"You are an amazing man, Bylo."
Bylo smiled. "During those ten years of looking, I didn't feel so amazing."
"Are you sure I had a sister? Or would it be a brother?"
"Sister. I'm pretty sure conjoined twins are always identical. I searched and searched but never saw another child who looked like you. Knowing the two of you would be alike, I thought she would be simple to find."
"How long did you look?"
"Two more years."
So, there had been a sister. Conjoined at the back, near the spine. What would it be like, attached to another human being? And how skilled must that surgeon have been to perform such a delicate operation along so sensitive an area, with both children surviving? Or had they?
"She may not have survived the surgery," Bylo said as if reading her thoughts. "Or she could have died later. Lots of poor children die."
"Oh."
"I love you, little one. I'm sorry I never told you the full truth."
"I want to go home.”
"We can't."
"Because they'll be looking for us?"
"Yes."
“Our friends and neighbors. I didn't help them at all, did I?"
Bylo said nothing.
She reached over and rested a hand on Mykel. He was warm and breathing steadily. She lay back and folded her hands on her chest. Bylo was right; they couldn't go home, and she knew what they ran from. Mykel was cursed, and she had shown magic without an announcement, bringing a cursed boy to life in defiance of everything holy.
So now they would run from the church, who could not let Mykel live. And from the authorities, who needed gifted for their armies. Soldiers and princes and monsters at the Ministry of War and Justice who would take her and make her kill on their behalf, as they did with all the others. But where would they go, and what would she learn in the days to come? Was her father still alive? Had he and her sister been looking for her? Should she look for them? Was her sister like her, with strange magic?
He looked out at the horizon, seeing dark thunderclouds on the horizon. Bylo glanced at them, too.
“Those are awfully close,” she said. “And this is a small boat.”
“I’m pretty sure we’ll make it,” Bylo said.
“Pretty sure?”
The nervous grin belied his lack of confidence, but the clouds were indeed far away, and there was little they could do except pray for continued wind to fill their sail and hurry them along. It seemed like she had little control of anything in her life right now, but was grateful that she had someone to look out for her.
"I love you, Bylo."
"I love you too."
"Thank you for carrying us. For saving us."
"You're welcome."
But despite her gratitude, the thoughts on Nara's mind were not of seeking escape, or safety. If Bylo was to be believed, her magic was part of something bigger. Scripture. Prophecy. Or destiny. She could not hide forever, could she?
Too tired to wrestle with such troubles further, she closed her eyes and listened to the wind.
11
Vorick
Fairmont Castle
665PB
Nikolas Vorick, Minister of War and Justice, stood in the great hall of the castle waiting to answer a summons from the queen. While he waited, he gazed upon the paintings and tapestries that hung on the stone walls. He had always held a strange fascination for painting but had quickly decided that it was a useless skill. It brought little money, even less power, and required endless, tedious practice. When he had abandoned his own artistic efforts at a young age, it had been a salient point in his personal journey. He held no regrets.
Since then, he had accomplished much, having learned mathematics, history, and politics. When announced as a blessed at age sixteen, the world had become his oyster. He was both a cutter and a harvester, and no such combination of gifts had been documented in any of the histories. The church heralded his announcement as a sign that Dei was smiling upon the Great Land, and he was a rising star in Fairmont.
In the following years, he had found great fascination with the human body and employed his cutting talent in pursuit of knowledge in that area. It led him to study with the physicars, medical professionals at the university hospital, learning anatomy, dissecting corpses, and pondering the mechanisms of death.
He eventually found employment at the Ministry of Justice as an executioner, the first physicar to ever do so.
But despite all his learning, he had always struggled with patience, having acquired a disdain for waiting. Today, he waited to meet with the queen. Fortunately, the art in the entrance of the throne room was magnificent and occupied his time. One piece in particular captured his attention: a canvas depicting the Oracle of Ankar, standing proudly on a plateau with the Humble Guardian at her side. An ornate tattoo decorated the Guardian's chest.
Vorick marveled at the painter's skill, depicting the ancient heroes in such fine detail, and his thoughts moved to the legends and of their adventures. She, the ancient builder of kingdoms, guiding and teaching kings and princes over the ages. With the tall, dark, barefooted warrior at her side, she had brought peace to a chaotic world following the mysterious fall of the Breshi civilization. The Guardian's right arm rested around the Oracle in a gentle embrace, his muscular physique in stark contrast to the woman's tiny body. An odd match, the combatant and the counselor, yet one that was compelling to look upon.
The Oracle appeared small in this painting, although she was often described differently in the histories. Silver-haired and wise looking, it was difficult to imagine her as a leader of men. Her companion seemed to tell a different story. Shoulder-length black hair blew in the breeze, and the regal-looking man gripped a white staff in his left hand. Power and peace were portrayed in his stature, echoing throughout the popular tales of his victories. Vorick thought of the legends about the Guardian and his mighty men, the soldiers who gathered at his side for every battle.
He pondered about his own image when compared to this legendary warrior. Vorick's impeccably groomed jet-black goatee and neatly cropped hair portrayed a regal bearing, but his below-average height and thin, crooked frame dispelled the impression. Vorick was feared for his magic, not his manliness.
Vorick wondered about the choice of colors the artist had used to depict not only the lifelike skin tones but the swirling maelstrom of wind, rain, and lightning that encompassed the figures. They appeared peaceful together, despite the storm about them. He thought on his own efforts at such artistry, and how his immature works had fallen short of greatness such as this. If he had continued his pursuit of the craft, what might he have achieved? Memories from childhood rushed in, a time when painting had held a special place in his heart.
Outskirts of Fairmont
Estate of Weldon Vorick
630 PB
Nikolas was thrilled. He stayed after school to work on his painting, and after covering the mistakes today, it was perfect. Although frustrated that he had mixed the wrong color, some help from his art master had produced a new color, a dustier brown. Standing in his father's study, it was clear that the new color matched the old books on the shelves. Papa will love it.
Nikolas was nine years old. He possessed few friends and endured ridicule due to his curved spine and the unsteady gait it produced when he walked. Painting had become his refuge. He loved the time in the classroom each day after the other children left. It was time that he had used to pursue art and the peace it provided.
His master had noticed Nikolas’ interest and stayed with him often, teaching about ink, brushes and tiny knives. Palettes, pots, and primary colors. He learned about stippling, flicking, and dabbing to produce different textures and about different work surfaces: paper, canvas, and leather. He cherished the smells of the pigments when mixed with oil and how his hands would bear stains well after his time in the studio had ended. Sometimes, after completing chores, he would sniff at his fingers to catch a hint of gum, resin,
or solvent, one of his favorites. Solvents were used to clean up the mess after painting, and he associated the odor with cleanliness, something he cherished. The contrast between the mess of painting followed by the ritual order of the cleanup sparked a joy he experienced nowhere else.
Nikolas' latest work was by far his best. The master had taught much about lighting and shadows, helping him to paint his father's study complete with sunlight from the window. The illumination fell perfectly on one side of his father's profile, leaving the other side dark and mysterious. Papa would adore it.
Professor Weldon Vorick was an important man, an architect and engineer at the Grand University of Fairmont. "The Grand" held the distinction of being the greatest institution of learning in all the Great Land, and Papa maintained a respectable position as a chief engineering instructor. The queen hired Papa to design many royal projects, including some of the walls and fortifications around Fairmont. Nikolas had great pride in his father and bragged to his peers about the man's position. Papa frequently spoke at important functions, and Nikolas followed along, wearing fancy clothes. He would smile and clap when Mother instructed but would not speak until spoken to, and then only to say "yes, sir" or "no thank you, sir" and things like that.
Today was a special day. There was much to prepare, and Papa would come home late, as he always did, giving Nikolas plenty of time. With his master's permission, Nikolas borrowed an easel from the school. It was heavy, and several of his classmates laughed as he dragged it along the city streets under one arm, his painting tucked under the other.
The easel now stood in the middle of Papa's study, the painting sitting upon it, perfectly centered and held fast with two pieces of twine. Nikolas knew the study was off limits. It was Papa's private room, and even Mother wasn't allowed inside, but this one time would be okay. Papa always went into his study upon arriving home, and it was the perfect spot to put the surprise. When Papa saw the painting, how well he'd matched the colors and the beautiful light from the window, he would be proud and forgive the offense.
Nikolas completed his chores and put on nice clothes for the occasion. It took a long time for his father to arrive, and Nikolas slumbered in the entryway, waiting. Mother tried to encourage him to go to bed many times, but he resolved to wait, no matter how long it took.
When Papa finally came in through the door, Nikolas stood, yawning, then composed himself. "Welcome home, sir," he said.
Papa took no notice of him, hanging his jacket on a coat hook and proceeding to the study. He entered the musty, dark room and lit a lantern, then made for the bar. He poured brandy, not yet noticing the canvas in the middle of the room that rested upon the easel. Nikolas waited at attention in the hallway outside the study.
After drinking the brandy in one swig, Papa poured another and turned to Nikolas. "Aren't you supposed to be in bed?"
Nikolas said nothing, instead looking past his father at the painting, then back. Papa turned to where Nikolas glanced, seeing the painting.
"I spent weeks on it. I wanted it to be a surprise." Nikolas beamed with pride. "Happy birthday, Papa."
The words that left Papa's mouth in response were not what Nikolas expected.
"You came into my study."
Nikolas watched his father tense, his right hand tightening around the glass, his left hand making a fist.
"I know I'm not allowed, but I wanted you to see it when you came home."
Papa turned toward Nikolas, eyes cold and angry.
What followed was the beating to which Nikolas learned to compare all future injuries. Mercilessly, the fists that came down on his ribs and face were all the more painful because they were imposters, traitorously replacing the hugs, kisses, and words of affirmation that Nikolas had hoped for. He'd expected "You are such a good painter," and "I love you, son." Instead, he endured "You worthless fool," and "How dare you!"
Papa dragged him, bleeding and broken, into the backyard and forced him to burn the painting.
Nikolas spent weeks in bed as Mother tended to him with bandages, salves, and gentle songs. She fed him pudding and soups until he could eat solid food again. The pain in his jaw lingered long after the rest of his body had healed, but his back was never quite the same, the pain of standing upright forcing him to walk with an even more unusual gait than he already did. Nikolas didn't enter the study after that, didn't meet his father at the doorway when he came home, and no longer called him Papa. When the man died, years later, Nikolas shed no tears.
And he never painted again.
Minister Vorick turned from the art, recalling the pain of his father's discipline as if it were the seeds of greatness. The day he received that beating was the day he received the only thing of value his father ever gave him. A gift of truth, a forced awakening, a devastating hammer of practicality that shattered idealism and dispelled foolish ambitions. It had freed him to pursue better things.
"Minister?"
Vorick turned to find a page at the entrance to the spacious throne room.
"Thank you for waiting," the page said. "She is ready to see you now."
When Vorick entered the room, Queen Mellice was standing in front of her throne, speaking with a girl in a red dress. The queen herself wore a lavish burgundy gown that stretched at the seams to accommodate her generous form. A modest silver crown adorned her head, failing to hide her thinning hair, or distract from the many wrinkles upon her brow. A tray of cheeses, chopped apples, and honey sat on a small table not far away, along with cups, saucers, and a pot of something that was steaming. As Vorick approached, he recognized the youth's delicate features. It was his daughter, Kayna. It had been several days since he'd last seen her. He chided himself for his inattention to the girl, but his brief self-deprecation was quickly overcome by new questions.
Why was she here with the queen, and why had she dyed her hair black?
"Ah. Minister. Thank you for coming. I was just speaking with your daughter," said the monarch. Vorick gave Kayna a puzzled look. "I invited her to tea, and she accepted."
Kayna smiled wryly in his direction and performed an abbreviated curtsey, then moved away to stand near the table.
"Walk with me," said Mellice as she grabbed Vorick's arm.
They strolled across the cavernous room as fast as the queen could manage, far enough to avoid eavesdropping. The queen released Vorick and gestured for him to stop.
"I have heard some disturbing news," she started.
"I'm sorry, Majesty, how may I help?"
"The Frozen Lands. I'm told that Roska barbarians have taken Bann."
Vorick had discussed the matter with the queen weeks ago, but her growing dementia must have stolen the memory. She was becoming politically irrelevant but still held significant social influence. Embarrassing her was no option.
"I'm sorry, my liege. I sent word when I first heard and have not spoken with you at length about the matter." He gritted his teeth in frustration at the charade he was forced to play. "Please accept my humble apologies."
"What are you doing about it?" she asked.
"General Cross has surrounded Bann and is holding it under siege as we speak." Cross was a fine leader, and success was assured, although Vorick had not yet received a dispatch saying as much. "That upstart Magnusson will be defeated within a fortnight, my queen."
"He better be," she said. "When I let you adopt Carris' duties, I didn't expect you would adopt his incompetence as well."
The queen was referring to the former minister of war, Torre Carris, one of the laziest leaders in the Great Land. He had grown fat and happy on high living, and when Vorick decided to clean house, it was easy to concoct evidence of treason. The fall of Carris, the many arrests and executions, and the assimilation of the bureaucracy into the Ministry of Justice was something about which Vorick held great pride. He found it humorous that she claimed to have ‘let him’ adopt Carris' duties. That was entirely his own idea, and he had not sought permission.
"I assur
e you, victory is imminent. I would not think of disappointing Your Majesty." Vorick gave a slight bow.
"That's not all I wanted to speak with you about, Minister."
Vorick raised an eyebrow in curiosity.
"Your daughter."
This was a gentle subject, and Vorick was ill prepared for it.
"The girl is remarkable,” she said.
You have no idea, he thought.
"I'd like her to attend to me, along with my other ladies."
"Um. Of course, Your Majesty. But she has school and other duties, so I don't know where she'll find time."
"She will make time. I have tutors. Her schooling will be better than ever. She will have a room in the castle, and I will expect her to stay several times a week."
Vorick needed to have a talk with the girl. She maintained a strict schedule at the university and was tired at the end of most days. How had she found time to weasel her way into the queen's good graces? Kayna at court could be a disaster for him.
"Certainly, Majesty. I'll let her know."
"Oh, don't bother. I already did," the queen said as she walked away. "And now it's time for my tea."
Vorick took the queen's sudden departure as the dismissal it was, and on his way out walked close enough to Kayna to give a disapproving look. The young woman returned his gaze unflinchingly, along with the same devious smile she had used to greet him a few moments earlier. As if to accentuate her defiance, Kayna welcomed the queen to the table by grabbing the crook of the woman's arm, smiling delightfully, and leading her to a seat. She then tossed a wink back in Vorick's direction.
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