The Bell Tolls for Me

They departed the capital without ceremony. Isabella had no interest in fanfare there—her presence was well-known in the city, and further displays of grandeur would only invite derision from the downtrodden. The first days passed in motion: long hours in the carriage, escorted by a rotating assortment of holy paladins, her mobile staff trailing in covered wagons heavy with coin, surveying tools, and supplies. Randolph took personal charge of recruitment of local laborers along the route. His selections were consistent: trustworthy people without delusions trained in practical work.

By the end of the first week, she had a retinue capable of executing her orders with minimal instruction. Her assistants, headed by Veronica, would fan out across the countryside and collect petitions. Isabella would survey these, and further receive advice from learned men regarding what might benefit the region. Like this, Isabella gained a deep sense of both what the people wanted and needed.

Eventually they reached Brammere, the first proper town on the route. Randolph provided commentary as they rode toward it.

"Behold, Your Highness—the plebian in his natural milieu. A creature of infinite perseverance and tragically finite insight, whose cultural diet consists largely of superstition, turnips, and the oral misquotation of legal decrees," he began, speaking like a herald. He pointed a distant group out. "Note the gait: stooped from generations of agricultural toil and moral relativism. Their political memory is short, their appetite for spectacle long, and their instinctual response to complexity is the sacrificial bonfire. Truly, if enlightenment ever reaches these hills, it will be by accident."

Randolph's faux-snobbery (at least, she hoped it was fake) was somewhat warranted. It was worse than expected. The main road had eroded into a rut. The bridge into town had partially collapsed, repaired piecemeal with scavenged timber. The royal magistrate, old and vague, submitted a report that bore no resemblance to what her assessors documented. She removed him quietly, installing one of her own clerks in the interim.

Work began before dawn and continued until dusk. She reviewed every petition submitted to her mobile court, issuing judgments in clear language and recording them publicly. The population reacted with caution at first, uncertain whether this was theater or punishment. Yet slowly, as roads were paved by laborers and mages, as levees were constructed to reduce flooding, as bridges took shape to facilitate ease of passage, and as walls rose up to defend them from bandits, the enthusiasm was beyond expectation.

Isabella had been preparing for the nobility to attempt to drag them into stagnation, yet it wasn't so. Some hastened to imitate her example, dispatching their own engineers to aid or announcing token alms distributions in regions she had already passed through to undercut her fame. Even those with no loyalty to her recognized that opposition to a ruler building roads and feeding villages was politically suicidal in the current climate. Nevertheless, obstruction was tried.

Some nobles quietly petitioned local governors to refuse cooperation, or spread rumors that her expenditures would bankrupt them. These feeble efforts had little effect. A few pressed for a formal censure by majority council vote, but no faction was willing to provoke her openly and so the idea came to naught. In practice, the interregnum council became a stagnant theater—paralyzed by indecision and split factionally, discussions stalled. Meetings were fewer and their participants less invigorated after hours on the road.

The third week marked the beginning of routine. Each new stop followed the same protocol: survey, assess, intervene. Infrastructure took priority—bridges, roads, water, sanitation. In each place, she met with local notables. Most watched her with thinly concealed calculation. They offered token gifts, spoke of loyalty, and gestured vaguely at past taxes paid. Isabella took rigorous assessment. Her coin—Albert's coin—was distributed cautiously, and always tied to something concrete. She permitted no largesse without evidence of use.

Isabella was aware of how her presence unsettled the land. Rumors followed the procession, exaggerated accounts of her charity or authority. Some peasants knelt, while others stared without any inkling as to what should be done. She learned quickly that what was recorded in capital ledgers or even maps bore little resemblance to what existed in the provinces. There were entire villages that had never seen a royal agent, and tax quotas invented by absent landlords. Some roads charted simply didn't exist. Her understanding of the kingdom changed by the mile. The countryside was incredibly different from the city.

In the quiet margins between stops, Isabella allowed herself brief pockets of reprieve, accompanied by guards under Randolph and Sosen, her protector from magical assault. The first attempt at leisure came in the form of an early morning ride. The mist was still lifting off the fields when Isabella and Abigail set out with a half-dozen mounted holy paladins encircling them. Abigail rode without complaint, her quiet confidence with animals evident from the moment she took the reins. Isabella, long out of practice, found herself gripping tightly at first, but the rhythm of the horse gradually loosened her posture.

Their activities continued on that trend. Isabella had wished to spend time with Abigail for a long while, and they engaged in a growing number of shared diversions. Though always heavily guarded, they were serene outings. They swam in a secluded spring-fed pond deep in the forest, where she spoke to her of Valerio's fondness for the exercise. A wealthy landowner permitted them to try falconry with his personally-raised stock. Abigail's hawk returned every time, while Isabella's obeyed once and then retired to a tree for an hour.

The next week brought an informal hunt, where Veronica led them both. They caught nothing on account of their large procession of guards, but Isabella was simply excited to be in the forest. In one provincial town famed for its orchards, they were given a tour of peach and pear groves in full bloom. Isabella climbed a ladder to pluck the prettiest fruit herself. It tasted terrible. Alice, then, retrieved a bruised and disgusting-looking pear… yet to Isabella's delight, it tasted perhaps the best of any fruit she'd ever eaten.

For part of the journey south, they took a barge down the Levanne River—a practical measure for speed, but one Isabella enjoyed more than expected. Randolph joined her as she made her way over to Abigail. Sosen stood on her shoulder, half-asleep.

"Truly, a noble station I've attained—eternal warden of the crown's daintiest whims," he commented. "While Her Highness learns the spiritual discipline of duck-feeding and the archducal pearl perfects the sacred art of falconry, I remain the ever-watchful idiot nailed into a tin oven. I've become a wet nurse with a sword."

"Your vigilance is appreciated, Randolph," she made sure to say. "And your compensation is higher than ever before."

"Aye, it's as you say. But gold buys glory in the capital. Out here it garners goats, gravel, and god-awful gruel. I've gone from sipping spiced spirits in silken salons to squatting in stables, spending specie on stale soup served by sullen sods," he alliterated. "Bloody barns, broken boots, backwater bread that tastes like brick dust…"

Isabella stopped. "You might try writing some of this down, someday."

"I would… but then what? Dozens of publishers crushed by demand, literacy rates exploding overnight in anticipation of my next work—it would be chaos, Your Highness. Social unrest. Artistic envy. Best I remain unsung, for the stability of your regency."

Isabella could only shake her head. This outing was improving his mood as much as hers. "Wait here," she said, then walked over to Abigail.

Abigail was drawing something. When Isabella approached, she turned her head and displayed her drawing—a monkey in silverpoint. It was probably of Sosen. Abigail looked hopeful the monkey would look at it, but Sosen merely lounged on Isabella's shoulder. He was hardly the image of a stalwart guardian, but Isabella had been assured that no other mage would be a better guardian.

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"I'm glad to see that your mood is less gloomy," Isabella said to Abigail.

Abigail smiled. "I no longer see the specter of death lingering over your head. Why would I not be pleased?"

This wasn't the first time that Isabella was hearing that news. It seemed that her choice to leave the capital had been the right one in terms of self-preservation. It made sense that particular setting exacerbated the risk—that had been her father's domain when he reigned, and the Archwizard had resided there far longer than anyone else. It also told her the fate Abigail saw could yet be stayed.

"Do you still see my death in your dreams?" Isabella asked. At that, Abigail's smile faltered. Isabella didn't need to hear the words to know the answer. "A shame, then."

"If you know the cause of it, perhaps my father could help you," Abigail proposed, putting her journal away. "I believe that he's come to think that this tour was a very prudent move to extricate yourself from the web that Bernadetta wove."

Isabella had always been hesitant to involve either Abigail or Felix in the matter hanging over her head. Her father was still a titanic figure. No one had ever truly emerged victorious contesting King Edgar. If she relayed the fact that he had cheated death, and might return and take his throne… Felix, having lost to him countless times before, might be swayed. He was a pragmatist. He was willing to do what was necessary to ensure his house survived.

Yet they had trusted her with their secret. Perhaps the favor should be returned.

"I've been contemplating something," Abigail said. "Do you recall what my sister said needed to come to pass for our house to survive?"

Isabella looked over, thinking. "I believe she said that you needed to become the Queen of Doves."

"No." Abigail shook her head. "She said that her sister must become the Queen of Doves."

Nothing jumped out immediately. "Do you have another sister? I believe your father remained unmarried after becoming a widower. Unless there was…" she trailed off, not wishing to bring up bastards.

Abigail stared. "I've been considering whether or not a sister-in-law would suffice for that role."

Isabella stood there with mouth agape for a moment. The implication couldn't be clearer—Abigail was contemplating Isabella becoming queen.

"And have you… discussed this idea with your father?"

Abigail shook her head. "No. Yet… there must be a logical reason for my being queen saving my family, yes? I struggle to see it. I admit, I'm… not adroit at using authority, and I'm not particularly politically savvy. My father says I'm like my mother. You, by contrast, have managed to overcome so very much, and rise very high. And you're… you're the best friend I've ever had. Who could better protect my family than you?"

Despite the dramatic measures that Isabella had been taking, she didn't honestly think becoming queen was an option. All of this had been in service of defeating her father rather than enthroning herself.

"Dovhain is not as the north," Isabella said. "A female heir would be unprecedented."

"As it was in the north before my sister," Abigail said smoothly.

Isabella sighed. "Agnatic primogeniture is law, set in stone by scripture and centuries of tradition. Even if I had that ambition, it would be a venture doomed to fail at best, and cause war at worst."

Abigail looked vaguely disappointed. "I get the sense that you have enjoyed the freedom that this tour has offered."

Isabella nodded. "I have, yes. It's been wonderful. But why do you…?"

"This is the life that I most prefer for myself," Abigail continued, looking out across the river. "I hated that city more than almost anything. I don't want to be queen. I think that I'd be terrible at it, and every day would be one of misery."

"Yet without marrying Sylvain, even that theory of yours would fall apart," Isabella pointed out. "I wouldn't be your in-law. Unless you'd have your sister marry a prince of the family, that is."

"I don't… oppose the marriage, necessarily. Sylvain is much kinder than he acts," Abigail said thoughtfully. "I believe we are, both of us, misunderstood in our own way. His brusqueness and impatience are not flaws that make him unkind. Despite his rigid insistence on tradition and law, he has proven far more amenable to the idea of encouraging my hobbies than any suitors I've met before him. And…" Abigail touched her seal necklace. "He liked your necklace."

Isabella smiled, pleased she'd place that alongside the other reasons as points of approval. She agreed, largely. Sylvain, despite his eccentricities, was probably a good man.

"And do you believe he would assent to my theoretical accession?" Isabella pointed out.

Abigail looked subdued upon that being pointed out to her. Knowing Sylvain… the answer was almost a definite 'no.'

Isabella thought of her situation. Her plan for this royal progress was broad, yet simple—establish popular support, lure out Edgar the Great, retreat after her father returned, and then use aforementioned popular support to oust her father, anticipating he'd attempt unpopular purges of some kind. Against such a powerful foe, though… every day, the plan seemed more inadequate. Abigail claimed Isabella had postponed her death, yet still it lingered.

When Cesare occupied the capital… Valerio advised me to oust him. That was good advice. Yet to face my father…?

Archduke Felix, once King of the North, had the most experience of anyone resisting Edgar the Great. He also had the largest power base in the kingdom after the fall of Albert. Isabella didn't think she could afford to walk in fear of exposing her secrets any longer. If her father's return was inevitable, then she needed to act boldly.

"Do you recall when you told me the secret of your family?" Isabella asked.

Abigail took a deep breath. "How could I forget?"

"I believe it's time for me to return the favor," Isabella said. "I'd like to have a meeting with your father."

***

"This is from a basilisk," Arthur explained. "Petrifies the skin."

Then, without ceremony, he poured it over an open wound on Valerio's arm. Arthur studied the results with a peculiar instrument.

"Hmm. It really worked," Arthur marveled. "You should have lost that arm by now."

"Lost that arm?" Valerio repeated.

"It does have a… decently effective antidote. And besides, I was relatively confident of my observations by now." Arthur applied some of the aforementioned antidote and then stepped away. "I'm not entirely sure what to make of your power. It's as though you're part of a broader network. All that ails you travels through a conduit where your soul ought to be, where as far as I can tell, it's distributed into a pool of some kind. Considering you refuse to elaborate as to this power's source… I know as much about it as I think I can."

Valerio rolled down his sleeve over the wound, flexing his hand. "So, you do genuinely think this might be able to counteract Isabella's wasting illness?"

"Reasonably. All ailments I've attempted to bestow upon you, magical and non-magical, have failed to take hold. I've yet to try sexually transmitted infections, yet—"

"I think we can skip that," Valerio said firmly.

"I'm of a similar mind," Arthur agreed.

Valerio took a deep breath and exhaled with relief. "I was right, then. We need to get the good news to Isabella. She'll be pleased."

"I'll go," Arthur said. "Well, my familiar."

"You're watched. Send your mother," Valerio insisted.

Arthur hesitated, scratching his neck. "Very well, then. I'll speak to her."

Arthur walked away, leaving Valerio alone in the lab. The duke basked in relief, like a weight of a thousand pounds had been lifted from his shoulders. The situation wasn't hopeless. The plan was coming together.