Nunna had been loaned a room in the palace’s guest quarters - more of her benefactors’ influence, for which she was grateful both to Dewin and Tarian, the one for the intentionality and the other for the authority.

She had been torn for some time about how much help to accept. While it was true that she’d alerted them to the threat posed by Vordur, she’d also facilitated it. It was probably not possible for her to have turned Vordur from her path entirely, but without Nunna’s help she couldn’t have stolen the Vestments. The threat would have been less, and so would the political embarrassment, not just for Diwydiant but for the Silver Shields, too. (She assumed this was why nobody had mentioned the scandal at court; it must be being kept secret for as long as possible).

The more she had watched the court at work (play, it had seemed at first, before she learned better how to read the currents), the more she understood.

She was being invested in. She had shown an interest in their cause by helping to save them - just as importantly, she might be in conflict with her own order if the truth was known. So she could be relied on, and she might no longer have a conflict of interest.

Finding her a match was a decision they made knowing she would follow her duty to them in turn.

But she didn’t resent it. Dewin had been so close to her, so long, and was always there when some part of Nunna’s old life went up in smoke. She was very helpful, very efficient, and Nunna finished each of their questions filled with a zealous fire.

She had wanted to follow in the lady Tarian’s footsteps. At first she had truly believed this meant her future path was that of a warrior, and the fact her connection to Warchodaeth was so strong was a negative.

She had assumed, as she came to truly understand the lady Tarian, that to imitate her would also bring her into conflict with the goddess. Yet over the past couple of days, that pressure, that mental conflict, had seemed abruptly not to be a problem. If anything, now when she prayed to the goddess her connection offered her a sense of a bubbling, excited satisfaction.

Nunna was at a loss to explain this, but grateful for it nonetheless. Perhaps it was simply the goddess recognising that after years of misunderstanding, her acolyte had finally started out on the right path.

She stood before the long looking glass in her room, wearing a silken underrobe, and sighed. The gown Teilwr had provided her with was wonderful, but it would be difficult to don without aid.

She had been contemplating her strategy for perhaps a minute when there came a gentle rap at the door. “Enter,” she called out absently. She had no particular thoughts on who it might be; if someone had asked her she would have guessed Dewin, but without any certainty. As the door swung open, she glanced over her shoulder curiously to see.

Her eyes widened. The face was unmistakable - at least, now that she’d learned the lesson of Dewin - but the transformation around it was greater than for either Tarian or Dewin.

The strength was still there, but overlaid with a lush softness such as would tempt any noble to exercise his droit de seigneur if given the chance; the long hair and the honeyed skin seemed suffused with a new atmosphere, but nonetheless, her best friend stood before her in garments like those of a maid in waiting.

“Vordur?”

This meek maid that was also a caricature of her friend curtseyed in response. “Miss,” she said simply.

“What are you doing here?”

“Well, Miss, my lady took note that the court mage had arranged a first meeting for you with Sir Erfingi,” she said. “And she thought that, as you don’t yet have a household established here, you might benefit from the aid of a lady’s maid, Miss.”

Though she sounded as meek as she looked, her voice was in no way uncertain, and neither fear nor resentment could be found in her tone; she seemed simply to regard this duty as a pleasure. “Is that so?” Nunna asked cheerfully.

Sir Erfingi had indeed been her first pick, and recently promoted owing to a loss in battle to the heir to Rajaa, an adjoining county in the kingdom. Counts rarely wielded great power, but Erfingi’s father had both iron mines and particularly fine forges, and Rajaa-made blades and other weapons were highly prized. In times of conflict it paid to ensure they went to one’s allies rather than one’s enemies.

This made it valuable to Diwydiant, and Nunna was therefore resolved to use her body to bind it closer to the Duchy through marriage. At no point had she asked herself why, or how this might align with her obligations to the Silver Shield; it was enough to know that she would likely make Tarian proud by her actions.

“Yes, Miss,” Vordur admitted. Nunna’s cheer became a broad grin. This was still her friend, but this was a whole new side to her.

It would be a shame not to take advantage of that. She straightened up. “Well, come here, girl,” she said. “Let me look at you.”

Meekly deferential, Vordur scurried closer to her. How strange, Nunna thought, that the woman seemed shorter than her now; she knew full well her friend was a couple of inches taller, but Vordur had always seemed to tower over her. Now the perception was fully reversed.

Nunna reached out and ran a fingertip down Vordur’s exposed skin, from the dip at the base of her throat, down her sternum, into her cleavage. She was watching her temporary maid’s reaction closely and was delighted to see a shudder of excitement pass through her.

Emboldened, she took Vordur’s breast in one hand and squeezed. Vordur moaned low, her eyes flicking up to meet Nunna’s in surprise before dropping away again, embarrassed by the jolt of eye contact. It had been long enough, though. Long enough for Nunna to see the light of need in her eyes.

Nunna couldn’t help but giggle. “Was this the kind of help you wanted to offer?” she asked.

“I… I didn’t presume to expect, Miss,” Vordur replied, and there was excitement and teasing in there, but there was also an uncertainty. Would she be so unsure with someone she didn’t know as well?

That was not for Nunna to say. She lifted her own underrobe off and let it fall to the floor, making a mental note to have Vordur tidy it away before she was done.

But Nunna was already carried away, her mind dancing along a path of fantasy, one she could so easily make reality. “On your knees before me,” she instructed, adopting an expression of mock-hauteur.

“Yes, Miss.” Vordur settled first to one knee, then the other, her head still bowed. Somewhere in the middle of the flames of passion that licked through her mind, as she looked down on her, Nunna thought of how much she’d like to kneel in just that way before Erfingi, and mused on how she might best arrange for it.

There was a tingle on the edge of her consciousness, the part of her mind she always thought about when she tried to visualise her connection to the goddess. Warchodaeth was… pleased?

This had nothing to do with protection, she mused. It seemed as if Warchodaeth’s interests had changed.

She set her back against her wardrobe and smiled down at the other woman. “Are you ready to work?”

“Yes, Miss.”

Nunna worked her feet a little further apart and parted her thighs. “Have you ever tasted one of these before?”

The red blush in her cheeks drove Nunna to a strange euphoria. “No, Miss,” Vordur said.

“Your mistress hasn’t demanded this of you?”

“No, Miss.”

“Oh. Well.” She could feel the heat of her own smile. Her head was full of heat, not thoughts, and yet that seemed so natural. As if she was hastening her way along a path that had been laid out for her to follow. It didn’t feel like she was making decisions of her own. “Surely she’ll think to test you at some time. I imagine she already has you service her husband.”

“Yes, Miss.” It wasn’t Nunna’s imagination, she was sure. Vordur was getting more excited. This path wasn’t just for Nunna, it was for both of the two friends. A chance to become better, which both of them were seizing with such giddying eagerness that it felt out of their control, beyond their choice to decide to do so or not.

“Well, we can’t have you unskilled when you meet her. And besides,” Nunna confessed, “my own desires run high, and I must bring them in check before I meet Sir Erfingi. So put your tongue to use.”

There was an inarticulate sound that might have been agreement, but Vordur was already leaning forward, almost a lunge, before she buried her face in the priestess’ pussy to take communion.

Standing there, bracing herself against the wall, her fellow knight’s tongue eagerly exploring, learning by each of Nunna’s reactions, the priestess had her epiphany as the tie to Warchodaeth strengthened.

This was not the goddess of protection, not any longer. She was a goddess of love and hierarchy. Of knowing your place and your duty, and finding joy in your service to one higher than you. Nunna was higher than Vordur, but lower than Erfingi, lower than Tarian, lower than Consuriwr, and they in turn (though only Tarian was a worshipper) were below Swynol, who was beneath his father the Duke.

In a flash she understood why she was so keen to secure Erfingi for Tarian and Swynol. This goddess, the new Warchodaeth, could not remain neutral along borders. Neutrality was to proclaim yourself apart from the hierarchy.

There would have to be a new Knight-Commander, one who understood this. She wondered who it would be.

And she had a better idea for her meeting with Erfingi, she realised, than Teilwr’s gown, as effective as she was sure it would be.

*

Erfingi made a virtue out of precise punctuality. He was loath, instinctively, to be early for anything, but being late only worked when those in higher authority tolerated it. He had been able to get away with it at home in Rajaa, but in Diwydiant there were many who outranked him and whose favour he had to strive to achieve. The compromise was to be there exactly on time, so as not to be confused for the overeager but to not offend.

He had been told that a lady of the court wished to meet him in the Rose Garden, and he arrived there on time, passing by the guard at the threshold. The Garden had been the pride and joy of a previous Duchess, and it had been maintained ever since but owing to its walled nature it had, in the time after her, also become a much favoured location for assignations within the court.

Usually it was not guarded; he paused in the doorway and looked a question. (Far better to simply look, he had learned; they would answer if possible, and if not, you had not embarrassed yourself.)

“Sir Swynol and the lady Tarian’s compliments, sir,” the guard said, and he wasn’t quite willing to meet Erfingi’s eye. “They felt you might want privacy.”

The message was clear, on multiple levels, and it was blunter than he’d been ready for. He stepped into the Rose Garden and looked around for the lady, but didn’t find her.

Perhaps she was being fashionably late. He couldn’t entirely criticise that; under the circumstances he understood her wish to make an impact.

He began to walk up and down the pathways in the garden, trying to decide whether he was offended at these nobles’ push to marry him off or not.

This not-entirely-pleasant reverie lasted for three minutes, at the end of which he heard the door open again. He turned to face the door, composing his face (for after all, whatever else might be true or false, this was a lady and she was not at fault).

The soft grey fur coat she wore reached down below her knees and shone softly in the sunlight, an almost bluish-silver sheen betraying the quality of the pelts used. It offset her dark skin perfectly - something easily seen as there was no other material in the long V of her chest it revealed, He knew at once that whatever gown she wore beneath, it must be one of Teilwr’s most daring creations.

She wore golden eye makeup and lipstick below golden-blonde curly hair shaped and teased out around her head, decorated with intricate gemstones embedded into ornate little silver shields on a fine web of silver thread.

Erfingi had seen Nunna before, very briefly, in the days she had been at court, but her hair had been dark still and the long braids had shaped her face very differently. He didn’t recognise this woman in the slightest, but he knew her appearance had taken his breath away.

She approached him, hands clasped demurely in front, and curtseyed a handful of paces in front of him. “My lord,” she said.

“You have the advantage of me, lady,” he said softly.

“My name is Nunna,” she said quietly. “Handmaiden to the goddess Warchodaeth, Knight-Ordinary of the Order of the Silver Shield, and devoted to my lady Tarian.” After a moment, her eyes firmly on his and mischief sparkling in them, she added “And to you, I hope.”

Erfingi tilted his head to one side, considering. “That… is not an answer I had at all expected,” he said. “This is, then, a proposal of convenience?”

Nunna shrugged. “May I speak as freely as you are?”

He nodded. Honesty was necessary here, if not sufficient.

“Then, my lord, I shall say that I have been given direction indeed, and I am sure that Sir Swynol will profit by our alliance.” She stepped closer, raising a hand clad in a long black silk glove, and stroked his cheek. “I am also sure I will profit by being close to you. I had not entirely realised how handsome you are.”

He couldn’t doubt the sincerity in her voice, nor the desire in her eyes. She could not be a good enough actress for her simple glance to convey what it did. And in any case, Erfingi knew he was much admired.

“I am willing to discuss some things,” he admitted. “But while my father, and I in my turn, are well disposed to the Duke and his heir, I would not want you misled, lady Nunna.” He focused on her intently. “I will not be a puppet in my own county. Decisions must be mine, not yours ratified by me. Am I understood?”

Her eyes slid from his down to his crotch. “My lord, I assure you, I take direction much more happily than I give it.” And her eyes met his again, still shining with mischief. “You may test my assertion at your convenience.”

Temptress, he almost said. Some wiser part of him understood that this was confession more than invitation, however. So instead he said “I rather think I shall.” He put his hand to her shoulder, and he half-expected a rebuke for presuming too far.

She sank willingly to her knees instead, and her hands rose and rested on the knot binding his hose. “With your permission, my lord?”

It seemed that he had not overstepped. Something in that was heady, exciting. He pushed further, to see if this would be the overstep. “No,” he said. “Not with my permission. At my command.”

“As you command, then,” Nunna purred excitedly. She unslipped his hose and found his cock, took it out, and looked at it appreciatively, eyes alight.

He slid his fingers into her hair, disturbing the effect her maid had doubtless had to work on for some time, and saw only positive response to that too. The more he pushed her, the better she responded.

It was a delight. He drew her mouth down onto him, not merely guiding her head but controlling all its movements (or so it seemed to them both) just with a handful of her hair.

The eagerness of her mouth and her tongue, though, that was something he wasn’t controlling. If he were to give himself any credit he would say he’d inspired her; Erfingi was, however, not so immodest as that.

She’d worked so hard on her hair that, when he was ready, he was seized by another impulse, one to push her still further. He slipped her head off his length and tilted it forward, using her magnificent mane to receive his seed.

Nunna shuddered happily then tilted her head up to gaze up at him, her eyes heavy-lidded with the afterglow. “Thank you, my lord,” she said. “But I trust we are not done so soon?”

“No,” he agreed. “What did you have in mind?”

She rose from her knees, meeting his eyes now, that light of amusement still in her eyes. Erfingi understood clearly that she had taken his measure, just as he had taken hers, and she had made her decision in accordance with it. “Before I proceed, my lord,” she said, “it seems to me that the match the lady Tarian has approved for me meets with your approval, too?”

Erfingi simply nodded.

“I shall arrange for the banns to be called,” she said. “But before that…”

She swept the fur coat from her body in one flowing motion, revealing that the gown beneath it was less cunningly tailored and more nonexistent. Instead she stood proud in only her boots and the jewellery in her hair.

Erfingi smiled. “I find myself inspired,” he said, before backing her up against the garden wall.

*

By the time the first banns for Erfingi and Nunna were called, Consuriwr had taken his leave of the court. He rode toward the border alongside Dewin; the city mage rode in comfort within a carriage, but for the most part, his former-adventuress assistant spent her time on horseback.

Her new wardrobe required that she ride sidesaddle, which she took full advantage of; she rode just in view of the carriage’s window, her elegant legs shown off by the split in her long skirt, neatly folded beside her in a way that took her great effort to maintain on horseback but which provided Consuriwr with a tantalisingly unreachable temptation throughout the ride.

Not long after they set off on the second day, they reached their destination, the fortress of Rhaedr Coch.

Dewin giggled musically when she first sighted it.

“Something to say?” Consuriwr asked.

“The old place feels different,” she said, deeply satisfied. “Even if I can’t see anyone yet… the atmosphere has changed.” She looked slyly back at her master. “It worked as completely as we hoped,” she said.

“Indeed.” His voice, Dewin had noticed, took on a deep rumble when he was satisfied now. She liked it.

So she smiled lopsidedly. “Aren’t you glad I can deliver you such marvels?” she asked, her voice a teasing sing-song.

Consuriwr looked back at her, and in his eyes she saw exactly what he planned for her. “Behave yourself,” he told her firmly, “until we are alone again. I have a knightly order to swear to our lord.”

“I would not want to disturb your concentration,” she offered demurely.

The sentries at Rhaedr Coch carried themselves differently. Dewin urged her horse ahead of the carriage as they approached the mighty gates, and once she was close enough she could see the transformation was more than just stance; while it was largely concealed by their mail, the women at the gate were known to her personally. Unless they had both born a child in the past year and been blessed with milk for them, the way their mail rose and fell indicated that they had been touched by the change in the goddess.

“Good morning, sergeant,” she addressed the senior guard. “You know me well. My master is here to speak with Knight-Commander Meistari.” And, because she had spoken with Nunna and heard the priestess’ observations, she then raised a hand and waved it airily in dismissal. “Run along,” she directed.

“Yes, ma’am,” the redoubtable sergeant agreed, abandoning her post to run an errand for her visitor. Dewin looked over her shoulder, met her master’s eye, and smiled.

In no long amount of time they were admitted to Knight-Commander Meistari’s chambers. Dewin had had only scant contact with the other woman, as someone who simply worked alongside one of her knights, but she had seen her before.

Meistari appeared different. Her hair had been long for some time, but kept bound back in a practical plait. Now it cascaded in waves down her shoulders, and seemed to shine from within with an added lustre. The loose robes she had worn since setting her armour aside had been replaced with a shimmering silver gown of a low cut, her bare skin warm and inviting within. Her eyes were bright, and Dewin’s practice meant she now recognised in them something very like the flame of desire, if placed in there some other way.

She curtseyed to Consuriwr. “Welcome, honoured guests.”

“Is that what we are?” Consuriwr asked. Dewin watched, admiring his confidence. It had been such a pleasure watching that emerge, to the point where finally he could be openly proud of his accomplishments, his knowledge, his control.

Meistari faltered. “Pardon me,” she said. “But, ah - what else would-”

“This is a good tower,” he said, interrupting her without raising his voice. “And your knights, I am told, are excellent. I have come from Diwydiant, where your Knight-Captain is a part of the nobility, as you know.”

“Yes-”

“Also in Diwydiant,” he continued smoothly, and Dewin noticed what she was sure he was watching for, too; the twitch of acceptance whenever she was overridden. Based on Nunna’s insights, she was sure that enough of that would assign them a role in the hierarchy. “Is the Vestments of the Avatar. And their wearer.”

Meistari took a visible second to process that. “I was told the Vestments were-”

“Be quiet, Knight-Commander,” Consuriwr said - warmly enough, but there was a firmness to his tone learned from his long play with Dewin. Meistari fell obediently silent, and by the way her eyes widened, Dewin thought she was surprised to find herself do so, and just as puzzled at her own reaction to it. “That’s better,” he continued.

“Now, it seems to me that the Vestments of your goddess shape your order. But it also seems to me that possession of them grants us some say over you.” He paused. “Agree.”

Meistari nodded her head tentatively. Then she did so again, more firmly. “Yes,” she said.

“Then here.” He held out a hand, and Dewin produced a scrollcase from the slim satchel around her shoulder, which he took and passed to Meistari. “Under this writ, the Duchy of Diwydiant officially accepts your petition to serve.”

Meistari’s mouth opened as if to say, but we have made no such petition, and then closed again in dutiful acceptance. She sat straighter in her chair, and Dewin was privately amused to see the weight lifted so simply from her shoulders.

“His Grace the Duke has further authorised me to assume possession of Rhaedr Coch,” Consuriwr continued. “I have long wanted a mage’s tower, and for my part in bringing you into our fold, I have been granted one.”

“My master will take the finest bedchambers available,” Dewin said. “As befits his rank and station.” Meistari, fully under the Goddess’ influence, was nodding agreement. “Would that be yours?” she asked, just for clarification.

Meistari nodded.

“I think we can allow her to remain with us,” Consuriwr said, smiling. “Make arrangements to install a camp bed.”

“Of course, my lord,” Dewin said dutifully. She was looking at Consuriwr, wondering whether he simply wanted another comely woman in reach, or whether the full possibility of these circumstances had occurred to him.

“The two of you will have to outdo each other for the privilege,” he continued.

“What privilege is that, my lord?” Dewin asked coyly.

“Of sharing my bed, of course.” Consuriwr turned to face her fully, as if he was ignoring Meistari. Dewin was sure the truth was far from it; he had decided to put on a show for her, so she would understand what was to be her role too. “Or do you not consider that a privilege?”

She decided to play along cheerfully. Meistari needed to understand. “Anything my lord wishes to grant me is a privilege,” she said, but she kept the amusement she felt in her tone rather than hide it, and she saw his attention sharpen as a result.

“Do you not desire to please me?” he asked, his voice a soft growl. Both of them, she realised, were performing for their audience; at the same time, both of them were wholly focused on their own pleasure.

“Your pleasure is my duty, my lord,” she answered. He gave a low chuckle and raised one hand, fingers outstretched, palm upward, drawing on power.

“Meistari,” he said, “is it permitted to enchant or ensorcel another?”

“Not if they are human, sir,” she answered. “If I remember my treaty law clearly, the laws concerning elves are less clear.”

“Nevertheless,” he said, “you will not object to what follows.”

“No, sir.”

“Ensorcel me, sir?” Dewin almost giggled, but it would have given away to much. “Do you dare?”

“I dare, wench.”

“Do you have the power?”

A flame kindled in the palm of his hand, which he flourished for her examination. “I have the power,” he said.

Obediently, Dewin looked. Fire magic; he had only her own studies to go on. She was curious how well he would make it work, as her notes had yet to be updated with the results of her experimentation on Nunna. What would he have put together for himself?

There was something in the flame itself that was remarkable, that caught her eye in a way that candles never did. Most of the tongues of the fire were dancing and flickering as she would expect, but one was constant and still. An incongruity, and one that felt unnatural. Dewin stared at it, wondering if it would move.

She felt her limbs start to untense.

She realised, two heartbeats later, what that signified. An enchantment disguised as a preliminary display of power. No doubt he had planned to tell Meistari how easily she, too, would succumb, a way to hide from her that she had done so already without realising, had accepted her new role in competition for his use and favours without it even occurring to her that this was not how things usually were.

Dewin set her jaw. Consuriwr was by and large a good master, but sometimes she considered him too lazy, as if getting his own way so easily was all it took.

With an effort of will, she dispelled the single flame that did not move, leaving the rest still there. Then she lifted her gaze from the fire to his eyes, and delighted in the surprise she read there.

“Now how did you do that?” he asked, and then at a glance at his palm he understood. His eyes flicked back to her and she saw appreciation in her look. “I see,” he said. “Well, I can’t have our new bedmate misunderstand.”

“Of course not, my lord,” she said coyly.

“Disrobe, Dewin,” he said firmly. Her hands witched toward the buttons of her taut blouse immediately, but with an effort of will she stopped herself.

There was a time when she couldn’t have done this. She still couldn’t, she suspected, if she didn’t expect to give in soon. That made it, somehow, not disobedience, and so made it possible.

Consuriwr raised an eyebrow, and then he bore down on her with an effort of will. To Meistari it must have looked like nothing so much as a staring contest, though she had been a warrior, so Dewin imagined she would be able to read the clash of wills behind it.

It was not as if her will was more powerful than his. Or, if it was, it wasn’t when pitted against his. Not since he’d enchanted her the first time.

She stared back at him, outwardly defiant, and little by little, achingly slowly, her hands rose to find the buttons of her blouse. She fought the undoing of each one; two, three,, four, and then the two sides of the blouse were fully separated. Her hands tugged them apart, freed them from the waistband of her tight skirt. But then she released them, her own decision, her own determination, and so the fabric hung from the curve of her breasts.

She was still staring, was still pushing back, still fighting. But her hands, even now they had abandoned her blouse, were still moving, and if anything they were moving a little faster now, as if her defeat on the matter of each button had cost her, and his will overawed hers now more fully. Only one hand found the clasp on her skirt’s hip, but it was enough; a practiced motion of thumb and forefinger and the fabric was shed, and this time that one motion was enough for the whole skirt to fall away as if the hem had been weighted, leaving her undergarments on full display.

Consuriwr smirked, and she whimpered, and Meistari moaned. Her hands were rising again, back to her blouse, and she had less and less to stop them with - and then, when he stepped closer and took her buttock in a firm grip and squeezed, her determination snapped, as the chain on an overtaxed scale would when the final weight was added.

She shrugged her way out of her blouse without further hesitation, and she tore her panties in her haste to remove them, ripping at the hip and then tearing them open just above the crotch so they could be pulled off and thrown away in one flowing movement. And then she was standing, breathing hard, her own will spent, her eyes glassy with submissive need, naked but for the heels she wore and the hairpins used to maintain her look.

Consuriwr pulled her in close and she kissed him, hungrily, needily, and wanting, too, to reassure him through her action that her resistance was not dissatisfaction, wanting to feel through his actions in response that he understood. She read in his touch his own excitement, his own delight, and satisfaction of his own in her surrender.

Her naked body melded against his for a moment before, his hand in her hair, he drew her back a pace through the lightest pressure of his grip.

They made breathless, hungry eye contact for a moment and then, his hand twisting, he spun her around to face Meistari across the woman’s own desk, and he bent her forward, her breasts pressing firmly down to overspill her outline as her eyes met Meistari’s.

“You,” Consuriwr said, “Pleasure yourself as you watch, but do not come. I claim that privilege for myself.”

“Yes, sir,” Meistari answered, arousal warring with the meekness of her submission in her voice.

Dewin was already spreading her feet wider, bracing herself. She arched her back slightly, pressing down on the table and going up on tiptoes, to better present herself to her master.

He took her there and then, his eyes on Meistari, whose eyes in turn, even as she groped herself through her gown, were on Dewin, on this perfect exemplar of the loving submission it would soon be the duty of Warchodaeth’s disciples to teach, and it was in that moment that one of the greatest sorcerors of that Age of Entrancement was conceived.

But that is a story for another time.