by G. B. WREN
THE SILVERING
OF LORAN
by
G.B. WREN
This is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright © G.B. Wren 2014
All rights reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced or stored in any retrieval system or transferred in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without express written permission of the copyright holder.
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Table of Contents
Chapter One PRE-DESTINY
Chapter Two TOPEN RETURNS
Chapter Three THE BIRTHDAY CELEBRATION
Chapter Four BITTERSWEET SIXTEEN
Chapter Five SECRETS
Chapter Six SECRETS REVEALED
Chapter Seven DISCOVERY
Chapter Eight CONTACTS & CONSEQUENCES
Chapter Nine THE SILVERING - PART I
Chapter Ten THE SILVERING - PART II
Chapter Eleven A BARGAIN
Chapter Twelve PENLARIS—NEPSARIL
Chapter Thirteen DECEIVING DECEIVERS – PART I
Chapter Fourteen DECEIVING DECEIVERS – PART II
Chapter Fifteen THE ASCENSION
Chapter One
PRE-DESTINY
Present Day
FROM A VERY YOUNG AGE, Loran Avileen was taught that destiny controlled life, at least her life. She would study from the most learned tutors, and at the proper time, marry when the pairing would benefit the Avileen Empire. The Avileen’s domain extended over the eight largest and most prosperous provinces of their land.
The empire was not doing as well controlling the beloved daughter of the reigning sovereign.
* * *
As Loran neared her third decade of life, she was feverishly nurturing an obsession. It wouldn’t be unusual that a variety of commonplace desires might grab the attention of most twenty-eight year old women, but Loran’s passion was unquestionably, different. Over the past four months, she has performed an irrepressible ritual every morning. A ritual she has grown to curse for ever having been secretly exposed to her.
The pattern was always the same.
After awakening, Loran retrieved a palm-sized flat stone from beneath her pillow, slipped out of her sumptuously large canopied bed, and paced the twelve steps needed to stand before the ornate, full-length mirror her father had procured from the finest glassmakers in the Pinphon region. She slid the stone into a pocket in her garment, took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly while she stared at her reflection. Her gaze rapidly shifted beyond her feminine frame and soft brunette hair that flowed elegantly beyond her shoulders. Her determined eyes barely perceived the many pleasing features that have made her the fixation of constant suitors—ever since her fifteenth birthday. Not an aberrantly vain woman, Loran searched for greater substance. Her visual wandering ended at the reflection of her almond shaped, emerald green eyes. Her mirrored “double” gripped her moments later.
Loran started to feel . . . something. She wasn’t sure what it was, but it took her mind far from her physical existence. Her reflection became lost to her, just a faint blur in the periphery of her vision. Her statuesque body, now only inches from the mirror, stood eerily tranquil. Oblivious that she had stepped so close, Loran struggled to stay in the moment—time slipped by, her concentration wavered.
“No!”
The fact that her nose now gently touched the taunting mirror before her, only punctuated her frustration. Her hands and forehead soon joined it on the cold glass. “Not again,” she whimpered. A nearby chair provided a needed retreat and she poured herself into it. A squint back to the mirror was all she could muster.
“What am I doing wrong?” she whispered.
It was clear that no answers would manifest this day. The beloved daughter of the reigning sovereign had obligations to satisfy. The significance of her obsession would have to wait for another daybreak. But Loran knew that the dawns were numbered, and pre-destiny leaves an acerbic taste on a palate desiring sweet. That she was not going to give it dominion over her life without defiance surprised no one, certainly not her father, but the protection of the sovereign was limited, in scope and time.
Loran understood, that to change destiny’s grip on her father and herself, she must master the secret of the silvering. It was the only way to prevent evil from gorging itself on all of the Avileen Empire, on all of her world.
Chapter Two
TOPEN RETURNS
Sixteen Years Earlier
THE YOUNG BRUNETTE GIRL WITH the sparkling green eyes, who ran untroubled through the grassy meadow, didn’t consider that the brisk early autumn wind that gave rise to the goosebumps on her fair skin would be leading a closely bound and precarious storm. Such occurrences at this time of year were rare in her memory. When the first sheets of piercing rain struck, it was too late to escape the point of its fury.
Loran’s bare feet didn’t deliver much traction in the slippery grass, let alone the surrounding dirt that was indiscriminately being transformed to mud. So, it was no surprise—though a persistent cause of annoyance—that repeated falls accompanied her pressing pursuit of sanctuary. With each tumble, the meadows muddy offerings seemed to find every inch of her formerly white garments, as if a consciousness welcomed her every arrival to the mud. It was this thought that finally shaped a smile on Loran’s mucky face when she righted herself after her fourth plunge.
The nearest shelter from the onslaught was a derelict wooden shed in the forest that housed various remnants of mostly discarded pottery—cast offs from an earlier era. By the time she arrived at its decaying door, the hastily moving storm had done its worst and was steadfastly spreading its ferocity elsewhere. But the damage was done; Loran would not be able to return to the castle undetected in her present condition. The private hidden passage that had granted concealment on frequent respites from her overbearing stoical governess, would not buffer her from attentive eyes in the main hall—that had to be navigated on the way to her chamber.
“I need a strategy,” she blurted out.
Strategy was something Loran recalled her two older twin brothers constantly prattling about. She had to admit, they did seem to flourish after time expended with their father and his advisors. It never bothered her before that her father excluded her from these gatherings, after all, as the men would voice it, women are not to be concerned with such matters, she recalled. However, jealousy was a seed that nurtured itself in cold, dark places, and Loran was feeling its germination.
“What did they call that?” she pondered, and struggled to remember the name of a strategy she once overheard. The name sounded so peculiar, she thought.
Her brothers were notably fond of detailing unique strategies amongst themselves in hushed voices. Surely, these are the most powerful strategies, she would surmise. Of course, they were usually unaware that their sister was in studies nearby as their whispers provided irresistible bait to her inquisitive mind. To Loran, whispers were where the hidden knowledge of the world existed.
“Oh, Deceitius Procetuim!”
It still sounded peculiar to her, but she grasped its intent. If she wanted to retain her secretive access to the grounds outside the walls, she had to find a way to become unnoticeable to the sentinels.
Exiting the shed, Loran moved to a dry riverbed located a few yards away to scoop up a handful of pebbles. She discarded the larger stones and kept those near pea sized.
“These should work,” she proclaimed.
As she walked, she envisioned her plan to distract any onlookers in the main hall
by tossing a tiny pebble at strategic times across the cavernous hallway—to mask any attention to her. When the hall occupants investigated the sounds, she would slip between the statues and vases lining the hall until she reached the haven of the staircase that led to her bedchamber. Pretty good strategy, she deduced.
Loran advanced along a path that terminated at the south wall of the castle. The entrance to the secret passageway wasn’t far once she reached the boundary of the wall, but a brisk sprint would be needed when she broke the cover of the trees. Loran was now less concerned with any repercussions she would face from her governess, should her strategy fail—though disappointment in her father’s eyes was to be avoided at all cost—and was enthusiastically preoccupied with her plan to return to the castle, unseen.
At the edge of the trees, she gathered up her shoes from the sizeable fissure at the base of a large oak—her favorite hiding spot, and placed the pebbles inside one of them. With her free hand, Loran grabbed her dress, which was now stiff and heavy from the dried mud, and lifted the hem to her knees. Her heart pounded when she raced across the uneven road that paralleled the castle.
She had nearly reached the protection of the wall when two quick snapping sounds, followed by a clomping of hooves, announced a nearby rider. Loran swung her head to search out the noise and discovered that a single rider’s course was in her direction. He was too near for her to reach the hidden opening. She only had a moment to dart into a row of bushes that grew along the gray, stone wall.
From behind the sticky twigs, Loran peered out to identify who might have observed her. Instead of a passing rider, she witnessed a majestic horse pause at the vegetation she hid behind. The mighty animal lingered in line with her gaze and exhaled a commanding snort. A more magnificent creature she had never seen; a tall, silky black stallion with piercing dark eyes, without a spot of mud on him—although he surely had galloped through the recent rains, she thought.
The rider, cloaked with a hood that obscured his face, sat motionless while he seemingly gazed at the distant castle entrance. Even from her crouched position, Loran could tell he stood a great height. The long dark cloak he wore, with the edges overturned across the back of his horse, revealed a lining of light, shiny material. She didn’t recognize his style of dress, maybe the Soronyen province, she supposed.
“Hello, little miss. Do you need some assistance?” the stranger inquired, without turning his head.
Having always held compassion for woodland creatures, Loran felt she recognized the sensation deep within her. She had perceived it many times in the eyes of captured prey, displayed triumphantly on their way to slaughter. But recognizing fate, and accepting it are vastly different things, and the latter wasn’t sitting well with her.
“Miss?” The stranger repeated, as he lowered his hood.
Loran could discern the rider’s facial features, handsome, with brown hair awash in sunlight. She guessed his age to be near thirty. Clearly, her strategy didn’t account for this event, but maybe her plan didn’t have to end with the stranger’s arrival, she thought. She rose and staggered out of the bushes.
“Hello, sir. Your offer is kind.”
The stranger took an assessment of Loran’s appearance. Perhaps she’s the daughter of one of the castle defenders, is what first came to his mind. He dismounted his steed with ease, and Loran backed up a step when he crouched down to meet her eyes.
“May I ask your name?” he inquired in a reassuring voice.
“Loran,” she responded, surprised by how quickly she reacted to his request.
“Loran . . . that’s a beautiful name.” He stood and surveyed the walls.
“Do you live in the castle?”
“Yes, of course,” she snapped.
She thought the question was odd, though being terse was not her intention. But her disheveled appearance would not alter the years of her governess’s teachings that stressed reverence of the Avileen bloodline. Besides, even strangers who come to the castle know the name of the sovereign’s daughter, she thought, even if she is covered in mud.
“Have you lost your shoes?” asked the stranger, when he noticed her bare feet.
Loran knew well that her shoes were in the bushes, but her impulses still compelled her to check her feet anyway.
“You ask a lot of questions!” she snapped.
The stranger shared an amused smile.
“Yes, you are correct. I have neglected my manners. My name is Topen. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Loran.”
“Are you one of my father’s advisors?” she probed.
“I am here to offer what advice I can. Who might your father be?”
Loran wasn’t sure if the stranger was teasing her or truly unaware. It’s possible he wasn’t a subject of the Avileen Empire, she reasoned, but even so, he was traveling to the sovereign’s castle, so he must know his name.
“My father is Gilvius,” she declared.
Topen was familiar with that name. His reaction to it was not undetected by Loran. However, what she perceived from him was not fear, or even a respect of her father’s name, but a puzzlement that resonated from his eyes.
“Then, your name is, Loran Avileen,” Topen confirmed.
“Yes.”
Topen couldn’t imagine any ruler would wish his young daughter to be alone outside the protective walls of the stronghold, and absolutely not in such a dismal condition. He wondered what—beyond the presence of an unknown addition to the Avileen lineage—had occurred in his long absence.
“Would you like Daramose to take you to the gate? I’m quite sure he would appreciate the company,” he remarked, and patted his mount on the neck.
Under most conditions, she would delightedly take any opportunity to ride a horse—much to the consternation of her father, but Topen’s question returned Loran’s focus to reaching her endpoint.
“Um . . . no, thank you, but do you have an extra covering you could part with?” She requested. “I promise to promptly return it before you leave the castle,” she quickly added.
Though Loran was not accustomed to pleading with strangers, she found this occasion to be surprisingly agreeable.
Topen sympathized with the youngest of the Gilvius line. He had no covering he could offer her, but he possessed something much more beneficial, something only an Avileen descendent would be able to use.
“I’m sorry, Loran. I’m traveling modestly, but—” Topen reached under his cloak and retrieved a petite, polished stone from a pocket within and handed it to her. “Take this,” he instructed.
She examined the object. It was pleasingly flat and cool, with a depression in the middle that was an exact fit for her small thumb—which she spontaneously massaged against the smooth rock.
Draped around the horn of Daramose’s saddle was a cloth bag that Topen retrieved. With care, he extracted a single diminutive bottle from within it, one of many the pouch contained. The grayish, lustrous contents moved slowly within the bottle at its tilt. He delivered it to Loran. She was still inexplicably enamored with the stone when she accepted the bottle. Topen sensed the bond she formed with his gift.
“The stone is magical,” he proclaimed.
Loran thrust her hand, with the stone resting on her palm, toward him.
“Magic isn’t real.”
“You’ve never seen magic?” Topen asked, as he closed her hand around the stone and gently pushed it back to her.
“I’ve seen tricks,” she said. “The best magicians in the eight provinces come here every year for festival. There’s always something new to see, but it’s always a trick.”
Topen thought her pragmatism, though useful, could also be stifling for such a young mind.
“Okay, let’s call it a trick. However, it’s a very good one. I’m positive you’ve never seen it before,” he assured.
Topen braced the hand Loran used to clutch the bottle.
“Pour all of the contents of this bottle into the cavity of the stone. The liquid
will hold to the rock and will remain there until it has completed its usefulness,” he said.
“What is it supposed to do?” she asked, with a cynical stare.
“First, you must know that the effect will be fleeting, only minutes. As it dwindles, the liquid will darken, and then turn black before it’s consumed by the stone.”
“Yes, but what’s it supposed to do?”
Topen ignored her question and turned to his splendid horse, stepped into the stirrup, and swung a leg over Daramose’s back. He secured the reins in his hand.
“It will make you invisible,” he divulged. “Best of fortunes, Loran Avileen,” said Topen as he parted.
He pressed his heels to Daramose’s side and the stallion responded with an enthusiastic bolt down the well-worn road. Loran stood perplexed while Topen’s image diminished with each stride of Daramose’s powerful legs.
Loran returned to the bushes to recover her shoes, and the rounded pebbles they were sheltering. With her feet now securely covered, she arrived at the hidden entrance—with pebbles in one hand and the polished stone and bottle clutched in the other. She pressed the bottom of her fisted hands against two strategically placed stones in the wall and shoved, with no discernible result. She tried again with greater force and the stones yielded; a pivot point on this section of the wall released and fashioned a doorway. Loran entered and secured the wall section behind her. The thick candle she had left on the stone ledge in the passageway was still burning brightly near the neighboring fire steel.
Choosing which strategy she would carry onward was difficult for Loran. Her internal struggle between practicality, and what she considered fantasy fairy-tales, fueled her back and forth pacing. As she crisscrossed in front of the bright candle, the same words kept rolling about in her head: It will make you invisible. Finally, she committed and approached the ledge supporting the candle. Holding her hand a few inches above the shelf, her tight grip waned, and the pebbles—that had made this protracted journey with her—danced on the hard stone below.
