TO&FQ: Book 2 - Chapter 41 (RAW)

Chapter 41 - Purity After the rains, do the skies become lapis and the clouds are broken by the touch of the sun. - Verses from the Flower Q

Chapter 41 - Purity

After the rains, do the skies become lapis and the clouds are broken by the touch of the sun.

- Verses from the Flower Quarter by Unknown.

The next few days stretched Seraphina’s patience to its very seams. Only one bright thread gleamed in all of the mess: the Sir Gravens–Eloise–Desdemona adolescent love-and-lust triangle had, by some miracle, knotted itself into a fragile truce. In Seraphina’s private calculations, Eloise possessed all the makings of a dutiful wife, with Desdemona far better suited to the more daring station of mistress. If Gravens had even half a strategist’s mind, he would realise that swapping those roles might serve his ambitions far more handsomely.

Or, was he, seeing that Eloise was close to the future queen, trying to play the long game? She mused as she waited in the Academy’s Grand Library.  

Seraphina fixed her most pleasant smile upon her face, bracing herself for the formidable Mrs Romfortes’ reply. Dust-heavy sunlight slanted through leaded windows, pooling over shelves that smelled of vellum and whispered secrets. The librarian eyed her over half-moon spectacles.

“This is most irregular, Miss de Sariens. Renewal requires the physical book. That is our procedure.”

Seraphina set a hand to her heart in theatrical apology. “Alas, I left The Realm of the Four Gods in my dormitory. My next class looms—and you know how Mélisandre can be.” Her smile was bright, her shrug delicate.

“That is Instructor de Vallières to you, Miss de Sariens,” Mrs Romfortes replied, rapping the counter with a stern forefinger. A sigh escaped her like air from old bellows. “Very well. I’ll process the renewal—but let this be the last indulgence!”

The young noblewoman was pleased that a little charm and a lofty Charisma score could work ledger-worthy wonders. Seraphina dipped into a graceful old-court bow. The librarian merely sniffed, yet the tug at the corners of her mouth betrayed her. It would serve her well to make an ally of the old, crusty woman.

Seraphina’s real goal, however, was the book’s single remaining pulse of sorcery. One more activation, she guessed, before it would fall dormant for decades, drinking in ambient Mana like a winter-bound seed. Handing it to Ibn would speed the boy’s training, assuming that was, if he followed the Trial’s narrative rather than “speed-running” it as she had done. She doubted he could, because for most, the tale was a years-long odyssey. If they finished it at all…

You’ll manage, Ibn, she thought, brushing aside a minor spike of worry.

***

Travelling back to the dormitory, she favoured passing students with faint inclines of the head and small, polite smiles. Behind her rippled murmurs and fluttering speculation. Yet not all faces answered with warmth. The children of King Elidion’s staunchest allies, who also orbited the rising star Este Lize, returned her courtesy with measured coolness. It did not take an idiot to see that factions were crystallising like frost on glass. For the greater part, the boys, as always, seemed to be oblivious to this fact.

She swept into her building’s common room, mind abuzz with plots both old and new. It was high time to set another wheel spinning.

“Milly, how are we after the fires?” she asked, reclining against the plush, velvet-clad sofa and snapping her mother’s fan shut. For a moment, she had an almost irresistible desire to put her feet up on the table.

“Business-wise… or…?” her maid replied hesitantly.

“Business-wise, naturally. Do keep up.”

Miriam adjusted her spectacles. “Bottlesworth’s Confectioneries now controls more than half of Meridian’s grain concerns, and, per your instructions, has begun acquiring private bakeries as well.”

A satisfied curl touched Seraphina’s lips. “And the land?”

“We secured roughly three-quarters of the burned lots, but reconstruction stalls—royal interference, scarce skilled labour…”

“Mill, my father is drowning in refugees from the Empire,” Seraphina mused. “Idle hands grow restless. Bring those with trades, or at least some gumption, into Meridian to rebuild. Compensation in grain, not gold.”

“But, milady, might that not be exploitative?” Miriam ventured, teeth worrying her lower lip.

“Hardly. To common folk, grain outweighs gold. We maximise inventory, and they receive sustenance. Beggars cannot be choosers. They should thank us for such charity.”

Miriam’s shoulders dipped in reluctant assent. “Of course, milady.”

“Excellent. Now fetch Ibn,” Seraphina commanded, folding her fan with a decisive click. “Sometimes I really do surprise myself with how generous I am.”

“Right away, milady.” Relieved to flee, Miriam hurried out. Whatever storm Seraphina was conjuring next, Ibn would stand squarely in its path.

Seraphina waited for Ibn, sitting poised in a high-backed armchair near one of the windows, the drapes drawn just wide enough for thin ribbons of sunlight to stripe the rugs. The dormitory common room, with its polished mahogany shelves, brass-trimmed lamps, expensive wallpaper, and a small hearth that crackled softly, felt less like a student area and more like the salon of a minor princess. Yet the blonde girl’s thoughts were far removed from the surrounding comfort.

The Academy is a chessboard, she mused, drumming a gloved finger on the armrest. Every whispered rivalry, every pet project sponsored by a noble, feeds straight into the kingdom’s arteries. Here was a microcosm of the Kingdom of Aranthia at large. She wondered what other moves she could make without stretching her resources too thinly.

A slow, almost apologetic knock stirred her from her strategizing.

“Enter,” Seraphina called, her tone honeyed yet carrying the unspoken promise of consequences should the caller delay.

The door eased open. Ibn edged inside, shoulders squared but gaze lowered, as though he feared to track dirt onto the immaculate carpet. There was a rawness to him, a rugged strength despite his young years now. In his eyes bloomed the unmistakable glimmer of strength: not yet the hardened resolve of a true man, but the first, flickering signs of the Swordmaster he was destined to become.

“Ibn,” Seraphina greeted, smile softening just enough to reassure, “how are you adjusting to life in the Academy? And how fares your training?”

“I have been doing well,” he answered, guarded and cautious, glancing left and right as though anticipating an ambush. Bitter experience had taught him that an audience such as this with the Lady Seraphina de Sariens rarely ended without a new obligation.

Without rising, Seraphina reached to the side table and thumped a book onto it—a veritable slab bound in cracked leather with a jewel at its center. The Realm of the Four Gods landed with a dull, reverberating thud. “Splendid,” she said. “In that case, I have a reward for you.”

Ibn’s brow furrowed, suspicion battling gratitude. “What is this, my lady?”

“Oh, this?” Seraphina’s manicured fingers traced the gilt title almost seductively. “This is the key to becoming stronger. This”—she tapped the spine—“is how a boy becomes the man he is meant to be.”

“I… did not know words in a book could do that,” in a deadpan voice. “Thought that was a woman’s role.” 

Her emerald eyes flashed, equal parts amusement and warning. “If that is truly what you believe, the Knights have been far too lenient with you of late.”

“My apologies, Lady Seraphina.” He bowed formally.

“At least you have acquired a certain measure of civility. Hazagadami boys can be taught, after all.” She shrugged with exaggerated nonchalance, then leaned forward. “Tell me, has anyone ever spoken to you of Errantry?”

“I have heard the Knights’ tell their account of it, my lady,” he said slowly, as though choosing each word from a thorny bush.

“Then you know the heart of it is the quest—a great labor that proves worth. I intend to give you such a quest.”

Ibn’s gaze flicked to the tome. “Am I to learn something from that book?”

“Yes, in a manner of speaking. But, in a decidedly less abstract way,” she purred, lips curling into an impish grin. “You, Ibn, are going to enter it.”

His reply was flat. “I do not think I will fit.”

“Oh, you will.” She said, smiling dangerously. “The book is a door, Ibn, to a Trial of the Goddess. Pass through it and you will earn the favor of Heaven itself.”

“I am not sure I am a believer in the Goddess.“ He swallowed. “And, Trials are said to be deadly difficult.”

“And yet I passed this one.” Her chin lifted with quiet pride. “And in less than a day, too.”

Ib’s eyes turned to the dark-haired maid standing silently behind her mistress. Miriam nodded once—confirmation enough. Lady Seraphina’s legend grew larger in his mind; she seemed capable of anything.

“But I am not so heartless as to hurl you in empty-handed. I will give you a few advantages,” Seraphina said, voice sweet as spun sugar. Yet, Ibn sensed the iron beneath it.

Not too many advantages, the blonde girl reminded herself. The Trial must still be a deadly challenge if it is to be effective and push Ibn to the limits.

“Miriam, if you please,” Seraphina commanded.

“At once, milady.”

The maid disappeared down the corridor and returned moments later bearing a long cloth-wrapped bundle. With a deferential bow, she placed it across Seraphina’s outstretched palms. When the cloth fell away, it revealed an elegant weapon.

Seraphina eased the blade free from its sheath, admiring its savage grace. Longer than a tall man’s stride, single-edged and slightly curved, it ended in a wicked point designed to pierce armor seams. Sacrificing hand protection, the small square guard promised swift draws. Once a ruin of rust in a pawn-shop display, it had cost her a small fortune to restore—gold well spent.

She slid the sword home into its black-lacquer scabbard and offered it horizontally to the boy. “A gift, Ibn. In gratitude for deeds done and proof that I believe in your future and in the man you will become.”

The boy accepted it with both hands, reverence shining in his eyes. Even Seraphina could not awaken the magics that slept within the blade; it would resonate only with its destined wielder. For it would be nothing more than a sharp lump of metal.

“My gift to you,” Seraphina said. “Proof that I value your efforts and believe in your future. You’ll do this for me, won’t you, Ibn?”

Pride surged through Ibn like wildfire racing through dry grass. He dropped to one knee, fist over heart. “Milady, I owe you everything. I will not fail.”

Seraphina’s smile curved like a crescent moon—serene in its stillness, luminous with quiet confidence, and edged with mystery. Oh, she did love it when things went according to plan.

***

Now Seraphina found herself coming closer to the knife-edge of destiny. She could shore up her defences, nurturing the fragile shoots of her embryonic faction—a handful of disillusioned but powerful nobles and a sprinkling of decidedly less-than-devout clergy. Or, she could go on the offensive.

Why choose? She would do both.

Rumor slithered through corridors of the Academy that King Elidion II planned to donate a veritable carnival of beasts from lands so distant they existed on the edge of maps where cartographers scrawled Here Be Wonders. This was backed by Seraphina’s own sources; her bought people in the Meridian City Guard and the agents of Lehman’s Bank. Supposedly, the ever-radiant, silver-haired Este Lize had “tamed” them herself with a cadre of Royal Knights—a tale so saccharine Seraphina nearly gagged. The Royal Court, of course, intended a grand exhibition in a few weeks at the Academy, once the creatures were fully broken to human commands. Prestige for the Crown, applause for the Saint of Silver… and, for some reason, she felt all of that was a slight against her, Seraphina.

As if any silly creature could rival my Hydra, she scoffed, fingers drumming across a stack of parchment. Cornelia, two sinuous heads, scales like moonlit snow, made an offended hiss in agreement. Yet the Hydra could hardly be donated to the menagerie. Cornelia was her familiar, after all. Solution: obtain something even rarer than whatever the King thought to bring..

A glimmer of delight sparked behind her green eyes as she dipped quill to ink. The note she composed for her agents was written with almost crystal clarity.

The young girl wrote down as much as she could, every line detailing landmarks: the petrified birch that bled silver sap, the waterfall whose roar concealed an entrance to a crystal grotto. There they would find the near-mystical creature, a unicorn.

A unicorn, according to commonly held knowledge, consented to be mounted only by the purest. Seraphina grinned. Capturing one would neatly sidestep the increasingly popular, and mortifying, “virginity inspection” that she might be made to suffer in the future. She could fell two birds with a single stone.

Securing the agents she was going to employ for this hunt had not been simple. Though they had been recommended by Eloise’s father, they still had to be carefully vetted. Luckily, she could rely upon her mother, or assumed she could, at least. 

So, she exchanged letters with her mother, trusting Anaselena’s power to vet these Adventurers of the Gold rank. However, letters dashed across provinces by horse took days, and though she could easily afford Gryphon-post, every perfume-scented envelope of hers would pass through the Royal Censors’ claws. Elidion’s paranoia tightened like a garrote around the kingdom—another reason, she decided, that the weakening monarch simply had to go.

For the good of the people.

She sanded the ink, sealed the vellum, and summoned Miriam to whisk it away. Next came gifts for Lady Michélié de Montan—exquisite teas perfumed with jasmine and Dust-laced bonbons whose narcotic sparkle would surely keep the chubby girl pleasantly pliant. She had observed the pudgy girl, noticing that she was eating even more of Seraphina’s candies every day. The de Montan lands flanked de Sariens' territory, and, no matter what it took, Seraphina simply could not allow herself to expose her flanks. It was unfortunate that the fat girl’s brothers were all already married. Odious as it might be, were she a man, she would have seriously considered marrying Michelié to secure that alliance.

Seraphina decided she would present them to Michelié after they arrived in class. It would be a declaration that their houses were very definitely allied.

While her prophetic insights into the timeline grew maddeningly less useful, certain key events remained immovable and inviolate. The trick was to manipulate those events, like the recent fires in Meridian, to her advantage. One could not entirely change the future, but one could certainly attempt to direct it.

A civil war loomed like thunder on the horizon, and with the right whispers and a few levers pushed and pulled here and there, Seraphina could paint herself the savior of the Kingdom. She needed only to prod Elidion toward one more catastrophic decree and win the support of the common people.

To seize the throne, she must topple two pillars—the aging king and the thorn that was Este Lize. And, behind the “Living Saint,” stood the monolithic Church of the Goddess.

She would also need to solidify and strengthen relations with Rashana with a very interesting proposition that would tie her closer to her. Something that went beyond the current transactional relationship she had with House de Lehman. She would give her something beyond just gold. But first, she would need to find the dusky girl. 

Getting up, she slowly made her way out of the dormitory, nodding to the brothers Giles and Krayton, who were doing their best impression of trimming bushes. Cornelia tightened around her shoulders a living, double-headed stole.

“Find Rashana,” cooed Seraphina to her lovable pet. 

The serpent’s twin tongues tasted the air, orienting unerringly toward Rashana’s location, as though the creature itself had become a divining rod forged for her political intrigue.