Rosanna was not a woman easily rattled. Being trained for years to handle all manner of pain, the deprivation of sense, to feel fear in congruence with pleasure, to find joy in arts that would make others pale and run, she was not prone to flights of deep worry or fright. Now though, she dared to think she felt it. And that was a difficult realization to make. Upon returning to her House after visiting her grandfather, she waited until the duties of the day were completed before pulling Tryphosa aside.
“What I tell you now does not leave this room, am I understood?” She asked with a certainty and depth of seriousness that almost mirrored their friends in Mandrake.
“Of course you have my confidence,” Tryphosa assured her. “Why though? What has happened?”
“I can only tell you in summary but I promise you it is vital to keep this to ourselves.”
So she did. Informed her trusted friend and Second what had happened with her grandfather, what was discussed, and what possibilities now lay at the delicate feet of another courtesan and her unprepared prince. By the end, her fellow Valerian and confidante was pale-faced herself, sitting down on a fainting couch and asking for a drink. Luckily, the office was always well stocked for just such troublesome times.
“Do you really think someone would start a war over a love affair?” Tryphosa almost whispered.
“Is there not a famous poem from your mother’s homeland about just that? Did it not last ten years?” Rosanna shot back.
“I do not see Odilia being stolen away like Helene but…all epic tales have a kernel of truth in them, in some way. Blessed Elua preserve us if anyone really takes their love so offensively!” They each made a quick sign to the gods above and in the true Terre D’Ange beyond.
“If the Dauphin makes his affections publicly known there is no telling what some of the nobility may do. His Dahlia is an intelligent, successful, and beautiful woman. But she is common born and for some that is a sin that cannot be forgiven, holy precept or no.”
Tryphosa looked quite uncomfortable at that but she nodded slowly. She sipped her wine, the cup held in both hands quite tightly. Nervous, that was easy to tell for one who knew her so well and for so long.
“Speak, my friend. You have something to say, I can hear it.”
“It is just…sometimes I forget that you come from that same rank. We see the nobility and wealthy merchants every night, so it is no surprise how well you handle them. Then there is the matter that we have been here, together, for so long that it is far too tempting to forget what lies beyond Mont Nuit,” the Valerian Second confessed. “To think something could actually be capable of harming one of our own for the crime of loving our Dauphin and for him loving her in kind. It feels…against all we are.”
Rosanna listened and nodded lightly along. Yes, it was so easy to fall into the sensuality and rhythm of life amongst the great Houses of Naamah. To pretend that the politics and machinations of the Court and the elite could not reach them. A fine dream, but a dream nonetheless.
“They can and, if given reason to feel offended, they would. I cannot say who, but he is still to be King. And someone will want their daughter, their noble daughter, to be a bridal candidate for him. To compete against a woman such as Odilia? I fear one of them might dare to forget good sense and precept to keep the royal line as free of what they consider bad blood as possible.”
Such thoughts kept Rosanna up all night. Tossing and turning, she could not help but think of the words of her grandfather. Roland had not survived, and thrived, as he had by underestimating the ambitions of others. There was a reason the old King had a healthy respect, some even said a healthy fear, of him. Taking back the sovereignty of an entire duchy was no mean feat either.
Valerian House was her duchy, in that sense. Her domain. To protect it was to protect herself and all those under her roof. As well as the honor of her family name. Of all times to become Dowayne, her luck would have it be during a time of completely unprecedented social change.
Which was why, some days later when she found the time, she left early for the temple district. Her carriage was en route when the sun was just rising, when no prying eyes might see her. Not out of shame, of course not, but to keep this business to herself. It was to the Temple of Eisheth, her own ancestress, that she went for divine advice first.
Leaving offerings of sweet wine and fruits, Rosanna lit the incense, bowed her head, and prayed, “Blessed Eisheth, mother of my father’s line, I beg for your grace and calm in this time of turmoil. I see around me the chapters of a greater story being woven, but I do not know if I am a spectator or if I have a part to play. What reads as a simple love affair is spilling into places I worry for, that its players are the first act in a drama which has the capacity to unmake and harm. Please grant me insight to see the machinations around me, and to continue to live in your grace.”
After that it was to the Temple of Naamah, the small building of white marble which held so much sway in her life and in those she cared for. Surrounded by gardens, it was a familiar and calming place. Rosanna purchased a dove from one of the sellers just getting set up for the day before moving within. At the entrance was the likeness of the divine patroness, which always inspired awe in Rosanna. She would never tire of looking upon the perfectly serene and enchanting face of the angel. Arms wide in welcome, the holy artwork bid all who came in love and times of need into the sanctum. Around the domed ceiling were rows and rows of doves, sleeping or nesting in the perches placed there. Some flew through the oculus at the center, as the one she brought. Whispering a wish and prayer, she let the pure white bird make its own way. Up into the sky it went. Perhaps right to Naamah herself, or so one could hope.
“Lady Dowayne, you honor us with your presence this fine morning. What might the holy order do for you?” A priest in scarlet robes smiled in greeting. Hands spread wide in imitation of his goddess, he was a man of middle age, long blond hair and a handsome countenance. Rosanna had always liked him and felt peace already by simply being in his presence.
“I have a somewhat…worrisome matter on my mind, Priest Jaques,” she admitted and came to hold his offered hands. “And find myself in need of sage advice. Might we speak in private?”
“Is this serious, my lady?” He inquired, brow furrowed. Still, he nodded and led her along the marble hall to a room meant for meditation and divine assignations.
“For the Servants of Naamah, yes. As well as for some beloved figures high in society,” she confessed as the door was shut behind them. “But I must ask that what I speak of here does not leave this room unless you think the priestly order must be involved.”
“My dear girl, of course. You always have my confidence. Now sit, tell me whatever is the matter.”