by Katy Winter
"Istarial," she whispered with pleasure.
For the first time she saw him properly: he was no longer insubstantial, but was tall and slender with auburn hair and limpid grey eyes that smiled down at her with affection and warmth.
"Welcome to Floronderiel," he said calmly, the lightness of his voice unaltered.
He watched as Nikos came forward, nodded in greeting and held out his arms to the little boy who threw his about the Shadowman's neck, his small fingers twining in the long auburn curls. Istarial was unconcerned, his murmured words to Kasphros gentle and reassuring. There was amused laughter in the grey eyes.
~~~
Chlorien woke to silkiness beneath and above her, a feeling of comfortable lassitude making her reluctant to fully waken. Languorously she stretched, then relapsed back to sleep. She sensed Nikos beside her and knew she responded to his touch, more than once, but mostly she slept deeply and restfully.
When she fully woke, her eyes fixed on Nikos seated in a chair beside her, a book open in his lap. He glanced up, such emotion in his eyes Chlorien felt warmth envelop her. Her hand went out to him.
"Are you feeling rested, little one?" he asked, putting the book to one side and coming to sit on the bed beside her, his hand taking hers. He kissed her very gently. "You've been sleeping for long periods, child. The travelling and the cold have taken their toll, but you look most relaxed and at ease."
"How long have I slept?" asked Chlorien, staring at her mate blankly.
"Three days," Nikos told her blandly, then he began to laugh at the expression on her face. "And Kasphros' been no trouble, beloved. The Shadowfolk are intrigued by him and I have a time being with our son at all. He'll be a most independent cub in cycles to come. Perhaps that's no bad thing considering."
"You mean his being on Lilium, Nikos, don't you?" asked Chlorien, just a little troubled.
"Partly, child, yes, but there's another reason. Chlorien, beloved, where are your senses? Are you still asleep?" Chlorien was startled, then blushed and let Nikos draw her close, his hand running through her hair.
"She's wondering at my silence," she whispered. "When, Nikos?"
"Only since we've been in Floronderiel, beloved. She's only newly sentient. You've been asleep remember."
"Tell me her name, Nikos."
"She says she answers to Amaris, beloved."
"Does Kasphros know?" A hearty laugh met that.
"How can you ask that, child? He and Amaris commune all the time when he isn't training the Halcyones to eat from his hand." The chuckle deepened. "He's going to be a handful when he's older that one, isn't he?" Chlorien grinned almost impishly at her mate.
"He needs to have someone to play with," she murmured. Nikos shook his head at her, a smile in his eyes.
"They've brought you clothes, child, but they're female attire. Would you like me to ask them for boy's wear?" Chlorien shook her head back at him in turn.
"I'll wear them, but I'm Chlorien, Nikos. Those who know and love me know me as Chlorien or Chlo. I'll never be anything else."
"Always, beloved," agreed Nikos, getting to his feet.
~~~
Alone, Chlorien looked about her. The room was light and airy, the walls translucent yet oddly private, and she quickly realised that if she screwed up her eyes with too much light about her the walls automatically dimmed. If she thought she needed more light the walls brightened.
The bed she rested on was suspended from a chipped crystal ceiling that went nowhere, the chips casting differing planes of light that was restful though colourless. There was no door, just walls. The chair Nikos sat on had moved closer to the bed, clothes draped across the back of it. When she went to climb from the bed, she was aware it swung gently to the floor so she could step from it with ease. It anticipated her need.
As she did, the bed quietly dissolved, to be replaced by a bath full of warm and inviting water. She sank appreciatively into the water. From there she watched the room change again. Now there was a long glass mirror, a table with brushes and combs, and a second table next to the first with fruit, small cakes, and a crystal jug with goblet to match.
Chlorien dressed pensively, aware as she pulled on a skirt that swept the ground, she'd not been clad as a girl since she left Ortok and was bullied into Bethel's clothes as a boy. She bit her lip at the memory, her brother's lovely face vividly recalled. The blouse was tucked into the skirt, then Chlorien drew in Bethel's belt firmly. The bodice she laced up loosely as the only way to keep it on, then she stood contemplatively so she could adjust to a fabric that swirled round her ankles. It felt strange.
Looking down at her feet she gave a sad little smile of recollection, because the last time she'd gone barefoot was in the desert with the Wildwind tribes. It seemed so long ago that she'd run through the sand, a child of the desert and at one with it, with Choja and Jochoh.
She sat in the chair to dry her hair, conscious the two tables were now right next to her where before they'd been nearer the bath. She thoughtfully ate a cake then another, before filling the goblet with nectar that she sipped appreciatively. She ate and drank without haste, her mind busy. Reluctantly she picked up a brush and set to work on the tangled curls, giving up with a sigh and turning to a comb. Getting through the knots made her eyes run and her nose water so she sniffed quite often as she worked.
When she rose she felt drawn to the mirror that graced one wall. She didn't recognise the image reflected back as being herself. She saw a stranger whom she thought was her mother. It was Melas who stared solemnly back at her, tall, slender and graceful, with an elfin-shaped face, large violet eyes and a damp mane of long black curly hair. All Chlorien saw was her mother. Then Chlorien thought of Cynthas and she knew that apart from the coloured eyes and the height, she was also the image of her greatdame as well.
But what Chlorien saw most, was her brother Bethel as he might have looked as a youth growing into manhood, and she felt the familiar tug of grief that touched her when she thought of him. In time it passed. She stood for a long time trying to come to terms with the young woman who looked at her from the mirror, then shrugged and turned from it. Chlorien was without vanity.
The room emptied as she moved to a door that just appeared. She glanced back when she reached it, half-expecting the room would no longer be there. It wasn't. She was intrigued. She stood in a corridor with no beginning or end and gave a smile of recognition at the power of thought that embraced this city. She thought of Nikos and found a door beside her she knew wasn't there previously. She walked through it, down a series of identical corridors and through several doors, the last one opening to a paved courtyard where she seemed to be alone. With her mind fully opened and attuned, she heard Kasphros clearly as if he was beside her.
"I've missed you, Mam. Will you hold me?"
Chlorien swung round to see the small group ensconced under a spreading and ancient tree, their attitudes ones of comfort and relaxation. Nikos rose immediately, his eyes deeply appreciative.
"You make a very pretty boy, beloved, but you're a lovely young woman."
It was with a provocative smile that Chlorien took his out held hand and let him lead her to the seated folk. She went to speak but couldn't, because Kasphros rushed headlong at her and grasped her anxiously about the ankles, his head caught in the folds of swirling material. She knelt and disentangled him. She lifted and cradled him, her eyes coming to rest on the people watching her with affectionate interest. She stood, resigned to the small hands clutching at her damp hair with delight and the little mouth uttering pleased squeaks.
"I'm here, Kasphros," she said after the little boy settled. "Mam was tired."
Istarial drew a chair forward and suggested, with a gesture, that she sit. With a smile Chlorien sank into it, one small boy still entwined, then when his mother relaxed back, Kasphros gave a contented crow and lay back gurgling happily to himself.
"What kind of tree is that?" asked Chlorien, pointing at the massive canopy
above her.
"It's a laken," Istarial responded quietly. "There's only one of them on Ambros. It was brought from Yarilo by your greatsire long cycles ago, as his gift to Floronderiel. I believe he told our people there are groves of them on Yarilo. It must be a beautiful place."
"That's where I suspect Father is," said Chlorien wistfully and without thinking. She didn't see the quizzical look Istarial gave Nikos or the return smile in the Rox's eyes.
"Father?" asked one of the young women sitting and watching Chlorien with her son.
"The scholar who saved me from Ortok - he cared for me and taught me until my mate came to Ambros. He answers to Autoc, but I call him Father and he calls me son. It was thought best it was so."
"It was probably wise, child," said Istarial, smiling kindly down at her. She glanced up fleetingly.
"You know him," Chlorien ventured. "Nikos tells me you know him as Ortoriol."
There was a rapidly muffled mutter that Chlorien missed, because Kasphros gave a determined yank on one long curl that made her wince and protest. Istarial got a sharp warning glance from Nikos and just commented calmly,
"Indeed we know him, Chlorien. He's dear to us as well as to you. You must tell us of him, my dear, at some other time. We wish to know of him."
Istarial gave Nikos a long and penetrating stare, before he turned quietly to one side and began to pour liquid into goblets. Nikos crossed to him, ostensibly to assist with the goblets. Istarial made no move.
"She doesn't know about Ortoriol, Rox, does she?" he asked in a resigned voice.
"No," replied Nikos quietly. "She's a very long way from being ready to know. If all goes as we hope, then, and only then, will she be ready for such knowledge."
"I understand, Rox."
Istarial looked up from under his eyelashes and saw that Nikos stared into the distance with an abstracted frown. He made no further comment.
After a minute Nikos went back to Chlorien, saying cheerfully, "You must meet the Halcyones who have been our companions for so long, little one. They wish to be known to you." Chlorien nodded and turned to the first woman who held out her hands.
"I'm Menaeh." Chlorien saw the grey eyes shining. "Take my hands and know me," Menaeh invited. Once Chlorien held the hands, Menaeh's presence was fully in her mind and she was unmistakably individual. "Would you recognise me?" sent Menaeh gently.
"Yes, I would," responded Chlorien instantly. "Would you know me?"
"You're clear to me, Chlorien - as clear as water on a still day. I'd recognise you anywhere. None of us couldn't know you."
Menaeh withdrew her hands, though the gesture was repeated several times, the last making Chlorien quiver because the name that came into her mind was Betholiel. She thought sadly of Bethel and found at the same moment that the presence in her mind both absorbed and understood her grief.
"I'll always be special in your mind," Betholiel sent, "because I'll always remind you of someone precious. I accept the gift of that sharing, Chlorien - do you?"
"Yes," said Chlorien out loud, on a whisper. She stayed silent and reflective for a while then raised her head and said in surprised tones, "You're all related." Istarial laughed, his eyes shone and he nodded with approval.
"We're all sons and daughters of Manalilah."
"Who's he?"
"The Inheritor Patriarch."
"So you're high-born?"
There was sudden discussion between the Shadowfolk before they turned to Nikos for enlightenment. He explained, watching the auburn heads tilt as they listened. Istarial gave a sigh then spoke.
"No, Chlorien, we don't have nobility as such. Do you?" Chlorien quickly shook her head.
"Is the patriarch not important to you?" A chorus of assent met that. "Then are the children of such a one not of special status?" Again the heads met, curls bouncing animatedly.
"We're of the oldest lineage which makes us special among our people. Is that what you're asking?"
"I suppose it is," murmured Chlorien meditatively. "Who, then, is your mother? Is she from a long line as well?"
Nikos looked at the blank faces in front of him and began to laugh, making Kasphros, who'd begun to doze, waken and gurgle in response to his father. Istarial glanced enquiringly at Nikos, an eyebrow raised.
"What amuses you so, Rox?" Nikos took a deep breath.
"You're so different from one another," he chuckled, "yet so close to one another. It's an interesting scenario. Life's an irony, isn't it?" Chlorien amused herself with playing with Kasphros' hair while she awaited an answer.
"My mother," began Istarial resignedly, "is Nada."
"Mine," said Penthea, "is Viol."
"Mine answers to Arial," said Betholiel. And on it went, Chlorien's head coming up as she listened incredulously.
"You all have different mothers?" She was met by surprised grey eyes and nodded heads.
"Isn't that so in your society?" asked Menaeh intrigued. Chlorien shook her head. "A woman has more than one child to the same man?" Chlorien blushed, but Istarial's eyes began to dance.
"How many siblings do you have, Chlorien?"
"Five." There was a long awed hush.
"Five?" repeated Ayesha. "One woman bears six offspring to one father? Is that usual?"
"Sometimes she'll have more." Chlorien stared at the disbelief in the grey eyes. "Do you have but the one child?"
"A woman has but one to any man, but she may mate as often as she wishes. It's rare for her to choose to birth more than once though," chuckled Darien, gently touching Chlorien's hair. "As you've done." Chlorien caught Nikos' amused glance and blushed ever more hotly. "Are you all the same to look at?"
"No," replied Chlorien definitely, "though we're thought to be much alike. As are you."
"Do you think so?" asked Istarial, startled. "We don't see ourselves as at all alike."
Chlorien accepted a goblet and tactfully refrained from further talk. Kasphros scrambled from her lap, spied Istarial settling himself against the tree trunk with a goblet of mead in one hand and hovered hopefully beside him, nestling into the Shadowman's lap immediately he was lifted there. Istarial met Nikos' grin and shrugged. It was Chlorien who broke the silence.
"What's the oldest lineage from which you come?" she asked innocently. Istarial jerked his head round to the Rox.
"Don't you know?" he said, with quite genuine surprise. Chlorien saw how startled he was and shook her head confused.
"No," she responded. "No one's told me of your people, not even my father."
"We're directly descended from Chloronderiel," said Istarial bluntly.
"Chloronderiel?" repeated Chlorien blankly. "I'm of his family."
"As are we," agreed Istarial, a smile now lurking at the back of his eyes at the question on Chlorien's face.
"How am I of his line?" she asked frankly. "How can I be related to you? We come from different parts of Ambros and have no possible connection. I'd know of our origins, Istarial."
Nikos smiled and drank deeply of the mead, his eyes meeting Istarial's over the rim of the goblet and his head giving an infinitesimal nod. Istarial turned back to Chlorien. The little boy opened sleepy eyes then closed them again, nestling closer into holding arms as Istarial spoke thoughtfully.
"It's a long tale, child. Cycles ago, a horse trader from southern Ambros came to the edge of the Shadowlands. He knew his horseflesh and was a talented musician. He could charm birds from the trees this man; he had unusual colouring, too, for one from so far south, with his black hair and purple eyes that often were said to look ebon with his changing moods.
He traded with us and fell in love with one of us, though he left her willingly enough to return south. Shahdan conceived. A boy was born who was named Benhloriel after his mother's father, as custom here dictated in those days. It's not so today. The boy grew up with our people as one among us, where he was cherished. He was accepted as a child of the Shadowlands.
Cycles passed until the boy's father returned
on another trading mission. He traced his lover and found the boy who was distinctive to look at, with auburn and very thick, curly hair and the violet eyes that were so large and unusual. He was mourned when his father forcibly removed him because he was recognised as a boy of talent. He was deeply musical too and loved to dance. The child was one of gifts and pleasure. We always wondered what became of him." Istarial paused, his grey eyes sombre.
"He was gone for cycles, Chlorien, with a father who led him a hellish life at times - we learned later that it was a roving life and a hard one, the father a drunkard, quarrelsome, often abusive and brawling, the boy frequently beaten for no reason. Benhloriel was deeply affected by his father.
When he was as near as we know to twelve cycles he ran away. Later we learned he was trying to return to his mother. It was a frightening odyssey for a boy, child, because he was well south and nearly died in the Dahkilan mountains of exposure, then later of near starvation. It wasn't far from where you were born, Chlorien, that he was rescued by a healer called Kedric who was also from the south. This healer was from a race you don't know, called the Yazd." Istarial stopped, his expression reflective. Chlorien was quiet, her eyes, fixed on the Shadowlander, intense. Istarial swallowed from the goblet. "This man was a reader-seeker, you see." Chlorien didn't.
"What's a reader-seeker?" she asked immediately.
"Your people call them fey, child, or touched even. We think of them as having unique talents because they can seek out and read minds - not all of them, of course," Istarial hastened to explain, "but many of them have that gift from the gods. They were a blessed race until recent times. Most used any talent they had for healing purposes and that's how they're remembered. Occasionally a Yazd would sell his talent to be wrongly used, but that was rare." Istarial waited for Chlorien to speak.
"Where are these people now?" A shadow crossed Istarial's face and in his eyes Chlorien saw profound sorrow.
"Nowhere," he answered softly. "Not as a race intact." He was silent for a moment, then resumed. "The healer took the boy and cared for him and taught him, too, though Benhloriel was scarred by his experiences and was often unresponsive. The healer persisted. He saw the boy was rich in talent. He was kindly and gentle, so much so the boy began to flourish and was eventually prepared to learn the skills offered him.
