Private One and done

[Lysanne Shard]

The wind came crawling down from the mountains, it swept low across the stony Tourmalet hills, dragging with it the stench of peat and river mist, and the tang of iron-rich soil. Eagles traced lazy circles above the rust-colored moorland, their wings catching the last heat of the sun. Rain had passed an hour ago, and the road was now slick, cutting through the lowlands like a wound, muddy and treacherous. The heather along the ridgelines twitched in the wind and mist clung to the hollows and ditches. Ravens watched from their blackthorn perches.

Pines loomed like sentinels, their trunks black with rain, and beyond them, the peaks of Mheara Mountains themselves rose snow-crowned and iron-veined. At their base, half-shrouded in smoke, loomed the Iron Gate.

Lysanne rode hard along the ridge, her horse foaming at the bit. She kept the beast in check with one gloved hand, the other resting on the horn of the saddle. Her coat hung open, heavy with water, riding leathers half-undone from the heat of the motion. Then she saw it. The carriage. Black and glossy like beetle shell, lacquered clean despite the filth, its wheels cutting deep grooves in the earth as it moved carefully along the treacherous road below. Four horses. And there, fluttering in the wind like a confession, the banner. Recognition struck like a match.

A silver crab on sea-glass blue streamed from its rear banner, a sigil Lysanne had not seen in person for years. House Cartegena. Once lions of the march, now clinging to the last stone of their ancestral lands. She had sent the invitation herself. A gesture of interest. What little land Cartegena still held hugged a crag where old veins ran close to the surface. Surveyors had seen it. Pale stone cracked with darker lines. Not coal. Not iron. Something richer.

She watched from the ridge above, rain dripping off the brim of her hood. Her horse was restless beneath her, hooves slick with mud and flank damp from the climb. Lysanne sat straighter in the saddle, tension rising through her spine like a drawn bow. She turned her mount downhill, sharp and swift, hooves thundering as she cut across the slope. Bramble tore at her boots. Mud spattered on the belly of the horse.

The driver saw her too late. Her horse slid to a halt in the road, blocking the path just as the carriage neared the hollow. The vehicle jolted, the lead horse shrieked, rearing. A footman cursed. And Lysanne, Lady Nothing, Lady Now, sat still and let them settle, her gloves dripped black water. Drafthorses snorting and stamping. Hooves sucked softly at the wet road.

Lysanne turned her mount in a slow volte, the horse walked closer. Her riding skirt, dark as a slate with a deep-cut hem, hugged her thighs where it met the saddle, the heavy wool damp but still regal. The bodice fitted, buttons fastened all the way to the collarbone. Her gloves creaked as she slowed the horse, drawing near the carriage window. Close enough that her stirrup grazed the wheel.

Her lips, painted in nothing but cold, parted slightly as she offered the smallest smile.

“House Cartegena,” she said, “I was beginning to wonder if you’d answer.”

 

[Cardinale Cartegeña]

A pair of guards rode forward as the lady approached but a hand from the carriage waved them off.

"Unfortunately a matter in Baron Lemahieu's territory delayed my response." To be more accurate, it was now the former Baron's territory now but she'd hear of it soon enough. A noble being stripped of their title wasn't likely to stay quiet for long. Carrion were ever quick to circle and pick at the fief's scraps. Cardinale could be considered first-among-carrion in these instances, a unique privilege granted to he who served as both messenger and executor.

The Viscount leaned towards daylight from the inside of the carriage and found himself before a confident gaze."Your greeting while unexpected is appreciated, though my coachman may not agree." He'd allowed himself a moment's paranoia upon the initial halting. Cardinale was favored with few but despised among many. Fear never found him as the shroud was ever his ally in these moments. He released his hold on the arcane upon hearing the trot of hooves towards the carriage.

Cardinale was hardly adept at tracking but was all too-familiar with ambushes. He sensed he was being lured by opportunity rather than malice. Cloaked daggers hidden in foliage was not what awaited him, at least for the time being.

"Intrigued though I may be, the road has been long and mired." The recent rain made it near impossible for him to properly stretch his aching leg. Pain throbbed with a fierceness barely kept at bay. Should all his endeavors come to fruition, Cardinale would purchase his own airship and rid himself of this mundanity.

Ambitions of wealth and pragmatism, how very different he was from his sires.

 

[Lysanne Shard]

You made me wait... for him? Of all the dullards who could have stalled her invitation… it had to be that sweating piece of provincial mildew. That rotting relic clinging to a broken title like a drowning man to driftwood.

“How unfortunate.” she said, her tone velvet, nearly warm. Lysanne did not frown, of course not, but a breath caught at the top of her ribs. That pause alone said more than an outburst ever could.

The nerve.
Oh, how very few men in the world earned the right to make her wait.
Not even the queen’s own courtmage had it.

Lysanne let out a small, breathless laugh. “Your coachman?” she repeated, as though the word itself were amusing. "I do hope he recovers… from the great horror of a woman on horseback.” She leaned back slightly in the saddle. Lysanne’s violet eyes slanted toward Cardinale, amusement dancing beneath her lashes. "Should I apologize to the horses next?”

Long and mired, is it? she thought, hearing his complaint. You ache from the road? Ahyiid forgive us, a shame, truly, such a handsome mouth wasted on moaning about the road.

Her fingers twitched around the leather reins. It would’ve felt good to tighten it around something softer. She smiled. A proper hostess. “If the road has wearied you, Viscount. I’ll see to it that your quarters are prepared with every comfort. The Iron Gate awaits you, My Lord." She turned her mare with a graceful tug of the reins. The dark mare eager beneath her, hooves slick, like glimmering wet stones.

The road turned as the cliffs rose, crumbling shale and dark iron veins threaded through the mountain like the roots, old and deep. The Iron Gate was not far now. It was a place made of angles and shadows, the color of storm-hung steel and long-dried blood. Home. She could already see the watch-fires flickering atop the ramparts. Lysanne felt her pulse settle at the sight of it. They would feed him. Entertain him. Provide him with a warm and comfortable chamber. Warm bearskins in bed and hot stones under the covers.

 

[Cardinale Cartegeña]

"You are, of course, welcome to try. Though I suspect they won't appreciate your wit as much as some." Whether Cardinale was counted among them was yet to be seen.

A small smile. "Much appreciated." Considering both her missive and current presence, he could only guess that the lady preferred to move directly to matters at hand. The Viscount was much the same when circumstance allowed. However the growing flare of pain rendered everything secondary. Futhermore he'd developed a sense of what even only Cardinale could describe as entitlement. Others of the peerage sat cozy and plump while he struggled daily in the north. The Viscount earned the right to these comforts and more.

The Iron Gate was itself a spectacle of which he'd rarely seen the like. Part of him instantly wondered at the titanic effort required to construct such an edifice. His next thought considered the near impossibility of besieging the seat of Tourmalet.

Eventually Cardinale was guided to his chambers and found the lady was true to her word. A heated soak provided much needed respite for his old wound. It wasn't long until the noble was dressed in fresh doublet and ready for the rest of the evening.

A knock at the door. He bade them enter.

"My Lady inquires as to your disposition and if you are so inclined as to join her for supper?"

"Indeed I am." Cardinale followed the servant, each step followed by the muted thump of his shroudcane until he found himself at the dining hall. There he found his hostess waiting among an array of dishes. "I see the repute of the Iron Gate is well-earned." Speaking not only to the castle but also wealth.

 

[Lysanne Shard]

The room was smaller than one might expect for a noble supper, not the grand feasting hall with its echoing stone vaults and banners. Its walls were raw mountain, uneven in places. The walls were artfully lit with sconces, scattering soft and refracted light. It made the gemstone pockets, geodes, and veins catch the flicker of light and bleed it back in glimmers. No need for tapestries when the mountain itself provided the décor.

One long table, carved from a single slab of dark porphyry, stretched between them. The edges were left imperfect, as though cleaved directly from the mine and dragged to this chamber. Small plates of cured meats, greens, spiced roots, stewed mushrooms, and a copper bowl of honey-baked persimmon rested between silver candlesticks. A decanter of red wine so dark it might as well be black.

Lysanne rose as he entered, her riding skirts replaced now by darker evening finery. High-collared velvet, deep plum in color, almost black in the firelight. Her hair was coiled into something near formal. Behind Lysanne, a piece of the wall was marked by an exposed fissure where tourmaline crystals had grown naturally in strange formations. Sharp and multifaceted, like a hundred silent eyes.

She gave a small, elegant incline of the head. “Viscount,” she greeted. Her eyes lingered, briefly and assessing. He looked more himself now, clothed in comfort and polish. A servant finished pouring the wine, into the Viscount’s glass, then Lysannes. Lysanne gestured smoothly toward the chair across from her, one carved of black ironwood with faint streaks of silver ore threaded through the arms. “Please, sit."

"I see the repute of the Iron Gate is well-earned."
Her lips curved into a faint smile. Almost lazy. She let her gaze drift for a moment.

“I thank you, my lord. We like to think the Iron Gate speaks for itself.” House Tourmalet had less use for silk and gold than most houses. The stone gave them what they needed. The rest was theater. She raised her glass slightly.

“I’m pleased you’ve come. I know the journey is not an easy one.” Especially not for soft-legged men.

“I hope, in time, you’ll find the climb worth it.”