Vanian Year 1105

 

The plains north of Nordenstein was known as the Boneyard, for good reason.

 

Even before the war, this land was no stranger to conflict. Once, this arid earth may have been farmlands - no matter how infertile - but since then, the amount of blood spilled upon it had turned the land into a barren, desolate place. The earth was hard, the grass short and stiff, and it was said that steel detritus littered the expanse like unhusked seeds. 

 

Marianne couldn’t find any, but she imagined that they must’ve already been looted long ago.

 

Before the Shadow Gate, she ordered Sir Eitel and Sir Arwin to bring the prisoners around to the Konzentrationslager while she made direct headway for Castle Edelhardt. Perhaps Karl von Epp ought to be with her, but the man widely agreed to be the leader of the landsknechte - Durlach the Gold - had been slain at Weißentreu. Since then, the One-Eye had been elected by the Reicher mercenaries to be their unofficial leader.

 

Craning her head upwards, she could see the crowns of darkened heads peeking over the battlements - curious bystanders most likely. The combined army marched with no ravens, as they were thoroughly exhausted of them, and the Crescent Alliance had none in Weißentreu. It must be a strange sight to them, a knot of some ten score men returning to the city with the army nowhere in sight. 

 

She would have to organise some bellmen to spread news of their great victory in the city, and hopefully convince more volunteers to join the army. If not, a general draft was in order.

 

Castle Edelhardt was bustling with activity as they rode through the barbican, attendants and stableboys falling upon them like vultures. Marianne swiftly dismounted, waving off the lance fournies who were moving to disarmour her.

 

“I pray you’ve returned well, meine Dame,” Sir Gaston hailed her, “There are many matters to attend to - but first, you bring good tidings?”

 

“Marshal all the bellmen in the city,” Marianne wasted no time with pleasantries, “Spread the news; Weißentreu has been liberated, and the Solar Alliance is seeking brave men to bolster their victorious march north.”

 

The burgmann’s eyes widened briefly, before his face settled into a firm grin, “At once, my Lady Edelhardt. Castle Edelhardt is yours.”

 

The courtyard stilled for only the most fleeting moment, before the commotion started again. As the burgmann, Sir Gaston was officially the master of the castle in the case of Lord Edelhardt’s absence. Even if he was only a knight ministeriales - a lowborn man raised to nobility - within the Castle Edelhardt, Sir Gaston spoke with all the rank and authority of the Lord Edelhardt.

 

Him openly giving command of the command to her was no insignificant thing, for as the burgmann, he was doing so in the place of the lord. And as decorum dictates, the master of a castle should only give his home the royalty of the kingdom.

 

“Shall I prepare hot water-?”

 

“After dinner,” she dismissed without breaking a stride, “We ought to waste no time. Release all the ravens - we spread the news that a new offensive has begun, and this time the enemy is on the backfoot. How far do our ravens reach?”

 

“We have ravens that go as far as Lorient and Neidenburg, my lady.”

 

“Then send them,” Marianne ordered, “To the capital of every kingdom in the Solar Alliance we can. To every holding and city. Request from the Crown of Reitzenburg-Echternach a general call-to-arms across Schwerin. Demand from Remscheid their official support, and push to make this war a holy one.”

 

“I doubt the Basilica would heed-”

 

“They do not need to, but we need to show the entire continent that we are winning,” she said heatedly, “We would not be so zealous unless we are confident in our successes. For so long, the war has been a back and forth - but this time it is different. Do we have a raven for the Tower of Shinar?”

 

“To Andraste?” Sir Gaston asked, “I do not believe so.”

 

Marianne inwardly frowned.

 

The Tower of Shinar was the ancient heart of the Order, originally founded in Andraste - the capital of the Victorian Empire. When the Kazimierzi hordes sacked the Holy City, Pontiff Diarkis II fled the city with the last scions of the Order. It was said they roamed Vania for a dozen years before settling in a small riverside town, one that has come to be known as Remscheid. A rift came to spawn in the Divine Order, between the old system in Andraste and the new in Remscheid. 

 

However, the old Order in Andraste gradually lost legitimacy as the Victorian Empire failed to recover from the devastation wrought by the horselords, crumbling under its own weight until the Great Schism occurred. Now, the old Order was split in two along with the Victorian Empire - into the fundementalist Andrastian Sect in the east and the orthodox Kimarian Sect in the west.

 

Nevertheless, the Tower of Shinar still stood as a testament to civilization, and the idealism of humanity. Due to its sanctity, neither of the three cults were allowed to use it, and the Tower remains a hallowed ground between them all - accepting seminarians and scholars from every corner of the continent. Any writings that emerge from the Tower are simply accepted as holy texts without reason.

 

Even a simple recognition of their efforts in the north from the Tower would be a grand victory for her - and them.

 

The great hall was as vast as it ever was, and more desolate than ever. With only a skeletal garrison remaining within the castle, the maidservants had spent less time taking care of the largely empty great hall. It was like a graveyard, the backrests of high-backed chairs silent tombstones that marked those who would never sit in them again. 

 

“That reminds me, meine Dame,” Sir Gaston muttered, “You have a guest from the south.”

 

“South…” Marianne jolted to a stop.

 

Within the great hall were familiar faces - Marie, like a little stooge in comparison to the vast trestle table from which she ate her luncheon, and her mother sitting by her side. Saintess Elisabeth, awake and placid, seemingly satisfied with watching over the two.

 

And Sir Lucien, dressed in silver raiment embellished with blue silk - the colours of his motherland, perhaps. Marianne realised she had not seen him in fine clothing for the longest time - since they had met, come to think of it. Even still, he had not part of his sword, for she could find the enamelled hilt of his estoc sheathed at his hip. 

 

Marianne pressed her lips together, and pawed for the sword by her side. She briefly glanced over her shoulder to see her personal retinue, faces hidden behind dark helms - they would follow her orders, she trusted them as they trusted her.

 

She made no effort in hiding her footsteps, clicking across the stone to attract the attention of those in the hall. 

 

“Mademoiselle!” the Caroline knight spread his arms, “It is so good to see you again!”

 

Marie’s head snapped around so swiftly Marianne feared she had broken her neck, but just as she was about to leap off her seat, Lady Margareta held her back down with a firm hand.

 

“Lady Maria,” the older woman forced her daughter’s head into a bow, “Welcome back.”

 

Marianne nodded, before outstretching her hand with an expectant gaze. If Sir Lucien was disconcerted, he did not show it - for with all the smooth grace of a swan he lowered himself and took her hand to kiss her ring.

 

Marianne forcibly grabbed his hand and yanked him forwards and off-balance, before weaving under his arm and grabbing his sword - drawing it out as she held up his chin with her other hand. In a single motion, she had disarmed the knight and pushed him away. Marianne held her new estoc to his bare throat, and Sir Lucien looked almost cross-eyed as he warily stared down his own blade.

 

“...Have I done something to-”

 

“Clap the Saintess Elisabeth in chains,” she ordered throatily, “She is under arrest for suspicions of deceit and faithlessness.”

 

Ringing steel filled the hall as half a dozen blades were drawn and brandished, and her men stalked forward in unison to roughly grab the saintess and hold her arms behind her back. Wearily, Marianne noticed that the Saintess Elisabeth did not even resist, and had only closed her eyes in resignation as she was - perhaps unlawfully - seized.

 

“What is the meaning of this, madame?” Sir Lucien asked, seemingly aghast, “To arrest a saint of all people-”

 

“It appears that the two of you are familiar with each other,” she shot him a loaded look, “Would you introduce her to me?”

 

Sir Lucien quietened like a chastened child. By thinly implying that the two of them had a previous relation, Marianne was warning him that she could arrest him too for complicity. However, she still had a larger design afoot.

 

“Well?” Marianne urged, “All you know, do so. I will not touch a hair on your head.”

 

“...This is Elisabeth de Sabran, Countess of Forcalquier,” he swallowed, “Current Patron Saint of Joyeuse.”

 

Marianne slowly nodded, before turning to the saintess with an expectant gaze.

 

“Lucien de Penteur-” the knight stiffened, “...A wandering knight. We had met before… he had wandered into my holdings before.”

 

She had heard of the House of Penteur before, Marianne thought, but she couldn’t quite put the name to a place.

 

“Penteur?” Gaston mumbled, “Isn’t that the old name for-”

 

Sir Lucien cleared his throat, “Pardon me… may we have an explanation? For the Saintess.”

 

“Not until I have my answers first,” Marianne said firmly, “Take her to her quarters - do not mistreat her, but station a guard outside her door and underneath her window at all times.”

 

As the saintess was dragged away, Marianne released a quick breath she did not know she was holding. Sir Gaston shifted anxiously by her side.

 

“I fear his will not go over well, my lady,” he warned.

 

“Then keep it a secret,” she replied, “Ah… send those ravens, will you? The audiences can wait ‘til the morrow. Sir Dieter, Hansch, accompany me.”

 

She handed Sir Lucien’s sword to the burgmann before he made for the ravenry. As Marianne moved to take an open seat, her gaze was drawn to little Marie staring up at her with wide eyes.

 

"Did she do something wrong, L-Lady Maria?" the girl asked, "Is she a bad person?"

 

That is what I am to find out.

 

"I imagine not, little lady," Marianne sat beside her, "But she is keeping dangerous secrets, and that may be bad."

 

"You are keeping secrets too," Marie pointed out with a childish innocence Marianne both hated and loved.

 

"...Some secrets can be good," she finally said, "Others can be bad. My secret is for a good reason, and I want to find out if the Saintess' secret is good or bad."

 

"How can you tell the difference?"

 

"That's what makes secrets so difficult, isn't it?" Marianne smiled dryly, "...You should finish tou luncheon before it gets cold."

 

"You are not the same person I know," Sir Lucien observed, "War has changed you."

 

Marianne suppressed a flinch, irritated at how deeply his words carved into her. She couldn't help but recall the Old Lion's words said to her not a fortnight ago - and some days, she even wonders if her thoughts were her own at all.

 

"I try to stay the same," was all she could reply, "And of you? Why have you come to this place?"

 

"The Montmollins did not adequately reward my services," he shrugged, "Beyond inane praise, to that end. I imagined there wasn't much to be earned returning to Grenzmark, so I took my chances here instead - only to miss the army's departure, laughably."

 

Well, Marianne thought, it could be because there was nothing inside the Montmollins' coffers beyond rats and cobwebs. Inane praise was most likely all they could afford to give.

 

"Why didn't you return home?" Lady Margareta asked softly, "Elancourt has yet to be touched by the war. You could put down your sword, live peacefully."

 

"...Elancourt is not my home," he replied, "Never has been. My home doesn't exist anymore, not since… so I am left wandering. It's not a bad life, anyhow, living free."

 

“Enough of that,” Marianne said, if a tad brusque, “What news do you have of Neuchatel? Does the front go well in Grenzmark?”

 

Sir Lucien shook his head, “Grenzmark has fallen, and the front is now at Kreuzung. When I departed, I heard that the First and Second Prince were raising a new host to reinforce Marshal Kleiber.”

 

Marianne’s blood chilled. Kreuzung was named so for it was the crossroads between the three largest cities of the middle-east - Neuchatel, Katowice, and Morgannwyg. It was an incredible fortress, sitting on an islet in the confluence of the River Weser and River Leine. Though not especially large or sturdy on its own, its position made it infeasible to starve out even if the enemy commands all three banks around it, for the river was plentiful of carp and trout.

 

So long as the Solar Alliance commands one the three banks around the fortress, Kreuzung would not fall.

 

Not to mention the castle’s strategic importance. It commanded the only crossing over the Weser in over two dozen leagues, and the only crossing large enough to service an entire army. If the Crescent Alliance takes Kreuzung, they would have a straight headway for Neuchatel and Katowice - not to mention, Neuchatel’s land communications with their northern allies in Edeyrnion would be severed in two.

 

Needless to say, all three nations on the eastern front have every impetus to hold onto the fortress.

 

Marianne leaned forward, “How was the atmosphere in Neuchatel? Panicked?”

 

“Pensive, but calm,” Lucien scratched his chin, “From what I know, the loss of Grenzmark was expected. Grenzmark was too isolated and far-off, so its only purpose was to stall the demon army until Kreuzung was fortified to its limits.”

 

“Kreuzung is still on the capital’s doorstep,” Marianne replied dubiously, “Is there truly no alarm?”

 

“Quite the opposite, actually,” the knight chuckled, “Saintess Hildegard’s and Prince Julius’ wedding preparations are well underway, and the city almost seems to be celebrating prematurely. But considering the scale of the wedding, I imagine it is still several moons off.”

 

“A royal wedding in the middle of the war?” Sir Dieter muttered, “Have they lost their senses? Mad-as-hares, I’d say.”

 

“It must be a mummer’s act,” Sir Hansch put forth, “A wedding is always good for morale, and they could be attempting to guise a call-to-arms. The greatest lords and ladies of the realm would be attending, and if they go to Neuchatel with their armies at their back - then we will know.”

 

Sir Hansch spoke of great sense. The Montmollins swindled their way to the Crown of Reichenau, and Marianne wouldn’t put it past them to swindle more men into their armies. Neuchatel would surely send invitations to all nobles of the kingdom - and with such a thinly veiled mobilisation order, the nobles will have no choice but to bring their household troops straight to the mustering grounds of Neuchatel. 

 

The Crown of Reichenau would be able to weed out the unleal vassals who would either arrive empty handed, or not attend the event at all. And considering the event was a royal wedding - one of the most prestigious affairs bar a coronation - where the bride was a saintess no less, not attending could be viewed as treason. Or at least, a grave insult. 

 

It would allow the Montmollins to discharge the unfaithful of their honours and titles, and redistribute them to more loyal vassals - vassals who would provide banners for the war. Furthermore, they could also force several cults into attendance, as the bride was a saintess. 

 

How many patrons did Hildegard have? Marianne never bothered to ask, and for that she cursed her short-sightedness.

 

“What is a wedding?” Marie’s voice sundered her from her thoughts.

 

“It is a sacred affair,” Margaret hushed her, “When a man and woman swear an oath to be together for the rest of their lives.”

 

“If it’s so sacred, why is this wedding being used as-”

 

Margareta clapped a palm over her daughter’s mouth, smiling rather sheepishly.

 

“Because we humans aren’t sacred beings, demoiselle,” Sir Lucien grinned, “The divines decree, and we can only try to live up to their expectations. Something we are quite terrible at.”

 

“You can say that,” Sir Hansch muttered.

 

A bell tolled in the distance, long and ringing, muffled by stone. Luncheon has passed, and it was due time to return to their duties. Even disregarding her audiences, Marianne still had to oversee the castle’s ledgers - and thank the divines she did not have to do the same for the city as well, bless the chancellors’ hearts.

 

“Ah, Lady Marianne,” Margareta spoke up, “You may want to hear-”

 

She raised a palm to silence her, offering a kindly smile, “That can wait ‘til the morrow. I will be remaining here for the foreseeable future yet, and we are in no hurry. Especially so, Sir Lucien, if you are in need of any assistance, you may speak to me.”

 

“Is Sir Gaston not the châtelain, of this castle?” he asked curiously.

 

“He is,” Marianne agreed, “And I am the castle’s lady yet, and its master.”

 

“...How far you’ve come indeed,” Sir Lucien laughed, “Ah, and if I may dare ask - may I have my blade reunited with me? I am quite attached to it.”

 

“Certainly, just seek out Sir Gaston,” Marianne bid him off, “Keep it sheathed, and we shall have no trouble. Sir Hansch, accompany Sir Lucien to the Burgmann and notify him that I wish to peruse the castle’s ledgers.”

 

“Understood, meine Dame,” the knight bowed, before leaving with the Caroline man.

 

Mariane stood up, stretching her back and feeling her spine pop and crack. She winced, but felt pleasured all the same. 

 

“What would you have of me, my lady?” Lady Margareta asked softly.

 

Marianne paused, “...I have a task for you, if you would take it. And the pay is well, for its tediousness.”

 

“Anything, my lady.”

 

Marianne met her eyes, “Then, I would have you teach me the plague-bearer tongue.”