by Ellyn, Court
Guests began arriving within days. The king and queen were among the first. As soon as Rhorek stepped foot into the Great Hall, he marched to Keth’s old study, the one hung with dusty remnants of war, and demanded, “Get in here. We must have a word.”
Kelyn feared the whole affair was to be undone. He ducked into the study with an uncertain bow. The king helped himself to a flask of rich old vintage. His gestures were sharp with anger. “You broke protocol, young man. Why did you not ask me for Rhoslyn’s hand? With Harac long dead, it was my privilege. Yet both of you go sneaking behind my back, and I receive one of these as if I were anyone else.” He whipped the announcement, written in silver ink, and flicked it onto the desk. “What if I had refused this marriage?”
Kelyn clenched his hands behind his back, cleared his throat. “I would have married her anyway. That is my privilege.”
“You have that much respect for me?”
“Sire, it’s not a matter of—”
Rhorek held up a hand, and nodding, his stern, flushed face cracked a grin. “You have my pardon. Your father would be proud of the man you’ve become. As am I.”
Kelyn had no response for that. He let the king take him by the arm and usher him from the study. “Cousin,” he mused as they strolled along the corridor. “That’s a distinction I was unable to bestow even upon Keth. I am well pleased.”
The day of the wedding dawned clear. By the time the sun broke over the Drakhans, the castle was already in a frenzy. Guests complained of the heat and the shortage of ice for their cups and their baths; the household complained that they had not enough time to prepare. The kitchens sweltered with every oven and hearth burning, and in the yard, squawks of geese, shrieks of piglets, and shouts of panicked herders announced the escape of livestock meant for the banquet. Beyond the castle walls, the village green was in as great a turmoil. Lord Ilswythe had gifted his people with casks of the best wine from his cellars, and each man received a new ox to do with as he pleased, while their wives and daughters received three yards of Vonmora silk. They would drink and dance until dawn.
Kelyn’s head spun and he needed a shot of strong liquor before noon. Staring into the amber liquid at the bottom of his glass, he said, “Apoplexy.”
“Pardon, m’ lord?” asked Yorin, who stood at his elbow, seeking approval of the seating arrangement.
Kelyn missed his brother with a bone-deep ache. He wasn’t surprised Thorn hadn’t shown up. The day was simply too awkward.
Late in the afternoon, the appointed hour arrived. The guests gathered in the garden paths and atop the surrounding parapets. Etivva limped into the shade of the andyr tree. Her head was freshly shaved; her linen robes looked stiff enough to crackle. She whispered to Kelyn, “We are not waiting for him?”
“I didn’t know how to notify him,” he replied. “He could be across the continent for all I know.”
Saddened, Etivva nodded.
A rustle of whispers swept through the guests. Rhoslyn stepped through the vine-shaded arbor in a gown of garnet silk. Heavy with beading in the pattern of Night Blossoms, the gown glistened with her every step. A coronet of ivory pearls perched in her hair. Tiny garnets had been woven into the soft golden ringlets that swayed down her back. Delicate silk slippers hid her dyed toenails. Coming along behind, Lura, her handmaid, fussed with the train of the gown, and the young nurse, carrying Kethlyn, lurched aside to keep from tripping over the handmaid and the gown both.
Rhoslyn was all business, barking orders at both of them while she straightened the coronet just so. Turning to find every eye upon her, she finally paused to compose herself and managed an appropriate blush. How strong and sure she seemed as she approached the great tree. Was her stomach not in knots as Kelyn’s was? One would never know by looking. How awkward Kelyn felt. A battlefield he understood. Not so this excessively domestic occasion, nor this extraordinary lady who ruled his garden and every person in it by her mere presence. What was he doing here?
Turning aside, he whispered to Rhorek on his right, “Did you feel as unworthy?”
Smiling at the bride all the while, the king replied, “Oh, yes.”
Arriving in the wind-swept shade, Rhoslyn exhaled a deep sigh. So there it was, the display of nerves. She hadn’t relished the gauntlet of eyes either.
“Da!” Kethlyn squawked, leaning for him in the nurse’s arms, hands opening and closing in desperate need. He wore a miniature velvet surcoat of Evaronna red. The silver arrow slashed across his wee chest. How hard it was for Kelyn to stand in his place while that child reached for him. He cast a sly eye over the guests, these highborns who doted on rumor and scandal and the heartache of their peers. There were none who missed the delight he took in his son. Eat your hearts out, he wanted to shout at them. Instead, he gave Etivva the nod.
The shaddra offered a sprinkle of earth, a spray of water, a candle’s flame, a puff of breath, to the four corners of the world, then stated the agreements reached by both parties. Nothing lengthy, Rhoslyn had specified, and with that Kelyn wholeheartedly agreed. After they repeated their vow to remain bound solely to one another for the good of their people and their families, Etivva raised her arms, appealing to Ana-Forah for a blessing of long years and much joy.
Kelyn recalled the holy, enveloping Light he had glimpsed at Tor Roth; he peered up through the leafy andyr branches, half expecting to glimpse that Light again. What he did see caused him to gasp aloud. A rainbow, so fiercely brilliant that he swore he could grab hold of it and bring it down from the sky, spread banded arms over the roof of the Great Hall. Turning, he searched the crowd for his brother’s face, but Thorn was not among them. Kelyn raced up the garden wall and leaning through the crenels, searched the broad green meadows stretching toward the horizon.
For an instant, he glimpsed a quiver of air upon the highway. Perhaps he had only imagined it; the whole beaten length of the road sweltered with heat waves, after all. And yet he heard the unmistakable whicker of a horse rising from below. Kelyn raised a hand, just in case. I’m making it right. Please let this be right. He had to accept the rainbow as Thorn’s blessing and his sign of peace.
Yes, there! The sharp staccato of a horse’s gallop fading west along the highway.
Rhoslyn joined him, her face a careful mask of stone. “That’s it, then?” she asked, and Kelyn realized she was angry. “He’s abandoned you for good?”
“No. He’ll be back. When the time is right, for all of us, he’ll be back.” He hoped, though he didn’t believe it. He and his brother had always sought different paths, and now that those paths diverged, the pain in Kelyn’s heart was inexpressible. While the wedding party sighed over the rainbow and watched it slowly fade, Kelyn looked to the western horizon, watching plumes of dust rise on the wind.
THE END
The Falcons Saga Continues!
SONS OF THE FALCON
Available, Christmas 2013
As the kingdoms of the Northwest recover from a devastating war, Kelyn of Ilswythe is trying to put his life back in order. Adjusting to peacetime and life at home with a new wife and son is difficult enough, but he soon learns that all is not as idyllic as it appears. He receives troubling news of children disappearing, of dwarves locked in frenzied war against an unnamed foe, of travelers slaughtered by unseen monsters. To Kelyn, these disturbing events appear unrelated, but evidence soon proves that sinister magic is at work.
His twin brother, the avedra Thorn Kingshield, begins to unravel these tangled threads, and finds that the answer comes straight out his nightmares. Lothiar, the enemy he believes to be dead, works from the shadows, training his vast army and scheming among the courts of men in an effort to save his own kind from a tragic, inglorious demise.
Ghosts from a long-forgotten age are rising for revenge, and the Sons of Ilswythe find that their greatest battle is bearing down on them. A monstrous horde is poised to cleanse the lands of Dwinovia of the taint of humanity and avedra alike. The world of flesh and the world
of magic must fight side by side if either are to survive.
Pronunciation Guide
Consonants:
C, rarely used, as K is preferred; when C is used, it is always pronounced as K
CH/KH, in Elaran and the common human tongue usually pronounced as ‘loch’ and ‘Bach’ (example: Cheriam). CH pronounced as in ‘church’ is a rare occurrence, as in Chaya.
G, always hard as in ‘goddess.’
P, an unused sound in Elaran; of human, dwarven, and na’in speech only
Q, when found without U, pronounced as K
RH, voiceless R, almost breathed rather than spoken. (e.g. Rhithio)
Vowels:
A, usually as in ‘father’ (examples: Arryk, Dathiel). Sometimes short, as in ‘apple’ (e.g. Laniel, Alovi)
E, most often short, as in ‘get’ (examples: Kelyn, Elari, Lyrienn, eshel,); rarely long, as in ‘teen.’ Sometimes as long A, as in ‘ate’ (e.g. Rashén)
Ë, falls at the end of Elaran verbs, to denote a command. The E is not silent, but pronounced as long A (e.g. mithilë)
I, almost always as long E
O, almost always long, as in ‘open’
U, sometimes as in ‘put’ (e.g. Ulna), sometimes long, as in ‘boot’ (e.g. Uthia )
Y, when not a consonant, pronounced almost always as short I, as in ‘sit’. (e.g. Lyrienn)
AI, long I, as in ‘kite’
AE, long A, as in ‘ate’ (e.g. Aerdria, naenion)
AU, as in ‘ouch’
AY, long I
EI, long A
When two adjacent vowels are pronounced separately, they are usually divided by an apostrophe mark (‘), as in “na’in,” or denoted by two dots above the second vowel (EÄ, EÖ, OÄ, IË). The use of the apostrophe is especially prevalent in Leanian spelling preference; this practice, however, is neglected by the Pearl Islanders (example: Bano’en, Naovhan).
Stress
Elaran words are naturally stressed in the syllable first from last. If a word is stressed otherwise, the stressed vowel is marked with an accent (´); for example: rágazeth. Words of purely human origin (or Elaran words corrupted by human pronunciation habits) may be stressed in odd places and not marked with accents (e.g. Alovi=Ál-ov-ee; Allaran= Ál-lar-än.)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Court Ellyn began writing historical fiction when she was fourteen, but her preference slowly gravitated toward the fantastical. Now, somewhere between dragon dens, haunted forests, and battlefields strewn with otherworldly foes, she moderates the LegendFire Creative Writing Community at www.legendfire.com
Connect with Ms. Ellyn:
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