80. Preparations
“So the Archbishop wants to descend the Holy Mountain, like mist easing off the cliffs, to check on Lamter. And you want me to guide her through those river-like streets?”
Nidhogg and Abaddon were resting in the Majestic Court, sharing doorframe sunlight and bite-sized tea pastries, steam curling like willow smoke when the Little White Dragon found them.
Lilith slid up to Nidhogg and spilled everything, words tumbling like beads; she barely knew Lamter, hadn’t roamed its whole span, and might lead them straight into a ditch.
“I’ve got no objections.” Nidhogg nodded, a calm ripple in a dark lake. The Black Dragon turned toward the Archbishop, hand offered like a cool spring. “Archbishop, I’ve long admired you.”
“You flatter me; I’m the one who’s long admired you. Your name carried far, Miss Dark Guardian.” The old elf’s smile was warm as a paper lantern, and the odd title pricked Lilith’s ears. The Little White Dragon edged closer, tugging at Nidhogg’s sleeve like a curious sparrow.
“Tell me the story behind that nickname when we’re done. I want the chapter where you cleaned up Lamter, blade bright as dawn.” she whispered. Nidhogg nodded, and Lilith stepped back, grinning like a roadside daisy in wild sun.
“So sweet,” the Archbishop said, kind eyes crinkling like autumn leaves.
“You’re not what the rumors promise,” Nidhogg chuckled, voice as easy as a night breeze. “I worried you’d be stiff as old stone, and that Lilith’s lively spark might not match you.”
“What can I say? Am I not an old soul at sunset?” The Archbishop’s smile rested like the last light on a ridge.
“Not at all. You’re witty and bright; a stranger who hadn’t heard your name might think you’re a fresh spring maiden. But that’s impossible—who hasn’t heard your name?” Nidhogg let the line hang, playful as a cat’s paw; Lilith’s eyes shone, waiting for the next pebble to drop.
“Hah! As expected of the Dark Guardian—I thought you only a great warrior, but you wear kindness like silk. None of the sour temper that power often breeds.” The Archbishop’s laughter rang like bells, then settled, her gaze firm as a mountain path. “I’m going down the Holy Mountain to inspect, and to finally steal myself a vacation. Let’s keep things natural.”
“Alright.” Nidhogg let the smile fade, rolling her neck till the joints clicked like cold branches. “I’m not great at this anyway. Ella used to handle the social stuff.”
“The Lady Castellan is born for governance, a river that knows its bed. She’s rightly called the Silent Ruler.” The Archbishop’s tone softened like rain. “You’re doing fine—better than the Sage, truth be told. Speaking of her, how is she?”
“She opened a small inn, living as an ordinary resident in Lamter. Not rich, but her days drift easy as clouds; she looks happy.” Lilith blinked, thoughts darting like fish—so the Sage was her innkeeper, Mio. That languid elf sister was the brain of their old trio?
“Wait—were you two trading social niceties just then?” Lilith’s eyes went round as twin moons. “I thought you meant every word.”
“How did you pass the kingdom’s etiquette class?” Nidhogg gave the first cut, sharp as a paper fan.
“No wonder your social skills haven’t budged in decades.” The Archbishop followed with the second, a soft blade wrapped in silk.
“I deem it best you avoid any job tied to social rites. Leave daily social matters to me and Ms. Nidhogg.” Abaddon delivered the final stroke, clean as a guillotine.
“Ugh.” Lilith scrunched her face, eyes dewy as morning grass. Nidhogg let her sulk. She stepped to the Archbishop and laid out her plan, voice steady as a compass.
“You should mind your appearance. Your name is a beacon; walk down the mountain and people will recognize you. It’ll skew your field results.” Nidhogg tapped her own cheek, a small drumbeat of caution.
“That is an issue.” The Archbishop nodded, choosing a path like a watercourse. “I’ll have the sisters prepare plain clothes and a veil. That should blur recognition.”
“Good. Change the outfit, add the veil, and hide your hair. Brown’s the fashion in Lamter—one small misdirection will do.” Nidhogg’s advice fell neat as tiles.
“You’re right. I’ll have the sisters see to it now.” She stepped out, words to the nun flowing like orders penned on rice paper.
“Then why don’t I need to cover my face?” Lilith tilted her head toward Nidhogg, bright as a wagtail. “I danced at the Coining Festival—doesn’t that make me famous?”
“Kind of,” Nidhogg said, air-light and unconcerned. “If they recognize you, they’ll want a photo at most, a wave in the crowd, nothing heavier.”
“But I’m different,” the Archbishop said, reentering like a hush of wind. “If I’m recognized, we won’t leave the street before afternoon, stuck in a tide.”
“Alright.” Lilith’s reply drooped like a wilted petal. “So what do we do next?”
“She won’t be down for just one day. Let’s take her to Mio’s first.” Nidhogg’s plan settled like a map spread on a table.
