'Nothing, Lord Seneschal,” the two green-uniformed men chorused, saluting with crisp precision. “All is quiet.'
'Is Lady Drexelica in residence?” the demon asked. “I wish to discuss next week's Archery Tournament with her.'
'I've been on guard since noon, Lord Seneschal,” the senior guard said, a grizzled, shaven-headed sergeant by the name of Erik. “Lady Drexelica hasn't left the tower since then, and the last shift had nothing to report when I relieved them. We change shift at midnight, and I'll be sure to tell our replacements you're in the building, when we change over in five minutes or so.'
'Thank you, Sergeant,” Shakkar said as the guards stepped aside to allow him entry to the tower.
When he had first accepted the post of Seneschal, Shakkar had felt uncertain of his ability to deal with these scatter-brained, weak mortals, and even of how to control his own temper. Nonetheless, he had found himself beginning to admire these short-lived, frail creatures, as they sought to cram their brief existences as full as they could.
At first, he had considered that wasting public money on frivolities, such as the Archery Tournament, was ill- advised at best, but he had noted that the citizens of Crar seemed more efficient in their work when thus entertained, and he had actually begun to find pleasure in the smiles and laughter of the townspeople. Likewise, he had found his duty to guard the young female to be irksome at the start of his role. She prattled, and she even consulted the demon over trivia such as clothes: he had believed such human matters beneath him.
Since that time, he had recognised the poor female's need for company and conversation, and he began to look forward to their brief meetings. He was a little late tonight, but he knew that Drex rarely retired to bed before one o'clock in the morning.
Reaching the entrance to the day-room, the demon tapped on the heavy door with his talons.
'Come in, Shakkar,” came a cheerful voice from within. “Don't worry; I'm decent.'
The demon shook his head; he had never understood how the sight of an unclothed female form might be expected to arouse lust in him. However, after several such encounters, he had begun to realise that concealment of the body was important to these feminine creatures in all but a few, intimate circumstances, and he now respected her wishes to the letter.
On entering the day-room, he was not surprised to see Lady Drexelica examining herself in a hand-mirror; she seemed to do this often, although the demon never understood why; did she believe her face changed from day to day?
'Do you like my hair, Shakkar?” she asked, putting down the looking-glass and facing the demon, her head tilted to one side.
'What might there be to dislike, Lady Drexelica?” the Seneschal asked, puzzled.
Demons did not possess hair, and Shakkar had never comprehended why these conflicted, short-lived beings spent so much time trying to change its natural form.
'Oh, you're just like all men!” she shouted, stamping her right foot in a gesture that Shakkar had learned to associate with annoyance.
'I am not a man at all, Lady,” the demon rumbled. “Yesterday, you possessed hair, and it is still present on your head. Do you fear alopecia? If so, you have no need to worry.'
'That's not it at all!” she cried, glaring at him. “This is a style used by the ancient court ladies of Luria, and I happen to think it's very attractive.'
Shakkar began to wish he were somewhere else. The female had gone to the trouble of rearranging her hair just before she went to bed, when there was nobody to see it except him, and she expected him to pass judgement upon it, before she dismantled the complex arrangement of pins and knots again.
Shakkar remembered a puzzling mortal phrase: Discretion is the better part of valour, and he realised what it meant with a blinding flash of inspiration. Humans often lied to each other, even their friends, and this somehow facilitated social interaction.
'Your pardon, Lady; my mind was distracted by my work. The arrangement is indeed ravishing.'
He picked the adjective almost at random, but it seemed to have the desired effect.
'Thank you, Shakkar!” she said, baring her teeth and twisting her lips in an expression the demon understood to betoken pleasure in humans. “I've worked on it for some time, and I'm glad you appreciate it.'
'Lady Drexelica,” the Seneschal rumbled, seeking to forestall any other potential gaffes by changing the subject, “the men are asking if you will present the prizes at next week's tournament. They have been practicing for some time now, and, I believe, they would regard it as an honour.'
Drex's face turned a little red. “Is that true? I'm only Grimm's housekeeper, you know, Shakkar… or, at least, that's what everybody else thinks.'
The demon knew that the girl's relationship with the Questor was now an open secret amongst the people of Crar, but he decided again that diplomacy might be that best course of action.
'I believe that they would appreciate such a beautiful female giving the awards more than if I were to do it,” he said. “I still scare some of the men.'
'Why, you're not scary at all, Shakkar!” Drexelica crowed, baring her teeth again. “I used to think so, but now I just see you as a friend and protector. Please tell the competitors I'll be happy to do it. Tell them… tell them I wouldn't miss it for the world.'
Shakkar, relieved to be spared any more difficult questions, bowed. “Thank you, Lady Drexelica; I'm sure they will be delighted to hear of your acceptance.
'I still have a few more duties to which to attend, and so I will bid you goodnight.'
'Goodnight, Shakkar. I'll see you tomorrow.'
'Until tomorrow, Lady Drexelica.'
From the newly-restored Clock Tower, the midnight chimes began to ring.
Drex sighed as she removed the pins and plaits from her hair. Sometimes, she felt almost like a prisoner in the tower, and she could find little to amuse her during the day, except to recreate her image for her own pleasure.
Still, there was always the tournament to consider: bright, colourful pennants and caparisons; bold, athletic men vying with each other for the right to claim a prize from her hand; the excitement of spirited competition. It should be a thrilling day, and she looked forward to the spectacle.
Green light coruscated through the chamber, as Lizaveta began to chant the last cadence of the Great Spell. She could feel the pull of the powerful enchantment, and knew that the magic was near its end. For twenty minutes, the conclave had acted as if of one mind, a joyful state of being that no Secular could ever understand or enjoy.
'Batons at the ready? Now!” Judan screamed, her face almost purple with the effort to contain the spell's roiling energies.
Six willow rods crashed to the floor in unison, forming a perfect pentacle. Lizaveta continued to chant, and the sticks melded into each other, glowing with a blazing, white light.
'Mantui Drexelica! Avanta chezura!” the Prioress screamed, completing the chant, and silence reigned. For a moment she feared that they had failed, as stillness descended upon the stone room.
'There, Reverend Mother! See there!” an anonymous nun screamed, as a small blue light formed in the centre of the gleaming shape. It began to swirl and shimmer as it grew, and the Prioress saw a black hexagon in its centre, growing ever larger as the light became brighter.
Lizaveta and her companions staggered at the impact of a noise too loud to hear, an assault on the eardrums that transcended sound. In an instant, the blue light was gone, and a hunched figure crouched within the pentacle, which had reverted to a simple assembly of wooden sticks.
With her ears ringing, the Prioress crowed, “Well done, Sister Judan! Well done, all of you!” She heard her words as if through a long tunnel, and she could not be sure if any woman in the assembly had heard her, but she
