by R. M Garino
“His Magnificence,” Brocco said, ruffling his sleeves before bowing in his chair, “and Transcendent Popo Zero, the Lord Procreator.”
Angus did not bother to hide his chuckle, while Shane roared with laughter.
Dugal’s scowl deepened, while Arrolyn’s lips cracked in a smirk.
“Now that we have the pleasantries out of the way,” Brocco said.
That’s not his real title, Arielle sent to Angus, as the adults continued their conversation.
Oh, yes it is, Angus said. He titled himself, and Grandmother made it formal. I think she did it just to shut him up. He also styles himself the Royal Donor, or the Noble Seeder.
You cannot be serious.
Hard to be around my grandfather, Angus sent. Just wait until he’s had a few more drinks. He calls it his social lubricant. Says it loosens up his tongue.
This explains a lot about you.
Told you you’d like him.
“How would you suggest we proceed?” Arrolyn said.
“Therein lies your error,” Brocco said, swirling his wine in his cup and sniffing the fragrance. “You cannot proceed.”
“And how is that?” Dugal said. “Just how is it that we are forbidden to proceed with our own children?”
“I did not say forbidden,” Brocco said, indicating Dugal. “You said that. I merely pointed out that you cannot proceed.”
“Father,” Chrysies said, her voice a mixture of warning and pleading. “This is not helping.”
“Of course it is!” Brocco said. “This is what I do. I help. I counsel. All of you, in your concern and fidelity, have overlooked one crucial and substantial fact.”
“And that might be?” Dugal’s patience was nearing its end, and he spoke through gritted teeth.
“We’re going to do as we want,” Angus said.
A brilliant smile lit Brocco’s face, and he clapped Angus on the shoulder.
“Well said, lad,” he said, pride in his voice. “I’m glad you have not let your mind degrade as you worked your other muscles.”
“They are children, Brocco,” Arrolyn said. “They are hardly in a position to decide these things on their own.”
Brocco held up a finger. “Yes,” he said. “They are children. Yes, they are duty bound, and honor bound, to obey their parents. And yes, their union at this juncture would cause a scandal. But, all of that is beside the point. You are not proposing a way to negate the unity. I doubt you would if it were even possible. You all love them too much to do such a cruel thing. So, what other options are available to you? Separate them? That was tried in the past, and as we are all aware, it was not a satisfactory solution. Forbid them to see each other then? Good and well, but impractical, if not impossible. It has already formed to an efficient, if not noticeable, extent. As well tell the moons not to chase the sun.”
Brocco paused for another taste of wine and to let his words sink in.
“Besides,” he said after a moment, “my grandson is indescribably stubborn, and if I recall correctly, Arielle is just as dogged when she sets her mind to something. Whatever plan of action you concoct, they will thwart it. This is why you cannot proceed, as you call it, as your every action in this regard is moot. None of us are the principals here, and only a principal can proceed with any course of action. We can advise, and we can counsel, but that is all. That, I am afraid, is left to the children to decide. But, however, they are young, and their perception of time is not like our own. They are consumed with urgency. We must exercise patience for them. Leave them to be whom they decide they want to be, and how.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Awakened
Thenaria Tu’renthien, Matriarch of the Lethen’al, woke from a most profound and relaxing sleep. She could not remember the last time she’d had such a blissful repose. She stretched, luxuriating in the movement of stiffened muscles. She rose from the strange, narrow bed in the tiny little room and surveyed her surroundings. A smile stole across her face, and she felt a well of excitement rise within her.
It had not been a dream, she realized as she explored the close quarters. She hugged her arms around her middle and repeated the phrase to herself as if a litany.
“It was not a dream,” she said to the hummingbird that landed on her knee.
After so many long ages of darkness, she was finally surrounded by light. The grief of eons had lifted, and she was, once again, herself.
Lilly, she thought. My Lilly.
She remembered her daughter’s small hand slipping from her own so long ago. Every time she slept she saw it again, replayed before her shattered eyes, every moment burned upon the fabric of her mind. Turning to see her little girl’s angelic face contorted in horror as the Apostate’s hordes pulled her from her grasp. The arms that encircled her waist, pulling her away from her screaming child. The howls, the piercing screams, many of them her own as she fought her rescuer to save her daughter. Watching, helpless, as the horde overcame her little girl and drew her under. And then, the puff of si’ru that rose from the darkness to float upon the wind as her little soul was shattered. Thenaria had not stopped screaming until her voice left her.
She had not stopped grieving and reliving that nightmare until today.
The hummingbird took to the air, and hovered in front of her face.
“Lilly’s at peace,” she said to the bird, and considered the silent response. “No. You stay exactly as you are. I still like to be reminded from time to time.”
She knew her little girl was gone, and yet, she had come back and said goodbye.
It was that girl, she realized as she relived the event only a few hours old. The silver-haired Rhen’val next to her grandson. She was the catalyst. Angus had always reminded her of her little lost Li’Lian, so much so that from the day of his birth it pained her to see him. She had been forced to see with her higher mind for much of her life. What she beheld was an incomplete echo of her daughter. It had enraged her so much that he should be alive and well, and her little Lilly torn to pieces by those monsters. She had hated him for it. A surge of guilt overtook her as she thought back to the countless episodes of neglect and dismissal she had subjected him to.
And then that girl had appeared, and she too carried with her an echo of Lilly. When she had returned to her place by the wall, standing there next to her grandson, she could see the ethereal image of her daughter standing before her.
When she touched her grandson, it confirmed what she’d always suspected: a part of Li’Lian resided in him. But when she took the girl’s hand as well . . . her daughter stood before her in all the glory she remembered. A nimbus of light surrounded them, and they floated within its embrace far from the mundane confines of the physical world.
She had spoken to Lilly. Her Lilly.
I have been with you these many years, Lilly had told her, but you refused to see me. I have wanted for you to be happy, to find joy in your life, as you brought joy to me. Please be happy now.
You are split between these two children?
No. They are not a part of me, she said. I am a part of them. You called me forth from them, and here I stand before you.
Thenaria embraced the memory. For the first time in the thousands of years that had become the tedium of her life, she was happy.
The cramped room slid back into focus as she allowed herself to drift from the glory of her memory. Standing, she felt herself content.
The Matriarch of the Lethen’al opened the door to the cell, and stepped out into the bright light of the day.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
A Gift
Angus and Arielle were content. Their combined obstinacy resisted the combined assault from their parents. Conclave had ended with none but Thenaria and Brocco supporting their position.
Shane, however, had a parting gift for her just before he’d left the complex.
“Things are fine the way they are,” Arielle told him as they strolled through the tunnels that intersected the mountainside, her
arm wrapped around his. The benefit of walking with a Mala’kar was that no area was barred to her, and Shane was showing her the sights. “We don’t see any reason to change them.”
“The parents want a formal declaration of betrothal,” Shane said. “The royals are just as adamant. And they’re not going to relent.”
“If a unity forms, then it forms,” Arielle said. “We won’t be forced into a marriage to save face and quell gossip.”
“That’s a rather cavalier attitude to take, don’t you think?”
“We’re still hidden away at the Gates,” Arielle said. “We’re far from the general public. So long as that doesn’t change, we’re content leaving things as they are.”
“So, you both intend to be difficult about this?”
“Shane, we’re not being difficult. But the fact is, Brocco was right. Without our consent, the parents are unable to change the situation.”
He stopped the walk before a pair of double doors set into a plain wall. “Do you know where we are?”
Arielle gave the area a quick scan. “We’re in the central corridors, by the libraries. Second level.”
“Good,” Shane said. “I want you to take note of the doors between these two pillars, and watch what I do.”
He touched the iron bound wood, and his sin’del radiated outward. The rays of light connected, encasing the doorway in a wreath of light.
“Got that?”
Arielle’s was fascinated by the revelation, and stored it away.
“Follow me.”
Shane stepped into the doorway. Arielle did not hesitate to join him.
The room beyond was circular and vast. White sheets covered furniture arranged with precision around the space, centering on a tremendous hearth, its firebox swept clean of ash. Hallways led from this central area to parts as yet unknown.
“Welcome to the heir’s apartment’s,” Shane told her, spreading his arms wide. “These belong to the House Rhen’val. Every House has an area set aside for the heir. Ours . . . is just a little nicer than the rest.”
“This is incredible!”
“You’re far enough into your tour,” he said, “and you’re tied for first tier. You’ve earned it.”
“So . . . this is mine?”
“Yes. Do with it as you wish. Feel free to redecorate. This was Misha’s touch from my tour.”
“My squad is allowed in here, too?”
“The space is yours to do with as you like. Beyond this room is a library, a training room, sleeping quarters—which you will not use with Angus—a kitchen, map room, and several other surprises I’ll let you discover for yourself.”
“Why does Gwen not have a space like this?”
“She does,” Shane said. “Her mother chose not to share the key with her.”
The announcement was sobering.
Arielle raised a sheet to peer at the plush couch underneath.
“Only one catch,” Shane said, causing her to turn back to him. “You can use it during your down time, but you have to stay in the barracks until you pledge. Then, you’ll need permission from the Head of the House to stay here.”
Arielle threw her arms around her brother, thanking him for the gift.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Fel
Fel stepped with a light tread upon the springy moss of the verdant landscape. The green growth carpeted the forest floor and rose up the trunks of the towering trees, stilling all sound save his breath. The place quickened his memory, but he forced his pace to remain sedate. The answers he sought were close. He could almost feel them. But he had to be careful.
He considered himself a good man, and a good husband. It was not always easy, but he prided himself on his virtue. He was kind to his wife, showing her in innumerable small ways the proofs of his affections. He helped his neighbors when possible, often forgoing things that needed to get done on his own farm. A portion of every hunt was shared with the older couples, to ensure that they had the provisions needed to survive the harsh winter months. He did not drink as many of the husbands surrounding the small village of Mejir did, but he did brew a strong red ale that he shared during the winter celebrations. He did not hit his wife as some men were wont to do, nor was he ever unfaithful. He contributed to the general defense of the village, and was good with a sword and bow. His suggestions had helped strengthen the village defenses, and the depredations from the winter raids lessened as a result.
The worst that could be said of him was that he was an outsider, and kept to himself to a large degree. More than twenty years had passed since he’d arrived as a young man one spring morning from the lands far beyond the Divers. He was intelligent and hardworking, and claimed some distant relation to the blood of the firstborn. The Extipana distrusted outsiders as a general rule, but his steadfast work ethic wore away their xenophobia with a gradual persistence.
He married the daughter of a farmer who enjoyed a moderate prosperity. Though they had no children of their own, they had adopted several orphaned in the winter raids, and raised them to be fine, upstanding adults who worked hard to see their village thrive.
Now in his late forties, Fel was considered a senior member of the village, and his intelligence and wisdom made his opinion much sought after on a variety of issues. The only other oddity about him that brought an occasional remark was how well he aged. Those villagers who remembered his arrival claimed he had not aged a day. True, there were strands of gray interspersed through his long black hair, but his face remained unlined. He was as hale and hearty as a man half his age.
Of late, however, a dark brooding had overtaken him, and an unexpected sadness shrouded his once bright soul. It grew in increments, building from a gentle melancholy to a profound ennui. And then, as spring quickened toward summer, he announced his decision to undertake a journey south. There was, he told his wife, a place where he could heal his troubled soul. In truth, he told her, it had been in his thoughts a great deal of late. He could give no specifics, but spoke of gossamer promptings by the Goddess. His wife was eager for her beloved husband to find his smile, and with reluctance, consented to the journey. He insisted he go alone, that this was what the Goddess required of him. He spent weeks preparing, ensuring that his wife and lands would be cared for in his absence. His neighbors were eager to repay the numerous favors he’d granted them over the years, so that he departed without the burden of worry.
But his depression worsened on his journey south. There was no specific cause, no one thing he could point to and say, if I could only fix this, my life would be better. It went deeper than that. There was a weight upon his soul that forced him to call into question all that he was, and all that he believed himself to be. His thoughts troubled him. Of his life within the village of Mejir, he had only fond memories of friendship and love. Of the time before that, however, there was nothing. It was as if he were born that spring morning as he exited the forest. Where he came from, and who he truly was remained a mystery to him. Part of what troubled him, Fel knew, was that the time before his arrival was important. Those hidden recollections held the key to who he was, and what he should be doing with his life.
The land had been rising for days as he approached the great mountain range that marked the edge of the known world. What he sought was here, within the tumbled chaos of boulders. There was no specific memory to guide him, but rather an inchoate sense of direction that told him when to turn, and when to climb.
Nestled between several boulders was a dark cleft, partially hidden by a screen of hanging moss. Fel stopped before the entrance, his heart beating a rapid tempo within his chest. He had walked for weeks, but knew that his journey was only now beginning. Although he had never lacked courage, he paused before entering. He knew everything would change the moment he parted that curtain.
He thought of his wife, of their friends, of the life they had hewn from the edge of the wilderness. He could just turn around and return. He knew he could not, though. Buried beneath the laye
rs of thought, in the recesses of the mind where truth dwells unadorned, was the realization that if he failed to go on, the good man he was would begin a slow death.
He drew a deep breath, and pushed the vegetation aside. A slight tingle ran across his skin as he entered, and he felt the weight of his lethargy lift. An unexplained excitement coursed through him, making him shudder. The cleft became a tunnel that snaked its way into the bowels of the cliff face. Fel adjusted to the darkness; the walls glowed with a faint luminescence, and he discovered a torch ensconced in the wall. With the flint and steel from his pocket he brought it to life, and surveyed the tunnel around him. Etched deep into the walls was a series of symbols and designs he could not identify, but which echoed with a resounding familiarity. He traced the patterns with his finger, reading the flow and movement with his tactile sense.
He had done this before, he knew. Many upon many times.
Fel resumed walking. The tunnel widened as it slopped downward deeper into the earth, opening into a wide cavern. More torches lined the walls here, and he touched his flame to the nearest one. In unison, they all came alight throughout the chamber, bathing the grotto in a flickering dance of flame. More symbols covered the stone here, climbing across the floor to rise against the walls and onto the ceiling. In the center of the room was a large circular pit recessed into the floor, a blackened layer of ash speaking to its purpose. An array of round pillows encircled the pit some two or three feet distant. The tinkling of water drew his attention to the far side of the chamber. A small trickle rained down the back wall into a deep pool. Against the wall hung three silken robes, one black, one white, and one red. An array of colors within the weaves of the fabric danced in the torchlight, indicating that no one color was as pure as it appeared.
Fel slipped his torch into an empty bracket and undressed with a ritual precision. Naked he stepped into the bath. He drew a breath and submerged himself in the cold mountain water. He rose above, wiping the grime of his travels from his face. He cleansed himself with the soft sand from the bottom, taking pains to be as meticulous as possible. When he was satisfied that he was well and truly clean, he submersed himself again, and then exited the pool. He slipped his arms into the white robe. There was a purpose to his actions. There always was a purpose. Already, he felt more like himself.
