Author: Longest Night Midwinter Masque

They were all watching. She could feel the eyes, in the House and whenever she left on errands or business. The events of the previous year’s Longest Night Masquerade were still in everyone’s memory. The image of the sangoire cloak hanging at the gates would not be forgotten anytime soon. And the Longest Night was coming again. What would happen this year? Would someone try to outdo the warning of last year? Would the sacred night be interrupted with violence?

Sing, O Goddess, the anger of Peleus’ son Achilles…

She had been thinking more and more about the epic poem. She had sat in the theatre next to the Duc de Chalasse and listened as the poet sang about the violence and war and blood and death that had come to Troy, armies fighting and men dying for possession of a woman. THe Gods themselves cast their lots and chose sides. She had sat there, knowing what it was Jocaste had wanted her to hear in the song, the warning that it was.

Sing, O Goddess, the anger of Peleus’ son Achilles…

She sat in the carriage now, across from her Dowayne, as the two of them travelled across the river to the Noble’s District, to the Rue Courcel that had the best shops of the City. She sat there, knowing the people outside were watching the carriage go by, seeing the dahlia design embossed on the outer door, whispering about who was inside. The Longest Night was fast approaching, Odilia could feel the City holding its breath to see what would happen. The matter of the Judiciary still needed to be resolved, it had been postponed until after the Longest Night out of respect for the holy day and the preparations that the Night Court needed to make, but it would still need to be addressed. Which meant she would have to see him. Would have to speak to him.

Sing, O Goddess, the anger of the common folk of the City. Sing, O Goddess, the rage of the silversmith. Sing, O Goddess, sing!

Sing, O Goddess, the chaos of Odilia the Dahlia.

“Odilia?”

She brought a smile to her face, “Yes, Jocaste, I’m listening.”

Her Dowayne didn’t look like she believed it, but she didn’t pry, only saying, “Are you sure about the statement you want to be making with your costume?”

“I am.”

“As I am unable to attend the Masquerade this year, you will be representing Dahlia House with it as well, you understand that?”

“Are you requesting I change my costume?”

“No,” Jocaste said. “Your choice is your own, I just want to make sure you know the possible messages you will be sending as you represent us all.”

“I know the risks,” Odilia responded.

“After last year, I should hope you do,” Jocaste said gently. “As you are determined, I will not order otherwise. I trust you, Odilia. Remember that.”

“I know.”

They came to a stop and Odilia stepped down from the carriage first to offer her hand to her Dowayne. The couturier was already bowing at the door to the tailor’s shop, welcoming them in for Odilia’s final fitting to ensure the costume was what she wanted. Payment was given and the package was handed reverently over with a whisper from the tailor that she hoped it pleased the Dahlia Second. Returning to the carriage, they were stopped by a voice calling, “Ah, two of my favorite flowers! What a lucky chance.”

“There is no such thing when you are involved, Roland,” Jocaste said with a smile, giving him a kiss of greeting.

“Odilia,” he greeted her with a tiny bow, “You have been in my thoughts much as of late.”

“Have I, Your Grace?” She gave him a curtsy just as small as his bow to her, “What a coincidence, I was just thinking about our evenings at the theatre this past summer.”

“Were you?” His brows lifted as he claimed her hand for a courtly kiss, “What song are the Muses singing for you?”

“The song of the Longest Night, of course.”

“Let us hope it has more peaceful verses than the song of the previous year.”

“Keeping the young nobles of your province in line, Your Grace?”

“I would not dream of having them disrespect you again.” His eyes dropped to the package tucked under her arm, “Something for the Masque?”

“The tailors have finished my costume,” she said lightly, “Will you be in attendance at Cereus to see it, Your Grace?”

“Unfortunately not,” he said, “My Longest Night invitation came from the palace, not the Night Court. I am surprised that you were not requested at the palace to dance with the young King.”

“There are some traditions that no Servant of Naamah will refuse,” she said, “The Longest Night at Cereus is one of them. His Majesty understood my polite refusal.”

“Then I will have to endure the palace fête without your clever company to keep me entertained.”

“I’m sure you will find a way to manage.”

“What brings you out today, Roland?” Jocaste asked it of the Duc, lest her Second entirely monopolize his time with her witty conversation, though she was proud that it seemed her advice had been followed. Odilia was polite and courteous, clever and warm, but not overly familiar and there was nothing of substance said under the words. She was doing well to keep Roland de Chalasse out of her head. Jocaste was pleased.

“I was on my way to the jeweler in the Palace District,” he said lightly, “I had commissioned a gift for my granddaughter that I was going to retrieve. I would be honored to have your company on my errand. I know little about baubles and you are familiar with dear Rosanna’s preferences through your work together at the Night Court. Additional advice on her gift would be deeply appreciated.”

“You old fox,” Jocaste laughed, “You just want to be seen with us.”

“Two of the loveliest flowers of the Night Court? Absolutely.”

“You are fortunate we are not so prone to flattery, sir,” she smiled at him even as she looped her arm through his. “Odilia, we must go with him now to save his pride.”

“I don’t think that is ever at risk,” Odilia said lightly. “Give me a moment to put my package in the carriage and I will be with you.”

She turned and opened the door to the carriage so she could settle the parcel in the corner of the seat. She heard Roland and Jocaste strike up their conversation again, light and pleasant. This was what the Longest Night was supposed to be, excitement and joy and joie, no dark thoughts, no worries or cares, just the celebration of the night and the return of the Sun Prince to his Winter Queen. She dared to smile.

That was when the hand closed on her wrist. It was a tight grip, wiry and strong and it jerked her around to face the man that the hand belonged to. Greying hair, a lined face, once-handsome eyes now tight and hard with fierce hatred.

“You,” she breathed, looking Jacques Halceaux full in the face. The open carriage door was between her and her other companions on the side of the Rue, and Halceaux had waited to approach until they were both distracted so he could be uninterrupted.

“You have the rest of the City fooled,” he hissed, his grip on her wrist keeping her from pulling away as he stepped closer to snarl at her, “But not me. I know who you are, Odilia, who you really are. Wear your pretty flowers and let them worship their precious Dahlia, enjoy it while you can. You have them all fooled but not me, I know your truth and I will use it.”

His grip tightened and her eyes widened as she saw in his face just how deep his hatred and contempt for her went. What had gone wrong? When had he chosen this path?

“It’s a pretty little fantasy world you’ve built for yourself,” he said, standing so close to her they were almost touching, his other hand brushing the front of her thigh as he leaned even further, lips brushing her ear as he breathed, “But I will tear it down, piece by piece, until you have nowhere to go but the real world with the rest of us. I will drag you back to where you belong, you and the rest of those fancy whores.”

She looked up at him, lips parting, “Please…”

He was gone, vanished back into the traffic of the street with only the dull, tingling pain in her wrist to know that he was ever there.

“Odilia?” Jocaste called, “Is everything alright?”

Odilia slowly closed the carriage door. They were both watching her; Jocaste curiously, Roland intently. She looked her Dowayne and friend in her eyes, pulled up a bright smile, and for the first time, lied to her face.

“Of course,” she said, “Everything’s fine.”

The ducal Chalasse carriage was not one usually seen on the streets by the Théâtre Theselis.  When Roland de Chalasse was seen enjoying outings, it was to the yards and the lists, for he was an active man and would have none forget it.  Therefore, the other patrons and people on the street outside the theatre were already whispering at the sight of his coat of arms.  Whispers that only increased when he stepped down from his carriage and offered his hand to help down his companion.  

Odilia nó Dahlia ignored the murmuring people with all the grace expected from one of her House, her gloved hand resting lightly in his palm while the other touched her dark hair just once to ensure the jostling of the carriage had not knocked one of her hairpins askew.  

“Not a hair out of place,” the Sovereign Duc of L’Agnace assured her as he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, keeping her close to his side as they approached the steps up to the theatre, “As though you’d suffer anything less, little Dahlia.”

“I would hate to embarrass you with my dishevelment,” she said lightly, her free hand lifting her skirts a hairsbreadth to let her climb the stairs unhampered.  Her ears caught the tiniest exhale of air through his nose and she suppressed a smirk at getting the fearsome Roland de Chalasse to laugh.  With her hair swept up and the low back of her gown, the summer air was warm on her bared marque; all could see her for what she was and know her for her guild.  The Duc de Chalasse was not the first and would certainly not be the last to contract a courtesan of the Court of Night Blooming Flowers for an evening’s entertainment in the City, but for him to choose her of all the other options on offer from all the other Houses? It was deliberate.  And she knew that.  

Odilia had spent the day leading up to this assignation closed in her room with her private chessboard.  It was only too clear what her place was.  King-side Bishop.  Subtle, indirect, but close to the King and maneuverable.  But the Duc…she had argued with herself about where he fit on the board.  Queen-side Bishop?  Close to the court but unaligned to anyone but himself?  Knight, with his unpredictable movements and motivations?  Rook, with his direct mentality and clear use of his power?  She had puzzled over it for almost too long, her attendants needing to remind her when to start preparing, but somewhere between the final fitting of her gown and the rubbing of perfume into her skin she had decided that she would save her judgement as to what chess piece Roland de Chalasse represented until after the evening was done.  She would be studying him as much as he was studying her, she was sure.  

As she had studied her chessboard and considered the evening ahead of her, she had done her best to consider what he was looking to achieve from this.  She did her best with what she knew about him and what she had learned from both Rosanna’s stories about her grandfather and Jocaste’s advice about her former patron.  But the thing that kept running through her memory was Jocaste’s warning: He is a dangerous man.  A powerful friend and a deadly enemy.  He is a generous patron and he will ensure your evening is enjoyable.  Do not let your guard down with him, ever.

Do not let him get inside your head.  Be careful with him, Odilia.

Well, it was too late for that, wasn’t it?

This was what she knew about Roland de Chalasse: he was the Sovereign Duc of L’Agnace and the grandfather of her friend.  He was a powerful man, with money and political weight, enough that Queen Anielle and her husband had been careful not to anger him without proper reason.  He was among the elite of the elite, his family line tracing themselves directly back to the Angel Anael.  Which made him an elitist, who prized family lines, blood, titles, money, and power over anything else.  The fact that he would lower himself to be seen with a common-born girl from Rue Courcel, Servant of Namaah or no, was surprising.  

Unless that was his intention: to bring her out to the highest echelons of society and prove that she was unfit to move among them, that she could not rise from the dust of the streets where she was born and that she was ill-suited for the King’s affections.  That was what she held in her mind as they ascended the steps to the main doors of the theatre, that this was a test.  She had always done well with tests.  This elitist nobleman would not shake her.  

Odilia’s head was high as he guided her into the entrance of the theatre, passing under the second gallery and descending into the yard before the stage, letting all who were already present see him enter with her on his arm.  More whispers, more heads turning, and Odilia took the chance to survey the stage.  Raised to be of a level with the first gallery and the noble boxes, it had been done up with artfully painted wood and plaster to match the theme of the evening’s performance.  The support columns were covered in artful applique to make them seem like the great marble columns of the Hellene temples.  The stage itself was bare of set pieces or furniture, the emphasis of the evening was to be on the poet’s voice in the recitation.  

And then Roland was guiding her towards the young Eleanore de Mereliot, daughter of the current Lady of Marsilikos.  A polite conversation, then he moved on to speak with a group of Caerdicci scholars that wore the crest and colours of the Tiberian ambassador.  A tour of the yard, she acknowledged, letting him be seen with her.  Very well, then let them also see her with him.  She greeted a trio of merchants by name and thanked them for their continued supply contracts to Dahlia house.  A couple of former Eglantine adepts smiled at her and kissed her cheeks as he escorted her past them to exchange brief hellos with the Count Niklos Shahrizai.  

It was only when a theatre attendant approached to inform the Duc that His Grace’s customary box was prepared with refreshments for himself and his companion that Roland began steering her towards the noble boxes to the right of the stage.  A flicker of movement caught her eye and her head turned to see two boys, one in his teen years and one not yet ten, hovering anxiously at the entrance.  Another theatre attendant was attempting to usher them away, but the younger boy was looking so desperately at the stage, so longingly, that her hand slipped from Roland’s arm as she turned toward them.  

“I’m sorry,” she heard the attendant saying as she approached, “But if you don’t have the money for seats, I can’t let you stay.”

“We can just stand back here,” the older boy said, “We won’t get in anyone’s way.”

“I’ll get in trouble,” the attendant said, “I really am sorry but you have to go.”

“Please,” the little boy said, looking up at Odilia as she came closer, “Please, I wanna see it.  I want to hear the song.”

The attendant turned to look at her and flushed, “I apologize, my lady.  I assure you-”

She ignored him and crouched down to look at the little boy, “Why do you want to hear the song so much?”

The boy looked at her with big, dark eyes and it was his older brother that answered, “Our mother was from Hellas, milady.  She used to sing it to us in Hellene but the plague took her.  I’m only an apothecary apprentice, I can’t afford-”

“Please, lady,” the little boy said, “Mitera can’t sing it again, I just want to hear it again.”

Odilia’s gloved hand reached slowly to touch his face, stroking his cheek with her thumb before she rose and instructed the attendant, “Find them seats in the gallery.”

“My lady,” he tried to argue, but she shook her head.  Her hand went to her waist, reaching among the folds of her skirt for the coin-purse she had tucked there, but Roland’s hand extended first, handing the attendant two coins.  

“Seats in the gallery,” he said, “As the lady said.”

The attendant bowed low to the Duc, a gesture the older brother copied a moment later, stiff and awkward.  But the little boy beamed up at them, “Thank you!  Thank you, lady!”

She smiled at him and felt the weight of Roland’s hand on her lower back as he stepped closer to her to murmur, “You have a soft heart, Odilia.”

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken.”  She couldn’t afford a soft heart, a soft heart was an invitation for more trouble like the cloak, like the Judiciary, like him.  

“You guard it well, even despite this little kindness, but under all of those defenses, you do have a soft heart.”

Her spine stiffened in direct contrast with his words, remembering her Dahlia composure as he led her back through the yard toward his private box.  Her head turned toward him as she climbed the steps to the box level, saying quietly, “I understand what you’re doing, contracting me publically like this, letting people see me with someone like you.”  It could be read as a gesture of support.  That a Sovereign Duc like Roland de Chalasse would be willing to be seen with the King’s Dahlia meant that not all of the nobles thought her an upstart peasant.  Perhaps. 

“Oh do you?”  He sounded amused at her shoulder as he showed her to his box and the waiting cushioned seats. 

“And I do appreciate it,” she said as she sank onto the seat offered to her, accepting the chilled glass of crisp wine he handed her from the waiting tray, “but I’m not so naive as to think this means you approve of me either.”

He hummed as he took his own seat, saying lightly, “I’d be quite disappointed if you were.”

The poet appeared on the stage with a strum of his lyre, accompanied by two other musicians, one playing the aulos and the other shaking a chiming sistrum.  The poet took a moment to look around the galleries of the theatre, taking in the audience gathered there to listen.  And, with a great breath and a strum of his lyre, he began to sing. 

“μῆνιν ἄειδε θεὰ Πηληϊάδεω Ἀχιλῆος…”

Sing, O Goddess, the anger of Peleus’ son Achilleus…

 

The Song of Ilium was a great epic, too long to perform in one sitting for a people unaccustomed to the practice.  Therefore, three hours and a third of the epic later, the poet bowed and left the stage.  The next two thirds would be performed the day after next, and the last third a second day later. The last lines of the first third had left the audience with the images of the Trojan fires in the plain after the Hellene Gods had shown their might amongst themselves, the very forces of nature choosing sides in this grand epic.  

And so much battle, so much death, so much unrest because of desire for one woman.  That was what sat the heaviest in Odilia’s mind as the Sovereign Duc offered his hand to help her rise from her seat.  What was it Jocaste was warning her of by having her come to see and hear this?

“Is something troubling you, little Dahlia?”

She summoned a smile to her face and looked up at him, “Not at all.  This was my first time hearing a great Hellene recitation, I am still caught up in the beauty of the words.”

“Are you familiar with the Song of Ilium?”

“Not in the original Hellene,” she said as he escorted her down to the yard and towards the exit.  “But I have read translations that I am finding hardly do the language justice.”

“Dahlia has ensured you have had a fine education,” he said absently as he steered her towards his waiting carriage.  

“The Night Court will suffer no less from their adepts,” she said, gathering her skirts, “And Dahlia will ensure we shine even beyond the other flowers.”

His short laugh followed her up into the carriage as they settled themselves among the cushions, across from each other.  And she watched the public face of Roland de Chalasse slip slightly now that they were closed together in his carriage.  Just the two of them, looking at each other, without the ever-present weight of the rest of the City’s gaze.  

“An enjoyable evening,” he said lightly, the courtesy not reaching his eyes, “You are a charming and pleasant companion, Dahlia.”

Her brows lifted slightly, “Better than you expected of a common girl from the streets?”

“It is only the truth of your birth.”

“Whatever the circumstances of my birth may be, I am the Second of the Dahlia House and that is what I have become.”

“And is that what you will tell the guild leaders of the Judiciary?” 

The slightest tightening of her eyes and the tiniest twitch of her jaw and he smiled, continuing, “Come now, you did not think I had not heard about that, did you?”

“I would not insult you so,” she said, not even bothering to feign conversational lightness, knowing he would not appreciate so glib a manner now, “but I am curious as to what relevance that has to our evening.”

“Oh, everything.”

In her mind’s eye, she could see the chessboard, the same one she had been pouring over all day.  King-side bishop facing Queen-side bishop.  Equal in power in very different ways.  They faced each other but were they on opposite sides of the board?  Were they working against each other or in conjunction?  What in Elua’s name did he want?  Be damned Jocaste’s warnings about not letting him in her head, she’d let him in if only she could get into his as well.

“What was your purpose, then, Your Grace, in this assignation?  To remind me of my place in the hierarchy of society?  I am well aware of that.” The carriage jostled over the streets but her posture remained impeccable even as he lounged against the cushions of his side.  Her eyes skimmed his body as she said, “To threaten the King’s affection for me with your own interest?  Interest someone like you could not possibly have in one so low-born?  To flaunt to the City that anyone can buy what the King wants?  I was already shamed enough with the cloak last winter; do you seek to ruin me entirely?  You will find me more resilient than that, sir.”

“I know.” 

He said it so simply.  He knew.  Of course he knew.  He had been playing this game for much longer than she, it was likely he knew everything about her by taking one look at her.  

“All of those things, yes,” he agreed with a careless shrug, “and more.  To remind these fools that you are not the threat they think you are.” 

Her gloved hands tightened in her lap.  She just wanted to be left alone.  The nobles circling her like vultures were bad enough, the de Somerville’s attempt to frighten her was bad enough, the fact that the common merchants and guilds of the people – her people – were turning on her was bad enough.  And Roland de Chalasse wanted to come in and show everyone they were right about her?  That she didn’t deserve to be among them?  That she wasn’t good enough?  That she would never be welcome among them even with the King’s affection?  The King’s affection that would only make her and him more enemies as he refused to let her go…

“But you could be.”

She refocused on him at that, her brows furrowing ever so slightly as she processed the way he was looking at her, the hunger and the temptation clear in his face as he said, “With the right friends on your side of the chessboard.”

It clicked into place.  Time slowed for a moment as she realized what he was offering. 

“Why?”  It came out as a whisper as she looked at him, “What do you want from me?”

“What I have always wanted, and what I think you want too.” His eyes glittered in the half-shadow of his carriage as he said, “Influence.”

“Over the King?”

“Over the country.”