Chapter Text
Outside of the ballroom and guest wing, the Winter Palace was as still as death in the early hours after deliberations had left two dead de Chalons, an elf ascended to the nobility, and a cemented Valmont reign. Well, at least until my death, Celene chuckled.
Her temple throbbed in protest to any humor she may have savored. Dresses midwinter were always so heavy, never mind a ballgown. The pale blue nightgown and robe felt practically weightless in comparison. Her mask lay abandoned on her vanity. There was much to do before bed.
Footsteps moved quietly in the Empress’ bedroom, Emeline brought her a fresh pot of piping hot Rivaini tea and a mille-feuille in the hopes of enticing Celene to eat. She placed the cup and pastry upon the large mahogany desk the Empress sat at. Quietly, Emeline prepared the tea with rosewater and a hint of honey.
Celene studied the fresh pile of letters, likely arriving in the few hours between when Gaspard was sentenced to death and when the Empress left the Ballroom. The contents were predictable; nobles reaffirming their loyalty, others, on the losing side, beseeching mercy, and those tone-deaf fools that thought congratulating her on the successful state-execution of her cousin was the most apt use of quill and ink.
She sighed and reached for the tea, “You are a saint, Emeline. That is all for tonight. Get some rest, you have earned it.”
Emeline gave a pretty curtsey, not daring to tell Celene to get sleep though it was evident she needed it. The door closed upon her exit.
The Empress breathed in the scent of hot spice and sighed, sipping generously for the only beverage in all the realms that could dislodge the proverbial icepick lodged in her temple.
Once the tea had a moment to work its magic, she shifted her gaze to two small stacks of paper detailing Gaspard and Florianne’s estates. Celene had yet to determine how to handle the matter. Her gaze drifted to the still burn of candlelight.
The nobles celebrated, starving for glut and debauchery at a united Orlais. Celene could not stomach it. It was a familiar ache, one she’d practically bronzed and polished. Peace and progress at the expense of my family’s blood. It was summer when Prince Reynaud died to poison, shortly after her mother. And now, at last, in the frost of winter the last of her kin are felled for the same reason—The Great Game.
The candlelight flickered.
Her guilt was palpable, but this was so miniscule in the grand scheme of choices she had made. She pondered whether there had ever been another way short of marr—the windows were closed. Why would the fire flicker? The invader that must have gained access to her bedroom through the hidden panels that should have been guarded by her retainers. Celene swiped the letter opener on her desk and turned to attack but found her wrist grabbed. She countered with an elbow to the—“Briala!”
The Marquise dodged the elbow that failed to land, her heart throbbing loudly in her ears. She carefully pried the offending… letter opener? “I suppose a practiced hand can make anything deadly with enough force.”
Celene caught a hint of a smile on the lips of her former lover, her face unobscured by a mask. She studied her head to toe. Briala preferred a tailored look leaving little space to hide weaponry that Celene couldn’t find. Unarmed, she considered. Plucking the letter opener from Briala’s grasp, she narrowed her eyes. “You startled me,” she admitted.
Briala’s smile softened briefly before fading. You were only startled because you’re distracted. “It was not my intention to startle you. I only wanted to…” why did she come? She knew the answer, of course. It was because the Empire celebrated and Celene would paint on a smile as easily as lip smear and quietly mourn the very last of her family’s blood left to spend. “… to discuss the future.” She produced a bottle of wine from behind her back. Celene’s favorite—Antivan red. She preferred her wines spicy, fleshy, and tart.
Celene’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. It had been a long time since she stood across from someone with the means to read her face sans half-mask. “I had no idea your Eluvians extended to Antiva. We’ve had so little import since the Civil War started.”
Briala’s lips curled into a wicked grin and Celene immediately knew the cause. This did not stop Briala from putting words to her malfeasance. “I stole it from your wine cellar.”
The Empress sighed, “Of course you did.” She shook her head and nursed the ache beginning in her temple, “You are a Marquise now, Bria, you can’t just pilfer like this anymore.”
It wasn’t the statement that erased the warmth from her, it was the familiarity. Bria. It was something she hadn’t anticipated—the ascension to nobility. But did Celene believe that a promotion was barter for her love? It had been over a year since she’d left the Empress of Orlais to an ill-fated Civil War, sending her back to Halamshiral. She abandoned her for a noble cause. Celene’s cruelties were personal and innumerable. “No.” Her hands curled into fists.
The room went from comfortable to frigid in a matter of seconds. Celene knew Briala’s temper and how it manifested. The Marquise was icy in demeanor, and her muscles were taut in her jaw, her limbs, and as her fingers curled into balls Celene lifted her gaze to Briala’s. “… Forgive me, Your Grace… It has been an eventful evening.”
“Briala,” she retorted in an instant. Her tone was softer, but firm, “you cannot undo almost two decades, Celene. Just… call me Briala when we are alone.”
Celene reflected for a few quiet moments, her attention shifting to the warmth dying in the fireplace. “Briala, then.”
The Marquise followed Celene’s gaze and smiled, “did you ever learn to rekindle your own fire, Celene?” She handed Celene the wine and went to add more logs to the fireplace.
Celene turned and made work on the cork. I haven’t bothered to a rekindle a thing since you’ve gone, Bria. “I barely notice the chill when I’m working.”
Her hands are probably icicles. Good thing I won’t be joining her in bed, lest she bury them beneath me. But there was no mirth in Briala’s thoughts. Once the fire was stoked, she rose and returned to find Celene had poured two glasses. She took the proffered glass and lifted it. “To the end of the civil war. You have returned us to glory.”
Celene’s eyebrow jolted upward. She was quiet for several moments, contemplating Briala’s words. Did you write Empress of Fire, Bria? She ignored the comment and lifted the glass to take in the bouquet of spices. The Empress’ eyelids fell shut. She took a small sip, testing first for poison before drinking more deeply. Finally, she focused on Briala’s face. The warmth went to her chest and belly and Celene felt some of the tension ease from her shoulders.
The Marquise sighed, testing the vintage, equally pleased. An elven handmaiden would not generally have a palette delicate enough to savor the subtleties of wine. She, however, served the Empress. It had been over a year since something so fine touched her lips. The guilt was dulled by the warmth. Elves starved in the alienages, but a Marquise of the Dales could offer succor to them. Perhaps there was no harm to enjoy this moment, brief as it may be.
Briala’s mind turned to the evening’s events. “Why did you choose me?”
Celene chuckled, “Who else?”
The Marquise considered. There are dozens of noble elves you could have chosen. Did you notice any of them?
Celene moved to the chair by the fire, sitting and curling her legs beside her. The light blue silks fell away from her calves. “A noble of Orlais must play the Grand Game without error. I needed an elf capable of surviving, Briala.”
No retort came, for Briala knew the perils of the Game better than most. She joined Celene in the chair opposite the Empress. The fire was warm and the wine was vibrant, but the conversation was perilous. The Marquise opted for silence. Her gaze noting the soft glow of Celene’s pale calf in the firelight. She was always tall, comparatively, and svelte. She looked graceful and elegant even at a tender age. Briala did not think that beauty had waned.
Briala’s olive skin looked vibrant in the flicker of fire. There was a richness—like bronze, no gold. She glowed in the light, as though angelic or otherworldly. Celene did not think there was any more beautiful than Briala. She smiled quietly to herself.
Briala giggled suddenly.
Celene’s eyebrow lifted, her thoughts interrupted.
After a moment more Briala gestured to the bed, “They removed the shackles, too. Please tell me the Mercenary Captain still bears the shame of trying to bed our virgin Empress with shackles.”
Celene’s hand lifted to her lips, instinct tried to smother the chuckle before it erupted. After a beat she let her hand fall away and she laughed. “I am unaware—he was gone when I returned.”
They shared several moments of laughter that quietly died away. When it did it left them both with warmth that mirrored one another before that, too, fell away.
Quietly, “Your company was appreciated this evening. As to the future…” Celene hesitated, “I… miss you.”
The tension grew thick as Briala’s silence stretched longer and longer. Her gaze left the Empress and returned to the fire. You killed my parents and then lied about it. Your hair still stinks of smoke, Celene. If one noble provokes, you will leap to react and pay your debts with Elven blood. “I don’t miss it.” I don’t miss being your tool. I don’t miss being bartered like property.
The Empress lowered her eyes and fixed on the fire. “Well… then I will lean on you to help me promote positive change for my elven subjects. Progress is possible, I truly believe it. You have always… encouraged me to dare. Your counsel will, no doubt, be valuable for the Empire.” Celene put aside the glass of wine and cut her gaze to her former lover. She noted the warmth had fled her face. Briala looked crestfallen in the soft glow of the fire. Worry etched across Celene’s features and she sighed. After another beat, she reached across the space between them and placed her bare hand upon Briala’s.
When their eyes meet at the action, the Empress evoked resolve. “I do not intend token displays, Briala. You will not be the first and only Elven noble. I mean that.”
Briala did not withdraw her grasp, but flipped her hand over and took Celene’s like a vice. “In the alienages, elves are starving, Celene. I do not care for a few elven nobles, I care for the elven children left orphaned and sold like slaves!” She did not release the hand, “We drink fine Antivan wine, and the elves of Orlais—”
“I know, Briala. I only meant—”
“You only ever see that which is directly before you, Celene!” She drew her closer by that hand, the wingback chair scraping across the floor, a rage burning deep in her belly, “you care for the weary soldier that fights your wars but neglect the starving masses that labor to keep your roads maintained and clean!”
Celene studied the outcry of passion. Her heart began to hammer, not for fear—but for proximity. She searched the eyes growing wild and wet with despair. This is what haunted Briala. The overwhelming weight of trying to drag an underserved minority from the muck. The Empress lifted her free hand and pressed her cool palm against Briala’s fevered cheek.
The impassioned deluge ceased and the Spymaster’s eyes fell shut, the cool of Celene’s hand like a balm. Her eyelids lifted after a beat and she found respite in the gentleness of Celene’s gaze.
Softly, she brushed her thumb across Briala’s bronzed cheekbone. “We will not solve the Empire’s problems in an evening. We have laid a brick with thousands more to go.” After a beat, “Rest tonight. There is much work and none of it will be solved if we are at war, non? Give me the chance to make this right.”
Not for all the gold in Orlais could you pay for these crimes. But if you trying means a better lot for the elves, then so be it. Briala was loathed to leave the touch upon her face. She ached for Celene’s touch like a parched throat for a splash of water. Still, she withdrew. Rising from the seat, she offered a curtsy. “Bonsoir, Celene.”
She left the bottle and weaved between the furniture to the hidden panel beside Celene’s vanity. The wall opened and shut without another word.
Celene was left alone, only the lingering scent of Briala dying in the air. The Empress of Orlais sighed and lifted the stem of her wine glass to finish the last drops of Antivan wine. Bonsoir, Bria.
It would be several hours before Briala found rest in the Winter Palace. It would be several more before Celene put the demons of the past to rest.