Sefiros Eishi: Chased By War (The Smoke and Mirrors Saga Book 2)

by Michael Wolff

  “You would have done the same.”

  Silent for a moment, Shayna lunged forward and kissed the librarian full on the mouth. It was quick but deep, and the way she pouted made his fingers itch to take her instead of pushing her away. “What was that for?”

  Shayna looked at him through veiled eyes. “You are complaining?”

  “Uh no. It’s just that –” No, that won’t do. “You see, it’s complicated –” No that wouldn’t work either. “It’s a matter of principle –” Shayna caught him again, longer this time, deeper. Mykel was loathe to break the contact, but he did, rather forcefully. “We can’t do this. Not now.”

  Mistake. Shayna’s eyes flared at the rejection. “I am not a strumpet, Mykel. I do not toss my virtue to every man who crosses my path.”

  “I believe you.”

  “Do not think for a moment that I’m a jade to be used and tossed away! Or so help me –”

  “You’ve been raped.”

  “And you think of me spoiled goods?”

  “I think you’ve very vulnerable right now. I –”

  “Damn you!”

  Mykel caught her hands, fluttering at her sides. “Then why?”

  Shayna faltered, then growled like an animal. “If you don’t know by now –” She threw up her hands in frustration and marched to a nearby tree, her back to Mykel.

  “I’m trying to protect you.”

  There was no answer. Fine. Be that way. Grunting Mykel wrapped himself within his cloak and slept.

  XXXVIII

  It was a difficult morning, waking at dawn, at the wisps of dawn, twilight not yet faded. It was a struggle to stagger to his feet, but Mykel did so. He’d spent most of the waking hours staring at Shayna, seeking solace to the riddle that was her. Shayna the Companion. Shayna the singer. Two points of a line with the middle gnawed at both ends. Analyzing Shayna’s personality yielded no answers. She would die before betraying the Citadel’s ideals. Yet she resigned that future and took up a singer’s cause. Something terrible had to happen for Shayna to reverse her allegiances like that. Ultimately the librarian abandoned the whole thing. He simply didn’t have enough knowledge to decide one way or another. He shook Shayna awake, and silently the pair just started walking.

  It took longer than Mykel would have liked. By nightfall they had reached a shelter in a small forest, ate their fill, and went to bed. Rather, Shayna went to bed. Mykel did not. There was a crucial decision to make. Irismil was a long way away, a lengthy trek by any standards. Suspicion lay thick in villages as to choke the air. Of manor or castle they could not dwell, lest they become pawns in the games noblemen played. Outdoors offered little protection. Sooner or later the Versi would be at their heels, with Myrrh following. Mortal walls could naught hope to repel such horrors, but better in a mortal castle than dying in their sleep like wizened dogs. Mykel knew there was only one place that would offer protection without foreknowledge of their guests.

  Thus, it was that the duo came upon the plains known as the Wolf’s Den, and then to the Fenrir Manor, home of the Fenrir family.

  Home, Mykel thought, not without a hint of dread. As such as it could be called. The doors before them were a familiar sight, large stone slabs engraved with moons in all its phases. The two guards standing watch were stone still until the company crested over the hill, and then they hurried about opening the gates like frenzied rats.

  Mykel managed an inward chuckle. As a child, he had made a gamble with little Aron Neobi that he could get the guards to talk, but became so frustrated with their silence that he broke down crying right on the spot. The other children howled in glee as they ran on their stubby little pig legs, chanting taunts in singsong. They never approached him again. He could see their ugly mothers now, scolding them for teasing the cripple boy. You know better than to do that, even if he is a lord’s son. Not one advance; just children’s hot eyes, gauging, laughing silently, always reminding. We made you cry. Never forget that.

  Aron Neobi died three years ago from a hunting accident. Mykel chuckled.

  Inside the courtyard there were more decorations, more symbols of the House Crest. Instead of the mammoth shaggy heads of Lazarus’ greatwolf, the lithe, long-snouted head of the longwolf was chiseled everywhere; in the stone spike teeth of the outer wall, on the scrollwork adorning the pillars of the square. Anywhere and everywhere, there was the presence of the longwolf.

  Then, Mykel saw her.

  She stood upon the balcony above the stableyard as they entered, tall and willowy like a summer flower in aged bloom. A scarlet dress framed her, dark red velvet laced with the patterns of gold wolves baying or sleeping or hunting. Black-brown curls twisted down in short tails to frame a chiseled, high-boned face. Eyes that flickered from amber to chocolate and back again surveyed the advancing company. Julia Fenrir. Mother.

  “State your names,” said the guard.

  “Morgan Lewis and Sara Kysh, milord. We are wayfarers and wish to take shelter in your abode.”

  “Fellow travelers.” Lady Julia did not seem to move so much as glide down the stairs, marking her exotic beauty. The ruby-red smile lent warmth to her high-boned face, a warmth that told everyone she was in her element. “Please, enter. It has been too long since our hall knew visitors.” Her voice, sweet as a mature songbird, suffused over the courtyard with motherly affection. “May your tidings here be of peace and calm.”

  Mykel heard not a whit of it. Mother...Child’s memories saw her in the same visage, but older eyes told a different story. Youth did not hide the lines of worry creeping under her eyelids, it merely accented them. They were stubs now, not fully grown to the webs of panic often hidden by kohl. Mykel only saw them now because he knew where to look.

  The one thing that did not change was the mantle of duty upon her slim shoulders. It was heavy now and would grow heavier still in the coming years, but Lady Fenrir wore it with a grace that bordered on comfort. Duty was what she was born for. Every duty she gave immediate importance.

  Except for me. He was more a burden than a duty, especially as a child. Looking at her now, basking in the applause of the company she was meant to keep, Mykel could not help but entertain an idle thought in his brain. What if I had never been born? Would she be weighted down with worry and panic? In his youth, the woman gave importance to such slight things one would think the world would end if that one thing was not done properly; as often as not it was Mykel who did that thing wrong. Damn her. He almost hated her, standing on that balcony, fit in her perfect little world. Almost.

  A few more words and the company dispersed, led by servants to their rooms while grooms tended to their horses. Mykel barely noticed the groom taking the horse away, just staggered after his friends. Julia Fenrir met them at the mouth of a castle stairway, a flame-haired boy waiting dutifully in tow. A great mountain of a man emerged from an opposing entry, the sigil of the wolf threaded constantly through his clothes. Laurence Fenrir.

  The look between the royals was pure love. She kissed her lord briefly, and then greeted her guests. So similar they were to their future selves, Mykel thought. So similar, and so different.

  “Morgan, you said? Morgan Lewis? Strange. My son Mykel has many tomes written by that author.” Mykel could only nod. Damn. The woman – your mother – could always tell his lies from truth with naught but her eyes. He didn’t know if the ability was hers alone, or a common bond between all mothers.

  “If it pleases you,” said Lady Julia. “May we present our children.” The slim boy that followed Lady Julia stepped forward. “This is Kurtis, lord and heir to the Fenrir Bloodline. Say hello to the people, Kurtis.”

  “Hello.”

  Mykel barely reined his temper. The boy had
no designs on him, Mykel knew. It was the boy’s future acts that would make him more of a bastard than a crippled librarian. “And there is our other son...” Lady Julia blinked; cast her eye from side to side. “Where...”

  “Where is he?” Laurence Fenrir was the exact picture of nobility. Black hair that was quickly growing gray, his wolf-skin cloak and blue fur-trim gave him a warrior’s grace. Gold lettering engrave on his black chest-plate, snaking around the joints, gauntlets and boots of his midnight armor, announced his bloodline. Two strides brought him closer, and lessened distance revealed a craggy face, carved such by winters of blood and war. His piercing eyes, cold and frigid as ice, had made many a man’s knees turn to water. There was an aura to the man, the essence of nobility and grace that many noble-born swore they possessed but few had.

  “Where is he?” Lord Fenrir looked about, scowling. “He should have been told about my coming.”

  “He should have,” Lady Fenrir answered. “I sent Sullivan to tell him.”

  “Well get Sullivan and tell him to drag the boy if need be. He knows the custom.”

  “Now dear.” Lady Fenrir was the very picture of caution. “Perhaps that is not the wisest course.” Her face fluttered like a mouse caught between the cat and the cheese; she did not know which way to go. “He is just a boy.”

  “Kurtis is just a boy and he knows well enough to come.” Fenrir smiled down at the flame-haired boy; it was like watching a rock smile but the boy beamed anyway. “How have you been doing, young one? Taking good care of your mother while I’m gone?”

  “Yes, my lord.” The boy beamed as if his face was the sun. “No one dares to attack the manor while I’m here.”

  A chuckle drifted around Mykel; it was all he could do to repress a snort. He knew who the boy was, of course. Indeed, he looked forward to the day where he could forget about him. My goddamned little brother. Yet, looking at Kurtis, Mykel could naught but admit the dissonance between memory and vision. There was an alien mask on the child’s face, so stark and different from the wrinkled-up snorts or the cold planes of gleeful arrogance he would come to wear that Mykel was momentarily taken aback when the realization hit him. Innocence. The clean innocence only a child could have.

  Mykel gazed at him and was thunderstruck. When did that purity fade? At what point in time did the cleanliness rot to arrogance? The answer blurred in his thoughts; things seemed to be one path and then suddenly another, framed with all sorts of cruel indignities. Mykel finally tore his gaze away, unable to bear such purity, a reminder of the shell Kurtis had once been. Not when what he was going to become was so clear in his mind.

  Then vertigo rumbled in his gut. Not large, merely annoying. It faded just in time to hear the small footsteps rattling into the stableyard. He winced at Lady Fenrir’s beaming at the new arrival. Doesn’t she know that makes me uncomfortable? Or is it us? Was it us? He didn’t really know.

  “This is my other son, Mykel.” She placed hands on his shoulders, turned him to face the company he was obviously reluctant to face. He did not play well with others. “Say hello to the guests, Mykel.”

  There was no dissonance between eye and mind this time. There was simply little change to accommodate the time gap. The years had not lent him any added strength, only wisdom. That did little to change the physique. Thus, Mykel found himself looking upon a shorter version of himself. They both had the same lanky build, the same pale, gaunt face, the same slight hunch of shoulders that slid into place when he was nervous. Of course, there was the small fist bound in metal and leather, almost swathed in the sleeve, hanging dead at his side. That would never change. There was so much similarity that he feared someone might make a connection, but no one said anything.

  “Well?” Lady Fenrir prodded young Mykel closer to his stepbrother. “Go ahead, honey. Say hello.”

  “Hello.” Even the voice, small as it was, carried the gray disinterest that marked him as he grew. It was plain, politeness aside, that he would rather not be here. Why not? I certainly don’t.

  Laurence Fenrir coughed. “Well, it is getting late, and I am sure supper is almost ready. Why don’t you refresh yourselves and join us for dinner?”

  “Of course.” Shayna said, smiling.

  Lady Fenrir did not cook any of the food, of course. There were servants to do that, as well as the table dressing and the silverware. But she was the hostess, and that role fit to her like a glove.

  The dining room was a white chamber, with white curtains and crystalline windows. A long oak table plated with glass filled the center of the room. Built in Syl, that city of mechanical wonders, the table was meant to serve six but folded out at the ends by some sort of contraption involving hinges, thus doubling the number. As a child Mykel had been fascinated with the mechanism; as much as he could be fascinated with anything outside the library. Watching himself now, Mykel saw what until then he had only felt: the wave of interest rippling across his face, then boredom and finally ignorance as he slipped into some daydream to escape the idle chatter surrounding him.

  There was a lot of chatter. Conservation flowed and twisted about the servants as the food was set, long porcelain containers of steaming meat and potatoes and – of course – vegetables; Lady Fenrir could not think of a meal as complete without the damn things – and those she “chose” always looked like they came from whatever weeds the fields had at picking time. Both Mykels glances at their dishes with a schooled disinterest then began separating the various foods from each other. The same thought was running through their heads. Why can’t they ever separate the food? They know I don’t like them together! It ruins the taste! By “they” he meant whatever cooks happened to be on the job that day; they all seemed the same when ignoring his requests.

  “So, Laurence tells me you come from the Eastlands,” Lady Fenrir was saying. Shayna smiled lightly and nodded. “Tell me, how do you fare away from home?

  The Companion shrugged. “I am sick for it, but Morgan fills that gap in my life.”

  Mykel almost snorted. He remembered this, he realized. The dinner, the guests, the uproar of people...these were his memories, events that happened to him. Not something fabricated through the manipulation of time and space. Child’s memories made most of the specifics hazy, but it was quickly becoming clear. This actually happened. Their presence wasn’t affecting anything. Mykel felt an odd sense of irony that he should bear witness to the events that shaped him into the man he was now.

  Ironic, and eerie as well. Everything was so familiar he could read into everything with clarity he suspected as a child but decided to ignore. The slight frown on his step-parents’ faces, saying, You know better than to do that. How dare you embarrass us in front of the guests? Even Kurtis gave him a leer. I’m ashamed of you. Why do you have to be so rude? Both Mykels shrugged. Why not? It’s the truth. Mykel fingered the last of the meat on his plate, waiting for the drone to fade out. It always seemed he was waiting at this table. Waiting for food, waiting to leave. Always waiting.

  “Do you want some more, hon?”

  All at once he was a child again, peering over a half-finished plate, shaking his head a little too forcefully.

  “How about some meat? Or some potatoes?” Lady Fenrir smiled so sweetly it was sickening. “Anything? You just have to ask.”

  Again the shake of the head and a grumbling whisper.

  “Here, let me give you some vegetables. You hardly touched any.”

  Why don’t you just say it to her! The lack of public defiance seethed in him. Tell her I’m not hungry! Say it, damn you! No means no! It would be a few more years before harsh refusals turned to harsh words, but it had to be. Force was the only way to get through to the woman.

  The mass of vegetables fell on the child’s plate with a p
lopping sound not unlike that of shit hitting water, steaming in all its broiled glory. Without harsh force, this was all he would get. “What about you Mykel? Do you want more –” Lady Fenrir stopped midway, and everyone glanced about to see an empty chair amidst the table.

  “Where is he?” Lord Fenrir demanded. “I didn’t see him leave. Where is he?”

  Of course you didn’t. Conversation had a way of making Mykel invisible; it was no less strong when he was a child. It downright made him into a ghost.

  “You will have to forgive him,” Lady Fenrir said. “Mykel...well, he is very shy around people.”

  Why are you apologizing? I didn’t do anything wrong. Years upon years he had heard this. One would think the woman would get tired of it. It was not as if he was any profound contribution to the conversation. It was just useless small talk. Nothing’s wrong with me! Stop it!

  “Shy or not, I want him back here.” Rising Lord Fenrir clapped for servants; their scuffing footsteps heralded them in. “Find my son and –”

  “No bother, sir. I will retrieve the boy.” Mykel LeKym rose, locking every eye at the table to him.

  “Mykel usually keeps himself in the library,” said Lady Fenrir as the librarian turned to go. “It’s downstairs.”

  “I know where it is,” he said in that dry voice he would grow into – or it grew into him –and left before he had to explain how he knew.

  Mykel walked the path quickly and quickly; it had not changed much growing up. Besides he would sooner forget his left arm than his secret lair. Before long he found the staircase twisting downward into the library’s shelf-made labyrinth, and Mykel found himself facing that black, steel-tooled door hidden in the deepest crevice of the library’s farthest corner, emblazoned with a wolf’s head. Circling the head were the words, Do Not Enter, in Third Age Weirwynd. Mykel shook his head in amusement. No one in the manor knew Third Age Weirwynd. What was I thinking?