Vanian Year 1105

 

The sun was high over their heads, and Marianne idly wondered if it would be too boorish to strip out of her dress.

 

Because even while she was wearing an airy cotton dress that would be considered downright indecent in the south, Marianne felt as if she was boiling alive in her own sweat. With nary a cloud in the sky, Nordenstein felt the tyranny of the sun in all of its divine might, its golden rays scorching the land by the force of sweeping gales. There was not a single person training in the bailey - they would have to be utterly suicidal to do so - and most men and women were simply lounging like cats in the shade. 

 

Marianne imagined that the harbour district was downright lively with those edging for a dip in the refreshing waters of the Ruhigsee. In fact, that was her intention for the day as well - until she the knowledge came to her that Lady Margareta had arrived in the city at the forefront of fifty wagons of grain. While Marianne was glad to see the woman’s face again, she still couldn’t help but wish the woman had come at a better time.

 

Lady Margareta rode through the gatehouse utop her own horse, wearing a relatively thick southern riding dress that made Marianne wince at just a glance.

 

“Sir Gaston,” she leaned over, “Please prepare an iced bath and some… lighter clothes.”

 

“Of course, my lady,” he bowed.

 

“Much obliged,” Marianne turned back to the gate, hailing the newcomer, “Lady Margareta! I hope the journey was not too harsh on you!”

 

Margareta did not answer - no, she appeared half-dead on her saddle, swaying from side to side precariously. 

 

“Sir Gaston!” Marianne raised her voice in alarm.

 

The man understood immediately, only pausing to relay a sloppy salute before rushing into the keep to prepare iced water. Sir Arwin rushed forward to help her safely dismount Margareta off her mount, while a stable boy hastily guided the horse away. Lady Margareta’s skin was pale and clammy with sweat, while her face was reddened by the heat. It only took Marianne to raise a hand over the woman’s mouth to decide that she was extremely ill.

 

“Servants, get her inside!” Sir Arwin roared, “Check everyone in the convoy for heat sickness! Prepare iced baths, hurry!”

 

The two of them swiftly passed Lady Margareta’s body to two maidservants, for they were much more learned in treating heat sickness. A small corps of servants began pouring out of the keep, forcefully guiding their new guests inside and out of the sun, while local fellows took over the grain convoy and began leading the column towards the granaries.

 

“The horses are showing signs of heat sickness as well,” Sir Arwin muttered worriedly, “Thank the divines our own journey here was in late fall.”

 

“My father must’ve known-”

 

“Miss Marie, Miss Marie!” a childish voice pierced through the heat, “Is Mutti sick? What will happen to her!?”

 

Marianne swivelled around just in time to catch little Marie, grunting as the girl crashed into her stomach. The girl had visibly grown in the short time they had been apart, especially compared to the gaunt, emaciated child Marianne had found in a shameful barnhouse on the outskirts of Babel. A healthy diet had done the girl well, as she now bore full, rosy cheeks and pudgy arms. 

 

She pressed a palm to the girl’s forehead to check her temperature-

 

“Oh-! Sorry!” Marie suddenly backed away and curtsied, “Lady Marianne, forgive me. Is my mother alright?”

 

She shared an amused glance with Sir Arwin, clearly thinking the same thing - Lady Karla had done quite the number on her. Marianne faintly recalled her own lessons with her old governess; when she was but a child, she imagined Lady Karla to be a demon of her own. 

 

Marianne curtsied in return, “I believe your mother will be quite alright, Lady Marie, she is in very good hands.”

 

The girl beamed at her, and she couldn’t help but smile and forget her pains - if only for a brief moment..

 

“How about you call me Lady Maria?” Marianne ruffled her hair and began guiding Marie to the keep, “That is how everyone here knows me as.”

 

“Hmm, Lady Maria!”

 

“Lady Maria,” she agreed, “Are you well? You must tell me of your time at Schönau.”

 

Little Marie regaled her with fantastic stories of her life at Schönau, stories of a more peaceful time, a more innocent time. Tales of playing in the river, childish antics in the castle halls, and running across fallow fields. It all brought Marianne back to her own childhood, and it eased her heart that Marie was getting along well with her brother.

 

Alas, it wasn’t to last, for little Marie swiftly lost herself in the wonders of Castle Edelhardt. Indeed, compared to Schönau or even Grenzmark, Edelhardt was an even grander beast to behold. Marianne watched Marie gawk at the high, vaulted ceilings of the vast great hall with a fond smile. While the girl marvelled at the tapestries and frescoed galleries, Marianne took the time to ask a servant of the location of Lady Margareta.

 

“Lady Maria, who’s that?” Marie pointed at a painting.

 

Marianne hastily thanked the servant before moving towards the girl and following her pointed finger. 

 

“That is Ethelgard,” she answered, “The Duchess of Nordgau. She once rebelled against the Crown in Echternach, allying with the desertfolk to declare independence.”

 

“Did she win?” Marie asked with wide eyes.

 

Marianne beheld the leonine features of Ethelgard von Edelhardt, who was named after the eponymous founder of the house.

 

“No,” she finally said, “The Crown in Echternach crushed her army and forced her to kneel. In punishment, they revoked her honours as the Duchess of Nordgau and reduced her to the Marchioness of Edelhardt - a merely nominal title that this family still holds today.”

 

“Who’s the Duchess of Nordgau now?”

 

“Nobody,” she teared her eyes away from the painting and nudged the girl down the gallery, “There hasn’t been a Duchy of Nordgau in four score years.”

 

Marianne led them up the castle into a tower that overlooked the sea. Servants rushed in and out of chambers carrying lukewarm basins of water and fresh clothes, and upon entering one room they found Lady Margareta laying down on a bed. Facing the Ruhigesee, the cool sea breeze flowed into the chamber through a large sculpted archway that served as a window. Servants had left multiple pots of ice inside the room to further chill the room.

 

Marianne involuntarily shivered upon the dramatic shift in temperature.

 

“So this is the girl who can speak demon?” a gruff voice asked.

 

Marianne paused, regarding the man in the room cautiously. Lord Conrad looked as if he had aged years since they had first met, his skin was lifeless and leathery, and his hair was thin and stringent. The man leaned heavily on his cane at the foot of Margareta’s bed, as if he was incapable of standing upright.

 

“That is the case, my lord,” she curtsied, “And this is Lady Marie, her daughter.”

 

“Nice to meet you!” Marie curtsied cutely.

 

Lord Conrad eyed the child, before tilting his head downward shallowly, “It is a pleasure. Lady Marianne, I wish to speak to you.”

 

“Of course, my lord,” she answered, “Marie, look after your mother with Sir Arwin, will you?”

 

Lord Conrad limped outside the bedchamber, and Marianne followed him - closing the door behind them. The Old Lion glanced around the hallway, before coughing wetly.

 

“My lord?” she asked warily.

 

“Nothing, my age is finally catching up to me, that’s all,” he grumbled, “But you, you are making waves. Is there anything you wish to inform me of?”

 

Marianne bit her cheek, pondering on her words carefully.

 

“We… I have good reason to believe that the plague-bearers are not demons, but merely another breed of human,” she started, “A surgeon had vivisected multiple plague-bearer corpses and found that they have no biological difference compared to us.”

 

“...I see,” Lord Conrad said, and she daresay tiredly.

 

Marianne had to admit, it was not the reaction she was expecting. Perhaps puzzlement, or even outrage, would be more fitting reactions to such sacrilegious claims.

 

“You are making waves indeed…” he sighed, and began limping away, the sound of his cane clacking against the floor echoing throughout the stairhall, “Do not do anything too rash, do you understand me? You are drawing more attention than you should realise.”

 

She anchored her gaze on the Old Lion’s back as he slowly made his way down the stairs, until he turned the corner and disappeared from her sight. Marianne stepped back, before turning on her heel and barging back into the bedchamber.

 

“Lady… Marianne?” Margareta’s voice moaned, “I have made much trouble, haven’t I?”

 

Marianne reined in her surprise masterfully, gathering herself and kneeling by the ill woman’s bedside.

 

“No more than I have,” she told her honestly, “I should apologise for summoning you in the middle of summer, I should’ve known better.”

 

“You needed help…” Margareta’s head lolled, “Lord Landolf allowed me leave… what do you require of me, my lady? I am ready to serve.”

 

“That can wait until you recover,” Marianne insisted, “Heat sickness has killed as many of us as the plague, do not underestimate it. Rest well, everything else can come later.”

 

It took two days for Lady Margareta to fully recover. Until then, Castle Edelhardt spared no expense in ensuring she did not lose any of her strength, for the lady may as well be the single most important person in the entire fortress. Servants fussed over her like bees, regularly switching out the ice-vases within her chambers and almost forcefully feeding her water. 

 

All the ice within the castle even prompted Marianne to visit the cellars underneath the castle ward, where vast vaults of frozen water could be found. It was a testament of engineering, for the ice was kept cool by the earth, and bored channels from the sea allowed running water to flow through the subterranean vaults and keep the air chilled - if a bit salty to the senses.

 

As for the ice itself, it was all sourced from the frozen caps of the Crown Mountains - brought down in the winter to be stockpiled.

 

Once Margareta was well enough to walk, Marianne had brought her down to the Konzentrationslager with no small amount of guardsmen. From the very moment they marched through the gate, the mood of the camp shifted. The plague-bearers shied away, eyeing them from the shadows warily. Marianne couldn’t blame them - there were no guards within the labour camp, and whenever they showed their faces it was to take away one or two plague-bearers for experiments.

 

“Be careful not to touch any of them, my lady,” Sir Gaston warned, “Lest you catch the plague.”

 

“There is no need to worry, sir,” Margareta replied, “Every slave on the demon continent has already caught the plague, and those who survived are never troubled by it again.”

 

“...Is that so?” Marianne murmured.

 

“At least, no one I knew caught it again,” Margareta glanced at her, “In any case, what am I to do?”

 

“Find anyone willing to talk,” she replied simply, “You have the backing of Castle Edelhardt, everything you need will be at your disposal. If you have to promise freedom in exchange for information, you can tell them we are true to our word. Within reason, of course.”

 

Margareta nodded, and started forwards. However, only after taking a few steps towards the centre of the camp, the woman began glancing around anxiously while fidgeting with her hands.

 

“Perhaps…” Sir Arwin whispered to her, “It would not be best to send her towards her slavers. Many men grow afraid of blood after only a single battle, I cannot begin to imagine speaking to your slavers.”

 

Marianne flinched, and starkly realised just how callous she had been. Had she not completely uprooted Lady Margareta’s settled life in Schönau to bring to her the warfront? To meet the men and women who were her own former slavers no less? Marianne could curse herself, of course the lady would be hesitant!

 

“Forgive me, my lady,” Marianne strode forwards and bowed, “I had been most heartless. If you do not wish to speak to them, find it no fault of your own-”

 

“Oh, that is not it!” Margareta spun around and shook her head in surprise, “I was merely pondering where to begin, that is all.”

 

Marianne glanced around, and the plague-bearers shied away from her gaze - even the largest of the men. They had all been constructing field fortifications for Nordenstein. With the sudden shift in the tide of the war, the Solar Alliance was now on the backfoot. As such, the plague-bearers were tasked with building abatises, palisades, and caltrops, as well as excavating ditches and moats around the entire perimeter of the city - all under the watchful eyes of the guardsmen atop the walls.

 

Many had perished from exhaustion and heat, but since they were considered expendable, they were acceptable deaths. Whenever their productivity seemed to be stalling, the archers atop the walls would loose arrows into the encampment, sometimes in warning, sometimes to kill. Marianne had even once witnessed a guardsman handing his bow to a civilian so they could take shots for entertainment.

 

It was obvious then, that the plague-bearers would be wary of them.

 

“You are stronger than most of us, my lady,” Sir Gaston spoke, admiration tinting his voice, “I’ve known men who would grow a fear of blades after being only cut once.”

 

“Please, you do me too great a honour…” Margareta trailed off, her eyes unfocusing, as if staring into a distant horizon, “I hadn’t the courage to fight back against those who chained me, nor the courage to free myself in dignity as many had. Even as my child fought against the demons, all I had was to run. I’m afraid I am a great craven, and even now I cannot help but find myself a selfish glee at this sight.”

 

“I know a craven,” Sir Gaston insisted, “He lived where all his family fell fighting the enemy. He had every possibility to join them within the Sacred Mountain, to die with pride and dignity. But he feared death. My lady, if fearing death makes you a craven, then we all are.”

 

The old knight laughed, “Nay, fearing death makes you brave. You had every chance to feast with the Lord Under the Mountain, to revel and drink for the rest of eternity. Instead, you chose to live through the pain, the indignity of being in chains. The same craven man still lives today, and not a single person in Nordenstein would dare call him craven - and I have no doubt none would curse you so either.”

 

Margareta turned away, and kept herself to silence. Despite her hidden face, Marianne could still make out the tips of ears colouring. She kept her thoughts to herself, and glanced up to the battlements - where she could discern the small figures of guardsmen looking down at them in rapt attention.

 

Marianne doubted much progress would be made then, and she was ready to abandon the entire effort for the day.

 

A panicked shout tore across the camp, and her hand shot to the panzerstecher at her waist by pure instinct. Swivelling her head around wildly, Marianne swiftly found the culprit - a young plague-bearer woman reaching out for a rogue demon child, firmly held back by those around. Her retinue did not hesitate, and reached for their weapons warily as the young black girl approached them.

 

Marianne raised a hand to halt them, sheathing her own blade with an audible click, but she kept a keen eye on the situation nonetheless.

 

Admirably, the young girl seemed thoroughly unimpressed by their show of guardedness, and approached Lady Margareta with seemingly not an ounce of fear within her small frame. Then, she spoke - in the same unintelligible tongue all plague-bearers spoke.

 

For the briefest period, Marianne feared Margareta did not understand the child - for the lands of Babel were thoroughly inhabited by horned-heads and not plaguebearers. Soon after, her fears were revealed to be unfounded when Margareta bent down and spoke back to the girl - to the utter surprise of the demons watching them.

 

After a brief conversation, the girl nodded and ran back to who Marianne assumed was her mother.

 

“Well?” Marianne asked quietly, “What did she say?”

 

“She asked where all the people who were taken away went,” Margareta said, and she could hear someone faintly wince behind her.

 

Marianne ignored them.

 

“Do you suppose they’ll be willing to talk?” she questioned, “Because if not…”

 

“Best not be too hasty, my lady,” Sir Arwin interjected, “It appears at least some of them are open to the possibility.”

 

Indeed, the girl was leading the older woman forward - almost forcefully - with all the stubborn spur a child her age would have. 

 

But before any further progress could be made, they were interrupted by an ear-piercing shriek from above. Marianne’s heart nearly stopped beating as she recognised the familiar call. Craning her head to the sky, she squinted at the sun - and what she saw made her spirits soar, and Marianne dared to hope against hope.

 

She raised two fingers to her mouth - just as Hirzyk taught her - and whistled.

 

“Jadwiga!” Marianne screamed, “To me!”

 

The golden eagle all but tumbled out of the sky - shrieking in response to her call and folding her wings in, before diving towards the earth at incredible speeds. Just before hitting the ground, Jadwiga launched open her wings, golden feathers gleaming, and caught the updraft. Soaring nary a few feet above their hands, Jadwiga circled above the camp a few times, before Marianne offered her arm - to which the bird accepted.

 

Marianne grunted at the sudden weight clawed to her forearm, but all her inconveniences seemed to flee her mind when her eyes caught a letter tied to the eagle’s foot. 

 

Heart in her throat, she untied the letter and unfurled the thin parchment as Jadwiga took the opportunity to climb up her shoulder. Marianne stiffened as she read the missive, her eyes frantically skimming across the messily scribbled charcoal. She glanced up, only to see her men watching her carefully, and the plague-bearers’ eyes fixed on her silent form.

 

“My lady…?” Sir Arwin carefully asked.

 

Marianne blinked.

 

“Sir Gaston,” she marshalled her voice, “Summon the war council immediately. Sir Arwin, ride with all haste to the infirmary and bring Élise de Constance and Wolfgang Schönbein to the great hall.”

 

“Lady Margareta,” Marianne continued, “I must take my leave, but please continue your good work. Continue negotiating, and find as many people you believe to be either willing to talk, or have information we need. The rest of you, I charge you with her protection.”

 

“Verstanden, meine Dame!” her retinue chorused.

 

“What news does Jan Pasha have for us, my lady?” Sir Gaston pressed, worry colouring his tone, “How urgent?”

 

Marianne met his gaze with a grim stare, “They found a second demon host, sir. The enemy comes.”