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[Rough Draft] Chapter 84: The Gift of a Name

 

The solemn lines of lanterns and candles carried the faithful stumbling home after a long day of prayer and fasting glittered outside Percy’s window. The Earl leaned back against the warmth of his cushioned seats to study the obedient crowd of blind sheep ambling through darkness and uncertainty, united by their naive faith in the Pope and his Saints.

‘Powerless creatures feared only by mortal kings.’

The Earl scoffed as he pulled the curtain closed, uncomfortable with the nagging comparison in the back of his mind that compared his devotion to Veles to the mortal’s faith in their Saints.

‘A Saint can die. History has proven as much. However, a God is nearly impossible to kill.’

Percy crossed his gloved hands silently over the silver crow cane. A shiver ran up his spine at the memory of his encounters with two of the untrustworthy immortals.

‘Is that why they fear Kirsi? Because she is proof that a god can die?’

A faint snicker pulled the Earl’s gaze to where Serilda sat across from him, her fan pressed against her quivering lips as she tried—futility—to mask another giggle.

“You’re enjoying today’s outcome as expected,” Percy commented dryly.

Serilda nodded, swallowed, and finally let out a weak laugh as she fanned herself. “I have to applaud you, truly, cousin. I thought you were making a mistake when you slipped that information to Marquess Borghese anonymously, especially when he died before using it. But then Lord Norley brought in Nicholas’s mistress, pregnant with another man’s child!”

“There is no reason to celebrate just yet,” Percy commented cautiously, glancing at the spell that wrapped the carriage walls and windows in soundproof magic. “The timing is less than ideal.”

“Percy! I know you’ve been monitoring this Lady Rosamund for the last eight months,” Serilda countered with a knowing smirk. “You said yourself Nicholas has barely left the palace in the last eight months. He was already losing interest before his marriage, and now, just when the Pope is set to push for Priscilla’s position as Queen, Rosamund shows up pregnant? It’s obvious what they’re planning. Oh, I wish I could see the look on Eleanora’s face when she hears of this!”

“Don’t be cruel, Seri,” Percy reproached while tapping his finger lightly against the cane. “The fact that Rosamund is pregnant does not explain why the Royal Faction chose to bring her forward now, or why they seem so eager to make her a Royal Consort of equal rank to Lady Priscilla.”

“Equal? Hardly,” the Marchioness retorted with a snort. “Priscilla is not the sort of person to forget about their difference in birth so easily. And besides, they’re certain to reveal their intentions soon enough. All we have to do is maintain a safe distance and be prepared to seize on any opportunity to crush them.”

‘We may be able to distance ourselves, but Eleanora is all but trapped inside the palace.’

“You were late to the ceremony,” Serilda observed with a cunning smile. “I hear you personally escorted the Duchess to Rose Palace. Is that why you’re so distracted?”

“I needed the Duchess’s help with something—internal.” The Earl twisted his cane into the carpeted floor of the carriage as he looked away. “The Duchess and I need to speak to Nicholas urgently concerning the Pope.”

The Marchioness stiffened as her smile quickly faded. “Percy, about the Witch Hunter’s memories. I believe the Pope is planning something.”

Percy raised his winter-gray eyes to study her. “Then you had better fill me in now before we reach Rose Palace.”

“I can’t say for certain. The memories are jumbled up,” Serilda complained as she pressed her fingers against her temple with an uncomfortable grimace. “I found some bits of conversation about Holy Relics that are said to weaken witches—and there was a mortal slave, one the Witch Hunter personally interacted with, who they appear to be training to wield the Saint’s power.”

The Earl leaned against his cane as the dangerous implications set in. “Did you—happen to glimpse—what kind of holy relics we are dealing with?

The Marchioness tilted her head for a moment, her expression wavering between focused and nauseous as she pressed a hand against her stomach. “I saw—the Witch Hunter hand this mortal slave a dagger—it seemed ancient and special. Other than that—I only heard someone mention the Pope’s staff being secured inside the cathedral.”

Percy sighed and bowed his head against the cane. “If that staff is worth protecting, that could be something. I only wish I knew.”

“The Coven’s archives contain very little information about the Holy Relics,” Serilda replied sympathetically.

“Yes. We know the Saints used them in the downfall of the Isbrand King and Queen—but how is a mortal slave supposed to use them?”

“The Witch Hunter seemed to believe this mortal held some sort of divine spark within him.” The Marchioness closed her eyes and clenched her jaw and hands tightly. “She mentions it repeatedly, but I—really can’t find more than that.”

“Let it be,” Percy advised her softly as he leaned forward to touch her knee lightly. “You should prepare a cleansing potion and rest when you get back.”

Serilda nodded and clutched the Earl’s fingers lightly before the carriage came to a stop, and he pulled away. “But—why did we return to Rose Palace?”

“I need to inform Lord Alastair personally about the Rosamund matter before the rumors spread throughout the Royal Palace,” Percy explained as he rose from his seat and opened the door. “Have the driver take you back to Kensington Manor. I will find my own way home when I’m finished here.”

The Marchioness nodded and folded her arms around her waist as she smiled after him. “I’ll be waiting for you, Percy.”

“Don’t wait up. Get some rest.” The Earl closed the door firmly, signaled the driver, and then turned towards the already opening gate of the Crown Princess’s palace.

The lack of Bastiallano knights caught his attention the moment he entered the courtyard. Percy moved hastily down the path, where two more Kensington knights bowed and opened the door before him. A quick look around the foyer revealed an immediate lack of the Duchess’s presence, and the Earl squeezed his cane worriedly.

“Earl Hawthorne!”

Percy glanced towards the familiar head maid who stepped out of the dining room to curtsey towards him. “Where is Lady Kirsi?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” Poppy replied as she stepped forward to take his hat and cape. “She left some time ago.”

‘Why? I asked Kirsi to wait for me here! Did she leave to intercept Nicholas on his return trip?’

“Lord Percy, you’ve returned.”

The Earl swiveled to where Lord Alastair stood at the top of the stairs, looking equally elated and tired. “Eleanora is sleeping peacefully. The Duchess prepared a tonic that seemed to help.”

“And where did Lady Kirsi go?”

“Ah! Her Grace received a summons from the Dowager nearly an hour ago, but she promised to return. We prepared one of the empty rooms for her.”

‘The Dowager?’ Percy pressed his lips together as an uneasy feeling settled into his gut. ‘Now that Viktor is gone, Octavia should be on her last leg—she might even be desperate enough to try something foolish!’

The Earl promptly snatched his hat back from Mrs. Poppy and turned back towards the confused Viscount. “You should know that the Crown Prince’s mistress has entered the palace and claims to be pregnant,” Percy stated coldly. “I’ll leave it to you to break the news to Eleanora. I have to leave—I will be borrowing a horse from one of your knights.”

Alastair startled expression filtered wordlessly through a wide variety of emotions before he pressed his lips together and nodded stiffly. “I will tell Eleanora the moment she wakes up.”

“Thank you, Lord Alastair.”

“Lord Percy!”

The Earl hesitated as he took a step back.

“The sooner you wipe the pieces from the board, the better.”

Percy watched silently as the Viscount turned and headed in the direction of Eleanora’s room. Then he glanced towards the head maid, who hastily curtsied and scampered out of sight.

‘She might not know what Alastair was implying, but even a mortal would have felt the bloodlust in his words.’

After sending one of the Kensington knights to fetch a horse from the stables, Percy moved down the palace steps, carefully pulling off his right glove. The onyx ring glittered with a strange silver mist he had not noticed before but responded to his command all the same.

A crow materialized on the palace gate and turned to bow in Percy’s direction.

“Find the Duchess and make sure she is safe until I arrive.”

***

Strange was the only word that came to mind as Carina gazed around the Dowager’s iris garden. Nearly every flower was in bloom as if spring had never ended. The colorful illusion of white and sliver-blue blossoms reminded the Duchess of a similar scene in a much grander courtyard beneath the falling snow.

‘Kirsi’s memory?’

A bumblebee zoomed dangerously close, and the ice witch’s magic reacted instinctively, coating the poor insect’s wings, body, and pollen-loaded legs in frost. Carina caught the frozen bug in her palm and sighed as it twitched helplessly. “Will you sting me if I let you go free?”

Movement beyond the line of knights, which included Captain Silas, drew the Duchess’s attention away from her incapacitated prey. She narrowed her eyes as Lady Delphine returned—without her Mistress—again.

“Your Grace!” Delphine panted as she dipped into a curtsey. “The Queen Regent will be down shortly.”

“It has been nearly an hour already,” Carina remarked impatiently as she tapped the bumblebee with her fingernail. The pitiful creature twitched once more as its body defrosted and resumed sings of life. “What is taking so long?”

“Ah—that—her Majesty has been unwell due to recent events.”

“Then why summon me only to make me wait? A letter would have sufficed if she had something urgent to say.”

“She is almost ready, your Grace!” Delphine pleaded as she bowed at the waist. “And she has so been looking forward to seeing you again face to face.”

Carina frowned as she watched the bumblebee crawl up her finger before testing its wings. Half a second later, the insect took off eagerly towards the safety of flowers. ‘So, you decided not to sting me after all.’

“S-shall I prepare refreshments, your Grace?”

The Duchess’s ice blue eyes studied the trembling attendant curiously and then glanced towards the empty gazebo in the corner of the garden. “Some tea would be appreciated.”

“Yes, your Grace!”

“I will wait in the gazebo—”

“Please do your Grace!” Delphine bobbed another curtsey and spun around.

“My patience is not infinite,” Carina called after her coldly, nearly causing the older attendant to stumble and fall. “And I am not in a forgiving mood.”

The attendant left swiftly, and the Duchess turned silently towards the gazebo, her gaze rising above its marble doom roof to where the distant spires of the great cathedral pierced the dark velvet evening sky.

‘Is that where they’re holding you, Hana? Are you safe? Please be alright—I will find a way. I won’t let him take you against your will.’

***

When Lady Delphine emerged once more, she was not alone. Two maids accompanied her with trays of tea and colorful deserts. Carina turned in her chair to sigh but noticed a woman, dressed in a veil and glittering gown, who trailed behind them.

“Your Grace,” Delphine murmured as she motioned for the maids to set down the tray and then turned to escort the veiled woman up the short stairs of the gazebo.

‘Is that—Octavia?’

The Duchess blinked as the veiled woman took a seat directly across from her.

“Thank you for waiting, Kirsi,” an all but familiar voice greeted her from behind the veil.

“Your—Majesty?”

The shroud trembled as the woman laughed, then lifted her veil, and secured it on the small circlet she wore.

Carina blinked as she took in the middle-aged woman of perhaps thirty who sat across from her. The familiar ice-blue eyes, slender nose, and bemused smile sent a shiver down her spine as the Duchess struggled to accept what she was seeing.

“You were expecting the opposite?” Octavia commented with a smirk. “While it’s true Viktor’s death nearly brought about my own, I have lived without using his magic for a long time.”

“You are—”

“Younger?” The Dowager circled a jeweled finger against her smooth cheek. “Yes. Incredibly so.”

“How?”

“Old magic,” Octavia replied with a hint of bitterness as she brushed back her silver brunette hair and motioned for Delphine to pour the tea. “Unfortunately, it is not a permanent solution.”

‘Nevermind permanency. I can only imagine what Nicholas and the rest of the nobles would think if they could see Octavia now.’

“But enough about me.” The Dowager offered her a cynical smile as Delphine poured the cooled brown herbal liquid into their small cups. “Now that Viktor is gone, what do you intend to do to save the Ice Coven’s Kirsi? Without our god, we are powerless. Without Viktor, we lose our immortality. I can only imagine how many elders have returned to the earth due to being stripped of their magic.”

“Viktor has been dying for centuries,” Carina replied calmly. “The Ice Coven had plenty of time to prepare for what was coming.”

Octavia snorted and shook her head before gently sipping from her cup. “None of us actually believed that Viktor would choose death. If he was going to hand over his life and magic so easily, then he should have done it while Kirsi and the Ice Coven’s were still in their prime.”

“It was his choice to make, not yours or the Covens.”

The Dowager’s lips twisted in disapproval, but she silently sipped her tea.

“No one lives forever,” Carina murmured and then reached for her teacup. A flash of warning zipped up her arm as she touched the cold porcelain. She examined her cup curiously but noted nothing out of the ordinary.

‘It was poured from the same teapot. Unless Octavia also poisoned her own cup—’ The ice witch narrowed her eyes at the thin blue line along the bottom of the teacup that slowly dissolved before her eyes. ‘So that’s how—but why?’

“Do you remember the covenant you made with us all those years ago?” Octavia asked quietly as she watched the Duchess over her cup. “You promised to restore our power, honor, and prestige. In exchange, the Ice Coven’s swore their loyalty to you, binding our lives to yours for generations to come.”

‘And yet—now you are trying to poison me?’ Carina set down her cup with a bemused smile and noticed Delphine flinch silently behind the Dowager. “I seem to recall the oath specifically stated that neither party would act against nor harm the other.”

“So you do remember,” Octavia murmured with a curious smile. “And you are not drinking your tea.”

“Are you trying to harm me now, Octavia?”

The Dowager raised a brow in response to the Duchess’s blunt question and then laughed. “Harm you? No. I simply wish to bind us further still so that we may remain allies united in a common cause.”

“And what cause would that be?” Carina narrowed her eyes as she slid the cup and saucer further away. “And what kind of binding spell did you have in mind?”

“The kind that drains your life and magic and gives it to her!”

A sudden rush of wind flattened the iris around the gazebo as Percy landed beside them, his cape swirling against the table as he grabbed Carina’s teacup and flung its contents into the grass.

“That is how the Dowager has maintained her life span while muting her magic with the Aconitum flower,” Percy commented coldly. “She would take in young attendants, have them drink the potion within an enchantment circle, and slowly bleed their life away.”

Carina eyed the dripping teacup in the Earl’s hand and turned to gaze at the garden around them. “An enchantment circle?”

“Difficult to detect from the ground, and an ancient earth spell not known to many,” the Earl growled. “But if you need further proof, look here.” He flipped the cup over and set it down on the table, revealing an etched rune at the bottom. “ᛊᚨᚲᚱᛁᚠᛁᚲᛖ, which in our language means sacrifice, and—”

The Duchess watched as Percy deftly snatched the teacup from Octavia’s fingers, dumped the contents once more, and placed it upside down beside her own overturned cup.

“—ᛒᛖᚾᛖᚠᛁᚲᛁᚨᚱᛁ, which means beneficiary or recipient.”

“Ha!” A cold numbness swept over Carina as a weak laugh slipped past her frozen lips. “It seems the old oaths no longer bind you, Octavia.”

“Any why should they?” Octavia spat viciously. “You aren’t the real Kirsi. You’re just a pretender!”

Carina flinched slightly while Percy retorted with a sneer, “She is Viktor’s heir and the Ice Coven’s only chance at regaining what they lost. Did you honestly think such a primitive spell would help you steal Viktor’s power?”

The Dowager cackled and covered her lips with deceptively unwrinkled fingers.

“Judging by the look of her, the Queen Regent appears to have sacrificed quite a few souls to reverse the effects of age.”

The Duchess glanced from Dowager to the attendant, her fingers stiffening against the lace tablecloth as a missing figure of Lily Palace came instantly to mind. “Where is—Lady Tiffany?”

Delphine managed to turn even paler while Octavia offered her a look of smug satisfaction Carina had not seen since her time living with the Turnbells.

“I see,” Carina whispered as she pulled her hand back, her nails trailing lightly against the flimsy fabric. “Then—where are her remains?”

The Earl turned towards her with a curious expression. Octavia sniffed dismissively and reached for one of the floral-shaped cookies on her plate.

The Duchess sighed. A cold trail of breath billowed from between her pale lips as her ice blue eyes narrowed with disdain. “As you said, Octavia. I am not the real Kirsi, which means the old oaths no longer bind me.”

With a wave of Carina’s hand, the Earl, the pavilion, a screaming Delphine, and the Bastiallano knights all vanished from view. Octavia choked on the frozen bite of pastry as the swirling realm of Carina’s inner cortex materialized around them. The Dowager quickly turned her confused, half terrified gaze back to the Duchess who stood across from her at eye level.

“Kneel.”

Octavia winced as the cold pressure slammed her knees to the icy lake. Frost crept up her limbs, locking them into place as her fingers, nose, and lips turned red and then a dark purple color. “Your—Grace—” she barely managed to pant out.

“If you think that you can plead for a second chance with me, then you are mistaken, Dowager.” The Duchess tilted her head with a cold smile as she looked down on the trembling mortal monarch. “I may not be Kirsi, but I am no fool either.” The hard bright light in Carina’s chest blossomed at her command and spread down her extended right arm and fingers as she reached towards Octavia’s forehead.

“W-wait—I can—help you! I know the Hawthorne’s—secrets! I have information you can use to blackmail the great houses—even Duke Stryker! I—I will tell you where the diamond girl’s body lies!”

“Then tell me, Octavia. How many lives have you taken to extend your own?”

The Dowager sputtered, her lips now coated in frost that blended into their blueish hue. “I—I don’t know. At least—once a year.”

“How many years?”

“S-since I turned—thirty-seven.”

“And how old are you now, Octavia?” It was difficult to gauge the Dowager’s reaction beneath the frost that painted her face, but Carina thought she glimpsed a look of realization in the woman’s ice-blue eyes.

“T-too old, your Grace.”

“And did you know that most commoners die before they reach the age of thirty-five?” The Duchess tilted her head at the groveling, silent monarch and then turned her gaze towards the glowing cortex of power. “Tell me, Octavia, in all your years, have you ever felt power like this?”

With her right hand, Carina called the ancient magic towards her. Twenty threads spiraled out at her command and wove themselves around the Duchess’s fingers, arm, and body.

Octavia raised her head and trembled as she beheld a different image of the Duchess than any she had seen in the mortal realm. “You—you are—”

Carina gestured towards the trembling Dowager, and a single strand of power pierced the woman’s chest. Octavia gasped out a silent scream as the magic flowed through her, turning her hair pure white once more while her skin glistened with power.

“This is true magic. This is the power of a god,” Carina murmured as she watched ecstasy envelope the Dowager’s face. “In the short span of time that remains to your mortal life, I want you to remember this feeling, Octavia. You will never touch magic again. You will never reincarnate. Only your inevitable and permanent death will erase your debt on the scale of life and death.”

With a snap of her wrist, the Duchess pulled back her power and drained the souls Octavia had stolen from the woman’s body. The Dowager shrieked as her fingers and body shriveled. Her cheeks, eyes, and chin rippled with bags of skin speckled by time and age.

“No! No! What have you done!” the wretched woman croaked, then clasped her throat in horror. “Not this! Anything but this. Please—kill me now!”

“Save your pleas for the goddess of the underworld,” Carina replied as she watched the old woman crawl towards her. “Perhaps if you search hard enough, you will find a mortal willing to end your life sooner.”

“Damn you—despciable—Imposter! You will never find Tiffany’s body! You will never become a queen or goddess!” Octavia clutched at the Duchess’s glowing dress as tears ran down her wrinkled face. “I curse the day Krisi spared your life! You are not worthy of Viktor’s power and you will never—”

The Dowager went rigid as Carina placed a finger between the old woman’s busheled brows. A thin, dull thread of light appeared as the Duchess withdrew her touch. The yarn of memories quickly spun into a small murky white marble that Carina held before her eyes with an assessing gaze.

“What have you done?” Octavia croaked weakly as she slid down to the ground with a hollow gasp of pain.

“I have taken your memories. You will spend the remainder of your mortal days wandering this world as no one of importance until you die a commoner’s death. You will never remember who you were, where you came from, or that you were ever a witch. You will hunger for power that you will never taste again. And you will feel the weight of your sins every day until your dying breath.”

A dark empty street materialized around them as the glow of the cortex’s power faded away. The Duchess turned towards the silent windows, some of which contained flickering candles as families turned in for bed. A glance over her shoulder revealed the distant lights of the fortress walls and the palace beyond.

“We shall part ways here. I must return. I have other, more pressing matters to deal with.”

“W-wait!” Octavia shrieked as she glanced around the dark streets in obvious panic. “W-where am I? Wh-what is my name?”

Carina turned back to glance at the brand she had left between the Dowager’s brows. The same brand used by the Isbrand King’s to mark a traitor or murderer. A symbol that more than suited the treacherous monarch’s new life. “Rose. Your name is Rose.”