As the sun set over the Benaill Province; the distant expanse of woods and cliffs were cloaked in shadow. Though the night was dense with stars, Lux found herself slowly being drained of her holy flame; her magic quill scratching away slower and slower. For a spell as simple as transcription to steal so much energy from her, she had to be far from adjusting to the Mortal-Plane’s altitude; alongside the constant push-and-pull of angelic and devilish influence.
“So, Azazel is returned to you in a dead, presumably cursed state—,” Lux groaned through her exhaustion, “a curse that kills within minutes, but your servants who spent hours searching for, and recovering Azazel. . ., they were completely fine?”
“I know. . ., none of this ever made much sense,” Lady Rae’s tears had sporadically dried as Lux’s barrage of questions occupied her thoughts more than sorrow.
“I know you’ve already determined that Azazel was cursed in the woods; Azazel suggested the same when I spoke with her, however. . .,” Lux quietly contemplated, dragging out the space between her words. “I’m going to suggest something different—and it doesn’t have much merit, but I’d like you to consider it.”
“Is it possible that Azazel may have been cursed inside the Avaritia manor? After being returned from the woods?”
Lady Rae fell silent, gaze dropping to her lap.
“You said your son, Amos, screamed inside her bedroom before he passed. Did you ever consider that he might have seen something, or someone that he shouldn’t have?”
Lady Rae’s eyes shot up again, breath hitching, “No, that can’t be the case,” she leaned eagerly forward, “Our servants are always kept up with our quest list, and there’s not an inch of this manor they neglect—if there was someone inside who wasn’t welcome they would’ve known.”
“But things could always slip through the cracks, couldn’t they?” Lux watch Lady Rae stiffen under the accusation, “the explanation could be as simple as bad luck.”
Lady Rae fell silent.
“I’m not insisting that you, your family, or servants have done something wrong,” she said, only partially lying. The one mistake you made was not doing this twelve years ago; then I might’ve been given a normal final assignment.
“It could be that her curse had. . ., some kind of delayed manifestation, that the sorcerer responsible used a temporary protection spell, they could’ve even spiritually cleansed the scene. . ..”
Lady Rae sunk back into the sofa; her cowardice dragging a sigh out of Lux.
“Regardless—a curse that can stop the transfer of a soul from a deceased mortal body to the stratum is. . ..”
“Treason?” Lady Rae interrupted, gaze cold and unmoving.
Lux nodded, “that’s the blunt way to put it—and it might be the one thing our two gods still agree on.”
“I apologize. . ., I hesitated for so many years to contact the Upper-Plane. Now, the chance of finding the one responsible is. . ., little to none. And Azazel. . ..” Lady Rae’s voice was dull with defeat, falling to a whisper, “well, her fate will soon be in Abigor’s hands.”
Lux stalled, taking in Lady Rae’s stiff posture, her closed fists, wondering, how much further can I pry before she throws me out? In her silence, Lady Rae cowered further—Lux concluded the answer was ‘not much.’
“I think you’ll find the Upper-Plane is very forgiving of mortals and their sins,” Lux gave something akin to reassurance, keeping her last thought private as she stood, though if it had been an angel like myself. . ., I’m sure I would’ve been eradicated years ago.
“There’s one more thing I wanted,” Lux snapped her finger, quill and transcript disappearing in an instant, “how long do you keep these old guest lists?”
“We’ve held onto them for generations. . ., if my husband, Ovi, hasn’t moved them they should be sitting somewhere in our private library.”
Lux nodded, “Could I get a meeting with him? For those records, and to ask roughly the same questions I’ve asked you today?”
“A meeting. . ..” Lady Rae mumbled, “when is it you’d like to speak with him?’
“Ideally?” Lux said with slight pause, “right now.”
~
A lone maid guided Lux through the Avarice family’s private living quarters. Lux’s gaze locked onto the grey strands of hair that had escaped her updo, draping down the wrinkles on her nape.
“Lord Ovi already knows you’re staying here at the manor, but since you’re in a hurry, make sure to mention Lady Rae sent you his way,” she stopped as the manor’s maze-like halls opened up into a quaint sitting room. Far more homely than any other wing of the house. Patchwork quilts were strewn around, an ironing table stood in the corner, and sewing supplies covered the surface of the coffee table.
A wind chime danced beyond the window; the woods wheezing behind its song.
“If there’s one name ‘round here that gets things done quickly, it’s hers. And I do mean it,” she lowered her voice to whisper, “the family’s other maids and I have a little inside joke; that Lady Azazel got her spoiled personality from her mother.”
Lady Azazel, Lux nodded, she’s the first maid to bring her up unprompted. She watched the elderly maid straighten her apron, sitting comfortably on the sofa. Relaxed as a servant could be. “Do you primarily work in the family’s private quarters?”
“Oh yes, for a long, long time now—since before Lord Ovi took his deceased brother’s place as head of the house.”
“I take it you’re very trusted then?” Lux asked.
“Very,” the maid nodded, then gasped at a quick realization, “oh, Lord Ovi’s office is the first to your right; I didn’t forget to tell you that, did I?”
“You did—but don’t worry about it, thank you,” Lux began to walk away, “what is your name, if you don’t mind?”
“Betsy—Betsy Muir.”
With that, Lux knocked on the office door, and a harsh voice demanded answer.
“Who is it?”
If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
“Lux, of the Lea-Bethel house in the Upper-Plane, I’ve been sent by Lady Rae,” Lux answered, “if you don’t mind, I’d like to ask a few questions regarding the circumstances of Lady Azazel’s death and cursing—alongside two requests.”
After a short drought of silence, “how long will it take?”
“Not long if your memory is sufficient.”
“I’ll see about that, come in.”
The door groaned as Lux stepped into the office, the lock clicking into place as it swung shut. She trodded through a short hall of shelves, lined with books regarding anatomy and medicinal magic, turning at the corner to find Lord Ovi waiting at a large auburn desk.
It was just then that Lux realized which side of the family Azazel inherited her albinism from; she was the spitting image of her father. Full white curls fell over his shoulders, framing his sharp jawline. His silhouette was broad and sturdy. His eyes a pale lavender, shaking in place as he dragged his hands over documents dotted in braille.
“I’d like you to recount your memory of the night Lady Azazel was cursed, in as much detail as you can,” Lux said plainly.
Lord Ovi leaned over the desk, resting his chin atop his knuckles, thinking.
“Well then, I reckon this conversation will be shorter than you expected.” His gaze fell towards Lux, the bright silhouette of her spirit telling him precisely where she stood, though he still didn’t meet her eye-to-eye. “On the night Azazel was cursed. . ., I wasn’t at home. I was attending a political rally west of the Benaill Province—I can prove it to you, if you won’t take me at my word.”
Damnit. Lux thought, though her expression remained flat. What have I done to make him think I won’t take him at his word? She knew these interviews had nothing to do with Azazel’s ascension, nor any potential afterlife—they existed for one reason alone, to rule-out Azazel’s family and servants as suspects. Had they caught on already?
Reluctantly, Lux conceded to his offer, “I’d appreciate it,” she moved onto her next question quickly, hoping to cut any analysis he’d make of her answer short, “Do you know at what time you returned to the manor?”
“At what time. . .. I’m not for sure—it was sometime after Amos had already. . ., passed on; it was still dark outside.”
“I understand that Azazel herself couldn’t be examined; not with her curse, or the condition she woke in—but why was no investigation conducted? Inside the manor, or outside, in the woods?”
Lord Ovi nodded, losing himself in thought as his gaze fell away from Lux, and towards the window. “Are you well-read on our province’s history, Lux of Lea-Bethel?”
“That would depend on what part of history you’re referencing, Lord,” Lux said, answering with the same formality offered to her, “The Benaill Province is incredibly isolated; and within the Upper-Plane’s archive, I was unable to find sufficient records of your citizens and your history. What I did find was a sparse collection of political commentary from your allies in the Folivore Commonwealth—but I’m under the impression those political ties are. . ., strained at best.”
“So, if you’d like to expand my understanding, I’m willing to listen.”
Lord Ovi seemed taken aback by her answer; a satisfied smile breaking through his professionalism. He reclined into his chair, shoulders relaxing; his dialect more noticeable than before, “Then, I reckon you’re familiar with our exile?”
“In passing, yes.”
Lord Ovi nodded. “You see, our exile lasted a long seven-hundred and thirty-one years; but the story of our province didn’t begin with exile. It began two-thousand years prior.” Lord Ovi ran his hand over the ridges of his horns, fingers hovering as if he was trying to keep Lux’s attention fixated on them. “The bovidae therians of these old mountains are not native to them; actually, there ain’t a single group native to them to begin with.”
“Before we claimed these mountains and gave them a name, we lived as peacefully as any other species within the Folivore Commonwealth. However. . ., after the God of Satellite fell from heaven and became the God of Eclipse; outfitting her devils with horns as her doctrine began to spread—the commonwealth began to scorn us.”
“At first, they wrote laws that required we cut our horns; denounce our species in order to exorcise the ‘devil’ within. To say the least, our ancestors didn’t take kindly to that demand, and when they refused—new law was written approving state-mandated massacres of my people.”
“The Folivore Commonwealth treated these massacres as routine. They waited for us to build capital, and when we became too powerful, they’d burn our homes, schools, farms—with no care for anyone who might be inside. Countless lives were lost.”
“Then came a bovidae therian named Alasdair Avarice—a young man whose entire existence was shamed; thrown out of university for his horns and albinism. He is the founder of the Avaritia house—and the reason for our exile.” Lord Ovi couldn’t hold back his spiteful laugh, “he walked right on up to the mansion of folivore aristocrat, Charles Fernby and burned it down with the same method used during the massacres. It’s ironic, ain’t it?”
“Charles Fernby and what family he had died in that fire; giving the Commonwealth all the fuel they needed to drag us out of our homes, cast us out west into the mountainous wilderness; the Benaill Province. Where Alasdair Avarice became the very founder of the Avaritia house.”
Lord Ovi ran his hand down the length of the desk, blindly searching for the handle of the bottom drawer. “. . ., Alasdair left a letter to the future generations of our family; at the time I became Overlord, my eyesight was still good enough to read it personally.” He found the drawer’s latch, tugging it open and taking out a small wooden trunk. “It should be right inside here,” he placed it on his desk, pulled his hands back; offering it to Lux.
What Lux found inside was a sparse set of quills and an aged jar of melting wax. On the bottom of the trunk; a yellowed envelope. She slipped her hand inside, the quills jostling around as she took the letter beneath them. She flipped open the envelope, unfolding the drawn-out, tightly spaced letter, her eyes falling immediately to the last line.
My final hope is that, for generations to come, the Avaritia house will ensure these mountains become paradise for the bovidae.
“Each Overlord of the Avaritia house has tried to make Alasdair’s hope a reality; to create a paradise as close to perfect as possible, among the imperfect Mortal-Plane,” Lord Ovi let out a long, exhausted sigh. “It wasn’t easy at the time; ain’t any easier now—socially, politically, and economically. But I do believe we’ve achieved one of the one of Alasdair’s many wishes. A truly peaceful, pacifist land. In my mind, that is most important piece of ‘paradise.’”
That just isn’t true. In that moment, Lux realized Lord Ovi was just as delusional as Azazel; both fixated on impossible to achieve ideals. The idea that anything akin to paradise could exist on the Mortal-Plane; and the idea that threatened by inevitable damnation, one could simply choose to continue on living.
“The Lea-Bethel house will appreciate the story you’ve told me,” Lux said, immediately returning to the point of her visit, “and, regarding Lady Azazel?”
“Azazel. . .,” Lord Ovi’s voice trailed off, “the troubling thing is Azazel’s existence—she’s a reminder of how terribly fragile this ‘paradise’ is.” He paused as if considering whether his words were too harsh, “That’s why she must stay a hidden, forgotten heir.”
Footsteps began to patter through the distant hall; instinct told Lux to glance back, but she didn’t listen. Instead, she took advantage of Lord Ovi’s willingness to chat and pried further. “Statistically speaking, it’s impossible for Lady Azazel to be the only victim of unlawful magic or violence,” she said, merely hoping he wouldn’t take her next question as an accusation, “when violent crime does occur, how do you hide it from your citizens?”
Lord Ovi cocked an eyebrow, “the same as we’ve done with Azazel—isolate whoever’s involved; watch the world will slowly forget they ever existed in the first place.”
The doorknob jangled behind Lux, a familiarly rasped voice sounding before Lux could turn to face it.
“Daddy,” Abigor said, letting the door swing shut as he waltzed up to Lux’s side, “The Corra called; she wants you at her residence to talk farm trade; tonight.”
Was Abigor ever taught not to interrupt?
“That urgently?” Lord Ovi slowly stood, grabbing the white cane resting against his desk, “Lux of Lea-Bethel, apologies but I’ll be on my way now, what were your requests?”
“The guest list from the night Azazel was cursed, and records of the servants who worked for the Avaritia house at the time,” Lux said, “Lady Rae said you’re the one who keeps them.”
Lord Ovi gave Lux a silent nod, “I’ll have them delivered to your suite as soon as I can,” he assured, walking past both her and Abigor. Then, the door swung shut, and he was gone.
Lux couldn’t help but analyze Lord Ovi’s willful disregard of reality, wondering; if he could hear the rogue spirits surrounding the manor. . ., would he go out of his way to ignore them?
