The Guardian
by Concolor44
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Prologue
Four months after Elsa's Coronation: mid-November 1840, 8:45pm
The ancestral home of Brian James Marcellus Clade, Seventh Duke of Weselton, deserved every nuance of the word 'palace'. Weselton had a long, long history of highly lucrative trade arrangements, and the wealth of nations passed through its ports. The Ducal Manor, as a result, was one of the larger constructions of its type in Europa. His father had installed gas-lights. His grandfather, a system of water-closets and indoor plumbing. His great-grandfather had established the Manor as one of the better collections of Renaissance paintings in three continents. The Seventh Duke was cast from the same mold. Every luxury, every "new thing" that came along, the Duke had to have it. And he had the gold to get it.
So it was in the height of luxury that he entertained his guest. The height of luxury … but the depths of apprehension.
"I will admit, Baron Flambeau, that the Queen's actions were personally costly."
"To say the least."
"In hindsight, though – and I've had a bit of time for introspection – I cannot say I wouldn't have done the same in her place."
"Poppycock!"
"Hardly. My informants have given me an exhaustive report of her own activities and civic policy since she assumed the throne, and her freezing the entire country was merely a fluke. A fluke that, from all the most accurate information I have, is unlikely to be repeated. I must say, given what I've learned, I wouldn't object to being a citizen of Arendelle under her rule. She has a most enlightened approach to taxation and tariffs, among many other excellent decisions." He swirled his snifter of brandy and took an appreciative sip. "I was, let us say, precipitous in my actions at the time. I feared we would all freeze if she weren't stopped. For all that, I was probably right, but the stopping of it couldn't have been accomplished by the means at my disposal. Killing her, in all likelihood, would have cemented the winter as eternal and doomed us all." He drew a deep sigh and gazed steadily at his visitor. "I have been working on a document, an official apology that I hope she will be gracious enough to accept."
"An apology?! After what she did to you?"
The Duke frowned, gazing into his brandy. He had a well-developed ability to judge other men's character, and this French dandy rang any number of alarm bells in his head. "I owe her one. Considering that my men did their best to kill her, she could have had us all beheaded for attempted regicide. In her place, I would have clapped my attackers in irons and fed them on bread and water until they were old and feeble. Simply ending our trade agreements instead was an act of extreme generosity."
Baron Flambeau got to his feet. "As a representative of the French government, I must protest." The man had the most unusual yellow-golden eyes, the pupils tiny even in low light, and the iris nearly the same color as what would in anyone else be white. The Duke would have suspected a liver ailment except that the Baron seemed to be in otherwise excellent health. Still, those eyes were unsettling.
The Duke rose as well. Short, he may be, but he wasn't going to take any guff off this prissy, self-important bureaucrat. "I don't believe you have standing to protest anything. If you are so invested in pursuing a vendetta against the Queen of Arendelle, you'll have to do it without me." He held out a hand toward the door. "I will have my guards escort you to your rooms."
"I think not."
The Duke drew a breath to call his men … but then found he couldn't move. Panic rose in his eyes.
Baron Flambeau stepped slowly toward the Duke, muttering under his breath. When they were nearly nose-to-nose, his eyes took on a sickly yellow glow. "No, Your Grace, what we are going to do is continue our chat. But now we will do it on my terms."
That was when the Duke noticed the cracks in the man's skin: tiny cracks, like the crazing seen in some ceramic glazes, through which could be glimpsed, ever so briefly, a reddish glow. He tried really hard to scream. Nothing came out.
"Now. Have a seat."
Brian James Marcellus Clade moved jerkily back to his chair and sat.
"Very good. Now we will discuss the various sins of the Winter Witch and what you are going to do about them. I WILL have my honor back."
A couple of beads of sweat made their slow way down the side of the Duke's face.
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The Valley of the Living Rock
Grandpabbie had been feeling out of sorts all day.
He cast the stones, but they told him little he didn't already know. Once darkness came, he sat for an hour and studied the stars for more signs, noting the appearance of a new comet. Their message, however, was just as vague as that of the stones.
The disturbed feeling was growing. Someone was toying with destiny. Someone with evil intent. Someone who had no idea what strings he was pulling.
He wandered aimlessly among his sleeping kin, seeking solace, seeking answers. Stopping beside one of the steam vents, he stared down into its depths as night deepened, as clouds moved in from the west, as the feeling became an itch in his bones …
The vent gave a particularly hot squirt of vapor. Not that the heat could harm Pabbie, but he stepped back anyway … and that was when the ripple fell across his mind.
Magic. Dark magic. Magic of ill intent, and as every true practitioner knew, intent was the soul of magic.
He knelt and placed his hand on an outcropping of bedrock, stilling, listening, waiting …
The Answer came, and he shook his heavy head. I should have consulted the Earth first, and not bothered with the stars. Standing, he looked sadly around at his family, then up at the sky. "So. It begins."
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Author's Note: This one has nothing to do with any of my other "Frozen" tales. Kristoff has a starring role here, as I feel I have sadly neglected him to date.
Any thoughts on where this might be going? I'd be very interested to hear. Be aware that the plot is essentially finished, as is Chapter One.
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