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  “Antiquity’s Scion” is copyright Zoe Miller, all rights reserved.

  For more of Zoe’s work, please visit http://www.bespokesmut.com

  ‘Knighthood befits a Lady as much as scrubbing pots and pans’ my father is fond of saying. We’ll see if he’s still the taste for that adage after I secure the Proof and, with it, restore the honor of his very house.

  Before us stands the Scion’s Hurst, a largely forgotten burial mound of some once-great civilization. Though it hardly cuts an imposing silhouette in the moonlight, my servant, Arto, rather quakes upon his horse. The mound, as it stands, is only the height of two men, much shorter than my family’s mausoleum. Overgrown with patchy grass, the stones of its entrance arch cracked and crumbling, this hardly seems the sort of place worthy of the ancient, essential ritual of The Scion of Antiquity.

  The sound of thunder rumbles in the distance, sending a cautious shiver and whiny through our horses.

  “This is some ill omen,” says Arto.

  “You presume the gods have nothing better to do than watch one pitiful hill in the dead of this miserable night.” The sheath of my rapier pats listlessly against my leg as I pull myself out of my saddle. “Take comfort,” I say, watching as Arto hesitantly dismounts his horse. “Hardly some barrow den of ancient evil long forgotten, this; it’s only a burial mound, and barely one at that.”

  Again a clap of thunder peals through the trees around us, and this time it brings the storm in its wake. Furious rain patters down upon the brim of my hat. So be it; a blusterous downpour suits the ill mood brought on by the long ride with nothing to listen to but Arto’s incessant complaining.

  Over the sounds of the flash torrent Arto shouts, “Young Lady Merlotte, here—” Turning to his saddlebag, he tries, without much success, to free the thick cloak that’s become ensnared with the other baggage. Gesturing with the part he does manage to pull free, Arto exclaims. “Before you’re soaked through!”

  I jerk down the stitched finery of my red doublet, sending a soft flutter through the ruffled white cravat at my neck. “Leave off with that, it’s not necessary.” I draw what strands of my hair the long ride has pulled loose back into their makeshift ponytail, adjust my tricorn against the rain, and make for the Hurst.

  The stone arch of the entrance creates a slight lee from the wind and rain. Standing beneath it, I open the satchel at my side and retrieve the leather scroll case from within it. I lob the satchel back to Arto behind me, work my fingers against the wax plug and upend the opened tube, tapping the old vellum scroll into my palm.

  Months ago I found this time-lost scroll, the tangled skein of a puzzle I spent the better part of three seasons unwinding. What little I knew of history, and what little I understood of the scroll’s complicated script, suggested the existence of a method to restore the honor of a failing house—an old ritual, a knight’s errand. The Scion of Antiquity, a holy knight, and the Proof.

  Over the course of weeks, I asked innocuous questions of my tutors about my family’s purview and the surrounding regions. Thrilled by my heretofore unknown interest in geography, they were only too happy to answer the occasional, inconspicuous inquiry about sites of ancient power between my many banal inquiries about trade routes, duchies, tax levies and the like. That is how I came to know of the Scion’s Hurst.

  Fat raindrops patter down upon me; the protruding archway provides meager shelter. The weathered scroll soaks the rain hungrily, as if parched, but I know it will take more than water to damage this thing… though the mottled splotches amid the careworn beige color of the vellum degrade its legibility somewhat. No matter, I’ve memorized these words. I know them better than my own name.

  “Hrispex, Caltus, Ferroarmat.”

  I’m unsure what I expected, for the earth to shake, for thunder to peal, for sparks to fly, and for the very heavens above to sunder themselves, but my words provoke no response from any of them, to say nothing of the closed door before me. Raising my voice above the rain, I say again:

  “Hrispex, Caltus, Ferroarmat.”

  But again, no response.

  Did I make some mistake? Perhaps my method was wrong. It could be that these words are pronounced differently in combination, or that this is only one part of a longer incantation…

  Arto clasps his hands in futile agitation behind me. “If we press our horses, we may still return to the castle before daybreak…”

  I look up at the jagged seam in the rock, the only sign that this entrance is an entrance at all. I notice some graven symbol in the stone, worn down to all but nothing with age. Extending my hand, I trace my finger through its cylindrical curves and, immediately, the idea of what needs doing springs unasked into my head. I remove my left glove, draw an inch of my rapier from its sheath, and pull the meat of my forefinger against the blade.

  It’s hard to tell who gasps the loudest, Arto or I, but it’s he who shouts.

  “Lady Merlotte!”

  “Be quiet,” I say, balling my fingers against the sharp pain of the cut. After a breath, I place my hand against the cold, wet stone. I raise my head and invoke the words. “Hrispex, Caltus, Ferroarmat!”

  This time, the rock bends to my will. With a rumble, the stone face wakens from its slumber and a rush of warm, stale air washes over my face. Shifting on some unseen mechanism, the doorway parts in full, revealing a great darkness beyond. I ‘hmph’ in satisfaction, adjust my clothing, and, subtly nursing my cut finger, look over my shoulder to Arto. “Get the torch lit.”

  While he busies himself with tinderbox I take a step forward, across the threshold. A musty, but inoffensive, smell greets my nose. Though this is clearly a tomb, there’s no stench of rot or human decay. Having expended its energy to greet me in the cold night, the air inside is still.

  I place my hand atop my sword. The texts were not clear on the exact composition of the trial before me… only that the Scion of Antiquity, once bested, would bequeath the Proof to the worthy knight—but I’ve no idea if the Scion is some ethereal arbiter or a lurking beast, so it’s prudent to keep my guard up.

  A burst of color flares in the night. Arto hands me the torch then turns to tie the horses. I step further into the Hurst.

  For a place abandoned over many centuries, as I understand it, the Hurst is remarkably well preserved. The barrow is constructed in a cyclopean fashion—smooth, oblong rocks of various shapes slotted together without mortar. Strangely intact, the walls show no protruding roots or other evidence of nature’s reclamation.

  Even just a step inside, the world outside is muted, distant. For a moment, I can hardly hear the sound of the rain. I squint, my eyes still adjusting to the light. The chamber is not large, only ten or twelve feet in diameter—yet somehow, this place seems larger from within. Though I know its roof must be but feet above me, the flickering torch illuminates little of the inky blackness above my head.

  The loudest crack of thunder yet peals through the air, setting the horses to screaming. Exhausted from our long ride, it seems they finally break. Distantly, as if my ears were clogged with cotton, I hear Arto shouting—to me or the animals, I do not know—and the hasty squelch of his boots he plods through the mud to try and steady them.

  My finger begins to throb. I look down, examining the self-inflicted wound. It’s shallow and not all that painful. It’s a clean, simple cut, better than if I’d done it with a knife—I’ve a good rapier and I keep it sharp. The blood has smeared itself into the folds of my palm. I utter a thoughtless curse. I should return, help Arto with the horses, then get a handkerchief from the baggage.

  But, at the thought of leaving, I hear the groan of rock behind me. Turning, I watch as the entrance to the barrow commits itself to a leisurely shuttering—the slowly grindin
g rock drawing closed the threshold that separates the grass outside from the hard-packed ancient dirt of the tomb floor. I could easily walk across. I could leave.

  Arto does not notice until the door is nearly shut. He shouts something unheard above the bashing and crashing of the rain, throwing himself in a sprint, but it is already too late. The door cuts Arto’s sputtering face from my view before he has closed half the distance between us. I am well and truly entombed.

  For a moment I feel as if I am on a lurching ship. Gripping the torch, I rest my back against the stone door and hold my hand against my head, only to sputter out a curse when I realize, with the slick, wet touch of my palm, that I’ve smeared myself with my own blood.

  I shake my head to clear it. Good, then. Shut in, I will have to commit myself to the effort. What’s more, I now know that the very earth itself understands the weight of my duty. The door will unseal itself on completion of my task.

  The air is thick enough to taste and smells of cold, damp earth, like the freezer beneath the kitchen, though there are no large blocks of ice here to effect such a chill.

  I slot my torch into a sconce and take in the room. Aligned with the outer ring of the wall is a smaller circle cut into the ground. From each of its coordinate angles—North, South, East, West—juts a prong of rock, nearly as tall as I, like a set of four large molars. There is no beast here, not one of any description I’ve ever known. There is only the sconce, the rocks, and the woman.

  Or, I should say, the statue of one. She sits in the middle of the circle, equidistant from each of the flanking stones. Nude, her legs are pulled to her chest, her forehead rests upon her knees, and her long hair spills in carved tresses drown her arms and over her body. So craven or meager her pose, so unimpressive, you might mistake her for something else at first, for her bearing conveys no womanly quality—not any valued by the fine, voluptuous figures one sees in the country’s courts and palaces, I mean to say. She does not bear her breasts in display of motherhood, nor does she wield a spear in a martial pose; she simply sits.

  There is also the matter of her construction. Even by the inconsistent light, I can tell the statue is carved of a coarse stone, the valueless rock pitted by the unhurried, endless drip of condensation from the ceiling above.

  Is this the trinket I’m to find? Is she the Proof? I expected a necklace, brooch, some ensorcelled ornament. To say nothing of this heavy statue’s portability, I could hardly bear the risk of arriving home on the morrow, this thing dragged behind my horse, only to be told what I full well know: this thing started as rubbish and has become, over the years, damaged rubbish.

  A leaden weight sinks inside my chest, the suspicion that I have come to the right place at the wrong time, and so have fritted away my one chance for not only a proper life befitting me, but also to see the restoration of my family’s honor. Could this be the wrong day, the wrong season? The scroll was not clear on this. If I’m to slay a beast, it may be a beast that only roosts—or manifests, perhaps—at certain times of year.

  It will be long past sunrise when Arto and I return to the duchy, there will be no explaining away my absence. This disobedience will certainly be the final straw, and cause my father and mother to finally make good on their threats: I will be shipped away, consigned to the Holy Falchion for my impertinence. I will rot away in some distant nunnery, and House Merlotte will lose the last child who truly cares for its waning dignity.

  I tug away my remaining glove, holding it in one hand while I devote the other to dabbing at my eyes, where tears have formed against my wishes. My nose flares in shameful sniffle, and I am now even more grateful for Arto’s absence. Perhaps this door will never open and I will starve here in this place, with only the foul condensation for nourishment. That will save me the indignity of the Holy Falchion, I suppose.

  As my tears swell and spill, I find it harder to control my gulping breaths. I focus my will on preventing the wracking sobs from finding a foothold in my chest. Stronger waves have broken upon the shores of your house. Although, deported to some wretched convent to serve your symbolic duty, you may not be there to see it, there may still yet be hope for your ancestral home. Stand up straight, Chaudette; you are a woman of House Merlotte, after all.

  …at least until the morrow, when the Holy Falchion divests you of your name…

  No. I straighten my back and raise my chin. Let that be the end of it.

  As I am blinking away the bleariness that clouds my eyes, I notice a dim tinkling from the obelisks around me. Stepping to the closest one, I wipe my bare palm along it, intending to clean away the layers of dust from its surface, only to be rewarded with a sudden jolt of pain.

  “Yeagh!” I shout, retreating a step as I do. At first I fear I’ve been bitten by some snake or spider camouflaged against the rock, but looking closely I see no such thing. What I do see, however, is the source of this pale illumination: runescript.

  Large sigils, three of them, each as big of my hand, align vertically upon the rock. Drawn in some liquid or paint, they have gone nearly to flakes with age, but even this pale shadow of their original artistry has me hold the breath within my chest for a moment. The topmost one, which I had the misfortune of touching, glows more fervently, a hungry, pulsing cerulean color beneath the speckled smear of blood my finger wiped across it.

  The sound of crumbling rock fills my ears. A spark of fear lights within my breast—what if these runes were somehow maintaining the structure of this place and now I have broken the enchantment? Grasping outwards towards torch, I throw my gaze to the ceiling, but my worry is immediately overwritten when from behind me, a low, mellifluous voice says:

  “My, my. That certainly took you long enough.”

  I whip around, finding myself face to face with the statue of a woman who is no longer the former, but still everything of the latter.

  The rock crumbles from her shape, revealing flesh beneath. She is obviously beautiful, but it’s hardly the fullness of her lips, the symmetry of her nose, the swell of her bosom, or the healthy thickness of her legs that draw my eyes… it is her tail; a flexile appendage—thick as three of my fingers, capped with a spade-like tip—that almost seems to explore by its own will, touching around the floor and her own body—hips, shoulders, even face—as if reorienting itself to a once-familiar environment.

  I put my hand to my sword hilt and draw my rapier but an inch. “You… you are the Scion.” You expected a beast, Chaudette, and now you have found one. Worse than a beast: a Nonem, a demon servant. The Hurst is not a tomb, but a prison. “Stand and prepare yourself. I’ve come to perform my duty for the honor of House Merlotte.”

  Still seated, she looks up at me with eyes of yellow-green and says, “Yes, you have.” Effortlessly, this graceful body pulls herself from her rocky shell; not as one would scrape away dried mud from their boots, but how the butterfly divests itself of the chrysalis. She stands languidly and without concern, despite the presence of my weapon and the urgency that’s seeped into my voice. Dusting her shoulders as she does, she clears away the chips of clinging rock from her mane of impossible red.

  “What’s your name, then?” She asks.

  In the flickering light, her hair subtly shines, spread loosely, a shimmering curtain atop the dense rise of her breasts, its luster seemingly no worse for the wear despite her entombment in the rock. I swallow, a futile attempt to find my center, to ward away the flush of heat that spreads across my face. “I’ve not come here to parley with monsters.”

  The Scion rolls her neck and shoulders, the cracking sound of waking bones painfully audible in the small tomb. She pads towards me on bare feet, one step, two steps. My fingers tighten around my sword. I clench down on the urgency in my voice. “Prepare yourself, Nonem.”

  Undaunted, a wry smile spreads across her face. “I am prepared, Mademoiselle Chaudette Merlotte; the question is: are you?”

  “How do you know my name?” I ask.

  The Scion raises her right a
rm and crooks it at the elbow, hand extended. “I know many things.” I’ve already taken a step back before I realize she does not reach for me. Curling her fingers in silent bidding, small motes of blue foxfire coalesce in the air above her hand. In a method almost playful, she bounds these glimmering winks of fairy dust between the tips of her fingers as if they were juggler’s balls. “Tell me a secret.”

  My eyes can find no place on her shapely form to look that does not amplify the blush seething across my face. I sense a burning in my ears and a pressure against the bridge of my nose. Fearing she works some magical treachery to distract me, I order my calcified body into motion, taking another step back and drawing my sword—though, in truth, I do so because I cannot bear the sound of my shaking hand rattling it against its scabbard.

  The Scion lowers her eyebrows. Her lips purse in thought. “Quite a precise weapon,” she says. “Do you know how to use it?”

  “Of course,” I assert.

  “Better now than when you were nine,” she says. “Hurt your sister; made her cry.”

  A flash of Margaux’s visage explodes in my mind’s eye. My hand shakes all the harder against the hilt of my sword, I am scarcely able to keep it primed. I shore up the firmness in my voice. “Do not try me, Nonem.”

  Lips parting in casual smile, she says. “Tell me a secret.”

  “Your trickery will not avail—”

  “Then I’ll tell you one.” Her eager retort quashes my words. Shedding its lethargy, the Scion’s demeanor springs into fervent motion, “Little Mademoiselle Chaudette hides beneath her covers; her older sister gravely sick, she knows she won’t recover.”

  Again, the image of Margaux buries itself inside my head. The Scion pads forward towards me, the soles of her feet slapping against dirt as she nimbly closes the meager distance of my retreat. “Tell me a secret,” she says.

  “Get back!”

  “No? Then here’s another: Little Mademoiselle Chaudette, so fearful to be wed; only worse is convent’s curse; why, she’d rather end up dead!”