“O gracious Lumina, by whose name all things are made holy, we thank you for the turning of the seasons and the abundance of the harvest.”
Estel bowed her head to the portrait above the altar. “We praise you for the grain in our fields, and the fruit upon the trees. Let not the bourer go unblessed, nor the hungry remain forgotten. For what we have received makes us truly thankful.”
Adrianne lit the first of three beeswax candles and handed it to her while reciting the first orison, “In nymine Lumina.”
Estel held the candle to her forehead before presenting it upon the altar.
“In nymine sphritus sancti.”
She carefully pced the second candle beside the first.
“Et rum sphritu tuo, Amen.”
Adrianne knelt before the altar after the st candle was pced. “Flectamus genua.”
Estel gracefully knelt beside Adrianne, hands csped over her chest as she cantilted the familiar prayer.
“…et ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nos a malo, Amen.”
“Levate,” Adrianne said, concluding the prayer and standing up. “May Lumina’s blessing be upon us always.”
Estel let out a quiet sigh as they exited the chapel and walked past the conservatory.
“I hope Father is able to find time to pray even in confinement,” she murmured, looking out of the gss roof at the dawn sky. “Especially with Mother’s anniversary drawing near.”
“Please do not weigh yourself down with worry, my dy,” Adrianne said reassuringly. “I’m sure that the Goddess will look after and protect His Grace.”
Estel bid her lip and nodded, managing a faint smile. “With regard to the Margrave’s invitation, Adrianne, I have decided to send His Lordship my response card. I shall leave the manor in your care while I’m away.”
Adrianne blinked. “Then, who will accompany you, my dy?”
“Alice,” Estel said after a short pause. “She’s the guest who stayed here recently.”
Adrianne’s expression tightened with unease.
“My dy…forgive me, but is she really that trustworthy of a person to you?” she asked in a concerned voice. “From what I can tell, she strikes me as a charming but treacherous woman with one too many secrets. It’s best for you to refrain from associating with the heathen.”
“I don’t have a choice now, do I?” Estel lowered her gaze and inhaled shakily. “With Gerald gone, you are the only one I can trust to manage the estate in my absence.”
“That may be true, but…” She rubbed her shoulders anxiously, as if warding off a chill. “Ever since that heathen appeared, I’ve been roused every morning by an uncanny feeling that something is not right. Even the air around the manor feels different somehow. And we still don’t know the identity of the instigator behind Gerald’s hysteria—I-I really don’t like this, my dy. ”
Estel gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Are you feeling alright?”
She dipped her head in a small nod. “I have visited the prete in town and paid for an indulgence. You need not concern yourself with me, my dy.”
“I see…then that’s good.”
“Oh, and one more thing—”
The dy-in-waiting took a folded bit of cloth out of her kirtle and handed it to her.
“What’s this?” Estel asked curiously, noticing that the object wrapped inside the cloth felt cool to the touch.
“When I bought the indulgence, the prete gave this to me. Said that it is a sacramental crystal which contains a fragment of Lumina’s light,” Adrianne whispered, pressing the crystal into her palm before closing it into a fist. “It will turn warm when evil is near, and shield its user from harm once…but only once. After that, it will shatter.”
Her gaze met Estel’s with quiet urgency. “Please take this with you on your travels, my dy. I’ll pray for your safety as well.”
-
“Haa…”
Hearing his morose sigh, Landrad slowly raised his head and gave the Captain a long, withering look. “Captain, should we head back now? It’s way too hot to be out here doing nothing but wait for the Seneschal to hopefully arrive.”
Marcus didn’t answer immediately. He stood with arms crossed over his surcoat, his eyes fixed on the closed doors of the preceptory, where the banners of the Temprs fpped weakly in the breeze. The noonday sun beat down on their backs, casting hard shadows across the dry cobblestones of the forecourt.
“We wait,” Marcus said at st, his voice low but firm.
Landrad groaned, wiping sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his tunic. He had ditched his usual armour in favour of a simple commoner’s garb—much to the disapproval of the Captain—and yet the heat was still as blisteringly unbearable. If anything, he was starting to wonder if the Captain was even human at this point.
“He’s two hours te,” Landrad muttered. “Bet he’s sitting in some cool chapel somewhere, indulging in wine and pretending we don’t exist.”
Marcus clicked his tongue in displeasure.
“This isn’t like the Seneschal,” he said after a moment. “He has been sending his men to observe our movements since ereyesterday. If he sends word that he wants to meet us personally, he will. Something’s deying him.”
“Perhaps he lost his nerve after you confronted the Temprs head on and sent their sorry asses packing,” Landrad joked.
“That’s ridiculous…”
Marcus broke off his rebuke as the faint sound of hooves against stone reached their ears, drawing both men’s attention to the gate.
A mounted figure emerged over the crest of the shimmering road, sitting astride a sturdy destrier cloaked in ivory barding that bore the crimson star of the Temprs. The Seneschal himself exhibited a commanding presence—tall, broad-shouldered, and donning a fine suit of chainmail that gleamed with each powerful stride of his steed. A long white surcoat draped over his armour, embzoned with the same holy symbol on the front. At his fnks rode two more Temprs—one bearing a bck-and-white standard, the other carrying a long nce, both in matching surcoats and wearing bck cloak that fluttered in the breeze.
“He’s here,” Landrad muttered as the Seneschal dismounted with fluid precision.
“You’d better rein in that tongue of yours in his presence,” Marcus warned under his breath.
The Seneschal’s helm turned toward them, slow and deliberate, and raised his fist in salute.
“Captain General, Lieutenant,” he greeted, his voice deep and metallic from within the helm. “Pardon me for not introducing myself at an earlier time—I have been most preoccupied with the forthcoming festivities as of te. By Lumina’s grace, what cause summons you hither to this isnd? I had no prior word of your coming.”
Marcus offered a courteous bow with one hand across his chest. “I hope you can pardon our unannounced presence, Seneschal. Please rest assured that we are not here to disturb your charge, but to simply confirm some doubts.”
“Doubts?” The Seneschal let out a mirthless ugh. “What doubts might the Captain General have which lead him all the way up north to seek relief?”
“This.” He unfolded the decree and held it up before him. “Have you any knowledge of a person by the name of Seraphina?”
The Seneschal took the decree and passed it along to one of the Temprs, who read it and whispered something back to him.
“Do you speak of the Saintess candidate, Captain General?” he questioned. “What about her?”
“Indeed,” Marcus said smoothly. “I presume news of her engagement with His Highness has not yet reached these nds, then. As is custom, I am here to conduct a background check on the dy—”
“I am well apprised of the situation in the capital,” the Seneschal cut in, handing the piece of parchment back before beckoning the Tempr to come up to them. “This is Yiorgos, who hails from this isle. He knows where the birthpce of Seraphina is. If you wish, he can escort you there.”
Marcus inclined his head respectfully. “That is most appreciated, Seneschal.”
“I pray you find what you seek.” The Seneschal called for the other fg-bearing Tempr to follow him to the stables, leaving the Tempr named Yiorgos alone with them.
“Viasyni,” the Tempr said tersely, his voice clipped. “We must set off and return before dusk. Come back here with your horses within the hour.”
“Horses?” Landrad shot him an incredulous look. “And where exactly are we supposed to find those?”
“There’s hackneys for hire down the bridge,” he snapped. “Go. We must set off immediately.”
Landrad opened his mouth to utter a retort, but Marcus stopped him with a raised hand. “What’s the rush, Tempr?”
A look of annoyance fshed across his face before Yiorgos looked away, his jaw tightening.
“Those vilgers…they suffer from night hysterias,” he muttered. “We call them kataraménos—the damned.”
