The Vampire & Her Witch

Rain had fallen on Keating City for three days without stopping. It was a cold, persistent rain that rolled in off the wide grey surface of Lake Tisgar and settled over the rooftops of the grand city as though it had no intention of ever leaving.

Midwinter’s Night had come and gone, and in the north of the Kingdom of Gaal, the roads would be buried beneath snow by now. But here in the river basins of the south, snow was a rare sight even in the depths of winter. Instead, cold rain became the constant companion of the city’s residents, and a wet chill that crept through wool and leather alike, settling into the bones of anyone unfortunate enough to be caught out in it.

The city had stood on the shores of the lake for close to three hundred years, since long before there had been a Kingdom of Gaal at all, when Keating had been nothing more than a colony of the Garnet Kingdom. Here and there, a few ancient buildings still stood from those days, though the old city wall had been torn down generations ago when the last of the demons had been purged from the Duchy in the build-up to the Second Crusade.

Since then, the city had spilled far beyond where it once stood, sprawling along the lakeshore and down both banks of the River Daltrie where the lake drained into it. Stone bridges arched across the river, their spans crowded with shops and houses, while the towers of the great merchant families rose above the red tiled roofs, each one built a little taller than its neighbor.

Above it all hung a low grey haze, the smoke of ten thousand coal fires trapped beneath the rain clouds, and the pale stone of the city’s oldest buildings had long since darkened with soot.

What little light seeped through the clouds and haze had begun to fade, and all across the city, lamps began to shine from shop windows and family homes alike.

They came first along the lakefront, where the great houses stood, then spread outward street by street, until it seemed the whole city was catching light one window at a time. In the cold cities of the frontier, places like Lothian and Crew, large stretches of the city would go dark within an hour or two of dusk, and whole neighborhoods across the city never lit their lamps at all.

In Keating, however, every lamp that had been lit would burn all through the night, transforming the city into a glittering jewel reflected on the surface of the lake.

High in the ducal palace overlooking the water, a single oil lamp burned on the desk of Duke Argidir Keating.

It had been many years since Argidir’s wild youth when he traveled the length and breadth of the kingdom, riding in tournaments and fighting in duels over petty, perceived slights, but his figure was still fit and trim even after his hair had faded to a cold, steely gray.

Years of ruling one of the Kingdom of Gaal’s most prosperous duchies had left lines of worry on his brow that never truly faded, and the laugh lines at his cheeks seemed thin compared to the tightness around his eyes as he read the latest missive from the Crown.

The ice floes from the River Chorale had come early this year, and Cobalt Bay was already becoming treacherous. The Crown implored him to make every effort to expedite shipments of coal north before the bay was too choked with ice for ships to reach the city’s docks.

”Enfy,” he sighed as he turned the letter over in his hands. ”Are you staying warm this winter?”

When Amren had left home to attend the Royal Academy all those years ago, Argidir’s heart had swelled with pride and a small measure of jealousy. His eldest son’s days of adventure were just beginning, and he’d arrived at the Royal Academy at a time when the princes were all too young to attend and overshadow him.

Ten years later, sending his oldest daughter away filled his heart with entirely different emotions. He’d done his best to prepare the way for her, and he trusted the people he’d sent to chaperone her and keep her safe, but still... A father’s heart could never rest easy while his darling daughter was away from home.

It would be even harder two years from now when it was Meredydd’s turn to go, and harder still when he had to hand them into the care of their eventual husbands. He still had hopes for a match between one of his lasses and Crown Prince Henri, or at least Second Prince Remi, but those were worries for another day.

For now, the Crown wanted him to expedite what he’d already expedited and...

-KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK-

The door swung open before he could answer, and his steward, a man in his mid thirties named Sir Finlo Kew, stepped inside, bowing low.

”Forgive the intrusion, Your Grace,” Finlo said. ”Count DuCoumont has arrived at the gates. He requests an immediate audience.”

”Dylan is here?” Argidir said, frowning in surprise as his eyes glanced at the calendar on his desk. ”I didn’t expect him for at least another three or four days,” he said. ”Show him in, show him in,” he said as he set aside the missive from the Crown.

”And send for Amren,” Argidir added after a moment of hesitation. ”Whatever Dylan has to say, it would be best if Amren heard it too.”

The message Argidir received from Count Dylan had been thin on details, as were most messages sent by carrier pigeons. In this case, the message said that Count Dylan would be visiting Keating on a matter too urgent to trust to messengers and that he hoped the Duke would receive him promptly when he arrived.

For the past several days, that message had gnawed at a corner of Argidir’s mind. Now, he was finally about to get answers.

”At once, Your Grace,” Finlo said, bowing before he left.

The moment the steward left, it felt like a small army of servants descended on Argidir’s office. Fresh coal was piled onto the hearth and additional lamps were lit next to the overstuffed chairs beside the hearth in case the duke desired a less formal audience with his vassal. Silver trays piled high with refreshments were brought from the kitchens, and a fine bottle of red wine was decanted into a polished crystal vessel.

Someone brought Argidir a fresh coat in a subdued burgundy with intricate, silver embroidery that covered the coat’s broad lapels and cuffs while leaving the sleeves bare. A duke had no need to flaunt his wealth or status, but it wouldn’t do to receive a vassal in nothing but his shirtsleeves.

Argidir sat through it all with the patience of a man who had long ago learned to ignore the dance of courtiers. There was a time for pomp and ceremony, but that belonged to the Great Hall and the Royal Court.

Here, in his private office, there was work to be done, and Argidir had stubbornly refused to allow the household staff to turn this space into a mirror of the audience chambers in the Royal Palace where the king received his vassals.

Dylan DuCoumont had rushed from his home to Keating in the depths of winter at a pace that could only be matched by Argidir’s fastest couriers. Now, the most important thing to Argidir wasn’t projecting the aura and majesty of a ruler enforcing his dominance on a vassal.

It was finding out what drove Dylan to rush here so quickly...