The Potion Maker

Prince of Condé stood where he was for a moment, deeply astonished. Though he knew of the Inner World, had hunted werewolves with his own hands, and had even befriended Wizards, vampires remained a race wholly unfamiliar to him. Nor did he believe anyone around him had any connection to vampires. He thought of Mazarin, wondering whether their appearance had something to do with the mutual crushing conflict between the Inner World and the Outer World. But just then, an ominous rustling rose from the forest. The three men immediately tensed. Prince of Condé sprang forward, snatched up a branch, and pointed it toward the source of the sound.

Yet the person who soon appeared before them made them break into delighted smiles. It was Prince of Condé's sister, the wife of Duke of Longueville. She wore plain traveling clothes, yet still shone brilliantly. The moment she saw her brother, she flung herself at him. Prince of Condé did not even have time to drop the branch. He could feel his sister's scorching tears falling onto his shoulder, and even this valiant general could not help softening.

Madame de Longueville held her brother, whom she had thought lost and now regained, tightly for a long while before throwing herself into her husband's arms. Perhaps because they had truly faced a terrible threat, Madame de Longueville, who had always treated her husband—twice her age—with icy disdain, had become gentle and affectionate. She kissed her husband, then generously embraced Prince of Conti, the younger brother-in-law she did not like. Prince of Conti merely kept grinning, utterly unconcerned. More precisely, ever since he had come to his senses and learned that he would no longer be imprisoned or executed, he had regained that frivolous air of a libertine.

Following close behind Madame de Longueville was Prince of Condé's wife, Richelieu's niece. She had once been the enemy of Prince of Condé and the others, but after Richelieu died, their shared enemy Mazarin had made her the Prince's ally. What had happened today was simply too unexpected. Prince of Condé could no longer maintain his former coldness. He held out his hand to his wife, and she immediately ran to him with joy. The Prince lightly kissed her. It was more like a reward than a gesture of love, but it was enough to bring tears to her eyes.

"I do not wish to disturb you, Your Highness."

Prince of Condé raised his head and saw Duke of La Rochefoucauld stepping out from the shadows cast by the dense branches, smiling. Of course, unless men of this era knew nothing of the matter, they would never allow women and children to travel alone. The two ladies must have had people protecting them—and Duke of La Rochefoucauld might have been the most suitable person for it. Besides, those vampires... those people of the Inner World, likely had some inexplicable connection to this Duke. Prince of Condé had once heard priests around him complain that Duke of La Rochefoucauld might be entangled with certain creatures of darkness. As a man, he felt he could understand that. But even though Prince of Condé did not pay much attention to affairs of the Inner World, he knew the "people" from earlier were no minor figures. Perhaps he had to reassess Duke of La Rochefoucauld's weight in his mind.

Duke of La Rochefoucauld glanced at the carriage the vampires had left behind. It was spacious, and the horses were strong; fitting four men inside would not be a problem. But since Duke of Longueville was here, he could no longer sit with Madame de Longueville as he had on the way over. "I brought two drivers," he said. "Your Highness, please ride with your wife, and Duke of Longueville with his wife. Prince of Conti and I will ride together."

"That will do." Only then did Prince of Condé feel a trace of weariness. "We shall do as you say, François, my friend. But first, tell me—where are we going?"

"To Bordeaux first." Duke of La Rochefoucauld climbed onto the carriage and temporarily took up the reins. "The Duke of Enghien, your loyal subjects, and your soldiers are waiting for you there."

"Wait." Prince of Conti suddenly asked, "Where is our mother?" From what he knew of the old Princess, she should have been here. Her two sons were here.

"The old lady is in Paris," Duke of La Rochefoucauld said.

"Why is she still there?" In a Paris without a King, without a Queen Mother, without a Cardinal, where rioters and conspirators were everywhere, Prince of Condé pushed his wife aside and shot her an angry look. "Why is she not with you?"

"Because..."

"Because Mother does not have long left." Unexpectedly, it was Madame de Longueville who broke the deadlock for the Princess. Her eyes were filled with tears, making them like a rippling lake beneath the moonlight. "Mother insisted on staying in Paris."

"How could you allow it?"

"She did it for you, Your Highness," Duke of La Rochefoucauld said. "Only a few days after the King left Paris, Duke of Orléans, Gaston, appeared. It is said he is trying to obtain the title of 'Regent King' from the Parlement." At this, Duke of La Rochefoucauld gave a scornful smile, then became solemn again. "While you were fighting bathed in blood, Your Highness, she would not allow others to easily seize the fruits of your labor. She had to remain in Paris."

Prince of Condé fell silent. He knew that the old Princess, their mother, Charlotte de Montmorency, had once been Henry IV's notorious lover. Because of this, the previous Prince of Condé had been forced to flee abroad to escape persecution from his jealous rival. At the height of Charlotte de Montmorency's favor, she had even openly confronted the Queen Mother, Mary Medici. She had received countless riches, connections, and power from Henry IV. Even Prince of Condé could not say whether she loved Henry IV or hated him.

The only certainty was that this old lady dearly loved her children, especially Prince of Condé. Doctors and priests had decreed that she would soon leave this filthy mortal world, yet rather than calmly setting out upon her final journey, she was like a candle burning to its end, madly using the last of her strength to become a thorn in the side of Duke of Orléans, Gaston, and the royalists in Paris.

"Let us go," Madame de Longueville said. "Do not let Mother's painstaking efforts be wasted for nothing."

Prince of Condé was silent for a moment. At last, he gave up resisting and stepped into the carriage.

Duke of La Rochefoucauld let out a quiet breath. By a stroke of luck, when he had returned from the Bois de Boulogne to Louvre Palace and was preparing to offer his allegiance to Cardinal Mazarin, his servant had come running with news that Prince of Condé and the other two had already been arrested by the Cardinal. It had made him drop to his knees at once and thank God. But gratitude to God aside, when Madame de Longueville came to beg him to rescue Prince of Condé and the others, the first person he thought of was still God's enemy.

He had not expected things to be so easy. Amon, his master in the other world, had agreed to his request so simply, utterly unconcerned about the good show he had missed. Such a temperament, as fickle as the wind and clouds, left Duke of La Rochefoucauld deeply uneasy. If the guards at Vincennes Castle discovered their scheme and gave chase, the attendants he had left behind might not be able to ensure the Princes' safety. And as for making Amon grant his request again, Duke of La Rochefoucauld did not believe he possessed such luck.

The carriage carrying Prince of Condé drove out of the forest, into the mist of dawn, and toward Bordeaux.

That same night, the Queen Mother and the King of France also arrived at a remote little town. Since Saint-Germain-en-Laye had been surrounded by several rebellious towns, they had been forced to take another route this time. Fortunately, their departure had not been so hurried, and they had taken as much jewelry and as many banknotes as possible.

The people of this small town should have been curious about such eminent visitors, but so many ministers and nobles had recently fled from Paris, and quite a few had passed through here. What they wanted more was to get money from them. After receiving a few rewards, they left contentedly. In this town, the only place capable of accommodating the King's party was a ramshackle establishment that served as both tavern and inn. After inspecting the rooms, the attendants all believed the Queen Mother and the King would be better off resting in their carriage. As for the food provided, Bontemps—who had previously been fortunate enough to be thrown into a storeroom, suffering nothing worse than some blood loss and a few rat bites—inspected it at the King's request. He found that only raw eggs, once washed and boiled, could be placed on the nobles' plates. The King gave him a sum of money and told him to find more eggs in town. He also asked his musketeers and attendants not to eat the coarse bread full of sawdust, milk floating with grass stalks and cow dung, or ancient strips of dried meat. These were the only guards he had; he truly could not afford any abnormal losses.

Just as the King, unusually unconcerned with decorum, bit directly into an egg and returned to the carriage, he saw one of the Queen Mother's ladies-in-waiting standing beside it, saying something to Mali. The little witch had her head lowered, her face full of displeasure.

The moment Mali saw the approaching King, she threw herself at him despite the lady-in-waiting's disapproving look and wrapped her arms around his waist. Louis stroked her fluffy hair. "What is it, madam?" He nodded to the Queen Mother's lady-in-waiting. "Has Mali done something wrong?"

The lady-in-waiting first curtseyed to the King, then said helplessly, "She spoke to and touched a commoner."

The King understood at once. To those at court, it was quite rude for a person of lower status to casually speak to someone above them. A noblewoman, even more so, should not speak directly to a commoner; she ought to have a servant convey her words or signal on her behalf. Mali's current status was nearly equal to that of a princess of the blood, or even a princess. Only someone of such standing could be permitted to serve constantly at the Queen Mother's side—this was precisely what her father and uncle hoped for, so that Mali, born of ordinary stock, might one day become the wife of a Duke or Prince. Therefore, such excessively... frivolous conduct inevitably invited criticism.

"She is still a child, madam," Louis said. "She will understand in time."

Since the King had said so, the lady could pursue the matter no further. She could only curtsey to him once more and leave. Mali giggled by the King's ear, then pulled him toward the commoner. He was a middle-aged man with a sorrowful face, yet his hands were long, slender, and pale, like those of a noble.

The King gave her a questioning look. In a very soft voice, Mali said, "Your Majesty, he is a potion maker."