#aeg games

[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.