Long, dark hair cascaded in coiled waves down the side of a lavish bed as the young lady Aalis lazily paged through a book she’d already read a dozen times over.
With a light sickness sweeping the castle’s halls, her tutor decided to cancel lessons for the day and she was to remain confined to her room unless absolutely vital—for her own health until they had an accurate count of those who’d fallen ill. She couldn’t even go out to the gardens, which was absolutely maddening!
At times like these, she would relish in the company of her brother—the young Duke quite fond of sneaking into her quarters so they could play draughts and gorge themselves on desserts he charmed out of the kitchens on the way. And, if he was away, she could always look forward to correspondence sent by way of a castle pigeon.
Unfortunately, Giraud was away. And, to make matters worse, the eldest Gauthier child wasn’t writing to his sister. Or even his advisors, it seemed. Aalis hadn’t heard from her brother in several weeks, which was unusual. She supposed that he could be too far away for swift correspondence, but another part of her considered something worse.
The 16-year-old didn’t like to dwell on the possibility of “worse.” Worse meant a third funeral within two years. Worse meant never seeing her only family again.
She hated the mere idea of “worse” and a deep dread began to settle in her belly like burning coals.
So, she heaved a deep sigh to banish the damned thought and rolled onto her stomach, abandoning her book at her side in favor of a different distraction. Her hair created a thick curtain over her face, and she roughly swiped it out of the way to scan her bed chambers for any sign of something interesting to take up her time under quarantine. Her dark gaze flicked to her cracked balcony door after a few beats.
Or, perhaps, she could simply sneak out.
She could don her cloak, scale the trellis, and be halfway to the village square before her handmaid and head guard even missed her.
Before she could scheme for too long, though, a sharp series of knocks on the main chamber doors snapped her out of her mind, followed by the gentle voice of her handmaid, Roysia.
By the gods! Is that woman a seer?
“My lady? The courtiers have requested an audience.”
Aalis’ blood stilled in her veins then, all annoyance fleeing and the sick feeling flooding her system with a vengeance.
The courtiers tried their best to never acknowledge her, let alone require her presence at a meeting usually exclusive to them and Giraud. Something was wrong.
Her head went foggy, overcrowded with a million and one worst-case scenarios, and she hardly heard the heavy wooden door of her bed chambers open, nor did she register Roysia coaxing her out of bed to get her properly dressed for a seat in the court.
___
As Aalis approached the great hall, accompanied closely by a worried Roysia, she could vaguely hear the overlapping voices of the courtiers as they discussed what she was sure was how one breaks terrible news to a girl that was barely 16 years old. The two guards standing on either side of the massive doors were quick to open them and the conversation inside ceased immediately as five pairs of eyes turned her way. It almost amused her to find the Consul frozen in the midst of pointing angrily at the Pontifex.
The courtiers were a varied group of the Duke’s most trusted advisors—loyal and just people, if not a touch too serious on some of their parts.
Pontifex Lyonette was a young woman of tall stature, slim with pale skin, a sharp nose, and even sharper pale eyes. Aalis thought her heavy black robes made the woman look even more like a wraith than she already did. She sat on the left, in the place she’d usually sit during mealtimes.
Across from the Pontifex was Elyes. The Consul was much older, perhaps in his 50s. He had skin reminiscent of olives and a full head of graying dark hair that he kept just short enough to curl behind his ears. He was an imposing figure, a former member of the royal military that now governed them. He often wore shades of red, gold stitching accenting his robes.
For a few seconds after her entrance, it was deathly silent, and she swore she could hear the scurry of a mouse’s feet from somewhere within the walls. A lingering sense of humor nagged at the back of her mind as she figured the mouse-hunting cat they housed was probably off somewhere snoozing away—getting paid handsomely in meals to do absolutely nothing.
It wasn’t silent for too long, however, as Consul Elyes broke it with a decisive clearing of his throat and he straightened from where he’d frozen in a heated hunch.
“Lady Aalis, please,” he paused to gesture to the seat at the head of the table—the seat typically reserved for Giraud. “Have a seat. We have much to discuss.”
Aalis’ pulse raced as she crossed the room, fingers tersely gripping the skirts of her deep purple gown both to keep her from tripping and to ground herself before her thoughts could race any more than they already had. She could feel the eyes of the courtiers on her the entire way, less than a minute feeling more like hours, until she eventually settled in the well-worn chair that felt much too wrong to be sitting in.
“Wha-” Voice catching, the young lady lightly cleared her throat and did her best to compose herself before resuming, eyes drifting to each member of the court before landing on the Consul. “What is it you wish to discuss?”
The courtiers began to speak all at once again, their voices a grating cacophony of sound that quickly echoed throughout the hall. Immediately overwhelmed, Aalis wanted nothing more than to cover her ears and cower or run from the room altogether. But, her father’s words found their way to her as they always did in times of difficulty—be firm and unshaken.
A single hand raised amid the chaos, forward-facing for an unspoken request of silence that, surprisingly, worked without too much run over. Once all was silent, she used the same appendage to gesture to Elyes.
“Consul, please speak.”
The middle-aged man stood, tanned hands smoothing the front of his robes as he considered his words for a moment. How did one break the terrible news to a child that she was, as far as anyone knew, the sole remaining member of her family?
“My lady,” he started, running a pensive hand over his mouth. The soft sound of coarse hair against skin briefly filled the silent room. “Your brother...he is missing.”
Though she’d already had a feeling that it was possible, the breaking of the news made Aalis feel as though the floor had opened up beneath her and swallowed her whole. She felt a tremble in her lip and her face warm as tears threatened, but she was determined to hold off on any outward show of emotion in the presence of such important people.
“How could he be missing? Is he dead? What happened?” she asked, eyes then turning to Praetor Emory who sat impossibly straight, his prim visage unwavering as always. Tongue snaking out to wet his lips, the Praetor carefully removed his spectacles.
Just beneath the Consul in rank, and sitting to his right, was the Praetor. Praetor Emory was an average man in every sense of the word. Average height, average features. He had dark, neatly styled hair and dark gray eyes nearly hidden behind a pair of small glasses. Praetor Emory favored muted, cool colors and currently wore robes in a shade of green that reminded her of the filthy lake towards the back of the gardens.
“His Grace’s guards returned early this morning with only his horse. They tell us a thick fog rolled in, or rather, they rode into it and lost track of one another.” the Praetor hesitated for a moment, eyes flicking to the Consul before he continued.
“Our men heard a shout and rushed to the source, only to find a steep drop. By the time a few men found their way to the bottom, His Grace was nowhere to be found. Thus, we have decided that he is missing rather than deceased.” The emphasis was pointed, a warning glare casting over a few of the advisors who sought to be realistic rather than hopeful.
“Still,” the Procurator finally interjected, a graceful hand reaching out from the depths of an amber sleeve, and tone a bit more warm than the Praetor. She directed a sympathetic smile in Aalis’ direction, “We are terribly sorry for the unfortunate situation, my lady.”
Procurator Mariote was a sturdy yet graceful woman, with warm brown skin and black, coiled hair that was often fixed in an ornate half-braided style. She was very pretty, with cat-like brown eyes that Aalis often found herself envious of for their shape. But, most of all, she was kind.
They all were, truly. But the Procurator was the warmest of them, more easily showing her feelings and sympathy where the others would awkwardly stumble through things like comforting a 12- and 18-year-old whose parents had both died in quick succession.
Kindness, loyalty—that true genuineness—were all deeply important virtues in the House Gauthier and the late Duke made sure that every person in his court reflected those values without wavering. At times like this, Aalis was glad for her father’s foresight because she was absolutely certain someone would try to overthrow her in her brother’s absence had they not been so righteous.
Offering Mariote the tiniest of smiles and nods to show thanks, Aalis turned her attention back to the table at large.
“And what now? Is nobody out there searching for him? We should be doing everything we can to find him!” She began to grow a bit incensed as she went on, worries creeping around the edges of her psyche. “Not just- standing around and offering condolences for a man who may not even be dead! We have t-”
“My lady, if I may-” the last to speak up, Quaestor Simonnet braced their hands against the heavy wooden table in anticipation of said permission. Aalis nodded, almost imperceptibly—hardly registering the interruption—and the young person, no older than 26, with a shock of ginger hair and cool tan skin, stood from their seat and gestured to their senior peers.
“That is what we all have been, erm, discussing, my lady. We will be sending out a search party, most certainly. At the soonest possibility. But, we must be prudent.” Simonnet’s hazel eyes find a few of their peers before floating back to Aalis.
“Many of us think it best that you quietly assume the position of Duchess in the meantime, but we should take care to keep our problem under wraps. If someone were to catch wind of yet another loss in the house, it could be taken as an opportunity to act against us—especially from your late mother’s relatives.”
The Consul spoke up once again, not one to be silent for long.
“My lady- rather, Your Grace, the King holds Villeport and House Gauthier in such high regard that we simply cannot risk a role of power falling into anyone else’s hands. I am aware that the Duke has been tutoring you in secret, so you have a fair start. We believe you should assume the role of duchess and we promise to remain steadfast by your side, no matter the trials we face.”
From there, all eyes returned to the teenager—a young girl who was clearly in way over her head with all of this. Her pulse thrummed in her veins and she sat a bit straighter in her seat, the seat that had once been her grandfather’s. The seat that was once her father’s. The seat that was her brother’s. And now, it seemed, it was hers.
Swallowing the lump in her throat and the persistent urge to cry, she lifted her chin to feign the confidence she knew she needed to feel.
“Very well. Consul, everyone,” her gaze shifted from the Consul across each individual seated before her, and they even briefly flicked over to Roysia,who stood at the far end of the room in wait. “I would be most glad to take on the role of Duchess—even if only until we can locate my brother.”
She pressed her lips together, lowering her eyes to the unique patterns of the table beneath her subtly trembling hands. From here on, she would be in charge of her home. She would be the King’s contact and trusted ally. She had no choice. She had to do well. Deep brown eyes lifted once more, shimmering with unshed tears but, most importantly, with a new resolve.
“Please guide me and forgive my shortcomings. We will find the Duke. But, until then, I won’t let Villeport or Tradian down.”
