Chapter 16 – Delacroix

  Demi

  Countess Demi Delacroix, guildmaster, acting lord of Niville, and consort to the royal prince of Rhodea all at age twenty-eight. She was a representative of the Spirean Alliance of five nations: Lencia to the west; Jh?n in the north; the southern peninsula Bavol; her homeland Rhodea in the east; and, finally, here – Cintra, the heart of the continent. Demi secured this visible role a little over a year ago. Woodpine, being the capital of Cintra, often played host to meetings between the most important people in Spirea. It was a game of inches, and she’d gained several last year. Demi was starting small; she’d warmed a few up-and-coming Bavolian lords with advantageous deals for Niville-harvested flax. It was just to get her name in their mouths – she was trying to escape being known as The Flaxseed Countess, so it remained to be seen how she could leverage her newfound control over Woodpine’s adventuring guild.

  Demi glanced out her window, seeing the activity in the streets increase. Must’ve been lunch time soon. She was about to decide on what to eat when a knock came from the door.

  “Come,” Demi called, taking a moment to set her posture.

  The door opened to admit the most neurotic mess of a commoner Demi had ever seen: a short cat-folk woman who wore her uniform over her armor for some reason. She was shaking and looked ready to turn around and flee from the office at any second.

  “H-hello, your lordship,” the commoner started, “I mean! My ladyship, er, you royal person you-”

  “Lady Delacroix will suffice,” Demi said. “You also need to bow.”

  One annoying part of this city: none of the commoners knew how to interact with nobles. She knew Radavan Dotour, the city’s lord, had done this on purpose; but, the results required her to educate them constantly.

  “Right!” the commoner proceeded to bow her head, then bend forward to bow more, soon stopped by having her forehead meet the floor. She stretched her left arm up toward Demi, holding one of the adventure forms, while keeping her face against the ground.

  “I had a question about this one!” the commoner mumbled into the rug.

  Demi rose, took it, tried not to think about how many problems this person had. What in the world was this? How was this ink colored purple? And why was it so – cute? She began to read the entries, but stopped, realizing the cat-folk was still “bowing.”

  “Please rise,” Demi said, “are you Olivia Knoh?”

  “Yes, that’s me!” Olivia said, standing up straight now with a pained smile. Demi pursed her lips.

  “What was your question?” Demi inquired. She needed to find something to compliment – fast – or this commoner was going to have a breakdown.

  “I just wondered if the purple ink was okay!” Olivia said. “Everything else looked good!”

  “Since purple ink doesn’t exist without magic,” Demi explained, “that’s something I’ll have to decide. You did quite good to notice this detail.”

  Somehow, this did not seem to soothe Olivia, who widened her eyes in surprise.

  “I did good?” Olivia asked.

  “Yes, quite good,” Demi said, “it’s impressive enough to be a reading commoner. It’s more impressive to use your own judgment to say there might be something wrong with this.”

  Olivia seemed stunned for several seconds. She mouthed the words, I did good, as though not believing them.

  “Was there anything else?” Demi asked, wishing it didn’t take so much effort to make commoners relax. Olivia shook her head no.

  “Then, it’s time for lunch,” Demi continued. “Now, listen, I know you’re coming here from an adventuring job, but-”

  “I will definitely, certainly not be wearing armor tomorrow!” Olivia interrupted, taking on a proud pose. “Just a one-time thing, I promise!”

  Demi considered her for a moment. Perhaps a speech on propriety wouldn’t help the poor girl.

  “Very well,” Demi said, “you’re dismissed.”

  Olivia, with a last unneccessary bow, left her office and silently closed the door, leaving Demi alone with the adventuring form, which she read. Well, the purple ink was a curiousity, but the debrief had something that captured her attention for a while. It detailed a journey to some hovel in the Lacians and an encounter with a Primal – the magister had named it Kingoma. The pertinent sentence that gave Demi pause: …killed the Kingoma, which was spawned by the ignorance and malice of the corrupted Lanya chapter…

  The debrief contained no other details about this corrupted chapter, but that was the aspect Demi was most concerned about. Corrupted Dranglethi chapters were a very serious problem. That’s how things like the war happened.

  Perhaps this was information that could elevate her with Dotour. But – useless without further details. First and foremost: she quickly filled out and sealed a certificate verification form. The magister who wrote the adventure up already had hers, obviously, but she’d named a Djanara as receiving a certificate from the events too. Since Demi’s afternoon would now entail a walk to the university, she didn’t want this Jezza person to worry that anyone had noticed she clearly invented an adventure. Even though Demi had.

  It was good work.

  * * *

  Woodpine University’s sprawling campus began at the city’s north wall, stretched west over the Crescent, and continued north for nearly a mile. Demi made her way north through the noble residences, as always, somewhat annoyed by how many commoners used this path to get to and from campus. More Dotour-ism. On the surface, building the noble residences closest to the university made traditional sense. But, he then turned Woodpine University into the most prominent commonfolk university in Spirea, which made it so the nobles were never far insulated from them. Even the guildhalls, owned by nobility, were erected side to side with worker-owned union headquarters.

  This was – to put it far too lightly – untraditional, losing him the loyalty of many old families. Demi saw the boldness. Dotour’s insistence against the wishes of the noble families might be from altruism, as he said, but Demi suspected he was playing a longer game of some sort. The gambit was clear to her at least: he wanted to empower his commonfolk; but, to what end?

  Perhaps she’d learn more from the magisters. Despite being in Woodpine for a year, Demi hadn’t had reason to visit the campus personally; so, she was not expecting what she saw on the other side of the north wall’s arch.

  “Morgana’s mace,” Demi exhaled, “this is for commonborn?”

  The stone path curved slightly and led downhill between the tall pines that surrounded campus, allowing Demi to see the university’s true scale. The path led between statues of men and women wearing traditional magister’s robes and came to a three-way fork, with the two side paths each leading to grand, sandy bricked buildings with blue-gold ornamentation upon their roofs. The forward path led to a kept field, sectioned into quadrants by a second intersecting path. In the center of the field where the paths met, stood a sandy stone belltower as tall as the surrounding buildings; and upon all four faces of the belltower, tapestries draped down to display intricate patterns she couldn’t make out from here. At the western border, between two buildings, she spotted a wide bridge over the Crescent, leading to the other half of campus.

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  Demi took her time approaching the quad, laboring through the acceptance of seeing commoners wearing traditional arcanists’ robes. She must’ve been getting used to Cintra – she realized it didn’t bother her as much as it would have a short year ago. In fact, as far as commonfolk went, these kids looked as clean and healthy as any of the noble scholars back in Rhodea.

  Their bearings, however – absolute peasantry.

  Being arcanists, these youngsters must be at least seventeen. That was certainly old enough to know that giggling, dancing around, and even chasing after each other was making a mockery of the university! But there they went – Demi had to pause suddenly as three halflings darted around from behind her, running at top speed toward the field. No apology came, nor even recognition that they’d just about toppled a countess. She watched them go, continuing her measured approach, until she spotted someone who stood out walking toward her.

  It was a man who carried elf blood like Demi, moving with the elegance that distinguished nobility. He was quite thin, with a subtle ash-wood color to his skin and black hair with gray streaks pulled into a ponytail. His robes, a pure white with black floral patterns, were adorned with multiple pins and badges. The man’s eyes were a luminescent gray, and they were meeting hers with a knowing look, which paired with a gentle smile as they met at the edge of the quad.

  “Greetings, countess,” the man said. His voice was wise beyond measure yet humble all the same. Demi racked her brain for a scarce moment – this man knew her, so she should know him. She realized she did.

  “Are you Rafflesia Maeraddyth Raloralei Sextus?” Demi asked, watching the man’s smile grow. The Raloralei elves were a Lencian noble family who seemed determined to be everywhere but Lencia.

  “Archmagister Rafflesia Maeraddyth Raloralei Sextus, Vox Divina Veritatis,” Rafflesia corrected her cooly. “As I said in the letters, simply Professor Rafflesia will suffice.”

  Demi performed her gesture of greeting: two clasped fists, one over the other. Rafflesia performed his: both palms up, side by side. All proper. Her people were farmers, his were wordsmiths and artists.

  “It’s nice to meet face-to-face,” Demi remarked, “I’ve enjoyed the relationship the guild has with the university. Though, I don’t remember mentioning I would be here today.”

  “You did not,” Rafflesia said, “but the stars did. Rather plainly. Would you care to walk with me? I must make it to a seminar on west campus.”

  Demi nodded, walking the perimeter of the quad alongside him.

  “Did the stars also tell you why I came?” Demi asked. She knew Mistral’s weave, the one magisters utilized, had some capability to grant premonitions – no idea how it worked, though.

  “Ah, forgive the metaphor,” Rafflesia said, “it wasn’t truly the stars that told me. It was the fact that a magister came back from her Yule break and mentioned what she’d been up to. I figured the unfortunate-ness of her hometown’s situation would get someone’s attention, once it was known. No magic there.”

  “Right, well,” Demi frowned, thinking. “Don’t you think a corrupted dragon chapter is a serious situation?”

  “It could be,” Rafflesia said, “I understand the concern, but tell me: do you think the people of Berr, all five dozen or so of them, could initiate another Red War? Especially with a dragon that doesn’t let them fight?”

  Demi considered things.

  “The story goes that the Redwalkers started as a chapter like any other,” Demi pointed out, “they were following the path of Janus’s Pride, same as I follow the path of Morgana’s Order, and you follow the path of –”

  Demi trailed off, seeing Rafflesia’s raised eyebrow. They were close enough to the belltower now to see the tapestry. It was a deep blue cloth, with purple trim. In the center, a symbol that glowed subtly with its own light. A pink flame mid-billow, or perhaps a river – it looked like both at once. Three four-pronged stars surrounded either side of the flame, and at the tip, a larger eight-pronged star like the Dragonstar. It played close to being uncomfortable, having seven stars; but it was really six stars of one type and one star of another, so, it wasn’t a true seven. Still, why not be careful and add another star?

  “Mistral?” Rafflesia finished her thought. “That would be her symbol you’re staring at, yes.”

  “Forgive me, it’s my first time seeing it like this,” Demi said. “I know the quicksilver dragon is not offered a spoke upon the Dragonstar, but her weave remains, nonetheless. She must also cut the caster off when they stray too far from the path, yes? And do you go after them then?”

  Rafflesia’s smile and patient eyes met hers for a while.

  “Where to begin?” He asked. “I suppose first and foremost: was the Red War not partially fought so that the people of Spirea could express their faith as they wished? Even if that faith presented no tangible power?”

  “That was one reason,” Demi admitted. “Also, the pillaging, the killing, the sheer audacity of imposing a single god for everyone.”

  “Forgive me if I sound coy,” Rafflesia said, “history is the most important mundane subject when it comes to practicing divination magic, so, I’m quite well-versed. Did you know that the Redwalkers never once lost access to their dragon’s magic until the very final moments of the war, when King Janusson died in the battle of Jancrest – now, Dragonfall?”

  “That’s because Janus, the Red Dragon of Pride, allows for aggression,” Demi answered. “All the Dragon Gods do in service of their path, save for Lanya’s Peace. It is the law of man that binds such action. It’s sensible that their god Janus only deigned to deny them their magic after it was clear they lost, he is the most war-like.”

  “So, then,” Rafflesia stopped walking for a moment. “If a chapter can retain its powers while ravaging the continent, and a chapter can lose its powers while existing simply on the edge of the land, is that enough to take intervening action? I ask you: don’t you think the people of Jezza’s hometown have already been punished enough?”

  Demi had to admit, that was a fair point. She didn’t respond for a while, instead taking in the sounds of all the arcanists chattering as they crossed the bridge.

  A red-skinned boy, of some origin Demi had never seen, shot by the pair of them, his smooth tail flapping behind him as he tore across the way. He looked like he was chasing something – Demi realized he had monstrous claws for hands and feet. The boy sank onto all fours, digging his claws into the ground to gain speed and disappear around the opposite bank’s trees.

  “What was that?” Demi asked, deciding not to answer the professor’s question. Rafflesia smirked.

  “We’re figuring that out,” Rafflesia said. “We’re reasonably sure Az is not fae, so there’s that much at least.”

  Demi, for once, had a slightly queasy feeling. She wasn’t used to being in over her head.

  “This place is a mystery to me,” Demi said. “It’s so much different than Rhodean schools. Yet, it’s the same dragon: Mistral.”

  “The commonfolk haven’t been steeped in the prewar traditions,” Rafflesia said. “To them, it’s all fertile new ground. What if I told you that many of them don’t conceive of Mistral as a dragon at all?”

  “What?” Demi was shocked. “The texts are clear about the quicksilver dragon’s existence!”

  “Ah, she certainly exists,” Rafflesia said. “But one must remember how metaphorical the old texts were. Her weave, as it seems, is fundamentally different to each of the traditional dragon gods’. For one thing, you can see it.”

  Demi blinked. Rafflesia chuckled.

  “We’ve put together some very interesting arcane tools,” Rafflesia explained. “By that I mean, spellcraft that allows us to see things we would not normally perceive; both small and large. The use of optics combined with scrying spells lets us see the color octarine, and it would seem that Mistral’s weave exists as tangible, octarine-hue ley lines that span Terria’s surface. They are passing through you this very moment, in fact.”

  The professor must do this often, thought Demi; he knew to pause here. She needed it.

  “That’s not all,” Rafflesia continued, “the only requirement for its use is mastery; though we call those who have mastery without understanding sorcerers, not wizards. It’s also unheard of for someone to lose access to their spellcraft once they’ve mastered it. This has led to many scholars personifying her as a Lady of Mysteries who enjoys being studied; or to blend the traditional metaphor, a mercurial dragon who slips between understanding’s grasp. Still others playfully refer to her as the Flying Noodle Wyrm.”

  Demi had to work to keep her confusion from showing, instead simply saying: “I see.”

  “I’m aware this is all very disruptive,” Rafflesia said.

  “It tracks for Dotour,” Demi said, filing her thoughts away for later. “Tell me, could I see your underling? Jezza?”

  As she asked the question, a bell rang out once from the quad. Rafflesia glanced away, frowning.

  “For one, she’s not necessarily my underling,” Rafflesia said. “Secondly, she should be starting her mathematics lecture this moment, and I my foretelling methods seminar. Worry not, I told them I would be a few minutes late ahead of time.”

  “Alright, well,” Demi responded, “perhaps I have enough information to act on without speaking to her. Thank you, professor. Get to your seminar.”

  Rafflesia offered her a graceful parting in Rhodean Elvish and turned to leave her standing on the bank. The arcanists that had been running all around them were now far fewer in number and running faster. Demi’s mind was far elsewhere. Her eyes rested on Mistral’s sigil the entire return walk.

  There was nothing wrong with it. She just wished it had been eight stars, not seven.

  One less than the pure octet. Incomplete. Cursed, as the superstition went.

  Perhaps Morgana could help her sort things this evening.