Son of Ereubus

by J. S. Chancellor

  “Her name is Cadence.” Tadraem pulled a chair out for Garren to sit across from her.

  “I am privileged to be here, my Lord,” she said. Her voice was hollow, devoid of emotion or sentiment — the words were nothing more than meaningless sounds to her.

  He’d not only expected this tone, he’d heard it thousands of times before, making it so much more than ordinary. But somehow, beholding it in such a private setting disturbed him. He kept a still countenance as his mind wandered. He’d asked her a few menial questions, mainly concerning various family traits and illnesses, when he lost control of his thoughts.

  “What would you say if I were to threaten your life?” His body raced with adrenaline as he realized what he was in the midst of doing. The girl looked at him blankly, her eyes as clear and motionless as still water.

  Garren reached for his dagger and rushed over the table, bringing its blade to her neck. “Tell me, do you value your life at all?”

  The girl didn’t so much as quicken her breathing as she considered his question. “I value what I may be to you, my Lord. Do with me as you will.”

  Tadraem’s hand sank deeply into Garren’s shoulder blade as he pulled him back down into his seat. “Are you looking to dishonor yourself?”

  He couldn’t recall the last time Tadraem had braved such a tone. Speechless, Garren stared through the woman before him, seeing a vision of another.

  “Undress yourself and stand before him,” Tadraem commanded.

  Cadence stood and stepped out to face them. Without reluctance, she reached behind her neck and opened the clasp to her dress, letting it drop unabashedly at her ankles. She stood blushless before them, looking straight ahead. Her coal black hair fell about her shoulders, her blue eyes set against a complexion as smooth and pale as Orbus root.

  “Does she suit your needs?”

  Garren still had trouble finding words. The girl was beautiful, and on any other day he would have been more than pleased that such a breeder would be his possession. He’d waited for this honor for some time. But as he looked into her eyes, he was reminded of another’s, a far more piercing blue, fierce in tenacity and insistence.

  “She’ll do.” Garren rose from his chair and had started to leave the room when he turned back around to address Tadraem. “I have some other matters to contend with before the day is out. Forgive me, I’m still feeling a bit fatigued from the journey.”

  Tadraem nodded, “Then you are pleased with her.” Then added almost as an afterthought, “My Lord?”

  “Much so,” Garren lied. “I will convey my appreciation to the Laionai when I go before them tomorrow to discuss our progress with the preparations. I’ll be out attending to something this evening, so don’t expect me at observance.”

  Garren made it a point to leave the room before Tadraem had the opportunity to inquire as to what it was he would be attending to.

  CHAPTER NINE

  MORE THAN

  WHAT APPEARS

  M

  ichael gazed through frosted glass to the pavilion below. Duncan’s form appeared pained as it stiffened with Ariana’s approach and subsequent response.

  He pressed the hinge so the pane gaped at the edge, just enough for him to hear the conversation, and found it disconcerting.

  So far, she defied every assumption he’d made. Unruly, dangerously loose of tongue and a hair on the bitter side — her mannerisms supported his notion that Garren’s mercy had been purposeful. As far as they understood, little infuriated the High Lord like rebelliousness, and he could not fathom her either begging for her life to be spared, or his offering her freedom willingly. Which meant only one thing. Garren knew whose blood he was relinquishing. But why?

  Garren’s own forces had obliterated Palingard — everything Ariana had ever known. Surely he couldn’t fancy this would buy him an ally behind the divide?

  Turning from the window, he started toward the hall of scrolls, grateful for the silence. Though there was little need for formal guard within their borders, he was still rarely unencumbered by the well-meaning populace he governed, often bombarded with those wishing to do everything for him from cleaning his weapons to lacing his tunics. He did at times enjoy the company, but more often than not, he regarded their intrusion with respectful silence. Since their return from Middengard, he’d insisted on his solitude — considering the Torradh had laid to rest a good many Adorians, his wishes went unchallenged.

  For the remainder of the day, he left Ariana’s care to Jenner and his wife and busied himself with re-reading Gabriel’s journals, searching, hoping for something he might have missed. He lost count of the hours.

  Sighing, he dropped the seventh leather-bound book onto the table, causing loose papers to fall into disarray about the floor, disappointed for once at his father’s meticulous prudence. He rubbed his tired eyes, missing sorely the days when his bones felt less aged, and his spirit unbroken.

  He jumped slightly as a knock echoed loudly through the room.

  “My liege?”

  “Approach.” Michael shook his head, more in frustration than displeasure for the interruption — but it apparently displayed the latter.

  “Forgive me, my Lord. I mean not to bother you, particularly after …”

  Michael hushed his prattling with a slight lift of his hand. “Never mind all of that, you’ve not bothered me in the least. What is it?”

  A man, bent over with age, stepped beyond the Adorian, genuflecting as he did so. Personable, he smiled politely at Michael, keeping his hands shyly clasped together at his stomach as he stood.

  “My Lord, this is Bronach, a historian on loan from the House of Childress in Artesh. If it pleases my liege, he has been assigned by the Council of Elders to the restoration of the Saeculum.”

  Michael nodded, vaguely recalling some business of the sort that he had delegated to several of the smaller provinces. “I see the old ways are not totally forgotten. I imagine if the mythologies were real, Bronach might be pleased that you bear his name in such a profession. Tell me though, clearly you are human, were you raised here?”

  Michael knew the remaining Braeden, if not by name, by face, and he had never seen this man before.

  Bronach nodded. “It is as you say, my Lord. I fear I have never known my birth name. I was brought here as a youngling.”

  Michael gathered several of the journals into the crook of his arm, patting Bronach on the back as he brushed past. “While you are here, you should acquaint yourself with Jenner. He finds the past absurdly titillating and would more than enjoy the company.”

  He was almost to the door, having nodded his agreement with the arrangement, and had resigned himself to finding answers elsewhere, when Bronach spoke again.

  “Am I to take it then, my Lord, that the past is of little interest to you?”

  A smirk found its way to Michael’s usually still features as he pivoted to face them. “The present and the future concern me far more than the past, which I can no more change than live eternally.”

  A peculiar grin lit up the historian’s face, highlighting his bushy blonde brows and unsettling amber eyes. “Well spoken, my liege,” he said warmly, “If you find there arises the need for an old man such as this humble servant in any other ways, I believe you know where to seek me. My labor is yours, as my loyalty is to our great realm.”

  The room was resplendent, far richer than anything she had ever seen — even the doorknobs were made of precious metal. At the northernmost corner of the castle, nestled into the side of the mountain, the view revealed a landscape she couldn’t have conjured in her wildest dreams. Instead of the plain, earthen rock of Middengard, Adoria’s white-stone mountains shimmered like crystals that had been thrown by a god onto the horizon.

  The ceiling alone was over thirty feet high. Thick blue velvet curtains hung floor to ceiling and were pulled to the side of a wall that was made entirely of glass.

  Past the threshold was a seating area that had been furnis
hed with several finely fashioned chairs and a chaise, all facing a large fireplace in the center of the room. Ariana walked to it and bent down to get a better look, discovering that she could see through it to the other side. A smile lit up her face as she peered around the corner.

  Behind the fireplace was a canopy bed made of gleaming silver. White linen curtains embroidered with delicate designs along the hems were hung along the canopy railing. Ariana ran her hands along the needlework, lightly fingering the elegant trim of the pillows.

  “This room once belonged to my daughter, and Michael of course.”

  Expecting Jenner’s voice, Ariana was startled to hear a woman.

  “Ariana, this is my wife, Lady Elspeth.”

  Ariana couldn’t recall how to curtsy, though Sara had taught her once, so she hugged her arms to her chest and did her best to look regal. “Thank you for your kindness, Lady Elspeth. May I assume you are human because you do not have wings?”

  “Please, call me Elizabeth.” She placed her hand on the small of Ariana’s back and ushered her toward a tall wardrobe. “It was my name in Dullanan. I am human, however, only Adorian men have wings. Perhaps Jenner will bore you with the story of our meeting another day.”

  Jenner was older than his wife, though Ariana could not tell how much so. If she had to guess she would say twenty years, certainly enough to be considerable.

  Though Ariana was still seething, infuriated with Duncan, she was engrossed with the events unfolding around her. Elizabeth opened the doors, revealing more clothes than most of the young women in Palingard had owned collectively.

  “These were Genevieve’s,” she said, touching a deep green dress with a scarlet cloak that hung beside it.

  “Does she have no further use for them?” As the words tumbled thoughtlessly from her lips, Jenner’s comment concerning Michael returned to her. “Oh, forgive me,” she murmured.

  Jenner smiled a small, sad smile. “She died several years ago, but rest assured, she had a loving spirit, and would have delighted in your use of them. And do not concern yourself with Michael; it was he who suggested it.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered, ashamed that she had been so involved in her own misery that she had failed to hear Jenner when he’d told her of Michael’s loss — of their loss.

  “Rest. Aulora will be up shortly to change the dressing on your wound.” He paused, smiling. “Though I sense you will fight us on this, a chambermaid has been chosen for your service. Her room is connected to yours.” Jenner pointed to a plain wooden door to their left. “Her name is Kaitlyn, and she’s there should you need anything.”

  Ariana looked down at Koen as soon as they were alone, her sentiments shifting from anger to gratitude to a deeper sorrow than she had ever known.

  “He’s really gone, then,” she murmured, her thoughts returning to her father. She sat down on the chaise closest to the fire’s warmth, curling her legs beneath her. “If it is so, then why does my heart fail to believe it?” Absently, she petted his head and neck and moved over when he settled his oversized frame next to her.

  “I feel him now more than ever.” Again, the distinct feeling of betrayal edged too close and she pushed it aside, unwilling to give it a foothold when she had barely enough strength left to deal with the grief she already shouldered.

  For some time she stared at the flames, trying to rest, working against the tension that coiled in her muscles. The unrest served only to urge her to action, and it took everything in her to will the feeling away.

  Later in the day, just as Jenner had said, the healer returned to see to her. Ariana lay on the bed, gazing at the paintings on the wall as Aulora added more salve to the wound on her side.

  Her eyes wandered over depictions of great battles, several of the keep itself. One in particular caught her attention. As soon as Aulora was finished with her, Ariana rose and stood before it.

  The city was the same save the presence of life in the painting, where it had been absent in what she had come to assume was only a hallucination.

  “I have been here before,” she lifted a hand, stopping just before her fingers touched the canvas, and traced the outline of the temple in the air.

  The healer came to her side. Ariana could feel the warmth radiating from the elderly Adorian, despite the chill in the room. “One of two nearly identical cities. Arcadia is what you see before you, Eidolon is its twin.”

  Ariana nodded. “Ruins, now. Is that all that is left?”

  Aulora grinned, turning from her, and lifted a weathered hand into the air. “Ah, but perhaps there is more than what appears. Not everything in existence is visible to mortal eyes.”

  Emotion swept strangely over Ariana, rushing up her spine and feathering out to her hands. Something rested on her tongue, caught just before her lips could form it into words like the image of a dream awoken from too quickly. It remained there long after the healer had left, leaking into her dreams as she napped in the chair.

  Their robes flowed unnaturally, like living things encircling their frightful forms. Eyes like onyx moved in unison over the expanse of the room and the dark-haired figure that knelt before them. It was Garren.

  A dull groan began to sound low in her mind as they spoke, intensifying and drowning out the clarity of their words.

  Suddenly, she watched in horror as an all-too-familiar face was brought to stand before Garren.

  Gregor. He fought wildly, failing to pull himself free.

  The sound grew sharp and piercing, the pain blurring her already obscured vision.

  “Who? Who is it that you think you see before you?” She heard Garren’s voice, though his lips remained motionless. Straining to listen, she was troubled by the sudden grief on Gregor’s face — true sorrow, and not for his own circumstances.

  Dark things moved among the shadows, tilting their heads and hissing as they turned in her direction. They could see her.

  “Garren!” She called out to him, but he lowered his head, lifting a chalice to his lips. The liquid appeared as black as night, fanning out upon his skin in tangled veins the moment he drank of it.

  A golden spiral burst forth from the ground, like two great arms, wrapping around his body — feeding from the darkness.

  “Who are you?” she asked him, surprised when he opened his eyes. He gasped, shielding his face with his arms and letting go of the cup. It crashed loudly, spilling its contents to the ground.

  Ariana opened her eyes, lifting herself from the chair to look nervously about the room. She was breathing hard, an echo of the shrill sound still reverberating in her head.

  A clearer image of his face was burned into her memory than she saw in her dream. Her skin seemed still to tingle with the feel of his hand on her arm, her cheek with the touch of his palm. She thought of it as she tried on some of the dresses, changing from the plain garments the healer had replaced her bloodied ones with into a pale blue gown, trimmed in gold, so fair in color it seemed almost silver in the right light.

  It had not occurred to her to look into the mirror before now. Having seen her reflection in a looking glass only once, the uncertain likeness on water’s surface was all that was afforded her in Palingard. She passed by the dressing table and it pulled her back to sit. A countenance gazed at her that she had not seen since she was a child. She had never realized how much she looked like her mother, despite how often she had been told.

  A young girl, whom she assumed to be Kaitlyn, came to the door to announce Michael’s arrival and ask if Ariana minded his company.

  Michael set down a platter of food and seated himself.

  “I’m not used to such formality,” she said softly, still looking at the mirror as she made light of it. “What would she have done had I declined?”

  The lack of color in Michael’s face, contrasted with the red-tinged whites of his eyes, belied his exhaustion. “I suppose she would have ushered me away.” His dour expression shifted as he took note of her apparel.

  �
�Fits wonderfully, as I thought it might. Are you comfortable? Do you need anything? I was told you were taken to Duncan.”

  She turned to look at him. “I’m pleased to hear you aren’t passing off the meeting as chance. I’m not some spoiled frolicsome lady of your courts so let me spare you the idea of treating me as such.”

  A pregnant pause hung over them, leaving Ariana unsure of what to say next. Finally, Michael rubbed his forehead with his thumb and forefinger, replying quietly as he did so, “You certainly are worldly for having been raised in such a sheltered place. Would I be correct in assuming that he was adamant about your education as well?”

  “Do I strike you as dim-witted?”

  Michael was on his feet, courteously excusing himself before she could speak again. She managed, however, to laugh with enough enthusiasm that it stopped him before he made it out of the room.

  “Wait, wait, come back. That was said purely in jest. I know perfectly well what you meant, and no he didn’t. Duncan and Bella and certainly Sara’s family concerned themselves with my education.” Her heart ached to think about Sara’s well being.

  Michael reclaimed his seat, surprised to discover that it was no longer his alone. Koen, gangly limbs and all, had made himself comfortable in the chair’s fleeting moments of vacancy.

  Michael awkwardly repositioned himself, seemingly wary of inciting more pithy comments from Ariana by asking the beast to move.

  “What little I know of Eidolon was told to me so long ago that I hardly know the truth of it,” Ariana plaited several strands of hair as she spoke, fastening each braid together like Sara used to do for her on occasion. “Is the soul of man so ephemeral that it may be stolen with simple words?”

  Michael shook his head, his eyes turned downward. More thoughts flickered in his eyes than his reply indicated.

  “Not so simple. Words are spoken by the Ereubinian who takes the soul, but the act itself is accomplished through what has physically become of the Laionai, through their connection to what is known as the Mortal Coil. The blood of Ereubus was bound to shadow by the Goddess before the ancients walked Adoria, but the Lineage are merely a conduit for transferring the souls to the Coil and because they do so, they in turn are granted power by it—the greater the number of souls collected, the greater the power. If the writings are to be believed, the Laionai feed from the souls taken. It is a dark web indeed that the Goddess Ciara has woven.”