The Vampire & Her Witch

In the span of a few hours, the servants who accompanied the Second Army from the ancient fortress in the Vale of Mists had transformed the great hall entirely.

On the far wall, behind the gilded throne that bore the Hanrahan coat of arms, old banners had been pulled down and new ones hung in their place. As dozens of invited guests shuffled into the hall, many of them stopped to stare, pointing at the strange configuration of banners on the wall.

For the Hanrahan banner to still occupy the central, most prominent spot in the hall would have been surprising following the town’s conquest by demons, were it not for the announcement they had all received that they had fallen, not just to demons, but to an alleged child of Baron Brighton Hanrahan. Now, the banner displaying the woodsman’s axe opposite the farmer’s scythe offered a kind of comfort and normalcy in the midst of so much turbulent change.

The space above the Hanrahan banner, however, where the Lothian Setting Sun and Crossed Axes once hung, now displayed two banners, as if the new ruler of Hanrahan served two liege lords. The silver bordered banner of blue and green with its tree and flowers at least followed customs that the people could recognize, even if they weren’t familiar with it.

The black banner, however, that featured a red axe blade and feathered wing, was one that every child in Lothian March had learned to fear in nursery rhymes about the Demon Lady of the Vale. Seeing it flying here, and atop the Hanrahan coat of arms at that, made it clear where their new Lady’s loyalties lay.

”Look,” a prosperous baker said, nudging the miller he’d sat next to during the feast with an elbow and pointing to the far wall. ”Lord Hugo’s banner hasn’t moved,” he said as he pointed to the banner of a quill pen crossed with a scroll of parchment over the three rolling hills of Hanrahan Barony. ”But they pulled down Lord Bastian’s...”

”An’ hung a demon banner in its place,” the miller said as he stared at the banner displaying the paw print and stars of the Demon Lord of Airgead mountain. ”Why’s it hung like a vassal? Did Lady Sybyll conquer the cats while we wasn’t watchin’?”

”It’s ’Dame Sybyll’,” Cossot corrected as she came to guide the men to their seats. The young woman looked like she was barely holding it together as she found herself launched into the role of some kind of attendant, but she’d received clear instructions, both from Dame Sybyll herself and from the horned and bearish servants who came to redecorate the great hall for the evening, and she wasn’t about to make any mistakes.

”Dame Sybyll says that she will take a new title when her Mistress grants her one and not until then,” she repeated for what felt like the twentieth time or more. ”If you have to speak to her tonight, address her like you would any other knight... but unless you’re willing to wager your head that you won’t offend her, it’s best to keep your mouth shut.”

”She, she wouldn’t really cut off a man’s head... would she?” the baker asked as he took his seat. He hoped the young lady was teasing them, but when he looked into her tired eyes and saw the grim set of her jaw, he decided he didn’t want to hear the answer to his question and took his seat in silence instead.

The tables had all been removed in order to add as many rows of benches as possible. When it came to actual seating, however, there was a clear divide in the sections. To one side sat the officers of Sybyll’s army, along with their seconds, or in some cases their successors. People from half a dozen different clans were all sitting shoulder to shoulder and occupying the front two rows of one side of the hall.

But the rest of the hall, filled with wealthy merchants, knights and their families, representatives from the church, officials and administrators of the barony... They filled all of the remaining seats in the hall, giving the impression that there was about to be a grand wedding, and the bride’s side of the family had barely sent anyone to fill up their side of the hall.

Most of the visitors, kept awake long into the night by hearts that fluttered endlessly and stomachs that cramped painfully, held their tongues still, observing the demons out of the corner of their eyes or staring pointedly at nothing while they awaited the arrival of their conqueror. A few things, however, were so shocking that people couldn’t hold themselves back from commenting.

”Sweet Lord of Light,” gasped Madam Cordelia, the head seamstress who had sewn gowns for two generations of Hanrahan women and hoped to sew the wedding gown of Lord Bastian’s eventual bride before she finally retired. Her weathered trembled as she brought them to her lips, while her eyes grew moist, staring at the great hearth on the north side of the hall. ”Those portraits... where did they get those?”

Above the massive stone hearth, two magnificent oil paintings commanded attention. The first depicted a powerful man in his prime, a scuffed and dented suit of armor that had seen its wearer through many famous battles. His strong jaw and penetrating gaze carried a sense of unflinching resolve, while his dark hair was shot through with premature silver at the temples. It was the glittering signet ring on his sword hand, however, that drew the most attention, and that made his identity unmistakably clear.

”That’s Baron Brighton,” whispered an elderly clerk who had served in the castle since his youth. ”I’d know that face anywhere. He looks just like he did at the end of the War of Four Templars. That armor is still in the vaults, you know... collecting dust and tucked away with the rest of his trophies. But this painting... it looks like it’s never seen the light of day. The colors are all fresh, like the day it was painted.”

Next to the first painting, the second portrait depicted a woman of timeless grace and beauty, her crimson hair falling in elaborate braids over shoulders draped in emerald silk. Her milky skin seemed to glow in the painted candlelight, and her sapphire blue eyes held depths that seemed as mysterious as the lake outside the town walls. A delicate silver necklace hung just above the generous swell of her bosom, glittering with jewels so vibrantly colorful that they must have come from Airgead Mountain.

”Ah, Baroness Caitlin,” Madam Cordelia breathed. ”I missed ye so,” she said as tears spilled freely from her eyes, rolling down her leathery cheeks. ”I thought the Red Cough took ye, I never knew... never knew ye had a child ta tend to. If I’d known ye were still alive... I’d have... I’d have..” she said, only to break off in sobs as she pressed a handkerchief to her eyes.

The elderly servants of the keep who still recalled the fallen baron weren’t the only ones who couldn’t help but marvel at the paintings, though the comments from the wealthy and well-connected men at the front of the hall were colored with very different emotions.

”Look at the brushwork,” murmured Master Aldwin, the silk merchant who fancied himself an art collector. ”This isn’t some country painter’s work. This is... this is masterful. Like whoever painted these actually knew them, lived with them for years to be able to capture every detail so clearly. If the artist is still alive, I’d pay at least a hundred sovereigns to commission a portrait from them... no, two hundred for my wife to have one too.”

”You can’t buy work like this, Aldwin,” the rough, rumbling voice of Hanrahan Town’s only swordsmith said. ”You buy the artist. Sponsor their whole life, give them a nice house in the country with a pretty view and a staff of servants, and then you hope they bring out this kind of genius for you when you want to borrow it.”

”Don’t be ridiculous, Master Tillman, when have you ever heard of anyone doing something so lavish just for a painting?” the silk merchant snorted. ”But it is brilliant work...”

Young Roseen, who had been pressed into service helping Cossot, found herself studying the woman’s painted features with an entirely different feeling that grew stronger and stronger the more she stared. After all, unlike most of the guests in the hall, she’d followed Cossot when her friend was summoned to receive instructions from the Crimson Knight, and she’d seen the face beneath the helm.

”The hair,” she whispered to her friend. ”Look at the hair color and the shape of her eyes. Even though the colors are different, doesn’t she look a lot like...”

”She does,” Cossot agreed, glancing over her shoulder at the doorway and wondering when the woman of the hour would finally join them. The hall was nearly full, she realized, so the wait couldn’t be much longer now.