Chapter 3: A Certain Sob (2/7)

Diana looked at Ionia. Wearing a small tiara, the princess seemed brighter and lovelier than anyone in the hall. Thinking of Alexa, who had whined and begged to come to the birthday party too, Diana smoothed down the princess's dress and fussed the last touches into place.

Diana gave Ionia her very best. She whispered the names of anyone the princess might approach first, coaxed her into offering greetings, and fed her everything she needed to charm them.

Who liked what, who loathed whom — the intelligence Diana had gathered rolling through high society in her past life proved invaluable now.

Thanks to it, Princess Ionia left a deep impression on people before her debut had even begun. A princess grown wise and clever beyond her years. That was what they thought of her.

"Anne."

"Yes?"

"Did you remember the gift? For Philip, I mean."

"...Yes."

"Then give it to him soon."

"But..."

"When we rest later on, you'll be attending Countess Riven. I know you'll do well."

Princess Ionia beamed.

"They say this is a terribly important chance for you as well. Don't just trail along behind me, Anne — you ought to enjoy yourself too. You rarely get to wear such a pretty dress."

The moment Ionia broke into that radiant smile, something caught in Diana's throat. Why was it that strangers, and never her own family, were the ones who looked after her like this? She turned the thought over, then nodded with a smile.

"Thank you."

The gift for Philip, she had secured long ago. Slipping out of the ballroom, she retrieved it from the pouch she had left in safekeeping. The gift was a perfectly ordinary quill.

But an astonishing magic lay hidden inside it. Back when she was part of high society in her past life, the appearance of this very quill had once turned the social world upside down.

Some idle soul among the ancient mages had packed a truly tremendous spell into it.

Finding it in a junk shop had been sheer luck.

"Where might Prince Philip be?"

Asking discreetly among those who kept the palace, Diana learned that Philip had slipped away in the company of the princess of Caliari.

Trying his hand at romance already, is he...?

Young people really did move fast. Diana swallowed the thought like a small sigh. That she should feel this disgruntled over a boy so much younger than herself was unbecoming of her.

She set off in search of the princess and Philip. They had done nothing but brush past each other during the birthday celebrations, without so much as a proper word. Whatever else, she owed him his gift... She would see what the two of them were talking about and turn back if the mood proved wrong.

Yet even after searching every corridor and sitting room down to the ground floor, she found no trace of them.

The princess of Caliari was only fourteen. A touch young for a scandal, surely... Just as Diana moved to seek them out, a wind stirred.

A voice shrilled out, enormous. What was that? It wasn't a 'sound' arriving through her ears so much as something slammed straight into her skull. What on earth...? Diana's feet had already begun carrying her toward it before she caught herself. An alarm was ringing inside her head.

Should I call for someone?

It felt somehow ominous without rhyme or reason, and she thought about fetching help. But strangely, there were no knights anywhere near.

Odd. For a banquet this size, the knights should have been posted to the last man...?

Before she could puzzle over it, someone stepped out onto the path she meant to take and brushed past her.

"Eek!"

She shrieked in startlement. It was Philip, soaked in blood. Diana's eyes flew wide. He was gripping someone's hand — a black-haired girl, she realized.

What was happening? Why was Philip in such a state? Why was he being chased? Reason snapped back to her in an instant.

Diana did not know exactly when Philip had died.

But she knew his death had thrown the whole kingdom into uproar. She had assumed it was simply because a prince had been assassinated — yet by every account the affair had swelled far beyond anything imaginable, until a murderous tension gripped the capital itself.

"Run!" Philip shouted.

No. Don't tell me— today? It's happening today?

Diana twisted to look behind her. Black-clad assassins were sprinting straight at her. Something metallic flashed, catching the lamplight. Ah. She was going to die. She was absolutely going to die.

Who could have known she would be swept up in an assassination?

Diana bolted after Philip.

Something tiny was shrieking above the black-haired girl's head. There it was. That was where the voice was coming from.

Something whipped past behind her waist. She made a point of not looking to see what it was.

A poisoned dagger, or a throwing dart, most likely.

She was in a dress, and her steps were slow. This was no Brien residence where she knew every back passage — and the assassins would know it too. Naturally they would spare no witness who had seen their faces. As death arrived out of nowhere, someone seized her arm and hauled her bodily through a gap in the shrubbery.

It was Philip.

"You!"

Diana gasped for breath. They had squeezed into a gap in the hedge that only children could enter, and only there could she finally draw air again. The problem was that the assassins had seen them slip inside. And once in, it proved a dead end.

"I know, so hush already, Sylph!"

The girl — presumably the princess of Caliari — was shouting. What in the world was that thing? No. That hardly mattered now.

"What's going on?"

"We were attacked out of nowhere... Are you hurt?"

At Philip's words Diana looked down at her arms. Arms and legs alike were torn and ragged.

"I'll scar, I suppose."

"You look about to die this very moment!"

Philip shouted, beside himself.

"What are you even doing here?"

"I came to bring you your present."

"Oh... Ha! I'm sorry. For dragging you into this."

But there was no time to trade words. The present. She had something that could break this moment open, too.

The instant footsteps sounded and the assassins closed in, Diana swung the quill.

The quill flared green, and spheres of wind began to burst forth with staggering force.

It was only that she had been given no breath to spare; with time to prepare, everything changed. Better still, her back was to a dead end — no need to watch behind her at all.

Into this monstrous quill, an ancient mage had locked a powerful magic of protection.

With every movement of Diana's hand, the wind spheres rained down without mercy. The round little spell-shells were nothing large, but they carried certain lethal force, and they mauled the assassins one after another. The men were professionals; they twisted away from their vitals, yet the wounds multiplied across their limbs and bodies regardless. A few took a blast square to the bone and dropped where they stood.

Then someone hurled a dagger at Diana.

A tiny winged fairy darted into its path and blocked it. And Diana understood why Philip's assassination had failed so outright, back then. It was because of this being.

She swung the quill toward that side, and a scream tore loose — and with it an assassin crumpled.

When she raised the quill again, the magic stopped. In the sudden stillness, Diana studied the fallen men — and grimaced.

Now she'd gone and made a mess of it.

She looked down at her own arms and legs. Wounded — hardly a pretty state. Philip was bleeding too, from sword cuts at his shoulder and waist. But he moved freely enough; the blades had likely carried no poison.

In any case, both of them were alive. The little princess as well. Just as Diana moved to speak, Philip said:

"Hey. You."

"Yes?"

"Hand me that quill, quick, and get out of here."

"..."

Philip had hit upon precisely the same thought she had.

"I'll say this was a gift from my grandfather. So you leave this place, now — this instant!"

Diana bowed low to him.

"I'm sorry. I wanted to see to your wounds."

"It's all right."

Before she left, she spoke to the young girl who was still watching her.

"Your Highness — I must ask you, too, to keep silent about my having been here."

"I say! You have saved my life — at least give me your name!"

"Please ask Prince Philip."

Diana scrambled away in a fluster. Caliari, at present, would be in the throes of civil war — rebellion had broken out in Od, at the kingdom's far edge. It would be nothing strange for assassins to have been sent from Od.

But would assassins from Od truly choose a foreign palace to wage their war? Absurd. The killers had known the royal grounds intimately. And the knights, coincidentally, were nowhere near. A perfect moment for murder, through and through.

Who could have arranged such a situation?

The Caliari princess had every reason to be targeted. And only one person could have steered the Caliari princess and Philip into each other's company: the Queen.

There was motive, too. Philip's maternal grandfather, Count Calcos, was a knight of great renown — a border lord whose martial might was keen as a blade.

She had saved Philip, yes. But given circumstances this glaring, what would the Queen make of Diana if she learned who had done the saving? She would mark her an enemy. That much was certain.

Worse — she might turn the entire House of Brien against herself. An artifact bearing the magic of protection was not the sort of thing that simply 'happened' into one's hands. What would it look like, if not her father — Duke Brien — throwing his full strength behind saving Philip? It would be almost an insult to call it coincidence.

Much as it pained her to leave Philip to clean up the wreckage, there was no help for it. To be loathed by the Queen, to have her house mistaken for the Queen's enemy through mere misunderstanding — that was the one thing Diana could least afford. Cowardly or not, she had no other choice.

Why does everything feel harder since I came back to the past?

Diana bit her lip. The business with Mirva, and now this — it felt as though danger alone kept seeking her out.

She tore her underskirt to wipe away the blood and staunch the flow. The wound at her shoulder had come within a hair of grazing her neck. The gash on her calf — a shade deeper, and she might never have walked again. Every last one had landed somewhere lethal.

Thank heaven the commotion had drawn the servants and knights off in that direction. She pinned her torn dress shut with a brooch so it passed for ornament, and let the fabric swallow her calf.

To be wounded here meant having been caught in the assassination. She had to look as ordinary as possible. Having checked her appearance over, she called to a maid making her way back toward the palace.

"I'm feeling unwell and mean to leave the palace. Where might the carriages be?"

The maid kindly showed her the way. Diana did her utmost to keep any sign of injury from her face. Settling into the ducal carriage at last, she let out a long breath of relief.

I'm sorry, Philip.

She had wanted to help him mend the mess — instead she had fled like a dog with its tail between its legs. They said fate could not be changed; surely it would not come to that? The worry gnawed at her — and so did her own wounds. She had to send word to Princess Ionia that she had gone home... and it would be best to notify her father, who was there, as well.

Perhaps it was the tension finally draining out of her. Her consciousness grew hazy.

A long while later, arriving at the ducal residence, Diana found a face waiting for her. Giscard.

"Where are the other maids?"

"They are all away on leave, so the annex is being put to rights in the meantime. Word of your arrival was sent ahead; they have only just come out."

Why was it, she wondered. The sight of this unnerving boy, whose thoughts she could never fathom, put her at ease.

"My lady?"

"Help me walk."

Diana murmured it, and Giscard nodded.

"My lady! What in the world has happened!"

Alarmed by her early return, the head maid came hurrying over. Diana drew her close and whispered.

"I'm hurt. I can't tell you why — and keep it from my father."

"Yes, my lady."

The head maid was a woman Diana had taken pains to win over during the affair with Mirva. Her daughter had fallen ill, and Diana had personally seen to it that a physician was found and the girl cured. Since then, the head maid had feigned loyalty to Mirva while quietly watching Diana's back.

"Shall I fetch a physician?"

"No. Bring me wound salve first."

"At once."

With that, the head maid turned to Giscard.

"See to the young lady."

Giscard nodded. Diana ordered the situation with a level head. First: she would tell her father nothing of having saved Philip. Sometimes not knowing was the better medicine. The attempt on Philip's life could be considered finished — surely?

An assassination was no simple undertaking; it was staged for one perfect moment. Miss that opening, and one could fairly assume the next chance at success would never come again.

Diana leaned on Giscard's arm. She strove to walk as though nothing were amiss, but she could feel the bound wound on her calf splitting open, blood seeping through. The moment she reached the stairs, she knew she could go no farther.

And yet the instant she tried to climb, her body gave out beneath her, crumpling helplessly.

"My lady!"

"Shh."

Giscard's face darkened. He opened his mouth to reproach her, scowling — then his gaze dropped to her leg, and he swept her up into his arms.

Huh? What — he can carry me like this? How? Wasn't he still a little boy?

And then it dawned on her: Giscard had left childhood behind — he was at the age when a boy ripens into a man.

They said he had grown strong, and apparently it was true. He held her without a tremor. Giscard's gaze slid over the body in his arms. When Diana looked away, his eyes narrowed for the barest instant.

In the end he bore her to her room and managed to lay her safely upon the bed.

The mattress grazed her calf, and the pain nearly wrung a scream out of her. Then Giscard spoke.

"My lady."

"..."

"Let me see the wound."

When she did not answer, his brows drew together.

"That is no fall's wound, is it."

"..."

"The blood has been dripping, one drop at a time. No matter how filthy a slave I may be—"

What? Blood? Diana's heart lurched with urgency. The maids must never learn of this!

"Then take care of that blood."

His eyes rested on her, carrying a strange, simmering displeasure. Why — did he resent being told to wipe up blood?

"As you wish."

Giscard withdrew. Seeing the head maid approach, Diana closed her eyes. Only then did the reality of her situation come into focus: the relief of survival, and hard on its heels, a creeping unease. The head maid, beholding the wounds, was aghast.

"Good heavens — what is all this! On my lady's precious body! I shall have a priest bring holy water at once!"

"That would mean putting the family name to it. No."

At that, the head maid sighed. Diana undressed and submitted to her ministrations. Her body stung and ached unbearably, but she fought to keep it from showing.

This would remain a secret between the two of them — herself and the head maid. No — three, counting Giscard.

Changed into fresh clothes, Diana let down her hair and slipped into an early sleep. The wounds throbbed — oh, how they throbbed — wringing cold sweat from her.

"Foolish girl."

A voice reached her through the haze. Then something cool soaked into her bandages. Holy water.

The moment it touched her wounds, the heat seemed to drain away with astonishing speed. Diana slid into sleep.

The palace rang with talk of the assassination attempt all through the night. Emil returned home at once, and — whether by fortune or design — their father found himself kept from entering the palace quickly over the affair. The medicine the head maid brought had worked remarkably well; mercifully, it seemed the wounds would not worsen.

"You really mustn't be walking about."

"I have no choice."

Diana sighed. She had to seem ordinary. Above all, she had to seem utterly unconnected to the whole affair.

Fortunately it was a day of rest, and she had leisure to convalesce at her own pace. Then, mid-tea, she nearly jumped out of her skin at what hovered before her: a tiny winged girl, no bigger than a palm.

The being from the assassination. That ceaselessly shrieking little thing... Why is it here? Am I hallucinating? Is it a fly?

Diana blinked at it, and the little girl beamed.

While Diana was still reeling from the incomprehensible, a maid knocked at the door.

"My lady! We have a problem!"

"A problem? What is it?"

"A caller has arrived. The— the Princess of Caliari is asking for you, my lady..."

Diana looked at the fly-like little girl before her, and the child fixed her face into the most adorable expression it could manage.

She had tried so very hard not to be found out — and one visit looked set to undo it all. Diana's face went stiff as parchment, a hollow smile spreading across it.

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Princess."

"The pleasure is mine."

With Shasha pointedly framing it as a 'first' meeting, Diana bent her knee in an elegant curtsy. Perhaps it was a kindness, that insistence on 'first.' Diana smiled, faintly bitter.

"Forgive me for descending on you so abruptly. I am the eldest princess of the Kingdom of Caliari, Alexandra Caliari. Do call me Shasha."

"..."

"What, is 'Shasha' too cute a pet name for you? Well, it cannot be helped. Alexandra is far too stern a name."

Small kingdom or no, being told to use a pet name for a sovereign's daughter — was the child simply too young to know any better? Diana made no effort to hide her displeasure within. A girl she might be, but she also bore the title of 'Princess' of a realm. There was no way she could fail to grasp why Diana had left so hastily.

No — before that, Philip would surely have given her some account of what happened. And yet...

Diana's fingers closed hard on the hem of her dress. Seeing it, Shasha smiled gently.

"Lady Brien, you need not fret so."

"..."

"After all, I had already seen you once before."

"You had... seen me before?"

"Today's visit was arranged long ago. Your King and I had already settled the matter."

What a relief. When Diana's relief showed plainly on her face, the girl smiled warmly. Only then could Diana properly observe her.

Her black hair was braided into twin tails, though her bangs curled in soft wisps that lent her a youthful air. The freckles at the tip of her nose were rather endearing, and her sharp, upturned eyes gave her the look of a cat. Her golden eyes only deepened the impression.

Small as the princess was, something mature hung about her. Diana had taken her for a girl her own age — had she been wrong about that too?

"And I'll have you know I feel rather wronged. I had no idea the girl from yesterday was Lady Brien."

She had seen her before, yet looked straight at her without recognizing Lady Brien? What was that supposed to mean? It didn't sound like a lie. Diana decided to ask, a little more directly.

"Then why has Your Highness come calling here? This is but a duke's daughter's house..."

"My spirit."

"Your spirit?"

"The spirit I am contracted with has taken to following you about."

What in the world was that supposed to mean? When Shasha pointed a finger, the noisy little creature waved. Diana's face soured as she looked at it. So this was a spirit. In truth, yesterday had been far too frantic for her to spare it any astonishment. Seeing that, Shasha cried out:

"So you truly can see them!"

"..."

"To behold a spirit you hold no contract with — that is a tremendous gift, Lady Brien!"

"Is— is that so?"

"It was the same at the palace! My Sylph went trailing right after you!"

"Ah, er..."

Shasha's composure dissolved into excitement. Cheeks flushed, she pressed on:

"Do you know how I came to know of you?! My spirits told me you seemed for all the world like a spirit yourself!"

"Me? A spirit?"

"Marvelous, is it not?! So I made inquiries, and would you look at that — the girl was Lady Brien. I begged my sovereign King at once to let me see you! Oh, have no fear! The King knows nothing of spirits! To His Majesty I had said only that I wished to dress you in Caliari cloth!"

Shasha talked far more than expected. So — she had told the King she wished to meet Diana because she seemed like someone clothes would suit? Would a king truly believe that...? And if he didn't, what then...?

Diana laughed, hollowly. Shasha looked straight into her eyes. Those clear, limpid eyes seemed to peer straight down into her abyss.

"This is fate, you see. As one who walks with spirits — talent such as yours is far too fine to let rot."

Me? Gifted as a spirit summoner? Truly? It was an ability she had never once known in her past life.

"And so I have decided to give you this little one."

Shasha set the spirit on her palm and winked. The spirit winked right back, an exact copy. What on earth was this...

"My spirit, Sylph."

Shasha said it softly. She smiled at the spirit with a trace of reluctance, then drew from her pocket a necklace strung with a blue orb. When she waved it, the spirit — seeming just as reluctant — slipped inside the orb.

"The first spirit I ever contracted with. Not strong enough to guard one's body, but useful all the same."

"..."

"You saved my life. Even this gift is too small a return."

Shasha held out the necklace. Diana wavered on the edge of refusing — then, meeting the gravity in Shasha's eyes, accepted it. As her fingers came to rest on the blue orb, it felt for all the world as though a breeze were drifting from it. Watching Diana's bangs stir faintly, Shasha said:

"So long as you carry it, you walk under the blessing of the wind. This little one is a wind spirit, after all. No tainted air will do you harm. And when the days turn hot, this one will raise a breeze for you."

"..."

"One with aptitude like yours will find her affinity with spirits deepening. In time you may summon not a small wind spirit like this one, but Nevera — a high-ranked spirit of wind, one whose gales could shear through iron."

"..."

"Truthfully, I sought you out only to tell you of your gift. But since you saved my life, I must repay the debt with my own spirit. I do not forget what I owe."

Diana looked down at the necklace in her hands. A necklace with a spirit dwelling within. Once, in the Kingdom of Lodbrok, she had seen Giscard in conversation with people of Caliari. The King of Caliari, she had heard, was descended from a famous spirit summoner, and a summoner surfaced among the royals every few generations.

Humans — unlike the elves — had forsaken the spirits, and the line of summoners might well be called severed... So it was the people of Caliari alone who had kept that thread alive, here and there, all along.

Ah. Is this woman that woman?

In her past life, one of Caliari's royals had summoned a high spirit and set the whole continent abuzz. She had heard it was a woman — could this really be her? There was no telling.

"How would I go about summoning Nevera?"

When Diana asked, careful and measured, Shasha chuckled and rummaged in her pocket. As though she had expected precisely this, a garishly colored book was thrust out before her.

What manner of book is this...? When Diana stared at her, Shasha twisted her feet awkwardly and said:

"I'm sorry. I would teach you gladly, but I am myself still a learner. Were you to come to Caliari, you could study — but well... I know. It is no simple thing for the eldest daughter of a great house to go anywhere at all."

"..."

"But the important thing lies elsewhere. Summoning is not achieved by theory alone."

"..."

"You will come to know that well enough."

Diana sighed. Ever since she was small she had dreamed of commanding spirits and wielding monstrous power — apparently that was out of reach. Still: she now held a necklace bearing a spirit that money could not buy. Shasha watched her closely.

"By the by, Lady Brien."

"Yes?"

"Have you ever met a dragon?"

A dragon? Out of nowhere? Why bring that up? Shasha's eyes narrowed, as though she were listening to something.

"Loo — an intermediate spirit of wind — tells me he senses a dragon's aura about you."

"A dragon?"

"Two of them, at that."

Two? Diana had never so much as gone near a dragon, let alone met one. As her puzzlement showed, Shasha tilted her head as well.

"Forgive me. Even I cannot converse perfectly with every spirit. They do say strange things at times."

"I see..."

"My, look how long I have stayed. Far too long for a call meant only to bring you a gift of clothes."

Her business concluded, Shasha rose. As she walked the corridor, she turned Diana over in her mind. To see a spirit contracted to another person — a low one, but still. That was affinity of a staggering order. Why should such a gift belong to a duke's daughter? And why, on top of it, had Sylph insisted that woman was a spirit? She was no spirit at all — merely human.

"What an unfathomable creature."

Walking the corridor with her escort of knights behind her, Shasha came face to face with a boy standing at its end. Skin faintly bronzed, ink-black hair, looks fine enough to steal the very eyes from your head. His violet gaze met Shasha's golden one. Her eyes narrowed as she studied him. The restraint collar locked at his throat marked him a slave.

"A slave in this house as well. How very curious."

It hardly seemed the sort of household that would keep one. Just then Loo, inside her earring, threw a fit — and Shasha brushed him off without a second thought. Spirits did leap to wild conclusions now and then. Very often, in fact.

"Loo, dragons are not so common in this world as all that. You are a din — I am cutting off your voice."

Frowning, fiddling with her earring, Shasha stole glances at the boy.

Handsome fellow, though.

His frame was sturdy and his features clean-cut; slave or not, one glance told you he had been raised as something precious. The beastlike gleam in his eyes was keen as a blade's edge — and yet, for all that, he looked every bit his age.

So why did that lady's eyes look so very adult? Not merely adult — worn smooth and ripened through, an adult's eyes in their fullest sense. Not one childlike corner anywhere in them. Something about it made her skin prickle.

As the boy slipped past her, she saw him enter Diana's chamber. A girl in harmony with the spirits yet old beyond her years, and a slave with eyes like drawn blades.

One look was enough to know it was no good pairing. Shasha shook her head.