The Vampire & Her Witch

The Ferryman’s Cup straddled the line between a working man’s tavern and a merchant’s pub. The ground floor of the establishment had dedicated itself to cheap ale and hearty meals, with rough-hewn benches and long tables packed shoulder-to-shoulder with men looking for a warm meal after a long day’s work. The second floor of the tavern, however, held private dining rooms as clean and well-appointed as any guild-hall in Blackwell city, where men of means could meet for dinners that combined the pleasure of a good meal and fine wine with much more serious business.

It was in one of those rooms that Maela found Ashlynn’s messenger, the mysterious ’Marcel,’ awaiting her arrival. From the way Ashlynn had spoken of the man, entrusting him with her safety, Maela had expected a veteran knight, hardened by battles on the frontier. She had not expected to meet a young man who looked to be Jocelynn’s age, dressed in fine silks with enough spills of lace at his wrists and throat to pass for a dandy of the royal court.

”Marcel?” Maela asked hesitantly as the young man rose, bowing with a flourish before meeting her gaze with dark, mischievous eyes.

”Indeed I am, Your Majesty,” Marcel said, smiling slightly as he took in the sight of the woman who bore such a striking resemblance to her daughters.

Maela had taken the time to change out of the robes of an Initiate, donning a refined dress of pale blue wool that was warm against the winter chill. Her jewelry was simple; she clearly hadn’t taken much to the convent with her, but it was enough to give her an air of understated elegance that flashier pieces would only have distracted from.

”Thank you for coming, and so quickly too,” Marcel said. ”Ashlynn was worried that you wouldn’t.”

”My daughters need me; of course I came,” Maela said, smoothing her skirts nervously to conceal how difficult the decision had been. Or, more accurately, how difficult it had been to conceal most of the letter’s contents from Mother Koulma.

She wanted nothing more than to hand over the letter, to share everything with the woman who had been her confidant for close to twenty years and seek her counsel as she grappled with what her daughter had done. As a mother, she knew what she needed to do, and she knew it in the depths of her bones. But that very confidence forced her to question whether this was a struggle she was meant to overcome or one she’d finally neared the end of after months of desperate prayer.

But as much as she wanted to hear Koulma’s soft, reassuring words telling her to go, her heart couldn’t bear the thought of being told that she should stay. More than that, she was afraid that, if Koulma asked her to stay, she might listen, losing the only chance she’d be offered to see her Ashlynn alive again.

In the end, she couldn’t take the chance. She told herself that she would do her best to ensure Ashlynn’s path carried her toward the Light. Even if she’d used her powers and witchcraft, the Sisterhood of Confession taught that the Holy Lord of Light always provided a path toward the Heavenly Shores. So long as a person had the courage and conviction to walk it, there was always a way, and she was determined to stand at her daughter’s side to help her find that path.

”You shouldn’t call me ’Majesty,’” Maela said, changing the topic before worries about her faith and her daughter’s fate could overwhelm her. ”I’m only a Countess; ’my Lady’ is fine, or even ’your Ladyship.’ ’Majesty is reserved for members of the royal family,” she said, correcting the young man who supposedly carried a letter meant for her brother, one she’d been asked to help him deliver.

While propriety hadn’t been a significant concern of Maela’s for many years, her brother was a different man entirely, and he was far more entangled with the Royal Court than Maela’s husband, Rhys, had been. If Ashlynn’s messenger stumbled over the etiquette, it would only make it more difficult for him to accept whatever message Ashlynn had chosen to send.

”I didn’t misspeak, Your Majesty,” Marcel said, grinning as though he knew some secret that Maela didn’t. ”Your daughter’s empire is already vast, and it’s growing by the day. By the time we reach her, you’ll be welcomed as the Queen Mother, or the Imperial Matriarch or... whatever title they settle on,” he said, waving a hand in a flutter of lace as if the details were unimportant.

”Imperial Matriarch...” Maela said, her eyes going wide in surprise. ”She’s breaking away from Gaal!”

”Quick and clever, just like your daughter,” Marcel said, nodding his head. ”You see why we have to hurry? I have a carriage waiting to bring us to your brother’s manor,” he said, reaching into a pouch to retrieve a simple wooden pendant in the shape of a shield, hanging from a leather cord. ”You should put this on before we go.”

”Wait, no,” Maela said, holding up a hand as she took a step back from the flamboyant young man. ”If you’re about to involve my brother in treason, I can’t help you with that. Not until I’ve spoken to Ashlynn and learned what she intends to do.”

”It’s too late for that, your Majesty,” Marcel said, crossing the distance between them faster than Maela’s eyes could follow and pressing the pendant into her outstretched hand.

”Assassin!” Maela gasped, her free hand dropping instinctively to the knife at her waist before her mind caught up with her body and she realized that it was likely useless. He was already close enough to touch her, and at that distance, she had almost no hope of fighting him off.

”Guilty as charged, your Majesty,” Marcel said, tilting his head to the side as his eyes slid from her trembling, stormy gaze to the pulse that jumped in her neck as her heart began to race. ”But I haven’t come for you,” he said.

”And unless I’m very wrong about your brother, I’m no threat to him either,” he added, leaning in close enough to whisper in her ear. ”His life is much easier to protect if I have your help, your Majesty, but the choice belongs to you...”