The Vampire & Her Witch-Chapter 1451: A Tight Timeline (Part Two)

"Lady Ashlynn, you can... You can wield a Holy Flame Blade?"

The look on Lady Mairwen’s face blended shock with a trace of reverent awe that Ashlynn had seen on too many faces since she began displaying her powers to people from the march.

Whether it was Eamon’s zealous conviction or Rosie Pyre’s declaration that Ashlynn must be a Saintess, people of strong faith had equally strong reactions to the things Ashlynn could do once they moved past the notion that she was a wicked witch.

Already, Ashlynn could see the beginnings of that all too familiar look on Lady Mairwen’s face, and she moved quickly to put a stop to it.

"I can hold it," Ashlynn said carefully, choosing her words with the precision of someone describing a wound they’d rather not reopen. "But it’s not something I should rely on in a fight. The last time I wielded it, as the price for lending me its power, the blade burned me badly enough that I could barely grip a cup for days afterward. It’s... not entirely safe for me to use."

Her statement wasn’t entirely true. She’d worked with Ignatious since the incident in the High Pass to better understand the Holy Flame Blade, and she felt more confident that she could at least ignite its flames without harming herself.

Still, it was a theory she’d rather not put to the test unless she had to. Losing control of the powerful relic during a confrontation with Owain would burn far more than just her flesh, and she couldn’t afford the consequences of failing to wield the blade publicly.

"Then why mention it at all?" Loghlan asked, frowning.

"Because the blade isn’t just a weapon, Lord Loghlan," Ashlynn said. "It’s a symbol. When I walk into the Great Hall, Owain is certain to call me a witch, and he won’t be wrong," she said with a complex expression on her face. She’d been a witch her entire life, but at the time Owain had tried to murder her, she’d never consciously touched her power...

She had rejected the truth of her own existence in order to be a ’good woman,’ and she’d hoped to be a good wife to Owain, a good mother to their children, and a good marchioness to their people. But he’d destroyed all of that the instant he saw her mark.

"I should be dead," Ashlynn continued, clutching her cup of wine tightly to stop herself from shaking as the memory of a shallow grave flickered behind her eyes, carrying with it the feeling of sodden earth covering her body. "The fact that I’m not will serve as proof of my ’crime.’"

"But if I arrive accompanied by a High Inquisitor bearing a Holy Flame Blade, one of the most sacred relics of the Church," she said as she gestured toward Ignatious. "Then that changes what they see. It doesn’t prove anything by itself, but it gives them reason to hesitate before they dismiss me as an enemy of their faith."

"Inquisitor Diarmuid will be with us as well," Ignatious added. "Eventually, there will be a reckoning within the Church for the lies that have pitted us against each other. As much as Diarmuid and I would love to lay out the truth of things when Lady Ashlynn confronts Owain, that reckoning will need to come afterward, in the halls of the Church itself."

"Until then," Ignatious said calmly. "It’s enough for the two of us to muddy the waters with truths that support Lady Ashlynn’s cause."

"You’re not seizing the throne by force," Mairwen said slowly, working through the implications. "You’re presenting your case before the Lothian Court."

"Before a very hostile Lothian Court," Ashlynn agreed. "Which is why every advantage matters, and why I need the confrontation to happen after sunset so that Ignatious can stand beside me. The funeral will consume most of the daylight hours, but I can’t leave the timing to chance."

She looked at Isabell, and the older woman met her gaze with a faint nod that said she already knew what was coming.

"Master Isabell will be working along the route between the Great Temple and Lothian Manor tomorrow evening," Ashlynn said. "She’ll be engineering delays. Merchant stalls that collapse at inconvenient moments. Awnings that come loose and block the road. Perhaps a pothole or two that opens up where a carriage wheel is sure to find it."

"You want to slow the procession," Loghlan said.

"I want to buy time," Ashlynn said. "Every minute the procession is delayed is a minute closer to sunset, and a minute closer to having Ignatious at my side when I walk into that hall. Isabell can do a great deal on her own, but she can’t control how quickly the funeral itself concludes."

Ashlynn paused, and when she spoke again, her voice carried a note of careful diplomacy that told Loghlan she was about to ask for something he might not like.

"Lord Loghlan," Ashlynn said. "I understand that you may have complicated feelings about Marquis Bors Lothian."

"That’s a generous way to put it," Loghlan said dryly.

"But at the funeral tomorrow, every baron in the march will have the opportunity to contribute to his eulogy," Ashlynn continued. "Tradition demands that all of his direct vassals say something, even if it’s just a few polite words. I expect that most people will give brief praise for the departed and prayers for his journey to the Heavenly Shores before yielding to the next man," she explained.

Ashlynn didn’t know the barons of the march very well, but Marcel had compiled extensive profiles on most of them over the years. She expected that men like Valeri Leufroy, who had fought beside Bors during the War of Inches, would have more to say, but most of them would keep their statements brief.

"You want me to say more than a few polite words," Loghlan said with a look on his face that suggested he’d already guessed where she was headed.

"I want you to deliver a eulogy that does justice to the full scope of Bors Lothian’s reign," Ashlynn said, and the faintest trace of a smile tugged at her lips. "Every achievement. Every campaign. Every decision he made that shaped the march into what it is today. I want you to be thorough, Lord Loghlan. Extremely thorough."

Loghlan stared at her for a moment, then let out a short bark of laughter that was half amusement and half disbelief.

"You want me to bore the entire Lothian Court into a stupor while you wait for the sun to set," he said, laughing hard enough that his belly shook.

"I want you to honor the memory of Marquis Bors with the respect and detail that his long tenure deserves," Ashlynn said innocently. "If that happens to take some time, well... thoroughness is a virtue."

"It certainly is," Mairwen murmured, and the look she exchanged with her husband carried the spark of shared humor that only thirty years of marriage could produce. Her eyes flickered back to Ashlynn for a moment, but this time, they held none of the reverence that had started to build when she learned that the Mother of Trees could also wield a Holy Flame Blade.

Lady Ashlynn was powerful, to be sure... But she was also a person, and the fact that she needed to borrow Loghlan’s voice for these sorts of theatrics underscored that whatever powers she held, she was far from an omnipotent saintess who could command the hearts and minds of people with her mere presence.

"I’ll admit that the idea of giving Bors a eulogy that forces his son to sit and listen while I praise his father for the better part of an hour has a certain appeal," Loghlan said, settling back in his chair with a thoughtful expression. "Bors and I didn’t see eye to eye on many things, but I knew him well enough to speak at length about his accomplishments, his failures, and the legacy he’s leaving behind."

"Speak about whatever you wish," Ashlynn said. "So long as you take your time doing it, and so long as you’re convincing enough that no one dares cut you short for fear of disrespecting the dead."

"Oh, I can be convincing," Loghlan said, and the gleam in his gray eyes told Ashlynn that the old baron had found something in this plan that appealed to his sense of justice as much as his sense of mischief.

"Before he died, Bors tried to steal my land and sell my future to merchants from Blackwell," he said, chuckling at the irony since one of those very merchants turned out to be the Hemlock Witch sitting across the table from him.

"I’ll give him a eulogy worthy of a king," Loghlan promised. "And I’ll make sure every lord in that temple hears exactly what kind of man they’re mourning."

"Just don’t overdo it," Isabell cautioned from the hearth. "We need the delay, not an incident."

"Master Isabell," Loghlan said with exaggerated dignity. "I have been navigating the politics of the Lothian Court for more than half my life. I know exactly how far I can push; you can rest assured of that."