The Vampire & Her Witch Chapter 2043: Understanding the Risks (Part One)

Any day now...

The words were still circling in Micheline’s thoughts when the next group stepped out of the mist.

At first glance, it looked like any noble party travelling to a tournament or a wedding feast. A tall, lean knight walked at its head in a heavy cloak dyed a deep, rich indigo, the color so dark and so even that Micheline could see it clearly from a dozen paces away. Beside him walked a pale, slender lady in a fine fur-lined riding cloak, her gloved hand resting lightly in the crook of his arm.

Sir Cynwrig Stormbrook and his wife, Micheline realized. Stormbrook indigo was somewhat famous at least as far away as DuCoumont, and she’d even seen it turn up in Gaalen once or twice, though it struggled to command the price its quality deserved once people learned it had been spun and dyed in the frontier rather than the large mills of Keating or Trevarthen.

It was the two people walking behind the Stormbrooks, however, who made her look again.

They wore plain homespun wool under luxurious, fur-trimmed cloaks that didn’t quite fit either of them. The man was weathered and rough-handed, with a few days of stubble on his jaw. The woman’s auburn hair escaped from beneath a faded shawl, and her hands, when she pulled them free of the blanket to steady herself on the icy ground, were red and slightly chapped from years of hard work.

Servants, Micheline thought at once. Or former servants, because she couldn’t figure out another explanation for the mismatch of clothing they wore.

That feeling grew even stronger when she noticed that Sir Cynwrig had slowed his pace so that they wouldn’t fall behind. And when the auburn-haired woman slipped on a patch of ice, it was Lady Cerys who caught her elbow.

"Careful, Lilee," Lady Cerys said. "The path is treacherous here."

"Thank you, my lady," the woman said breathlessly. "Forgive me, I..."

"There’s nothing to forgive," Lady Cerys insisted gently. "You’re our guests. Or we’re yours. Either way, we’re friends," she insisted.

For a moment, Micheline stared in open confusion before she realized what she was doing and turned to her companions.

At the Royal Academy, she’d seen knights open doors for duchesses and bow to the daughters of foreign kings. She had never once seen a knight’s lady steady a laundress on an icy path and call her a friend.

"Who are they?" Micheline whispered, afraid she might offend someone who turned out to be far more important than they initially appeared.

"Those are Sir Ollie’s parents," Adala said quietly. "Empress Ashlynn sent Sir Cynwrig and Lady Cerys to guard Sir Ollie’s family during the assault on Lothian Manor. They’ve been close ever since," she explained.

"I heard that Sir Ollie saved Lady Cerys’ life," Charlotte added. "And risked his life to do it. They say the Stormbrooks pledged to follow him for the rest of their lives to repay the debt."

"But aren’t they Lord Governor Loghlan’s vassals?" Micheline asked, furrowing her brow in confusion. "How could they pledge to follow Sir Ollie? Wouldn’t that just create trouble for their lord?"

Before either of the ladies with her could answer, a small boy came racing out from behind the Stormbrooks. His cheeks were red with cold, and in his arms, he carried several pinecones gathered from the forest outside the Enchanted Grove. Several tumbled out of his arms as he skidded to a stop in front of Micheline, Adala and Charlotte.

"Is Sir Ollie here yet?" the young boy asked breathlessly as he looked around. "I brought seeds for him. For after. For the forest," he said, gesturing around at the large empty space that had been cleared of trees.

It was obvious from the stones that had been laid out and the deep channels that had been dug that Ashlynn intended for this place to be more like a garden than a wild forest, but other than the mystical Bloodroot tree, nothing had been planted here at all.

"Sir Ollie’s not here yet," Micheline said, bending to retrieve one of the fallen pine cones and placing it carefully back on the young boy’s pile. "But soon, I think. He’s coming with my cousin."

"With the princess?" the boy asked, his eyes going wide.

"With the princess," Micheline confirmed, giving the boy a bright smile.

"I brought these so Sir Ollie can bring the forest back to life here too, like he did before," the boy said proudly. "Sir Ollie says it’s important to mend things that were hurt," the boy said solemnly.

"Does he?" Micheline asked, raising her brow at the enthusiastic young man.

"Uh huh," the boy said. "I’m gonna be his squire, so I’d know," he said, puffing his chest out in pride.

"Dalwyn," Lady Cerys called, hurrying to catch up. "Don’t pester the ladies." She dipped into a small, apologetic curtsey. "Forgive him, my lady. He’s been talking of nothing but Sir Ollie since we left the fortress."

"There’s nothing to forgive," Micheline said, and she meant it.

Lady Cerys smiled, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. She was looking past Micheline, searching the faces around the fires one by one, as though she’d lost something and hoped to find it in the crowd.

"Cynwrig," she said quietly, when her husband joined her. "Do you suppose High Inquisitor Ignatious will be attending tonight?"

"After sunset, I’d expect," Sir Cynwrig said, tucking her hand back into the crook of his arm. "He’s never far from Lady Heila’s side these days."

"I’d feel better if he were here," Lady Cerys admitted. "I know it’s foolish, but... a priest ought to be present. For something like this."

"It isn’t foolish," Sir Cynwrig said gently.

Micheline turned away so that Lady Cerys wouldn’t see her expression.

A woman so devout she wanted an Inquisitor to bless a witch’s trial. An Inquisitor who couldn’t come until the sun had set, because he was a vampire. And a witch who had saved that devout woman’s life, waiting now to welcome another witch into the world...

At the Academy, her tutors had taught her that every kingdom ran on a few simple certainties. The Church was the Light. Witches were the darkness. The Eldritch were demons in the mist.

Not one of those certainties had survived the week.