The Vampire & Her Witch

Argidir took the scroll from Dylan’s outstretched hands and inspected it carefully. The seal, pressed into a brilliant green wax, was unfamiliar to him. A tree with flowers around its base. It looked like the sort of device a woman might choose for herself, but it looked nothing like the symbols he’d come to associate with the Blackwells and their coastal vassals.

”You’re certain this is from Lady Ashlynn?” Argidir asked. ”This seal...”

”My sister vouched for the authenticity of her daughter’s letters,” Dylan said. ”As to the seal,” he shrugged. ”I told you, my niece is special. You’ll understand once you’ve read it, or at least, I hope you will. I haven’t read it,” he said. ”And I’ve only been given the gist of what it contains.”

”It isn’t like you to be this cryptic,” Argidir said as he popped the seal on the scroll. ”Should I be worried?”

”You should read, Your Grace,” Dylan said. ”And then I’ll answer your questions.”

”Mmmpf,” the duke said with a snort. Still, he unrolled the heavy parchment and began to read the neat, flowing script of the letter.

~Greetings, Duke Argidir Keating,~

~My name is Ashlynn Blackwell, and though we have not met, both my father and my uncle have spoken well of you. It is my sincere hope that you are the man of honor and courage that they have described.~

~I will be direct in the hopes that you value it. If you are the sort of man who needs puffery and false praise to soothe his ego before accepting an invitation, then anything I would propose is already doomed to fail. My husband was such a man. I pray that you are not.~

”Your niece doesn’t mince her words,” Argidir said. ”You said she killed Owain in a duel? Was it really by her own hand?”

”I’m told that she drove her blade through his visor,” Dylan said. ”After she battered the hinge with her guard enough to break it.”

They’d both been students of Maestro Creston at the Royal Academy in their youth, even though Argidir was several years Dylan’s senior. They both knew just how difficult it was to do what Dylan had just described, even when the helm in question was affixed to a bundle of sticks and straw.

To do that to a man like Owain Lothian implied a terrifying level of strength and skill.

”Then I pray she doesn’t do the same to me,” Argidir said as he returned his eyes to the letter.

~The Verdant Hills, the lands you know as Lothian March, are mine by right of marriage and conquest. A baron, an abbot, and my husband have been executed for their crimes against the people of the Verdant Hills. Another baron has been exiled. I will not stand for the abuse of the people I’ve sworn to protect.~

”Ruthless,” Argidir said, glancing at the stack of parchment that Dylan had set on the table containing the confession of Serle Otker. ”But likely not unwarranted. Do you know how she obtained that confession, Dylan? You mentioned that she had a High Inquisitor following her?”

”I’m told she confronted Baron Otker with information gathered by her own spies,” Dylan said. ”And that Serle Otker bought a life of exile with his confession. It sounds like he was afraid that she’d execute him if he didn’t confess to things that she already knew, so his notes were very thorough.”

”She’s younger than me, isn’t she?” Amren asked.

”By two or three years, yes,” Dylan nodded. ”She’d have been your junior at the Royal Academy if she’d ever gone, but Rhys and Maela never sent her. She didn’t attend the academy in Trevarthen either,” he added as he started to see the question forming on Amren’s lips. ”Private tutors in Blackwell.”

”Understandable, given everything that happened between Rhys and Huchon,” Argidir said. ”I never expected Rhys to scheme this deeply. He always struck me as a straightforward man. He must have been preparing Ashlynn for war on the frontier from the time she was young, raising her like a son in secret,” he said.

”The Lothians had no idea what they were getting when they accepted her as Owain’s bride,” Argidir concluded. ”She could have been a boon to them in the coming Holy War, but if Owain turned against her...”

”He buried her alive on their wedding night,” Dylan said, shuddering as he recalled the tale he’d heard from Marcel. ”After beating her half to death. Everything she did to topple Lothian, she assembled in less than a year, from nothing,” he said, further building up the image of Ashlynn in their minds.

”I’m proud of my Micheline,” Dylan said. ”But compared to what Ashlynn has shown she can do, I’m afraid she lags far behind.”

”I’d wager that nine tenths of the kingdom’s noblemen lag far behind,” Argidir said. While he didn’t say it, the look that passed between father and son made it clear that Argidir included Amren in the nobles who lagged behind Lady Ashlynn. Considering what she had done, however, Amren could hardly object to the characterization.

”You know that she’s laying claim to Lothian March?” Argidir asked, tapping the letter in his hands. ”She’s calling it the ’Verdant Hills.’ What’s that about?”

”I know she’s staking her claim,” Dylan said carefully. He knew full well what Ashlynn intended, but he wasn’t about to say it until Argidir finished reading Ashlynn’s letter. He could, however, help his old friend to understand where she was coming from.

”Can you blame her?” Dylan added in the most reasonable-sounding tone he could manage. ”By rights, she’s the Marchioness of Lothian, and after what she suffered at Owain’s hands... I wouldn’t be surprised if she felt that she was owed everything the Lothian family once held.”

”That’s for His Majesty and the Ruling Council to decide,” Argidir said firmly. ”It would have been one thing for a Marquis to execute his barons; that’s well within his rights, so long as he convenes his court to do so,” the duke said.

”But a Marchioness,” Argidir added. ”Even if she was a regent for her child, she shouldn’t have done so without the assent of the Crown or the Council.”