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[Rough Draft] Chapter 102 [Part Two]: A Delicacy of Divinity
“Earl Hawthorne!”
Percy turned away from the small gathering of witches dressed to the nines in rich silk, velvet, and jewels. “Earl Chase Coldwell,” he greeted the portly gentleman, ten years his senior, and his political rival, with a cool smile. “A splendid evening.”
“Quite,” Chase said, a faint smugness clinging to his otherwise polite tone as he gestured to the towering man that accompanied him. “I trust you’ve met before?”
“Never face to face,” Percy replied with a polite head bow to the Duke. “Though the Lord Commander’s reputation is known to all members of the court.”
“As is the reputation of the Hawthorne family name,” Stryker retorted, giving the young Earl an accessing look. “Your father would be proud to see you now. I hear from Earl Coldwell that you have inherited Ethan’s political genius.”
“You flatter me, your Grace,” Percy responded with a genuine smile.
“Yes. Such a shame—a waste of talent like that—gone so suddenly.”
The young Earl’s winter-gray eyes narrowed, but his smile never faltered as he held the Duke’s gaze. “I could say the same thing of your son, Captain Beaumont. So much talent and potential wasted in the King’s shadow—and yet, how strange. Today of all days, he is absent from the King’s side?”
Even if the magical nullification field had smothered the strength and ease of his magic, listening to the Lord Commander’s quickening pulse while observing his dilating eyes was mere child’s play for Percy.
“No,” Stryker forced out, his steel-blue eyes darting toward the royal platform. “It appears the King had another task for my eldest.”
‘An obvious lie.’ The young Earl repressed a sigh as a clumsy waiter bumped against him while passing through the crowd, already irritated at the thought of Kirsi expressing worry over the missing knight.
“I was surprised to see you arrive alone,” Coldwell interjected, noticeably changing the topic. “I thought surely Marchioness Serilda would accompany you, or perhaps even her Grace, Lady Kirsi?”
“No, although I’m fairly certain I saw the Duchess’ carriage behind me in line,” Percy replied casually, brushing the stray beads of wine from his sleeve.
“And the Marchioness? I do hope your beautiful cousin will grace us with her presence tonight.”
“I shall inform Lady Serilda of your concern upon her arrival. Now, if you’ll excuse me. Your Grace.” The young Earl offered the Duke and his lap dog a polite bow before working his way around the ballroom toward the entryway. As he did so, the pureblood noted that several of the knights stationed around the ballroom observed him with open hostility.
‘Well, I guess that answers the question of where the sudden arrival of Witch Hunters went too.’
Percy locked gazes with one of the fake knights, a sinister-looking fellow with a troll-like nose and a scar across his chin. The Earl smirked broadly at the obvious rage in the half-blood’s eyes as he strolled past, then knocked the clumsy waiter from before into the fake knight’s startled arms with an invisible gust of wind.
‘Hmm. That appears to be the limit of my power as long as this damn barrier remains intact.’ The pureblood frowned, ignoring the sound of shattering glass, accompanied by the half-witch’s muffled curses and the startled gasps of nearby nobles. ‘And I can only do this much thanks to Veles’s blessing and ring.’
The notes of discord soon faded behind him as Percy reached his destination, just moments before the page’s voice cut across the room of boisterous voices.
“Announcing, her Grace. Lady Kirsi Valda. Duchess of Bastiallano and Lady Protector of Lafeara.”
***
Carina had just relinquished her cloak to a suspiciously muscular servant when Lord Percy appeared, smiling as he stepped forward to offer a formal bow.
“And where has your escort gone, your Grace?” The Earl inquired with a curious glance at the dwindling line of nobles behind her.
“Something came up,” Carina replied. “Something rather urgent. I had to divert the Viscount and the rest of the Ice Coven to deal with it.”
“How unfortunate,” Percy replied as he stepped closer, his left hand sliding down her left arm as he leaned in to whisper. “They’ve replaced most of the Royal Knights in attendance with Witch Hunters. And the barrier’s rendered all magic except for my own completely ineffective.”
The Duchess frowned as the Earl lifted her left hand, wrapping it around his arm naturally as he guided her into the ballroom. “We’ll have to rely on our enchantments until we find a way to break it then. What about our communication lines?”
“Still working,” Percy replied through the enchanted earring. “That’s how I knew you had arrived.”
Carina let out a small sigh of relief. “Then we stick to the plan. We’ll have to use another group of witches to secure Rose Palace for our retreat.”
“A small section of Serilda’s storm witches should do the trick.”
The Duchess nodded, then turned her gaze towards the platform, where the King watched them intently. She frowned as she took in the knight captain behind Nicholas and quickly scanned the faces of all the other knights around the platform.
“Where is Captain Beaumont?”
“Not here, apparently,” Percy replied, unable to hide the edge in his voice. “Perhaps King Nicholas sent him off on another errand to keep him out of harm’s way?”
Carina pressed her lips together, then offered a subtle shake of her head. “No. Beaumont wouldn’t have gone along with that.”
“Then maybe he’ll show up later. Either way, we can’t exactly go looking for him now.”
The Duchess narrowed her gaze at the Earl’s dismissive tone. “Maybe you can’t.” She dropped her right hand towards the floor. ‘Find Captain Beaumont.’ Viktor’s bracelet clinked softly against her skin as Isaac responded to her command, materializing as a cold, invisible vapor of magic that swept up above the crowd of nobles and slithered outside through the nearest open balcony window.
“What did you just—” Percy followed the trail of cold magic, then turned her suddenly away from the balcony. “Trouble headed our way. Try to be nice.”
Carina’s confusion vanished as an unpleasant and familiar voice greeted them.
“Well, if it isn’t Percy Hawthorne and his favorite half-blood.”
“On second thought, minus bloodshed, anything goes, Kirsi.”
The Duchess maintained a stoic expression of polite interest as she and the Earl turned to face the new Royal Consort, whose grin resembled that of a hunter who had chased their quarry into a pit. “Lady Priscilla.”
“Your Highness,” Percy echoed with a modest head bow.
“I’m utterly delighted you both could make it,” Priscilla continued, each word overtly dripping in sweetness. “And what an amazing gown that is, Lady Kirsi. Oh dear, is that one of your designs? The butterflies are a bit tacky, and it doesn’t suit your frosty demeanor. You are the Duchess of Winter, after all.” The Royal Consort laughed coyly behind her fan. “Are you a Duchess, designer, or investor these days? It’s so hard to keep track. Or perhaps the finances of Bastalliano are in such dire straights that you need the extra income from your little boutique to keep it afloat?”
“How nice of you to take an interest in my little shop,” Carina replied. “Even after I barred from its doors.”
Priscilla’s victorious demeanor faltered as the left corner of her smile twitched noticeably. “And not a moment too soon, judging by the latest shift in creative design.”
The Duchess arched a brow while the Earl exhaled with evident annoyance. “You’re both practically wearing the same dress, Lady Priscilla,” Percy pointed out with mocking patience. “What could you possibly object to?”
“I said the dress was lovely, didn’t I?” Priscilla retorted before pressing the tip of her fan against Carina’s witch-steel corset. “Or was, before you overembellished it with this gaudy armor.” The Royal Consort snorted as she lifted the fan to flick away a lock of the Duchess’s pale white hair. “And wigs are so last century, Lady Kirsi.”
“Did she just—” Percy trailed off, his stunned expression matching Carina’s mystified scoff as they watched the Royal Consort saunter towards her seat on the royal platform with a look of smug validation, shadowed by Lieutenant Olund. “Unbelievable.”
Carina sighed as she smoothed out her tangled curls. “I suppose white hair is unusual in people my age.”
The Earl snorted and then reached out to play with one of the Duchess’s pale locks. “Back when the Isbrand Witches ruled Lafeara, their subjects would wear white wigs to replicate the royal family’s immortal beauty.” He smiled as he raised the white strands curled around his fingers to his lips. “I’m just appalled that she would mistake the real thing for an imitation.”
“I’m more impressed by your ability to flirt even in a situation like this,” Carina retorted as she tugged her hair free from his grasp.
“I can multitask.” Percy offered her a charming smile as he slipped his arm casually around her waist. “And the more attention we draw to ourselves, the less focused they will be on our agents outside.”
The Duchess glanced at the nobles nearby but could recognize very few witches around them. “Marquess Winifred had better hurry. The longer he and his son are absent, the more suspicious our observers will become.”
“Everyone else appears to be here aside from the guest of the hour.” A hint of frustration laced the Earl’s words as his thumb traced the laced gap on the side of Carina’s corset. “What a sorry sight we make if we’ve walked into a trap not even baited with cheese.”
Carina exhaled, ignoring Percy’s hand as she glanced towards the royal platform again, where a rather inebriated monarch appeared to be nearing the bottom of his bottle. She observed the brief spat between Nicholas and Priscilla, wondering if the King’s sour demeanor was due to the Pope’s actions—or his own.
‘Where are you, Beaumont?’
The layered notes of three trumpets echoed throughout the room, silencing the nobles as it pulled the audience’s attention towards the entry door, where a row of Witch Hunters appeared with Ripper at their lead.
The Commander of the Witch Hunter Order was dressed in traditional crimson armor, with a white tabard bearing a golden lion, the symbol of their order, overtop. His equally imposing subordinates were similarly dressed, all carrying at least one weapon in full view as they moved forward to clear a path through the ballroom.
“His Eminence, the Divine Heir of Zarus, Pope Jericho the I,” the page announced in reverent awe as the head of the Holy Church made his appearance.
Something in Jericho’s gate struck Carina as wrong—or perhaps just nervousness. Her jaw clenched as her attention quickly shifted to the brilliant, towering golden staff the Pope carried beside him. The Divine Heir was dressed in his usual white silk robes with a woven golden pallium layered overtop, embroidered with jewels of every color that matched the gemstones of his holy crown. His stern brows, hooked nose, and jutting jawline displayed little of the benevolence his priests so often preached but certainly made for an imposing figure.
‘He looks nothing like his sister,’ Carina realized as she watched his pale golden eyes scan the ballroom before settling upon the Duchess and Earl. She held his gaze, puzzled by the sense of familiarity and hostility she felt in them.
“Somethings…off,” Percy commented quietly.
“I agree. Although I can’t quite put my finger on—” Carina cut off a curious vision in white entered the ballroom behind the Pope.
Three women silhouetted beneath a white veil lined with small bells that covered them from head to foot, revealing only the hem of their dress and the toes of their white boots as they gracefully followed behind the Pope. The holy visage of Saintess Harmonia hung around their necks on a heavy golden chain, pressing the fabric down upon their brow and nose. Every breath they took moved the delicate curtain against their lips, revealing little of their shrouded identity.
“What sort of trick is this?” The Earl titled his head as if facing some unspoken challenge.
“The Pope hidden Hana among them,” Carina replied, her fingers gripping Viktor’s bracelet tightly. “He’s toying with me.”
It was a clever ruse. While the Duchess remained certain that Hana was one of the three women, the other two remained an unknown anomaly and likely threat. The perfect unison of their breath, the eerie way they each moved in sync, and their similar heights made it impossible to detect which one was the Viscountess.
“We’ll rip away their veils when the time comes,” Percy countered determinedly. “We must deal with the anti-magic barrier first. Even if the Witch Hunters can’t use magic, they outnumber us two to one already.”
“Have our agents finished setting up our barrier?”
The Earl smiled as he nodded to where Marquess Winifred had silently returned to the ballroom through a servant’s passage door. “It would appear they have succeeded.”
Carina nodded silently. Her gaze followed the three veiled women, granted seats on the royal platform behind the Pope’s assigned chair. The Witch Hunters took up their positions around both monarchs and turned their grim expressions toward the crowd.
The nobles in attendance appeared unphased by the sight of the Pope’s armed men and more curious as to the identity of the women behind him. Lady Priscilla attempted conversation with the veiled guests but was swiftly diverted by the Pope, who appeared to converse with the Royal Consort and King, though Nicholas remained drunkenly sullen throughout.
The Duchess reached out one last time to check with Isaac, who had finished searching the entirety of Peony Palace to no avail. Carina clenched her jaw silently. A strange feeling of panic pressed against her lungs, joining the gnawing sense of foreboding that had followed since she entered the wolves’ den.
‘Keep searching for now. I will summon you if I need you.’
The animated conversations of the nobles swelled around them as the Factions divided themselves to either side of the red carpet. The page boy, a rather large fellow with pale skin and cheeks flushed so red he might as well be wearing rouge, scurried through the parting nobles toward the royal platform. Two Witch Hunters cut sharply in front of him, forcing the startled attendant to find his position at the bottom of the steps, where Duke Stryker Hargreve joined him.
“We will now begin the Ceremony of Fealty,” Stryker boomed authoritatively, silencing the room. “Each head of household, and only that household, will be called by name in turn by rank. Only the head of household and their appointed heir need present themselves before the King and give their oath. All other family members, escorts, and attendants will remain and wait at a distance. Understood?”
Most of the nobles appeared to take his overbearing demeanor in turn and nodded along silently.
“Good. I shall go first.” The Duke swiftly turned and, after parting the two Witch Hunters obscuring his view with a glare, knelt before the King.
“I, Lord Stryker Hargreve, Duke of Hargreve, swear my loyalty, obedience, and fidelity to the King, Nicholas Havardur, and his bloodline….”
“You’ll be up next,” Percy muttered urgently as the Duke continued his oath.
“That man,” Carina replied quietly, “is in league with the Pope and yet swears loyalty to Nicholas?”
“It’s not a magically binding oath like the ones the Covens use,” Percy answered with a wry smile. “Mortals have always excelled at lies and betrayal. It’s in their nature to crave their master’s crown. Which is why you should never trust them.”
“Says the witch after the King’s throne.”
“My ambitions are driven by the needs of the Coven.” The Earl took her hand and raised it to his lips. “Which is why I pledge my fealty and that of the Covens to you, Kirsi Isbrand, and no other.”
“The King summons Lady Kirsi Valda, Duchess of Bastiallano.”
The Duchess blinked rapidly as the page bellowed out her name. She slowly pulled her hand away from Percy’s fingers, her gaze catching upon his confident winter-gray eyes and reassuring smile. Then she turned and advanced towards the waiting Duke, the boyish page beside him, and the line of Witch Hunters who stood between Carina and her fate.
The court of nobles murmured as the delicate ornamental butterflies that decorated the Duchess’s snow-white hair and dress fluttered their golden wings and slowly took flight, weaving their way through the air above the red carpet.
The Charu butterflies were a rare specimen found only in the desert between Ventrayna and Zarus on a small hill where the last Saint had been laid to rest. Although her casket was later unearthed and placed in a tomb beneath the Holy City, the flowers which blossomed upon the hill continued to provide a nurturing habitat for the Charu caterpillar and butterflies. Due to the legend, the delicate insects were considered sacred, even among witches. They also possessed two unique characteristics that set them apart from the rest of their kind. Most notably, the golden mist that trailed behind them from the heavy golden dust that coated their wings. And finally, their vivacious appetite for blood that enabled them to live for up to ten years past the average life cycle of their species.
It just so happened that Saint Harmonia had taken a liking to these beautiful, predatory butterflies, feeding them her blood and making them her pets during her retirement. Even after a century, the descendants of the Charu had developed an instinctive craving for the Saint’s bloodline.
Which was why the thirty-nine surviving hatchlings of the golden chrysalis that Carina had obtained through Frost’s trade connections and kept stored out of sight in the Holy Maiden Boutique under Sir Everly’s care, now swarmed toward the royal platform, much to the delight of the nobles in attendance.