âEven I have something to care about.â
The meeting with his generals had left him feeling rather taxed. They were excellent military commanders, of course, the very best in the world overall, but they were too straightforward. He had to introduce cunning and sly thinking to them like spoon-feeding children. It was hardly a wonder that Dorthonionâs reputation prior to his fatherâs reign had been one of honest brutes. Well, anything could change, given enough time, and Siegmund was going to change Dorthonion.
Well, to be more accurate, he was going to change the face of the very world itself.
Most people, he knew, didnât take much time to question his motives. He was the king, and what the king said was law. That part of his countryâs culture, he did not intend to alter. His enemies saw only a power-hungry warmonger, too caught up in what a man of Dorthonion was supposed to be to bother asking deeper questions. It was enough that he seemed to enjoy fighting and violence. It was enough that the mages of Elysia would make his conquest easier. To them he was simple, and perhaps it was not entirely untrue.
But that was not the only thing he cared about. Not in the slightest.
His trek through the winding hallways of the magnificent Royal Palace in Shiral, capital of Dorthonion, led him to a little-used wing of the building, still fastidiously maintained by the servants under his employ. The rooms at the end of the hallway, however, did in fact have an occupant, one that few knew about or visited. When he entered the chamber, there was an attendant standing beside the large bed that occupied the center of the room, its tousled state indicating that the roomâs occupant was still in it. Awake, though, because of the rustling.
He addressed the attendant first. âNo change?â
The servant, an experienced steward, shook his head. Siegmund did not require anyone to bow in informal situations. It was stupid and it wasted time. âOn the contrary, Your Majesty. She was up all night.â The man pointed across the room, to the large window that dominated the eastern wall. Stretched across the space was a line of canvases, each with paint still drying upon it. Frowning slightly, Siegmund turned and walked over to them, examining each in turn. Most of them were unclear, depicting subjects from a great distance or through what appeared to be a haze of grey, obscuring the true subjects of the illustration. A few, though, were clear as day.
He recognized the subject of most of them immediately. The towering figure in black armor, lance in hand, could only be one man. He had never understood why so many of the paintings were of him. Now, he thought he might. There was something important about that man, but Siegmund could not put his finger on it just yet. A few more were clear, but the subjects less known to him. One in particular, however, provided him with an interesting clue. A horned figure loomed in front of another, trapped within what looked to be a circle of magic, his hand stretched forward. The other figureâs back was turned, but she was obviously female, and the distinctive color of her hair should make her easy to identify. He traced a finger down the canvas, drawing it back and smearing the snow-white paint thoughtfully over his thumb.
âThe summoner,â he murmured, tilting his head to the side. Well, at least he knew who to send his assassins after, now.
At the address from a rather familiar source, Cyril turned his attention to the edge of the ring, making his way over in the familiar unruffled fashion. âVice Commander Pallas.â He addressed her with more formality than most, but there was a very particular reason for this. Though he was well-aware that a large portion of the knights in the order were somewhat enchanted with the young noblewoman, he also knew that this was quite a separate matter from respecting her. It was true that her skill was undeniable, but there were those who would not be swayed even by that into believing that a woman belonged in the Crown of Thorns. Females had only been allowed into the order in the last generation, something that he himself had fought for in the council sessions held on the matter shortly after Dianthe became Queen. That she had allowed it was another reason many nobles took to think her foolish and illogical, but she had never wavered.
Because Cyril never asked her for anything, but he had asked her for that. And she had seen the benefit of it, and so sheâs allowed it. Still, those women who were brave enough to enter did not have it easy. This was not Dorthonion, where it was commonly accepted that women could make warriors just as skilled as their male counterparts. Elysia was not a perfect place, even if it was mostly a good one. So Cyril did what he could to make it easier for those who chose to undertake this difficult path. He punished harshly those of his men who could not seem to graciously accept women in their ranks, and he always indicated his own respect to his female subordinates, including and especially his Vice-Commander. He did not address her in a casual or familiar fashion, or even with the title âlady,â which could have belonged to any female noble. He called her by the one she had earned, with her skill and her labor.
That said, there were things about her that made little sense to him. Her next words were enough proof of that. Toned down? He only ever applied the level of skill he believed his subordinates would gin the most from fighting against, unless of course someone was being insubordinate and needed to be reminded why he was the Commander and not they. Not a lesson he enjoyed teaching, but one that he would. Her tone was not exceptionally pleasing to himâif she had any idea just how old he was, she would not speak to him as though he were a child.
Still, her intentions were clearly not to harm, and so as quickly as his ire had risen, he let go of it, something he was by now quite practiced and accomplished at. He took the offered dumplings, rolling the stick between his offered thumb and forefinger. âIs this an attempt to force me to remove my helm?â he asked, an eyebrow ascending his forehead underneath it. Heâd never removed even one piece of his armor in front of anyone but the Queen, and that only for a very particular reason that could not have been served in any other way. His voice, though still mostly monotone, carried a faint hint of amusement, one that only the sharp would catch onto.
It was a well-established theory that Lord Nishant was in some way disfigured or deformed beneath the helmet and other heavy armor, and that he wore it because he wanted to hide this fact from everyone. Another theory was that he always wore it as a form of training, to make himself strong enough to move as though his battle protection was nothing. If only it were so simple as either of those two things.
From a pocket, he removed a clean square of linen, carefully folding it around the dango. He showed care and consideration for the gift he had received, perhaps slightly more than it was strictly due. âI shall consume them later. I would be a fool to disadvantage myself by sparring on a full stomach, would I not?â The same note of amusement carried through, and he carefully set the dango down near his other things. Obviously the consideration didnât actually matterâhe could take down everyone in this room at once with both hands tied behind his back, but this was not something he chose to display or otherwise make obvious. There was no need. Of course, it was at this point that his Vice-Commander issued her own challenge, and he would not say he was surprised by it. Her drive to improve was admirable.
âYour challenge is accepted.â Gesturing to his squire, who was presently attending to his things, he resisted the urge to roll his eyes when the boy grinned widely and retrieved one of his lances from among his other practice gear. It was another subtle show of respectâthough he did not need it to win here, he would indeed confront her with the weapon he favored. Her challenge merited that much. Those who knew of Vice-Commander Pallas called her the Lilac Paladin, perhaps in part due to her armor. Her given name, Chrysanthe, could refer to different kind of flower. But Cyril thought all of that was really silly. The woman standing across the ring from him was no flower, nothing so delicate and breakable as that.
If he was the starless sky, shadow deep and dark, then she was all the glitter in the cosmos, the stars. Stubbornly bright, hard like diamonds. And aflame with the desire to be better, to be excellent. It was why, when the Queen had asked him who he desired to replace his previous Vice-Commander when the man retired, he had not hesitated in the slightest. He bowed in the fashion of the start of such a match, and then waited for her to attack first. When she did, he blocked effortlessly, scaling back his power until it was just barely too much for her to overcome. As with all his subordinates, he did not desire to humiliate her, only to help her improve. She required more of him in this respect than any of the others ever had, and he had no doubt that one day, perhaps quite soon, she would be fit to lead the Crown of Thorns herself, should something unfortunate befall him. It was good to know.
But that didnât mean he would fail to show her where she was still weaker than she should be, where her technique faltered, where she must improve if she should ever be ready for that responsibility. Because he respected her, he was not too easy on her at all.
After dismissing her students, Lenore had lingered for a while to unweave the magic she had placed over the area, including the spell for nighttime darkness. Having accomplished this, she dispelled the remaining birdsâa few of them had already fallen apart when the concentration of her pupils had given out, as it tended to with younger mages. Magic could be just as much about will as power, in some cases, and a strong resistance to outside influence or distraction was a useful trait to have. Lenore had it, but not in the usual way.
Her deconstruction complete, she decided to take a walk, and enjoy the outdoors for a time. Who knew how long she would be capable of enjoying anything, after all? For all she knew, simple appreciation for the things she enjoyed could be the next emotion she lost, along with some dear memory. Perhaps it was best not to think about it for now. So she put Apollyon and her bargain and everything like that from her mind, sinking back down into her own consciousness and working over her latest research problem. She was interested in the correlation between personality type and affinity for the various magic schools. Were people good scryers because they were naturally subtle or did they learn to be subtle because their talents lay in scrying, for example? It was especially fascinating because there seemed to be examples of each kind of cause-effect relationship, and which dominated the range of mages was unclear.
She wandered in what seemed like aimless direction for a while, though she was actually walking a long-familiar path. At least, until she spotted someone across the way and her face broke out into a wide smile.
âCally.â Lenore never shouted as such, and she had never to anyoneâs knowledge been angry enough to yell, but she could project a bit when she needed to, and she did in this instance, to catch her friendâs attention. The princess, whom she had never bothered to call by anything but her name, seemed to be alone, meaning that she had likely evaded whomever was assigned to be her bodyguard that morning. Chances were good that as soon as that person was willing to give up and accept their failure, theyâd go running to Cy and beg his assistance in finding the heir. Well, she could hardly have been safer than she was with a mage like Lenore, but they wouldnât know that.
Cyril was the only one who never failed to find them, even when they tried their very best to hide him. Lenore recalled a distinct instance a few years ago when sheâd actually cast invisibility on them, and heâd pinpointed their location anyway. Heâd explained it as being able to hear them, but to this day, she wasnât so sure. They hadnât made any real noise. But whatever the case, he evidently had not been pulled into the search yet, because Calliope was alone.
âYouâre out and about early this morning.â
Well, to be more accurate, he was going to change the face of the very world itself.
Most people, he knew, didnât take much time to question his motives. He was the king, and what the king said was law. That part of his countryâs culture, he did not intend to alter. His enemies saw only a power-hungry warmonger, too caught up in what a man of Dorthonion was supposed to be to bother asking deeper questions. It was enough that he seemed to enjoy fighting and violence. It was enough that the mages of Elysia would make his conquest easier. To them he was simple, and perhaps it was not entirely untrue.
But that was not the only thing he cared about. Not in the slightest.
His trek through the winding hallways of the magnificent Royal Palace in Shiral, capital of Dorthonion, led him to a little-used wing of the building, still fastidiously maintained by the servants under his employ. The rooms at the end of the hallway, however, did in fact have an occupant, one that few knew about or visited. When he entered the chamber, there was an attendant standing beside the large bed that occupied the center of the room, its tousled state indicating that the roomâs occupant was still in it. Awake, though, because of the rustling.
He addressed the attendant first. âNo change?â
The servant, an experienced steward, shook his head. Siegmund did not require anyone to bow in informal situations. It was stupid and it wasted time. âOn the contrary, Your Majesty. She was up all night.â The man pointed across the room, to the large window that dominated the eastern wall. Stretched across the space was a line of canvases, each with paint still drying upon it. Frowning slightly, Siegmund turned and walked over to them, examining each in turn. Most of them were unclear, depicting subjects from a great distance or through what appeared to be a haze of grey, obscuring the true subjects of the illustration. A few, though, were clear as day.
He recognized the subject of most of them immediately. The towering figure in black armor, lance in hand, could only be one man. He had never understood why so many of the paintings were of him. Now, he thought he might. There was something important about that man, but Siegmund could not put his finger on it just yet. A few more were clear, but the subjects less known to him. One in particular, however, provided him with an interesting clue. A horned figure loomed in front of another, trapped within what looked to be a circle of magic, his hand stretched forward. The other figureâs back was turned, but she was obviously female, and the distinctive color of her hair should make her easy to identify. He traced a finger down the canvas, drawing it back and smearing the snow-white paint thoughtfully over his thumb.
âThe summoner,â he murmured, tilting his head to the side. Well, at least he knew who to send his assassins after, now.
âIt is in the nature of everything to reach out for something to hold close. But some of us cannot allow that.â
At the address from a rather familiar source, Cyril turned his attention to the edge of the ring, making his way over in the familiar unruffled fashion. âVice Commander Pallas.â He addressed her with more formality than most, but there was a very particular reason for this. Though he was well-aware that a large portion of the knights in the order were somewhat enchanted with the young noblewoman, he also knew that this was quite a separate matter from respecting her. It was true that her skill was undeniable, but there were those who would not be swayed even by that into believing that a woman belonged in the Crown of Thorns. Females had only been allowed into the order in the last generation, something that he himself had fought for in the council sessions held on the matter shortly after Dianthe became Queen. That she had allowed it was another reason many nobles took to think her foolish and illogical, but she had never wavered.
Because Cyril never asked her for anything, but he had asked her for that. And she had seen the benefit of it, and so sheâs allowed it. Still, those women who were brave enough to enter did not have it easy. This was not Dorthonion, where it was commonly accepted that women could make warriors just as skilled as their male counterparts. Elysia was not a perfect place, even if it was mostly a good one. So Cyril did what he could to make it easier for those who chose to undertake this difficult path. He punished harshly those of his men who could not seem to graciously accept women in their ranks, and he always indicated his own respect to his female subordinates, including and especially his Vice-Commander. He did not address her in a casual or familiar fashion, or even with the title âlady,â which could have belonged to any female noble. He called her by the one she had earned, with her skill and her labor.
That said, there were things about her that made little sense to him. Her next words were enough proof of that. Toned down? He only ever applied the level of skill he believed his subordinates would gin the most from fighting against, unless of course someone was being insubordinate and needed to be reminded why he was the Commander and not they. Not a lesson he enjoyed teaching, but one that he would. Her tone was not exceptionally pleasing to himâif she had any idea just how old he was, she would not speak to him as though he were a child.
Still, her intentions were clearly not to harm, and so as quickly as his ire had risen, he let go of it, something he was by now quite practiced and accomplished at. He took the offered dumplings, rolling the stick between his offered thumb and forefinger. âIs this an attempt to force me to remove my helm?â he asked, an eyebrow ascending his forehead underneath it. Heâd never removed even one piece of his armor in front of anyone but the Queen, and that only for a very particular reason that could not have been served in any other way. His voice, though still mostly monotone, carried a faint hint of amusement, one that only the sharp would catch onto.
It was a well-established theory that Lord Nishant was in some way disfigured or deformed beneath the helmet and other heavy armor, and that he wore it because he wanted to hide this fact from everyone. Another theory was that he always wore it as a form of training, to make himself strong enough to move as though his battle protection was nothing. If only it were so simple as either of those two things.
From a pocket, he removed a clean square of linen, carefully folding it around the dango. He showed care and consideration for the gift he had received, perhaps slightly more than it was strictly due. âI shall consume them later. I would be a fool to disadvantage myself by sparring on a full stomach, would I not?â The same note of amusement carried through, and he carefully set the dango down near his other things. Obviously the consideration didnât actually matterâhe could take down everyone in this room at once with both hands tied behind his back, but this was not something he chose to display or otherwise make obvious. There was no need. Of course, it was at this point that his Vice-Commander issued her own challenge, and he would not say he was surprised by it. Her drive to improve was admirable.
âYour challenge is accepted.â Gesturing to his squire, who was presently attending to his things, he resisted the urge to roll his eyes when the boy grinned widely and retrieved one of his lances from among his other practice gear. It was another subtle show of respectâthough he did not need it to win here, he would indeed confront her with the weapon he favored. Her challenge merited that much. Those who knew of Vice-Commander Pallas called her the Lilac Paladin, perhaps in part due to her armor. Her given name, Chrysanthe, could refer to different kind of flower. But Cyril thought all of that was really silly. The woman standing across the ring from him was no flower, nothing so delicate and breakable as that.
If he was the starless sky, shadow deep and dark, then she was all the glitter in the cosmos, the stars. Stubbornly bright, hard like diamonds. And aflame with the desire to be better, to be excellent. It was why, when the Queen had asked him who he desired to replace his previous Vice-Commander when the man retired, he had not hesitated in the slightest. He bowed in the fashion of the start of such a match, and then waited for her to attack first. When she did, he blocked effortlessly, scaling back his power until it was just barely too much for her to overcome. As with all his subordinates, he did not desire to humiliate her, only to help her improve. She required more of him in this respect than any of the others ever had, and he had no doubt that one day, perhaps quite soon, she would be fit to lead the Crown of Thorns herself, should something unfortunate befall him. It was good to know.
But that didnât mean he would fail to show her where she was still weaker than she should be, where her technique faltered, where she must improve if she should ever be ready for that responsibility. Because he respected her, he was not too easy on her at all.
âTo care is no weakness. It only provides us with more reasons to resist the terrible, fight the horrors in the world.â
After dismissing her students, Lenore had lingered for a while to unweave the magic she had placed over the area, including the spell for nighttime darkness. Having accomplished this, she dispelled the remaining birdsâa few of them had already fallen apart when the concentration of her pupils had given out, as it tended to with younger mages. Magic could be just as much about will as power, in some cases, and a strong resistance to outside influence or distraction was a useful trait to have. Lenore had it, but not in the usual way.
Her deconstruction complete, she decided to take a walk, and enjoy the outdoors for a time. Who knew how long she would be capable of enjoying anything, after all? For all she knew, simple appreciation for the things she enjoyed could be the next emotion she lost, along with some dear memory. Perhaps it was best not to think about it for now. So she put Apollyon and her bargain and everything like that from her mind, sinking back down into her own consciousness and working over her latest research problem. She was interested in the correlation between personality type and affinity for the various magic schools. Were people good scryers because they were naturally subtle or did they learn to be subtle because their talents lay in scrying, for example? It was especially fascinating because there seemed to be examples of each kind of cause-effect relationship, and which dominated the range of mages was unclear.
She wandered in what seemed like aimless direction for a while, though she was actually walking a long-familiar path. At least, until she spotted someone across the way and her face broke out into a wide smile.
âCally.â Lenore never shouted as such, and she had never to anyoneâs knowledge been angry enough to yell, but she could project a bit when she needed to, and she did in this instance, to catch her friendâs attention. The princess, whom she had never bothered to call by anything but her name, seemed to be alone, meaning that she had likely evaded whomever was assigned to be her bodyguard that morning. Chances were good that as soon as that person was willing to give up and accept their failure, theyâd go running to Cy and beg his assistance in finding the heir. Well, she could hardly have been safer than she was with a mage like Lenore, but they wouldnât know that.
Cyril was the only one who never failed to find them, even when they tried their very best to hide him. Lenore recalled a distinct instance a few years ago when sheâd actually cast invisibility on them, and heâd pinpointed their location anyway. Heâd explained it as being able to hear them, but to this day, she wasnât so sure. They hadnât made any real noise. But whatever the case, he evidently had not been pulled into the search yet, because Calliope was alone.
âYouâre out and about early this morning.â