“Anyone who tells you justice is blind has never seen someone smote by the executioner.”
— King Jehan the Wise
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Esme sat rigid, her back straight against the chair beside the balcony railing of Les Horizons Lugubres. She fought the urge to adjust the silvered badge — its scales askew over her heart — as the autumn wind tugged at her blue and white dress. The garden’s frost-kissed statues glittered below, but her mind was far from those distractions.
Her mind sailed through darker waters.
“I appreciate your willingness to meet once again,” she spoke in measured tones.
Time once again slipped through her fingers like water in a leaky cask. It had ever since she’d been appointed to Taylor’s station. One demand after another fought for her attention. Squabbles among the chosen and the endless churn of internal politics were the most common culprits. Each tide dragged her further from her own course.
“It is of little consequence,” Louis de Satrons said as he smiled indulgently from the opposite end of the table.
Each week that passed with vengeance unquenched sapped further at her choosing. She hardly felt her Name these days. What would become of her once it slipped away? Would Taylor cast her aside like a broken net? Esme feared she would. Esme hoped she would not.
“It is important to foster both new and old relationships,” she replied.
The surface of the ornate bottle on the table between them was etched with swirling vines and serpents coiled in a mockery of elegance. It gleamed under the fading sun like a jewel trying too hard to be noticed. Esme’s lips tightened as the servant filled her glass.
“First,” Louis suggested as his skeletal fingers swirled the contents of his own crystal glass. “A drink.”
Esme lifted her glass. Her jaw clenched as she swirled the russet liquid in slow circles. She narrowed her eyes. It was a foreign vintage that she didn’t recognize. Her thoughts drifted to the bottle’s origins. Perhaps it had languished for decades in a forgotten cellar or crossed with traders from distant shores? She suppressed the urge to grimace as she brought it to her lips. Mud. The taste clung to her tongue, earthy and foul, as if it had been bottled from the bottom of a swamp.
“Is the wine to your liking?” Louis de Sartrons inquired with a raised eyebrow.
So, it was to be another round of their game. Another carefully baited test, ending with a pointed lesson dressed as wisdom. Esme knew these waters well. She’d swum their currents before and would do so again, no matter how perilous they were. Justice demanded she not flinch from her purpose.
“An excellent vintage,” she lied with a forced smile.
“It is the finest wine imported from the Green Stretch,” the corner of the spy master’s lips twitched. “A rare indulgence.”
“I can almost taste the fruits of the earth with every sip,” she answered diplomatically.
“Let’s not tarnish this conversation with easily discerned falsehoods,” the spy master chided.
“Fine,” she conceded, setting the wineglass down. “It tastes like the sea floor. And not even the better parts of it.”
Esme’s eyebrows arched as her companion lifted the bottle to pour himself another glass. Was he truly willing to endure such torment?
“An apt description,” Louis mused. “We acquired several bottles when we discovered that the Dread Empress imports this by the barrel to the tower.”
It was a fitting measure for the Circle of Thorns. There was reason in testing every patch in the hull of the ship that was Praes, seeking the smallest leaks to exploit. But Esme had learned that this man never stopped at one lesson. His every move was a quiet instruction, cloaked in subtlety and patience.
“I doubt the farmers of Praes store their spirits in such decorated bottles,” Esme said.
“They use more modest glassware,” the ageing man acknowledged.
Only her lessons in propriety kept her from snorting outright. Esme knew better than most what lurked beneath every smile and frown. She needed no lecture from this old spy on when to spare a second thought on the appearance of those she spoke to. Or perhaps Louis offered commentary on the nature of origins? A reminder that the truth of a person always lingered — hidden beneath the surface — no matter how far one strayed from the shore. If one had the resolve to dive below the waters, they’d find it waiting.
Let’s see what he can discern from the scraps I pretend to have gleaned.
Esme’s gaze shifted to the bottle. “It reminds me of the octopi caught off the shores of Mercantis,” she said. “I’ve watched the fishermen haul them in many times. Their appearance is always a deception. They are smooth stones one moment, waving kelp the next. Many layers of camouflage, all to obscure the reality beneath.”
She hid a smirk, watching the flicker of disappointment in the spy master’s eyes. Genuine, feigned, or imagined? Her gut told her it was real, but she’d been fooled many times before. Esme knew better these days than to trust her instincts without a second thought.
“A fair lesson,” the spy master replied. “But consider that Malicia drinks this wine because it reminds her of home. Her nostalgia blinds her to its mediocrity. Might you, too, be clinging to sentiment, masking it as something more noble?”
Louis de Sartrons judged her wrong. Taylor had bestowed trust upon Esme. Trust that was not so easily earned and came with rules and limitations. It rankled, stung like the sting of salt against a rash. How was she to find vengeance with all those measures preventing her from ripping out corruption by the roots? But… Taylor had also achieved what no other hero had managed in living memory. She’d brought change to the hallowed alls of the Highest Assembly. There were also slower ways to drown than by earning her ire.
“I’m not here for sentiment,” Esme countered.
“Then let us not deceive ourselves,” Louis said with a razor-thin smile. “Your inquisition wields many tools — zeal, power, intimidation — but sentimentality may yet be its undoing.”
Her inquisitors often sailed headlong into still waters. These failures had pushed her to seek the counsel of the Circle of Thorns. Taylor’s insights on legal procedures had limits. Documents and records were meaningless when the crooks were clever enough to keep their heads below deck. Interrogations fared no better when faced with foes who’d rather ingest poison than speak to her in person when caught.
“The House of Light has many principles,” she prevaricated, “I’m adhering to them.”
It was not her only complication, either. No matter how hard she clung to Taylor’s rules, others seemed far less dedicated to them. Troubles had arisen after Taylor’s three and a half months of extended absence — so far — in Arcadia. Complaints had surfaced about the inquisition. The accusations ranged from overzealousness, to those who indulged in torture, to those who used their power to settle old grudges. How was she to fulfil her duty and keep the inquisitors in line when they were so eager to stain the very purpose they were meant to serve?
“How proceeds your first major audit of House of Light holdings?” Louis pressed.
Esme glanced away.
“Not all ships survive their first voyage,” she answered softly.
“You would do well to learn the lessons of those who came before,” the spy master advised. “Truth and the blade go hand in hand. Both can also cut if you aren’t careful where you press the edge.”
The spy master didn’t understand — couldn’t understand — what it meant to befriend someone who cared for everyone she tried to help. Someone whose very presence made Esme feel unclean. It was a relentless reminder to do better. A reminder to not walk the same path as her mother. To rise to the expectations that had been placed upon her, no matter how impossible they seemed.
“The First Prince has vastly different expectations of you,” she retorted.
“And what if the Aspirant fails to return from her journey?” Louis mused. “How long can you keep the House of Light from collapsing while adhering to her principles?”
“I’ll weather the storm for as long as necessary,” Esme replied.
They both quietened as silverware laden with food was set before them. The meal passed without a word. The silence gave way to a heavier discussion when it concluded. Louis de Sartrons urged a harder hand. A hand Esme couldn’t afford to take.
Esme rose and left the Les Horizons Lugubres as the sun dipped below the horizon. Her thoughts weighed at her like an anchor. The entire meal had been nothing but a waste. The net she’d cast had come up empty when searching for solutions to her problems.This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.
Esme looked over her shoulders thrice before stepping into her carriage.
Nobody trailed behind her.
The journey to her office was brief and uneventful. She brushed past the sneers and upturned noses as she stepped into the Starlit Cloister. Her status as one of the damned won her no favours here. She’d never expected it would. Let them snub her. A full season had passed since Taylor’s voyage, and still, not one of them dared to act on their opinions.
There was a hidden truth in that.
She unpinned her badge as she arrived at her office and set it aside on the pile of documents waiting for her attention. She leaned back in her chair and sighed.
Any hope of rest was shattered as her gaze fell over the paperwork.
Demands never ceased.
Entanglements clung like barnacles to her purpose.
Justice forever evaded her grasp.
The first document she picked up was tossed aside with a scowl. A report about a Callowen damned, allegedly openly offering allegiance to one of Praes’ High Seats. Unusual, but not worth her time. Whoever had sent it had likely delivered it to the wrong office.
Her bloodied fingertips skimmed the latest reports on the chaos consuming Helike. Their tyrant had been absent for months. Not strictly her concern, but Esme suspected a connection between his disappearance and Taylor’s vanishing. That suspicion had driven her to insist on regular updates.
Reports of Malicia’s suspected active involvement in foreign affairs were marked for further investigation.
Esme’s gaze settled on one of the proposals she’d drafted for Taylor’s return. This one leaned on what Esme considered the priestess’s most positive trait: her growing zeal. Esme had seen it from the start, even if she hadn’t voiced her observations to the others. Taylor’s faith was a fire, slow-burning but steadily blossoming with each passing day. That zeal had begun to chip away at the fear that stayed her hand from striking at those who deserved justice.
The Saint of Swords had wielded her faith as a blade, but the Aspirant? She was extreme in a quieter, gentler way. Both kinds of faith could scour the rot from the Principate, though Taylor’s weapons would be kinder to those caught beneath the edge.
Esme intended to help guide that edge.
The proposal would allow those sentenced to death for their crimes to petition to be touched by compassion in place of execution. It needed the approval of the Highest Assembly, although that was something Esme believed she could secure even in Taylor’s absence. No prince would turn their back on free, docile labour, and the accused could always accept their death if they preferred it. Yet, Esme held back.
Taylor needed to present it herself. The act of making that choice — of standing before the Assembly to argue for it — would be the wind that buoyed Taylor ever closer to her destination. Deep down, the Aspirant knew what needed to be done. Esme was only giving her a nudge. She pushed aside the persistent doubt that warned her against championing that cause.
Surely it was for the best?
Esme set the document aside and reached for another, her lips pressing into a thin line as her eyes scanned the page. More reports on the refugee crisis. The matter had been a barnacle on her hull for some time. Those driven by the escalating conflict with Yan Tei to flee Levant were flooding onto lands held by the House of Light. The House could only sustain so many before the strain on logistical supply chains in the southern principalities became impossible to ignore.
Something niggled at the back of her mind.
Was it paranoia, or justified concern?
Esme’s frown deepened as she studied the reports. Priests had noted a disproportionate number of southern refugees arriving at the doors of House of Light holdings. Something about it didn’t sit right. She flipped through one document, then another, her brow knitting tighter with each page. The more she pieced it together, the sharper her hunch grew. Most church lands weren’t near the borders, and thus there was little reason for refugees to seek them out. And with the rise in banditry across Orense, such routes should’ve been all but abandoned. The pattern didn’t fit, and that was enough to set her teeth on edge.
All of a sudden, the pieces all fit together.
Esme’s fury spiked as the dregs of Connect assembled the remaining details that she’d been too blind to see. A scheme ran by the First Prince to undermine the authority of the House of Light. A ploy to strain their resources during a time when they couldn’t afford to fight among themselves at all.
A sharp knock at the door washed away the edges of her growing rage.
“You may enter,” she said as she forced her shoulders to relax.
Esme brushed a stray lock of onyx hair aside and honed her attention to a point. That matter demanded a cool head fore she made a dangerous mistake. Her gaze lifted, meeting the cold sapphire eyes of one of Taylor’s advisors. Sister Jade stepped into the room.
“There is a matter that demands your attention,” the sister declared.
The woman’s lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line as she took in Esme’s presence. No recognition of her status. No show of respect for her position. Not that Esme had expected otherwise from any members of the clergy.
Justice, not vengeance. Recall the difference.
“Is it more news of the refugee crisis?” Esme bit back a sigh.
“A different complication,” Jade denied.
“I want a discreet investigation launched,” Esme said, “into the possibility of the First Prince stirring trouble on House of Light holdings.”
“It will be done,” Jade acknowledged. “Our eyes and ears in Aequitan have passed along news of a newly minted villain.”
Taylor might have weathered the endless demands on her attention with grace. Esme did not. She had no patience for new heroes strutting into the House of Light only to make unreasonable demands. It never took long to shatter their delusions. Half an hour of verbal lashing beneath her tongue was often enough to send them stumbling back out the door with storm clouds over their heads. News of specific heroes and villains rarely warranted her notice unless something set them apart.
“Is the principality about to drown at sea?” Esme inquired, her focus returning to her work.
She penned a refusal for yet another unjustified demand for increased budgeting from the priesthood in Lange while she waited for a response.
“We’ve caught word of an inventor,” the sister spat the word out vehemently.
Esme’s hackles rose at the mention. Inventors were the sharks swimming among a school of bass, a perpetual thorn in the side of both the House of Light and Klaus Papenheim’s Wardens of Procer. There was no telling if their contraptions violated the Gnomes’ edicts until a Red Letter arrived. Devices powered by sorcery or miracles were historically safe. Anything else, however, was a risk too great to even consider.
“What kind of inventor?” she asked, looking up from her work.
“A mechanist of some kind,” the sister explained, “the person who reported them mentioned many cogs and finicky pieces.”
An invention that would likely breach the edicts, then. No need to ask if he’d sought guidance from the House of Light. Those gifted with technical brilliance seldom ever did. Furthermore, those who showed that level of foresight never became troubles at her door in the first place.
“Have the Wardens been informed?” Esme checked.
“They have not,” Jade hesitated for a moment, “the chosen have been kept in the dark as well.”
Esme swallowed the kind of curse that only sailors would dare utter. This reeked like fish rotting in a market stall. She’d wager this was an ill-considered political manoeuvre. One capable of dragging the House of Light into treacherous waters.
“Is there a particular reason for this?” she inquired.
“There is evidence that some among the nobility are aware of this inventor and sheltering him from discovery,” Jade explained.
Esme’s bloodied fingers tightened around her quill. The nobility. It always came back to the nobility. Twenty years of civil war hadn’t been enough for them. Now they had to flirt with disaster once more. For what?
No. Focus. Think.
“And I suppose you’ve got more nets you’re itching to cast,” she muttered darkly.
“I do not,” Jade declared hotly. “However, there are others,” she spat the word, “who insist that I bring this to you. That I suggest the House of Light simply… lose record of the alert.”
Esme’s blood simmered. Of course, there were priests who’d suggest that. A second Red Letter. It could technically be argued there was no real cost in letting it arrive. No immediate one, anyway. But the political fallout? The fallout would be legendary if word spread that the nobles were harbouring someone responsible for a Red Letter. The House of Light — currently under her control — could make a serious play for power in the aftermath.
“Are there any Wardens in the vicinity?” Esme inquired.
“The closest Wardens have been dispatched to contain a ranging monster tamer further north,” Jade explained. “However, there is an unassigned band of heroes which could be put to the task.”
Esme’s mind turned the problem over like a wheel caught in rough waters. Solutions were plentiful, but none without consequence. The virtuous solution would be to deploy heroes and inform both the First Prince and the child prince of Aequitan. The inventor would be brought to heel quietly in the background and nobody would be any wiser. The nobles would escape any true accountability in the process, but the principate would remain stable. Then there was the ill-considered choice: to look the other way and allow the Red Letter to strike like a storm, then capitalize on the outcome. But a third option lingered, the one she suspected Sister Jade would favour most.
“You’d advise sending the heroes but not informing the nobles,” Esme surmised.
There was risk in this game. Launching a full investigation into the nobility without their knowledge could easily be seen as overstepping her authority. Yet, it could also further erode their standing, provided she framed it well. But was the cost worth it? Taylor would never approve, of course. Then again… did the Aspirant truly need to find out? She could frame it as action taken by a group of heroes without her oversight if organized correctly.
“It would be a fitting chastisement of the nobility,” the sister said as she smiled.
“How long do I have to decide on this?” she pressed.
“Not long,” Jade warned.
Esme furrowed her brow in thought. There were other possibilities, other considerations to weigh besides those three. This was a dangerous game, and she would be sailing without stars to see by.
“We’d only need to allow nature to take its course,” she said slowly.
“We’d only need to allow nature to take its course,” Jade agreed.
She would consult with a few more advisors first. She’d also need to launch some more discreet investigations. This would be the kind of plot she’d lay to undermine herself. After all, why shouldn’t the nobility bite off more than they could chew for once?
Still, in spite of the fact this looked like bait, the idea tempted her.
More than she cared to admit.