It has been several weeks, now, since the worst of things has begun its welcome decline back to normalcy. The suspicious glances from men I once called friends and colleagues have at last begun to taper away. They are becoming willing to speak with me alone again, less fearful of me in general. For so long it has felt as if I had committed some crime against all persons of the male gender, in not just avoiding molestation but in defying orders not to expose it. It has been difficult to swallow, that it is not men who take advantage of women we are wary of, but women who come forward. It does stand to acknowledge that I would never have made mention of his advances had it not been for Aidan. Never made an issue of anything. And perhaps they know that.
There are times I wish I had never come of age, never left my father’s walls. It was lonesome, but it was simple.
Zeita has returned from her tour of Farin; a diplomatic mission taken upon her shoulders solely because she felt it needed. Lithmore’s withdrawal from the Front has made things difficult between the two long-allied nations. She hoped she might help to ease tensions, to mend the gap before it could be stretched any further. In the majority I had believed her mission was a success. There was an incident in the Barony of Lema, however, which has caused significant upset, and I must say at no fault of her own. In effort to make a statement at Lithmore’s Court he denied the head of the Merchant’s Guild an audience and had her forcibly escorted off his land at the hands of armed guards. He was quite surly to discover that those who refuse to treat with Merchants find the notion reciprocated, and sent his brother to Lithmore rather than admit his fault. This is where the tale takes a turn most dark… So dark in fact that I dread to put the reality of what has happened to page. Suffice to say the man was murdered, and that the accountable individual is a soul whose name I have penned often in significant dread.
It would seem that Jonquil ab Ydeth continues to cast the virulence of his shadow over Lithmore, and has proven himself a fiend of the lowest order. He sent a letter describing the murder of the Baron’s brother, taking responsibility for it, and claiming that he did so in labor of love. Though the letter was signed merely “Him,” he took it upon himself to reveal his identity within the hour; I was en route to the Cityguard, letter in hand, when he beset upon me in a fury, demanding to know where I was walking so late in the evening. Worried, he said, for my safety.
Clinging most fervently to Miss Forgeheart’s dagger I am ashamed to admit that my confidence still faltered. I fled, and for nearly an hour I stood in the courtyard before the office of the Reeves, praying the Lord might send Lady de Versin on some unforeseen late-night errand, heaving my palms against the great doors in hope someone, anyone, might hear the clamor. No one came, and I returned home watching every shadow, powerfully sick with the sour burn of fear.
I had reached the path when my candle flared blue and burned out. I swore that I could hear the heavy tread of his familiar footfall in the brush, disguised under each of my own steps. Just past the tree-line I espied the barest traces of movement, and real or imagined these illusions proved more than I could bear. I called out for the porter, who heard my cries and came running from home, soothing me in the incomparable way that only servants who have become more family than staff can provide. He ushered me inside and stated he would ride to the city at once to deliver word of a potential intruder to anyone who would listen. For lack of any Reeve I knew who would be on duty and available to us I sent him after a Knight; a new friend and discrete instructor, Rylyn de Cerulio.
The Knight came at once. I could not be contained within the manse for long, fearing I might miss some vital signal of creeping doom; some visual sign of Jonquil looming through the trees. Not knowing if he was there or no, if I were mad or sane, proved nearly distressing as his eventual revelation. Sir de Cerulio was no sooner up the walkway when Jonquil emerged from the trees in a serpent’s mask, wielding a staff wrought of wood darker than any I have seen before. Flames roiled through the engravings on the weapon and he set upon me at once, struggling to get past Rylyn, swearing he would see me dead at last for refusing his ardent favor. He had killed for me, and if I would not accept his love after all he had done in my honor he would see it finally ended. He insisted no ‘virulent peon of Dav’ could stop him, bellowing that among other heresies so loud I cannot believe the Lord Himself did not hear it. It was enough to seep a chill down to the marrow of one’s bones; such foulness spewed at a a Knight whose life is lived in dedication to virtue. In the end the pair fought before the stair of my home; Knight pitted against Mage, goodness pitted against evil. Goodness proved victorious.
I feel so staggeringly remiss, so lacking in sense to have failed to pick up the signs of magery before he could cause so much harm to others. The Baron of Lema has lost his brother and unfathomable harm has been done to the bond between Farin and Lithmore. Zeita has been in tears, penning and destroying letters of resignation for the weight of guilt she is too virtuous a soul not to absorb, unable to come to a conclusion in her mind that ends with responsibility on someone else’s shoulders. The Lord Steward has lost his wife, murdered on the road for reasons that while elusive, likely stem in some way from the overall atmosphere of uncertainty in the realm. Rylyn could have been killed. The longer I consider the reign of Jonquil’s terror the more threads I see that have spiraled from him alone. Countless lives have been diverted their course because of one maddeningly selfish man. And I could have prevented it.
Summer is nearly at its peak. The days lengthen and the nights grow short. I will be wedded before the leaves begin to turn, and I cannot comprehend how it all comes together.
