Maharan Nazat, Imperial consort, is a tall, broad-shouldered man with your complexion and dark eyes, dressed in court robes of a rich green. The grey in his hair looks like a sign of old age, at a glance, but as always, closer inspection reveals something closer to a granite pattern. "I'm pleased to see you wearing it," he says. "I suppose a sorcerer does still find need for such mundane matters."
You give a small laugh at that. "I should introduce you to Tepet Usala Sola, someday. I think you'd like her. She's half responsible for me keeping up with my practice."
"And I would hope that a sense of duty and dedication are the other half," he says, releasing you, "and not that V'neef woman putting you on your back in a practice bout?"
"I was hoping that you hadn't heard of that."
"Please," Nazat says, wandering over to one of your cabinets to look for something to drink, "I keep an ear out for news of you. And it's really nothing to be ashamed of, losing to a swordswoman like V'neef S'thera at age sixteen. I haven't met her, but her reputation speaks for itself."
"So I understand," you say. You don't voice the snide remark that comes to mind, about S'thera's 'reputation' being as much for putting women on their backs in another way as it was for swordswomanship. It would make you seem like a sore loser, after all. And you're here talking to your father.
Nazat produces a bottle of very expensive looking wine, and two cups, and sits down at a nearby table. The seal stamped onto the bottle is from a minor lineage of Wood Aspect vintners, and costs so much that you strongly suspect he planted this in your rooms ahead of time. Even after so long as an Imperial consort, there are signs of his homeland's faith, if you look for them. He avoids food and drink prepared by mortals wherever practical.
You unbuckle your sword, setting it on an ornate stand meant for that purpose, and shrug out of your jacket, leaving it hanging on a hook by the door. Then you follow his lead and take a seat across from him. Despite the carriage ride up to the palace, it feels like days since you've just had a chance to sit down. "I don't suppose you know what this is about?" you ask, trying to keep your voice casual.
From the cryptic sort of look he gives you, you're not sure you succeed. "I know as much as you do," he says. "She keeps her own council, as ever. Does a mother need a reason to seek such a meeting with her own daughter?"
In your experience, yes. "It was just... very sudden," you say. He pours you a cup, and you take a moment to savour the smell — floral and complex.
"She won't call for you before tomorrow morning," he says, with more surety than the woman who'd escorted you here. "The Empress is in meetings for the rest of the afternoon. And for the past month she's been spending her evenings with her latest plaything." There's no venom or resentment behind the words; jealousy is neither a trait your mother appreciates in her consorts, nor one that is particularly likely to survive more than two decades in her household.
You let out a deep breath, and take a grateful sip of the wine. It's heavenly. When Verdigris pokes her head out of your shirt sleeve, you let her take an exploratory sip. She's been hiding wrapped around your arm all day. "This is Verdigris," you tell your father, when you catch him staring. "She's a sign of my particular approach to sorcery."
Nazat masters whatever discomfort this might bring. "She seems like a well-mannered enough snake."
"She is," you say. Unless you get angry, but there's no reason to mention that. A moment or two passes in companionable silence, the three of you enjoying the wine.
At length, however, Nazat speaks to you: "I don't promise that I'll follow most of it — I had a cousin who attended the Mandir of Sixfold Insight, and half the things he talked about afterward went entirely over my head. But I would not mind hearing what your time at school has been like."
"I write letters," you tell him.
"You write letters like you're dictating a shopping list," Nazat says, faintly amused, "it reminds me of your grandmother. Please, indulge me."
"As you wish, then," you say. And so you tell him about your year, the wine and the quiet comfort of his company helping to ease your anxieties about tomorrow. Between this and Lohna, you're finally, truly able to feel like you're home, at least for a little while.
You only wish your meeting with your other parent could go this smoothly.
Article:
You will shortly have a private audience with your mother, the Scarlet Empress. Ostensibly, this is a mother-daughter interview, her taking an hour out of her busy schedule to discuss your academic progress and other such matters, as well as to dispense advice or instructions or corrections to your behaviour. This is not uncommon for a Dynastic mother, particularly with a secondary-school-aged child she has not seen in several years. It is never that simple with her.
The Empress will give you something you do not want, which will cause you pain. Because she cares.
However, you will at least come away from this scene with something more unambiguously beneficial to you, as little comfort as it will be in the moment. What is it? You may choose as many options as you like, but only the option with the most votes will win.
[ ] [Empress] Advice on binding and treating with spirits
The Empress has encountered more great spirits than you have years. Even her passing insights are invaluable.
[ ] [Empress] Advice on the advancement of your spellwork
You are inclined to take any direct guidance from the person who first inspired you to become a sorcerer very seriously, and you would be foolish not to.
[ ] [Empress] A small gift of great value to you
A lesser artifact — little more than a trinket for the wealthiest woman on Creation, but she understands its use to you.
After your meeting with the Empress, you will still have some weeks to spend in the Palace and the wider Imperial City. Who are your most memorable encounters? You may vote for as many options as you like, but only the two options with the most votes will win.
[ ] [Social] Ledaal Anay
Demon Fang Anay, legendary Wyld Hunt shikari and mother of your classmate, Ledaal Anay Idelle. You are not close to Idelle, but Anay manages to save you a great deal of trouble.
[ ] [Social] Mnemon Rulinsei
Mnemon Rulinsei is both your elder sister and your adoptive niece, an Imperial daughter who aligned herself with one of her siblings for her own protection. Her position offers you unique insights.
[ ] [Social] Sesus Kasi
A student at the Spiral Academy on her own academic break, and the twin sister of your schoolmate, Sesus Amiti, despite their stark differences. Oddly enough, books are involved with this encounter as well.
[ ] [Social] Tepet Usala
It isn't so strange to encounter great figures in the Realm when you're staying in the Imperial Palace, but the Matriarch of House Tepet is still a memorable acquaintance to make. The mother of your schoolmate, Tepet Usala Sola. Usala is a busy woman, but you briefly catch her interest.
[ ] [Social] V'neef S'thera
A blind swordmaster who is both your niece, and the elder sister of your schoolmate, V'neef L'nessa. The last time you made her acquaintance, she destroyed you in a series of practice duels. Will you do any better this time?
[Empress] Advice on binding and treating with spirits: 24
[Empress] Advice on the advancement of your spellwork: 11
[Empress] A small gift of great value to you: 6
[Social] Sesus Kasi: 28
[Social] Mnemon Rulinsei: 23
[Social] V'neef S'thera: 19
[Social] Tepet Usala: 11
[Social] Ledaal Anay: 4
The summons comes with your breakfast, delivered to your suite first thing in the morning in the form of a red card sitting politely between your tea and your bowl of noodles. It informs you in flawless calligraphy when to present yourself at your mother's residence, as well as how much time you can expect the Empress to set aside for you. An hour — which is only reasonable, of course, for all that you've flown all the way from Chanos on such short notice. Many people travel much further for far less, and you're grateful for so much consideration.
And so you rise early, and begin to ready yourself for the day. Fortunately, as it would happen, your father has quietly taken some pains to ensure you have a suitable wardrobe on hand — you gather that he had Lohna request your latest measurements from Peony some months ago. This is good, considering the height you've put on since you were last in the palace.
With her usual efficiency, Peony selects a gown cut in the latest court fashion, suitable for formal daytime wear. Black silk is broken up by bright blue and cloth-of-silver embroidery: elegant, swooping patterns that evoke serpents. "You look capable and sophisticated," she tells you, carefully braiding a series of serpentine ornaments into your hair.
You haven't had to express any misgivings out loud. "You would say that, you picked out the outfit," you remind her.
"Well, my lady," she says, voice careful, "then I've chosen well."
You give a small, nervous laugh, careful not to move enough to disturb Peony at her work. "You have," you acknowledge. You catch the flash of her smile in the mirror, quickly obscured by your shoulder as she gets to the tips of your hair. Now that she's finished, the ornaments give the impression of a metallic snake winding its way through your dark braid. You glance at Verdigris, watching you from her place on a nearby cushion with alert, metallic eyes. Apparently, you have a motif.
Dressed in your finery, hair carefully styled, and wearing just enough cosmetics to emphasise your Aspect Markings, you reach into the collar of your dress, and unclasp the chain that carries Perfection's scale and Maia's dagger. You stare at the knife for a long moment, idly flicking open the mechanism to reveal the poison well in the hilt, currently empty. Then you bring it to your lips, and give it a quick kiss on the flat of the blade. You put both treasures into a sturdy wooden box and lock it with a key.
"You're going to have to stay," you tell Verdigris. She shrinks in on herself, clearly distressed — you don't like it much either. You haven't been farther apart from her than one room over since your magic brought her into the world, and leaving her behind gives you a pang. It can't be avoided, though — bringing small but deadly elementals into the Empress's private residence without express permission would be at least as bad as bringing in a Gemlord's Eye, if not quite as bad as outright carrying a concealed dagger beneath your clothes. You try a different tactic. "I need you to guard this box," you say, resting a hand on it. "You can't let anyone but me touch it. Can you do that?"
In answer, Verdigris dutifully slithers over to the box, and curls up on top of it — still miserable, but at least determined now. You give her head a small stroke, before turning back to Peony. She's watched the whole exchange with a resigned sort of air. "I'm ready," you tell her.
Maybe she believes it more than you do.
The Imperial Palace is a small city into itself, a vast, self-contained compound with thousands of residents; officials, servants, courtiers, and slaves, in addition to the Empress's household, of which you are just one member.
Walking through the grounds, you pass ministers, generals, concubines and countless others. Each has their own business to attend to, no doubt, but all are committed to not broadcasting anything too much like haste. You walk past lush gardens and beautiful architecture, return greetings and nods as warranted, and generally present a serene and unflappable mein to all who see you.
Peony walks a little behind you and to the side, holding the handle of a large, silk umbrella to shade you from the sun. Not a service you ordinarily expect of her, but if there is anywhere in the world where appearances and formalities matter, it's here.
The Empress's private residence is itself an entire wing of the palace. You have not been inside them more than a handful of times in your life, but they're not hard to find. Seeing the great set of doors ahead of you, you pause to address Peony:
"I shouldn't be much more than an hour. You'll be at liberty until then."
"Of course, my lady," Peony says. Then she adds in a hurried whisper, as if already thinking better of it: "Good luck."
You let in a deep breath, and slowly let it out. "Thank you, Peony," you say, and you mean it. Then you continue onward, leaving her behind, unquestioning in the knowledge that she'll always be there when you come back.
The impressive front doors are red-lacquered wood, barred in elaborately-etched white jadesteel in seeming imitation of the palace's outer gates. Standing to either side of them, as unmoving as statues in their ceremonial armour, stand two Silent Legionnaires.
When the Dragons had first Chosen you, you'd imagined, briefly, that your mother's personal guard would stop seeming quite so terrifying to you. Surely, a newly minted Prince of the Earth, raised high by Pasiap himself, would be above such childish emotions as blind, hindbrain terror. Despite how incorrect this had proved, you'd allowed yourself to fall into the same mental trap. You're older now, beginning to blossom into your full Exalted might, a fully-fledged sorcerer who has treated with powerful demons and elementals.
And yet, looking up at the nearest of the towering, helmeted figures, there's still that faint urge somewhere in the back of your head to bolt in the other direction. At least seven feet tall and universally mute, you've never met a Silent Legionnaire who didn't fix you with that same flat stare, uncaring of your rank or privilege, thoughts utterly opaque to you even now.
"I have been summoned to speak with the Empress," you tell them. It's impossible to guess at gender under all that gleaming steel.
Rather than simply stepping aside, one of them glances to the other and brings their hand up in a quick, deliberate gesture you can't quite track. Their companion signs back just as briefly.
You feel a mix of impatience and irritation. "I am Ambraea, her daughter," you say. "I—"
There's a click, and you look to see that a more ordinary-scale door has opened in the leftmost of the larger ones they're guarding. A man is standing there, shaven-headed and dressed in servant's clothes. The guards pay him no mind as he steps forward to offer you a low bow, and you notice that he very pointedly does not look in their direction.
"My lady Ambraea," he says, "your punctuality is admirable."
"I arrive when I have been instructed to," you say.
"Of course, my lady," He bows again, and steps to the side enough to gesture for you to step into the residence. "The Imperial Presence is aware of your arrival. If you will please come with me?"
In answer, you step past the two legionnaires, who of course do not trouble you anymore than they had the servant. He closes the door behind you, locking it in place with a flick of his hand. Crossing the threshold, you resist the urge to shiver, your arcane senses letting you feel the weight of the magic you've just placed yourself within. It's like the rest of the palace, but moreso. Wards on top of wards, scrying spells on top of scrying spells. You understand down to your bones that you have entered a place of power belonging to the greatest Exalted sorcerer of the Second Age.
You are now standing in the most opulent entrance chamber you've ever seen. A massive sorcerous lighting fixture hangs overhead, dripping red crystalline jade down on invisible strands, illuminating the gilded tile underfoot. Directly in front of you, flanked by two vast staircases, stands a mural depicting your mother as saviour of Creation. Larger than life, a figure of red and white jade clad in Shogunal armour, a blade in her hands that burns with the power to destroy armies. To either side kneel the grateful people of Creation, mortal and Exalted both. At her feet, the twisted, monstrous forms of slain fairfolk invaders, and of Anathema formed of moonsilver, dead at her hand or by her word. Above her, Heaven looks down on this all and bathes her in approving radiance.
It is not, you would say, subtle. You've been here twice before in your life, and it nonetheless leaves you staring in awe for several seconds. The servant seems to anticipate this, and allows you to take in the sights undisturbed. When you look up and glance back in his direction, he begins to lead you off to the side, through one of the many red-lacquered doors along the walls. You try not to allow yourself to be dazzled again, despite the sheer quantity of wonders on display. These chambers demonstrate enough wealth to make any lesser queen weep, drawing on riches taken from across the world, the Imperial City in miniature.
The hall you're in when the servant turns to face you is red and black, the floor displaying mesmerising geometric patterns. A series of plush benches placed between ornamental vases as tall as you, each a masterwork by a different long dead artisan. "My lady, if you would be so good as to wait here, while I inquire as to whether our revered mistress is ready to see you?"
"Of course," you say. From anyone else, it would be impossible not to taste an insult in being made to come here first thing in the morning, then instructed to wait once you got here. But your mother is incredibly busy, and her time is very valuable.
You're fine with this.
Still, though, you don't take one of the invitingly soft seats once he's scurried off again, instead pacing back and forth in a tight circuit between one bench and another, trying to focus on the tiles underfoot, or to admire the pattern in the glaze on the porcelain. Anything is better than dwelling on your nerves, or any other negative feelings you might hypothetically have at the moment.
Minutes or hours later, you look up at the sound of a door opening; it's not your guide, however. A young mortal woman hurries down the hall, her finery conspicuously a little less than what most Dynasts could afford, her dark hair unbound, and slightly askew. She doesn't see you at first until she's only a few paces away. At this point, she looks up, makes accidental eye contact, and gives such an exaggerated gasp that some kind of acknowledgement is, regrettably, in order. There's still a moment of awkward, fumbling staring. Then she gives you a formal bow, as befits a mortal patrician greeting her spiritual and social better. "A fine morning, my lady," she says.
You nod stiffly in return. Then, even though you think you know perfectly well who this is, you say: "I don't believe we've been introduced."
"Rein Ilina, my lady," she says, confirming your suspicions.
Your father may not bear any ill will toward whoever is currently sharing your mother's bed at any given time, but it's always a reliable subject of court gossip, which he is an endless and reliable font of. Somewhere around the bottom of the bottle of wine you'd shared with him, in the spirit of morbid curiosity, you'd asked him about the subject.
Especially for a mortal, Rein Ilina is a spectacularly gifted singer. In the few short years since she's left secondary school, she's already become the talk of the Imperial City, giving performances stirring enough to bring hardened military women to tears and inspire half a dozen marriage offers — all of which to date her family has turned down, presumably holding out for something better. It was not particularly surprising, then, when she had been summoned to the palace over a month ago in order to perform for the Empress herself.
Neither was it particularly surprising, for anyone familiar with your mother's habits, that Ilina had been called to give a follow-up performance that night, in private, in your mother's personal chambers. Where she had seemingly slept every night for weeks now. When the Empress sees something she wants, she rarely hesitates to take it. Some lovers, like your father, she keeps. Much more often, when she tires of someone, she sends them off with a fond farewell and a parting gift — a position, or a treasure, or simply the weight of her good opinion. You can be all but certain that House Rein is positively thrilled at this development, and what it implies for Ilina's future.
She's a little taller than Maia, pretty in a guileless, round-faced sort of way. You try not to think about the short span of years that separate you from her. It's not as though your mother can exactly go for anyone her own age, at this point.
"I am Ambraea," you tell her, voice cold with veiled anxiety.
"Ah! Yes, her Excellency mentioned that she was expecting you soon," she says.
"I'm sure it was an enlightening conversation," you say, tone a little dry as you look at her hair. Unsurprisingly, your mother is less willing to braid mussed hair than Sesus Vahelo.
"I... Yes," Ilina says, face reddening dramatically.
You abruptly feel guilty — you hadn't meant to take your nerves out on her, even if her presence reveals entirely too much about your mother's morning and why she's been keeping you waiting. "You seemed like you were on your way somewhere," you say, deliberately softening your tone. "Please, don't let me keep you."
She bows gratefully. "Thank you, my lady." Then she leaves as quickly as dignity will allow.
You try hard to find your centre again once she's gone, angry at yourself — the only safe target out of the people you could blame at the moment. You've never wanted to be the kind of Dragon-Blood who takes her frustrations out on mortals in petty and venal ways. That you earned your right to this current life's power and prestige through virtuous action over many lifetimes means that a mortal owes you her deference. However, it also means that you owe it in turn to be better in your thoughts and actions, not merely in your spiritual enlightenment. Acting harshly toward a social inferior over something that isn't her fault should be beneath you in every way.
Fortunately, you're not alone with your thoughts for long. A short time later, the servant reappears, as blandly polite as possible. You're mostly happy to be moving again — he leads you down the hall, to one door among many, and holds it open to you. "The Imperial Presence will be with you momentarily. Thank you very much for your patience, my lady."
You step inside, and he closes yet another door behind you, this time not entering the room with you.
The room is cozy, by the standards of chambers as opulent as these. Sunlight streams in from a high window, illuminating the handsome ebony flooring. To one side of the room, a fragrant plant flowers in a priceless vase, filling the air with a pleasantly invigorating scent. On another, a Varangian clock of gold and brass ticks steadily away on top of a cabinet — its face is numbered in High Realm and Flametongue, quotations from the Immaculate Texts praising Hesiesh's patience spiraling over its surface. From the wall directly across from you hangs a vast painting: five Dragons protectively encircle Creation.
Left alone here, you slowly sit down at the low, cinnabar-lacquered table, barely admiring the intricate carvings along its surface. Try as you might to relax, every fibre of your body feels immovably rigid as the minutes slowly tick by. When the other door opens, you first shoot straight to your feet, then instantly drop down to your knees, facing the floorboards.
There's a rustle of red silk as she moves into the room, her regard beating down on the back of your neck. When she speaks, her voice is amused, and exactly how you remember it. "I am pleased to see you so dutiful in responding to my invitation. But I must say, a dragon is quite the entrance."
"I wished to arrive as quickly as possible, my Empress," you say, tones stiff and formal.
"So I see." She lets you kneel for a second or two longer, before she says: "Stand up so I can look at you."
With as much dignity as you can manage, you straighten, and look at your mother for the first time in three years. For the most part, nothing has changed. She's still as young and vibrant as ever: a tall, pale, red-haired woman whose features you can sometimes find in the mirror, when you look for them. It takes you a moment or two of her silently studying you to put your finger on what strikes you as strange. For one thing, she's not wearing the heavy cloth-of-jade and orichalcum mantle you've never seen her in public without. She looks smaller without it, fractionally more ordinary. The other is that you're exactly as tall as she is, now.
You feel speared in place by her gaze, as if she might assess you in your entirety in these few seconds and find you wanting. Instead she smiles at you, an almost wistful expression, and says: "You all become women so quickly."
Three servants silently file into the room behind her. One sets a tea tray down on the cinnabar table, bowing as she leaves. The second carries an ornate vessel of blue jade, carefully setting it down on the table next to the tea tray. The third carries a portable writing desk with him, setting it up and meticulously arranging an armful of papers on its surface. All of them leave as soon as their tasks are complete.
The Empress takes a seat at the far side of the table from you, as regally as she ever has her throne. You understand immediately what is expected of you.
You bend down to carefully pick up the teapot, a Shogunate era bone-porcelain piece that's likely even older than your mother is. You pour first her cup, and then your own; the pot contains a fragrant black tea the colour of mahogany. You move to the winterbreath jar, pry open the lid, and carefully remove a platter of chilled fruit confections, setting it down on the table. Only then do you take your own seat across from the Empress.
Your mother picks up her teacup. The cup is surely uncomfortably hot to the touch still, but she is as little bothered by it as she'd have been by the touch of an open flame. "I hope you understand that any unbound spirit, even one who you've struck a sorcerous pact with, is only to be relied upon so far."
"I do," you say.
"Don't ask too much too often — it is important that you try to maintain a balance of power, at the very least. Do not give it the upper hand, and try to find leverage of your own, if possible."
"I already had to explain to a very nervous monk that they're not a dangerous, rogue spirit," you say. "I think they can perceive the value in our arrangement."
The Empress seems to find this faintly amusing. "See that you continue to remind them. What were your plans for making the journey in time, barring the dragon?"
You only take a second or two to recover from the sudden shift in topic. "I had thought to summon a storm serpent," you say. It had been the easiest fallback, and the one that required no one's assistance in particular. It would also have been far and away less pleasant than Perfection's help had been.
"Serviceable, but it would have made for a miserable trip," says the Empress. She takes an experimental sip of tea, cupping the hot porcelain in one hand like a wineglass, not spilling a drop. "Young storm serpents in particular are far too volatile and excitable. Be thankful for your servant's sake that you didn't choose that."
It isn't surprising that your mother would have ways of knowing that you'd arrived with your handmaiden, but it's still deeply unexpected for Peony to be mentioned at all. "I will consider my options more carefully in the future."
"I'm sure. Earth elementals may hold some particular reverence for you due to your pact with the dragon," your mother says. "You would do well to bear that in mind. Are you familiar with the silt-winder?"
"Not intimately," you admit.
"I will send you some texts to review," she says, dismissing the matter with a wave of her hand.
As much as getting additional homework while on your break might be frustrating, you're not stupid enough not to regard this as the significant gift it's likely to be. "Thank you for your instruction," you say, as graciously as you can.
She gives you a strange sort of look at that, speculative if anything. "I wonder if you'll feel the same way by the end of this conversation."
A chill goes down your spine. You choose your words very carefully. "I apologise, my Empress, but I don't understand."
"Very often, the knowledge that we require to survive brings us little happiness," she says, briefly, for the span of that sentence, she sounds every one of her eight centuries. She indicates the writing desk set up beside the table. "Look at the scroll on the right."
Confused and concerned, you reach for the less ornate of the two large scrolls on the desk. When you recognise the mon on the scroll case, it does little to explain anything to you. "This is... Genealogical documents from House Erona?" You have no idea why you'd need such a thing. It's not as though you and Maia are getting married. You have no idea why your mother of all people is interested in the ancestry of the patrician girl you're involved with.
"Read it," your mother instructs.
Unfurling the scroll from its case, what you're looking at is a chart documenting Maia's family going back to its creation as a patrician house, with a note directing back to surviving older records for the Shogunate gens that House Erona descend from. Dragon-Blooded scions in particular are marked with brightly coloured ink and delicate brush strokes — Maia's stands out near the bottom of the diagram, the characters of her name in a deep, navy blue. The family had started out relatively large and prosperous. Over the years though, the house had diminished. Exaltations came less often, branches went extinct for lack of female heirs. It looks as if House Erona was poised to die out entirely several mortal generations ago, until Maia's grandmother had arrived.
Her grandfather had become matriarch seemingly by default, a mortal man with no living siblings, obviously in need of a suitable wife who could marry in to the family. He'd found one in the form of Vermillion Shore, an outcaste with no known prior Exalted heritage, presumably fresh from her half century in the Legions. Following this marriage, the house was revitalised by his and Vermillion Shore's many descendants. The reintroduction of Exalted blood of even such dubious pedigree had even served to renew their exhausted bloodline, based on the number of Dragon-Blooded that follow.
You frown down at the family tree, still uncertain what it is you're meant to be seeing here. That Maia's family has a stronger bloodline than you might have expected is interesting. It is still difficult to imagine how it could be relevant, though, especially when it's your mother drawing your attention to it.
Your mother takes a stately sip of tea, regarding you levelly. "The other scroll now."
It is both much larger and much more ornate, the case in polished silver with black jade accents. Something about that combination stirs a memory at the back of your mind. Before you can entirely recall, though, you find that you don't have to: You turn it over and recognise the mon emblazoned on it, freezing in place momentarily. You very much don't want to open this anymore.
But you feel her eyes on you, so you make your hands work even against the pit of dread in your stomach, moving like an automaton to pull free the richly illuminated paper. You're looking at another family tree, this time styled magnificently as a waterfall cascading down through the generations. Your mother is at the top, the characters of her title painted in ink infused with red jade that seems to burn under the light. Beneath her is a single adoptive daughter, with the rest of the family flowing out from there, the vast network of adoptions and marriages that form a Great House.
Your mother reaches out to tap a nail on a name near the bottom. It's a particular Exalted scion, her name in shimmering black jade ink, as with most of the Dragon-Blooded on the family tree you're looking at.
"Iselsi Velera," the Empress says. "An officer in the Imperial Legions, lost during a campaign on the Threshold. You will note the timing, I'm sure." The disappearance was only a few short years before Maia's grandmother had married into House Erona.
"What are you trying to tell me?" you ask, voice wooden.
The Empress's gaze hardens fractionally. "You're an intelligent woman, Ambraea. Do me the courtesy of not pretending otherwise while in my presence."
You nod, carefully rolling up the scroll, and setting the heavy case back down on the writing desk. The praise tastes like ash in your mouth, combined with so alarming a topic. If you force yourself to process this information immediately, you do understand what she's trying to tell you. Your mother has, in a far more indirect and theatrical manner than was strictly necessary, informed you that your lover is a direct descendant of House Iselsi through the female line, and that her family has taken great and highly illegal pains to obscure this information.
Certainly, they'd have reason to. Iselsi was not merely struck from the Imperial ledgers — the name is worse than dirt, still tainted from an attempted assassination of the Empress over a century ago and dragged through the mud by every other Great House in the intervening years. The association is utterly toxic, and wider knowledge of it would absolutely destroy Maia's family... and reflect exceptionally poorly on anyone with too close an association to them.
"You are suggesting that I cut ties?" you ask. You've managed to find a place of paper-thin calm, somehow. Beneath it, you feel faintly ill.
The Empress raises her eyebrows. "Well, that would be up to you," she says. She reaches out and samples one of the chilled delights, taking an unbearable moment to savour it before she continues: "By all means, have your fun with the girl; I'm sure she's quite lovely. But my advice to you is to be prepared to distance yourself by the time you both leave the Heptagram. For your own protection. If you enjoy keeping a lover of lower birth, remember that there is no shortage of equally attractive, less politically dangerous patrician girls who would be happy to fill your bed. Your status aside, you've become a beautiful young woman." Something horribly like a fond smile crosses her lips. "My suggestion is merely for you to remain mindful of your own position while forming lasting ties."
There is a note there of genuine motherly concern. You do not fool yourself by thinking that you can reliably tell when the Scarlet Empress herself is lying to you — but something about that look, about how profoundly wrongly it lands with you, makes you utterly sure that in this fleeting moment, she is being perfectly sincere. For your entire life, you have dreamed of such a moment of intimate candor from her. Right now, you hate it.
You're glad that you haven't picked up your tea yet — you're not certain that your calm facade could have prevented you from shattering the cup if you'd had it in your hand. "I am not sure I can do that," you say, the truth unwilling to be bent any further than that.
Your mother sighs, her eyes mercifully leaving your face to study the contents of her own cup, "I was young once, believe it or not — I understand what it's like at your age, to be overcome with passion for a pretty face."
Your mind goes involuntarily back to your encounter with Rein Illina, and to dozens of others like her you can recall in the moment — generals and poets and magistrates, men and women both. Maybe it's the relative informality of this meeting, or the residual frustration at how the morning has gone, or your quiet indignation at the characteristically high-handed way she's gone about this upsetting subject. Regardless, the words come out of your mouth before you can stop them: "I hadn't realised you'd ever stopped."
There's a pause just long enough that a profuse apology is on the tip of your tongue, before she throws back her head and laughs in genuine delight -- a full, intoxicating sound. "You have your father's wit," she says, open affection in her voice for you or your father or both. "It always sneaks up on me. Try one of these before they get warm — I can see you're taking this all poorly."
Robotically, you reach for one of the confections. It's delicious, perfect for a warm summer day like today and it pairs well with the faintly smoky notes of the tea, cool enough for you to drink. It somehow steadies your nerves enough for you to glance at the scrolls on the writing table again, and ask: "Do you... intend to act on this information?" She knows that House Erona is outright flouting her laws by falsifying their official genealogical records. Her word would be more damning than all the physical evidence in the world.
Your mother laughs again. "My dear, if I ruined every house and bloodline I had the means to simply because I had the means to do so, the Realm would be a very empty place." As amusing as she seems to find it, it is perhaps not the most reassuring thing in the world. "I assume, for the girl's sake, that you're capable of discretion on this subject, but in the end, the information is a gift, and you will do with it what you will."
You force down a violently indignant reaction to that. However many confusing feelings you're having at the moment, you're not exactly planning to spread around an accusation like this about Maia's family. If she's been keeping this a secret from you the whole time, well, she certainly has good reason. You're not upset with her over this.
Or so you tell yourself.
"I am," you say.
Your mother glances over to the clock, checking the position of its ruby-encrusted hands, then looks back to you. "I think we can move on to more uplifting topics," she says, just firmly enough to make it impossible to do otherwise. "I'll do you the credit of assuming you've put serious thought into your future. What are your plans for the next four years, and for after graduation?"
You somehow acquit yourself adequately through the rest of the interview — academic areas of focus and future, occupational prospects, potential marriage options and other mundanities. You nonetheless leave with your stomach full of excellent tea and terrible feelings.
"You're doing well," the Empress had told you, "We'll speak again before you finish school." You were numb to any feeling that those words should have normally elicited, but you'd expressed your gratitude adequately, made your formal goodbyes, and been mercifully dismissed from the Imperial Presence.
Peony can tell there's something wrong the moment she sees you, although she doesn't seem particularly surprised by this. She gives you a sympathetic look as you step back under the shade of the umbrella, but leaves you to your silent brooding on the way back to your chambers. You try to take comfort in her quiet presence — it's difficult, but that isn't Peony's fault.
Verdigris is a small coil of tension when you arrive back, and immediately winds herself tightly around your arm. You let her, relieved at least to feel the cool sensation of her metallic scales again. You sink heavily down into a chair, letting your poise slip just a little, alone in your bedchamber.
You spend a long moment scrutinising the light filtering in through a high window, before you finally produce the key for the box Verdigris was guarding. Rising and stepping back to the table it sits on, you click the lock open. You pull out Maia's dagger first, drawing it from its leather sheath. It feels heavier in your hand than you remember, and somehow more ominous.
Maia's training and evasiveness on the topic of her family had always been conspicuous. It had never been exactly unheard of, however. There had been almost an infinite number of possibilities more likely than her being a descendant of a defunct and disgraced Great House once infamous for its trained killers. But here you are nonetheless.
You sheath the dagger and slip the chain containing both it and Perfection's scale back around your neck. You can immediately sense the dragon's presence vying for your attention; you're not in any state to speak to someone with so much insight into your mental state, however. You block them out for the time being, for when you're more composed.
All at once, your room feels too small and too confining, so you get up, inform Peony that you won't require her assistance until the evening, and leave.
The rest of the day is a bit of a blur. You wander the palace, ostensibly enjoying the sights, conversing with many passing acquaintances along the way. You settle an argument about the distinction between gods and elementals, have a lengthy exchange with a very polite young man which you cannot recall afterward for the life of you, and almost unthinkingly accept an invitation from one of L'nessa's adoptive nieces for a social engagement in the coming weeks.
Your father finds you at some point during the afternoon, sitting in a gazebo that has always been one of your favourite places on the palace grounds, staring out at a shallow pond in which a number of brilliantly-coloured scarlet cranes strut. He doesn't immediately sit down next to you. He just stands there for a long, quiet moment, stroking his beard and staring into the same pond as you. He doesn't ask you how the interview went, or why you seem so despondent. Instead, he says: "By the time I was a little older than you are, my mother was already the tanist of Prasad."
You know this, more or less — the Prasadi custom is for an official heir to be chosen from whichever of the two ruling Dragon Clans is not currently in power, elected by the Dragon Caste as a whole, rather than chosen directly by the rani-satrap. So your grandmother, Burano Maharan Rohavin, would have had to have been the tanist at some point. From your understanding, it's a position with much more responsibility in practice than it has on paper.
Undeterred by your silence, Nazat continues: "I think, and have always thought, that your grandmother is a great ruler. But the things that make a woman a good ruler are not necessarily those that make her an easy parent. The demands are different."
As if following some unseen signal, the cranes flap up into the sky at once, calling loudly to one another as they sail over the rooftops of the palace. The surface of the pond is temporarily awash with ripples, slowly returning to its previous, mirror-smooth state. You look up at your father, whose eyes are still fixed on the water. You know that this is the closest he will ever come to criticising your mother's conduct toward you, and that you should be grateful that he's willing to outright say so much.
However, the person whose comfort you really want at the moment is Maia's. And you're not sure whether things will feel the same with her when you see her next. You feel Verdigris's head pushing into your palm from where she's emerged out of your sleeve, and you gently stroke it with your thumb. "I understand that," you say.
Interlude 3 was originally meant to be two updates, as per normal, but if I'd continued on with that goal in mind, this update would have likely ended up over ten-thousand words, which would have been a bit of a nightmare for pacing. So there will be a third A Mother's Fond Regard chapter, which will include the two character-focused scenes voted for in the previous update, as well as several others before we get to the start-of-Year-4 vote.
Article:
Ambraea has just received shocking news from an unexpected source, and does not know how to feel about it yet. Fortunately, she has most of the summer to stew on this. It nonetheless affects her behaviour. How does Ambraea spend much of her free time in the Imperial City? In all events, she will maintain study and training enough to not appear negligent in either area. You may vote for as many options as you wish, but only the one with the most votes will be selected.
[ ] Meet new people, engage in a series of shallow flirtations and entanglements
Ambraea distracts herself from her troubles with a series of temporary friendships and superficial dalliances. While socialising is never effortless for a Dynastic sorcerer, companionship is not hard to find if she goes looking. This will nonetheless provide useful contacts among those willing to overlook Ambraea's occult practices. The court will take note of this.
[ ] Focus on the texts that the Empress provided, conduct small experiments and rituals in your suite
Ambraea distracts herself from her troubles by squirreling herself away from the larger society of the palace, spending the coming weeks as something of a recluse. This will provide her with a greater understanding of these texts going into the coming year. The court will take note of this.
[ ] Throw yourself into your swordswomanship, seek out new opponents for practice duels
Ambraea distracts herself from her troubles with physical exertion in her sport of choice. The Imperial City is a melting pot in many ways, including combat styles. There is no shortage of opponents to seek out and learn from. This will sharpen her combat skills beyond what she learns from her usual training. The court will take note of this.
Note: This update is much larger than intended; anticipate things getting more to the usual size again when Year 4 starts, if nothing else just so I can actually sustain writing these.
Swords: 31
Study: 15
Kisses: 11
"I'm just pleased that there are no hard feelings."
You give your companion a small smile. "Of course. It would be petulant of me to hold onto a grudge all this time over a friendly practice match."
Tepet Kedus shakes his head. He's very much like the first time you saw him: slender, red-haired, and red-skinned. "I would never say that — pride can be a tricky thing, and my fiancée is sadly only capable of restraining herself so much once she has a sword in her hand. Still, it gladdens my heart to hear."
Even if you had felt unkindly toward V'neef S'thera, it would be difficult to dislike Kedus. Having run into him at the palace training grounds on several different occasions, he's been quick to renew your acquaintance. While he doesn't have S'thera's reputation with a sword, he's an entirely competent fighter and a politely good-natured companion. He may be the most easy-going Fire Aspect you've ever met. So, you had no reason to turn down this invitation.
You and Kedus are sharing a carriage rolling down the streets of the Imperial City. You're accompanied in dutiful silence by both Peony and the serious-faced young man who is her counterpart in Kedus's service. Through the window, you watch as you pass by shops catering to the wealthy — a parade of silk and jewels and fine porcelain, the air heavy with the scent of good food and exotic perfumes from the eight corners of Creation. Up ahead is the vast shape of Six-Centuries-in-Glory Temple, a building of pristine white marble, its entranceway guarded by a massive sleeping dragon statue. The temple had been designed by Mnemon herself, gifted to the Immaculate Order in dedication to your mother's sextennial.
"Where exactly are we going?" you ask.
"The Sapphire Poppy District," he says. At your expression, he laughs. "It's not even evening yet, and I promise you that the establishment we're going to has a wholly different focus than the ones you're thinking of."
"Of course," you say. It would have struck you as quite out of character, otherwise.
The part of the city you're headed to is an infamous high class blue lantern district, but as Kedus says, it's a little early in the day for the pleasure houses to be in full operation. Under daylight, it's quite a charming sight, the streets well kept and lined with the blue flowers that the district takes its name from. Your destination proves to be stuck in between a teahouse and a theatre — a wedge-shaped building of austere stone construction, softened by the flowering vines that climb its exterior walls.
You step out of the carriage and into the light of day, accepting your sword from Peony and hanging it onto your belt.
Kedus follows you, trailed by his manservant. "The Honed-Blade Society," he says. "It seemed relevant to your interests, with the way you've been spending your time."
The physical exertion of sword training, and the challenge of finding new opponents, has been a distraction from troubled thoughts of late. You try not to linger on it, or let it put a damper on your good mood. "I'm sure it will be worth the trip," you say.
You let Kedus approach the door first. When he knocks, an attendant appears, and asks him for a password — you can't quite catch what he tells her, but it's enough to get you all through. You step through into a large, open space, the walls and floors stone. Dueling circles are laid out around the centre of the room, a few occupied, most currently empty. The edges of the chamber are more lavishly adorned — comfortable places to sit and socialise and watch fights while servants bring you pleasant drinks. The place has been described to you as part dueling society, part social club, catering specifically to martially inclined Dynasts.
The very centre of the room is taken up by a wide, shallow pit sunken into the floor, lined with sturdy looking tile. Directly above it is a large hole in the ceiling, letting the daylight filter down into the chamber. It only takes you a moment to realise that this is there to facilitate serious fights between Dragon-Blooded. Anima control is, of course, a virtue that's drilled into every Exalted child of the Realm, from you down to the humblest outcaste — you're expected to control your power in situations where it would cause wanton destruction or injury of innocent parties, outside of emergencies. However, while duels cannot legally be fought to the death, ones fought on serious points of honour can still require a Dynast's full capabilities.
It's also useful for demonstration purposes, you'd imagine.
Several pairs of eyes look up to take note of your group as you enter, the bulk of the attention falling in you. You're a new face here and easily the youngest in the room, but you're already sure that more than one person has noticed you.
"Kedus," a disinterested voice says. A tall, gangly Water Aspect passes by on her way out the door. She offers Kedus a lazy wave, and you a nod of acknowledgement. She has what looks like a reaper daiklave on her belt, and she's trailed by a somewhat fussy looking young woman who is currently busy scrawling furiously in a notebook as she walks.
"Magistrate," Kedus says, unbothered by the breeziness of the greeting.
You follow his lead and return the nod.
"Ragara Lurica," Kedus says. "I don't think I've ever heard her string together more than three words at a time."
"She brings her scribe with her to a place like this?" you ask, glancing after the pair of them.
Kedus laughs. "S'thera asked Gull about that once — the scribe, I mean. She used to just leave Lurica to it... until Lurica fought three duels in one night a few years back, and now Gull insists on tagging along to avoid 'unacceptable gaps in the official record'."
The Empress famously selects many of her Imperial Magistrates from among the ranks of criminals and troublemakers, so you suppose that sort of thing is why they have an officially appointed scribe in the first place. "How does someone get into three duels in one night?" you ask.
Kedus gives a light shrug. "Something involving a man, I think. Like I said, she's not exactly talkative at the best of times."
"I suppose that would make things difficult," you say.
There is a respectable collection of others around the room — some in the dueling circles, others watching, or sitting back in the more comfortable portions of the hall to relax or socialise. Several people seem to recognise Kedus, but you assume that your presence puts a slight damper on things. You prepare yourself for a few stiltedly awkward conversations, but that's not what you get, in the end:
Among the well-shaded seats in the back is a man with a naval officer's jacket draped over his shoulders. He's young, his skin faintly blue-tinged in a way that reminds you of clear, shallow water, and is attempting to grow a full beard with more valour than success. A pair of sheathed short daiklaves lean against his chair on one side. On the other, a second young man, with dark hair and a sly smile, perches on the arm of his chair, clothed to emphasise the slight, fine-boned delicacy of his body. He has one hand on the naval officer's shoulder, the other holding a crystalline cup of clear liquor to the officer's lips.
The officer's good mood seems to darken when he spies you and Kedus entering the room. Sensing the shift in the Dynast's emotional state, the young man moves deftly out of the way, letting the Water Aspect sweep up out of his chair in dramatic fashion and approach you both.
"Tepet Kedus!" He exclaims, his smile a baring of teeth. "Here without your fiancée's skirts to hide behind, for once."
Kedus laughs as if this is all in good fun, and not at all appallingly rude. "Asher! Lovely to see you." He pauses — reaching out to his Hearth bond with S'thera, you realise. "Yes, S'thera is still in Eagle Prefecture, I'm sorry to tell you. But this will give you more time to prepare: I'm sure it will take her longer than three moves to beat you one day, if you keep practicing." Asher's smile grows more forced, but his eyes move to you, skipping over Peony entirely. "This is Ambraea," Kedus says. "Ambraea, Peleps Asher, a first officer with the Earth Fleet."
"Captain," Asher says, voice tight.
Kedus doesn't miss a beat. "Well, congratulations are in order, then!" For some reason, this fails to improve Asher's mood.
Asher eyes you warily. "An honour to meet you," he says, in a way that tells you he knows who you are. "I'm surprised you find time for such... concrete matters as we concern ourselves with here, among your studies." His companion has come up to stand a little ways behind him. The slender young man's eyes are the purest blue you've ever seen from a mortal — you're not precisely a connoisseur of the masculine form, but even you can recognise a work of art when you see one.
"I've found that my studies actually contain a great deal of 'concrete' elements," you say. On cue, Verdigris slithers up from beneath the collar of your jacket, and you reach up a hand to let her twine around your wrist. "There are worse ways to greet some of them than with a sword in hand."
"I've seen lady Ambraea training every day since I arrived at the palace," Kedus says. "I'd hardly say that she's neglecting the physical world."
"And what have you been doing at the palace?" Asher asks him.
"Attending my matriarch, of course," Kedus says. You've seen Tepet Usala in passing, although you haven't had a chance to talk to her, and likely won't get one this summer — Sola's mother is a busy woman.
Asher shrugs this off, clearly miffed by Kedus's continued unflappability but unable to actually complain about it. Asher's companion looks increasingly apprehensive, although he's relatively good at hiding it, for a mortal. "You're the daughter of Nazat of Prasad," he says to you.
"I am," you acknowledge, raising your eyebrows as if inviting him to continue. You can guess what he's driving at, but he can go ahead and ask you himself.
"I would have liked to fight him in his prime," Asher says. "I've heard he was quite the warrior, before he became just another gossipping courtier."
Your face hardens infinitesimally. "I don't care for your tone, Captain Asher. My father is still every bit the fighter he ever was." This is possibly an exaggeration: You wouldn't be surprised if the younger Nazat, who had cut a bloody swathe through the armies of Prasad's enemies many decades ago, had been in somewhat better fighting trim than he is now. But he's still a Prince of the Earth and a master swordsman in his own right. The fact that he'd been surprised and pleased by your own progress the first time he'd beaten you this summer is a genuine mark of pride.
"Well, would you like to prove that?" Asher asks, leaning forward. There's an eagerness to him now. "Assuming he trained you, rather than leaving it to your childhood tutors."
You're aware that the room in general has started looking on with considerable interest, and so you remain stoutly composed. "If this is the way you make a request of a lady, I pity your future wife," you say. There's at least one stifled laugh from the onlookers, and he glares in response. He's older than you, undoubtedly more experienced, and this is not a good idea — you're being baited. Some things simply cannot be borne, however. "I will fight you, though, and if you lose, you will apologise for your disrespect."
"Agreed," Asher says, with the tone of someone who doesn't expect to have to make good on his end of a bargain.
As he goes to prepare, you lean closer to Kedus. "Should I be concerned?" you ask.
Kedus shrugs lightly. "He's not all talk," he admits. "He's a serving naval officer and I'm sure he uses those swords sometimes."
"A junior captain in the Earth Fleet," you note. The Earth Fleet is an honourable posting, the Realm's last line of defence at sea. But their job is to patrol the Blessed Isle's coastal waters, in practice catching smugglers and hunting down pirates. Not exactly enemies you'd expect to pose a challenge to the fighting men and women of the Realm in general, let alone to a Dragon-Blood from a house famed for its naval prowess.
"His mother is an admiral," Kedus says, somehow conveying a great deal more than you could have in that single phrase. A male officer without the talent or the temperament to overcome that distinction, given a quiet posting through the influence of a powerful mother, and willing to make this everyone else's problem in any setting where he can get away with it.
Or so you're able to surmise. It's not exactly unheard of.
"Well, we'll see whether or not I regret this," you say.
"Now you sound like S'thera. Although, she'd make it an eyesight joke," Kedus says. You try your best to take this as a compliment. You wonder at the two of them, briefly. For all V'neef S'thera's much whispered about womanising, she and Kedus are Hearthmates — sworn kin able to rely on one another completely, never entirely apart.
Whenever you've thought of the husband that your future must necessarily contain, it has been in the form of some tractable young man who would come with ties to his house, administer your household in your absence, provide you with daughters, and look handsome at parties. There's nothing particularly unpleasant about the thought, just another item ticked off the long list of things you need to do to establish yourself within the Dynasty. You wouldn't want to be a bad wife, but it isn't something you've put a great deal of thought into. You've never really considered looking there for actual companionship.
Maia's dagger feels abruptly conspicuous where it hangs around your neck. As little as you know what you're going to say to her the next time you meet, in this moment you miss her keenly.
Fortunately, you don't have too long to fret over it. Soon, you're standing at the edge of a ring across from Peleps Asher. You've removed your jacket, handing it off to Peony. After a moment's hesitation, you offer her Verdigris. You watch Peony steel herself, but in the end she allows the snake to move over to her. Verdigris is sulky in the way she always is when you tell her not to defend you in a situation like this — perhaps a little more, given the obvious tension involved. It's not strictly proper for Peony to be too comfortable handling a spirit, but you can't help but find it encouraging.
You re-fasten your swordbelt around your waist and step forward into the ring. A keen-eyed woman is explaining the rules of engagement; nothing nonstandard. To the touch or the disarm, no strikes to the face or neck, no use of weapons other than your swords, no hazardous displays of magic — the last is directed a little pointedly at you, you feel. You try not to resent it too much.
"Agreed," you say.
"Agreed," Asher says. He's similarly done away with his jacket entirely, although you notice he's not wearing the daiklaves you saw earlier. When he catches you studying the curved blades he wears at either hip, he smiles. "My steel to match yours. It only seems fair — I wouldn't want to damage such an ornamental blade."
"Thank you for your consideration," you say, not rising to the bait. You draw your sabre in one smooth motion. Let everyone here see exactly how functional it is soon enough.
"I've studied Steel Devil Style, Fire Dragon Style, and Jiaran sword dancing," Asher says. "Have you faced any of those before?"
"Not directly," you admit. "Have you mastered any of them?"
He doesn't like that much. "Enough for this," he says.
He draws both swords at once, leaping at you in a whirl of metal. You catch one blow on your sabre, stepping back out of the way of the other. Frustrated, he follows through with a cut that radiates a shocking heat — you parry it out of the way and move into the attack, your whole body flowing with your slash. Asher's eyes widen, and he whirls away.
These opening moments set the tone. Asher's technique is well-taught and practiced, his motions disorienting and dancer-like. They're rote, though, and it quickly becomes apparent when he's simply trying to execute on a series of movements that have been drilled into him. He's fast, and elegant, and most crucially, not as good as Sola.
You don't doubt this would be somewhat harder in a real fight, with no rules of engagement to keep you from killing each other. But under these circumstances, he's having trouble addressing your defence, and you nearly catch him several times when he overcommits. You stand firm, the mountain weathering his rainstorm. You're satisfied when he begins to glow first, a faint, dark blue that limbs his body.
"You're barely fighting back because you know you can't win!" He taunts, frustration clear in this body language as he circles toward you, forcing you to keep turning to face him. He wanted this to make him look good — it hasn't.
In point of fact, you're doing it to wear him out, conserving your Essence and relying on your endurance to outlast him — something you're succeeding in, so far. That's not what you say, though. You spy Asher's mortal boy among the onlookers, clearly torn between not wanting to be seen looking away and half-concealed mortification. "Please. Your behaviour is unseemly. There are mortals watching."
Anger flashes behind Asher's eyes, and he moves at you again. It was foolish of you, perhaps, but you'd internalised the rules of the duel a little too much — you'd stopped thinking about needing to defend anything above your collarbone. His blade cuts your cheek, still burning hot, and you can't suppress a hiss of pain. Behind you, you hear Peony's gasp of alarm, and Verdigris's own hiss of fury.
"Peleps Asher, you immediately forfeit," the woman playing judge says, giving him a hard glare.
Asher smiles at her. "I suppose my hand sl—"
Your fist hits him square in the face with every bit of strength you have. He reels back drunkenly, looking as though he's just run headlong into a rock wall. Then he collapses awkwardly to the floor, swords falling out of his hands.
"I suppose it's a draw, then," you say, expression cool as you look at the judge, a thin line of blood still trickling down your cheek.
In the end, you don't think there's anyone present who blames you.
Chanos Prefecture
Keening-Blade Sai picks her way calmly past orchard workers and household staff, taking in the fine day and the charming sight of the distant mountains. Most barely notice her — those that do won't recall her once she's gone.
In full summer, the trees are months away from bearing plums, but there's still plenty of work to do to prepare for the autumn. Workers are busy weeding and doing maintenance on the trees — everywhere but in one conspicuous place.
A shockingly pale girl sits at the base of the largest tree, her back braced against its trunk, utterly engrossed in the book she has open in her lap. Several bored looking guards wearing Sesus colours stand a ways away, ostensibly keeping an eye on their charge. In practice, they're mostly just standing around, trying to look impressive and intimidating for the benefit of the more attractive farm workers. Sai has little trouble slipping past them as well.
As she approaches the girl, one hand begins to casually sketch the Lesser Sign of the Mask in the air. Even if they're looking directly at the tree now, onlookers will be simply unable to perceive anything going on near it. "Good book?" Sai asks.
The girl looks up in surprise. Sai has been doing this too long to allow herself to expect recognition. So when it comes anyway, it's always a nice surprise. "Instructor Sai!" Sesus Amiti smiles in genuine delight, letting the soulsteel pendant she'd had between her teeth fall in the process.
It would be hard to imagine a pair that contrasts more. Beside Amiti's small frame and supernatural pallor, Sai is tall, broad-shouldered, and dark-skinned. She keeps her head almost completely shaved, and has a face that is inclined toward smiling, despite many reasons not to. "Looks like it," she says, leaning against the trunk of the tree.
"Always lovely to see you!" Amiti says, as if having one-time Heptagram guest instructors drop in on her completely unannounced in this way is normal. In her defence, it gradually is becoming normal for them. Sai is busy, but not so busy she can't take a day or two to check in on a student every now and then. "I think you keep expecting me to forget you."
Sai blinks pale lavender eyes. "What makes you say that?" she asks.
Amiti looks around for a bookmark, one hand in between the pages of her book to mark her place in the meantime. "Everytime you show up, before I say hello, you have this look like you're trying to not get your hopes up. And everyone else who's met you or who I've told about you forgets and treats me like I'm making up nonsense, which is very vexing! I tried writing about it in a letter to my sister once. Her reply said it arrived half-burned."
"Yes, that will happen. Have you been experimenting?" Sai asks, a little amused.
"Yes!" Amiti says. She locates her bookmark, which she'd been half sitting on, sticks it in between the pages of her romance novel, and puts it safely in the basket beside her with the others. "I have a good idea for why it's not working on me."
"And why is that?" This isn't precisely a happy subject for Sai or most of the others who share her particular nature. It's rarely a happy subject with Amiti, though, and yet the girl's enthusiasm is always infectious.
"I think it was my initiation," Amiti says. She holds up her pendant, dangling it back and forth by its chain. "The wound in my soul isn't completely healed yet. It twinges now and then — when I'm using necromancy or too much Essence or just feeling a lot of things, usually. It always reminds me of you."
That might actually help keep Sai from falling out of her head. It's unlikely to work forever, obviously, but nothing does. There's always an ending. "... Sure, kid," Sai says, fingering her own soulsteel token. Hers hangs from her wrist in easy reach, intricately shaped into a representation of the Crow, a constellation of acceptance and gradual death. Her own teacher had guided her through carving it it from her soul two-hundred years prior. The spiritual wound had long since healed over. "It'll heal more in a year or two."
Amiti, sighs, almost comically exasperated. "You're not going to tell me how any of this works, are you?"
"Tell you what — if you know who I am the next time we see each other, I'll tell you all kinds of things," Sai says. She slides down the tree to sit cross-legged beside Amiti, arranging the sheathed knives on her belt to get comfortable — they range in size from a hunting knife to very nearly a short sword, one of starmetal, one of adamant, and one of soulsteel. No one she's met has given them a second glance, or found her rough and practical manner of dress anything less than appropriate, no matter the circumstances. "You never did answer my first question, though."
"I didn't?" Amiti frowns for a moment, as if trying to recall. "Oh. Oh! Yes, it's very good, one of my favourite books, actually! It's about a young man from a poor household, but he has a kind heart and a gift for numbers, so he gets swept off his feet by a very charming Cathak general who marries him and takes him to live in her ancestral home, and I like it because they get together almost right away instead of only at the end, but there are still all kinds of troubles they go through, like this villain who is obviously supposed to be a Sesus but the author didn't want to say that and make someone angry at her, and she — the villain, not the author! — is out to destroy their happiness and is in league with an Anathema, and I'm at the part where the Anathema has kidnapped the hero and stolen his face, and now he's watching helplessly as it tries to use his face to seduce his wife, but their bonds of love are already too strong and she sees through the trick right away, and then there's a very exciting sword fight."
"I thought it might be something like that," Sai says, smile spreading into a wry grin.
"This is the third time I've read it," Amiti admits, a little self consciously. "I suppose you wouldn't have Dynastic romances in Uluiru."
"Not exactly," Sai says, shrugging. She has a brief flash of her elder sisters sneaking out to coffee shops every chance they got, hanging onto the storytellers' every word as they recounted selections from the Exodus of Queen Ulu, with its many twists and turns and perils. All long dead, of course — her sisters and the storytellers — not something she'd had reason to think about in many years. It's a good reminder of why she does this; there can't only be work, an endless succession of death and bureaucratic minutia. She needs to be reminded what life on Creation is really like, now and then. Even if Amiti is not exactly a typical eighteen-year-old herself. "Everywhere has stories, though."
Sai's gaze drifts over to the rest of the basket of books, and she tilts her head to read a particular spine. "Queen's blood, where did you find that?" she asks.
Amiti follows her gaze, already knowing which book Sai means. She pulls it out; a thick, leather-bound tome, frequently mended, the sad remnants of gilt lettering embossed on the cover. "Oh," Amiti says, "I finally convinced Huwen — one of the younger sons of House Daha-Ai, I mean — to trade me something worthwhile. You pointed me in that direction, remember? Incredibly prickly boy in our letters, I have no idea how I won him over. But it's a fascinating read! Please don't mention me having it to anyone important; I'm fairly certain it's proscribed."
It most certainly is. The outcaste necromancer Early Frost had only written one compiled treatise before his actions had become extreme enough to see him declared Anathema — in light of that, the Immaculate Order had done its level best to collect and destroy every copy on the Blessed Isle. Sai suspects they'd succeeded, until now. House Daha-Ai is a rare lineage of Dragon-Blooded necromancers with deep stores of knowledge compiled over the centuries, but they're also a poor and troubled cadet house. The book is such an extravagant and dangerous gift on Huwen's part that Sai is forced to imagine that Amiti is not the only one whose mind has been lingering on thoughts of young men from impoverished lineages swept off to a better life by women of powerful military houses.
Sai will leave that to Amiti to figure out, or not, however. She's not a matchmaker. "You're having difficulties with part of it?"
Amiti glances up and around, at the guards and farmhands in the near distance. "They won't be able to hear any of this?" she asks. "You did that..." she waves a hand idly in an endearingly terrible imitation of one of Sai's signs.
"No one can see or hear what we're doing," Sai assures her.
Amiti breathes a sigh of relief. "Right. Right! So!" She flips through the treatise, past arcane diagrams and notations in cramped, unfriendly High Realm. She comes to an uncomfortably graphic depiction of a deeply unsavoury ritual, seeming far less self-conscious about this than she had been about the romance novel. "This ritual. Horrible, obviously, but also deeply intriguing? I don't understand how this part works. Why would you need so much... material for that part, but not the final steps? I ask this purely in the interests of coming to a greater understanding, of course!"
Sai believes her. Amiti absolutely is the type to pursue such things exclusively out of academic curiosity, every step of the way. And that means that at some point, she'll stop paying close attention to where it leads. Sai has seen it before, and dealt with the consequences more than once. It doesn't have to end that way this time, of course. As much as she feels a genuine affection for Amiti and enjoys mentoring her and watching her grow, that's half of why Sai is here doing this — someone needs to keep an eye on what exactly this kid is doing, and it certainly won't be her house.
"I can explain the theory," Sai agrees. "Honestly, though, Frost had a bit of a bias toward mass sacrifice as a means of necromantic working. He got into the habit when he was with the Imperial Legions — his general got a little too permissive with him, as long as it was captured enemy soldiers and they kept on winning. There are more efficient ways to do what he's describing." And considerably less morally abhorrent.
"You... knew him?" Amiti has her pendant in her hand, running her fingers over the soulsteel, the surface of the metal shifting visibly under her touch. Sai can see her adjusting just how old Sai is based on the answer.
"For my part," Sai admits.
"He died a century and a half ago."
"A hundred thirty three years," Sai agrees. She shrugs, as if it doesn't matter. "I meet a lot of necromancers."
This seems to satisfy Amiti, at least for now, and they settle back into a far more technical discussion of Underworld Essence and the various means by which one can harness and power it. As Sai explains his work to her latest pupil, she tries not to think too hard about Early Frost the man — what he'd been like when Sai knew him best, and what he'd been like at the end.
What is the point of living this long if you can't inspire a few young minds? Not everything needs to end the same way.
The Port of Chalan, the Near-Southern Threshold
"I'm going to have to be awake for this?"
Simendor Leresh doesn't look up from his array of wicked-looking tools. They shine dully in Malfean brass, just barely catching the light on their tarnished surfaces. "Ideally, no," he says. "But, I doubt I have anything that will keep you under through it all — the Blood of the Dragons does have some disadvantages, one supposes."
Few enough, of course. Leresh is mortal, or close enough to it — he's been a sorcerer for most of his life, and a powerful enough one to have managed to imperfectly halt or slow his own aging this past decade. Within the hierarchy of his strange and insular house, this makes him a sorcerer-prince in his own right, very nearly a peer to his scant dozen Exalted cousins. Sadly, this doesn't stop his joints from aching at night.
The room this workspace occupies is on the upper floor of his personal town estate, a squat tower that nonetheless boasts a very fetching view of the harbour via a large balcony. The crystalline mass of the Agate Throne, House Simendor's ancestral stronghold, utterly dominates the skyline, making the satrap's palace look small and plain by comparison. Chalan is a beautiful city from a distance, where you can't see the fear and resentment in the peoples' eyes or the various horrors — spiritual, living, or construct — that patrol its ancient walls. Simendor has never been loved, but it has certainly always been feared and respected. That's been enough to have let them cling to this place since the heady days of the Realm Before.
The outer walls of the room are taken up by shelves of instruments, carefully organised reagents, mundane medical supplies, and shelves of anatomical texts. Closer toward the centre, the floor is painted with layer upon layer of incantations in archaic Flametongue, the beautiful calligraphy broken up by ritual candles of dubious origin, the last of which was currently being lit by one of his silent assistants. The second assistant closes the doors to the balcony, plunging the space abruptly into candle-lit gloom. Both of them are humanoid demons of the same variety: hairless, purple-skinned, with large, solid black eyes without visible whites or pupils. Neomah have many uses, particularly for Leresh's speciality.
"Right," mutters his young cousin. They're perched on the edge of table at the centre of the sorcerous array, the place where all the room's magic of fluidity and change is focused. An Earth Aspect, like the majority of Simendor Dragon-Blood, metallic crystal shining within the stands of their hair. Still eighteen, newly returned from the Blessed Isle. Leresh had not expected them to call on him so soon after arriving, or at all.
"There are safer, slower ways of getting what you want," Leresh says, turning to look at them directly. "As much as I have confidence in my work, I hope you've considered this carefully." The modification of living beings is far from unknown among their family; most are nonetheless little better than butchers, as far as Leresh is concerned. Twisting animals into chimerical monstrosities, or soldiers into superhuman warriors. Terrifying, but crude. Leresh, by contrast, is an artist. He won't say that everything he's turned his skills to has been kind, but it's always been worthwhile.
Here and now, there is always value in being owed a favour by a young Prince of the Earth, and to being remembered as competent and considerate toward them at their most vulnerable. He'll be able to use that good will for his own purposes later on, or so Leresh hopes.
"No," his cousin says. "This can't wait. If I'm going to make enemies for stupid reasons, it's going to be because of me, not because of my head being a mess."
"I'm sorry?" Leresh asks.
"It's not important. We're not backing out. I'm as ready as I'm going to be."
"Good," Leresh says. "Lay down, then, and we'll get underway." He pauses, considering. "Have you thought about a new name?"
"Deizil." They, he, says it without a moment's hesitation. "I always liked the first part, after all. It was just how it ended."
"Deizil," Leresh agrees, and he smiles. "Very well, cousin. You're in the best of hands."
The Imperial Palace
Demure Peony sorts the papers in front of her without much conscious thought, separating them out into different piles for her mother to go through. She sits on the far side of a battered old writing desk from her mother, in a work space roughly the size of a large closet. It's filled with paper and ink and supplies, a little too warm in the summer heat.
But the space is Lohna's, and she seems pleased enough with it, and oblivious enough to the warmth that she'd still pressed a chipped cup of green tea into Peony's hands when she'd first arrived. Now in her forties, Lohna is a trusted and reliable servant of the Imperial Household, and with her service in raising Ambraea no longer required, she'd been given other work. She is now assistant to one of the clerks responsible for managing the day to day expenses of the Imperial Household, which are many, and generate a staggering amount of paperwork.
It makes quite a lot of sense; Lohna had ended up in her original role through a combination of her education — fluent in written and spoken Realm, Riverspeak, and several other useful languages — and having just given birth to Peony. She was essentially now doing the sort of work she'd been trained to in her youth after nearly two decades of disruption.
"I hope you're coping with everything a little better?" Lohna asks, her brush strokes careful as she copies out a document by hand.
"Yes, honestly," Peony says. "It's taken me a couple years, but I've even grown accustomed to that snake." Verdigris was almost sweet, in a way that Ambraea doesn't really let herself outwardly be anymore. Peony was glad to have forced herself to face the fear. Despite Ambraea's unflappable affect, seeing the small ways that her distance had hurt Ambraea had been one of the things to bridge the gap — as much as they have both grown and changed, Peony is still serving the same lady she'd always been.
Lohna laughs. "Well, I'm glad someone is. She doesn't seem particularly mindful of whether or not it makes others uncomfortable."
"I don't think she entirely notices how strange it all is, anymore," Peony says. She has begun to suspect that this is the largest reason for sorcerers having such a well-earned reputation for strangeness. Just sheer exposure to spirits and other oddities until they forget how alarming it all is. She thinks of Diamond-Cut Perfection, with their insufferable over-familiarity, and their dangerous capacity to make one forget what exactly they are.
Realising that she'd let herself go silent, Peony follows that thought to a reasonable complaint. "A dragon, landing in the middle of a perfectly respectable neighbourhood!" She shakes her head. "I am getting used to it all, though, I think. But what else can I do?"
"Good," Lohna says, putting her brush down to look Peony in the eye. And with a sinking feeling, Peony instantly knows where the conversation is headed. "I have nothing in the world to give you but my love, my Flower. You have a good place, and a lady who cares for your welfare. That's the best I could arrange."
"I know I have a good place," Peony says. "I'm happy enough, day to day. And the servants in the Chanos residence are still treating me very well, during the school year. I do my best to help out with what I can, but there's not much work to do. I've never had anything much to complain about other than the strangeness."
Lohna nods, willing as always to be reassured.
Peony almost doesn't ask the question nagging at the back of her mind, but in the end, it slips out: "Are you happy here, mother?" she asks.
Lohna looks surprised. She glances around the tiny study and its stacks of well-ordered papers. "I get a little lonely," she says, "but the work isn't too physical, these days. There are far worse places for an aging slave in the Realm -- I'm still very fortunate."
It's more or less what she's always said to this question. Peony doesn't let herself look at Lohna's brand. Instead, she gives voice to a tentative thought that's been playing through her head for years. "Lady Ambraea might give you better, you know. She'll have a household of her own to set up in a few years. She could... Ask."
The Empress would have little reason to deny such a small request, if it were responsibly made; gifting a daughter her childhood nanny so that she might give her a comfortable retirement was hardly unusual, if a little sentimental. Ambraea had implied thoughts in this direction once, years ago. "I could free her, give her a home," a much younger Ambraea had said. Would it be safe to remind her of that?
Lohna sighs, a little fond, a little wistful. "When you were first born," she says, "I'd been in the Realm proper for all of three days. When the midwife handed you to me, I asked her if you'd be a slave too. She told me: 'From here on out, you'll live and die at the whims of some Dragon-Blood or another. This little one, though, she might do a bit better.'"
"I know," Peony says, suppressing a sigh. It's far from the first time she's been told this.
"Well, I try to have that be enough," Lohna says. "Lady Ambraea is a fine young woman." The words as Dynasts go linger in the air between them, silent and obvious. Then her bearing softens slightly, and Lohna adds: "... Assuming she's the same girl I helped to raise. I've simply learned not to hope for more than my lot." After all, when had it ever paid off? Clearly wanting to change the subject, she asks: "How has she been, by the way? She seemed very grim the last time I saw her."
Whatever the Empress had told Ambraea had obviously rattled her. It was fortunately not Peony's place to ask. She'd never been quite so glad to be able to tell herself to not pry into the business of her betters. It's only natural to be wary around the Dragon-Blooded in general — the Empress, though, is terrifying. "She's well enough," Peony lies. "She's been spending time in study, and a lot of time practicing with that sword of hers. A woman showed her up in a practice duel very badly two years ago, and I don't think she wants that to happen again."
Lohna laughs. "Good. It was very far to send you both, at your age. I wasn't just worried about the food."
"She's happy," Peony says. "She's enjoying her studies, and she has close friends among her classmates. And a lover." It's not exactly a secret, at this point; Peony would be very surprised if some sort of news of Ambraea's involvement with an Exalted patrician hadn't made it to the palace; she'd gone out of her way to make enough of a spectacle of herself with that entrance that she's become a popular figure of gossip, for the moment.
Lohna smiles, genuinely pleased. "That's healthy for a girl her age. You might consider the same, Flower."
"I don't have time for relationships, mother," Peony says. Or the interest, in practice — romance seems as though it could be nice, in its way, but the more physical things that go along with it have always failed to excite her or hold her interest.
Lohna tuts softly, returning to her work as she speaks. "Well, you should put some thought to it sometime, while you're still young. I know I've always regretted that I never got the chance to introduce my parents to my child."
The attempt at guilt is almost comforting in its mundane familiarity. "I don't think that schoolgirl romances have much to do with marriage or children," Peony says.
"Well, not for her, obviously, she's a lady," Lohna says, waving that off. "Things are allowed to be simpler for you. There are some perfectly nice young men near your age in service around the palace who I might introduce you to."
Absolutely not. "I don't want to worry about that sort of thing until after we're settled," Peony says. "It doesn't make a lot of sense, when Lady Ambraea is still a student."
"I raised you to be entirely too sensible," Lohna says, relenting. "Pass me that pot of ink, my love? I hope your tea isn't cold. I can fetch some more."
"No," Peony says, giving her a small smile. "It's fine like this." For now, she means it.
You open the door and step out into a rooftop garden like something out of a dream. Flowering vines hang from every vertical surface. A path underfoot winds it's way through manicured shrubbery, gaps in the plants only periodically revealing the manse's commanding view of the Imperial City's most affluent neighbourhoods. Exotic butterflies in impossible colours fill the air, compelled to stay within the confines of this one garden by the same magics that make the air taste like you're standing in a verdant meadow of wildflowers.
You slow your pace as you walk down the path — truth be told, it's nice to have an excuse to dawdle. It's not as though you were exactly enjoying the gathering, so you appreciate that the manse it was held in is at least pleasant. Subsequently, you're a little distracted at first, rounding the bend, and it takes you a split second to recognise that you're not alone on the rooftop.
An elderly woman sits alone on an ornamental bench surrounded by well-kept bamboo, alongside a small ornamental pond. She's plainly Exalted: Her hair is a dark blue like a storm-tossed sea, the streaks of white only adding to the impression of waves. One of her hands has been replaced by a prosthetic of flawless black jadesteel, its surface crawling with blue symbols. She's using her one good eye to stare into this hand's metal palm intently, as if there's something there to listen to.
Frowning, you move your foot to the very edge of the pond. As with the vase by the courtyard when you'd first arrived at the palace, you let a thread of revealing Air whirl into the surface. It doesn't disturb the water, but it does reveal something in the woman's reflection: Perched on her hand is an ash-grey spider the size of a tarantula, gesticulating rapidly with its two forelimbs. It's a demon-spider, you're sure, although you can't quite identify the breed.
Before you can put much more thought into the matter, or introduce yourself, the woman whispers something to the spider, and it abruptly vanishes into a cloud of ash, whirling up and out of sight. "Is it no longer the polite custom to introduce yourself to an elder? I can't quite keep up, these days," the Water Aspect says. You don't jump, despite the fact that you'd been certain that you were in her blindspot, but it does admittedly startle you a little.
"My apologies," you say, stepping around the pond toward her. "I didn't wish to disturb you."
"Oh, I'm sure you didn't," the Water Aspect says, turning to look at you with the eye not covered by an eyepatch — it's vibrant blue, and more amused than angry. She looks you over briefly. "Ambraea. This is a surprise."
You two have not been formally introduced, but you suppose your Aspect Markings are reasonably distinctive, as is the snake draped over your shoulders. You don't have to pretend not to know who she is either, this way. Your second-eldest living sister is not particularly easy to mistake for anyone else, as much as it's a surprise to run into her here, in a manse belonging to a Cynis household. "Mnemon Rulinsei," you say, turning it into an actual greeting. You're maintaining a respectful distance between the two of you, her still sitting, you standing several paces away on the path.
Rulinsei glances around at the scenic and secluded surroundings. "I hope you weren't meeting someone up here," she says.
Maia would have liked this garden — even if she's got no immediate need for secrecy, she always seems a little more at ease when she can identify something she slip behind or hide in. Things might have been different if you'd been in another mindset, but so far you haven't actually followed Maia's prompting to have a few encounters like the one you'd enjoyed the summer before. "No. I came here for a poetry reading one of the family's younger sons was hosting — it's really not that kind of gathering."
Rulinsei examines your expression — adequately stoic, you hope. "I gather you weren't the life of the party?"
"Is it that obvious?" you ask.
She gives a laugh, rough but genuine. "Please. I've been the sorcerer in the room for most of my life, I know how these things go. Did that V'neef girl I saw arrive earlier drag you here?"
You blink. She had, assuming Rulinsei is talking about V'neef Evona. She is one of L'nessa's adoptive great nieces, a third generation patrician elevated to Dynast after her household had been folded into House V'neef. It was her invitation that you'd accepted in your troubled fugue after your meeting with your mother, barely registering the details at the time. "You guessed that very quickly."
"You visiting V'neef two years ago isn't a secret," Rulinsei says. "Neither is you sticking close to her youngest daughter. I'm sure you're keeping your options open, so along comes this girl, using the mutual connection to magnanimously invite you along to a social event. Something casual that someone else is putting on. You arrive and no one else really wants you there, so she's the one who'll pretend you don't make her nervous enough to actually give you the time of day. And hopefully when it's over, all you really take away from things is that."
You consider that, and can't honestly disagree with her assessment, for all that she's going off pure conjecture. "I also enjoyed some of the poems." Others had been a little overwrought — you can't say you care for the contemporary Pangu flowing river form half as much as your host apparently does. "Are you trying to warn me off of her?"
Rulinsei shrugs. "Of course not. Whether or not the girl's a grasping social climber and just wants partial credit for tying you down barely matters — you could do a lot worse than attaching yourself to an up-and-coming Great House, if you're going to hitch your wagon somewhere. I'd hope you're old enough by this point to know that the Empress's protection is not to be relied upon indefinitely."
You're a little proud of yourself for not glancing at either her missing hand or her missing eye — that Mnemon Rulinsei was maimed by assassins as a girl is not exactly a secret. Nor is who was responsible for sending them precisely a secret, although throwing around the accusation where anyone from House Ragara might hear of it is not wise.
"And you see nothing objectionable for me going to V'neef for such protection, hypothetically?" you ask, too curious not to.
"No," she says, almost disinterested by the question. "Is there a reason I should? Sit down, girl, you're making me feel tired just looking at you."
You step forward and perch on the edge of a bench near to hers, the movement giving you an excuse to hesitate over your answer. The strange circumstances of this conversation and unexpected candor are infectious, however. "Your matriarch does not seem to particularly care for theirs," you say, delicacy making the understatement a little absurd.
Rulinsei raises her eyebrows archly -- it's the first time you've noticed any particular resemblance between her and your mother. "Do you like V'neef? Our sister, I mean, not her house." You open your mouth to reply, then pause. You hesitate for long enough for it to be an answer in its own right. Rulinsei laughs. "That's about what I thought. It's not that I don't understand the why of it, and my loyalties are where they are. I'm just too old to have the energy for that sort of family grudge at this point."
Pointing out that she's younger than Mnemon by a decade barely occurs to you. Whatever the span of years, the woman sitting across from you is visibly near the end of her life in a way that neither your eldest sister nor your mother is. Compared against nearly anyone else, making it the better part of a century past three hundred would be impressive on its own. "I understand," you say, because you have to say something to that.
She actually snorts at that. "No, you don't," she says, "but being eighteen is hardly your fault. It isn't really my concern whether you attach yourself to V'neef or Sesus or Tepet or anywhere else — you're not my daughter. But accepting shelter where it was offered was the best decision I've ever made, and I could hardly begrudge you for doing the same."
You nod, struggling against feeling indignant at the condescension inherent in this sentiment. There isn't really any way to make 'you'll understand when you're older' easy to swallow. "What brings you here, anyway?" you ask, the change of subject obvious, but sorely needed.
"Marriage negotiations," Rulinsei says. "One of my grandsons is of the age, and his mother, my youngest, is busy running a satrapy in the North. We have ties to the household — my late first husband's sister owns this manse. The sort of connection that requires maintenance, every generation or so. I also designed and built the place for her mother, so that helps."
"Oh. It's very beautiful," you say honestly, looking around at your surroundings.
"The garden was Mnemon's idea," Rulinsei says, waving off the compliment. "Over three hundred years I've been making them, and I still haven't shown her a geomantic design that she hasn't immediately changed in some way. And it's always an obvious improvement somehow — the garden perfectly balances out the flows of Wood Essence. It's a little infuriating." Despite this ostensibly being a complaint, she's smiling as she says it.
The relationship this implies between the two of them is a little surprising, and you're not immediately certain how to respond. Before you have to, though, a new voice carries through the air, feminine and trying not to sound openly exasperated: "Great Grandmother?"
Rulinsei gives you a wry sort of smile. "That would be me," she says. Pitched more loudly, she calls: "Over here, Sulim."
A moment later, a young Water Aspect woman several years your elder appears, a look of relief on her face, and the mon of House Mnemon stitched subtly into the fabric of her dress. The look freezes as she rounds the corner and fully registers your presence. "My apologies," she says, "I didn't realise you had... company."
Rulinsei sighs slightly. "Relax — I think I'm entitled to taking a moment to catch up with my youngest sister, when we stumble into each other like this. Ambraea, this is my great granddaughter, Mnemon Rulinsei Sulim." The pair of you exchange polite nods, although the atmosphere does little to thaw. Fortunately, Rulinsei doesn't seem to expect it to. "Is our host looking for me?" she asks.
"Yes, Great Grandmother," Sulim says, moving closer to Rulinsei's side, and offering her an arm. "They're waiting for you downstairs."
"Well, it wouldn't do to keep them waiting, then," Rulinsei says. She accepts the younger woman's help getting up, although you're not entirely sure how much she genuinely needs it the physical support, and how much she's just playing to appearances. It can be difficult to tell, with elder Dragon-Blooded.
"I wish you good luck, sister," Rulinsei says, glancing back at you. "We tend to need it more than most would assume."
You try to take that in the spirit you hope it was given. "Thank you. May your negotiations go well."
You take a few minutes alone in the garden before you leave, lost in your thoughts. Maia really would like it here.
"Why do you need this so badly?" you think at Perfection, thoughts peevish.
"For a scholar, you have no appreciation for history," Perfection says, voice infuriatingly amused in your head. "Suffice to say, the seas are large and hold many wonderful things, and it becomes easier to find them if one has the proper information."
You're in a large, dreary building illuminated by soft, magical lighting, filled with shelf upon narrow shelf of records and volumes dating back to the founding of the Realm. And before it, more to the point. You'd been both suspicious and relieved when Perfection had called in your latest favour by requesting you help them locate frustratingly specific surviving shogunate era naval records. What could they possibly want with such a thing? You still don't entirely know the answer to that, but you do know several things: That this particular part of the Imperial Archives uses a vastly different organisational scheme than the Heptagram's libraries, that the older records barely seem to follow that or any organisational scheme, and that this is not a particularly pleasant way to spend a summer's day.
"And for a dragon, you are as insufferably pleased with yourself as ever. Do not laugh at me, it's intolerably rude."
"Ah, my apologies, then! As I've told you before, you have my utmost faith in your abilities to find what I'm looking for."
You fight the urge to sigh audibly. "Your confidence is truly touching."
"Well, I shall let you concentrate on your search, then," Perfection says. "Please tell Demure Peony I said hello. You really don't deserve her."
"No," you say. And they have the nerve to laugh at you again.
From her usual place trailing behind you, Peony holds the several volumes you've already found, watching you with her usual quiet solemnity. After a long moment's consideration, she ventures: "I hope that your... teacher is being more helpful, my lady?"
It's your turn to laugh. Which is much more excusable, considering that it's not being done effectively right in Perfection's face. "You can tell when I'm conversing with them," you say.
"It... often makes you look slightly vexed," Peony admits. "I don't think most would notice."
That's slightly reassuring, on one or two levels.
You're on the second level of a large chamber, a railing letting you look down into the first. You briefly take notice of a young man dressed like a servant, struggling under a large stack of books. Then you return to Peony's question. "No, they're being quite unhelpful at the moment. We'll give this another hour, then see about going to find some food."
"I'm sure that would be wise, my lady," Peony says, with a grateful undertone beneath the platitude. She holds up well, but mortal frailties weigh on her a great deal more than you, understandably.
"... Well, you'd better go find him, then, shouldn't you?"
The new voice becomes abruptly audible as you round a corner, having previously been swallowed by stone shelves filled with paper. You look up from the characters labelling the shelves to see a young woman hurrying past, dressed similarly to the young man you'd spotted. As she stops to drop a hasty bow to you as she passes, you take in the colours of House Sesus on the hem of her collar.
Continuing down the hall, you glance into the first reading room you pass, expecting to see a Dynast, to perhaps exchange a polite nod and be on your mutually silent way. When you catch sight of the girl seated at the table inside, however, you freeze up short.
The girl is your age, blonde, pale in an unremarkable sort of way, going over a ledger with a serious enough expression. When she catches you standing in the doorway, staring, she raises intensely red eyes to give you a quizzical look. She's small, pretty in a wide-eyed, delicate sort of way. Her clothes are fashionable and well-suited to her narrow frame, though her hair is pinned back with an elaborate hair ornament. Carefully shaped metal feathers form a flame pattern in red and black jade. To your eye, the piece isn't merely jade lacquered, instead bearing the deeper luster and surface translucence of solid jadesteel — you strongly suspect it isn't just ornamental. "May I help you?" she asks, and even her voice is familiar, if inflected all wrong.
Your first, absurd impression is that, if Amiti is a girl who has had all the colour drained out of her, this is where it went — a perfect copy in every other way. It's such a startling mix of contrast and similarity that it takes you an embarrassing moment to realise who this must be. "Are you Sesus Kasi?" you ask her, the name coming back to you.
The girl quirks a questioning smile. "That is me." she says. There's an air of summer around her, somehow, of vitality and warmth.
"My name is Ambraea," you say, "My apologies — but I've been attending the Heptagram with your sister for the past several years, and you look very much alike."
"Oh!" Recognition passes over Kasi's face, and she stands up. "Yes, we do hear that sometimes," she says more than a little dryly — when Amiti had told you she had a twin, you somehow hadn't made the connection to their being identical twins Exalted with different Aspects. She inclines her head respectfully, still smiling. "Very pleased to meet you — I've read a great deal about you in my sister's letters."
This faintly surprises you, although perhaps it shouldn't. Amiti is usually too busy reading or running experiments or talking about something 'fascinating' to find the time to talk a great deal about her family. She'd said that she'd missed Kasi, and you'd known they were the same age. You suppose it follows, then, that Amiti and her sister must be close.
You wonder what that's like.
"Good things, I hope," you say.
"Glowingly. But my sister rarely spends letter space talking about people she doesn't care for," Kasi says. "Will you sit down?"
You take the chair across from Kasi. As you do, you glance from Peony to a nearby cabinet — she understands, and sets her pile of books temporarily down on top of it. She has an obscurely surreal look on her face, past her usual mask of servile humility. You recall that Amiti once cornered her for a well-meant but traumatic conversation. This must be strange for her as well.
The thought of Amiti writing nice things about you to close family members is a pleasant one for you, however. She's the only one of your classmates where you can imagine that the practical benefits of touting a connection would have scarcely entered her mind. "She's a good woman to have as a friend," you say. "She helped to get me out of a bad situation, last year."
"Yeah, I think she mentioned that, but partway through the account she got distracted by discussing the anatomy of a 'cliff guardian'. There were diagrams. Hopefully, you can forgive me if I skimmed those parts." There's a note of exasperated affection in Kasi's voice. You assume this is a common occurrence. "It's good no one was hurt, but I'm glad we don't have to worry about any of the help trying to eat us at the Spiral Academy." She says this a little like she can't entirely imagine why someone would feel otherwise, but is being polite.
"I'm not sure if I'd call the cliff guardians the help exactly, but surviving the dangers of the Isle of Voices is part of our education," you say. Verdigris is asking to be allowed out onto the table, so you let her. To Kasi's credit, she only stiffens slightly at the sight of the snake.
"I suppose so," she says, watching the small elemental exploring the space. "It's good that my sister has found capable friends, at least."
You raise your eyebrows. "Was it a surprise that she did?"
Kasi gives you a brief, assessing look, calibrating the degree of candour this situation calls for. "Amiti did not have... An easy time in primary school."
You can imagine not. Her eccentricities wouldn't have started with her Exaltation, and with Kasi Exalted so early in their primary school career, Amiti would have been quickly identified as a leftover child. "She didn't have an easy one at the Heptagram at first, either," you admit.
"But she made friends eventually," Kasi says. "Well-situated friends! You and the daughters of two Great House matriarchs, even if one of them is a Tepet. Mother is so pleased that I don't think she quite knows what to do with it — I'm actually glad I didn't manage to convince Amiti to come to the Academy with me. I suppose she just fits in better with other sorcerers."
It's not hard to read a protective impulse into the words, and imagine the relationship this alludes to. Kasi, Exalted, comparatively well behaved, looking out for her strange, bookish mortal twin. One can well imagine it continuing this way into adulthood, even with Amiti's late Exaltation. It's also interesting how differently the two sisters perceive Sesus Cerec's feelings on the matter.
"I'm not sure if 'fits in' is quite the word I'd use," you say. When Kasi's expression loses just a touch of its warmth, you say, "Well, she's a necromancer." You don't ordinarily try to make the distinction to unconcerned laypeople, but you somehow feel that Amiti would want it to be stressed. Dragons know, she does it often enough herself.
"I'm sure that there's a very technical and fascinating distinction there, and I have had it explained to me at length at least three times in two different letters," Kasi says, relaxing a little again when this is all you meant by the comment. "I don't think I'm exactly the audience for it."
For a moment, you consider trying anyway. The different sources and natures of sorcery and necromancy aren't so very hard to understand, after all. It's a rather rudimentary subject, of the sort that any second year Heptagram student should have been able to sum up out of hand. Then there are the unique worries that come along with such a practice, the dark powers that can be unleashed by it and that can alter a practitioner in poorly documented ways. But then, you suppose that for most people, it's the sort of thing one is doing with their otherworldly magic that they care about, rather than how a scholar would strictly classify it.
You think better of it. "Perhaps not," you say. "I hope you don't mind me asking, but do you often spend your summers looking through archives?"
"Shockingly, no," Kasi says. "I'm here running an errand for a... family friend in the Thousand Scales. It's not exactly fun, but if it were, I suppose he'd be here himself. And yourself?"
With the focus the Spiral Academy already has on interfacing with the Imperial bureaucracy, this strikes you as a little like what has happened to you, with the materials your mother provided. Although you have to imagine that rare works on the nature of various obscure elementals makes for considerably more interesting reading than dry, centuries old records. You've spent more than one late night in a mix of study and mental conference with Perfection, the Dragon's perspective always a little different from that of any human scholar.
"I am also here running an errand," you say, "although it's for my teacher. There was a particular Shogunate era naval battle that they have requested I find information on."
Kasi glances over to the small stack of materials that Peony has collected. "That is a terrible thing to get you to do. The Shogunate records are a bit of a mess," she says. "Different calendars, you know. And hardly anyone even needs that sort of thing. I think you might need some help."
"I wouldn't turn it down," you admit. "But aren't you busy?"
"Right now, I'm mostly waiting on my servants to get back here with some of what I need. I could use an excuse to kill some time until then. And it can't hurt to show you a bit of gratitude for looking out for Amiti." Or to do a favour for an Imperial daughter, she doesn't have to add. You don't know Sesus Kasi very well, but you already get the feeling that her motivations in such matters are about as complex as any Dynast's.
"Thank you," you say, scooping up Verdigris as you rise from your seat.
"Like I said, the pleasure is all mine," Kasi says, getting up herself. She moves with a confidence and purpose somewhat at odds with her size, but befitting the daughter of a legionary officer. "I can think of far worse ways to spend the time." Then she flashes you a hard to read smile, and leads the way back out of the reading room.
Article:
Near the end of the summer, Ambraea returns to Chanos, and then to the Heptagram for her fourth year, unaware that the period of normalcy that she's been living in is rapidly nearing its end. Foremost on her mind is what the Empress told her about Erona Maia, but this is hardly the only thing that will happen to her over the course of the school year.
When you see Maia again, do you come clean to her about knowing her family's secret, or do you withhold it, and just try to carry on as you were? As your mother said, the knowledge was a gift, and you are free to do with it what you will.
[ ] [Maia] Tell Maia what you know
[ ] [Maia] Pretend nothing has changed
Continuity note: I will be renaming the character "Peleps Nazri" to "Peleps Nalri", due to having belatedly realised that Nazri is the name of a canon Exalted character. It would drive me crazy otherwise.
What storyline would you like to follow in your fourth year? The characters named as central will appear very prominently within this storyline, but this doesn't mean you won't see other characters as well. You may vote for as many as you like, but only the top vote will be picked. This vote is separate from the first:
[ ] [Storyline] Flame and Frost
Amiti's early friendship with Ledaal Anay Idelle seems to have grown particularly strained this year. Amiti comes to Ambraea and her other friends with a problem that she's trying to conceal. Why is Idelle so suspicious and intent on discovering it?
Availability: Year 4
Central character(s): Ledaal Anay Idelle, Sesus Amiti
Themes: Ghosts, family ties
[ ] [Storyline] Names and Nightmares
Certain students begin to get strange, unexplained dreams, and they're not just from stress, for once. What could be causing them, and why?
Availability: Year 4
Central character(s): ???
Themes: Dream magic, demons
[ ] [Storyline] Best Served Cold
In Ambraea's third year, her life and that of her friends' was put in danger by the actions of Peleps Nalri. While Ambraea wasn't the primary target, this is still not something that can be let stand. Ambraea and L'nessa find a way to get back at her before she graduates.
Availability: Year 4, year 5
Central character(s): Peleps Nalri, V'neef L'essa
Themes: Familial rivalry, House V'neef and House Peleps
[ ] [Storyline] Hard Lessons
Sola once stepped in when tensions between Ambraea and another student reached an unwise breaking point. Ambraea will have ample opportunity to return the favour, or to decline to.
Availability: Year 4, year 5
Central character(s): Cathak Garel Hylo, Tepet Usala Sola,
Themes: Familial rivalry, House Tepet and House Cathak
[ ] [Storyline] The Serpent Thief
An old annoyance has reemerged to trouble Diamond-Cut Perfection, slipping into their court to steal information and Essence. They would like to send a message that they are not to be trifled with in this way, asking Ambraea to kill or bind the thief. The thief's unique nature makes this no trivial task, however.
Availability: Year 4, year 5
Central character(s): ???, Diamond-Cut Perfection
Themes: Strange spirits, ruins
Two years, four months before the disappearance of the Scarlet Empress.
The Port of Chanos
You arrive back in Chanos without a great deal of time left to spare, Diamond-Cut Perfection perfectly willing to take you back at the same speed they'd brought you to the city. Peony had been stoically resolved to it, but you'd still decided to give her a few days to rest after your journey. When you left to go meet Maia at the time and place you'd arranged, you'd unfastened Perfection's scale from around your neck, and asked Peony to put it somewhere safe for you.
As much as your sorcery is less effective without it, some things you'd prefer to carry on with without an unseen audience.
Fresh from the Imperial City, you're struck anew by how different Chanos's character is from the place of your birth. Its rugged shorelines and slate grey skies cast the elaborate architecture of Emberswathe and other fine neighbourhoods into stark relief, its monuments less inescapable and distinctly coloured by House Sesus's sensibilities and history.
Hesiesh Taming the North is as ostentatious as anything erected in the Imperial City, however — a massive brass dragon winds sinuously around a pillar of eternal ice, the rare material a token of a conquest in the North. The statue stands in the middle of a vast market square, marking the border between the upscale neighbourhood of Lamplight and the decidedly seedier merchant docks.
You tell your carriage driver to wait for you a little outside the square, and proceed on foot. A Dragon-Blood without attendants or entourage is conspicuous in its own way, but you're armed, and this is exactly the kind of neighbourhood where young Dynasts sometimes spend time in pursuit of adventure.
The scents of burning incense and baking pastry are strong on the air as you cut through a side street toward the statue, alone for the moment in the space between one building and the next. Looking out at the crowded square filled with stalls and shoppers, it takes you a moment or two to spot who you're looking for.
Maia looks particularly striking today, her dark hair cut short again. She's wearing a well-fitted tunic in blue and silver over silk pantaloons cut distractingly tight in the masculine style; a pale yellow sash is belted around her waist, a jeweled dagger tucked into it, along with who knows how many hidden weapons. She perches on the edge of the statue's dais reading a book, a servant and a bodyguard hovering nearby. You watch her from the far side of the crowd for longer than you strictly need to, filled with mingled longing and apprehension.
You can't, you've decided, keep what you know from her, however much the news is likely to put a damper on things between you today. It's not exactly something you can talk about in such a public setting regardless, but you wouldn't know where to begin even if it were. You take a step forward, prepared to work your way through the crowd toward her, when a hand touches your back.
Whoever had snuck up on you had been utterly silent even to your supernaturally strengthened senses, and you whirl around, your hand going for the hilt of your sword. You freeze up, dumbstruck, when you find yourself looking down at none other than Erona Maia. "Surprise," she says, a quiet sort of satisfaction in her voice.
You look back over your shoulder — she's still sitting near the statue, seemingly, going through the motions of reading her book. Turning back to the Maia in front of you, you reach out to cup her chin in your hand, emboldened by your relatively solitude as well as surprise. "Well, you feel like the real Maia," you say, gentle tilting her face up as if to be sure.
You feel Maia's face heat beneath your touch as a flush comes into her cheeks. "Sculpted Seafoam Eidolon," she admits. "I've been practicing."
"On your family's servants, or just on me?" you ask, trying and failing to look stern.
Maia shrugs, looking a little self conscious. "Looks like it works on both."
"From a distance," you say. Now that the spike of adrenaline has left your body, it's quite funny. "I'm not sure if it would hold up to close scrutiny." Such as the scrutiny you're subjecting her to, just this moment.
Maia looks away, but she doesn't seem displeased. "I missed you," she says.
"I missed you too," you say.
"You weren't too distracted by everything in the capital?" Maia asks. It's a teasing comment, more than being genuinely insecure. But there's still the kernel of something there.
"I can safely say that you rarely left my mind for long," you say. There must still be something a little troubling in your tone that stands out, because Maia looks back at you, a slight frown marring her face.
"Is something wrong?" she asks, dropping her voice to a whisper.
Yes. "No," you say. "There's something I'd like to talk to you about in private, though."
Maia opens her mouth to reply, but over her shoulder, several people in the garb of wealthy peasants round the corner. The woman at their head sees you, with the quartz pattern in your skin and your fine clothes and how close you're standing to a patrician girl. Without a word, she turns around, and pushes her companions to leave.
"... Privacy would be good," Maia agrees. She takes a step away from you, a level of formality coming down over her like a curtain. It's slightly undermined by Verdigris, who has at some point slid out of your sleeve to coil around Maia's neck like a strange choker. "I am of course always ready to accept such an invitation, my lady."
You give a wry sort of sigh at that. "You're really going to leave those two back there with your friend?" you ask.
"I've instructed it to head back home to the house in an hour, and reply to simple questions," Maia says. "I can be back before anyone notices it collapsing back into water sometime early this morning. I assume you have a carriage nearby, my lady?"
"I do," you say. "If you wouldn't mind following me?"
She doesn't, in fact, mind following you, and as much as it deprives you of a pleasant day out on the city, you'll at least get the unpleasant part out of the way quickly. As you enter the manse trailed by Maia, you consider the many ways this could go, good or bad. You can only hope that she trusts you enough that you being able to hold this information over her isn't going to cross her mind.
There's still a knot of tension in your stomach as you lead her to the stairs, toward the guest quarters you occupy. Mnemon Rulinsei's words about the Empress not being reliable forever cross your mind as your eyes meet the large portrait of her hanging over the landing — it will only be a few short years before you leave this place behind, and it returns to being yet another of your mother's unused properties. You should remember not to get too attached.
As you enter your chambers, you order one of the servants to bring up a bottle of something pleasant to drink in the sitting room — he rushes off to do so like you might do something terrifying to him.
"No Peony?" Maia asks, watching him leave.
"She's still recovering," you say. "On my insistence."
Maia glances around the sitting room — it's much the same as the last time she saw it: Expensively dated decor, heirloom furniture that's hardly been touched, tastefully inoffensive wall hangings. A space you're living in, but that isn't fully yours. You'd like to show her your rooms in the palace someday. "You needed to order her to take a nap?"
"Yes," you say. "If she could just work instead of sleep, I think it's what she'd do all the time."
You glance at the door the servant just vanished through, and will soon return through, and step toward the door to the bedroom. "We're not wasting any time, I see," Maia says, watching you hang your sword up on the wall outside the door.
"I still need to talk to you," you say, trying not to be too diverted by the look in her eyes. You're both young, and you've both missed each other fiercely. You'd both appreciate a chance just to be close to each other undisturbed, as much as anything more base.
You step into the room, surveying its impressive windows, austere decorations, and the same large, comfortable bed you'd woken up beside Maia in before you'd left for the Imperial City. It feels like years, somehow, instead of a matter of months.
You'd intended to bring up the subject the moment you were alone with her, but as you close the door behind the two of you, you turn around to find Maia standing very near, an anticipatory smile tugging at her lips in a way that you can't quite bring yourself to disappoint.
In very short order, you're on the bed. Maia is leaning over you with her hands in your hair, fingers skillfully undoing your braid. Yours are around her waist, holding her like something precious, kissing her like something that might slip away from you at any moment.
What brings you out of the moment is a metallic, forked tongue tickling your ear, enough to make you withdraw from Maia, jerking around in surprise. Verdigris looks up at you with an oddly unimpressed expression in her eye, from where she's coiled herself on the pillow.
"There is something wrong, isn't there?" Maia asks. She's still more or less on top of you, hands frozen in their careful work. There's a thread of worry there, as much as she wants to make it a joke. On some level, always trying to be prepared for the rejection she'd expected from the first.
You steel yourself. "Maia... I know," you say.
It would have been very convenient if she could have just decoded your meaning from three words alone. "You know?" she asks, confused, pulling back. You feel a faint pang as her hands leave your hair — you like them there.
You take in a deep breath. "I know that you're a descendant of Is--"
You've seen Maia move this fast, catlike and explosive. It has never before been directed at you, however. She has one small hand clapped hard over your mouth, the other braced against the headboard. She looks at you with wild, terrified eyes. Beside you on the bed, Verdigris hisses in alarm, not liking this, but not capable of threatening Maia enough to prevent it.
You're very aware, somehow, of Maia's dagger still hanging around your neck, having been pulled free from your dress's neckline amid the earlier activity, now in trivially easy reach. You don't know why you never really thought of it as weapon before. However, when Maia speaks, her voice is thick with distress, not malice: "Never say that name!" She's trembling, you realise, her hand quavering against your mouth.
Slowly, as if she's a skittish animal you're afraid of frightening off, you reach up and take her wrists, freeing your mouth to answer. She lets you. "I'm sorry," you say, pushing yourself up to a sitting position.
Maia takes a second or two to compose herself as best she can. Then she asks, "Who told you this?"
You see no reason to hide it. "My mother."
Maia freezes in your grip, silent for another long moment. "What, exactly, did the Empress tell you?" Her voice is barely audible.
You choose your words very carefully, aware, somehow, that there are a thousand ways this moment could shatter. "She told me about who your grandmother was. To warn me, I suppose. I understand why you'd want to keep it a secret."
Maia lets out a nervous giggle, utterly mirthless. "And did she tell you to tell me? Why?"
"No," you say, and there's an anger in your voice that surprises you, a resentment that you've barely allowed yourself to acknowledge bleeding into your words. "No. She told me to 'have my fun' with you, then distance myself before you become a liability. Because there are plenty of other patrician girls willing to warm my bed if I just want to keep a lover of a lower station." Maia flinches, and you deliberately soften your voice with some effort, your hands leaving her wrists, and moving to cup her face. "That's not what you are to me," you say, staring into her eyes, expression plaintive. Willing her to believe you.
Maia stares back at you for a moment, gradually going slack. She lets out a quiet sniff, lip trembling. She doesn't resist as you gather her up into your arms and pull her close, cradling her in your lap.
"She's right though. I am a problem. I'll be a problem for you," Maia says. She curls in against you, making herself as small as possible, her head pressed in against the hollow of your shoulder and your neck. You lean yours against it — as always, her hair smells like oncoming rain.
"I don't care," you tell her, your heart full of uncomplicated feeling, unaware of your own dangerous ignorance. She seems to want to reply to that, but what comes out is a whimper, and in the end you just hold her tightly as she sobs, not entirely understanding what it is about this that hurts her so much.
It's only much later that you think to notice that she wasn't particularly surprised that the Empress would be privy to her family's darkest secrets.
Year 4: Flame and Frost
"Have you heard the news?" It feels a little like being ambushed, L'nessa bright eyed and seemingly very eager for your answer to be in the negative.
You've only just arrived at the docks. The sky overhead is dark enough that you all expect rain. The ship looks particularly small and uncomfortable ahead of that prospect, although not as small as the new first year students work. You could swear that the sacrifices get younger and younger every year. You've barely set foot outside the carriage, but L'nessa doesn't waste time when it comes to gossip.
L'nessa leans up to you, stage whispering: "Simendor took the rite of Daana'd, she says.
That brings you up short. You scan the crowd for a glimpse of iridescent Aspect Markings, eventually finding who you're looking for. Still tall, still gaunt, dressed in that subtly foreign way. But what little in the way of feminine curves he'd had are no longer in evidence — somehow, in a way you can't quite place, it meshes better with the way he carries himself. Unfortunately, he catches you watching, flashing an insolent smile that is exactly the same as it always was.
The 'rite of Daana'd' is not a formal religious rite, in point of fact. But it is a useful euphemism to describe someone going through the sort of change that Sola had before you met her — or Danaa'd herself, in the Immaculate Texts.
"Well," you say, "he might make a more tolerable man, at least."
You hear Sola's laugh before you actually see her — she'd been approaching from the side. "I knew you'd say something like that," she says. As ever, she's wearing that daiklave, the many-faceted ruby in its hilt mesmerising when you catch sight of it.
You're not sure how, but you understand you're being made fun of. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," you say, ignoring her answering grin.
You catch sight of Maia standing a ways off, having arrived at some point when you weren't looking, quietly slipping in among the crowd of her betters. She sends you a small, slightly strained smile. Things had gone better than they might have, but there's still an odd sense from her. Like she's holding something back.
"Have you seen Amiti?" Sola asks, glancing around.
"Over by the end of the dock," L'nessa says. She looks over and frowns. "That looks a little tense."
She's not wrong — Sesus Amiti is a pale, distinctive figure against the backdrop of the ship. Speaking to her is Ledaal Anay Idelle, her brows creased in consternation. Amiti does not look particularly happy.
"If you'll please give me a moment," you say. On protective impulse, you stride over to the two of them, working your way through the crowd, offering polite greetings as you go. As you make your approach, the conversation comes into focus.
"... It's not just a game, Amiti. There are real risks!"
"I am quite aware of the risks of my field, Idelle," Amiti says, hunch-shouldered. "More than you, I'd think!"
"You're aware of them, but you don't respect them," Idelle says. Her eyes flick down to the pendant Amiti is holding in her hand, which she's currently squeezing so tightly it might be a little painful. As you approach, a faint chiming sound fills the air, although you can't quite pinpoint its origin. Idelle turns to face you, her burning eyes briefly flicking to the snake on your shoulders. Literally burning — they aren't simply red, but flicker strangely to orange and yellow as well, uncannily like a candle flame. "Ambraea," she says.
Amiti smiles at you, relieved as though you have just rescued her from something direly uncomfortable — you're glad you interposed yourself. "Hello, Ambraea!" she says. It's striking all over again how much she does and does not resemble her sister.
"Amiti, Idelle," you say, "I trust your summers went well?"
"Oh, lovely," Amiti says, "I got so much reading done, and the weather was lovely. And I saw instructor Sai again." She looks at you expectantly as she says this, and you have a faint, panicked notion that you should know who she means.
"I'm sorry, who?" you ask. Idelle looks equally puzzled.
"It's not important," Amiti says. And then she fishes in her bag for a notebook and graphite, for some reason.
"I spent most of my time training," Idelle admits. "It isn't often I have a chance to work with my master, and it won't do to have my spear work completely atrophy." You realise what made the chime, belatedly — in an unusual affectation for a Dynast, one of her ears is pierced in three places, with three tiny, brightly-coloured bells dangling from it. They're jade — one green, one black, and one red. Oddly enough, they don't make any more noise when she moves her head or speaks.
Idelle is both shorter and darker than you, built along more wiry lines, her dark hair in elaborate braids down past her shoulders. You're not surprised that the daughter of Demon Fang Anay might know her way around a spear, but you've never trained with her or seen her fight. After the summer you've had, you're suddenly curious, even if you're not exactly pleased with her for upsetting Amiti.
As accurate a character assessment of your friend as she may have been making.
"I did a great deal of sword work while I was in the Imperial City," you admit. "There was a lot of opportunity to find new opponents."
"I'm sure you'll beat Sola someday," Amiti says, in an encouraging tone that you're quite sure marks a sincere sentiment.
"I have beaten her. Occasionally," you say, frowning, and not altogether loving that direction of conversation. "I saw your sister, by the way."
Amiti perks up. "Oh! I hope she's well — it's been long enough since we've spoken in person, but I'm sure she'll mention you in her next letter."
"She seemed well enough," you say. "You didn't tell me you're identical."
"Didn't I?" Amiti says.
Idelle laughs. "Of course she didn't," she says. "What is it that your nanny used to say? Kasi got all the sense, you got all the dreams."
Amiti gives her a quietly indignant look. "My sister has plenty of dreams," she says. "They're just about... practical things, mostly."
You can't entirely say that the assessment seems incorrect. Sesus Kasi certainly seemed like she has her mind focused on far more temporal matters than Amiti, but you can't say that you didn't see ambition in her eyes, sometimes.
The gangplank lowers then, and with it the request for you all to board. L'nessa gives you an amused look as she passes by, evidently more than a little tickled by the way you'd left so abruptly. Maia's eyes briefly meet yours, and things aren't quite normal between the two of you, but you're still looking forward to the more socially permissive atmosphere of the school.
Idelle walks up onto the ship, and you're about to follow, but Amiti catches your sleeve. You turn to look at her expectantly. "Thank you," she says, voice quiet.
"You looked like you needed some rescuing," you say.
Amiti gives an awkward little laugh. "A bit! She's not so bad, though — she's trying to look out for me."
"Because your parents are Hearthmates," you say. You recall her mentioning the previous year.
"Yes, and we've known each other since we were children," Amiti says. "I think Anay told her to keep an eye on me, and she takes that sort of thing very seriously."
You suppose it's not so surprising that so many people who knew Amiti as a young girl are of the belief that she needs minding. But at least Kasi is revising her opinion as the two of them grow older. "We're all supposed to keep an eye on one another," you say, as if you don't understand her specific meaning. "It's how the school works."
Amiti smiles, and hurries to catch up with your longer stride as you walk toward the ship. "Yes, I suppose so," she says.
Article:
You will need to make good on that offer of keeping an eye on one another sooner rather than later. During your fourth year, Idelle will approach you with a concern about Amiti and what, exactly, she's been doing. What is the setting of that encounter?
[ ] A difficult binding ritual
As fourth years, you are now being tasked with more dangerous duties around the school. This binding is eventful, but it gives Idelle a chance to speak to you.
[ ] A training session
Idelle politely interrupts one of your sparring matches with Sola. Her news isn't exactly welcome, but you get an opportunity to observe her strange fighting style in practice.
[ ] At the worst possible time
You were planning to meet Maia, but you can't exactly just say that now.
Two years, three months before the disappearance of the Scarlet Empress
The Isle of Voices
You'd been the one to talk her around to the idea, and you reconsider whether it was such a good idea almost immediately.
By this point, you and Sola have been using this same spot for training for going on three years, the ground underfoot having been cleared by the passage of feet, the stony ground properly leveled through the exertion of your power. Rocks rising up on several sides provide a semblance of privacy, although the fog is already so thick you're not sure you'd need it.
You and Sola stand across from one another, weapons at the ready, the air silent except for the distant sound of the waves and the raucous cry of a seabird somewhere overhead. You're holding your training sword as usual, but Sola holds Storm's Eye, the daiklave sheathed, but still very large and very heavy.
"This can still break bone like this even if it won't cut you in half," Sola says, offering you one last chance to change your mind.
"My bones aren't the easiest to break," you say. And more to the point, you're not actively trying to hurt one another. You're a grown woman, more or less — you can handle a few unpleasant bruises. You don't have to see Verdigris to know how unhappy she must seem, coiled up small and still on the ground behind you.
"Alright," Sola says. And then she closes her eyes, and somehow just from that, you know that you're not going to fare half as well as usual. Sola is always fast, preternaturally skilled and focused in a way that has only been honed more and more in the years you've known each other. Now, though, she shoots forward toward you accompanied by an electric crackle and a flash of light, crossing the distance between you and her in the blink of an eye. You catch the first blow on your sword, and even though you had prepared yourself for the weight of a real daiklave, the blow still rings through your blade and up your arms, very nearly pushing you back a half step.
You try to counter, but she's already moving again, her power focused and amplified, raining blows down on you faster than you can account for. Then, frustratingly quickly, you overextend by a hair. Sola forces your blade up, darts neatly around behind you, and presses Storm's Eye's sheath directly into your throat.
Having kept her eyes closed the entire time.
"I suppose I can't really complain that that wasn't fair," you say.
"You could, and I wouldn't point out the hypocrisy, but you'd know I could point it out, and that would be even more galling," Sola says, and you can hear that familiar grin in her voice. "You wanted to see a bit of what I could do with this sword, so I decided not to hold back too much."
"Yes, thank you," you say, trying not to sound annoyed. It would be absurd to sound annoyed. You'd known you were unlikely to win like this on your first attempt, but you'd hoped to at least hold your own a little better. "That speed is hard to adjust to," you say.
"And dealing with the weight tires you out faster," Sola agrees. She has the daiklave leaned against her shoulder, holding it all casually as she might any lesser weapon. "I can't do that speed trick very often, yet, but it makes for a good opener, doesn't it?" She pulls the sheathed sword away from your throat, and steps back, letting you turn to look at her. To your relief, she's at least breathing hard, if not quite to the degree that you are.
"Why were your eyes closed?" you ask, kneeling to give Verdigris a reassuring stroke.
"It's hard to explain," Sola says, sinking down to the ground and examining the jewel in the blade's hilt. "The sword works as a scrying focus, I'm pretty sure. It lets me see my surroundings without seeing them — blocking out other stimuli makes it flow easier. It's good for casting spells, surprisingly, but also just focusing on a point and making myself go there. Narrowing all my speed and power down into a single movement." She slides the blade a hair out of its sheath, the brilliant gold and electric blue of the daiklave glinting as if it were in full sunlight despite the overcast sky. "I think it's got something to do with how the jadesteel flows through the orichalcum. Artifice isn't my specialty, though."
"No, using artifice to hit people is, apparently," you say.
Sola laughs. "Among other things! Hey, Ledaal, you want to come out now? This is getting awkward."
You whirl around, cursing yourself for your inattention. Sure enough, stepping out from behind a particular boulder, looking distinctly guilty, is Ledaal Anay Idelle. "My apologies!" she says, "I didn't interrupt. I didn't want to interrupt, I mean. Since you were busy." She hesitates for a moment, before saying, a note of faint frustration in her voice, "I didn't think I was being so obvious."
"Didn't you catch the part about the sword helping me sense my surroundings, while you were listening in?" Sola asks, amused.
"I wasn't listening!" Idelle insists, deeply sincere on this point. "I mean, I was. But I wasn't listening in. On purpose. Eavesdropping, you know — that's what I wasn't doing."
You manage not to laugh, which allows you to straighten up, and almost serenely ask: "Did you need something, Idelle?"
"I just wanted to talk to you," she says. "I know that you usually come out here at this time of day. So..." she shrugs, still completely thrown off her intended approach by having been found out.
You start to ask her what she needs, but Sola speaks first: "Well, you can make up for the unintentional eavesdropping by giving Ambraea a proper sparring partner."
Idelle seems taken aback. "I'm sorry?"
"She didn't get much out of that bout we just had — I was going nearly all out and using techniques she's not prepared for. And you're not that tired, are you?"
"I'm not," you confirm, giving Sola a strange look. You do have to admit to having some genuine interest in the prospect, although you can't help but feel that it's being thrust upon you, to say nothing of poor Idelle.
"I don't have a spear," Idelle says, looking at your sword.
"Oh, here," Sola says. She reaches up and takes hold of some of the mist, twisting it together until it solidifies diaphanously. It forms into a staff of approximately the right size for a woman of Idelle's height, its heft obvious in the way Sola handles it.
"And just how long have you been waiting to show that off?" you ask.
"Well, this is the first time I've actually really managed it," Sola admits, sounding pleased but even more drained than before. She's outlined in blue light, and there's an electric intensity in the air around her that isn't usually quite so pronounced. Still, she holds the staff up for Idelle to come take.
After a moment, Idelle approaches to take it — you notice that as she passes near to Verdigris, that same small, clear chime sounds. You're beginning to think that her earrings are some manner of spirit-detecting artifact. She only spares your snake a brief glance before accepting the strange staff from Sola. She gives it an experimental twirl, followed by a sudden stabbing strike at the air. Apparently, the weapon passes muster. "If you both insist," she says, meeting your eyes. "I really did just come here to talk."
"We could always talk at the same time," you say, picking your practice sword up again. That isn't really an option with Sola most of the time — something about her using the training to help herself achieve the meditative state necessary to make the alchemical solutions she takes work properly.
"Alright," Idelle says. She squares up in the spot Sola had originally occupied, allowing you to take your place across the notional practice ring from her. "You recall my conversation with Sesus Amiti back in Chanos?" She holds the staff in both hands, her stance solid, but clearly poised on the brink of motion.
"I recall," you say, frowning a little as you take your own guard.
"I do not believe she has taken heed of my advice," Idelle says. Then she moves, whirling into a sweeping staff strike. You turn it aside and answer in kind, slashing at her. She dances back, the staff coming up between you to block.
"I would have been shocked if she had," you say, letting her back off again. You can't imagine Amiti of all people responding to something as vague as an urge to 'be careful' in her academic pursuits.
"What, specifically?" you ask. And as you ask it, you move, your strikes coming down on her like an avalanche, forcing her to nimbly step aside and parry each one.
"She's staying out at all hours — her roommate is hardly lifting a finger to keep an eye on her." That much you can believe; the reason Heptagram students are kept in such cramped sleeping arrangements is to minimise your opportunities for doing something stupid alone. Both of Amiti's original roommates dropped out over the course of the first two years, however, and she's ended up with a Ragara girl a year older than you. You've never gotten the impression that she particularly cares what Amiti does. Idelle bats aside your sword, and moves into a sudden, lunging strike — you're forced to brace your off hand against the back edge of your sabre to parry it, and the shocking force of it drives you down to one knee. "She brought an entire case of salt with her!" Idelle adds, for final emphasis.
Salt has several supernatural uses, but most famously, a line of salt is a simple and effective ward against many ghosts and other undead creatures. Particularly if it's laid with the power of a Dragon-Blood behind it. For all its horrors, ghosts should ideally not be a serious problem on the Isle of Voices.
"What, exactly, are you asking?" You ask, breathing hard. Idelle lets you get up, the two of you circling each other once again.
"For you to talk to her!" Idelle says, frustrated or winded or both. "She trusts you, doesn't she?"
"And she doesn't trust you?" you ask.
"We don't get along as well as we used to, anymore," Idelle admits.
"And is there a reason you're not just going to an instructor with this?" You ask.
Idelle bristles a little. "I'm concerned as a childhood friend of hers, not just because my mother asked me to watch out for her, or because I'm trying to get her into trouble!"
You consider her for a moment. "We'll call this a draw," you say, relaxing your guard.
After a moment, she does the same, still frowning. "Well?" she asks.
"I may speak to her," you say, dubious. You're not going to commit to what specifically it would be about.
"Oh, well... good," Idelle says. The flickering glow in her eyes is definitely brighter, and there's a faint scent of burning incense in the air around her. You're certain that the vitreous lustre in your own hair and eyes has likewise deepened noticeably.
"Thank you for the match, I will do my best to reflect on it."
"You're welcome," Idelle says. She makes as though to lean on the staff for a moment or two, but seems startled when it vanishes back into mist. Presumably maintaining such a weapon is not yet practical for Sola. "It's not really what I intended, but it's good to stay sharp, when the opportunity arises." She's quiet then, as if not entirely certain how to disengage from the conversation from here.
"I am sure you will need to prepare for Instructor Ovo's remedial lecture before tomorrow," you say, nodding graciously. It's not a slight at her — you'd had a particularly monstrous lecture from the dominie earlier that day, and almost no one had followed the finer points of it. It's common enough for the rest of the staff to quietly schedule followup lectures to explain such things.
"Oh, yes," Idelle says. "Right! Well, thank you. And please remember what I've said!" With that, she turns on her heel, and begins to walk away.
It's a few moments before she's far enough away that you speak again. "What do you think?" You ask Sola, kneeling down to let Verdigris climb up your arm.
"She's definitely had some Golden Janissary training," Sola says, glancing after Idelle's receding form through the mist. "You can tell by the footwork. I've seen it demonstrated before."
"No," you say, frowning at her, "I mean about Amiti."
"Oh, well, Ledaal's probably right," Sola says, as if this is obvious. "Amiti's been too quiet so far this year -- she probably is up to something. Girl cut her own soul to pieces to learn necromancy, remember?"
"That is true," you acknowledge.
"Nice girl, especially for a Sesus," Sola says, in case there was any doubt of her good opinion, "but her eyes light up when she talks about death magic the yours do when Maia walks into the room."
"That is a deeply inappropriate comparison," you say, slightly annoyed. Comparing Maia to something dark and unsavoury you'd be better off avoiding strikes a nerve, just now, even if that's not how Sola meant it. "Still, checking in on her wouldn't be the worst idea."
Amiti is harder to track down than she should be, based on your prior experience of her. She's not haunting her usual dim levels of the library tower, or occupying her favourite workroom, or in her dorm — her roommate proves to be quite as disinterested as Idelle had led you to believe. It's enough to make you give greater credence to what Idelle had said in the first place.
In the end, though, Maia comes to your rescue. "I'm meeting Amiti tomorrow to go over a few things together," she'd said, when you'd arrived back at the dorm that night. "She's very good at catching basic mistakes in geomantic diagrams, and I'm helping her brush up on demonic hierarchical theory — apparently quite a few post-Immaculate works on ghost classification take some familiarity with that for granted as a basis for comparison. You can probably just come too, if you need to talk to her."
Then you'd kissed her out of general gratitude, and L'nessa, who had just entered the room, had very unreasonably thrown a pillow at you.
And so the next day, after breakfast and after renewing a particularly nasty binding for the school, you set out with the workroom that Maia directed you to in mind. You're a level up from your destination, currently traveling in between towers, when you find yourself face to face with easily your least favourite Heptagram student:
"Ambraea! so glad to see you well," says Peleps Nalri, giving you a cuttingly pleasant smile. "I'd meant to say hello sooner, but we never seem to be in the same place for very long — strange, considering how few of us there are here."
"Yes. Strange." You don't twitch a smile, and feel obligated to reach up to give Verdigris a soothing stroke where her head is poking up from the collar of your school tunic. The snake still lets out a small but distinctly threatening hiss.
Now a sixth year, Nalri is much as you recall her — willowy and darkly attractive, her dense curls threaded through with kelp fronds gently waving in an invisible current. "I hope you enjoyed your summer?"
"I did," you say, voice stiff.
"I'm told you made a fool out of one of my older cousins," Nalri says, not sounding particularly upset about it. "I've met Asher before — I only wish I could have been there to see it."
You take in a deep breath, and decide to abandon subtlety. "What is it that you want?"
"Oh, very little," she says. "I could see you were displeased after that... unpleasant accident, last year, so I kept my distance. But I would hope that there's been enough time now to clear the air."
"Well," you say, "by all means, clear it."
You would call Nalri's continued pleasant calm admirable, coming from anyone else. "While I can of course accept no responsibility for what occurred with the V'neef boy's experiment, I will again gently advise you that greater care taken in your associations may yield fewer instances of you finding yourself... collateral." She smiles at the last word, as if too amused by it to refrain from the expression.
You narrow your eyes. "I don't appreciate threats."
Nalri waves that off. "We're Dynasts, my dear. The threats come along with the fabulous wealth and power. And in this case, I am still simply warning you — you choose your enemies along with your allies. And I would hate to see you choose poorly."
"Thank you for your consideration," you say. "However, I am expected elsewhere. Hello, Maia, I'm sorry to have kept you waiting."
"I could see you were occupied," says Maia, standing about a pace behind Nalri. Nalri gives a slight start at the sound of the voice, turning swiftly to glare. You'd watched Maia seem to almost melt out of the darkness, setting herself up to scare the older girl deliberately — from Nalri's expression, she is as aware of this as you were.
"Erona Maia," Nalri says, struggling to maintain composure, "you will remain at least two paces away from me unless I invite otherwise." You're forced to bite your tongue — this much is Nalri's right to demand, particularly with her house fostering Maia to the Heptagram in the first place.
Dutifully, Maia takes a step back. She bows apologetically. "As you wish, my lady," she says. Her eyes stay downcast in open deference, but you think you see something a little worrisome in them.
Nalri shakes her head. "I hope you will not have lost sight of such things completely by the time you offer your service to my family." She looks back to you, and dredges back up a shadow of her original smile. "Please, think long on what I have said," she says.
"I will give your words all the weight they merit," you promise. She says nothing as she politely walks past you and down the passageway.
"That's quite an expression you're wearing," you tell Maia, approaching her once Nalri has passed.
Maia gives the corner Nalri vanished around a cold glare, quite unlike her usual demeanor. "There are a lot of ways for someone to have an 'unpleasant accident' on the Isle of Voices," she says, voice very low.
"It doesn't sound like you just mean ruining her experiments or humiliating her in front of our peers," you say, voice cautious. It feels, suddenly, like you're standing at the very edge of a precipice, and you won't be able to take back a misstep.
"When someone nearly kills you, I take it seriously," Maia says, her voice nearly as much of a hiss as Verdigris' had been.
"I was fine," you say. Then you can't quite help but add, "Simendor was hurt worse than I was."
"Peleps Nalri does not get credit for you being brave and talented," Maia says. She raises a hand and lays it against your chest, just over your collarbone. The words send a complex series of feelings curling through your chest, along with the warmth of her touch.
You let Verdigris slither down into her arm before speaking again: "We should probably not keep Amiti waiting for too long," you say. The issue of Maia and Nalri is one you'll need to address at some point, but it's... awkward. Somehow made more so by what you learned about her over the summer.
Maia nods, and pulls away.
Amiti is where she's meant to be, perched on a chair in the work room beside a deeply scarred table table, but she's so engrossed in her latest battered romance novel that she doesn't notice at first when you come in.
"Hello, Amiti," Maia says quietly.
Amiti looks up, and smiles. "Well! You two were a while. Did you end up dallying in a hallway?"
You're so taken aback by the question that you answer more or less honestly: "Something a little like that." before taking a seat across from Amiti.
Maia, face extraordinarily red, sits down next to you, Verdigris still cradled coiled in her arms. She doesn't contradict you, however.
"Wait, am I being rude?" Amiti asks. "I'm not trying to be rude."
"We know, Amiti," you say.
"You two are just so adorable, though!"
"... Thank you?" Maia ventures, utterly unsure how else to take that.
"You're welcome," Amiti says, relaxing. She puts her novel away, opening a notebook to two pages dense with arcane diagrams winding their way around an innocuous looking drawing of a horse. You've learned to ignore these things, when it comes to Amiti's notes.
The three of you get down to work, comparing notes from your areas of focus in order to fill in gaps in one another's understanding — for all that you had been distracted over the summer, the research material your mother had sent you had been invaluable in expanding your understanding of elementals and their connection to Creation's Essence flows. The general subject matter doesn't make Amiti come quite as alive as necromancy does, but she has an impressive intellectual grasp on much of it, and assures you both that it can be surprisingly relevant to some experiments she's been considering for the future. Maia surprises you slightly — she doesn't usually let on how complex her understanding of demonology is, for all the amount of time you spend together.
You almost decide against pursuing what first brought you to seek Amiti out in the first place, but in the end, responsibility to one's peers is the Realm's first line of defense against sorcerous corruption. "Amiti?" you ask.
Amiti glances up from where she's been adding some thoughts to her notebook. "Yes?" she asks.
"Is everything alright, lately?"
She seems more taken aback by the seriousness of your tone than anything. "Oh, things are lovely, generally. Better than I've ever been, I think!"
You abruptly feel unaccountably guilty. You try to be careful in your words. "I just mean, I haven't seen you around the school very much, lately. And no one seems to know what you're... doing with your time. Not even your roommate."
Amiti is quiet for a moment, looking back at you with her large, pale eyes. "Idelle put you up to this, didn't she?" She sounds disappointed, somehow. Like she's upset at herself for thinking this wouldn't happen.
"She expressed concerns, and thought that it would be better if it came from me than from her," you say. There's a defensive note in your voice that you hate.
"You can tell Idelle that everything is fine," Amiti says. "I'm fine. Things are fine. It's going fine!"
"What is?" Maia asks.
Amiti blinks. "I'm sorry?"
Maia leans over the table. "You said it's going fine. What is it?"
Amiti hunches down in her seat, rolling her pendant back and forth across her lips with one hand. "Do you not trust me either?" she asks, looking between you and Maia.
"Of course I trust you," you say, almost impatient. "Especially after last year. I am concerned."
"Oh." She stops short, apparently uncertain how to respond to that kind of sentiment. It's a long moment before she manages: "I'm not doing anything immoral."
"The way you just said that fills me with less confidence than one would hope," you say.
"Well, it's true! I think so, a anyway!" she says. This time, she's the one who sounds defensive. "But it's just... possibly not something the school would approve of. Maybe. I didn't, exactly, ask them."
"Are you doing something really dangerous?" Maia asks.
"I'm learning!" says Amiti. "That's why we're here, isn't it? I will let you know if there's actual cause to worry. I'm sorry, I think I need to go. Thank you both, I had a good time. Goodbye!" She rises, and begins to quickly stuff her things into her bag.
"Amiti—" she slips past you before you can catch her, leaving you and Maia alone in the workroom.
There's a moment of frustrated silence on your part, while Maia strokes Verdigris's head thoughtfully — she's been resting across Maia's shoulders for most of the study session. "Do you want me to keep an eye on her?" Maia asks. "Figure out where she's been going?"
That surprises you. "You mean, follow her."
"Without her noticing, yes," Maia says, not quite meeting your eyes.
"You're very quick to offer to do that to one of our fellow students," you say, bemused despite everything.
"That's, well..." Maia abruptly seems flustered, for some reason. "Well, you know it's in my skillset, by now. I'm worried about her too, now."
"I suppose it... wouldn't hurt," you allow. "If you really don't mind doing it."
Maia looks like she's on the verge of saying something difficult just then, but in the end, she swallows the words. She leans up and brushes a kiss against your lips, giving Verdigris a chance to slither back over to you. "It's the kind of thing I'm good for," she says, pulling away.
"You're good for a lot of things," you tell her, frowning.
She only smiles at you, small and troubled, gathering her own things back up. When she's gone, you're left feeling like you're still missing something, about more than just Amiti.
Article:
Unfortunately, Amiti is eventually going to have to tell you that there is actually something to worry about. Something in her secretive experiments go wrong — what is it?
One year, eleven months before the disappearance of the Scarlet Empress
Spring is finally threatening to emerge from a particularly harsh winter by the time anything comes of Amiti's situation. By then, you'd very nearly forgotten about it.
"This works fine, when the soldiers and commanders are numbers on a page," Instructor First Light says, glancing up from the plans you've written. Her battle-weathered frame looks out of place sitting behind the desk in her impeccably orderly office. Fortunately, you've long since gotten over any lingering surprise at the former outcaste existing in an academic setting. You're in the middle of seeing her for half an hour of scheduled one-on-one feedback; you prefer the strict timeslots that First Light demands, compared to the first come, first serve approach some of the other instructors take — Cynis Bashura being the worst.
"I have tried to account for that," you say, stiffly. "The soldiers would have minimal contact with the spirits in question, and I'm certain that the commanders could be prevailed upon to be reasonable, given enough time to talk to them about the idea."
"You and I may have spoken to different front-line commanders," First Light says, casual words backed by her long decades of experience. "May I be frank for a moment, Ambraea?" she asks.
You blink. She's never felt the need to ask permission for such a thing, before. "Of course," you say.
"Are you thinking about your own house one day?" Light asks.
This throws you, of course — you've never had someone ask you this so casually. "If that is what our empress desires," you say, carefully neutral. The real answer is, of course, yes — power means safety.
"That is about what I thought," Light says.
"I'm sorry, Instructor, I don't understand," you say.
"You have a decent enough grasp of the sorcerous principles, and I've made decent headway at teaching you to apply it strategically — you're more open to actually learning than some Dynasts I've taught over the years, or I wouldn't even be mentioning this." First Light places the paper carefully down. "You still approach all these scenarios like you expect to be in charge, or at least influential enough to be able to get everyone relevant in charge to listen to you. It's a consistent weakness in your tactical and strategic approaches. It would serve you poorly in a situation where you had to deal with a commander who wasn't impressed by you."
You swallow an indignant feeling that swells up in your chest. "I am unhappy to learn that," you say, through strained courtesy.
"I'm not trying to insult you," Light says, still entirely calm. "I hope you can make something of the advice."
"Yes. Thank you, instructor."
There's a moment of silence there as she studies your expression, Verdigris twining a little tighter around your arm. Then, First Light gives a small sigh, and moves on. "Well, let's get down to the actual feedback you're looking for," she says. She taps the page in front of her. "You're using a siltwinder here. Have you considered what those things eat?"
"I have," you say, relieved to be moving to a subject that has, as far as you're concerned, a right answer.
As you exit First Light's office, you're a little surprised when Maia falls in at your side. "Weren't you busy studying?" you ask, smiling at her.
"I was," Maia agrees. Plainly nervous, she bites her lip, which you try not to get too distracted by. As much as you could use a good distraction after that meeting. Something about her bearing makes you think it's not a good time for that.
"Is something wrong?" you ask. You angle toward the stairs; leaving the staff level of the residential tower is only polite. It's also smart, if you don't want to be overheard.
"Amiti's in trouble," Maia says.
"You don't just mean her sleep schedule?" you ask. Amiti has looked conspicuously exhausted these past few weeks, and whenever you've brought it up, she's artlessly changed the subject.
"I think it's related," Maia says. She shrugs her narrow shoulders, walking slightly closer than you than strict propriety would demand. "But this time, she admitted that she needs help when I asked."
"Well, that's nothing good," you say, "assuming it's about whatever she's been working on." Amiti paying more than token heed to the risks or dangers of interesting varieties of necromancy is a new and worrisome development. "Whatever she's been working on in that cave?"
"Has to be, she's not been doing much of anything else," Maia says. "I have no idea how she keeps up with her ordinary studies as well as she does."
Through a combination of being incredibly smart and incredibly foolish, you would say. You like Amiti too much to say this out loud, however.
Predictably, Maia leads you to the library, although not to a level you usually go to. It's high in the library tower, up several flights of stairs requiring bespoke unsealing rituals to access — Maia performs all of these with ease, including one that you don't recognise, and carefully reseals each door behind her.
Amiti is standing by herself in the stacks, frowning deep in thought as she references a book connected to the shelf by a sturdy length of chain. She doesn't notice your approach, even as you try to make your footsteps slightly louder than usual while walking toward her.
"Amiti? I'm back," Maia says, her voice gentle. Amiti doesn't look up — She's hunched over the reading podium, poring over the tome as she works her pendant back and forth in her mouth. She doesn't seem to hear Maia.
"Amiti." Your voice is both a little louder than Maia's, and a great deal firmer. Amiti starts visibly, jumping back a step and whirling to face you. It takes a moment before Amiti remembers to spit out her pendant in order to speak to you.
"Ah! You scared me!" Amiti says, unnecessarily.
"I noticed," you say, voice bone dry. You approach her, pulling a book off the shelf to examine the subject — exorcism. "What's going on?" you ask, deciding to be direct.
"Oh, well, lots of things," Amiti says, trying and failing to sound airy. "I just got a letter from Kasi — she shared a very funny story about Cynis Wisel's youngest daughter, who just started this year. I can show it to you, if you like!"
Ordinarily, you might say yes to that. Amiti has thought to share parts of her sister's letters with you already this year, now that you've met her twin — Sesus Kasi has a talent for rendering Spiral Academy gossip both highly interesting and deeply funny. You both know this is her attempting to change the subject, though.
You give Amiti a long, searching look. You take in how tired she is, how hunched her posture, the nervous way she's wrapping and unwrapping the chain of her pendant around her hand. Then you ask, a little more gently: "Are you well?"
"... No."
"What's wrong?"
Amiti wavers, looking at Maia, and then back to you, then to the bookshelf nearest to her. To the shelf, she says in a very quiet voice: "I may have made... a little bit of an accidental mistake. Slightly." She lets that hang for a second or two, before she adds: "I need help."
Your stomach sinks. "What kind of accident?" you ask.
"This was not an accident!"
"Well, no, of course not! I did that on purpose."
The cave that Amiti has been spending all her time in is a little out of the way, partway up a shallow slope and more or less invisible if you're not standing right at the entrance. A convenient lip over the top, and the slight incline the entrance is at keeps it dry, presumably even in heavy rain. Which is good, because someone has conspicuously laid down several lines of salt across the entrance.
Stepping carefully across the salt creates a strange sense of warning in your heart, a subtle wrongness prickling against your third eye. The cave takes a gentle left turn, terminating in a dead end that Amiti has clearly been working in. There's a portable writing desk in one corner, several stones used as impromptu shelves for materials. Most of the ground and part of one wall, both swept and scrubbed meticulously clear, is taken up by an intricately drawn summoning circle.
Stepping inside is briefly like plunging into icy water, before the ambient chill recedes to merely being unpleasant. Outside, the air is clammy, but with spring a matter of weeks away, winter's grip on the Isle of Voices has started to break, snow and ice thawing in rivulets that flow down the island to the sea. This is a wholly different kind of cold from the fog outside, however — an eerie, graveyard cold that you feel in your heart as much as anything.
"Amiti, is this what I think it is?" you ask.
Amiti wrings her hands a little, once again not quite meeting your gaze. "Well, that depends."
"On what?" you ask.
"On what you think it is."
You give her a flatly unimpressed look, trying to channel a little of your mother into the expression. "A shadowland."
"Oh," Amiti says, wilting, "Well, it's just a little one!"
"What did you do?" you ask.
"Well!" Amiti says, trying to find her footing in this conversation. "Well! Someone must have already died in this cave — quite badly, I think, which is useful — So it was just a matter of... widening things? Deepening? Like picking at a loose thread in a dress until it turns into a hole."
"You needed a sacrifice for that," Maia says, speaking up for the first time. She's just behind you, frowning deep in thought.
"You're making it sound so sinister!" Amiti says. "You've both had goat before, I assume. It wasn't anything more dreadful than that." After a moment, she reconsiders. "It wasn't so much more dreadful than that."
"I hadn't actually been in here before," Maia says, looking to you. "I mostly just looked in from the outside. I didn't know what she'd done."
This is serious — not only would the school be deeply displeased by Amiti having opened even such a small shadowland on the Isle of Voices, it is also not a practice that is viewed at all favourably by either Realm law or the Immaculate Order. Ghosts and other dangerous things can crawl out of its depths in order to vex the living. You're about to tell Amiti exactly how dangerous and reckless you think this is, but what she says next stops you short:
"You still don't know what I've done!" Amiti says, giving Maia an exasperated look. "You two won't let me explain!"
You don't like the sound of that — your eyes drift back to the circle. "What happened?" you ask.
"Well," Amiti says, suddenly a lot less eager now that you're actually asking. "Well! I wanted to talk to a ghost."
"Why?" you ask, frowning.
"Well, to ask them about the Underworld, their nature, their life..." Amiti shrugs. "General academic curiosity! Isn't it normal to speak with spirits? You speak with a spirit all the time!"
You want to defend Perfection against this comparison with some common ghost refusing to accept its next place in the cycle of reincarnation. Except, you really don't, actually. "If this were like me and Perfection, I doubt you would be this concerned about it."
Amiti winces. She takes a deep breath, and lets it out. "I shouldn't have drawn the circle half on the wall. But I've read you can do that as long as you account for it, and there's not enough room in here, otherwise!" She frowns at her handiwork, clearly mentally correcting all the missteps she can see.
"What happened?" Maia prompts her.
"I... made a mistake," Amiti says. "Two. I lost control during the actual binding, and this wall..." She frowns at the cavern wall that the circle is partially drawn onto. "There was a crevice."
"A... crevice?" Maia asks.
"She seeped through it!" Amiti says. "I sealed it up, but now she's somewhere on the island!"
You take a deep breath, and try to swallow the worst of your exasperation. "It's just a ghost, though?" you ask. Most of them aren't that dangerous to even a relatively young Dragon-Blood. There are worse than that on the island.
"Oh, no, worse than that!" Amiti says. "It's a cavern wraith." You and Maia stare blankly at her. "A cavern wraith! A soul that's spent too long lurking alone in the dark, until it's lost its voice and tends to, um... drag people into the dark to steal theirs and kill them. A little."
"Dragons, Amiti!" You put your face in your hands, feeling Verdigris tighten around your arm.
"How were you even going to talk to it?" Maia asks.
"Well, I'm sure I would have figured out something," Amiti says. "I could always have just given her a stick of graphite, I suppose." Maia looks dubious.
"Never mind that, how dangerous is this thing?" you ask.
"It might be able to hurt one of the younger students," Amiti admits. "But that won't happen."
"How can you possibly know that?" you ask.
"Well, because we're going to find her and stop her first, before that happens, or the school finds out!!" Amiti says. She hesitates. "... assuming you're going to help me."
You look around at the tiny shadowland, and what she's done. "This is not a small thing, Amiti," you say.
"I know!" Amiti says, "but... you'll still help me, won't you?"
You think back to Amiti at the cliffs last year, no hesitation or regret in risking her safety to help ensure yours, and to her sister's obvious relief that Amiti has made a friend in you. You sigh. "Yes, I suppose I will," you say.
"I guess we're looking for ghosts then," Maia says, her manner resigned, but committed. You feel a mingled stab of guilt and gratitude toward her.
Amiti beams at you both in open relief. "Oh, good. This won't be too much of a problem now, then!"
You know she's wrong the moment she says it, and this feeling will only grow in certainty as the days go on. Still, there isn't any point in telling her that. You'll just have to salvage a bad situation as best as you can.
Article:
When things come to a head with this horrible ghost, you will fortunately have help. In addition to you and Amiti, two other of your friends will be on hand to assist. Who are they?
You can pick as many options as you like, but the two with the most votes will be the winning vote.
Earth Aspect Dragon-Blood
Ambraea is a talented sorcerer focused on elemental summoning and elementally-resonant spells. She's also a trained swordswoman with enhanced senses and superhuman strength and durability.
Sorcery:
Initiation level: Emerald Circle
Initiation: Pact with an Earth Dragon
Shaping rituals: A gift of gems (wealth sacrificing ritual)
Spells: Plague of Bronze Serpents (control spell), Summon Elemental, Breath of Wretched Stone
Air Aspect Dragon-Blood
Amiti's morbid preoccupations have translated to an intense focus on necromancy, the death, and related subjects, as well as esoterica about Essence manipulation and other arcane subjects. She is not particularly physically inclined, and mortifying in social situations.
Necromancy:
Initiation level: Ivory Circle
Initiation: Half-Souled
Shaping rituals: Soul-Forged Token (draw on soulsteel pendant to focus necromantic power)
Spells: Raise the Skeletal Horde (control spell), Summon Ghost, Flesh-Sloughing Wave
[ ] [Character] Maia
Water Aspect Dragon-Blood
Maia is trained in stealth, brutal combat, and assassination, and her studies of sorcery have only expanded those abilities. She can shape illusions of herself and others, and summon a lethal sorcerous weapon from her own blood.
Sorcery:
Initiation level: Emerald Circle
Initiation: Student of the Heptagram
Shaping rituals: Sorcerous Archives (ritual research and study)
Spells: Sculpted Seafoam Eidolon (control spell), Blood Lash
[ ] [Character] Sola
Air Aspect Dragon-Blood
The ancient daiklave, Storm's Eye, allows Sola to synergise her gift for swordfighting directly with her sorcery. Even at her age, she is already deadly with a weapon in her hand and studied in tactics, and has made fast progress at marrying her talents over the past few years. Her sorcery takes on a more logistical bent, but her combat prowess more than makes up for it under these circumstances.
Sorcery:
Initiation level: Emerald
Initiation: Blade of Ten-Thousand Eyes
Shaping rituals: Inner Storm (focus inner eye to flood the body with sorcerous power)
Spells: Beckoning That Which Stirs the Sky (control spell), Stormwind Rider
[ ] [Character] L'nessa
Wood Aspect Dragon-Blood
L'nessa is already a competent sorcerer for her age, although her focus is on useful, support oriented spells. She's a gifted socialite when given the chance, a trained medic, and a competent archer by Exalted standards — extraordinary by mortal ones.
Sorcery:
Initiation level: Emerald Circle
Initiation: Student of the Heptagram
Shaping rituals: Sevenfold Art Evocation (precisely memorised mudras and equations to open the mind)
Spells: Infallible Messenger (control spell), Food From the Aerial Table
Additionally, Ambraea's studies have continued apace, and are not wholly focused on combat and elemental summoning. What additional spell has Ambraea mastered?
You may vote for as many options as you like, but only the one with the most votes will win.
[ ] [Spell] Corrupted Words
Ambraea can lay a curse on a target — whenever they attempt to speak about a topic of her choosing, instead of words, all that issues from their mouth is fat, white maggots.
[ ] [Spell] Dragon of Smoke and Flame
Ambraea can create a serpent of smoke to guide her to a location — either a specific she knows, or to a place with specific properties she asks it to find, such as fresh water, or a lode of precious minerals.
[ ] [Spell] Theft of Memory
Ambraea can steal a memory from someone by trapping it in a gemstone. This leaves them with no recollection of it, and allows her to review the memory at her leisure, or show it to others.
Spell: Theft of Memories: 28
Dragon of Smoke and Flame: 13
Corrupted Words: 3
"Well," L'nessa says, her eyes oddly distant, "it's in a cave."
"Oh. Which cave?" Amiti asks this as though she fully expects a useful answer.
"The one that's dark and wet and awful," L'nessa says, voice prim.
"I suppose that doesn't narrow it down as much as I'd hoped," Amiti admits, toying with her pendant.
"Well, it gives us something, at least," Sola says, looking both bored and antsy. "What message did you even send it?"
"A quote I remembered from Danaa'd and the River Ghost," L'nessa says.
"'Force not my hand, o wretched spirit. As the river flows to the sea, so too must a soul return to the Cycle of Reincarnation when its time in life is at an end. Give up your unwholesome hold on the world, or I shall', etcetera, etcetera. Honestly, a little heavy-handed, L'nessa." You all turn to look at Amiti, who shifts uncomfortably under your regard and adds: "I did pay some attention to the monks, growing up!"
"At any rate, yes, that was the passage I chose," L'nessa says, "I felt that layering depths of clever literary meaning was not precisely my biggest priority, at the time."
It's late afternoon, and the four of you are outside, in your usual training spot with Sola — there's a bit of a nasty Northern wind today, for all that it barely seems to shift the fog that hangs heavy over the island. It's the third day since you agreed to help Amiti. While Maia has been forced to remain back at the school to fix a mishap with a complicated binding, L'nessa and Sola had been similarly resigned to helping with this dubious project as you had. It's heartening, you suppose, that while you were the one who originally introduced Amiti into your friend circle, she's evidently grown on you all by this point. Inconvenient for each of you, but heartening.
It had been Amiti's idea to use L'nessa's Infallible Messenger spell to try and sneak a look at where on the island the ghost currently is. This has proven to be a mixed success at best.
"Did you at least get a look at it?" Sola asks.
"A little," L'nessa says. "There was a pool of water on-hand, although the lighting was terrible. I'm not sure I'd rather it were better, though — did you have to summon such an ugly ghost, Amiti?"
"I thought her eyes were pretty!" Amiti says, defensively. "The illustrations I saw really don't do that inner glow justice. Like a nice piece of polished amber."
Sola makes a vaguely disgusted sound in the back of her throat. "Right, so, how's plan A coming, so we can actually find this thing and deal with it?"
You mentally reach out to your dragon scale pendant, still hanging under your clothes, on the same chain as Maia's dagger.
"Ambraea," Perfection says, sounding annoyed, and far less self satisfied than normal, "I demand you hurry up and deal with this vile shade."
You raise your eyebrows. "I had the impression that you were barely interested in helping with this."
"It ate one of my servants," Perfection replies. "That cannot be borne, letting it get fat and bloated off of my largess. And obviously I can't lower myself to simply tearing its head off myself."
"Obviously," say out loud, your voice equally dry as the thought you send to Perfection.
"What is the point of having a young Exalt learning from me if not to deal with vermin like this? At any rate, I know where it is, in a general sense."
"Thank you. I wish you'd led with that," you say, enduring their grumblings about your lack of respect.
"I take it that's good?" Sola asks. "I'm here to cut the thing's head off, right? Kind of useless to bring me otherwise, unless you really need the weather changed."
You could also cut its head off quite effectively, you think. But quibbling over this would be slightly petty. "My benefactor has located the ghost," you say, fishing in a pouch on your uniform belt. "It ate one of their minor elementals, I gather."
Amiti makes a face. "I'm glad we're dealing with things now, then. We can't just let her keep getting stronger until someone notices."
"I don't love your priorities, sometimes," L'nessa says.
You pull several small gems out of the pouch, examining them briefly — an amethyst, a ruby, and an emerald. You examine the emerald for a second or two, but eventually let it full back into the pouch alongside the amethyst. The ruby you keep in your palm for long enough to kneel down and entomb it in the soil, whispering the prerequisite words under your breath. Power comes through from your link with Perfection, along with the dragon's grudging approval.
"What would happen if I waited for you to be gone, then dug that up?" Sola asks.
You raise your eyebrows. "If your family ever falls on hard enough times that you feel the need to steal gems from a dragon, I suppose we'll find out."
Sola laughs.
You wind your way through the narrow gorge, Sola at the back, you at the front — Amiti and L'nessa are unquestionably the more vulnerable out of the four of you, so it only makes sense to arrange things like this. With you being the one who has access to Perfection's directions, there's similarly no question that you be the one in the lead position of your little column.
It's not because you always have to be in charge, whatever Instructor First Light has to say. You can take criticism gracefully, after all.
"How close are we?" Amiti asks, looking up at the foggy sky overhead, clearly trying to tell what time it is.
"To the cave? Near enough," you say, eyes fixed ahead. "We're—"
"Above us!" L'nessa's voice snaps your attention up, in time to see her arrow bounce harmlessly off of a crude stone torso, and feel the eerie cold of the bolt of lightning Amiti hurls up at your apparent attacker. The pale lightning hits home as well, but doesn't slow the construct's momentum. It's a squat figure formed of rough-cut stone, featureless and inscrutable. No doubt the creation of some past student nearly as careless as Amiti, but less proactive in correcting her mistakes. Regardless, it's now plummeting straight at you.
Following Amiti's example, you hurl a bolt of Earth Essence at it, coalescing into a mass of quartz crystal that strikes it square in the head. The force of the blow sends the construct veering off course enough for you to side step its flailing landing, the earth shuddering underfoot as it hits the ground. You may have been able to catch it, but this isn't the time for foolish heroics.
A spell is on your lips, when you hear the crackle of lightning once again, sensing the passage of a body moving in from the back of the line. A booted foot uses your shoulder as a springboard, and in a flash of blue anima and gleaming orichalcum, Sola strikes it three times in rapid succession. Her daiklave finds the hidden joints between the stone limbs, rapidly reducing it to a twitching pile at her feet.
"Oh, well done!" Amiti says, plainly impressed.
You rub at the dusty bootprint she left on the shoulder of your uniform. From your opposite shoulder, Verdigris gives Sola a look of mild reproach. "I could have handled it," you say.
Sola laughs, shouldering her daiklave. Electricity crackles in her eyes, and her outline is traced in sky blue. "Who says you get to have all the fun? And that thing wasn't even what we're here for — we needed to deal with it fast."
You open your mouth to reply to that before L'nessa cuts you off again, although this time less urgently: "Boys, boys, you're both handsome. We are on a time limit, remember."
Sola's smile turns wry. "You're a good five years out of date with that crack, in my case."
L'nessa looks abruptly mortified. "... Ah. Yes," she says.
Amiti reaches up to pat L'nessa on the shoulder. "Don't worry, I forget things about people all the time. We are going now, though, aren't we?"
Suppressing your amusement at L'nessa's expense, you reach down and physically shift the largest pieces of the fallen construct aside, giving everyone the space to pick their way around it.
As Perfection suggested, the gorge curves onward for a time, before terminating in what should be a cave mouth. Unlike what Perfection told you, the entrance to the cavern is obviously and unceremoniously blocked off by what looks like a recent rockslide.
"Could the ghost have done this?" you ask, doubtful. The large pile of gravel and rock is too high to conveniently crawl over for anyone but Amiti. Or Verdigris, you suppose, but you don't exactly plan on sending your familiar into the cavern alone without a way to retrieve her again.
"Oh, probably," Amiti says. "They like to suffocate miners, sometimes."
"Could you not have mentioned that earlier?" Sola asks, giving her a despairing look.
Amiti shrugs awkwardly, the fingers of one hand tangled up in the chain of her pendant. "I didn't think it would come up."
"How quickly can you shift this?" L'nessa asks, glancing at you.
You frown at her. "How quickly can I shift this loose pile of gravel? With nothing to move it with? Faster than most people, I suppose, but it's not exactly convenient."
"At least we know that she's probably inside, this way?" Amiti suggests.
"It's definitely inside." The voice comes from above you, so sudden that all four of you whirl around to look at its source. A figure stands atop the gorge looking down at you, one hand extended where it had reached out to snatch the arrow L'nessa had reflexively fired at it.
"Dragons, Idelle! I nearly shot you!" L'nessa says, glaring up at your classmate.
Idelle considers the arrow in her hand briefly. "Yeah, I guess you really nearly did," she admits, frowning. She holds a spear in her other hand, no more a practice weapon than L'nessa's bow, or your sabre, and had apparently come up on you all so quietly that none of you noticed.
Maia would have noticed Idelle lurking around long before this, you're almost defensively certain. Your senses are supernaturally keen when you sharpen them correctly, but you don't have Maia's practiced brilliance at stealth and concealment, or her habitual wariness for the same being turned against you all. She'd have had enough practice at that, over the years.
"What are you doing here?" you ask, giving Idelle a hard look.
"There's a loose ghost on the island," she says, simply. "I would hope that we're all here to find it. However it is that we know about it in the first place." This last is accompanied by a sharp look in Amiti's direction. Instinctively, you step in front of her, positioning your body between Idelle and Amiti.
"How do you know about it?" Amiti asks, peeking out from around your shoulder.
Idelle steps forward, letting herself slide down the side of the gorge with improbable stability. As she draws close to you, once again, you hear that familiar chime.
"Her jewelry detects spirits," you say, looking at the tiny, bell-shaped earrings.
"More or less," Idelle says. She points to them in order, first black, then green, then red: "This one chimes in the presence of spirits, this one in the presence of death magic, and this one to alert me if something is trying to alter my mind. I have been following the first two."
"And why, exactly, are you out here on your own, instead of alerting the staff?" Sola asks. She still has her daiklave drawn and rested against one shoulder, the veins of blue jadesteel in its blade pulsing faintly in glowing counterpoint to her anima. "I think you know why we are."
Idelle gives a deeply disapproving look at Amiti again — or tries to, when Amiti has shrunk back behind you. "Perhaps I wanted to give certain guilty parties a chance to confess."
"You just want to show off!" Amiti says, braver out of sight. "The daring warrior-exorcist hunting down dangerous ghosts. You'd tell them it was me as soon as you had proof!"
Genuine outrage crosses Idelle's features, swift as a flashfire. "I had all year to tell them what I suspected you were doing. If I did it now, you'd deserve whatever you get!"
"Regardless," L'nessa says, pitching her voice to rise above both of them, "we cannot go on the way we were planning, so this is all a bit premature."
Idelle blinks at that, turning to look at the rockslide with a frown. Then she shoves the arrow into L'nessa's hand, plants her spear in the ground, and begins to use both hands to flash through a sequence of familiar mudras. Smoky red light curls up around her, turning white hot as she completes the casting with the Sign of Essence Consumed. A stream of blue-white flame leaves Idelle's outstretched hand, striking the pile of rubble and igniting it.
All of you save for Idelle are forced to take a step back from the heat coming off the pile of loose stone and dirt, earthen material burning like wax, rising into the air as a noxious smelling smoke.
"Won't that just make it run again?" Sola demands.
"It's a ways inside," you say, doubtfully.
"The sun won't hurt her unduly, but she doesn't like to travel during the day," Amiti says, the flames reflecting oddly in her pale grey eyes. "She should be trying to establish a refuge she can hide in. And drag victims back to."
"How long is that going to keep burning?" you ask Idelle.
"For loose particulate? A few minutes," Idelle says. "Burns like tinder. It shouldn't have the power for the whole cliffside to catch."
"Shouldn't?" you ask.
"Well, you know, I..." Idelle visibly falters, before squaring her shoulders and rallying: "I've never used it to burn a pile of gravel in the middle of a gorge before, have I? It's my control spell, but I'm not reckless with it." You notice that she glances in the direction of Amiti, who steps out from behind you again you glare:
"I am not reckless with my control spell," Amiti says.
"You set loose a horde of small zombies in the grounds last year!" Idelle says.
"They were chicken carcasses! Perfectly harmless! More funny than anything!"
"They attacked someone!"
"They didn't even have heads!"
"You know perfectly well that it's the principle of the—"
"The tunnel is clear," you say, loudly. Or, clear enough — the fire has burned itself out, leaving the much-reduced landslide an ominously smoldering pile of gravel melted into bizarre configurations. It's at least more passable than it used to be, if not exactly comfortably so.
"So it is," Idelle says. She produces a hand mirror from a belt pouch, picks her spear back up, and strides forward, not waiting for the rest of you.
Frowning, you quickly catch up to her, clapping a hand on her shoulder. She shrugs you off, turning around to frown up at you. "We need to coordinate, or this is going to be a mess," you say. "Five Dragon-Blooded against one ghost is obviously overkill — but it will get away if we're tripping over each other."
"... Fine," Idelle says. "What do you intend to do?"
"It was huddled over a drowning pool, when I saw it through my messenger," L'nessa says.
"Perfection hasn't told us that it's been moving again since then," you say. "Which makes sense, if Amiti's right about it finding somewhere to lair." It's easier to just think of the spirit as a dangerous animal, rather than the malignant ruin of someone's soul. It's a good example of what comes of not accepting one's place in the Perfected Hierarchy and moving on at the appointed time.
"So, we need to go in with a plan," L'nessa says.
Article:
Three courses of action emerge in particular, suggested by three different members of your makeshift group. Which plan do you decide on?
You may vote for as many options you like, only the one with the most votes will be selected:
[ ] Amiti's Plan
You catch the ghost by surprise, using your petrification spell to turn it temporarily to stone, allowing everyone else time to surround it.
[ ] Idelle's Plan
Idelle attacks the ghost with techniques that burn the undead, along with Amiti and L'nessa; you and Sola cut off its avenues of escape.
[ ] Sola's Plan
Sola attacks the ghost, driving it toward Idelle, while you, Amiti, and L'nessa provide ranged support.
You walk quietly through the dark, relying on Verdigris's preternatural senses to guide you, one hand running along the rough stone of the wall as you go.
After a bit of careful scouting, you've ascertained that Amiti was correct — the ghost has stayed holed up in the same chamber L'nessa caught sight of it in, hovering over a dark, tranquil pool of water. Per Idelle's plan, you've agreed to circle around to the far side of the chamber through a series of narrow side passages, poised to cover one of the two most obvious avenues of escape. Mind you, this is all happening because the wraith is capable of seeping through tiny crevices in otherwise solid stone — entrapping it will be tricky regardless.
The ghost's presence is not subtle. The closer you are to the chamber where it resides, the thinner the air feels around you, tasting of blood and the least wholesome varieties of earth, creating the distant sensation of suffocation. You're determined to ignore it as the cheap parlour trick that it is; it should take far worse to unsettle a Chosen of Pasiap surrounded by her own element.
Likewise, you're determined not to complain about your specific role for other reasons. Sola had been displeased at being relegated to a rear guard position, but had ultimately understood the tactical value of such things, and furthermore the value of not undermining a plan once it's been agreed to. You try to follow her lead as you put yourself into position.
Up ahead is a fork — through Verdigris's flicking tongue, you scent the sickly sweet aroma that you've come to realise marks the ghost, and turn accordingly. It only takes a few more moments before you find yourself at your goal: the narrow mouth into a wider chamber, an eerie, oppressive silence ringing in your ears from the other side. Your foot comes down in a shallow pool of cold water. Annoying, but useful enough that you don't move aside.
You send a thread of Air Essence down into the water, bidding it to serve as your window into the world of the unseen. Twin points of amber light slowly form at your feet, defusing outward like drops of ink until you realise what you're looking at. Two eyes burn in the dark, watching you with an unblinking vigilance. The body that they're set in is a shadow that's somehow deeper than those around it, a point of darkness that seems to draw in all light not its own. You regard the ghost coolly for a few seconds longer, ignoring the sense that you can't quite breathe clawing at your chest. Then the ghost's eyes snap over to the other side of the cavern, and you know that things are proceeding according to plan.
"Hello, again!" comes Amiti's familiar voice, as she steps into view. She has a lit candle in one hand, a mirror in another. Points of reflected light glitter in the darkness of the cavern all around. "I've been looking all over for you." Her voice is strangely distant, muffled by the ghost's presence. As you see its reflection rearing up in apparent outrage, the taste of dirt and blood on your tongue intensifies.
It's at this point that Idelle darts out from behind her, feet carrying into a flying leap by a rush of hot air, spear poised to strike. Guided by the bells ringing in her ears and the mirror secured to the back of one hand, she gives a cry that demands the ghost be struck by her weapon, impaling the figure messily through its insubstantial torso. Golden fire drips from the spearhead, wracking the wraith's corpus, starkly different from the red anima that has started to bloom around Idelle's body.
Watching the fight from murky reflection in the puddle, cast now in charnel colours by Idelle's anima, you see the ghost fall back into intangibility enough to pull itself free from Idelle's spear, bleeding shadows. With a twitching flick of one hand, it sends a barrage of loose stones flying as it scuttles backward.
Amiti gives a cry, the lightning she'd intended to throw striking the ceiling instead. L'nessa ducks from where she's just come around the doorway, her hand mirror shattering as a stone takes it from her grasp. Idelle turns aside the worst of it with her spear, tries to dart forward to stab the ghost again — she misjudges the angle somewhere in the confusion of the reflection, missing it by inches.
You see the ghost make a split second decision on where to go. L'nessa, guiding her aim by the distorted image in a crystal formation, manages to make up its mind when her arrow clips the side of one of its limbs — there are four Dragon-Blooded in one direction, and only one in the other.
In the reflection at your feet, you see the ghost turn toward you inhumanly fast, streaking across the cavern floor toward your passageway. You have your sabre drawn in one hand, eyes cast down at the water, trying to stay aware of the real space the reflection represents. Taking in a deep breath, you slash out with your sabre, forcing the ghost back in a skittering, flickering motion. Its proximity makes the air feel even closer, as though a weight is pressing down on your lungs from every angle, noise all but sucked from the world.
It tries to get past you, and you slash it from shoulder to hip, driving it back. It's like hacking into cold treacle, and your bizarre vantage point prevents you from getting the angle you need to simply shear the wraith in two, instead drawing a shallower cut. A small barrage of stones hurl themselves at your back — Verdigris does her best to defend your head, flicking rocks aside with her metallic tail. A fork of icy lightning half blinds you as it strikes the ghost from behind, followed by an arrow burying itself in the spirit's leg.
The ghost collapses, and you're treated to the image of its shadowy form crumples at your feet for just a second, before Idelle's spear takes it where its spine should be, golden flame immolating its corpus from the inside out. The light seems to boil away the darkness, and for just a moment, you see a human face, an unremarkable looking woman, bloodied and terrified, lips moving in silent pleas.
You cut off its head, and it collapses back into formless shadow, this time utterly inert.
A more ordinary, wholesome silence stretches on there, broken only by relieved gasps as you can all properly catch your breath again. The one who speaks first is Amiti, rubbing at the side of her head where a rock struck her. "Well! That's taken care of then, I suppose."
Idelle rounds on her, still wreathed in ruddy flame. "Taken care of?" she repeats.
"Well, yes, we killed her. Again," Amiti says.
Idelle crosses the short distance between her and Amiti, glaring down at the shorter girl, spear clutched, white-knuckled, in one hand. "We don't even know that it won't just reform later!"
"Well, she might," Amiti allows, "but I think there's a good chance she won't — she's alone out here, after all, no worshippers, and not so strong as all that." She shrugs. "If she turns back up in the Underworld, I'd hope that she simply leaves. Or at least, doesn't come back here. It wasn't such a good place for her, was it?"
"Are you even capable of accepting responsibility for your actions?" Idelle demands.
"Excuse me, but I did take responsibility for my actions," Amiti says, suddenly indignant. "I'm out here, aren't I? I would have gone after her even if no one else had helped me! No one even got hurt, that we know of, except for that elemental! And me." She gingerly touches her head again — her fingers come away dry, at least. It shouldn't be too serious a wound for an Exalt.
For your part, you quietly pull a particularly sharp stone out of your back, where it had embedded somewhere near the end of that fight. It hasn't gone in deep, however — not worth drawing attention to.
"It wouldn't have been here at all if you had any sense of restraint or decency!" Idelle's eyes quite literally blaze with the force of her anger, and Amiti flinches back.
"Idelle, we took care of it," L'nessa says, "yelling at Amiti won't help anything."
"Clearly not!" Idelle says. "If shouting at her did any good, she'd be a model daughter by this point in her life!" That, of all things, hits home, and Amiti shrinks in on herself.
Sola, emerging from the other tunnel looking vexed for more than one reason, is less diplomatic than L'nessa: "Piss off, Ledaal," she says. "If you're going to go snitch us out, just do it and spare us all the melodrama."
Frowning, you sheath your sabre, and approach the others, free hand fingering something in one of your belt pouches.
"Obviously I'm going to report this!" Idelle says, rounding on Sola. "She's endangered herself, her fellow students, and the security of the entire school, to say nothing about the moral implications. Not that I should expect anything better than heresy and slinking avoidance from a Sesus to begin with — whatever her father is to my parents, she obviously doesn't take after him!"
Your dragon scale pendant surges cold against your skin as you whisper the words you need, an odd tingle coming from the small object you've palmed at the same time. As calmly as if you were plucking off a piece of lint, you reach out, and press the tiny emerald to the back of Idelle's neck. It flashes green as you feel the spell hit home, and the red jade bell dangling from her ear rings out a sharp alarm.
Fast as wildfire, Idelle whirls around, spear poised to stab you where you stand. Before you have a chance to fully intervene, Sola is there, her daiklave catching the blow right beneath the spear's head, forcing it upward. "No," Sola says, final and inarguable.
With a cry of outrage, the spell no doubt already taking effect, Idelle falls upon her, spear whirling through a complex pattern of strikes, red flame rolling off her body, golden flame off of her weapon. Sola meets every blow with a calm parry or expertly placed sidestep, lightning crackling in her wake, until she finally outright cleaves Idelle's spear in two.
"Alright," Sola says, "that's en—"
Barely missing a beat, Idelle lets the pieces of the spear fall, and executes a perfect roundhouse kick aimed squarely at Sola's head. You catch the blow on your sheathed sabre, the force of it sending a shock through your arm. Then you give Idelle a hard shove backward. "That's enough," you finish for Sola.
Idelle steadies herself, glares at you, but there's something uncertain in her expression. The bell is still faintly sounding, but you're certain the spell will have done what it was meant to by now, if you were successful. "What did you..." Idelle falters. "You did something to me! Where are we?"
"A cave?" ventures Amiti, voice cautious.
"I... can see it's a cave!" Idelle says. She looks down at her broken spear at her feet, then around at you all — the minor injuries, the flaring anima. "What happened?"
"You were in a trance," L'nessa says, stepping in without missing a beat, lying to her face with gentle confidence. "Something must have affected your mind — that bell of yours was ringing." She gestures at Idelle's earring, which is still faintly chiming. "So, of course we wanted to see if you were alright, and followed. Unfortunately, things got a little hectic before you snapped out of it."
Idelle's frown deepens, her eyes sweeping from L'nessa's smooth concern, to Amiti's half confused panic, to Sola's stormy expression as she sheaths her daiklave with a metal-on-metal snap. Her eyes light on you again last, the flickering radiance within them particularly prominent now. "And you didn't see what did it?" she asks, her hand reaching up to touch the back of her neck, where you'd pressed the gem.
"No," you say. Against the weight of her burning scrutiny, you shroud your feelings with Earth and Water, thoughts as opaque as a dark, tranquil pool. "But something clever enough to ensnare you would be clever enough to keep out of sight."
Idelle is clearly dissatisfied, but she's also confused, and unable to actually dispute your version of events at present. "I see," she says. "My apologies for lashing out at you, Ambraea. It would be a poor way to repay your attentiveness, if things were as you all say."
"We should all return to the school, I think," L'nessa says, "otherwise, we'll be at risk of missing a meal."
On the way back, Idelle is uncertain and brooding, and Sola is outright displeased, this time leading the way without any discussion about who should go first. You think that, perhaps, Sola does not entirely approve of your course of action.
The look of relieved gratitude Amiti shoots you is enough to warm your heart, at least. If nothing else, you'd helped a friend who had truly needed you.
Resplendent Wood, Realm Year 762
One year, eight months before the disappearance of the Scarlet Empress
Months go by and the end of your fourth year looms ahead, the halfway point of your secondary school education having passed you almost unnoticed.
Sola's annoyance with you turns out to be relatively short-lived. Idelle's suspicious glances, by contrast, continue on without abatement. You have responded by quietly offering the emerald containing her stolen memories to Perfection, who was equally pleased to receive it as they were to hear that you'd dealt with the ghost. Amiti had promised to be more cautious in her experimentation — with sincerity, you hope. You can't all keep covering for her forever.
As the end of the year draws closer, however, Maia continues to grow quieter and more distant, although never quite to the point of outright avoiding you. When the yen finally drops, it's a beautiful, summer day.
"Have you been thinking about independent study projects, for next year?" You ask Maia, carefully organising your stack of books. You're very near the top of one of the towers, in a tiny reading room you hadn't been able to open until the month before. The volumes it houses, primarily written about advanced spirit summoning theory, have proven to be shockingly dull and abstract, even where they have the potential to be extraordinarily dangerous.
Maia looks up from the monstrous tome she's referencing, pages open to a sprawling diagram depicting a demonic soul hierarchy in taxonomical detail. "... No," she admits.
"We'll be fifth years soon," you remind her, "it's going to be expected of us."
"I know," Maia says, closing her eyes.
You watch her for a moment, framed by the light of a rare sunny day streaming in through the window. "Are you even reading that?" you ask, approaching her.
She gives you a weak smile. "Not very well," she admits. "How did you know?"
"You've run your finger across that one line about the Living Tower at least five times," you say. "I've been watching." On your shoulder, Verdigris flicks her tongue sympathetically.
"You're getting too good at reading me," Maia says, and you're not entirely certain it's a joke.
"Is that a problem?" you ask her.
She grimaces, and doesn't immediately respond, looking out the window instead.
You move even closer, one hand bracing against her reading table, looming over her in a way that's hard for her to simply ignore. "Are you ever going to explain to me what's wrong?" you ask.
She opens her mouth to give an evasion, to change the subject, to deny that there's anything wrong. But you catch her gaze with yours, and something in your eyes seems to hold her fast. "The Black Elder Tree," she says quietly, after a moment.
"What about it?" you ask, frowning.
"This evening, after the lecture. Meet me there." Carefully, she shuts the book, tearing her eyes away from yours. Rather than any kind of relief, a terrible sort of tension has come into her, like she might either bolt or snap at any moment.
"Nobody goes to the Black Elder Tree that close to dark," you point out.
"I know," she says. She gets up, the book cradled in her arms as she moves it back to its niche on the far wall. "That's the idea."
The dominie's lectures are difficult to follow at the best of times, even with the base of knowledge you've managed to accumulate by this point. With how distracted you are, these are not the best of times, and you already have a feeling you'll need to beg to have a look at Amiti's notes before the week is out. Hers are always at least thorough, even if they inevitably contain drawings of small animals and quotations from her favourite books in between the actually useful information.
You don't actually see when Maia slips out of the lecture hall, in the end — nonetheless, you gather your things, pawn off putting them back in your room on a mildly annoyed L'nessa, and head out onto the grounds.
The Black Elder Tree is one of the Isle of Voices' more infamous landmarks, the sort of place that older students take ghoulish satisfaction in pointing out to the sacrifices every year. The tree itself is massive, an ancient sentinel standing proud on top of a lone, grassy hill far inland. Its leaves are so dark as to be black, a hint as to the plant's strange and macabre nature. Few students are foolhardy enough to test to see if the dark rumours surrounding it are true, but there had been one boy during your second year who'd tried it, spending a night sleeping among its sprawling roots.
He'd gone home in disgrace, a nervous wreck, the next week.
Neither you nor Maia intend to actually let yourself spend the night here, of course, and the place is no one's idea of somewhere to spend a pleasant summer's evening. So it works well enough for a private meeting. You spot Maia by the time you get near to the base of the hill, a small figure solemnly watching as you make your climb, the lighter blue of her uniform standing out against the tree's dark trunk.
"So," you say, as you crest the hill, "here we are."
"Here we are," Maia agrees. The shade beneath the tree's spreading branches is pronounced, unripened elderberries hanging heavy overhead, thick roots protruding from the earth all around you. Maia bites at her lip, hands clasped in front of her. Then, she begins to pace.
You watch her go back and forth a time or two, before you ask: "Have you changed your mind, then?"
"Yes! Three times, back and forth," Maia says, shooting you a grimace. "But... I'm here now. We both came here. It's too late to back out?" The way she says it, it's almost like she wants the option taken away from her.
"I'm afraid I can't know that until you tell me," you say, eyebrows raising.
Maia takes in a deep breath, then lets it out, scanning the horizon around you for any sign of anyone within earshot. Then she produces her hand mirror, turning it this way and that, checking high and low for any sign of an invisible spirit who might be listening in. Evidently, she finds no one. Stuffing the mirror back into a belt pouch, she abruptly says:
"We talked about my grandmother. At the end of last summer."
You'd expected it to be something about this — how could any other topic warrant this much concern and secrecy? "... Yes," you say. "It's not the sort of thing I can easily forget."
Maia nods sharply, resuming her pacing, not quite looking at you. "Have you ever wondered... have you thought about how she came to be married to my grandfather? Who arranged it?"
"Not in-depth," you admit. House Iselsi's reputation for espionage, while eclipsed in recent decades by the scandal of their treason and subsequent slow destruction, is something you're at least passingly familiar with. You had simply assumed that such subterfuge was not beyond them, even at the end — did there need to be someone who'd arranged to hide one woman's identity, when her name had become such a liability?
Maia is silent overhead. A cool breeze sweeps up the hill, and the tree groans gently as it sways behind you. "It was... arranged," Maia says, hunching in on herself. "By someone with the power to spare my grandmother."
She looks up then, meeting your eyes for the first time since the reading room that morning, not wanting to come out and say it, clearly wishing for you to put things together yourself. In the end, there are only so many possibilities that can require this level of secrecy. You open your mouth slowly, and it's a few seconds before you can form the words: "... the one who told me?"
Maia looks away again, hunching down, suddenly ragged with relief. It's hard to say whether she nods or not. She doesn't need to.
There's another few seconds of silence. Across your shoulder, Verdigris shrinks back in distress, slithering under your clothes. When you finally speak, voice urgent with concern, what you say is: "You should not have told me that!" It doesn't matter that she didn't come out and say that your mother had arranged to spare some portion of Maia's family. She'd made certain that you understood it, and that was very nearly as bad. The word 'treason' keeps buzzing at the back of your mind. "Why are you telling me this?"
Maia whirls on you, eyes intense in a way you've only seen them once or twice before. "And what, you should have told me what you did, after you found out the first part of this? Do you know what I've been taught to do to anyone who knows what you know?"
You think back to that moment of startling speed, her hand covering your mouth. You can well imagine what she may have been told to do with the other. It isn't something you've wanted to put too much thought into. "I think I have an idea, yes."
"So, we're both stupid," she says, still holding that glare. She's trembling a little, though, and not only from the relief of what she's just put out into the open. She seems to be waiting for something from you, bracing herself for a blow.
"This... doesn't change anything," you say, "it doesn't have to." For some reason, the words sound appallingly stupid even as they leave your mouth — something a child would say. For an excruciating moment, you resent yourself intensely for that feeling.
Maia reaches up, gripping a fistful of her own hair hard enough that it must hurt. "No, you don't..." She stares at you, torn between frustration that you haven't pieced something together, and fear of what you'll say when you do. "We're... hers," Maia says. "I am too. I was always hers, the whole time. Another weapon in training, another... another set of eyes and ears."
You understand then, and take a step back as if you've just been struck by something heavy. "Oh," you say. You sink down on top of the nearest tree root, staring at her. You'd known, of course, that someone was keeping track of your actions — there would be someone at the Heptagram feeding information to the Empress's information network regardless, and it would be simple enough for them to include you in the ordinary reports. But if there had been someone else much closer at hand, from the very first day you'd arrived... "The whole time?" you ask.
"Yes," Maia says, voice small and miserable.
You take a steadying breath. "I thought you..."
"I did! I do! I'm not with you because I'm keeping track of you, I'm with you because of you!" She takes a tentative step forward, then freezes, like she doesn't know what you're going to do next. You don't either — you can feel a terrible blankness coming over your features, masking whatever it is you're feeling inside.
"You can... you can still trust me," Maia says. Then, voice quavering, she adds: "Please trust me?"
You look at her for a long, quiet moment. What you ask is: "How?"
Maia takes another step forward, pauses again, then all but throws herself to her knees, looking up at you beseechingly, like a supplicant before a lady. She hesitates, then reaches for your hand. You let her take it. She forces herself to look up into your eyes, tears brimming at the edge of her vision. "I'll swear it," she says.
"Swear it?" You ask, not yet following.
"An oath. A real oath. So you'll know that I'm not going to betray you. So we can just... Please?"
"Maia, I—" you're not exactly sure how you plan to finish that sentence, but she doesn't give you the chance. She's already speaking, words coming out in a rush, so quietly that you can barely make out what she's saying, rehearsed phrases so dangerous that they were never meant to be spoken out in the open:
"I... Iselsi Maia, swear to stand by your side as sworn kin, to defend you above all others, to keep faith with you above all others. To be the shade that you take refuge in, the water that soothes your wounds, the blade at your enemies' throats. In the name of Danaa'd, I swear. In the name of Mela, Sextex Jylis, Hesiesh, and Pasiap, I swear. By Water, by Air, by Wood, by Fire, by Earth, I swear. On the memory of my murdered house, I swear."
You're momentarily stunned not just by the force of her words, but by the genuine power that's behind them. She's offering you something real and serious — you both know what this means, or think you do. It's the most profound show of good faith she could make, but as always, there are strings.
Article:
The Hearth Oath, or Kinship Oath, is more than a mere promise — it is a supernatural link formed between Dragon-Blooded, tied into the particular nature of your Exaltations. Ten-Thousand Dragons fight as one, but the members of a sworn kinship forge a bond closer than any other. It is also a relationship with both social and legal weight in the Realm, and something most Exalted Dynasts enter into at some point in their lives, albeit not usually this impulsively, or this soon.
You may accept Maia's oath by returning it with one of your own. If you do so, you will be sworn to one another as hearthmates. You will be aware of one another's presence, capable of finding one another across vast distances, and the other will sense it if either of you dies. A Dragon-Blood's Hearth is a source of strength and comfort for her, but attempting to betray one's Hearthmates is psychologically difficult and traumatic as well as looked upon as the blackest sort of treachery within Realm society. Your hearthmates are those companions who you've sworn to stand beside whatever might come, regardless of family or station, and backing out of it again once entered into such a commitment would be a mark against you as well as unpleasant. Additional Dragon-Blooded may be added to an existing hearth, although it is increasingly difficult or impossible to do so beyond the traditional five.
Despite how little time you have to consider this, you are intimately aware of the ramifications of saying yes:
Pros:
- It is an irrefutable sign of renewed trust and faith in one another
- It represents a higher chance of your relationship with Maia surviving the trials ahead, in some form or another, and gives your tie to Maia more weight in the face of her troubling family commitments
- Long term, as your Hearthmate, it would be less remarkable and more socially acceptable for Maia to associate with you in public in settings where bringing someone who is merely your patrician lover would be inappropriate
- It is common for new Hearths to form upon or in the year before graduation from secondary school; while this is certainly early, it is not unthinkable that you two would have made such a promise to one another in the natural course of things
- It is unspeakably romantic.
Cons
- Should word of this get out too soon, you may be viewed as rushing too quickly into an important tie
- This is quite literally the opposite of what your mother advised you to do; the Empress thought it prudent to treat Maia as a youthful indiscretion, and part ways with her when you were finished
- It would make breaking things off with Maia in the future very awkward
- Can you trust her, after what you've learned?
For a few seconds, you stare down at Maia on her knees in the dirt, her heart bared to you, an almost hungry desperation in her eyes. She's offering you the most precious thing she has to give you, the only thing that she has to give you. The smart thing would be to say no, however much it hurts her, and you can see the knowledge of that on her face. She's terrified that you'll reject her, refuse her oath, push her aside. That some part of what she's just told you will be a bridge too far, and that you'll leave her because of it.
Where she's taken your hand in hers, you reach down and take it in both of yours, bringing it up to your lips to brush a kiss against her knuckles. Her relief is almost painfully sincere. Heedless of the thousand ways this is a terrible idea, not letting go of her hand, you recite words you've been learning variations of since primary school:
"I, Ambraea, swear to stand beside you, Iselsi Maia, as sworn kin. To defend you against all others. To keep faith with you ahead of all others. To be your pillar of strength, the solid Earth you walk upon, the bulwark against your enemies. By Pasiap, I swear. By Mela, Sextes Jylis, Hesiesh and Danaa'd, I swear. By Earth, by Air, by Wood, by Fire, by Water, I swear. On my honour as a Prince of the Earth and an Imperial daughter, I swear."
As you begin to speak your half of the oath, Maia's anima begins to flare around her, cold and dark and lethal. It washes over you without harm, and as you near the end, the white of your own radiates out from you to meet it. Your animas flow together, mingled Earth and Water, visual evidence of the spiritual link being formed. Even if you couldn't see this, you feel the moment when Maia's soul touches yours, your words knitting them together, for one moment fusing them together.
You freeze in place, looking into her eyes and seeing in them the same rush of elation that you're feeling. For this moment, all external worries fade away, and you're only able to bask in the closeness of it. Warmth. Safety. Home. You can barely tell where you end and she begins.
Then it starts to fade, the Hearth bond solidifying, the anima around both of you receding back to normal. But you can still feel her there, her soul knit to yours at the edges, a connection that will hold fast no matter how far you go from one another as long as you both live.
Still kneeling, Maia lays her head against your knee, and you move one hand from hers to gently stroke her hair. The other stays where it was, your fingers intertwined with Maia's. The two of you stay that way for long minutes, her head in your lap, your back against the trunk of the tree. A kinship of two.
Maia speaks first, her words small and tentative: "I love you." It shouldn't mean so much after what you just shared. It still does, though.
"I love you too," you say, "no matter who you are, or what you've done."
She lifts her head a little, just enough to see your face, not enough to disturb your hand in her hair. "You mean that?"
You bend down, planting a kiss against her forehead. "I've never meant anything more in my life." The words taste like something you might regret later, but you try to push that aside. Instead you just focus on the girl kneeling before you, on the sobs that wrack her small body as she buries her face back in your lap, and the hot tears you can feel seeping into your tunic. Verdigris finally reappears, slithering her way out of your sleeve, and looping herself gently around Maia's neck.
It will be a long time before you realise the true extent of what you've committed to, of what Maia is seeking respite from in your arms. Of the true horror of what exactly the Empress has made of Maia's family, and what she was trying to spare you from all along in her own inadequate, inscrutable way — not once yet have you heard any mention of a Vendetta. By the time you do, it will be too late to take anything back, and too late to forgive or condemn your mother for anything. The secret that should have broken you and Maia apart has already tied you together. Some decisions cannot be unmade, even if you wanted to.
Beginning very soon, the world will begin to take from you in ways that your life so far cannot prepare you for. For better or worse, though, Maia, you'll get to keep.
You do not, immediately, tell your classmates about this development in your relationship with Maia, by silent mutual agreement. As explaining the actual context of it is obviously completely out of the question, it is better to try and keep it quiet until things are at a point where it can be announced with less general loss of face. Amiti would certainly be delighted by you and Maia apparently swearing a kinship oath based on nothing but your overwhelming affection for one another, and it would make for incredibly juicy gossip in general — few others would respect you for it, however. You try to remind yourself that your mother told you to do what you would with the information she had gifted you, that she most likely won't read your failure to follow her advice as an insult. The weathervane quality of her approach to interpersonal relationships makes it unfortunately difficult to look upon this with a great deal of confidence, however.
There is little to be done about this prospect at the moment, however, and a certain joy that you can't help but find in your newfound closeness to Maia. Multiple times a day, even when you're otherwise busy doing something else, you find yourself reaching out to find her, your relative locations coming as easily to you as levitating a pebble. In a way, even though you're both going to be busy during the initial weeks of the academic break, it will feel less like being truly apart even when you're miles and miles away from one another.
On the very last day, you're running a minute or two behind your friends on the way down to the ship back to Chanos, having felt compelled to make an offering to Perfection before you leave the Isle of Voices for the next several months.
As you start down the path to the edge of the cliffs, you register a presence falling in beside you, her identity betrayed by the small, telltale chime as she draws close to Verdigris. You don't speak up, however, letting her be the one to address you first:
"Ambraea."
"Idelle," you say, glancing over at her. She looks much as she has since that misadventure back in the Spring — namely, frowning at you. "May I help you?"
"I just wanted a word before we leave," she says.
You give her a shallow, gracious nod, pausing at the head of the cliff path, off to the side so that the other stragglers can pass you both. "Well, you've found me."
"I want you to understand — I can't know exactly what happened back in that cave. But I have a long memory, Ambraea." She gives you a hard look.
You don't have to deliberately look down your nose at her; it's merely a function of your respective heights. There are a lot of ways you can respond to that; the accusation is veiled enough not to break propriety, even if you weren't in the relaxed social environment of the school, but it's obvious to you what she's trying to say.
So your reply is a bland: "Do you?"
Idelle's eyes narrow. She leans forward, ready to give you a no-doubt blistering retort, when a laugh carries through the air, and a hand claps down on Idelle's shoulder. She jerks away in surprise, but she's certainly not glaring at you anymore.
Simendor Deizil stands there, his smile as infuriating as ever, looking between the two of you , and the path you're neglecting to go down. "Oh, don't look so mad, Ledaal, her face just goes like that."
"I beg your pardon?" you ask, almost too shocked to be offended.
Deizil continues on, undeterred. "I don't think she means to look at you like you're a bug she can't be bothered to crush. Don't take it too personally."
Idelle takes in a deep, steadying breath. Without a word, she turns on her heel and stalks down the path toward the ship landing, posture stiff and angry.
"Still making friends, I see," Deizil says to you.
You regard him coolly. "Keeping them where they count, more to the point."
Deizil laughs, and moves past you. "You know," he says, "the problem always was, I couldn't help but like you."
You stare after him with a frown for a few seconds longer. What a truly intolerable man — and yet, it's still an improvement over last year, somehow. You give it a minute, and then follow the others down to the ship.
Descending Wood, Realm Year 762
One year, seven months before the disappearance of the Scarlet Empress
The Port of Chanos
Intelude 04: Necessity
"I swear, she's starting to repeat herself," you say, leaning back against the seat in the carriage, "if she's going to keep doing this, I hope that the veiled lectures at least cover new material."
Your carriage rolls through the streets of Chanos, carrying you back from a long and frustrating meal taken with the archimandrite of the local Immaculate mission. The incident with Perfection and the monk has not gone unnoticed, it would seem, and the consequences have taken the form of two invitations to dine with the prefecture's highest ranking monk.
Surprising no one, these ostensibly pleasant, otherwise acceptable social encounters have primarily been a delivery method for a series of allegorical points on the responsibilities that Dragon-Blooded have toward mortals, as well as the appropriate use of sorcery and spirit summoning. The worst part is, she's too important for you to turn down the invitations without giving slight.
"Not that I begrudge her concern, of course," you add, "Dragons know, Perfection could have been a little more discreet." You look out the window as you speak, watching the city's now-familiar narrow streets and stone towers roll past.
At the very least, you have seeing Maia again to look forward to, in the coming weeks; she's been busy being introduced to prospective marriage candidates. House Erona's middling status and her being a sorcerer are marks against her, but Dragon-Blooded are uncommon enough in the patriciate at large that she's still a reasonably desirable match in the eyes of many families. You anticipate similar preliminary meetings in your own future, arranged by your father. There will, of course, be a far more complex situation in your own eventual arrangements than in Maia's. An Imperial daughter's circumstances are not the typical ones for a Dynast.
"I'm sorry," you say, remembering yourself and looking at Peony fully for the first time in several minutes, "I shouldn't be complaining about your betters so much to you." It puts her in an awkward position, however private the circumstances may be.
To your surprise, Peony doesn't respond even to this direct apology — she's sitting still in her seat across from you, hands folded primly in her lap, eyes obediently downcast as per normal. Less normally, there's a fixed quality about her bearing, like she's distracted by something you haven't noticed.
"Peony?" you say. She doesn't respond. You raise your voice a hair. "Peony."
Peony practically leaps out of her skin, eyes wide with mortification. "I'm so sorry, my lady!' she says, "Please accept my most effusive apologies! It was not my intention to ignore you!"
You frown, concerned rather than angry, for all her worry. "It's not like you," you say. "Have you been getting enough sleep?"
"I—" Peony seems confused, "I haven't. I suppose that must be it, my lady. I thought..." she shakes her head. "Please forgive my negligence, I will attend to you more diligently in the future, as is my duty."
You know her too well to try and stress the personal nature of your concern — she always gets even more formal than usual when she's startled or embarrassed. "You always do," you say instead. It's true, and you think hearing it makes her relax at least a little.
Thoughts of Peony's brief distraction are soon driven from your head, however. No sooner do you return to the Imperial residence and step out of the carriage, then you're stopped short by the sight of one of the household servants in a state of poorly disguised agitation.
"Yes?" you say to the woman, stepping into the shadow of the manse. The sun is already hot overhead, and you'd been looking forward to getting inside out of the heat.
She bows low, not making eye contact as she speaks: "My lady. You have a guest."
You raise your eyebrows — you hadn't been expecting anyone. "Who is it?"
"A man, my lady — an Exalt. I do not know him, but he is here to see you," the servant says. "He won't come inside or let anyone else tend to his... mount. We offered, my lady!"
"What is his name?" You ask, trying not to exacerbate the servant's obvious distress at the thought of having seemed to leave a Dragon-Blooded guest outside in the stables.
"He says his name is Ophris Maharan Teran, my lady," the woman says. "I... do not know his family — he is well-dressed, but he has a foreign cast."
Well, that's a surprise. There are Ophrises on the Blessed Isle — a patrician house bearing the name in Arjuf, as you understand it. That house is made up of the descendants of the portion of the defunct Great House who had remained behind after the Ophris' and Burano's legions had gone rogue and carved out an Empire for themselves on the far Threshold. Maharan is a Prasadi jati name, however. Your father's jati, in fact, even if Ophris is not his clan.
You have no idea why a scion of one of Prasad's ruling Dragon Clans would be here looking for you, of course. It merits investigation. "Thank you for notifying me... Thrush," you say. Unfortunately, the name had to be supplied by Peony subtly mouthing it behind the servant woman's back. L'nessa has started to make a few choice comments about your failure to remember the names of servants you deal with on a regular basis but have no close relationship with. As you head to the stables, Thrush bowing low again behind you, L'nessa's voice comes almost audibly to mind 'It's a very unbecoming trait in a lady, Ambraea.'
The first thing you notice when you enter into the residence's large, well-kept stables is the distinct air of nervousness in the horses. The animals stamp and whicker, tossing their heads in a distinctly unhappy manner, and as you spot your guest, it's not hard to see why.
He's a surprisingly young man, several years your senior at most with the sort of willowy, athletic build you associate with the more daring of the heroes from Amiti's romance novels. His skin is slightly darker than yours, and when he looks up to see you, he has wide, inquisitive eyes and a smile that seems to seems to belong on his face more than any other expression. His Aspect isn't hard to guess — his curly, close-cropped hair is a bright orange and faintly incandescent.
You can see what's gotten the horses so unhappy: The animal he's been tending is obviously not a horse, although its confirmation is built along the same lines as one. It regards you with yellow, predatory eyes set in a leonine head, prominent sabre-teeth protruding from its mouth. In place of hooves it has paws, wicked looking talons protruding from shaggy, golden fur. You've seen a simhata before, legendary battle mounts that the lion-horses are, but never quite so close. The Prasadi — Teran — has a brush in one hand, having been using it to tend to the simhata's mane and fur, its saddle and bridle having already been removed and hung up, tasks that he evidently prefers not to trust to the servants. Looking at the beast's fangs and claws, you admit to yourself that, perhaps, he has good reason.
Teran sets his brush down, turning to face you fully, and bowing. "My lady," he says, speaking in thickly-accented High Realm, "I hope you will forgive our descending on you so suddenly. You are Ambraea, daughter of the Scarlet Empress?"
"I am," you agree, returning the bow with a gracious nod. "You are very far from home, aren't you?"
Teran smiles. "I am," he agrees, echoing you. "At great need, however. My name is Ophris Maharan Teran — I have journeyed here to the motherland with an urgent task to complete. My kinsman, Burano Maharan Nazat, indicated to me that I might avail upon his daughter for assistance."
"Did he?" You haven't received any message indicating this in the past several months.
Teran nods. "Yavis, the letter," He says. This inexplicable aside is explained as a young man shoots to his feet, where he'd been kneeling in your presence so quietly that you hadn't fully noticed him. He's mortal, perhaps sixteen, dressed in Prasadi garb similar to Teran's. The servant moves to the saddlebags hanging on the side of the simhata's stall, and begins looking through them. This draws your attention to the weapons there — an unstrung powerbow, gleaming dully in black wood and red jadesteel, and the curved edge of a forest green grimcleaver. Between the artifacts and the mount, Teran must have cut a particularly distinctive figure on his journey.
Yavis produces what looks like an unopened letter bearing your father's seal from the saddlebags. The boy approaches you, bows... And to your mild surprise, hands the letter to Peony. After a pause, she hands it to you with a subtle look in her eyes that only someone who knows her well would correctly read as bemusement.
"Thank you," you say, breaking the seal on the letter. The contents are a mix of the expected and the novel: Your father politely wishes you well and hopes you're successful in your academic endeavors, before explaining that the man bearing this letter is his cousin, and that he is compelled to offer assistance to another Maharan so far from home. He furthermore hopes that you, his only daughter and already a gifted sorcerer, will be willing to help Teran in Nazat's stead.
He adds a further warning that Teran's servant is Ophris Maharan Yavis, a Sage Caste Scion of Clan Ophris in his own right, and Teran's first cousin — it is improper in Prasad for a member of the lower castes to act as body servant to one of the Dragon Caste, and it is important that Yavis otherwise receive all courtesy due to a mortal cadet house Dynast.
There is also a longer correspondence of a more mundane variety, although that's always interesting in its own right. You intend to give it a more thorough read later — your eyes briefly light on the words potential marriage candidates before you tear yourself away to look back at Teran. "Well, that isn't particularly ambiguous," you say. You hand the letter back to Peony, who you trust to put it away for when you have a moment to go over it in detail. "Peony, please make sure that we have accommodations prepared for Lords Teran and Yavis, suitable for two Dynasts who have traveled a very long way."
Peony only gives a blink of surprise at this, having evidently taken Yavis for a servant of similar status to herself, before bowing. "It will be done, my lady."
Teran watches her go, a slight frown creasing his face. He seems to be on the verge of asking you something, but seems to think better of it. "Your hospitality is appreciated, my lady," he says.
"The house belongs to our Empress," you say, choosing your words carefully, "but I have been permitted to exercise such rights, within reason." As ever with your mother, there are no hard lines to show you the limits of this privilege; it is up to you to intuit when you would be crossing them, and to suffer the consequences should you fail to do so.
You glance around at your surroundings, taking in the stable. "If you would like," you say, "we could discuss the particulars of your request under more pleasant circumstances, after you've had a chance to tend to your mount and refresh yourself after the road."
"It would be appreciated, thank you," Teran says.
This will also give you a chance to do the same, albeit from your own much briefer journey across the city. It's not the kind of conversation you want to have without a chance to have your hair fixed first.
Some hours later, you sit across a table from Ophris Maharan Teran, trying not to feel too awkward about the meal arrangements.
Through a combination of Teran being willing to be flexible as a stranger to the Realm proper, and you wanting to be accommodating toward a man following your father's faith, you've worked out how you might serve him a meal acceptably. There are, apparently, protocols for such things; ritual purity must meet real world conditions, after all.
What this ends up looking like, however, is Yavis being provided the prepared ingredients, carefully selected for their suitability, by the very confused staff. Yavis does the majority of the work, and serves the meal to Teran with each dish incomplete in some way — noodles not added to broth, sauce missing from poultry, and so on. In this way, he can be said to have prepared the meals himself.
For some reason, it makes you very conscious of the fact that you were simply brought your food by one of the household servants, putting off eating it until after Teran had completed his work.
"The food is quite good here too," Teran says, after sampling several dishes. "The Blessed Isle is much larger than maps make it look! I keep being surprised by the variety."
You smile graciously, relieved that he isn't making such a naive comment in front of more judgemental Dynasts than yourself. "What route did you come by?" you ask.
"We set out from Kamthahar and traveled Northwest along the Jade Road through the Summer Mountains, then Northeast through the Fallen-Star Lakes until we reached Jiara. From there, a ship to Gloam, and another to your Imperial City," Teran says this matter of factly, laying out a truly heroic journey for such a small group that you can only assume he's deliberately downplaying its difficulty. "From there, we traveled up the Imperial River, and over land through the mountains to arrive here. By far the most pleasant leg of our journey, since leaving fair Prasad."
"That must have taken many months," you say, still charting out the route in your head.
"Just so," Teran agrees, "but a man must be willing to undertake such hardships for his Hearth."
You look at him with some interest, taking a slow sip of tea. You can't help but instinctively reach out to your link with Maia, sensing her miles away in a prefecture to the east. "What does your Hearth require that sends you here, with only the company of your cousin and a simhata?"
Teran looks a little chagrined, all at once. "Well," he admits, "I admit, I have not been permitted to swear the oath yet."
"I'm not sure I understand," you say.
"The Hearth of the Peerless Garden is half a century old, and its deeds are famous," Teran says. Then he says something in highly colloquial Prasadi High Realm, a term that you can't quite penetrate, to your slight embarrassment. A Hearth renewed by heroism? That seems overly literal, and unlikely to be the whole story. Evidently, you don't hide your incomprehension well enough, because he continues to explain: "Twenty-two years ago, one of their number, Burano Nermaia Sylva, died in defence of a city of thousands. For the past five, his surviving Hearthmates have been searching throughout Prasad for his reincarnation. The signs point to me." Experimentally, he takes a sip of tea — a green Tengese blend — and noticeably brightens at its pleasant, grassy flavour.
"I... See." That makes slightly more sense. The Pure Way puts a much greater emphasis on material divinity than Immaculate orthodoxy does — Dragon-Blooded as gods in human flesh, sometimes outright ascending to spiritual godhood upon death, or reincarnating endlessly alongside their hearthmates. You have read references to the concept, as much as you didn't expect it to be particularly relevant to your life. "And they... require you to come to the Blessed Isle before they'll let you join?"
"I have completed tasks set by three of my once-and-future Hearthmates already," Teran explains, obviously pleased that you're following him now. "Meant to demonstrate my skill and bravery, and show without a shadow of a doubt that I am their friend come again. The fourth and and most arduous was set by the Hearth's leader, Akatha Junam Sarva."
Clan Akatha is the enigmatic third Dragon Clan, descended from Prasad's original ruling god-blooded, long since intermarried with the Dragon-Blooded of Burano and Ophris. You understand that they have a strange familial structure that includes Prasad's two major pantheons of deities, and are so heretical and marginal to worldly concerns that the Realm does not even acknowledge them as a cadet house.
Teran goes on: "Long ago, her divine mother, the goddess Precious Sheltered Orchid, lent a priceless heirloom to a lesser god. Calamity and time has separated them, however, and he has proven unwilling to either journey to Prasad and give it back to her, or to arrange to have it sent. So! You see my task. I am here to retrieve the Mirror of Necessity, at long last."
You do, see, although it's all incredibly Prasadi in a way you don't think you could have explained to most other Dynasts in a hurry. "And my father thought that I could be of use to you in accomplishing this?" you ask.
"He did, my lady," Teran says. "I know that the rogue god I seek dwells in the northern Blessed Isle, not so far from here, but my ignorance of these lands, their customs, and the state of the spiritual gods here are a barrier. I am also to understand that you are a sorcerer of some skill." His eyes fall on Verdigris for almost the first time, having been deliberately ignoring her. Your snake is coiled up on your side of the table, drinking from her own teacup with delicate flicks of her forked tongue.
"He didn't lie to you," you say.
"Such things are useful when treating with spirits," Teran says. "I understand, my lady, that I arrive on your doorstep with a significant request. But I have few others to turn to in this matter." He bows his head. "I would be greatly in your debt for any aid you could offer."
"Well," you say, refilling your teacup, "I have weeks to spare, at least, and I am not one to refuse a reasonable request from my father's kin."
Teran smiles widely, showing relief and excitement in equal measure. "Ah, good! Thank you. I promise you, lady Ambraea, if nothing else, it will be a fine adventure."
Article:
Maia's family commitments will let up in time for her to assist Ambraea in assisting Teran, but most of Ambraea's other friends will be busy with similar matters to those that kept Maia away. One of them is available, however — who is it? You may vote for as many options as you like, but only the one with the most votes will win.
Earth Aspect Dragon-Blood
Ambraea is a talented sorcerer focused on elemental summoning and elementally-resonant spells. She's also a trained swordswoman with enhanced senses and superhuman strength and durability.
Sorcery:
Initiation level: Emerald Circle
Initiation: Pact with an Earth Dragon
Shaping rituals: A gift of gems (wealth sacrificing ritual)
Spells: Plague of Bronze Serpents (control spell), Summon Elemental, Breath of Wretched Stone
Water Aspect Dragon-Blood
Maia is trained in stealth, brutal combat, and assassination, and her studies of sorcery have only expanded those abilities. She can shape illusions of herself and others, and summon a lethal sorcerous weapon from her own blood.
Sorcery:
Initiation level: Emerald Circle
Initiation: Student of the Heptagram
Shaping rituals: Sorcerous Archives (ritual research and study)
Spells: Sculpted Seafoam Eidolon (control spell), Blood Lash, Demon of the First Circle
Fire Aspect Dragon-Blood
An adventurous young man from distant Prasad, Teran has made the arduous journey to the Blessed Isle to complete a quest of grave import. He is both gallant and daring as befits a son of his Clan, but finds many aspects of Realm society foreign and confusing at best. He travels with his familiar, the fierce simhata named Talent, and wields the artifact weapons Ash Rain and Edge of Spring. He is skilled at tracking, navigation and wilderness survival, mounted and unmounted combat, as well as the handling of large animals in general.
[ ] Amiti
- Results in closer ties to House Sesus, in the form of favours owed
- Amiti's family is greatly respected and feared in Chanos Prefecture and its surrounding Prefectures, and her name will open doors both mundane and supernatural
- Amiti is unfailingly herself; her predilections will disturb Teran and cause problems for you along the way
Air Aspect Dragon-Blood
Amiti's morbid preoccupations have translated to an intense focus on necromancy, the death, and related subjects, as well as esoterica about Essence manipulation and other arcane subjects. She is not particularly physically inclined, and mortifying in social situations.
Necromancy:
Initiation level: Ivory Circle
Initiation: Half-Souled
Shaping rituals: Soul-Forged Token (draw on soulsteel pendant to focus necromantic power)
Spells: Raise the Skeletal Horde (control spell), Summon Ghost, Flesh-Sloughing Wave
[ ] Sola
- Results in closer ties to House Tepet
- Sola's spells will speed the journey, in addition to her sword arm always being useful. Teran will respect her as a warrior
- Sola's family is in the midst of mustering out its legions upon Imperial decree; Sola is distracted and impulsive at being left behind, which will cause problems
Air Aspect Dragon-Blood
The ancient daiklave, Storm's Eye, allows Sola to synergise her gift for swordfighting directly with her sorcery. Even at her age, she is already deadly with a weapon in her hand and studied in tactics, and has made fast progress at marrying her talents over the past few years. Her sorcery takes on a more logistical bent, but her combat prowess more than makes up for it under these circumstances.
Sorcery:
Initiation level: Emerald Circle
Initiation: Blade of Ten-Thousand Eyes
Shaping rituals: Inner Storm (focus inner eye to flood the body with sorcerous power)
Spells: Beckoning That Which Stirs the Sky (control spell), Stormwind Rider
[ ] L'nessa
- Results in closer ties to House V'neef in the form of favours owed
- L'nessa's way with words and familial connections come in very useful, and she is entirely capable of leveraging these advantages to overcome the Realm's ordinary stigma against sorcerers
- She and Teran get along... too well, and it's a little annoying — unlike you and Maia, who are very discreet and easy to travel with, you're sure
Wood Aspect Dragon-Blood
L'nessa is already a competent sorcerer for her age, although her focus is on useful, support oriented spells. She's a gifted socialite when given the chance, a trained medic, and a competent archer by Exalted standards — extraordinary by mortal ones.
Sorcery:
Initiation level: Emerald Circle
Initiation: Student of the Heptagram
Shaping rituals: Sevenfold Art Evocation (precisely memorised mudras and equations to open the mind)
Spells: Infallible Messenger (control spell), Food From the Aerial Table
