Mother of All

by Jenna Glass

  Consulting a map he had tucked into his doublet, Draios saw that the road supposedly passed through a small town—a village, really—about an hour’s ride from the manor house, but Draios must have been asleep for longer than he’d realized, for he saw no sign of civilization from the time he opened his eyes until the moment shortly after dark when the stately, aging manor house came into view.

  The manor house itself was brightly lit, both inside and out, with a multitude of luminants that lent the place a glow that was visible from a long way away. Xanvin and Delnamal might be living far from the city, but there were enough lights in and around the house to give the impression of a small village.

  Two rough-looking servants rushed from a coach house that squatted in a rare pool of shadow off to the side. Looking out the window of his coach, Draios saw that both were armed. Perhaps they were what served as Delnamal’s honor guard these days, though it hardly seemed the former King of Aaltah needed such protections out here in the middle of nowhere. Both sets of eyes widened—and hands fell away from sword hilts—when they caught sight of the royal crest that adorned Draios’s coach.

  The coach pulled up to the front of the house, the two servants hurrying to catch up and meet it there. The chevals that had tirelessly pulled the coach from Khalwell came to a smooth stop, and Draios waited patiently for the driver to dismount and open the door for him.

  Stepping down from the coach, Draios took a moment to stretch muscles stiff from the long ride while also assessing the manor house before him. A little bit of research into the place had revealed it to have originally been the country estate of a royal duke, who had used it almost exclusively to host epic hunting parties. He would have thought that with only Delnamal and Xanvin and a minimal staff in residence, much of the house would be shuttered and dark.

  The two servants/honor guardsmen finally caught up to the coach, both panting and out of sorts. One of them sketched an inelegant bow, and the other followed suit with unseemly delay. Draios’s nose wrinkled as he detected the scent of alcohol wafting from one or both of them. Clearly the servants assigned to care for King Khalvin’s esteemed guests were not the cream of the Khalpar crop. In his haste to leave Khalwell before anyone thought to stop him, Draios had failed to bring his valet with him, thinking it easier to avail himself of one of Delnamal’s men—a decision he was already regretting.

  “Forgive us, Your Highness,” one of the men said, still looking wide-eyed and generally alarmed. “We did not know to expect you, or we would have prepared a grand welcome.”

  In the background, Draios could see hurried movement behind a number of the lighted windows, no doubt the frenzied scurrying of the rest of the serving staff. He had not given a second thought to arriving at Delnamal’s manor house without warning, but now that it was too late he realized it was hardly the height of good manners.

  Then again, Draios was the king’s son, and Delnamal and his mother were living in this house at the king’s expense. Surely the pair did not require strict adherence to social customs under the circumstances.

  “I am here to visit my aunt Xanvin and my cousin Delnamal,” he said, eschewing the polite apology that a lesser man would have felt obligated to issue.

  “Of course, sir,” the first servant said with another bow. The second man seemed to have swallowed his tongue, along with his good sense, for he did nothing but stand beside his fellow and stare. Draios guessed it was from this second servant that the scent of alcohol wafted.

  The front door opened, and a man appeared silhouetted against the lights of a massive chandelier behind him. There were luminants glowing on both sides of the entryway, but the man stood just far enough back that the light failed to hit him. He loomed in that doorway for a long moment, a strangely menacing shadow that for some reason set the hairs on the back of Draios’s neck to standing on end.

  Then the man took a couple of steps forward into the light, leaning heavily on a cane as he did so.

  Draios frowned in confusion. King Delnamal was reputed to be a man of considerable girth, and while he was hardly young, he was not old and feeble enough to need a cane. And yet even with no words spoken, the frail man who stepped into the light and leaned heavily on his cane carried with him an air of authority that left no question in Draios’s mind as to his identity.

  Draios stepped around the servants—who showed no signs of developing any intelligence—ignoring them as he approached the entryway and studied the man who had once been the King of Aaltah.

  Draios knew the man was in his early thirties, but he would have guessed him to be at least sixty, probably older. Never of great stature to begin with, Delnamal’s back was bent enough to make him look even shorter, and great wattles of skin hung loose and limp from what had no doubt once been a substantial double chin. His eyes and cheeks were as sunken as those of a man dying of wasting sickness, and yet when Draios met that gaze, he saw a depth of intensity that nearly took his breath away.

  “Prince Draios, I presume,” Delnamal said when Draios had climbed the short set of marble steps and stood directly before him. He spoke in easy, if heavily accented, Parian that he had likely learned from his mother.

  Draios raised his eyebrows, surprised to be recognized by this man he had never met. “How do you know who I am?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder at the coach to confirm his suspicion that the royal crest was not visible from this angle and in the darkness.

  “I made a deduction,” Delnamal said with a shrug that looked painful and awkward. “You look too much like Mama not to be a relative, and a close one at that. But unless customs are very much different from those in Aaltah, Crown Prince Parlommir would not arrive without warning or fanfare. Therefore, you must be Draios.”

  Draios tensed ever so slightly at what he suspected was a sly insult, a suggestion that only Parlommir was an important enough figure to require any fanfare. “I am here to pay a social call,” he said stiffly. “There was no need to bring a retinue.” He frowned at the coach as the servants finally began to make themselves useful, unloading the scant baggage and leading the chevals toward what Draios presumed was a stable.

  “You are, of course, most welcome here, Your Highness,” Delnamal said with a smile that looked more predatory than welcoming. “Whether as an official representative of the Kingdom of Khalpar or as my dear cousin.”

  Draios shivered, telling himself it was naught but a reaction to the chill breeze, until he realized he was all but holding his breath. He forced what he hoped looked like a casual, relaxed smile, intrigued by his own reaction to a man who clearly posed no threat to him. He had never before encountered anyone who made him uneasy—was, in fact, used to having that effect on others instead—and he could not quite pinpoint what it was about his cousin that triggered this sense of wary alertness.

  “As far as the court of Khalpar is concerned, you died in an accident by the Well of Aaltah,” Draios said. “I only recently learned that you and my aunt survived and were living here, which is why I decided to pay a visit.”

  “Hmm,” said Delnamal, and Draios wondered what had made him speak so plainly. By his words, he’d just made it abundantly clear that his father did not confide in him, which was hardly the picture of authority he’d been planning to project.

  Delnamal smiled, though the expression did not reach his eyes and carried no true sense of warmth. “Well then, Cousin, please do come in. I am very pleased to meet you, and I am sure my mother will be, as well. We have a great deal of catching up to do, don’t we?”

  Draios shivered again, and there was no pretending it was from the cold this time. Something about Delnamal was just…wrong. A man more faint of heart—and with less faith in the Creator—might well have turned away, fleeing that sense of wrongness in superstitious terror. But Draios saw in that wrongness hope. Hope that Delnamal truly did possess some secret power that he’d only hinted at
in the sections of the letter Draios had rescued from the flames.

  His father was a fool, Draios concluded, to dismiss Delnamal’s claims without even investigating them. For the good of the kingdom—indeed, for the good of all of Seven Wells—Draios would learn just what it was Delnamal could do, and how his abilities might be used to restore the world to its natural order.

  * * *

  —

  Delnamal assessed his princely cousin as they entered the manor house’s formal parlor, which had not seen use once since Delnamal and his mother had taken up residence. The house was woefully understaffed, but having anticipated an august visitor eventually, Delnamal had insisted the parlor be kept spotless and ready.

  Three impressive vases filled with flowers cut fresh from the garden showed that Xanvin, too, had been prepared for visitors, despite her stated opinion that Khalvin was not open to Delnamal’s message. She was conspicuously absent, although she must have heard the commotion of Draios’s arrival. She had not joined him for dinner, either, claiming—through her lady’s maid—to have a headache. Of course, Delnamal knew that was a polite fiction—one his mother likely didn’t expect him to believe. There was no missing the very different way she had regarded him since he’d demonstrated his newfound power, nor was it possible not to notice how often she found excuses to avoid being in his presence.

  “Would you care for some brandy?” Delnamal asked, gesturing toward the decanter on the sideboard. “It is of most excellent vintage.” Or so he had been told. Just a handful of months ago, he’d been unable to go more than an hour or two without numbing himself with alcohol, but he’d found since the incident at the Well that neither food nor drink brought him any pleasure. He ate and drank only because of the need to sustain himself, and the fine brandy did not tempt him.

  “A brandy would be lovely after the journey,” Draios agreed, and Delnamal rang for a servant to pour.

  Draios looked at him askance, and Delnamal realized the prince expected him to pour the drink himself as an act of hospitality. He gave the boy a rueful smile, indicating his cane before making his way to the nearest chair and all but collapsing into it. He saw Draios take in the state of his hands, which had previously been well hidden by the drape of his sleeves.

  “Forgive my shortcomings as a host,” Delnamal said, “but I’m as likely to pour the brandy on the floor as into a glass.” He had supped from the Rhokai of an injured squirrel he had happened upon in the woods this afternoon, but the burst of strength the tiny animal had lent him was long gone. By tomorrow morning, he would likely not have the strength to get out of bed, and had he been a religious man, he would have thanked the Creator for sending Draios now, before the weakness was any more advanced.

  A footman answered Delnamal’s summons and quickly poured the requisite drink, handing it to Draios before once again hurrying out. Delnamal was certain his mother had told no one about the power he had revealed, and yet he had the feeling that the servants were growing increasingly wary around him, the whispers and mumbles growing more urgent. It was possible that, soon, staff would begin to quit—and that could make his situation even more awkward. Tonight, he would have to put on a convincing show so that he might win Draios over to his side.

  “I had heard tell you were injured,” Draios said, “but I had not realized the extent.”

  Delnamal shrugged, a part of him still surprised by how little the infirmities of his body bothered him. To be sure, they were inconvenient, but whenever he started to feel sorry for himself or thought to indulge in a good pout, he found he could not be bothered.

  “I am well enough,” Delnamal said, then fell silent a moment as he once again examined the puzzle of Prince Draios. His mother had told him everything she knew about her two nephews, and he was well aware that the boy was in training for the priesthood. She had never even mentioned the possibility of Draios putting in an appearance, for as a postulant, he should have been bound to remain in the temple he served.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” Delnamal asked, cocking his head and paying as much attention to Draios’s body language as to the actual words of his reply.

  Draios’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly—perhaps he was not used to being questioned quite so boldly. Delnamal remembered what it was like to be an insecure prince, and even in this brief encounter, he’d recognized the signs. It was not uncommon for a second son to feel somehow lesser, and Delnamal could almost see the chip that sat heavily on Draios’s shoulder.

  “Why, I came to meet the cousin and the aunt that I had never met before,” Draios claimed, repeating the patent falsehood. King Khalvin had made it clear that he intended Delnamal and Xanvin to live in obscurity as a state secret, and there was no reason to believe he would permit anyone—much less one of his sons—to pay a social call.

  If Delnamal were playing politics, he would at least pretend to believe the lie for the sake of politeness. But he’d never been much good at the game of politics, and he was not much interested in playing it now. “Lies bore me,” he said, watching the young prince’s face closely, gauging his reaction, measuring his temper.

  Prince Draios was far better at hiding his anger than Delnamal had ever been—back in the days when he had allowed himself to be swallowed whole by that anger. There was almost no discernible change in his expression or body language, and yet somehow Delnamal knew he had angered him. Just as he knew—without being able to define exactly how—that Draios was uncomfortable, if not actively intimidated, by him. Delnamal was not yet sure if that was good or bad.

  “Your diplomacy could use a little work,” Draios said with a fair imitation of a wry smile. “I don’t know about Aaltah customs, but in Khalpar it is considered impolite to accuse one’s guest of lying.” Crossing his legs, Draios leaned back more comfortably in his chair, projecting an image of ease that failed to convince.

  “Diplomacy has never been my strong suit, or so I have been told. Nor has patience. I had been led to believe that you were in training to become a priest, which as I understand it, should leave you without the leisure to make casual visits to the countryside. And you did not arrive with an entourage, which makes your visit even more curious.”

  Draios raised an eyebrow. “And I myself had been led to believe that you were living in careful obscurity, cut off from the outside world. How did you know I was in training to enter the priesthood?”

  Delnamal had to give the young man credit. He was hard to rile, at least outwardly. If he were merely paying a social call as he claimed, it seemed unlikely he would have tolerated Delnamal’s rudeness as well as he had so far, which helped confirm what Delnamal had suspected from the start: Draios wanted something from him.

  Delnamal was well aware that many people considered him…well, if not precisely stupid, then at the very least not very bright. In point of fact, he had—though he would never have admitted it out loud—bought into the idea himself, which had made him constantly defensive about his intellect. But with the Rhokai that now inhabited his blood and gave him control of his emotions, he could clearly see that what had held him back was not a lack of intellect, merely a lack of focus and clarity. It was hard to think when your emotions were running rampant, when you were always trying to defend yourself from the judgment of others. He’d seen the world through a haze of anger and hurt and resentment and bitterness.

  He offered Draios a conspiratorial smile. “Your father may choose to hide me in the countryside like the family embarrassment, but that does not mean I am completely cut off. I may be in exile, of a sort, but I am still a king, and I am not without resources.”

  Delnamal was overstating his position, naturally, for he had access to none of the riches that ought to be his, and his mother’s knowledge of her Khalpari family was outdated at best. But despite his reduced circumstances and his limited resources, it was relatively easy to get such basic information
as the prince’s entry into the Temple of the Creator. Putting that information together with his own mother’s piousness and her descriptions of her brother’s even stronger adherence to the Devotional, Delnamal gathered that the surest way to win the young man’s support—and through him, his father’s—was to appeal to his religious beliefs.

  “Since you seem to be reluctant to come right out and tell me why you are here, I will make an educated guess,” Delnamal said. “I recently sent a letter to your father, explaining that what happened to me at Aaltah’s Well has altered me in ways I did not comprehend when my mother and I first arrived in Khalpar. He has not seen fit to respond to my letter, nor has he sent Prince Parlommir or anyone else to discuss how I might be useful in the efforts to undo the Curse and restore the world to its natural order.

  “You have interrupted your studies and come to me out here in the wilderness because you disagree with your father’s decision to ignore my letter. You are hoping to learn more about what I have to offer so that you might persuade your father to reconsider should you find me convincing.”

  Again, he watched Draios’s face carefully. The prince was clearly an expert at subterfuge, at hiding his reactions and presenting a nearly unreadable visage to the public. Delnamal himself could hardly claim to be an expert at reading people, but even so he picked up on some subtle hint of discomfort that most ordinary people would have missed. Something that told him his guess, while close, had not precisely hit the mark.

  “You are here without your father’s knowledge or consent,” Delnamal continued, and saw by the slight tightening of Draios’s eyes that he had sniffed out the source of the prince’s discomfort. “Your father is a cautious man. One who would like to see the world restored to order, but who has little inclination to take an active role in that restoration. I saw evidence aplenty of his reluctance to take action when I tried to secure his support for my own efforts.”