Chapter 18 – Morgana’s Mace

  Demi

  The sun had freshly set, leaving the noble quarter to be lit by the myriad of lanterns and braziers arranged symmetrically between the grand residences. Demi stood in her bedroom, gazing through the window from the second floor, attempting to structure her evening prayer.

  There would be much discussion. Morgana would be displeased if Demi hadn’t prepared beforehand, but there was this awful nag that betrayed definition just yet.

  And what would that be? Appearing before her goddess would be untoward without being able to speak on it. Demi watched a nobleman below, escorted by two city guard, take his evening stroll. He crossed paths with a foppish halfling, also with an escort, and they performed their noble greetings. Again, all proper. Nothing here would invite criticism from most highborn families. In fact, it was easy to live a traditional noble’s life in Woodpine; with their sequestered residences and churches guarded from the commonfolk on the city’s coin.

  Yet.

  It somehow felt like being offered a soothing draught. And here she was going along with it, trying to have the Delacroix name be known for something other than their fields of flax; trying not to be The Flaxseed Countess; trying and not really succeeding. She was just muddling along through it like she was supposed to, like she’d done since her brother ran off and left her with the title duties.

  Demi had to do a lot of reading after that happened and memorize an incredible number of names. Then, she learned four vastly different tax structures and four vastly different sets of family grudges. To add: many peoples’ livelihoods depended on her doing all this. It would not have been her first choice. But it was the duty of powerful families to do so, even those of a rural land growing a single crop.

  Lord Dotour’s actions made it clear he cared more for commoners than continuing to have the favor of powerful families like the Florentines of Bavol. Losing their support would have been not only political suicide but actual suicide if it weren’t the Dotours. Nobody was about to act against the family still most recognized as being responsible for turning the war – least of all the Florentines, who still carried the stench of their early submission.

  Demi realized her nag had a source, a face, and a name: Radavan Dotour. Everything that troubled her came back to how he’d chosen to continue his father Edmund’s legacy. That gave her a grounding she used to trace the commonalities she’d seen, how it seemed like the highborn were all just being handled while he worked.

  Very well. She penned a few notes in formal Elvish, then, left her bedroom while still in smallclothes. Her lone servant had retired for the evening after lighting the nightlanterns fastened to the oaken walls, as she had every night. Demi had grown accustomed to pacing the halls of the manor alone; really, it was a welcome contrast to the constant bustle of their family estate in Niville. The servant she’d brought – Yensen, her name – had quietly been the workhorse of their staff, so Demi had offered her and her alone the opportunity to accompany. Once Yensen was allowed to tend to things herself, rather than following the service chief’s stubborn ways, she’d excelled even further. The mezzanine’s red rugs were spotless beneath Demi’s bare feet.

  Downstairs, through a prominent door, her chapel. A small, intimate space with one pew centered before an altar. Atop the marble altar was a statue of Morgana, the Dragon of Order. Her wings were folded back, and she stood upright on rigid draconic legs, grasping a grand mace centered vertically that spanned from foot to horn. The expression on her face was one of judgement, cast toward the earth from her full height. Her carved scales were painted with the ancient purple wrought from snail shell and decorated symmetrically with iron jewelry. Behind the statue, a stained glass window depicting the Dragonstar with its blue spoke on the bottom and its purple on the top.

  All proper. The blue path – Tydra’s Wisdom – always went below, where the ocean dragon swam deep. The path in service went above. Not that she’d done a service for the public in years. Still, she approached the altar with her notes and stood before Morgana.

  Hmm.

  She should kneel for this one. Demi lowered herself to her knees on the purple mat spread before the altar, placed her notes before her, and sat her hands in her lap.

  Demi lowered her gaze and stared at her notes, then closed her eyes. She began to visualize the room as it was, viewed from the statue’s eyes. It didn’t take long for the room to coalesce in the backs of her eyes, now from a lofty position and bathed in royal purple light.

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  There Demi was, knelt, reverent. And sitting regal in the pew behind – Morgana. She took an elven form, though kept her divine dragon’s eyes; and wore her grey hair in ringlets. As always, she wore a purple dress trimmed with black feathers, and iron jewelry. Demi knew this to be mostly a conjuration of her own, for her goddess was far beyond the need for such abstractions. Still, it was a comforting sight. Comfortably close to her late mother’s resemblance, comfortably distant.

  “You kneel?” Morgana’s mouth did not move, yet her clear and deep voice resounded in Demi’s mind as though coming from the pew behind.

  “O Morgana,” Demi watched herself speak, “I come humble this eve. I find I cannot leave alone my questioning of Radavan. What is his real aim with Woodpine?”

  This was the start. When conferring with Morgana for guidance, she required one to start at the very root of their confusion. Otherwise, both would gaze upon incomplete pictures.

  “What do you know?” Morgana raised a gentle finger.

  “I know he favors the commoners,” Demi said, “to the point of allowing them to completely ignore the nobility.”

  “And?” Morgana pressed.

  “I know he has resources to rival the Florentines,” Demi continued. “He doesn’t rely on Bavolian trade like Rhodea and Lencia, so he can resist their meddling.”

  Demi thought a moment longer.

  “And I know he is allowing this strange – Noodle Wyrm – business at his school,” Demi said, not sure how to phrase it.

  Morgana lowered her finger and cast an appraising look on the back of Demi’s head.

  “The bold lord is being bold,” Morgana stated, “this seems in order.”

  “Is his casual irreverence not cause for concern?” Demi insisted. “What of traditions? Normalcy?”

  “What traditions and normalcy have been violated?” Morgana asked.

  Demi watched her own brow furrow while fighting the rising emotion.

  “He’s eroding the divide between the powerful and their people,” Demi said. “The one that’s been there since well before the war!”

  “But it was not always as such,” Morgana pointed out. “And you know that. That was an order established by Terrans for this time. Before that, it was different – still with order. And during the war, I ask: do you remember your father’s words?”

  “Viscounts huddled with farmers, princes dined with peasants,” Demi repeated. “Everyone just wanted things to be normal again.”

  Morgana waited, no expression.

  Demi frowned.

  “Could that be it?” Demi wondered. “The Dotours led the scrapped-together armies of militia and peasantry. Could it be that the commonfolk came up with a different idea?”

  Of course the viscounts and princes would want to go back to their nice lives, and that’s largely what happened after the war. Nobility went back to being nobility, commoners went back to being simple commoners; though, far fewer in number. Whole lines had been buried. Demi had been born after all of this, of course, but her parents had filled her memories with stories from the dark days. They had said that even though things were back to normal, it was still different from before.

  “Would you not, if you were one?” questioned Morgana.

  “No,” responded Demi curtly, “I would be as Yensen, or perhaps Stephan, industrious and loyal to my station. As I am now.”

  “But, the choice of that station?” Morgana’s eyes glinted.

  “I did not get to choose my station either!” Demi hissed. She saw the displeasure in Morgana’s eyes. No matter the birth, the Dragon of Order did not care for outbursts.

  “Emotional elf,” Morgana chastised, “can you not see that it is all a ploy to create that choice?”

  Demi’s mouth opened, but no words came. She thought for a few moments.

  “You do not seem concerned by the potential for chaos,” Demi noted.

  Morgana nodded.

  “Terrans will reorganize themselves when they feel best,” Morgana said. “It is your role to see that – if that time is indeed upon us – it happens without such chaos. You know this.”

  Demi clasped her hands together, taking several seconds to recenter her feelings. Morgana remained gazing at her, patient. Stern, but caring.

  “So, my plan to become close to Radavan does not change,” Demi said.

  “That would seem prudent, since as you say: otherwise it’s the fucking Florentines,” Morgana imitated Demi’s Rhodean accent.

  The countess chuckled. Nobody believed her when she said Morgana could be funny.

  “Have you a path?” Morgana asked, returning to her normal voice.

  “Perhaps,” Demi frowned. “I’ve information on a corrupted Lanya chapter.”

  “That’s quite weak, yes?” Morgana said.

  “It is,” Demi admitted, “but it gives me a reason to speak with him at tomorrow’s banquet. If he really is so bold, I might be able to have an honest conversation and earn his ear.”

  “Oh?” Morgana inquired.

  “Well, the man clearly loves underdogs,” Demi explained, “and who am I but The Flaxseed Countess? Trying to play the game with only flax to my name.”

  The dragon goddess smiled, a rare sight. It revealed razored teeth and fangs.

  “It would appear to me,” Morgana said, “that you are interested in Dotour’s plans, Lady Delacroix.”

  “Yes, it appears that way,” Demi sighed. “I am thankful for your guidance, O Morgana.”

  She held the visualization for a little while longer, watching her own knelt form. The elven woman rose from her pew and approached Demi from behind, placing a graceful hand upon the top of her head. Demi felt it there for a scarce few moments, her head and core held balanced in Morgana’s sureness. Then, the feeling faded, and the image blurred into lines of purple and deep gray.

  The path was clear.

  When Demi was done, she wasted little time lingering in the empty chapel. There were still several taxation affidavits from back home to review, and now, she would have to get the nice jewelry out from the attic. The nag was most certainly gone though. In fact, it had been replaced with a highly restrained sense of excitement.

  If her older brother got to cast off his titles to be some kind of sword-swinging adventurer, why should she not make an adventure of her inheritance?