by G. B. WREN
Loran usually found her strolls through the hidden corridor by candlelight relaxing. The rounded ceiling was tall—with slits near the top that allowed a small amount of light to trickle in, and the walls were intimately close, though not so much that it felt constricting. But her experience with Topen had her consciousness reeling.
“Magic,” she growled.
By the time she arrived at the end of the passage, she had almost convinced herself that he was just playing a game with her, merely appeasing the sovereign’s daughter, she figured.
Her candle illuminated the rearward side of a wall alcove, the front, at this time of year, housed a vase of freshly picked flowers from the conservatory. A shelf to her right provided the resting point for the candle. She examined the contents of her hand and heaved an immense sigh. If she was wrong, and the liquid and stone resting in her palm are just tricks, then she imagined her access forever blocked to this secret passage.
The cork glided smoothly from the bottle, and Loran deposited the substance—which moved as an inseparable mass—onto the polished stone she had carefully positioned on the shelf. The shimmering solution attached to its center and formed a rounded, pliable bulge. Loran couldn’t know what to expect when she removed the stone from the shelf, not the feeling of euphoria, or the brief light-headedness that caused her to drop the empty bottle she held to the ground.
Under the dim candlelight, Loran could still see her hand, but it seemed to have a translucent glow—that left ghostly trails in the air on movement. She rotated the stone over, and to her absolute shock, the inverted bulge did not fall from the stone’s center. It remained firmly joined and slowly shifted from side to side—as it did in the bottle.
Candlelight danced on Loran’s expanded green eyes as wonderment replaced apprehension.
“Could it be real?” she whispered.
* * *
The formidable castle gates swung open moments before Topen arrived. A small hunting party of six riders thundered out of the castle. They barely acknowledged Topen as they grew near, save one, a teenaged boy who turned to take an extended stare. After they passed, Daramose walked with confidence through the vacated entry. A youthful guard in full battle regalia, which was not necessary for his post, met him. He grabbed his bridle aggressively.
“I don’t recognize you,” he barked to Topen. The guard’s distrusting eyes took a full measure of him. “What business do you have in the castle?”
Daramose pulled back gently and stomped his hoof on the bricks. The guard increased his hold. Topen remained calm when he addressed the guard.
“I am here to meet with your sovereign, and you will remove your hand, now.”
The impetuous guard felt overly secure in his authority and cracked a wicked smile. He tugged on the bridal, causing Daramose’s head to dip. Topen steadied him and leaned forward to pat his neck.
“Easy, my friend, only a small lesson is needed here,” he whispered to Daramose.
The great stallion lifted his head forcefully skyward and yanked the guard off the ground, but he refused to let go and seized the bridal with both hands. Daramose reared high in the air and effortlessly flung the stunned guard across the courtyard.
The entryway rapidly filled with castle defenders; the steel of their swords glinted at the ready. Having just seen how easily one of their ranks fell, they were at the height of alertness, and a bit twitchy.
Topen slipped a hand under his cloak.
“HOLD!” A strong authoritative voice shouted out from an upper level. A tall middle-aged muscular man, wearing thick leather armor across his chest, had observed the disturbance from an advantaged position.
“I know him,” he bellowed.
The guards halted their advance at his command, alternating their attentiveness between him—as he made his way to the ground level—and Topen. Raised swords still lingered menacingly when Kelamar, the Captain of the Guard, arrived at their backs.
He pushed the guards aside with little effort, clearing a path to Topen.
“Put them down . . . put them down,” he commanded in a good-humored tone, while he slapped arms at the same time. By the time Kelamar reached the front of the cluster, the tension eased and the remaining weapons lowered.
“We must be careful to never make enemies . . .” Kelamar pronounced as he paced towards Topen, “. . . out of our friends,” he concluded at Daramose’s side. Topen dismounted and stood with the man with whom he was so well acquainted.
“Especially, such formidable ones,” Kelamar added and placed his hand on Topen’s shoulder in a gesture of trust and respect.
“It’s good to see you doing so well, Kelamar,” said Topen.
A gregarious laugh flowed from deep within the captain.
“And you! Sixteen years and you look the same as when you last rode out these gates, right down to that bloody cape.”
Kelamar turned to Topen’s horse.
“Daramose!” said Kelamar as he brushed his hand down the stallion’s neck, “No mistaking you either. Still as strong and proud as ever, I see.” A rapid shaking and rising of his head was Daramose’s reply.
After Topen retrieved the bag suspended from Daramose’s saddle, the two men started to cross the courtyard when Kelamar paused.
“Take care of this horse as if he was the sovereign’s own,” snapped Kelamar to an adjacent guard. “And do not misjudge my meaning,” he warned, as he steadied a pointed finger his direction.
Though Kelamar’s finger was never near him, the guard still felt it pressing deep into his chest, and without thinking, brought his palm to his breastplate. In all of his time in the castle, he had never known the captain to bestow such a command.
* * *
The wall alcove swung freely on opening, and equally so when Loran pressed it shut from the front. A near silent latch automatically engaged. The fresh flowers in the vase facing her produced a sweet-smelling fragrance, filling this small niche off the main hall. Designed as a place for contemplation and privacy, two opposing benches sat in the middle of the room, with columns on each end that spiraled to the ceiling. On the walls, hung both landscape and still life paintings—of food, flowers, and vases—from the most notable artists in the provinces.
Holding the stone tightly, Loran stepped into the niche—enamored with the ghostly trails of her hand that she waved in front of her. A sentry passed the entry and gave a cursory glance inside before moving on.
“This is incredible!” Loran whispered, having not noticed him.
The sentinel stopped and turned an ear rearward. Though he heard no further sound, he retraced his steps back to the niche, only a few paces away. Viewing the entire area would normally require a few seconds at most, but the sentry was sure he heard a voice emanating from an empty room and took five times that amount to be sure it was vacant.
Loran was afraid to move. The guard hovered uncomfortably close to her face. She brought a cupped hand to her mouth. He can’t see me! She thought, when he continued to peer straight through her. When he moved on, Loran vigilantly did the same.
Gliding into the main hall, Loran bowed with playfulness to all the occupants she came across, including a few of the larger statues. She ran down the hall creating trails with her arms that only she could see. A sudden realization struck her when she noticed the puzzled look on a group of chambermaids’ faces, who watched the floor as she passed; her shoes were tapping when they hammered on the marble floor. Freeing her feet of their coverings took but an instant, and a spirited dash—while she suppressed the urge to laugh—took her the final distance up the curved stairs to her chamber.
Loran placed the stone on her dresser, and the moment she released it, she saw her reflection form in the oval mirror centered upon the bureau. The feeling of euphoria subsided and lucidity once again dominated her young mind. She examined the liquid on the stone, which had dimmed its luster and transformed to near blackness.
“Miss Loran?” said a chambermaid, standing a f
ew feet away.
The voice behind her startled Loran and she spun to identify the owner. “Yes,” said Loran in mid-rotation.
Standing before her was Claire, the chambermaid recently assigned to her. Slightly overweight, and with plain features, Claire’s resigned expression was honed over her twenty-two years in service—having begun when she was just fifteen.
“I’ve just finished putting away your clean garments,” said Claire, while she assessed Loran’s appearance through placid eyes. “Shall I draw you a bath?”
Loran was worried that she may have been detected appearing from nowhere, but Claire didn’t show any noticeable surprise. In fact, she did not even appear alarmed at her muddy appearance, she mused. Possibly, Claire’s new station made her unfamiliar of what her customary appearance was, she thought; or maybe, having been transferred from her duties in her brothers’ section, her new chambermaid had seen it all and simply accepted the Avileens’ peculiarities. Whatever the reason, Loran decided to follow Claire’s unemotional lead and forego an explanation.
“Yes, thank you, Claire. I’ll bathe now.”
“Right away, Miss.”
On Claire’s departure, Loran revolved back to the stone. She found no trace a liquid had ever been present. Then, she took notice of the muddy facade displayed in the mirror: She was aghast! Did Claire assume this is normal? She wondered.
Shedding her outer garments as she whisked off to her bath, Loran could hardly contain her delight over her new discovery.
“Magic is real!” she gushed.
Chapter Three
THE BIRTHDAY CELEBRATION
TWO MASSIVE WOODEN DOORS FLEXED open before Topen and Kelamar—who then entered the vast and bright receiving chamber. Two rows of columns reached to the sky and formed a boundary for a path that terminated at the onset of four steps, at the opposite end of the room. A large ornate chair, and two lesser ones on either side, sat atop the steps on a marbled floor. Protectors, who executed their duty in silence, stood near.
A messenger boy concluded his whispers into the sovereign’s ear.
“Who is this man?” Gilvius demanded, just as he noticed two figures drawing near.
“Never mind,” he said. “He is here.”
“Forgive me my old friend,” Gilvius said to Topen when he stepped close, “I would not have received you so formally had I known sooner of your arrival.” Gilvius turned to his scribe. “Express my regrets to the remainder who are waiting, I’ll greet them tomorrow.”
“As you wish, Sovereign,” the scribe replied, and then scurried away.
“Come, sit beside me,” said Gilvius to the two men.
Topen and Kelamar sat in the chairs on either side of the sovereign.
“I fear your time is passing much too quickly, Gilvius,” said Topen.
Such a blunt statement from a man he had not seen, and whose appearance had not changed, in sixteen years did not surprise him. In fact, he would have been guarded had anything but candor coursed from Topen’s mouth.
“My sincere best wishes on the sixteenth birthday of your sons,” Topen continued.
Gilvius acknowledged Topen’s words with a nod and grateful pat to his arm.
“It’s for certain tonight will be a joyous event,” said Kelamar. “Envoys from all the regions have arrived for the celebrations.”
“Having just been informed of the guards’ behavior on Topen’s arrival, I trust you will make sure any such incident will not be repeated,” Gilvius said to Kelamar.
“I’ve had to recruit from the soldiers ranks to supplement the castle guards. A few overly sharp edges need to be dulled is all, but I pledge to you, the men will be ready,” assured Kelamar.
In an upper viewing area of the receiving hall, reserved for family and privileged visitors, sat Loran—who had just arrived after her bath. Her thumb caressed the magical stone in her hand. She was waiting for her father’s presence at the conclusion of the receptions. How excited he will be when he shares in her discovery, she thought.
Movement across the room attracted her attention. Seated in another viewing area was one of her identical twin brothers. She wasn’t quite sure if it was Gervest or Rolam, but she suspected it was Gervest, by the manner in which he stayed back in the shadows as he watched. Loran figured Rolam would have been upfront and likely waving to her from across the room.
Loran gazed down at the two men seated next to her father. The words they spoke below drifted upward in the chamber, but were just background noise to her mind—her concentration had shifted to Topen and the cloth bag placed near his feet. She would never consider drawing attention to herself in the chamber, but the urge to attract Topen’s notice was strong. Abruptly, the conversation below cleared in her head.
“—then, you haven’t told them of their birthright. They don’t know of the Avileen legacy?” asked Topen.
“Their legacy . . . what they inherit . . . I decided soon after my sons were born, this knowledge would be withheld until their sixteenth year—the age of their joining,” said Gilvius, “I wanted them to be free . . . of . . .” his voice dwindled.
Gilvius stared off in the distance; his mind struggled for the reason he would utter his next words. He resisted the urge to speak, but it was too strong.
“Of late, I’ve doubted if they should ever be told . . . if magic should ever be seen in this land again,” he spoke in a haze.
Gilvius’s remarks surprised not only Topen, but Kelamar as well. Kelamar remembered it had been barely two weeks ago the sovereign had shown excitement to him for Topen’s arrival, and the beginning of the twins’ instructions in the ritual.
“When your grandfather turned a world in anarchy into a society that lived harmoniously, despite the vast differences in the provinces, all of the enemies were contained in this land,” said Topen. “But the great castle war made you forever vulnerable . . . I’m surprised it was so easily erased from your memory.”
“I have forgotten nothing!” Gilvius yelled. Agitated, and in a forceful voice, he continued. “I have not forgotten the years you gave to help shape this land. I have not forgotten, nor has Kelamar, the many lives you saved, our own included, during the long siege on the castle. And I have not forgotten the price you continue to pay for your devotion to the Avileen line.”
Topen sensed the words Gilvius spoke were not so much directed at him, but to Gilvius himself—as if he needed to confirm he truly remembered the past. Topen and Kelamar acknowledged their concern of the sovereign’s outburst with a single glance between them.
The flare-up also startled Loran. It was the first time she had ever seen her father in such a state. She looked over to her brother to measure his reaction, but the slight tilt of his head, and movement of his lips, indicated he was speaking to someone—someone, she could not see. More importantly to her, she now realized her father, her mother, and others in the castle knew of real magic and had concealed it. Now, there is a chance that magic may be banished from the provinces—just when its discovery had opened a new world to her.
“Excuse my temperament,” Gilvius uttered. “It seems to have become unrecognizable of late.”
Topen placed his hand on the sovereign’s forearm.
“We can speak of this later. I have no desire to tarnish this joyous time for you and Leanna.”
“Yes, you are quite right,” stated Gilvius, with renewed enthusiasm. “Kelamar, would you see that Topen is given suitable lodging.”
“Of course,” boomed Kelamar. “We have much to catch up on.”
From her position, seated high above the room, Loran watched Topen and Kelamar take their leave, and she wasn’t aware of when her brother relinquished his chair, but he was gone.
Topen and Kelamar cleared the doors and entered the main hall.
“How long has he been like that?” Topen asked.
“This is the first I have seen.”
“His sons were never confirmed at their birth, maybe he fears their ability will
be absent, as it is with him,” Topen speculated.
“Of one thing I am sure, you would think Gilvius was himself turning sixteen for all the excitement he has borne for this day,” said Kelamar. “I’m sure it’s something else.”
* * *
As dusk arrived, the local quarry stones used to construct all of the exteriors of the castle—the outer wall, turrets, and towers—were aglow with the flickering of torches and oil lamps.
Two late arrivals from the Kilesen province, the most advanced of the eight, had just cleared the front gate and entered the courtyard. An older man, with graying hair and a short beard to match, and his slightly younger, charismatic wife walked smartly across the bricks. The wife, who was outwardly excited—almost to the point of being giddy—was clinging to her husband’s arm while relating some history.
“I’ve heard so much about this castle. I can’t believe we’re finally here! Did you know it has been said that guests to the inner castle are treated to architectural influences that are extremely unique. I’ve also heard that there are stones and statues here that are not seen anywhere else in the provinces, I mean anywhere!” she exclaimed, while she took in the grandness of the courtyard. “And rooms built out of timber coexist with others built from common bricks and stones—or marble and granite. I just can’t wait to see it.”
“I’ve always heard the castle is haunted,” said her husband, as he scampered to match his wife’s brisk pace.
“Oh, I don’t think so. I’m sure that rumor came from the name the townspeople gave the castle after it was built: the Castle of Illusion. Named not just for the unique materials used here, but also because objects—statues, stones, and the like—were said to curiously appear overnight in the rooms. The tales from too much wine, I’m sure.”
“That sounds haunted to me,” her wary husband asserted, as he examined the open space they traversed with caution.
* * *
Fresh flowers filled the receiving room, and a golden runner terminated at the chairs of Gilvius and his sons—Gervest and Rolam. Long thin tables stretched between the columns and were the repositories of small leather pouches—bound with a simple cord of red yarn. On their surface was an austere golden capital A, trimmed in black. It was the mark of the Avileen crest.
