Minerva Carducci

The tales, in erratic chronological order, of Minerva Carducci, my 7th Sea character.

[minervacarducci]

“...That, when I wak’d, I cried to dream again.”

The suite to which Igor had escorted her was altogether more luxurious than she had expected. The thick carpet that covered the smooth stone was soft underfoot, and kept the room warm. The fire, crackling cheerily in the hearth, lit the room with a comforting glow, and she felt instantly at ease. The windows were shuttered against the howling wind of the storm, though they did little to keep out the noise of the thunder, which clapped and rumbled so loudly it made her jump.

She dispensed of her heavy fur cloak, no longer chilled to the bone, and set about unpacking her meagre belongings. It took no time at all, and she found herself with nothing left to do while she waited for Igor’s return; he had insisted he bring a light supper and a restorative tea for the residual motion sickness to her, that she would feel better for it after that hasty trip up the mountain. As she looked in the mirror, attempting to tame her lion’s mane of dark curls, she noted how ashen her face was. Even in the warm light, she looked as ill as she felt. A good night’s rest, and a meal, would do her wonders.

After wrestling with her hair, she set down the heavy brush and approached the bed with a childish glee, before flinging herself down upon it. It was so soft, like a cloud had swallowed her. The heavy silk duvet was old, but still beautiful, all deep greens and faded gold. The pillows bore much newer silk, almost unused, and she found it harder and harder to coax herself away from the promise of a warm bed. The knock at the door a few moments later was the necessary motivation.

“Thank you Igor, I-” she began as she opened the door, and was startled into silence. Vladimir smiled in amusement, his hands laden with the meal Igor had promised.

“May I come in?” She nodded, flushing a deep red, caught so off guard, and found herself thankful she had not yet changed into her night-things. He breezed past her, his cloak notably absent, and she shut the door behind him. He set down the tray, laden with a hot broth and bread, teapot and cup, and a bottle of wine. Two glasses, she noted. He turned back to her, a softness about his eyes that she had only caught glimpses of in the past. Since their epistolary confessions of affection, it seemed he had relaxed his guard somewhat. She felt the knot in her throat tighten, keeping her eyes firmly on his if only to ignore the steady twisting of their thread. “The sight of you before me is… a delight I can barely articulate.” His voice was soft, as if speaking to a frightened animal. “You did not look well when you arrived; are you much recovered?”

It took a second for her to find her voice. “I- I am recovering, though I am still yet a little delicate.” He crossed the room to her, ushering her with a gentlemanly arm to the small table and stools by the hearth. As she began to eat, he uncorked the wine and filled their glasses, and let her eat in silence for a time.

“Igor suggested such a gentle meal might be warranted,” he said at last, as she finished. “I promise I shan’t keep you late. I wished to make sure of your comfort, and… if truth be told, there was a certain selfishness about my decision. I wished to see you; I did not wish to wait until tomorrow. I have missed you.”

“And I you,” she replied softly. “Far more than I ever wished to acknowledge, even to myself.”

“My affections are unwelcome?”

“You know that is not true. It’s more… complicated than that.”

“You wrestle with your conscience, I know that. I am not unsympathetic. But you must surely allow yourself some happiness.”

She looked at him, dark curls falling into her eyes. “Vladimir, I have spent every day thinking of you. Wondering when we would meet again, how we would meet again, what you might say to me. I have watched the very thread that connects us twisting and growing stronger as the months have passed. And it terrifies me that I might love someone as I love my husband, that I might love two men so equally that it is impossible to choose my loyalty.” She stood, restless, and began to pace, wine in hand. “To be with you once more is a terrible conflict; I am elated beyond words to be reunited with you, and yet I am afraid to be near you, lest I be tempted to break my holy vows. Theus preserve me, I have tried to be a good wife!” Her pacing picked up in speed, and her voice was strained. He watched her gulp her wine, her cheeks flushing pink and pale. He stepped up, and caught her arm, stopping her mid-step, sweeping her into his arms. She looked up at him, stunned, and realising for the first time exactly how much taller he was than her. Her heart battered against the inside of her ribcage, making her tremble.

“You have been a devoted and faithful wife, Minerva, no one can ever say otherwise. But must you condemn yourself to a life of denial, to a life devoid of happiness and love, in order to uphold a vow to a man you may never see again?” Her eyes were wide and wild, and the firelight sparkled in the tears forming therein. “Oh darling, beautiful lady, I would keep you safe here, I would make you smile and I would hear you laugh, if only you would let me. You could stop running. I could keep you hidden away, safe and loved here by my side.” Cupping her cheek with his hand, he bent and kissed her, brazenly upon the mouth. Her breath caught in her throat, her eyes fluttering closed, tears spilling from their confines. Her stomach turned somersaults, and he drew her close. With that kiss, he devoured her reticence, her fears, her indecision, and she found herself returning the kiss with ardent fervour…

The knock at the door startled her awake.

She blinked, confused at finding herself still laying on the flocculent duvet. She scrambled to her feet as the second knock came, polite but insistent. She smoothed her rumpled dress and pushed her hair back from her face as she walked to the door. Still dazed by her dream, she found herself disappointed that the man on the other side of the door was not Vladimir at all.

“Your thupper, madam, and the rethtorative that I thpoke of.” She stepped aside and allowed Igor in. Upon placing the tray on the table, he turned back to her with a small bow of deference. “The mather thendth hith regretth that he will not be rethieving your company thith evening; he inthtead wisheth to tell you to retht and convaleth at your leithure.”

“Thank you Igor,” she nodded. “Please give your master my kind regards.”

With another short bow, he departed, closing the door behind him, leaving Minerva to her altogether befuddled thoughts.

[minervacarducci]

Drawing Closer

She woke with a sharp gasp, sitting upright with a start. Her eyes were wide and her skin clammy and cold. Her heart raced almost painfully. She was alone in the carriage - the rest of her companions stood outside, conversing in tense tones. She squeezed her eyes shut against the impending threat of tears, inhaling deeply. It seemed she could only outrun the Game for so long - she was still playing her part in it. The old strega in her dream… She hadn’t seemed familiar, and it was Minerva’s best guess that she was of Villanova’s clan. She couldn’t work out how she fit in to this woman’s grand plan. Yet she had no choice but to continue to play. Fedele was still at risk, and her family would be high on the list after him. If she had refused the ball of thread… She had no idea of the consequences. It was simply too dangerous.

With a moment of concentration, she watched the ball of thread materialise in her hands. It had barely any weight, but she could feel the sticky texture of the thread, reluctant to let go of her skin as she handled it. There was nothing to be done now. She needed to hold on to it, if only for the time being, just until she worked out what to do with it. Already, her thoughts were churning over the potential possibilities. The threads, a mass of white, grey and, unnervingly, black, did nothing. They reached out to nothing. They simply were. They were potential, as yet unused. She would be patient. She would bide her time. Her next move had to be precise.

Stepping out of the carriage, she looked around at the flaming barrier and the… unnerving wave of rodents that threw themselves against it, the tiny shrieks of mice and rats sending a chill down her spine. By Theus, she would be glad for a life of quiet solitude on days like these…

It was another few weeks before they reached the great mountainous pass that bordered Ussura and Eisen, and several more days before they came to the vicinity of the Dragon Peaks. She had been weeks without a letter from Vladimir, once again on the move as they were. The last letter she had penned to him had been from Pavtlow. She had thanked him in stumbling Ussuran for the gift of the hairpin, and done her best to describe her impressions of the Spire, but lacked the vocabulary, and soon gave up in favour of her native tongue. Her Ussuran looked like a child’s handwriting, and her cheeks burned with embarrassment when she had sealed it and handed it over to the messenger bat. The rest of the letter had been a somewhat lengthy exposition of her recent behaviour, and an almost too defensive rebuttal of Violet’s concerns. In truth, it had irked her rather more than she cared to admit - the questioning of her moral compass was, in her mind, completely unwarranted. She had only ever acted with the best interests of those close to her. What Violet seemed to take issue with was Minerva’s lack of desire to be selflessly heroic for every poor plebeian who crossed their path.

But now as they approached the foothills of the mountains, she found her stomach twisting in a way that had nothing to do with the motion sickness that the rocking of the carriage induced. She felt nervous to see Vladimir again, unsure of how their reunion would play out, and with the renewed threat of harm to her loved ones, she felt afraid of the slowly twisting Cups thread that joined them. Each thread that formed, each relationship that grew with her companions, put everyone at further risk.

Vladimir had little described his home. The mountains were exactly as she had imagined, sharp, jagged teeth gnawing the sky. The highest were capped with snow, forbidding and unwelcoming. The whole scene before her had an air of indistinct menace, like somewhere one wouldn’t come unless absolutely necessary. She gazed out the window, mind a million miles away, when Tegrida’s voice pulled her back to the present.

“I’m sorry? I wasn’t listening,” Minerva looked over at her with a lazy disinterest. She enjoyed seeing Tegrida’s mouth twitch in annoyance.

“I said, why are we going here? Who is this friend of yours we are going to see?”

“Oh, of course.” She shifted in her seat, stretching a little. “The eminent boyar of this region - that is, a count I suppose,- Vladimir Bellakoff, was our companion for rather a while before we… encountered you.” The pause was a mere half beat, but it was not unnoticed. “He is a close confidante of ours, and one who may offer us shelter and respite after this damnable travelling.”

“You don’t seem all that excited to be here,” Tegrida offered, in a tone that only barely suggested she thought she was being clever. Minerva’s dismissive shrug and half roll of the eyes came easily, as if it were natural and not a carefully rehearsed motion, and offered nothing more. But the Castillian seemed determined to make conversation. She groaned inwardly.

“What is he like? Is he as brutish as Seamus, or may I actually find refined company?”

Minerva levelled an inscrutable look at her, and for a moment was silent, collecting her thoughts. “You’ll find no such brutishness with the Count. He is a true nobleman, of fine breeding and impeccable manners. Though I daresay you will find him… odd.”

“Odd? How?”

“Oh, nothing really. Just little things. His sense of fashion is rather behind the times, but then, they have no real use for such frivolities here. He keeps to strange hours, sleeps all through the day, wakes only a little before dusk, and stays awake through the night. He is rather fond of the darkness. And I rather doubt he shall dine with us. He seems to prefer to keep to himself when it comes to meals.” She said all this with the most perfectly feigned disinterest, as though it were all passingly amusing, but mostly beneath her notice. The icy aloofness that formed her armour was well tempered, and settled around her so naturally. In the months travelling with the rest of her friends, she had thawed, if only a little, and let through glimpses of herself. Rannveig, Violet and Vladimir remained the only ones who had truly seen her vulnerable, and while none of them had seen her completely unguarded, they remained among her most trusted companions. It surprised her to feel the burgeoning trust for Violet, but since her confession in Breslau about Fedele, she had softened if only a little.

Tegrida looked at her, momentarily stunned into silence. “Well.” Minerva smirked. “Well, I suppose one mustn’t judge a man before one has made his acquaintance.” She laughed under her breath, and turned back to the window. The road was beginning to wind and pitch upwards, and her stomach lurched a little with it. She hoped it wouldn’t be long before they reached the village.

But the welcome they received upon arrival was hardly what she had expected. Through the glass in the half light outside, she could see the villagers gathered, farming tools and torches in hand. Her eyes narrowed, apprehensive. The carriage lurched to a halt, and she waved Tegrida into silence as she began to ask what was happening.

“Hello friends!” Minerva shook her head. Oh Violet… Their response in Ussuran was aggressive, and a little afraid. “Oh! Of course, you don’t know what I’m saying!” The eye roll was uncontained and unadulterated, and Minerva pulled her furs close around her and stepped out of the carriage. Seamus had begun fumblingly fielding their questions about who they were, and why they were here.

“We come to see your lord,” Minerva’s voice cut through the din like a clarion call. “We wish to send word to the castle, and to take lodgings in your good township.”

An older man, bearded and weathered, looked at her with only a little suspicion. “How do you know the Boyar?”

“He’s a good friend of ours!” Seamus interjected helpfully.

“Oh aye?”

“He is, in fact.” Minerva placed herself commandingly between the party and the restless mob. “He was a companion of ours for many months while he travelled abroad.” He didn’t look convinced. “We have money for lodgings for the night.” To that, the tension relented, and after a further interrogation to determine that they were speaking the truth, they were led to what they were assured was the best house in town. Their carriage was unhitched, their horses stabled, and everyone seemed ready to turn in for the night. The sun had long since disappeared behind the mountains, casting long shadows over the land and robbing it of what little warmth it had bestowed. Minerva, in the privacy of her room, looked out the window, up to the silhouetted castle beyond, and watched the towers for any light. She spied the messenger, sent up to the castle to inform Igor, no doubt, of their arrival. A slight smile lifted her lips; she did not unpack a thing.

They ate simple meals from their own supplies, and Minerva joined the conversation only half heartedly, as if staring into space. When the clatter of horses and carriage wheels came into earshot, she looked up, almost smug. A knock at door was followed by Igor’s arrival, and Lorenzo’s ever undignified shrieking in response to the, understandably, unnerving appearance of the Boyar’s manservant.

“Don’t be unkind, Lorenzo. It’s not Igor’s fault,” she said haughtily as she breezed past him, motioning to Igor to collect her things.

“Yes, of course, my lady, my apologies my lady.” She rather enjoyed his terrified grovelling, and was immediately thankful to have a competent manservant once more in her presence. But of course, Lorenzo’s craven objections began to make themselves known.

“You mean we’re going up there tonight? But it’s dark! Why don’t we go tomorrow? Why are we following this- this- man up to this damn creepy castle in these godforsaken mountains, we’ll be killed for sure!” She was sure she caught amusement on the rest of the party’s faces as they piled into the carriage. Violet sat upon the carriage roof with aplomb and glee, and they were soon underway.

Minerva had learnt many things over her years with Rannveig, not least of which was how to keep the contents of one’s stomach down when it threatened otherwise. It became rather a matter of dignity now that she exercised that skill, for it seemed Igor was in on tormenting Lorenzo. They traversed the winding, precarious road at breakneck speed as a heavy cover of storm cloud lent its own special brand of horror to the situation, lightning punctuating the sky and clapping great beats of thunder through the air. She dared to look out the window, and was faced with crevasse and chasm at every turn, just mere inches from the wheels at any given time. Beneath the voluminous fur cloak, she shuddered.

At last, with the thunder continuing to bellow overhead, they slowed, and drew to a halt before the grand castle. She felt silently grateful for the solid earth beneath her feet. Igor ushered them up the weathered stone steps and inside. This place was ancient, stately and imposing. Inside, the grand foyer was lit dimly, lending it warmth and movement in the shadows.

“Greetings.” She did not look up immediately; his voice felt the twist of a knife in her chest, and as if in time with the sensation, their thread twisted sharply and fell still once more. “You should not have come here.” She met his gaze sharply, but found him instead looking at, it seemed, everyone but her. His attention seemed to slip over Violet and Lorenzo as well, and instead, he directed his displeasure at the rest of them. “But you are here now. There’s nothing that can be done for it.”

In the dim light, his eyes sought her out at last, and for a bare moment, his face softened almost imperceptibly. Their reunion must wait for the formalities to be done, and explanations to be given, from both sides. Yet she felt a pressure lift from her chest, as if it were suddenly easier to breathe. Several long months without each other’s company - they could wait a few hours more.

[leroichevalier]

→ History by period + Period/historical dramas → The Renaissance ( aprox. 14th - 16th Century)  Used footage: Da Vinci’s demons (2013), Romeo and Juliet (2013), Borgia (2011), The Borgias (2011)

[minervacarducci]

The Night Is For Secrets

“Please Fedele, what harm could I possibly cause?”

“It is completely inappropriate. If anyone is on deck, if anyone sees you-”

“I won’t be long, I promise, it will be only for a few minutes. You can keep a look out, if anyone is coming then I will put it straight back on-”

“I trust you, you know I trust you, but the crew may not be so forgiving-”

“I won’t look at anyone! Please, Fedele…”

He sighed, pressing his hand to his forehead, torn. He wanted to give Minerva everything, and yet he was finding it harder and harder where to draw the line. Already, as their ship sailed across the open seas towards Avalon, he knew he would never forget the look of absolute joy when he told her he was taking her with him. But he was afraid he would regret allowing her such freedoms when it came to the time that he would finally refuse her.

“My darling,” she whispered. “Please…”

He opened his eyes with a sigh, and looked down at her. She sat on the edge of the berth, wide eyes looking up at him, begging. She so rarely looked vulnerable, and even more rarely begged. With a slump in his posture, he shook his head slowly. “Theus help me, I cannot deny you a thing.” Before she could question him,  before he could change his mind, he took her hand and led her up to the deck.

Their world began and ended at the edges of the ship. The vast sheet of water surrounding them bordered their wooden nation with canvas clouds was inky and shone dimly in the starlight. The moon, a bare sliver, lent little help to illuminate their path from cabin to prow; it was as if an almost closed eye, watching in secrecy the scene that played out between the newly wed lovers. Hidden in the pitch of night, Fedele looked around them, furtive and vigilant; Minerva followed, whispering reassurances that no one was around to see them. His shoulders were curled, holding her close by his side, protecting her as much from the world as he protected the world from her. Her back was straight, her eyes bright behind her veil, her footsteps quick and silent as a shadow. She approached the prow, the wide eyed expression now full of wonder and delight. She could hear, more clearly now, the splash of the bow wave, and she shivered as the seaspray caught the breeze and blew back to her.

Fedele watched his beloved wife with a mixture of anxious anticipation of being caught, and a heart squeezing desire to give her all she wanted. It was a simple enough request - to see the stars, the sky, the water, without her veil. But it was impossible during the day. The instant any of the crew caught sight of her without her veil, their voyage would be poisoned by fear and paranoia. He knew Minerva behind closed doors; knew her to be gentle and loving and devoted; and he knew her with her veil, full of untapped power and potential, driven by shared ambitions; he knew her to be cold and impassive and at times, utterly terrifying. It was his hidden Minerva that he loved best, the one who danced with him to music only she could hear, the one who spent hours in the gardens surrounded by silence and peace, the one who kissed him tenderly and swore with the gravest honesty that she would never manipulate his threads. It was for this Minerva, his Minerva, that he risked tonight at all.

She made no move to remove the fine lace veil. It was as if, now faced with the freedom she had requested so fervently, it was too much. So it was Fedele’s hands that removed the pearl headed pins from her hair, and with a flourish that was as much the wind as it was his own dramatic flair, the veil flew from her face. He held his hand on her waist, close, comforting, and for a moment she could not open her eyes. When she did, her breath froze.

They sailed slowly into the pitch of night. The water rolled in undulating, lazy hills. The stars, bright pin points piercing the sky overheard, glittered in a dome above them. On all sides, black, dark, empty… Not a single thread extended out before her. Her vision was clear of the web of lives that ordinarily surrounded her. It was as if staring into a yawning void. As the ship rose and sank on the waves, her stomach fluttered pleasantly; she had been among the lucky ones, the captain had commented, that she was not stricken with seasickness.

“My darling…”

His hand tightened on her hip. His lips found their way briefly to her neck, now exposed. “Anything for you, my love. Anything.”

They stayed thus for some time, Minerva leaning back into Fedele’s embrace, watching the faint glittering of the water, listening to the breaking of the bow wave. Fedele held her close, inhaling the perfumed scent of her thick, black curls, capturing her warmth, his arm protectively, possessively around her. In that moment, and so many that came before, and that would follow, he felt that nothing in the world would be so important as to have her love.

[minervacarducci]

Trust

Their meals had been finished and cleared away, replaced with tankards and glasses and carafes of wine. The wines of Ussura had a different palate to those of her homeland, but she enjoyed this particular robust, oily red wine that the innkeeper had suggested to her upon hearing her accent. She gripped the heavy glass with a tight hand, and looked deeply interested in examining the patterns it made on the inside of the glass as she drank.

“The guild will have his head as soon as he arrives, there’s nothing stopping us from moving on now.”

“I’m not leaving until I see him in chains, and his return to Vestenmannavnjar is assured.”

“Fine, but that still leaves us with the problem of, what next? We’re not planning on staying here once we’ve dealt with Soren. There’s still the rest of the conspiracy to deal with-”

“And Carmen to find, again-”

“And we’ve still got the curse on some of us-”

The clamour of voices, all vying to be heard, was mostly a blanket of white noise for Minerva. It didn’t matter where they went, as long as they kept moving. She could see the thread that connected her to the one who pursued her, and though it remained only distantly moving, settling in one place for too long made her anxious. It was almost by pure reflex, then, that she spoke up sharply at the mention of Vodacce.

“No.” She looked up from her glass, a cold finality in her eyes. “I will not return there.” Lorenzo looked at her with a slight narrowing of the eyes, and Rannveig sat back in her chair, arms folded and eyebrows slightly raised, only barely concealing the ‘I told you so’ look on her face.

“Why not? I haven’t been there yet. None of us have been there yet! We could go and put paid to this scoundrel who is chasing you!” Violet’s eyes were full of vim and vigour, never to be discouraged by the coldness with which Minerva met her any time the subject came up.

“I refuse. Go there if you must, but I’ll not come with you.”

“If I can ask, what’s it that’s got yeh so scared of goin’ back there?” Seamus’ slurred question drew a withering look, and she could have sworn Brom’s violent and sudden spluttering of his beer was not the cough he made it out to be.

“Suffice to say, Seamus, that if I am ever discovered back in my homeland, it will be as if I had signed my own death warrant.”

“If you’re discovered!” Violet piped up again. “We could just disguise you, you’ll never be found!”

“And the countless other Strega there who might be set to finding me? What of the dozens, maybe even hundreds, of nobles I have known in my lifetime who might recognise me, no matter the disguise? What of my hus-” She caught herself, and took a deep, heavy breath. “No, it is simply not an option. I would be putting not only myself at risk, but others for whom I care.”

“What’ll happen to yeh if yeh get caught then?”

All eyes at the table turned to her.

“Is it not enough to say that I shall be put to death?” The biting tone of her voice, though soft and composed as always, was unmistakeable. “Take me back there, and I shall surely meet such a fate as I have no wish to tempt.” She rose from the table. “I’ll take my leave for the night, but let it be crystal clear, any plan of travelling to Vodacce will be met with my staunch opposition.” She began to walk away, before pausing and grabbing a full carafe and her glass, before returning to her room.

The heavy atmosphere that hung in her wake was broken a moment later. “She’s right, you know.” All eyes turned to Lorenzo. “If she’s done what I think she has, she has no hope.”

“What’ll happen to her?”

“It doesn’t happen often. I never witnessed one myself, but something tells me she’s seen it. Sometimes the runaways are punished, severely, and then allowed back to their husbands and families, albeit on a very tight leash. But the lady… She’s got book learning now. She’s broken some of the strictest laws we have. She’ll be deemed too dangerous to be allowed to live, and… well, they’ll burn her.”

“What do you mean, burn her?” Rannveig’s brow furrowed.

“I mean just that. She’ll be tied to a stake, in the city square for all to see, a cautionary tale for anyone who dares cross the Prince of the city, and an especially pointed message for all strega. She’ll be burned alive.”

A little later, in her room, Minerva sat writing by candlelight another letter in the chain of correspondence between her and the Count, when a knock came at her door. “Who is it?”

“It’s Violet.” The muffled reply drew a sigh, but nevertheless, she opened the door. She slipped inside, and Minerva latched the door behind her. “We didn’t really make a decision, other than it’s either Vodacce or Castille.” Minerva nodded silently. “I just wanted to tell you that I understand you’ve got your reasons for not wanting to go back. And I think you should, and I think we should put an end to whatever it is that forces you to live in fear, but I want you to know that when you’re ready, we’re willing to listen to whatever it is.” She turned to leave.

“If I were to tell you-” Minerva’s voice was soft, and sad. “-Could you promise to keep it secret?”

“I’m very good at secrets.” She turned back to face her companion, and was struck by how openly sad she looked. Minerva was sitting on the chaise where she had been writing, her hands folded in her lap and her eyes dark.

“Rannveig and Brom know, but… I don’t trust this to get out to too many people. The less people know, the safer they are if anyone comes looking for me. I left Vodacce to keep my husband and I both alive. There was a plot, well, still is a plot, that involved us without us knowing. I still don’t know who is pulling the strings, and who stands to gain from it, but I saw clearly a future wherein we would both die. In my vision, he was driven to kill me, and in his grief when he realised what he had done, took his own life. When I left Vodacce, I was not nearly as strong in my craft as I am now. I had no hope of fighting, and winning. So the next best thing I could do was remove a vital part of their plan. Vodacce schemes are all delicately interlinked, each piece of the plan set up just so. Even a pawn can be just as crucial as a queen. And when that pawn is removed, while the plan as a whole may continue, the parts surrounding that pawn fall apart. It was my hope, and continues to be, that by removing myself from the Great Game, I might protect my husband and myself. I risked my life to escape, but I did it with the calculated hope that we might both survive.” She paused, removing a kerchief from her sleeve, and pressed it brusquely to her cheeks. Violet realised with a start that she was crying. Yet, the Fate Witch’s face remained stoic and formidable despite its sadness, and she did not weep openly. “I have no desire for the rest of the party to understand my motivations, only that they accept that I am, on this particular subject, utterly and immovably against returning to my home.”

Violet nodded, unsure of what to say. “I promise, I’ll keep your secret.” Minerva nodded, almost absently. “Try to get some sleep?”

“And you. Rest well.” Minerva’s smile never seemed to reach her eyes.

[minervacarducci]

Explanations

The last time a bat had alighted upon her window sill and tapped insistently against the glass, Minerva had narrowed her eyes in suspicion, and retrieved the letter it carried with some nervousness. This time, her lips lifted ever so slightly, though if one had been observing her, one might have taken it for a trick of the light rather than a genuine hint of a smile. The bat, now relieved of its load, flew into the room and settled in the rafters, watching her. Its eyes tracked her as she opened the envelope, settled onto the chaise, and began to read. It quirked its head as it observed her frown slightly. It was a bat too intelligent for its own good sometimes.

“I wonder…” she began softly. “I wonder if you can understand me.” She looked up then. “If I were to say, come back tomorrow night to collect a reply, would you understand me?”

With neither judgment nor hesitation, the bat simply swept down, leathery wings aflutter, towards the window. She rose to open it, studying it as she did. The strands of authority that led out from its body pointed back west, back, she assumed, to the Dragon Peaks. “I will have the letter tomorrow,” she repeated, and she almost could have sworn she saw it nod. She stood for a moment, contemplative, as she watched the black shape flit off into the sky.

There had been few topics so difficult to discuss with Vladimir as the nature of her escape from Vodacce, and her enduring love for her husband. Even more difficult to reconcile for herself were the growing feelings she felt for the boyar. She had not allowed herself the luxury of imagining that one day, she might find a new home, and be safe enough to settle herself somewhere. But the thought itched in her mind, and came unbidden the more she found herself enjoying the wilds of Ussura. Nevertheless, she had ties to her old life that kept her heart firmly anchored with Fedele. What a new experience it was, to suddenly find herself feeling such affection for another, while remaining steadfast and loyal to her love.

She did not write that night. Instead, she lay in her bed, warm and soft and safe, staring up at the dark ceiling, her eyes picking out shapes in the shadows cast by the light of the firewall. She did not sob. But her cheeks remained wet for a good part of the night as she felt the gaping void in her heart where Fedele once was. No, not a man to be pitied or scorned, as Vladimir had written; but a good, kind man, a man to be loved, a man to be protected. The man for whom she had sacrificed everything, in order for them both to survive. She had never desired so much to put everything in writing, to explain why she had fled, to rationalise the need for her to leave her home and all she held dear. But it was too dangerous.

It was nearing sunrise when she rose again, after fitful bursts of sleep, bleary eyed and exhausted. Vladimir’s latest letter had weighed heavily on her. It almost felt as though she had done Fedele’s character a disservice by allowing those around her to make such assumptions. Yet, she couldn’t not fault his logic. Without knowing the particulars of her circumstances, or even the nature of Vodacce plotting and intrigue, one might very easily be led to such a conclusion. It had to be put right.

She dressed comfortably, the heat from the firewall lending a dry, scorched quality to the air, and her sturdy boots, and packed into her satchel her writing implements. A brief detour past the kitchens furnished her with both breakfast and lunch to take with her, and after leaving a message with the innkeeper to inform her companions of her whereabouts, she set off into the west, out and away from the city, towards the lush and vibrant forest she had seen when they arrived. The farther from the firewall she walked, the balmier the temperature, and she was glad for the respite. The open grasslands made for easy walking, and she hummed quietly to herself, her spirits slowly lifting. Now alone and in the calm of the wilderness, and no longer surrounded by the tangle of the populace’s fate strands, she felt her head clearing and her posture relaxing. She found, with the sun reaching higher into the sky, a shady hillock and a mossy tree under which to sit, and enjoyed her breakfast. From here, she could see Breslau laid out before her, bustling and thriving and dangerously close to the firewall. Yet when she had asked about the dangers of being so close, the housekeeper simply shook her head, and said “it never reaches the city”.

As Minerva watched the scenery below, her thoughts turned back home, to the rolling green hills of Reinascienza and to her family’s country holdings. In the later years of her life, she spent much time in the city, in her townhouse with Fedele, but never was a place more comforting and restorative to her than the picturesque home in which she had been raised. The warmth in the air now, and the scent of sun warmed grass, and an explicable scent of lavender, tickled at her memory; a childhood spent gambolling in the gardens; summer meals taken in the open cortile with her parents, twilit and relaxed; her first kiss, wrapped up in Fedele’s arms, breathless and lightheaded having run from their chaperone into the vineyard. And with that, she withdrew her letter writing set, and settled in under the tree.

Dear Vladimir,

Forgiveness need not be sought, nor shall it be given, for drawing a logical, albeit incorrect, conclusion. I have skirted the discussion of my husband for a number of reasons, chiefly among them that it was directly for his safety, and mine, that I fled my home. I entrust to you this most personal account of my life prior to our meeting with a blind faith that this letter not fall into hands other than yours.

As the only daughter, indeed the only child, born to my parents, I was doted upon, adored and educated by my mother in every art that would have been expected of me as a wife. My mother is a powerful strega, highly skilled in the manipulation of the strands of fate, and a formidable woman in her own right. My father loved her, and she him, in their own way, but chiefly between them was a bond of authority, not passion. He is a powerful political man, and of some considerable importance. I suppose, looking at it now, it makes sense that I would be seen as a threat to certain people in power, as I had the education of not only my mother and father, to the extent that culture and tradition would allow, but also the teachings of my mother in law, who had a particular skill with foresight. I know my marriage was arranged purely as a politically advantageous agreement, but what made the arrangement special was Fedele.

Fedele insisted at the time of our betrothal that we would wait until I was older to marry. Tradition would have allowed us to wed not long after the formal betrothal, but he had a notion of romance in his heart, and wished not to see our marriage be one of loveless duty. He came to our home often, and as I grew older, our friendship grew, and developed into something deeper. The passion that he so desperately wished to see between us developed quite of its own accord, and when I was sixteen, we wed. He treated me with every kindness and tenderness one could ask for. He was ambitious, set to be a politically powerful man like my father, and with a strega of my potential by his side, there was no reason to ever believe we could not achieve everything we wanted.

It was much later, when we had been wed for nearly five years, that I woke from a terrible dream; one that seemed altogether far too real. When I read my fate cards for confirmation of such a prophecy, I was met with the truth of my situation; that I had been forged into the very tool that would bring about the undoing of not just my husband’s livelihood, but of both our lives. I saw mine ended by his hand, puppeted by strings pulled by another strega. I saw his life ended similarly. But I was still yet too weak, too inexperienced to fight such a foe. This was a woman with power beyond my own, both politically and magically. The only way I could see to disrupt the plan entirely would be to remove a key piece from the board - myself. The only other who knew of my flight was Fedele’s mother. She would not help me escape - it was treacherous enough, finding my way out of Vodacce, without implicating her as well - but she would help cover my absence for as long as possible within high society. I needed my departure to be well hidden for as long as possible. Truly, there has been nothing in my life so difficult as leaving my husband’s side, he whom I love so deeply as to put myself in very real mortal danger. If I am ever returned to Vodacce, and discovered, I would be summarily executed. I would be burned at the stake. Thus is the fate of those foolish enough to run away, and foolish enough to get caught.

So you see, it is not his shortcomings that have driven me here, to the far wilds of the world, beyond the reach of any of my sororitas, but my own need to keep us both alive, my own small part to play in disrupting this plot into which we found ourselves unwillingly drawn.

But it is now through my own foolishness that I find myself faced with another conundrum. When I fled, my only thought was of preventing the plot from being furthered. I did not think about what my life would hold for me beyond the borders of my homeland. I did not think about my purpose in the world, nor of the people I might meet. And now I find myself in the unique position of loving a man whom I have known since I was a child, and feeling an ever growing affection for a man in my more immediate presence. You have presented me with an unforeseen dilemma, and I know not how to proceed.

To lighter news, I can confirm there was at least a little truth to the rumour you heard, though certainly embellished by the time it reached your ears. The woman is incorrigible. As to the business of Lorenzo, I find we may yet be saddled with him for some time, though I do not doubt your instincts. Indeed, my own surmise is that whatever he may be involved in, or running from, it is a direct danger to me. The present course of action seems to be to keep him out of trouble and out of Vodacce hands, if only to preserve myself.

I find Breslau much to my liking. Our slackened pace, still waiting for Soren’s arrival to the city, has allowed me the comforts I have so sorely missed, and those not simply being a decent bed. I find the culture and the commerce of the city to be quite unlike anything I have seen before, and I am lit up by the wonders it offers up to me. I am cautious not to let my money pass from my hands too easily - away from the wall, it will be quite impractical for any of the beautiful dresses that have taken my fancy. But still, the odd trinket finds its way into my possession from time to time. I have sought to immerse myself as much in the culture and the language as I can. I still have some difficulty with the tongue, but I am determined to learn all I can.

Minerva paused at that moment, stretching her fingers and massaging the cramp that had begun to form. A cold wind, tinged with the scent of winter, had picked up, and was beginning to pull at her quite insistently, as if pushing her back to the warmth of the city. She frowned; such a wind could either herald a storm, or be a warning that she needed to make haste and return from whence she came. Vladimir had told her what he could of Matushka, and Minerva held a cautious respect for such an entity. Instinctively, she felt the need to get back, despite the sky being clear and bright, and no danger apparent.

She ate as she walked, feeling strangely lighter of heart having vented all she had wished to tell Vladimir. Perhaps this time, she might actually be able to sleep. So when she returned, only Rannveig and Brom noticed the softness around her eyes and mouth, as if she did not view all with suspicion and reservation. It was fleeting, and returned quickly when she engaged with others in conversation, but it was there. When she thought no one to be looking, and she had a moment to reflect, her face changed with but the smallest quirk of the mouth. That night, before she slept and while the bat waited patiently, she signed off the letter “affectionately yours,” and sealed it, praying to Theus that it be delivered safely, and her secrets not be divulged to any other than her trusted confidante.

[minervacarducci]

Letters and Starlight

Few things had surprised her quite as much as both the size of the bat, and the fact that it bore a wax-sealed letter addressed to her. She had observed the Ussuran bats with some curiosity, surprised at their size, even a little unnerved. But this one was by far the largest she had ever seen. It made sense, she supposed as it flew off into the night, that it would be employed as a messenger, though she was perplexed at how it had even managed to find her. She was never in the same place for long these days, she could hardly give anyone a forwarding address. But when she left the window and settled down by the fire in her room, she smiled slightly. A wax seal such as this… She knew the ring that had made this imprint, knew its bearer perhaps better than anyone realised. She was almost loathe to damage the seal, but the desire to read words written just for her quickly overrode her reluctance.

Their stay in Breslau appeared to be a little longer term than their previous stopovers, and Minerva remained quietly pleased and grateful that they had sought out the best possible accomodation in the city. The small room she occupied was comfortable, and had an understated elegance. The bed was soft and warm, and the chaise by the fire was upholstered in fine velvet. It was a welcome reprieve for her to be able to pull her robe close around her, and stretch out upon it languidly as she read the letter. In the firelight, her eyes flicked back and forth as she read, and read again, and again. Her mouth twitched with the promise of a smile, still hidden despite her privacy. Her skin tingled with warm ripples of bittersweet delight. Half way through reading it again, she stood, and walked to the window, craning her neck to see the night sky stretching out over her. She stayed this way, with the letter still tightly in hand, for some time, studying the sparkling band of silver that belted the midnight darkness. She sighed deeply, fetched a small leather pouch from her travel bag, and returned to the heat of the hearth. From it, she withdrew a pen, a stoppered inkwell, a few sheafs of vellum and a small wooden board upon which she rested the paper. There was always a moment of hesitation before she put the pen to paper; every moment she began to etch her own letters, she had to steady her hand and concentrate deeply. More than once, she had considered this an act of transcendent power - a skill so long denied her now entirely, and literally, within her grasp.

Dear Vladimir,

It would be entirely dishonest of me to deny that your departure caused me some sadness, and I find as time goes by, I miss your presence more and more. To be so open is still a little alien to me, but I feel that with you, my candor and my honesty are well entrusted. Your company has been a great comfort to me in the months we have travelled together, and now in your, as you say, wild and untamed land, I wish often for your conversation, for your tutelage of the Ussuran tongue (which I continue to find difficult to master), and simply for your presence in the dark of night when still I wake from dreams and nightmares alike.

We have seen foreign powers at work in your land - a very disconcerting encounter with Vodacce and Montaigne forces left us in some peril. Interestingly, they employed the use of Montaigne slaves rather than your countryfolk. I fear they are unearthing dangerous relics, and meddling with things best left buried. Violet and I, through some carelessness, found ourselves briefly ensnared by an otherworldly thing that took over the mind and the body. Were it not for my growing strength and control of my Sorte, I do not know if we would have succeeded in breaking the bond. I still dream of the powerlessness I felt, watching the world and my actions through my eyes, feeling through my body, with no control over it, like some grotesque marionette. It chills my blood still, and when the nightmares wake me, I miss you most.

I have seen much of what you describe. The landscapes of Ussura are so very different from Avalon, from Eisen, from my own home. It is unlike anywhere I have been before, and for that reason, I endeavour to see as much of it as I can. It is not as verdant as the countryside that surrounded my family estate, nor as gentle and visually pleasing as Avalon. But it appeals to me, oddly. The changeable winter is truly a wonder to behold, though it puts the very fear for my life in me sometimes. Here, near to the great wall, I can see what it must be like in summer, great fields worked by the peasant folk, and golden forests crowned in autumnal glory. I find myself wishing I could traverse the paths that might be in such forests, drowning in silence and solitude, and that my heart and mind might be at peace in such a place.

Living constantly on the road is ever a trial, though our stay in Breslau may be slightly longer than originally intended. Each day I wake to a servant tending the hearths and serving good food, and each night I settle into a soft, warm bed that could not be any further from a hard roadside, and I thank Theus for such a blessing. Rannveig considers the money I have spent on such things to be frivolous and unnecessary. I consider them one of the last tenuous threads I maintain with my former life. She forgets, sometimes, how disparate our lives are, and the Vestenmannavanjar nobles live distinctly different lives to the life I led before all this began. She does not see such luxuries as being necessary to one’s well being. I see them as so desperately necessary that I must indulge every second I can, before we continue on our endless travels. I have found myself thinking fondly on the estate in Freiburg and how I miss it. Still, if I am to have learnt anything in the last three years, it is undoubtedly that my life is in constant flux, and to settle and be comfortable and happy once more is yet beyond my reach.

See how I wax lyrical without you to talk to? There are none to whom I can speak in such a way, and know they understand my meaning so clearly as you. Rannveig remains my closest confidante, and Diego seems to be warming to me, though I daresay much of that has to do with how I can assist his own pursuits. I am more guarded these days, having gained two new travelling companions, a Castillian woman by the name of Tegrida, and a young Vodacce lad, Lorenzo. I do not trust either of them, but that is not unusual. It takes me some time, or as you demonstrated, an act of open honesty, for me to trust anyone. Having another of my countrymen so close by presents new dangers for me. I do not think he knows who I truly am, though my pointed refusal to offer a family name must surely raise some suspicion. I fear he will bring others down upon us all, and in doing so, I may be exposed. I tread carefully, and my feet remember the steps of this dance, as if I had never left Vodacce. Would that you could have seen me at work in the social circles of my home. Intrigue and secrets were currency, and I was rich in them. I often wonder if that is why my husband and I became the targets of someone’s ill intentions - perhaps I was growing too powerful, showing too much potential. I know I have spoken so little of him, and my family, and my flight from them, but I wish now I had told you more. I simply cannot risk writing it down. So I shall continue to hold my secrets close.

I shall look up at the stars often, and perhaps I shall endeavour to write you a little more. Theus knows my penmanship needs work, and I know you shan’t judge me harshly for my poor script. I hope that it is not long before we are reunited. You are missed.

Faithfully yours,

Minerva

[minervacarducci]

Flowers In The Garden

Since the moment Giovanna had recognised her, Minerva felt as though nothing could shake the feeling of a hot breath down her neck, the sensation of a predator closing in on her. It had been a considerable time since last she felt so hunted, and she had forgotten the potency of this adrenaline and fear. Worse yet, that Giovanna had told her of mysterious goings-on down in the mine. Several years ago, she could have simply walked away. Several years ago, she might not have batted an eyelid at the plight of those slaves if it meant keeping herself and those close to her safe. Even now, it was more the fear of being exposed that drove her, and the need to forge a new alliance, than the charity of her heart that spurred to agree to this mad cause. Nevertheless, as she, Diego, Violet and the so-called Montaigne Claude descended into the darkness, she wondered if it was worth it. She trusted Giovanna, she had invoked Nascosto Sorella with her; still, was the cost truly worth it?

She was quite lost in her thoughts when they reached the odd gates of which Claude had spoken. She barely protested when they decided to investigate further, and it was only when she jumped back from the bleeding eyed woman in the marble corridor that she made her thoughts known. The others bickered around her, debating the threat of the being before them, while she looked on in terrified silence, examining the monstrous threads emanating from the wretched creature. The girl herself was nothing to Minerva; her appearance startled and unnerved her, but it was those pulsing green and black threads that turned her stomach until she was heaving its contents against the nearest wall. Violet’s immediate reaction, to attempt to kill this monster before them, was, albeit ill conceived, a notion of loyalty. The creatures cries of… more surprise than pain, brought others out to converge slowly upon them.

The threads led further into the museum; it was not without trepidation that she continued down the dull marble corridor. She was quiet, eyes flicking every which way as she tried to make sense of the threads. They simply should not exist. Every fibre of her body was taut. She was not paying attention to her companions at all, simply following the direction of these infernal threads.

The room beyond the door at the end of the corridor stood open, and black beyond. Deep and dark, and the threads all continued through. Her stomach felt heavy. The shaking in her bones was barely contained. She held herself tall and strong as they stepped through the door, met with a cage that held a cowering man, and a statue. The threads all fed into him, and then to the statue, as if being funneled through him. Still they pulsed black and green, sparking as if with static. Her saliva felt hot, the way it did often before she was about to purge her stomach. But she fought it down, and studied the trapped, begging man.

“Who are you?” Her voice was cold, emotionless.

“I am one of the slaves, I was down in the mines when I got trapped down here, please, I don’t know how long I have been down here, please get me out.”

“Who are you?” The others looked at her, surprised at the flint in her tone.

“My name is Claude, I am from Montaigne.”

Her eyes narrowed, and she looked sidelong at the Claude who stood nearby. He looked uncomfortable.

“Where are you from?”

“I told you, I’m from Montaigne!”

“Do not waste my time-” her voice was like a whip, “-from whence in Montaigne have you come?”

“A city in the south, Paix! I’m from Paix!”

His continued begging and babbling meant nothing to her. He was nothing to them, and she was not ready to interfere with these unknown threads. She turned as if to leave.

“How do we get you out?”

Minerva stopped, and exhaled heavily. Of course Violet would believe him. Of course she would want to save him. “Violet, leave him. He is not our business.”

“We came down here to free slaves, didn’t we? He says he’s one of them!”

“I don’t care, this is not our responsibility, this is beyond what Giovanna and I agreed to.”

“I’m not leaving him behind.”

“Violet, everything is connected wrong! Those things out there are all connected to him, they’re all funneling through him to that statue, there is something entirely wrong about this, and I d-”

She was cut short by Claude’s terrified, undignified shrieking. “SORTE STREGA!” She watched him run away, through the mob of bleeding eyed thralls, unconcerned. It was an opportune moment to see if they would be hostile. They got in his way and slowed him down some, but made no move to attack him. Good, she thought, at least now I know they are unlikely to attack us when we leave. Turning back to Violet with a roll of her eyes, she resumed her insistence that they leave. Diego left them to go after Claude, at Violet’s behest. And as they bickered between themselves, Minerva demanding they leave the captive behind, and Violet staunchly in opposition, she didn’t watch the threads. She didn’t see them forming until they were already sinking into the both of them-

-And suddenly, it was as if she had been pushed back from herself. She could see through her eyes, feel through her limbs, and yet it was not her mind that controlled it all. It was a sensation so unnerving as to be nightmarish, sitting inside her body alongside another, a copy of her, another Minerva who knew everything about her but… was all wrong. She could hear the voice of the being that had ensnared them. Heard it call them its flowers. Understood the directive to get to the sun. She tried to push back, but it beat her down quickly. The false consciousness had total control.

Later, when she would write to Vladimir, recounting the horror of the sensation of being so hijacked, she would describe it as being trapped in a small dark confine, so small she could only barely move, and of screaming at the top of her lungs, but no sound ever bubbling out of her mouth. She felt swallowed with panic, and for the duration of their ascent, she thrashed inside her body with no movement, and screamed with no breath and no sound.

It was when she heard, with her imposter’s thoughts, the order from the being in the mines, “bring Giovanna to me,” that she willed herself into stillness. She could not allow herself the luxury of panic. She withdrew, as if making herself smaller, letting the false consciousness fill the space, and inside herself, she settled. She focused. These threads were not Sorte, but they behaved like Sorte. If she could find a way to weaken it, she might have a chance to protect her friend.

It took more concentration and effort than it would have under normal circumstances. Another learning moment; she filed that information away, knowing she may need to do this again. There was no way to stop the order from being carried out, but it did take her a lot longer to find Giovanna than it would have otherwise. Good, she thought, this is progress. For now, her best solution was to sit quietly and let her simulacrum take over. She slowly gathered up her energy, pulling together all the internal elements of her power, all in preparation. She would have a small window of opportunity. It needed to be timed perfectly.

The debacle that ensued, Violet’s effective kidnapping of Giovanna, the suspicious Claude raising objections to their return to the mines, Diego and Seamus looking at her ever more warily, all these things she watched from distant eyes. When her imposter self took off into the mine, decisive and resolved, she almost cheered. She could see the bewilderment on her friends’ faces. They surely knew something was wrong.

She sat in her small space, letting her new consciousness relax, as if it could sense her submission. She gathered her resolve while she watched, waiting. They followed her down into the deserted mine. She waited. They questioned her going into the grand museum, and she waited. She led them to the black room, joining Violet and the unconscious Giovanna. They saw the cage, the man, the statue, and as they questioned what in Theus’ name was happening, she pulled hard on her thread, weakening it as she had done before, taking her parasite mind by surprise.

“Destroy the statue, there’s something wrong, I ca-” And as quickly as she wrested power back, it was snatched away, and her knife was in hand. She parried Seamus’ grapple, more effectively than she had thought possible. Chaos ensued around them, and with a start, she realised Rannveig  had understood her cry. The damage inflicted to the statue made the thread shiver and flicker. Just long enough that she could forcibly push the parasite out of control.

She reached with clawed fingers, ensnaring the electric threads, and pulled. She would not let go, she wrestled with it, against the sensation of dread and fury, and at last, they fractured from the statue. She felt herself rushing back to fill all the spaces in her mind and body, felt the false consciousness blink out of existence.

“Destroy it.” She looked at Rannveig, heavy with exhaustion. “I want that thing reduced to rubble.” Minerva stood by as her compatriots freed the trapped man, and as Rannveig obliterated the statue. She had never been so relieved to look upon a pile of stone.

[minervacarducci]

Learning The Cards

Since their betrothal, Minerva noted an increased frequency in Porzia’s visits. She and her mother spent days in each other’s company, often secreting themselves away. It came to light some time later that they had been discussing Minerva’s future.

“Piccola, sit with us,” Solange motioned to their table. She sat, straight backed and watchful as ever. Porzia was watching her with some interest. She schooled her expression, cool and detached. “We have been discussing your education. Porzia can teach you many things if you apply yourself. Things for which I have less of a talent.” Minerva looked impassively at her future mother-in-law. She was surprised when Porzia smirked a little.

“You have en excellent skill for concealment, child. It will serve you well.”

“…Thank-you Signora Carducci.”

“Have you read the cards before?”

“I have very little understanding of them. I know what they are. I cannot interpret them.” She saw no use for withholding anything from her.

Porzia nodded, as if in approval. “Good. You know your weaknesses. Hubris serves no one. Your mother has skills in weaving and manipulation that I cannot match. But reading the cards; this, I can teach you with confidence. Knowledge is power, and our knowledge is the most powerful.” Minerva found she was leaning forward, keenly listening. She had some talent for weaving, but the cards held an allure, a dread desire to know.

Porzia began dealing the cards in front of her. “There are four suits. They match the four threads. Swords; conflict. Staves; authority. Cups; passion. Coins; well, that’s obvious. The Arcana are often the most important ones, though you must never disregard or disrespect the minor suit. The minor players are often the most important.”

Minerva watched with rapt attention as she studied the cards. Porzia’s deck was very fine, befitting of a woman of her position. She found herself holding her breath, as if compelled by the inherent power of the things before her. The artwork was delicate, and finely detailed. The cards were edged in gilt. Each one was so vibrant and lovingly crafted, it felt as though she were watching the images come to life. She fancied that, if she turned her head just so, and held her breath, and let her eyes unfocus just slightly, that there was a faint web pulling the cards to each other. They led to nowhere but other cards, or so she thought.

As Porzia began explaining what each card was, and what it meant, she felt overwhelmed. She had never thought she could discern so much information from the cards.

“With a considerable amount of practice, and some raw skill, one can glean some of the most detailed and accurate information, portents, possibilities and secrets from the cards. One can manipulate one’s fate with the cards. You must always treat them with respect,” Porzia added with a snap, and Minerva looked up at her, startled. “Like the tapestries, these are things of great potential. In untalented hands, they are a useless tool. You must learn their craft in the same way you have applied yourself to weaving.”

“Minerva,” her mother added, “I know you will study this closely. If you are able to learn to read the cards well, and you are able to wield both your power with the cards as well as the tapestries…” Solange left the sentence hanging, but Minerva took her meaning all the same. If she mastered these skills, in time, she would become a formidable weapon, both for her family and for her husband.

“We will commission a set for you, designed and made especially for you,” Porzia continued. “It is imperative that you have your own set. The cards will come to know your touch, your power. They will become attuned to you. With time, that will be a great boon to you - it will mean that you can read them accurately when you have little time to prepare them. They will guide you true. You must never allow another to interfere with your cards.”

Minerva nodded mutely. She had great skill with the looms she and her mother worked on, and they held their own potential and their own power. The cards… This was a new journey for her, the next step in her education. And she did not doubt her mother’s words - with these skills behind her, what terrible power might she wield?

[minervacarducci]

LeRoy's Demise

The fight, like so many she had witnessed, was over quickly. She found her constitution had rather strengthened and she had become hardened to the sight and sound of skirmishes. So as the violence continued around her, as she side stepped debris and bodies, she did not think of them. Her thoughts, and eyes, were trained on LeRoy. If Rannvëig had the time to look Minerva's way, she would have seen the narrowed glare; she might have recognised the tightness around her mouth, a smirk that promised no end of trouble. If she had seen all these things; she would have known, or at least had an inkling, what she had in store for the vile betrayer. As it was, once LeRoy was restrained, everyone's attention was distinctly not on her. She was soon alone with him. His unconscious form sat slumped, propped up against the pole to which he was lashed. With a relaxed, almost leisurely pace, she pulled a chair to sit opposite him. She sat primly, with her back straight and her hands folded in her lap. It did not take long for him to groan and lift his head, squinting against the pain. It amused her to no end to watch his face as his vision came into focus, and saw before him a calm, neat, smiling Fate Witch. "...I suppose I am to be killed then," he croaked. Minerva did something he had never seen or heard her do, and he was inexplicably chilled. She laughed. "Oh LeRoy, I don't want to kill you. In fact, I want you very much to stay alive. I want you to live a long, long life." He looked at her with growing discomfort. "Where is everyone else?" She shrugged, an elegant and fluid motion that seemed eerily serpentine. He had never seen her in this light, as if she was shrouded in a veil of power and control. He had never been... intimidated by her before. But as she stood, and approached him with a languid and easy grace, he recoiled from her countenance. "Oh LeRoy, LeRoy, LeRoy," she said, almost wistfully, as she bent to his level and... kissed him. He couldn't pull away from her, he was simply trapped as her warm soft lips pressed to his almost tenderly. But it was the narrowed eyes, and the smug mocking smile that left him cold. "You will find that you will be... paying for the consequences of your actions for some time." She straightened, turning on her heel and sauntering from the room, drunk and exhilarated with the feeling of revenge and the manipulation of his fate.

[minervacarducci]

Apprehending The Butcher

Minerva travelled mostly in silence. She was acutely aware of the Butcher’s glare fixed on her. It would not be a comfortable trip. For the most part, she found herself itching to hurt him, to scream at him and feed him to wild animals. Hansel’s devoured body was an image she could not shake from her mind. It was a concerted effort for her to remain cool and calm.

Later, in the dead of night, when the Count was taking the watch, he shook her gently awake as she had asked. They were both silent; she had not divulged what she planned to do, and he did not ask. She wrapped her thick cloak around her tightly and came to sit beside the sleeping Butcher. She was light footed and cautious. She did not make a sound.

It took some concentration on her part to focus on the faint bundle of threads emanating from him. Once she had clear sight of them, she reached out with trembling hands, and began sifting through them, careful only to touch what was absolutely necessary, and refusing to touch the thread that connected him to Greta. The sensation was like handling yarn made of spider silk. They had a clingy, unnerving quality that tested her constitution. The threads weren't quite sticky like spider silk, but they certainly lingered. The stronger threads seemed more tangible, and gripped at her fingers more. To that end, it was not difficult for her to find a strong enough Coins thread that she could get a good grip on. She gritted her teeth and began to pull it, first holding it taught and then exerting a little more pressure. She couldn't feel anything happen in particular. The thread simply sat, stretched taught and then... a sickening moment when she felt the thread lengthen a little, and it seemed to extend a minute amount out of his chest. In that split second, she dropped the thread, shaking her hands, her skin crawling. The sticky sensation would not leave her fingers, and she was beginning to panic. Firm hands on her arms lifted her to her feet and guided her away. Everyone else slept on, blissfully unaware.

“Are you alright?” Vladimir whispered.

“I need to wash my hands,” she whispered haltingly.

“There is a stream not far away, but I must keep watch, I can’t leave.”

“I will be fine, I just, I need to wash my hands. I won’t be long.” She held her hands away from her, as if disgusted with what she had been touching. Her eyes looked wild in the firelight.

“Take this then. Be safe.” He handed her a dagger from his hip. She took it and set off into the darkness towards the stream she knew to be close by. With the moon full and high, it was not a difficult walk.

It was nearing an hour later, and Vladimir was growing anxious that she had not returned, when finally he heard her footsteps returning. He went to meet her, and found her holding her hands as if in pain. He guided her back to the fire, frowning concernedly.

“I had to get them clean. I had to get them clean,” she whispered over and over. Now by the light of the fire, he could see she had scrubbed her hands raw. They were ice cold from the water, and she held them gingerly, clearly in pain. He held her hands, trying to coax more warmth into them. She was shaking, wide eyed, distant, as if in shock. It was all he could do to calm her. After a time, the shaking subsided, and her breath was no longer shallow. He handed her the small bottle of the Ussuran liquor that had helped stave off her nightmares, anticipating that without it, she may simply not sleep. Her head had barely hit her satchel, poor substitute for a pillow though it was, before her eyes were closed and sleep claimed her.

[minervacarducci]

The Raiding Party

The commotion that had woken her grew in intensity as she mounted the steep steps, more ladder than staircase, and the icy cold that hit her face blew away the cobwebs of sleep. The deck was overrun with… Vesten? The fighting filled the still ocean night, and the fog lent the whole scene a surreal, dreamlike air. She could see the raiding ship that had rammed them. After a momentary pause of shock and fear, she snatched up a discarded knife, longer than she was used to handling, and raced across the freezing deck to Rannveig. The burly Vesten woman was bellowing at the raiders, but Minerva could not understand a thing. The tone was enough to tell her that the danger was very, very real. As they stood back to back, and Minerva faced her opponents, she felt as though everything around her slowed. Past the tangle of fate threads - so many of them green - she could see the raiders sizing her up as a threat, and in the back of her mind, some detached part of her thought, “I am an utter fool. I have charged into a battle in nothing but a chemise, and armed with a knife, against a Vesten raiding party in the middle of a freezing damned ocean. What am I doing?” And as quickly as time had slowed in her mind, the world kicked back into gear, and she found herself parrying a blade that had come dangerously close to her stomach. The training with which Brom had drilled her seemed to come naturally, and she and Rannveig flowed around each other for a few brief seconds until the raiders stepped back and held their ground. In the calm, a wild red flash of movement caught Minerva’s eye. Rannveig’s thread! She elbowed Rannveig a little harder than intended, and with nothing but a significant look, directed her attention to a heavily armed warrior now making his way across to their ship from the raiding vessel. She saw her companion’s eyes widen slightly, and then narrow, hard and cold as nails.

But then, something strange happened. As the warrior stepped aside, the thread did not shift with him. Instead, it pointed directly behind, to a… A boy. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen. He was dressed in the custom of the Vesten, but was as soft and babyfaced as any boy she had known. “Oh Theus damn it all, Rannveig, it’s him!” she hissed. Rannveig was stony faced; she could not tell what her friend was thinking. And indeed, had no light shed on the matter as soon as they began exchanging words. She had no talent for the Vesten tongue. All she could do was stand by, watching as keenly as she could while her heart beat so frantically, she felt it might burst from her chest.

It seemed as if everything was turned on its head once more - in a bare instant, after a heated exchanged and Rannveig becoming more and more agitated by the boy’s words, Rannveig squared her shoulders, and gave an order to LeRoy that didn’t seem to process until the shots were fired. Minerva screamed in horror. The boy’s chest blossomed with blood and gore. The smoke from the Montaigne unit’s muskets hung in the air, acrid and sharp. The combat resumed with renewed vigor, and it was all Minerva could do to get out of the thick of it. They all seemed to ignore her now, the focus was on Rannveig-

-Right until the moment the ship exploded.

The deck lurched and shook violently. A series of small explosions after the first rattled her teeth. The fighting ceased immediately. The ship was beginning to pitch, and the universal survival instinct overtook them all. She was far from Rannveig by now, and as she tried to evaluate her best escape route, she watched the deck pitch as more water was taken on. The deck… Her deck! She dropped the knife, and ran, stumbling and struggling, back to her quarters. She could hear Rannveig angrily shouting her name, the call coloured with concern.

She could get to her quarters with little enough struggle. It was the black, iced water that she had to wade through that took her breath away, before she began swearing every Vodacce curse she knew. Her legs shook as she threw the door open to her room and she took precious moments to find her Fate deck, and snatched up the closest piece of clothing she could find. That distant part of her mind whispered again, “of course it’s the black gown. I will lose the lavender gown. It’s just a dress, just a dress. The black is only practical, don’t wait, the water is coming in fast, I need to get out.” The only way out now was through the window; the door was near swallowed by the black brine. Thank Theus the quarters she had been given were richly appointed and the windows could be opened. She clawed her way to them, flung open the glass panes, and looked down fearfully. She didn’t want to jump. She couldn’t swim. There was flotsam enough that she might be able to strike out for, but her arms were full, and the pain of the ice water made her hesitate. Trembling, she took several deep breaths, willing herself to make the leap. She had just inhaled deeply, when the ship dropped violently, and she was thrown down into the water.

There was panic. Everything was black, and when she opened her eyes reflexively under the water, she felt as though her eyes had been stabbed with thousands of frigid needles. She was sucked under by the pull of the sinking ship, and she kicked with all her strength. When she burst through the surface of the water, she almost let go of everything, so relieved was she that she had not yet drowned. It was that relief that pulled her attention to a nearby hunk of… door? She remembered something from her first voyage, when she had escaped Vodacce; the captain had told her, very seriously, that if the worst were to happen, and she were to find herself in the water, that she should try to float on her back, with her face to the sky, and kick that way. She struggled, coughing and choking on the salty water that kept making its way into her mouth, threatening to drown her. She looked up at the foggy night, the moon burning bright and painting the world silver. The fire from the ship was slowly being suffocated by the ocean, and soon everything went dark again. She felt the flotsam brush against her shoulder, and in a flailing of arms, she managed to push her remaining belongings onto it, and pulled herself out of the water as best she could. The door was badly splintered, and there was not much left of it. The best she could do was get her upper body out of the water. It kept her afloat for now; that was all that was needed. She closed her eyes, resting her head on the wood, breathing heavily and counting her blessings that she was still alive.

Another blessing to be added came when both Brom and Diego came to her aid. She had been nearly unconscious from the cold when she felt the flotsam move distinctly, and opened her eyes to find them on either side of her, propelling them all towards the remaining raiding vessel. She could dimly hear LeRoy’s voice, authoritarian and mellifluous as ever. “My lady, you must keep your eyes open and keep moving,” Diego encouraged her through chattering teeth. “You are in more danger if you are not awake.” She took a deep breath, shaking all over, and forced her legs to keep kicking as powerfully as she could. She was not a weak willed woman. Her self discipline drove her on. It seemed to her that she kept losing time, as if every time she blinked, minutes passed. When they finally reached the ship, she was hauled up, still clutching her deck and her dress to her chest. Now safe, or so she felt, she felt her grip on the world relaxing, and her vision swam. She felt oddly warm now, and she wasn’t shivering anymore. Her head dropped slowly as the warm promise of sleep threatened to overcome her senses. Her grip on her belongings loosened, and the deck box clattered to the floor.

She had virtually no fight left in her when Rannveig strode over to her, hauling her to her feet. “We need to get you out of your wet clothes, Minerva, you’ll freeze to death.” Rannveig wrapped her in a cloak - it smelled so familiar - and with her modesty preserved, stripped her out of her wet chemise. She had enough presence of mind to keep the cloak pulled tight around her as she was propelled towards the small brazier being reluctantly shared by the rest of the crew. The sailors made space for her, all recognising the wild, distant look on her face, her long black hair plastered to her cheeks.

“My lady.” The Ussuran drawl of the Count seemed to come from very far away. “How are you faring?” The concern on his face seemed genuine.

“I… am wet, I am cold, and I have lost all my things.” She had not meant to sound so bitter and biting, but the words formed of their own accord, and she pulled the cloak further around her, acutely aware of how little she had covering her. She heard Vladimir ordering Igor to see to her things, and he disappeared for a moment before returning with her Fate deck, drying the box with a kerchief. He handed them both to her, and she, without thinking clearly, opened the box, attempting to dry the cards. The fine whalebone cards would not be terribly damaged, but the salt deposits and the water were not friends to ink and paint.

The first card she turned over in her hands, drying it delicately, cut through the fog of her mind. The Tower. Ruination, destruction, revelation. She wondered if there was more to come.

[minervacarducci]

Hansel's Black Thread

The hospice had unnerved Minerva. Now acquainted with the waisen, she felt a distinct sense of dread in their presence. Greta had reassured her that this was quite a normal reaction to them; even the stony Eisen found it difficult to be around them. But Greta did not see what Minerva saw, those slithering fate strands reaching out to them, trying to connect to them, recoiling back with little lightning sparks. Discomfited though she was, she had a morbid curiosity about what would cause such a reaction. But she could not bring herself to look too closely, or for too long. Only slightly less unnerving had been little Hansel and his complete lack of fate strands. It didn’t make sense. She could see them floating there, faint but definitely there, and with enough concentration she could draw them up to the surface and get a good look at them. But the boy was driven by a childish madness to kill his parents murderer - his Swords thread should have been much stronger. And yet, there was nothing. She took some time, often when he was asleep, to study his threads and try to unravel that mystery. Eventually, she simply had to resign herself to the fact that she was not strong enough in her craft to answer this riddle. It wasn’t until much later, after Hansel was dead, that a terrible thought struck her. She had been sitting by the firelight, stitching up a hole in her skirt with fine black thread that she found herself thinking of a time from long ago. She would have been very young, sitting by her mother’s side while Solange sat, embroidering a fine gown. Solange had been teaching Minerva how to read the threads, how to distinguish between the strands by their colour, and how to read their Arcana. It all came back in an instant, like a bullet shot into the mind. “The blue threads, they are for passion. Love, hate, joy, sorrow, everything that a person feels with their heart. Can you see how ours connects us, piccola? And the yellow ones, they are for coins, money and fortune. Red is for conflict, and green strands are… Well, they are for connecting people who have power over each other. Your papa has a very strong one with me-” Minerva realised with a twitch what that meant, as she examined the memory “-and they can be very important threads to watch. Especially when you need to know how to play with the threads, when you are stronger and older.” Solange seemed to pause, wondering if it were appropriate to impart further knowledge upon her young child. “…And there is one more. You have to be very strong and very accomplished to see them. They are the black threads. They… connect a person with their death. When you can see them, and it is the strongest thread, you will know that person will soon die. One day, you will see them. But you must never touch them, do you understand?” Her fingers had ceased their delicate stitching, and she was looking sternly at little Minerva. “I can teach you many things, and many more will teach you things I cannot. But you must always remember, never touch the black threads. Don’t pull on them, don’t stretch them, don’t even touch them. There are some things we must never meddle with.” Minerva was sitting frozen, by the fire, in the draughty Eisen manor, staring at the black silk thread in her hands, the memory having triggered a dread realisation. Hansel hadn’t had a strong thread that she could identify. Even his lust for vengeance hadn’t been able to vie for the strongest thread. She had thought it an anomaly, an absence of a thread. But it wasn’t absent. It had been there the whole time - she just couldn’t see it. His black thread would not have made itself known to her, she could not see them. But it must have been there, beyond her comprehension, pulling him ever closer to the end. Her hands trembled slightly, and she set the needle and thread down, tears welling in her eyes. She drew a kerchief from her sleeve and wept, quietly, by the fire, glad for the solitude in her grief.

[minervacarducci]

The Burning

There had been whispers for days. A runaway had been caught. Finally, the dreaded bells rang through the city, the deep, cold clang of the iron bells reserved only for the worst of times. They were not the lyrical chime of the church bells that tolled daily. These sent a chill down the spine of every Strega in the city.

Minerva was pale and shaking as she pinned her hair up in a coil, decorated with a fine pearl net. Her stomach roiled, her breakfast sitting poorly. She had been very young the last time there had been a burning. It had haunted her nightmares as a child for weeks. She struggled at the mere thought of the burning to keep composed.

Fedele watched his young wife, frowning. Married barely three months, he had done his best to put her at ease and engender a sense of safety in their marriage. A burning would only remind her of her true place within wider Vodacce society. After all, that was the purpose of such a public spectacle - a cautionary tale told to the whole city, but with only one true audience in mind. He came to stand behind her, putting his hands on her shoulders.

"Ready, my love?" he asked gently. It was impossible not to notice how grey she was. She nodded, her jaw tight. He took the black veil from her trembling hands, and pinned it expertly in place, hiding the pearl headed pins amongst the net already adorning her hair. She took a deep breath and rose to her feet, steeling her expression.

As they made their way to the city square, he was in awe of her self control. She suppressed the trembling where others could see her. Her expression behind the thin gossamer veil was calm, blank and impassive. Her eyebrow arched ever so slightly in a look of almost smug disinterest. Her arm linked through his was relaxed. She was the picture of perfect dispassion. Only if he looked closely could he see the racing thrum of her pulse beating frantically in her neck.

The square was already crowded. Citizens of all classes pressed in together. Balconies played host to dozens of Strega and their families. The Carducci family, Fedele’s parents, his two brothers and their wives, already occupied their seats. His younger brother’s wife, Angelica, looked visibly ill through her veil, and Minerva could see the tears streaking her cheeks. The four Strega exchanged greetings, and significant looks. No one dared speak a word against what they were about to witness. Porzia’s level of composure mirrored Minerva’s, and she nodded imperceptibly at Minerva, as if in approval.

Finally, a hush fell over the masses, as if the city held a collective breath. The Prince stood to address the city, and Minerva finally brought her gaze to the pyre. Blood rushed through her ears, so much that she could barely register his speech denouncing the Lady Lucia of treason and espionage, having escaped into Castille. She breathed deeply, counting her breath and relaxed her shoulders, holding herself gracefully and calmly. Angelica was not faring so well, and her husband was growing impatient with her barely contained sobs. Onesta kept her eyes firmly fixed on her hands, and refused to look up at the Prince. Minerva understood both their reactions - she would have done the same if she wasn’t so aware of the danger it posed. So no matter how gruesome the spectacle, she would not show weakness. She would not look away. She would not show its effect on her. She would remain strong and cold, and she would not let this moment be the moment that her carefully cultivated composure was compromised.

The crowd swelled with a collective clamour, and Minerva could see the Lady Lucia being led to he pyre in chains, her veil hiding her face. The drums that matched her steps drove through Minerva’s head painfully. Lucia held her head high, and she carried herself as if she was not burdened with chains. Minerva resolved that she must do the same. If this woman, however treasonous, could hold herself thus, then she, an upstanding and obedient wife and daughter, must surely behave better. She would not look away.

The pomp and circumstance around securing Lucia to the pyre was brief. The Prince’s oration and denunciation of the lady was to the point, and before Minerva could register it, the guards holding torches aloft were approaching the oiled wood. She realised, in the light of the torches, that Lucia’s beautiful black dress was shimmering in a most unusual way. Only too late, when the flames began to lick at her feet, and her screams began to perforate the air did she realise that her gown was soaked in oil. She inhaled sharply, and Fedele’s hand reached across and grasped hers tightly. Her mask did not fall. She would not look away.

Lucia’s screams turned from panic and terror into wailing, shrieking agony. Minerva could see the veil go up in cinders, exposing Lucia’s severe profile, twisted and contorted. Her flesh was bubbling through the flames, and the inhuman sound rending the air sent the crowd silent. In the minutes before Lucia fell limp and silent, the crowd stood as stone.

She would not look away.

[minervacarducci]

The First Meeting: Minerva and Fedele

Fedele Carducci paced back and forth, strangely nervous. It felt ridiculous to him to be meeting a girl as young as his intended, and to be so nervous. Yet the prospect of meeting the young lady was daunting - a young strega, doubtless still learning her own craft, was an unknown quantity, as much as strega could be considered known quantities. He had gone over this moment in his head a thousand times, rehearsing what he would say, how she would react, anticipating every possible outcome. They would not be married for some time yet - he had at least been able to negotiate with his father that they not marry until she was at least sixteen. Perhaps, if his plans came into fruition, over the next four years they might grow to be close friends, and not have the strained and antagonistic relationships he had observed amongst both his peers and his own family. To that end, he had insisted they meet now.

The sound of a door opening snapped him back to the present, and he turned smartly on his heel, back straight and chin high. Down the hallway, Alighiero di Caligari and his wife Solange approached, followed by who he assumed was the young Minerva. He bowed to them both.

“Signor, signora, my thanks for allowing me here today, and for your hospitality.”

Alighiero waved him off with a genial smile. Solange’s expression remained stony behind the gossamer black veil, her eyes never quite meeting his. “Please, my boy, you are most welcome, we have been anticipating your visit. Minerva? Come forward, child.”

The veiled girl stepped forward, and he noted that she was tall for her age, with a proud carriage. She, unlike her mother, met his eyes directly, and he noted the quirk of her mouth at his reaction; though the veil protected him, he was disconcerted. She did not seem pleased, and lifted her chin defiantly.

“Bella signora, it is my honour to meet my betrothed.” He bowed with a deep flourish.

“Signor,” she acknowledged him coolly, curtsying with far more control and modesty.

“I have brought you a gift. I was told you are a keen dancer, and fond of music.” His manservant passed Fedele a brightly polished wooden box, and he took it, displaying it with pride to his young fiancee. “I had them made with your father’s cooperation to get them just right.” With that, he opened the lid of the box, though he remained a short distance away from her, an attempt to entice her closer. It worked. At first she craned her neck slightly to see in, before stepping forward, her eyes widening ever so slightly. In the box sat the finest pair of dancing slippers she had ever seen, made of soft black leather, embroidered delicately in silver thread, and, to her childish delight, lined with the palest lavender silk. The touch of colour sent a shiver down her spine, as if owning something with this hidden, secret colour was dreadfully sinful. He couldn’t help but smile seeing the apparent effect his gift had on her. He only had a moment to enjoy it, however, as he noted her eyes flit back to her side, remembering her parents company, and she steeled her expression once more.

“It is a beautiful gift, Signor Carducci, and thoughtful. I shall think of you when I wear them.” He knew this dance well, and could see the effort it took her to play the game of cordial disinterest. She could not quite keep the quirk of a smile from her lips when he closed the lid and passed the box on to a Caligari servant.

“I have one more gift, somewhat more unusual. They are quite the fashion in Montaigne right now.” He produced a small wooden box from his pocket, an intricately engraved affair, laid with pearl and silver, with a small key sitting in one end. She tilted her head to the side.

“What is it?” Alighiero had stepped forward, clearly intrigued as well.

“It is a music box. Quite a novel feat of their engineering. You turn the key,” he demonstrated as he spoke, “to wind the coil inside, and then-” He released the key, and to Minerva’s delight, a tinkling, delicate tune began to play.

Alighiero clapped with a robust laugh. “Excellent! What a fine gift.” He struck Fedele as a jovial and energetic man, someone around whom one might easily relax. It was hard not to find himself infected with the same vigour.

Minerva’s eyes had remained fixed in fascination on the music box, and when at last the tune wound down, she looked up at him with the most glowing smile he had seen from her yet. “It’s beautiful. Thank you,” she whispered. He smiled, and handed it to her.

“It is my pleasure to see you smile, piccola signora.”

[minervacarducci]

Minerva Narrowly Escapes

Minerva froze when she registered the sounds of Vodacce conversation from across the room. Her native tongue made her blood run cold. With shaking hands, she lifted the cup to her lips, her stomach protesting slightly. The tavern was not crowded, and she caught snippets of conversation as she strained to hear.

“…most logical place for her to be, he said. Damn fool took her abroad not two years ago…”

“…to find her. She’s got to be here somewhere though. Doubt she’d even know what to do with herself. Never been on her own now, has she?”

“We better deliver and fast. Caligari isn’t likely to let this go on long without consequences…”

That was all she needed to hear. She quietly finished her cup and slid the barkeep his dues before calmly lifting her hood and, as unobtrusively as she could, she made her way to the door and into the street. Once outside, she walked quickly away, in no particular direction. She couldn’t risk leading them back to the inn where she had been staying these past weeks. She hoped she had pulled her cloak around her enough to hide her distinctly Vodacce gown. Only moments later, she heard footsteps behind her, even paced but purposeful. She didn’t risk a glance behind her; as she rounded a corner, she broke into a run, silently thanking Theus for the sturdy boots gifted to her by the captain who had stowed her away. She had put some distance between them when she heard their shout, and their pursuit began in earnest. Her heart pounded a frantic tatoo on her ribcage. She panted, not wasting breath on calling for help. Her only thought was how to evade them.

The alleyways were labyrinthine in Carleon, and could easily turn you around. Just as quickly as she thought she was lost, she found herself on a familiar street; the Guilds and banks that lined the street lurched into view as she ran. There were precious few people on the street, almost none to see the pursuit.

She had taken a brief chance to look behind her when she collided into someone significantly bigger than her. A tall, heavily built Vesten woman caught her as she stumbled.

“Please, for the love of Theus, help me!”

She seemed to act on instinct rather than in response to Minerva’s plea; seeing an unarmed woman chased by two very well armed men kicked her into gear. She thrust Minerva behind her, squaring her shoulders. It was then that Minerva also noticed the tall, glowering man accompanying her.

“Good lady, sir, I advise you hand over that woman at once. This is a known fugitive whom we are tasked with returning to Vodacce for justice.”

The two Vesten exchanged knowing looks, glanced back at Minerva, and then to the mercenaries.

“And if we don’t?” Her Avalon was heavily accented.

“Then we shall take her by force if necessary.”

“What is she charged with?”

“…What?” The Vodacce man looked puzzled.

“You said she is a fugitive. To be returned to face justice. What is her crime?”

“I… Ah, that is…”

She looked at Minerva. “You a runaway?” Minerva nodded. “It’s not my business to get involved…” She raised an expectant eyebrow, the unspoken part of her sentence hanging in the air.

“Fifty Senators if you kill them.” The Vesten didn’t look immediately convinced. “Fifty each!” she begged, visibly shaking. She could not afford to lose any more time.

She simply nodded and turned back to them. “A duel then.”

“…What?” This time they spoke in unison. She flung back her cloak, revealing the Swordsmans’ Guild pin upon her breast.

“I challenge you both to a duel to the death.” She was very concise. She brandished not a sword, but a great warhammer. The mercenaries paled.

Minerva did not see much of the ensuing duel; the burly man shielded her from it, and herded her into a nearby doorway, well away from danger. She was still gasping to catch her breath, and her dark hair had escaped much of its bun, looking wild and unkempt. The brief minutes that followed were filled with the sound of metal striking metal, and soon, the sickening crunch of metal finding flesh. Screams were cut short as the hammer-wielding woman made short work of Minerva’s assailants.

“You don’t want to see that, my lady,” he said, his hardened face looking down at her. “Trust me on that account.”

She trembled, and struggled to settle her breathing. The intimidating woman rounded into view, the hammer in her hand now covered in gore.

“I’ll have that hundred now.” She spoke so matter-of-factly that at first Minerva didn’t react, before fumbling with the purse in her pocket. Her shaking hands dealt out the gleaming currency. When the last coin fell into the Vesten’s hands, Minerva’s legs buckled under her, and she burst into heavy sobs. Her breath came in heaving gasps, the reality of her escape sinking in now the danger had passed. She could dimly hear the woman speaking to her, but she was having trouble making out the words. In a moment, she felt the ground lurch up to meet her, and her vision went black.

[minervacarducci]

The Dream That Began It All

The dream was still vivid in her mind. She stumbled through the darkness, trying to be as quiet as possible. Through the door, down the hallway, into the sitting room where, sitting gleaming in the soft cold light of the moon, the box which held her fate deck sat. She frantically opened it, holding the richly decorated cards in trembling hands. A shaft of moonlight slashed the floor, and near holding her breath, she sat on the polished wood, legs crossed under her. Without focusing, without her usual ritual of clearing her mind, she shuffled and dealt the cards blindly. The web of threads from her dream was still clear, the turmoil that would come to pass, the unknowable future that might destroy them all. It was different, this dream. There was something altogether too real about it. She could feel it in the frantic beating of her heart, taste it in the metallic tang of panic in her mouth. The complexity of the lay of cards before her would be challenging to read, but she needed to know, at least, if there was truth to her dream.

With a shuddering breath, she looked down and followed the path the cards laid out before her. She felt her stomach plummet. The promise of death, in the very literal sense, was unmistakable. The exact path to its fruition, she could not interpret, but the key elements, she could see. Herself, manipulated, used to further another’s plan. Her Fedele, who now slept peaceful and unknowing of her absence, the force which would bring about her demise. And if her dream promised things to come, their deaths lay at the culmination of this plan.

Hands still shaking, she packed away the cards and closed the box, as if they had never been disturbed. She padded silently downstairs and into the gardens. The night was cool, but the sweat that trickled down her face and chest was icy. She fell to her knees on the soft earth, no longer able to fight the bile back down her throat. She took great heaving gulps of breath, acutely aware of how quiet the night was, and how far sound could carry. In the still of midnight, under the cover of darkness, she sat and willed herself calm once more, closing her eyes against the ever-present tangled mass of threads that surrounded her every day of her life. Slowly, she grounded herself, set aside the panic, and let it burn down to dread. The shaking diminished. With no one to see her, she had been able to let down her guard, but vulnerability in any form would be exploited should it be seen by others. So, even in the dark, as she returned to her bedroom, and cleaned herself up, she held herself strong. The weight of knowledge formed a lump in her stomach, as if lodged under her diaphragm. Once more in bed, she lay for hours, staring at the ceiling, moving only when Fedele began to stir, and drew her closer to him in a sleepy haze.