As we were forewarned, our wait within the confines of the bath chamber proved brief whilst Confred saw to the necessary arrangements. In this interlude, Rascal seized the opportunity to brief us on the bewildering events unfolding.
My father had arrived at Highsummit Manor early that morning. The court and guests had assembled in the grand foyer to receive him. The news of my supposed demise had spread sufficiently that he had undoubtedly heard, casting a pall of melancholy over the gathered throng. Dismissing the court, he retained only his inner council for a private consultation. After this meeting, to the astonishment of all, the Duke declared martial law, confining the nobility to their chambers until further notice. Like myself, Rascal was utterly perplexed by these sudden developments.
Understandably, she was anxious, for the last time she had been caught in the maelstrom of war, it had culminated in the loss of nearly all her kin and the life she had known. I, coming from the outside, assumed the responsibility of reassuring her that no enemy forces were near. Even if they were, I reminded her that Highsummit Manor had weathered sieges before, never once falling to its assailants.
This discourse could not be held in private, for our assistants promptly arrived. Though it might have been unpleasant for Confred to endure the prattle of a girl not yet a third his age, he remained steadfast in his duty, ensuring the servants filled the copper tub with warm water for our use.
Once we had dismissed them and were informed that a guard would be stationed just outside the door, we resumed our conversation. Rascal was wounded by our sudden departure, unannounced as it had been. She had learned of our trip to Bernan only through Fermina, after we were long gone. On behalf of Princess, I extended my apologies, and it was not challenging to compensate Rascal—I would tell her a story.
“You inquire as to what I was doing in Bernan?” I began with a playful flourish. “Merely fulfilling a commission. Painting. You would find it dull, my dear sister, but the events that unfolded in that town were anything but! Bask in the warmth of the water, and allow me to regale you with a tale the likes of which you have never heard—and I swear, it is all true!” I declared, embellishing my performance with theatrical gestures.
“Ooh. This ought to be good,” Rascal responded with a roll of her eyes, her tone heavy with skepticism. “What? You will tell me how you found that dress you’re wearing? It’s horrible, by the way.”
Rascal, ever swift, had already disrobed and slipped into the tub. She waited with an impatient expression as I approached, a smile playing on my lips. I had loosened Princess’s dress but had yet to discard the lower half.
“In a manner of speaking,” I teased. “But what I truly intend to share is the story of a battle scar.”
“A battle scar?” Rascal repeated with a laugh, mocking my revelation.
“Indeed! Behold!”
With a flourish, I disrobed, revealing the bruise Chelyo had inflicted upon our pelvis. Though the pain had begun to wane, and the pomadora cream hastened the healing process, the mark remained visible. With hands on hips, I stepped out of the dress, brazenly displaying Princess’s proud body.
“Aufelia!” Rascal cried in alarm. “What happened? W-why are you hurt there!?”
“I sustained that injury in a battle against a magian apostate of the most nefarious sort. This is no lie, dear Rascal. Should you harbor any doubts, inquire with Lady Lunatora herself. If any part of what I am about to recount proves false, I shall suffer a hundred needles through my lying tongue! Now, make space. It is… quite cold outside.”
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“Sure, just let me… no, wait. Wait! OW! Aufelia, that is my toe!”
“Oh, I beg your pardon. Kindly move your legs a little. I am going to sit.”
“Like this?”
“No, more to the left. No, actually, open them. As long as my rump fits, we will figure out the rest later. Yes, perfect. Alright, now, prepare yourself to hear an awesome tale of danger, bravery, and survival! Beware, for it is not for the faint of heart.”
I relayed to Rascal a version of the recent events that was tailored specifically for her amusement. It was a more thrilling account than the one I had provided to the city’s Constabulary, though perhaps not as exhilarating as the reality itself had been, for I was mindful to keep Princess’s ability to wield Artalar a secret. In the tale, Princess had fought with remarkable bravery, narrowly escaping death by utilizing alchemical powders left scattered about, resulting in small explosions. I described Chelyo in the most loathsome manner possible, portraying him as a cadaverous old man with sinister intentions.
Rascal’s initial skepticism soon gave way to awe. As proof of our ordeal, I cited the loss of the funds for our painting commission from Lord Faringoth, the abandonment of a rather expensive dress, and, of course, the visible bruise upon our body.
“Did you really kick a bad magian right in the face?” Rascal asked, her voice tinged with admiration and an eager willingness to believe.
“My toe struck the bridge of his nose, this I swear,” I confirmed with utmost sincerity and raised our hand in the signal of an oath. “I even attempted to choke the scoundrel, but he was far stronger than one might expect!”
“How is that? What kind of trick did he do to make himself stronger?” Rascal's curiosity was endearing, and with her innocent disposition, I saw no harm in indulging her with a bit of arcane knowledge.
“There are myriad sigils—er, ‘arcane circles’—that magians may employ to enhance physical strength. I know of one that grants a sudden surge of power at the risk of muscle tearing. However, what this magian possessed was of a more permanent nature. While I cannot ascertain the exact specifics, it is not uncommon for magians to alter their own bodies to suit their needs. It is a gradual and painstaking process, but the results can be formidable. You are likely aware of their extended lifespans, and you may have heard tales of those who could breathe fire, poison drinks with a mere touch of their saliva, or move objects with the force of their mind. These stories may hold a kernel of truth, or they may be mere folklore. Among such feats, a slight enhancement of physical prowess seems rather mundane; seddeveri often use lifespark for similar purposes.”
“What? B-but then, how come they didn’t do that to help Master Dubart? Tons of magians came and went for years!” Rascal inquired, her question both innocent and insightful.
“They attempted it many times," I answered, recalling each failed endeavor. "Bodily augmentations demand an intimate understanding of the subject being altered, and the body must be capable of enduring the transformation. It is a slow and arduous journey, fraught with risks, and success is never guaranteed. Moreover, a magian can usually only modify his or her own form, save counted exceptions.”
“You sure know a lot about this,” she observed, though I remained unperturbed by her scrutiny. Rascal was easily satisfied and swiftly convinced.
“Whenever I was curious about arcane or scientific matters, I merely asked Dubart,” I replied with a simple explanation.
However, the mention of my name inevitably cast a shadow over Rascal's mood. Though there was little point in dwelling on the past, I diverted her attention with another story, one she found even more captivating than the tale of our battle with Chelyo. Despite Princess’s stern warnings to keep it to ourselves, I could not resist recounting the escapade of Princess fleeing danger in the nude—a tale that both amused Rascal and deepened her bond with us, as she had experienced a similar ordeal.
We aided each other in donning the garments Riatna had fetched for us. Princess, of course, fretted over the fact that her shoes did not match her dress and that red was hardly appropriate for the occasion. As I rapped upon the bathroom door to inform the guard that we were prepared to be escorted back, I began to realize the consequences of our defiance toward Confred.
“I am sorry, noble Ladies, but martial law remains in effect,” the soldier’s voice reached us through the closed door, denying us even the opportunity to open it. “You were granted a singular exception. My orders are to ensure that no one departs from this hallway, yourselves included.”
That resentful old man had managed to trap us within a tiled room, bereft of any furniture save for the copper tub, which now held quickly cooling water. Blast it; I had been thoroughly bested.
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