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It was well into the afternoon when Natchua and Jonathan returned home, appearing in the reconstructed entry hall of Leduc Manor in a swell of shadow. They were expected.
“Just so we’re absolutely clear,” Melaxyna said by way of greeting, “did you ask Embras bloody Mogul to show up here and wait around for you to return at some unspecified time for a meeting?”
“I did,” Natchua answered. “Wow, he actually waited this long? I wasn’t trying to drag that out but by this point I honestly figured he’d have lost patience and was gonna make me pay for it later.”
“Oh, he’s being the perfect houseguest,” the succubus said acidly, her spaded tail lashing behind her. “Quite the charming conversationalist when he wants to be. Hesthri is keeping him entertained, Kheshiri is lurking invisible in the same room, the horogki are hiding in the basement, and Sherwin’s monitoring the ward network for the slightest hint of any funny business. So far, nothing. At least, nothing we’ve spotted.”
“Sorry to dump that on you, Mel. It was the least annoying compromise I could come up with on the spur of the moment. Thanks for covering for me.”
“Oh, we’re all pretty used to scurrying along after you and smoothing out the ripples you cause. I suppose there’s no point in asking if you’re sure dealing with that guy is a good idea?”
“It’s not, but it’s also not really up for discussion. Not to shut you down, Mel, I always take your concerns seriously and this time you are dead right, no argument. But, the situation around us is…different. The Wreath have been culled down to almost nothing, they’re not even technically at war with the Pantheon anymore… And aside from the fact I’ve got Elilial looming over my own shoulder, the truth is they fought to protect Veilgrad when it made all the difference and they could have far more easily not risked themselves. I gave my word I’d protect them in return, and that matters to me. So we’re stuck with them until they resume misbehaving.”
Jonathan patted her back gently, his smile full of warmth and pride. It still irked her a bit, how much his approval mattered to her. Not so much she couldn’t enjoy the sensation, though.
“Well, I guess all of that is inarguable,” Melaxyna said, still frowning but with less agitated movements of her tail. “I’ll never say I’m not a schemer, but integrity matters to anyone who wants to live with themselves. All right, anyway, you’re here now. Please do whatever you need to with this guy and get him out of here.”
“Done and double done,” Natchua said grimly, already striding past her.
“They’re in the—”
“I know, I can hear them.”
“Elves are bullshit,” the succubus grumbled, falling into stride alongside Jonathan as they walked behind the Duchess. He chuckled.
The manor was still a work in progress, with one entire wing still uninhabitable in this weather and much of the rebuilt and repaired sections still barren of any furnishings, but as Natchua had been elevated to noble rank and begun taking an active role in Veilgrad’s affairs, other members of her household had quietly arranged to put together suitable environs in which to formally entertain guests. She didn’t even know who, except that it wasn’t Sherwin. Hesthri, Jonathan, and both succubi were all far-sighted and detail-oriented enough to think of that. They certainly all enjoyed commenting that it took four such minds in Natchua’s orbit to cover for her own brash antics. Thus, elven hearing aside, there was really only one place where they would be hosting a visitor.
The northwest parlor occupied a tower affixed to that corner of the main building. It was a three-story affair, with tall windows looking out on a panoramic view of the snow-covered mountain forests surrounding the manor, its two upper floors consisting of circular balconies reached by narrow ladders, the walls lined with laden bookshelves between their windows. On the ground floor, the original features had survived the manor’s long neglect: a huge fireplace carved of black stone into the shape of a fanged mouth and further decorated with snarling and exaggeratedly sinister gargoyles. Similar oppressive flourishes decorated the moulding and wall pillars, all in a grim melange of dark basalt and wrought iron, with strategic glimmers of polished onyx and obsidian. The renovations had added dark-stained mahogany wall paneling up to waist height and deep crimson wallpaper above that, with surprisingly comfortable furnishings laid about which matched this theme.
The historical predilections of House Leduc suited Natchua’s political strategy very well: anyone who needed to be impressed simply needed to be reminded they’d better step carefully in this house.
“First things first!” she declaimed, stalking into the room followed by her entourage. Hesthri gave her a relieved smile from her own seat; she could detect Kheshiri’s invisible presence, hunched on one of the balcony rails above with wings spread in readiness to swoop down at need. “Potahto? Is that a real thing? I’ve never once heard it pronounced that way.”
“It comes out like that in a Svennish accent,” Jonathan explained in a mild tone. “Most of the breeds of tuber commonly eaten in the Empire were originally cultivated in the Five Kingdoms.”
“Come on, that’s an old colloquialism,” Mogul chided, grinning unpleasantly at her. “It can’t be the first time you’ve ever heard it. Unless you wasted not a ducal second finding yourself too good to mingle with the plain-spoken riffraff.”
“Excuse you, my Tanglish is amazingly fluent considering how recently I learned it, and I’ve spent most of my time in the Empire in a frontier town. Now what the hell do you want that’s so important, Mogul?”
“Yes, to business.” He tucked his thumbs into his lapels, lounging casually against one of the intimidatingly-carved pillars. “My thanks for this audience, your Grace. I’ve come to plead for your support in dealing formally with the Imperial government.”
“With the Empire?” she replied incredulously. “You can’t possibly imagine I have any pull with the Throne.”
“Yes, I’m sure the relevant ministries and departments have complicated feelings about you in particular, but the fact remains, you are a Duchess. That gives you enough weight to throw around that even the Throne can’t afford to blow you off—though I hope I don’t have to remind you that any throwing of weight should be judicious and circumspect.”
“You don’t.”
“Attagirl. But yes, you can intercede with the Empire up to a point, which is part of what I’m asking. The other part is that you can call in additional help to whom the Empire also has to listen. A lot changed at Ninkabi, the Wreath’s standing most of all. I wouldn’t bother except I firmly believe we have a perfectly legal, perfectly reasonable case to plead. It’s a case which has every chance of succeeding if heard on its merit—but which will be summarily dismissed if we try to go through the usual channels. All I want, Natchua, is to make someone in charge listen. And the only way I can see that happening, realistically, is if the request comes from a Duchess and a paladin.”
Natchua let out a low whistle. “Now that’s an even worse idea. Do you need me to explain just how very low an opinion the paladins have of you in particular?”
“Oh goodness gracious me, no,” he chuckled. “What’s worse is I specifically need the help of the vindictive one! It’d be bad enough if I had to turn to the sunshine and cuddles one, or the one who doesn’t know which end of his digestive system to shit out of—”
The shadowbolt ripped right past his left ear—and, before damaging the brand new wallpaper, froze. It hovered in the air, a purple and black shaft of seething energy that looked almost crystalline in structure, slowly rotating around its long axis and putting off shifting patterns of muted light.
Embras did not flinch, but shifted his eyes to study the frozen spell, then very slowly leaned his head away from it.
“Gabriel is family to this household,” Natchua said, her tone a layer of ice over a river of fire. “That means we are all aware of his shortcomings, and we get to talk about them. Anyone else who does so is asking for an asskicking.”
Jonathan folded his arms, expression impassive. Hesthri was staring at Mogul through slitted eyes, her clawed fingers curling aggressively against the armrests of her chair.
Embras took one deliberate step to the side, away from the suspended shadowbolt, swept off his hat, and bowed deeply to them.
“Quite right. I can’t even call you hypocritical—that’s exactly what family means, after all. Those are the rules, universal and eternal. You have my sincere apology for that wrongful venting of my misdirected annoyance.”
He straightened back up, wearing a direct and open expression that looked downright odd on his face.
“Especially now. It’s a matter of family that has brought me to swallow my pride and beg for your help in the first place.”
Natchua studied him in pensive silence for a moment, then glanced to the side at Jonathan. He met her eyes, shifting his head in an infinitesimal nod. With a soft sigh, she waved one hand, and the shadowbolt dissolved into wisps of purple smoke.
“All right. No promises, but I’m listening.”
“I can’t help but feel this must be on some level sacrilegious, and I am struggling to decide how I feel about that.”
“You are ambivalent about sacrilege?” Ravana asked with a faint smile.
“It all comes down to the circumstances, does it not? Obviously I’ve no quarrel with the gods, or with…most of their followers. But the Church… Well, I needn’t narrate the unusual circumstances to you, your Grace.”
“If it helps resolve your dilemma, Lady Tamarin, for most of its history until the current pontiff, and with nefarious exceptions such as Sipasian, the Universal Church has been more an interfaith bureaucratic coordinator than a proper religious institution. A callow aristocratic meet-and-greet is surely one of the less profane uses to which the various chapels of this Cathedral have been put. Including, in all likelihood, this one.”
“But that’s just it,” Tamarin said with a sly little smile. “This situation…is what it is. Should I enjoy thumbing my nose in the Church’s face, or cringe at doing so to the very gods?”
“You can do both, my Lady. The entire crux of the current debacle is that the Church and the gods are far from united in purpose.”
“Ah, that truly does cut to the heart of it. My thanks, your Grace, for putting my mind at ease.”
She smirked, and Ravana smirked back, contemplating. She did not at all care for Tamarin Daraspian, and that was so far down the list of factors to consider here as to be quite inconsequential. Noble relationships might be driven by personal animosity, but they never hinged on personal amity; she didn’t much care for Natchua or Malivette, either. Lady Tamarin was the only aristocrat invited to this event who had sought out Ravana’s company, and she was clearly trying to position herself as a subordinate ally.
It had to be considered. Formally or even informally allying with House Daraspian itself was off the table; they were on hostile terms with House Dufresne, and Ravana could not risk Malivette’s goodwill. If that was where this was going, that was that. However, House Daraspian had been in decline for decades, their reputation was even worse than House Madouri’s or that of either of its allies, and rumor said they were splintering internally. Tamarin hailed from a branch family in Anteraas; if either her little faction or just she alone were aiming to disentangle themselves from the Daraspian banner and seek House Madouri’s aegis, it was an opportunity Ravana couldn’t afford to squander. She would have to do some quick research on this, as if she didn’t have enough going on.
“I do wonder what faith’s designated worship chamber we might be accidentally desecrating, however,” Ravana said aloud. “This place is clearly meant to be ceremonial—the altar upon the dais seems conclusive. But its shape is different from most chapels, and I note the careful lack of any cult-specific iconography.”
“It depends,” Tamarin replied, glancing about. “Rounded chambers such as this are traditional for Omnist and Izarite ceremonies—the relatively few public ceremonies germane to the latter practice, that is. Ryneans and Nemitites also like them, albeit more for the display of art and books, respectively, than any ritual practice. A chapel like this in the Grand Cathedral is likely meant to serve any faith which may have a use for it.”
Ravana gave her a thoughtful look disguised behind a bland, polite smile. Lady Tamarin was half a head taller than she, but most people were. More importantly, she was good at this game. Diffident without being fawning, striking the perfect balance between Ravana’s superior position and her own dignity. And only now, when her more careful initial overtures had been accepted, interjecting some actual personality.
“You are a student of comparative theology, Lady Tamarin?”
“In my modest, laywoman’s way,” she replied, smiling back. “We daughters of the Houses are raised on politics and war, of course. I have always enjoyed the often prickly relations between the cults. So much more of the same, yet with an added grandeur and pageantry which appeals to me.”
“Ah, indeed. For what use is life, without style?”
“Never a truer word, your Grace.”
They were positioned before one of the stained glass windows which predominated six of the octagonal chapel’s walls, the others housing the entrance and dais respectively; Yancey hovered discreetly behind Ravana as always. Aristocrats milled about in various small groups, quietly talking while servants glided between them, all eyes focused on one of the three points of social interest in the chamber: Archpope Justinian standing before the altar where nobles approached him in singles and pairs, Juniper surrounded by an avidly fascinated cluster of mostly men, and Ravana off by herself—or she had been, until Tamarin took the social risk of positioning herself here. It was only natural that Justinian took up the only position of primacy in the symmetrical room, framing himself as the authority to be approached.
She had colonized this piece of the room and done likewise, steadfastly refusing to acknowledge him. No one present could fail to understand the message.
Ravana had been curious how he would react, since this entire thing was a thin pretext for him to speak with her personally. Even so, public presentation obviously mattered very much to Justinian. She was thus mildly surprised when he ceded the high ground after barely enough time spent exchanging courtesies with others to avoid giving offense. Even as she glanced his way, he graciously dismissed his most recent petitioner, then turned and relinquished his position to glide toward her with his small entourage in tow.
“Duchess Ravana,” he said in his velvet baritone. “Lady Tamarin. I am most grateful that you consented to attend this gathering.”
“There are those who might contend that a social event for aristocrats is a frivolous use of the Church’s resources during such a time of unprecedented crisis,” Ravana replied with syrupy calm, “but I confess my curiosity got the better of me.”
“I’m sure I needn’t explain to you of all individuals, your Grace, the role that the Houses can play in both calming the people’s fears and distributing material aid during such perilous times. The Church has long served to mediate and bring together disparate points of view. I dare to hope that my humble efforts may yield some public benefit today.”
“Yes, I believe it is a favorite refrain in your sermons that hope is a spiritual duty,” she said, showing teeth.
“You are acquainted with his Holiness’s philosophies?” inquired the woman hovering at the Archpope’s elbow. “How splendid! Already we have common ground from which to begin.”
Ravana gave her a quick, silent once-over, then returned her attention to Justinian, visibly dismissing Bishop Branwen Snowe from consideration.
“And I believe you are a noted connoisseur of vintages,” Justinian said with a beatific smile. “In hopes that you would grace this meeting with your presence, Lady Ravana, I commissioned something rather special.”
At his gesture, a servant glided forward with an empty wineglass; after a second’s consideration, she relinquished her nearly-untouched drink to accept it, permitting her eyes to widen at the bottle being uncorked by a second servant who stepped up as the first retreated.
“A seventy-year-old Arkanian crimson,” she breathed. There was no point pretending not to be impressed. “Truly, what treasures must lie within the Church’s vaults. Even I don’t have one of these.” She watched with unfeigned reverence as the sommelier, after giving the bottle the requisite moment to breathe, carefully poured a judicious portion into her fresh glass.
“It is as we just discussed, my Lady,” Justinian agreed. “Sometimes an expenditure of resources which may, at first glance, seem frivolous can serve to facilitate a way forward. Particularly when it is only needless personal conflict which obscures the path ahead.”
“Needless,” Ravana repeated softly, eyes on her wine. She gently swirled the liquid, its closer closer to garnets than blood, before raising it to her lips to take the first careful sip. Holding it on the tongue, inhaling its bouquet deeply…
Tamarin had to pointedly extend her own glass to receive a serving of the crimson, which she did after a momentary hesitation by the sommelier. She did not protest at this disrespect as most aristocrats would, however, and Ravana mentally added a tally in her favor.
“In the end,” Branwen said gently, “I have to believe all conflict is, on some level, needless. Even when conscience commands us to take a stand against malfeasance, it is at the end of a chain of events which at many points could have been stopped had others only been willing to seek reconciliation.”
“Mm.” Ravana exhaled softly. “Magnificent. Worth the trip for that sip alone, I confess.”
“Watching you enjoy that,” Tamarin said with a wry smile, “I can only feel that I must be too ignorant of wine to appreciate it as much as it deserves.”
“It would pair exquisitely with that cheese—the Jendi white.” Ravana finally directed a look at Branwen, then tilted her head toward another waiter who stood patiently across the room with a tray. “Bring me a piece.”
The Bishop continued to smile gently, showing no displeasure. “Forgive me, Lady Ravana, but I’m not part of the staff. I am—”
“I know who you are, Snowe. A lackey is a lackey, and a bosomy poster model is not called for in this situation. Make yourself useful.”
They were all too well-bred to gasp or anything so gauche, but the momentary quieting of conversations throughout the room told Ravana she had succeeded. Branwen only smiled slightly wider; trying to get a rise out of an Izarite cleric was profoundly pointless, but that had never been her objective. A display of open, public contempt toward a Bishop of the Universal Church loudly loyal to Justinian was a message to the others in this room.
“Branwen,” the Archpope said gently, “Would you be so good as to grant us a moment of privacy?”
“By all means, your Holiness.” The Bishop inclined her head graciously before retreating. The servants had already discreetly absented themselves.
“I was enjoying our conversation, Lady Tamarin,” Ravana said. “We should continue it soon, if you are amenable. With apologies for the travel involved, it would be my honor to host you at my residence.”
“On the contrary, your Grace, the honor will be entirely mine,” Tamarin replied, curtseying and stepping back twice before gliding smoothly away herself. Ravana was, somewhat reluctantly, impressed at how well she took the dismissal. It increasingly seemed the woman might be worth investing at least a little effort into.
Then she was alone with the Archpope—or nearly so; even he didn’t presume to suggest that Yancey remove himself—in an island of space which encompassed nearly a quarter of the chamber, the other aristocrats present drifting backward even as they pretended not to watch like hunting falcons.
“You present a fascinating portrait, if I may say so, my Lady,” Justinian said softly. “Tiraan Province has inarguably prospered mightily under your reign, even in such a brief time as you have ruled—and even with part of that having been in absentia from Last Rock, and part of that rendered magically unconscious.”
“This is why it is important to delegate,” she murmured. Placing one fingertip on the rim of her glass, Ravana moved it in slow circles, causing it to emit a soft but high-pitched tone. A few of the gathered nobles winced. “And to do so before the need becomes urgent. No doubt your Holiness is familiar with the theory, even if you have not, yourself, been thus incapacitated.”
Justinian glanced down at the gesture, then returned his intent focus to her face, ignoring the musical sound.
“I suppose more than otherwise of the circumstances at that school must be exceptional. But there, too, it seems you have made yourself quite popular in Last Rock. Chiefly, as I understand it, by dispensing money and influence.”
Ravana ceased making the wineglass sing, lifting it to her lips for another appreciative sip. “Mm. Well, one works with what one has, yes? Mine has never been called a winning personality.”
“It has been my experience that courtesy and respect toward others are sufficient to compensate for any failing of personal warmth—a lesson I cannot help but think you have long since taken to heart.”
She smiled, faintly. “A lesson hard-earned, your Holiness?”
“In fact, I owed my allegiance to Izara before accepting my current role. It has never been difficult for me to embrace the perspectives of others—to find the good even in those who seem most adamantly opposed to me.”
“Ah, and this kindness you now deign to offer my humble self.”
“I cannot claim such familiarity, my Lady. Rather… I am curious. While it is true that you have made yourself…slightly worse than a nuisance to me already, what preoccupies my mind is why. Do you do this because you truly believe it to be in the best interests of all? Or is this an exercise in political positioning? In fact, I rather think, the better question is how much of each is true.”
“And so the real dilemma is…is the… I…”
Ravana trailed off, her coy expression dissolving into blankness, then consternation. The blood drained from her face; subtly, her hands began to quiver, sloshing wine.
Justinian frowned. “Your Grace?”
The glass tumbled from her suddenly shaking fingers, shattering upon the marble mosaic floor and splashing the priceless wine over Ravana’s slippers. Blue eyes bulging wide, she emitted a strangled croak, a few flecks of foam appearing on her lips.
“Lady Ravana!” the Archpope said in clear alarm, reaching out to her. His hand glowed with brilliant golden intensity as he laid it upon her shoulder.
Ravana’s scream was abortive, ending in a strangled croak. She collapsed, lines of black shooting up the side of her neck from the side he had touched, as if her suddenly bulging veins had been filled with tar.
All around the room, nobles were shouting in alarm, pressing forward and craning their necks for a view. Yancey shamelessly pushed Justinian away, catching his mistress as she fell. Her small body seized and thrashed in his arms, muscles clenching and twisting. Blood sprayed from her gasping lips in dark droplets; blood began to well from her eyes, from her nostrils and ears, as tendrils of blackness spread across her face from every capillary—
“Move! Move it!”
Juniper crashed through the crowd, knocking aristocrats aside like ninepins. She alone Yancey allowed to approach. The dryad seized Ravana’s face in both hands and bent forward, pressing her lips to the girl’s, heedless of the blood the squished between them.
For a second she had to struggle to hold the thrashing Duchess in place enough to kiss. But under her lips, Ravana’s unconscious struggles ceased. Blood ceased to flow; as viciously swiftly as it had come on, the spreading darkness receded, the color of her face returning to normal. Almost normal; Ravana was left deathly pale when Juniper finally pulled back, slumping into Yancey’s arms with a gasp. But she was breathing again—with some effort, but freely, for the first time since she had collapsed.
Her blue eyes rolled back forward, blinking, but coherent, if exhausted. Before Ravana could muster the breath to speak, Yancey whirled and stalked toward the exit, his mistress cradled in his arms.
The nobles got out of his way.
“Did anyone else drink that wine?” Juniper demanded, wiping Ravana’s blood from her mouth as she turned to address the crowd.
“I did!” Lady Tamarin said shrilly, her own glass falling from her fingers. “Oh gods, what was—that was—mff!”
Juniper wasted not a second, simply striding forward, grasping her face, and pulling her into a kiss.
“Sorry about that,” she said seconds later after pulling back. “I hate to trample on personal boundaries, but it was an emergency. Dryads can neutralize poisons, just…that’s the only way.”
“I…that… It’s all right. It is quite all right.” Tamarin’s unconscious eyes flicked to the stretch of floor bedecked with wine, shattered, glass, and noble blood. “Thank you. By all the gods, thank you. I owe you my life.”
Glass shattered, again. This time it was Lady Edenna Conover who had dropped her own wineglass. Deliberately, rather than in the throes of poison.
“Well,” she said in her iciest tone, “it would seem that your Holiness’s point has rather been made.”
She was only the first. Glasses continued to smash as one and all, the gathered aristocrats released their grips, every one of them staring silent daggers at the Archpope. Shards and spilled wine tainted the chapel’s floor in every direction.
Practically as one, they turned, tearing expressions of vicious contempt from Justinian. The assembled aristocracy of three cities pivoted and walked away from him, gliding toward the door with the grace of offended swans. A meeting of so many factions was ordinarily a discreet but ceaseless struggle, but not now. They flowed into formation, passing through the door as smoothly as if choreographed.
All the normal infighting of nobility instantly put aside as they united against a rival force which had dared to threaten their own power.
Juniper was the last to go, directing a lingering frown back at him. And then Justinian stood in a chapel, frightened servants huddled against the walls, Branwen dithering in confusion just behind him, with shattered glass and spilled wine all around, and a brand new collection of deadly enemies set against him.
“Masterfully done,” he whispered.
The Gods are Bastards 