by G. B. WREN
The regular castle guards took the activity in stride. However, they heeded anyone near the sovereign or the twins. The soldier guards recruited for this event stood uncomfortably restrained in the crowds and jolted with any loud noise nearby; sudden laughter or a dropped wine glass had the same effect on them as a battle cry from an unseen adversary. At least they resisted the urge to draw their swords.
The crowded room resonated with sincere congratulatory wishes that reflected the affection the subjects of the eight provinces had for Gilvius, and by extension, all of the Avileen family. Gilvius stood to address the gathering and the many conversations that filled the room quickly fell silent.
“I and my sons, Rolam and Gervest, want to thank all of you for being with us tonight,” he began with humility. “As you all know, at sixteen a young boy enters the path of manhood, an event to be celebrated. The pouches on the tables throughout the room represent obligation and trust. In each bag are two coins—a silver kranista, which is our coin of least value, and a golden sonyee, which holds the greatest value.”
Subtle gasps and whispers rippled through the gathering. The golden sonyee’s value was approximately six-month’s earnings for many workers in the provinces and rarely traded, or even seen, due to its great worth.
“They share the pouch that contains them in harmony,” he continued. “My sons and I pledge that the future of the Avileen sovereignty will continue to be guided by both temperance and generosity in all matters.”
Exuberance filled the crowd as they applauded. Many among them shook their heads in approval of his words.
Gilvius raised a hand to silence the applause.
“Rondros Avileen, my grandfather, also made a pledge to this land, and in doing so, brought stability to a realm diseased with hate and turmoil, where the strong consumed the weak. And although war between eight of the provinces is no more, we will continue to complete my grandfather’s dream to unite all of the provinces and end all war in our land.”
Raucous applause filled the crowd. When the noise tempered, Gilvius continued.
“I ask that all of you accept a pouch in commemoration of the bonds we hold to each other, and use the wealth contained within, wisely, to the benefit of your province.”
Gilvius retook his seat and the gathered assembly began to collect pouches distributed by the castle guards—amid murmurs about their generous and wise sovereign.
* * *
Just outside the rear castle gate, various tents populated the spacious cropped grounds. Performers entranced the crowds with juggling skills and other feats of nimbleness. Displayed and sampled were varieties of food from all of the provinces. There was the feel of Carnival, but with greater intimacy and purpose.
Loran and her mother, Leanna—a forty year-old woman of startling beauty and pale blue eyes, whose long blond hair kissed the small of her back—sampled some food from the wooden table before them.
Loran noticed Topen a few yards away seated in a tall chair near a tent, brightly illuminated by neighboring torches. A portion of the regions finest wine filled the glass he held. For the first time since arriving, he was without his cloak. Around each of his wrists, he wore a wide silver bracelet with raised symbols. Loran thought they were far too ornate for battle and guessed they must be ornamental, worn for the festivities.
“He seems so distant from everyone,” said Loran.
“Who are you speaking of, dear?” Leanna replied and looked up from the table.
“Topen,” said Loran. She motioned with her hand in his direction.
Leanna identified Topen nearby. Seeing him made her eager to begin the ceremony her sons were about to embark on tomorrow. She would also no longer have to keep secrets from her children—which has been one of the few contentious issues she has had with Gilvius.
“And, how is it you know Topen?” questioned Leanna, when she realized her daughter’s casual utterance of his name.
“I saw him with Kelamar,” Loran replied, without a moment’s hesitation. “You should hear what everyone is saying about his horse,” she threw out, hoping to dissuade further probing.
Although she knew her mother would not accept it as so, Loran reasoned she wasn’t exactly lying—as she had watched the two men in the receiving room. And the story of Topen and the mighty Daramose had reached every corner of the castle.
“Yes, the tale of Topen’s and Daramose’s arrival has even touched my chambers,” said Leanna, with a budding smile.
Loran was relieved that her mother chose not to pursue any further. Certainly, she didn’t want her outdoor escapades discovered, but she also didn’t want to reveal what she had learned in the receiving room.
When Topen suddenly stood up and faced their direction, Loran imagined he must have felt them watching him. When his steps placed him a few feet away, she started to feel a little queasy and exposed her distress with a light shade of green on her face. She feared that Topen might recount their previous meeting at the wall.
“Leanna, I’ve never known a woman who wears her years more favorably,” said Topen.
“Since I know you are not a man of insincerity, and I am aware of no other with more insight to the passage of time, I thank you for the compliment.”
Loran emitted a puzzled look following her mother’s careful wording.
“Topen, this is my daughter, Loran. I understand she is already acquainted with you.”
Loran fidgeted on the grass, still fighting her queasiness as Topen crouched before her.
“Hello, Loran . . . I can say without question, the depth of your green eyes is remarkable. I don’t think I could ever forget them, no matter how much time had passed.”
Topen’s words unleashed Loran’s bottled-up anxiety, and her face resumed its normal shade.
Leanna bent over and placed her mouth close to Loran’s ear.
“Be cautious with this one, my daughter,” Leanna began, and then shifted her eyes to Topen. “His charm is known in many lands,” she said, with an ever so slight grin.
When Leanna rose to full height, she took her daughter’s hand.
“We should return to your father and brothers, we mustn’t ignore our obligations,” she announced.
Topen knew that being in the position of the sovereign’s wife was not always easy for the strong-willed Leanna. Nevertheless, her balance was noteworthy and her love for her family never questioned—by anyone.
“Until tomorrow?” Leanna spoke to Topen.
“Until tomorrow.”
Topen watched mother and daughter as they strolled through the crowd towards the castle. Loran turned her head just enough to mouth the words thank you to him.
* * *
The morning brought with it the sun’s warm glow and a slight breeze—heavy with the scent of fresh lavender that grew in the fields to the east.
The room Topen stood in was intimate by the standards of the castle, a few chairs and a single full-length mirror centered in the room. Against the wall was a small wooden table that supported the four stones Topen had just placed on it. While exact in size, each stone was unique in coloring, shading, and the veining that ran through two of them. Beside each stone rested a bottle, identical to the one he presented to Loran.
Gilvius entered the room alone. Topen turned to him as he deposited a small, leather-bound book on the table. On his release, the words on the cover transitioned to a mixture of letters and symbols—meaningless to any unintended viewer.
“Gilvius, you are the first to arrive. Will Leanna accompany your sons?”
“No,” he replied. “I wanted to speak with you alone.”
Gilvius moved to a chair and gestured for Topen to join him.
Seated across from Gilvius, Topen detected the same struggle in him he had witnessed in the receiving room, but when he began to speak, his voice was steady.
“The protection and guidance you have given to the Avileen line, from the time of Rondros, is unmatched. When Rondros’s father accepted yo
u into his family, after you had left your own, he created an unwavering loyalty in you. But any obligations you may have felt you owed, have long been satisfied.”
There is another figure in the room—an invisible man. Thin, with flowing black hair, and near forty years of age in appearance, he circled behind Gilvius with ghostly trails that no one else could see. As he mouthed words, Gilvius spoke them.
“It is time in this land to continue forward, without magic.”
His words slammed into Topen like a fist. This was the last thing he would ever want to hear from Gilvius.
“Magic is the only defense you have against magical enemies,” Topen asserted. “Since they have not been ignorant of your existence since the castle war, all generations of Avileens must be trai—”
“Enough! I have decided,” shouted Gilvius.
Topen stood and left Gilvius where he sat to collect all the items he had positioned on the table. He meticulously placed the bottles into their cloth bag, and the stones into his pockets with haste. However, the book caused Topen to pause. He deliberated a few moments, before he lifted it from the table and into his cloak.
“In four years’ time, Loran will be ready for the ritual,” said Topen, still facing the table. He turned to Gilvius before continuing, “I will return on that day to see if the years have altered your decree.”
“It is not necessary.”
“Perhaps not, but should you find the ease in which you live with your decision has changed, then all of your children can prepare,” said Topen, while he streamed across the room.
The hidden man became anxious. Gilvius spoke, not just his words, but imitated his outstretched arm.
“Topen!”
Gilvius’s voice reverberated throughout the room. When Topen reached the door, he halted his movement, but did not turn to face Gilvius.
“I have not made this decision rashly, but know this; your return will be welcomed as always, but the items you have brought today are not,” said Gilvius.
Topen determined a reply was not necessary and flung open the door.
* * *
Daramose’s hooves clattered on the bricks near the castle gate. Topen was prepared to leave, but became distracted when he detected the shout of his name.
“Topen! . . . TOPEN!” yelled Loran, as she ran through the courtyard—the best she could with her shoes on. “Don’t leave,” she urged, when she got closer.
Topen turned Daramose to face her and she came along his side.
“I have something to tell you,” she said, her neck crooked upward. “I know magic is real,” she whispered. “The stone worked.”
Topen nodded his head, but did not respond further. Although he had already sensed the stone’s use, her words confirmed to him that she had inherited the Avileen legacy.
“I also know my father may ban magic. I don’t understand,” she indicated. “Why would he do that?”
Loran removed the stone from her pocket and offered it up to Topen.
“This is yours,” she said.
Topen leaned down, and as he did once before, closed her hand around the stone.
“No, this is yours. It is part of your birthright.”
“But, I can’t—”
“For now, keep it in your most secret place. Do not show it to anyone—even if the urge to do so is strong.” Topen swung his stallion around to the gate. Daramose reared high into the air in anticipation of leaving.
“There will come a moment when we will meet again, Loran Avileen. Until then, I will never forget the depth of your green eyes, no matter how much time has passed.”
Daramose streamed out of the castle. Loran clutched the stone briefly to her heart before she secured it in her pocket.
Once clear of the furthest edge of the castle walls, Topen leaned into Daramose.
“It’s time to go home.”
Daramose galloped faster, and without warning leapt high into the air—as if he were jumping over a tall fence. At the point of maximum height, both rider and horse began to glow with ghostly trails. And with two quick snapping sounds, they disappeared in mid-air—their images replaced with wisps of trailing smoke that traced their path in the sky.
Chapter Four
BITTERSWEET SIXTEEN
Twelve years—‘till present day
AVILEEN CASTLE HAD WITNESSED MANY celebrated events in its past. Traditions, once established, were proving tenaciously rigid in their formalities—at least that was how Loran viewed it on her sixteenth birthday. She had spent the majority of her younger years trying to avoid many of the requirements expected of the sovereign’s daughter, but with greater years, came greater accountability—and obligations that were resisting evasion.
The grand ballroom was ablaze with activity. Each of the circular wooden tables throughout the room were covered with premium silks. The finest glass goblets were positioned on top—near the decorative ceramic plates. Folded cloth napkins displayed the Avileen Crest, and had cutlery deposited upon them. Long swatches of blue and turquoise fabric wrapped around the columns from top to bottom, and perched high above the center of the room was a tent made of white linen—with streaming corners that flowed to the floor.
* * *
Leanna and Loran stood side by side while they scrutinized the three formal dresses that Claire had just finished spreading across Loran’s bed. By the time Claire retreated four steps to leave the room, Loran had already decided not a single one was acceptable to showcase at the ball tomorrow night. All of the selections carefully chosen by Leanna drew little more than an upturned nose from Loran.
“These are too antiquated,” Loran declared.
“How is that possible? They were fashioned only months ago.”
“Didn’t you notice what was worn by the young women when we traveled to the Kilesen province last month?”
Astonished disbelief swept Leanna’s face.
“You are not suggesting that the casualness of dress displayed in the Kileson province is acceptable for your cotillion on your sixteenth birthday?”
“Of course I wouldn’t expect to dress so casually,” Loran responded, “but I wonder if it is necessary to be as formal as in times past.”
Leanna took the hand of her daughter and guided her to sit at a marble bench adjacent to her bed.
“Loran . . . What is it you fear?”
A few moments lapsed before Loran settled on a reply.
“I don’t know if it’s fear, but for as long as I can recall, I have been instructed on the obligations of the sovereign’s daughter. I have desperately tried to honor the expectations of me, but as we both know, often without success.” Loran rose and paced a few steps away before she turned back to her mother. “I just feel, at least for tomorrow, I need to be like the other sixteen year-olds in the provinces.”
“I understand, my daughter, but your heritage comes with obligations. You do not have the same destiny as others.”
There was that word again, destiny. If ever there was a word that carried more weight, Loran was unaware. But more so lately it felt like an anchor, resisting all efforts to let her distance herself from it.
“Is my life not my own? Must I follow a pre-designed path guided by some controlling destiny?”
Leanna empathized with Loran’s frustration and she drew closer to refocus her.
“When you give into tradition, you are honoring those who came before you,” Leanna said. She then looked deep into her daughter’s eyes. “But, do not ever lose the strength of your own will.”
Loran’s expression exposed the surprise she felt for her mother’s last remark. The moment did not escape Leanna’s notice.
“I know this may sound conflicting, but it is not,” Leanna assured. “You will need your strength in the years ahead of you. These are the years where your decisions will hold the utmost relevance, where you are able to guide destiny.”
Loran returned to her bedside and blankly stared at the dresses before her.
&nbs
p; “So much has been determined for me—my obligations, my tutoring, even my eventual marriage is to be useful to the Avileen realm,” said Loran. “How can I hope to guide destiny when its grip is suffocating me?”
Leanna joined her daughter and matched her vacant stare.
“I’ve never told you this, but I always considered one of the strongest traits I have observed in you, is the one I most recognize in myself. My passionate will may have placed me in a few precarious moments in my life, but it has also given me the means to be where I most wanted.” She turned to face Loran. “In time, you will discover where you most want to be. For now, honoring traditions will not deter the future from arriving.”
Leanna hugged her daughter, and with her arm around her waist, concentrated on the dresses.
“Which one have you chosen?”
Loran slumped her shoulders, and with indifference, pointed to the middle dress.
“That one.”
* * *
The guests who had arrived for Loran’s cotillion contributed to the above average number of occupants that filled the main hall—as well as the uncharacteristic laughter and gleeful ambiance. Rolam and Gervest traversed the hall, dressed in their hunting attire. In the opposite direction, Loran was on her way to the ballroom—having just left her mother to instruct Claire on how to care for the dress selected for tomorrow night. The conversation her brothers seemed so engrossed in barred notice of the others in the hall, including Loran.
“It’s all a matter of technique,” Gervest said to Rolam, when they almost collided into Loran.
“If you pay no better attention in the forest, the main course tomorrow will be bread,” said Loran.
“You should save that humor for your guests,” said Gervest.
“And speaking of guests, I understand that Michael Kileson will be attending,” said Rolam. “Didn’t you visit him last month?”
“I most certainly did not!” snapped Loran. “We purchased some goods and visited with his mother while in the province, but Michael wasn’t there.”
