The Silvering of Loran

by G. B. WREN

  Michael conversed with the young woman seated to his right, and then his eyes suddenly fixed on Loran. She averted her eyes before they could lock. When she finally reached her table, Michael was standing and had pulled her chair out for her.

  “Thank you, Michael,” Loran said with a practiced smile.

  “You look beautiful in that dress.”

  “My mother will be pleased you think so, she brought it back from your family’s province,” Loran replied, and seated herself.

  “I had heard that you and your mother traveled there recently. I’m sorry I missed you.” Michael lowered to his seat in a gradual motion while he coveted Loran’s beauty. “But you know . . .” he leaned in closer, “. . . with the rumors floating around this place, you would think you made the trip just to see me.”

  Loran resisted the urge to roll her eyes or any other such mannerism revealing her displeasure at his comment. She had decided that tonight was for her and her mother; she would do her best that her actions this evening would not cause any scandal.

  A lone figure standing near the entrance doors drew Loran’s attention. After she discerned he was wearing a cloak, she abruptly rose from the table and Michael shadowed her action.

  “I’m sorry; there is someone I must see. Please be seated and enjoy yourself. I’ll be right back.” Loran flew from the table and chose the most direct path to the entry doors. More than a few eyes noticed her rush out of the room, and whispers permeated the air.

  Topen’s intent was simply to gaze in the room to see if Loran was present. He was surprised when he saw Loran closing on his location. He stepped back from the doors and stood in the middle of the darkened hall, just moments before Loran occupied the space he had just abandoned. She peered in all directions and did not detect his obscured form. When she finally sighted him, she hurried over to where he stood.

  “Topen!”

  When Loran was an arms distance away, she realized her urge to embrace him was overpowering. Even though Topen did not deter her affection, he did not return the same warmth as Loran exuded in their embrace. But it did not matter to Loran; the closeness satisfied her none-the-less.

  “You have changed much, young Loran,” Topen observed at the parting of their embrace.

  “Not so young anymore,” she pointed out.

  The knowledge Topen now held from his conversation with Leanna put a sharp point on a dialogue that would normally flow easily.

  “Won’t you come in and join us?” Loran pleaded.

  “I would not wish to disturb this most delightful evening with your friends,” said Topen. “I had meant to speak with you when your festivities ended.”

  Loran took Topen’s hand and attempted to lead him to the ballroom, but his feet stayed anchored to the stone floor.

  “Oh, come on, I promise it will be fun,” Loran assured.

  Topen gripped Loran’s other hand and studied her emerald green eyes. Loran’s face first reflected her puzzlement, then her apprehension as she became anxious over Topen’s next words.

  “The passage of time is more mysterious than we can conceive, and we are all controlled by it. Sixteen will never return in your life. My wish is that you will live it with all the joy it affords you, for it will not always be so.”

  Topen released her hands before he spoke the next words he knew she would not want to hear.

  “I must leave tonight.”

  “Why must you leave?” implored Loran. “Why . . . ?”

  Loran knew her questions were pointless, that Topen was not the type of man who succumbed to questions he chose not to answer. Surely, she reasoned, he would answer the next one.

  “When will we see you again?”

  “Nothing is for certain, and I dare not make a pledge I would not keep.”

  “Then make one you will keep. Tell me that we . . . I, will see you again.”

  Topen found the promise he made to Leanna in conflict with the one desired by Loran.

  “This much I can assure. I will not abandon your family. The Avileen bloodline will forever hold my greatest concern. And I would never leave a plea for assistance, from any of you, unheeded,” Topen proclaimed.

  Though not the pledge she would have liked, Loran found much comfort in his words.

  “Best of fortunes, young Loran,” said Topen, and then departed.

  Loran’s heart fluttered when Topen began his trek down the hall. He paused and rotated back to her.

  “Remember, that despite not always seeming so, your parents will always hold their greatest hopes for you.”

  Loran waved and Topen responded with a raised hand.

  The music from the ballroom floated into the hallway where Loran stood. Topen glimpsed back at the intersection of the next corridor and discovered Loran still watched him. She pulled her hand close to her face and waved again. Topen bowed, slipped his hood over his head, and faded down the hallway.

  Chapter Five

  SECRETS

  Five years—‘till present day

  LIFE IN THE AVILEEN EMPIRE was absent any major disruptions in the seven years since Topen had last visited the castle. Rolam had taken a greater interest in the administration of the provinces. Gervest seemed more content to spend his time studying in the library and taking extended travels, lasting months, with Penlaris. No one knew for sure where their travels took them, since Gervest was usually evasive when asked.

  Accounts of changes in the sovereign’s accessibility were rampant in the empire. Gilvius had begun to reduce his travel beyond the closest towns. Concern was also growing over his health—his appearance presented a man a bit older than his years.

  * * *

  Loran’s chamber in the castle had not seen much change, with the exception of the paintings that decorated her walls—commissioned from a local artist. Loran found her tastes at twenty-three had veered into mysterious landscapes and depictions of lands she could only visit in her imaginings. What was noticeably lacking in the décor were any of the many gifts her suitors had lavished on her—with the expectation of making a favorable impression. She had just one gift that she cherished every day, and it was currently in her hand, where her thumb rubbed against the smooth indentation of the stone Topen had given her.

  The excitement that magic existed had simmered, but not left Loran. When she relished in the memory of being invisible, a secretive smirk formed with her lips.

  A guard stepped up to the door of Loran’s chamber and knocked on it solidly. A skinny older man with thinning hair, who struggled to tote two large framed canvases, trailed behind him. It was Holt, an artist of some repute, who lived in Avilbrook, the town closest to the castle. When Loran pulled the door open, her gaze immediately rested on the wooden frames that wavered in Holt’s hands.

  “You’ve finished them!” Loran exclaimed.

  Holt responded amid a quick respectful nod and winded breaths. “Yes, miss.”

  “Please, come in, I must see them in the morning light.”

  Holt struggled to bring the paintings through the door, even as the guard began to withdraw—after a dispassionate observation of his exertion. Loran stepped in to assist Holt with the heavy wooden frames.

  “Did you carry these up here all by yourself?” Loran asked in amazement.

  “My son was not able to accompany me today, and I knew how anxious you would be to view the completed canvasses,” said Holt, “And, if I may be so bold, I did not want to disappoint you, miss. Your family has always been so generous in supporting my work.”

  “You give us far too much credit. We are the fortunate ones to have such a skillful artist so near.”

  Loran retrieved the largest canvas from Holt’s grip and carried the painting over to her bed, where she placed it flat and allowed her eager eyes to probe for a familiar figure. And there he was; he stood on a mountaintop, the hood of his cloak—which flowed in the wind—was drawn over his head and partially obscured his face, but not his eyes, which peered from beneath the cloak
and pierced the viewer. In the figure’s hand was an object not easily discernable to those without a keen eye—a small stone. The colors were so vibrant; Loran felt that if she touched the figure in the painting, he would know it.

  “Oh, Holt. You have outdone yourself,” Loran professed. “You have brought him back,” she whispered.

  “Miss?”

  Holt stood beside her and steadied the other canvas.

  “Oh, let me take this,” said Loran as she removed the frame from Holt’s grip and made room for it on the bed.

  The second canvas depicted a majestic Manor with multiple levels, surrounded by tall trees in the distance. White rail fences secured green pasture on either side of the road leading to the entrance of the estate. In the foreground of the field, was a sleek black stallion with piercing dark eyes, displayed in all his grandeur. As in the other painting, the vibrant colors drew Loran into the canvas. She was almost sure she saw Daramose shake his head.

  Holt watched Loran viewing the paintings. She touched them in areas when the urge to do so seized her.

  “I have never in my life had such detail given to me when commissioning my work,” said Holt. “And I’ve never seen a manor such as the one you described in that painting. Is it located in the Pinphon province?”

  “No, prior to this day it existed vividly only in slumber,” said Loran, while she wistfully gazed at the canvas. “But it is a frequent visitor in my dreams.”

  Loran surveyed her room for the best locations to view the masterful works. Holt followed her direction and fixed upon a spot where the light streaked across the wall in a diffused pattern. Holt stepped up to the area and rubbed his hand across the stone.

  “Perhaps you might consider this location for the Manor,” he said, as he looked back to Loran. “The light is favorable.”

  Loran grinned and nodded her head in approval.

  * * *

  Seven men of various ages—the youngest being twenty-eight and the oldest, sixty-four—were seated in tall-backed wooden chairs before a round marble table in the middle of the consultation chamber. Dressed in the formal attire of their province, the styles exhibited the unique flavor of the regions represented at this yearly gathering of the sovereign’s advisors. The event had evolved into a weeklong retreat, with participation in the hunting parties and festive dining. Each advisor had arrived with an entourage, consisting of a chef, a valet, and one or two additional domestics. Of particular note was the clothing of Samuel Kileson, father to Michael. The Kileson province manufactured the finest cloths in all the regions. The black and maroon colored silks Samuel wore enhanced his toned, six-foot frame, and were striking when contrasted by his straight blond hair—that extended beyond his shoulders.

  Noticeably unaccounted for in the room were Gervest and Penlaris. It had become well known over the last two years that Gervest had less interest in the guidance of the advisors—while Penlaris was notorious for never meeting with the other counselors present, being the only one among their status to always be granted a private audience with Gilvius.

  Rolam sat near his father, but in a chair adjacent to the table. He had not yet earned the right to sit among the advisors. Gilvius, who was heading the yearly consultation, sat tall in the ornate chair fashioned from supplies procured from the various provinces. Every region was represented on the chair—be it the dark woods from Avileen forest that formed the frame, the exquisite jewels from the Soronyen province that lined the outside edge of the arms, or the fine fabric upon the upholstered seat the Kileson province provided.

  Haster, the representative of the Lanuse province, was a small older man with a healthy head of gray hair and prominent shallow cheeks. Shyness not being a quality of his, he brought forth a pressing concern.

  “Sovereign, rumors have reached our region that you are considering withdrawing this council, that you will no longer seek guidance from every province.”

  A hot iron against his backside could not have raised Rolam any quicker from his chair.

  “That’s a lie.”

  Gilvius glanced over to his son. Rolam took from his father’s eyes that impetuousness was not the reaction he had hoped for.

  “You must forgive my son, as you can see, he still retains a youthful exuberance that sometimes runs contrary to the decorum we have set here,” said Gilvius. “Let me assure you, Haster, they are simply back alley whispers that carry no truth in their utterance. This council will never be disbanded as long as an Avileen decedent presides over it.”

  “Which directs another question, Sovereign,” Samuel Kileson interjected. “Have you given thought as to which of your sons may, in the distance future we sincerely hope, ascend to the sovereignty?”

  Rolam’s attention did not waver from Samuel. Gilvius turned his head to catch Rolam’s scrutiny.

  “As you say, Samuel, the time for such decisions will be reserved for when they are needed.”

  “Certainly, Sovereign, I’m sure either of your fine sons would ascend admirably,” Samuel continued with an elitist tone. “As you know, my son, Michael, is close friends with Gervest, and even though Gervest has not attended the last two gatherings, Michael tells me that he is most concerned with the welfare of the provinces, and of this council.”

  “I’m sure Gervest will be pleased to know that he has such a fervent advocate in this body,” said Gilvius, ending any further discussion on the matter.

  * * *

  When Leanna arrived at Loran’s chamber door, she was met by Holt—who had just vacated the room with his head down.

  “Oh, excuse me, my lady,” said Holt, startled to find Leanna in his path. “I think she’s very pleased with the results!” he disclosed, and trekked toward the stone stairs.

  Leanna looked in all directions when she entered the room, searching for any new painting Holt had obviously provided. Standing nearby was Loran, still entranced with the canvas of the manor.

  “It’s beautiful,” said Leanna.

  Loran jolted at her words. “Since when have your footsteps become so stealthy?”

  “I don’t think Holt has created a more magnificent depiction. It feels . . . alive,” Leanna said, mesmerized by the realism. “Is that . . . Daramose?”

  “When I described him to Holt, he told me he knew of the beautiful black stallion,” said Loran. “Evidently, he knew him well.”

  Leanna managed to avert herself from the painting long enough to make an inquiry of Loran. “I had hoped you might like to join me on an excursion to the town. We haven’t allowed ourselves such fanciful indulgences in some time.”

  Loran knew the indulgencies Leanna spoke of were the various confectionaries only attainable from a reclusive shop in Avilbrook. She also knew her mother never risked refusal of such an invitation, since a fondness for the decadently sweet creations was a weakness she shared.

  “Let me get my wrap,” said Loran.

  Loran retreated to the other room while Leanna perused the walls to look for any additional recent displays. When her eyes froze on the image of Topen on top of the mountain, she was hesitant to move any closer to the painting; she feared it would confirm Loran’s continued fixation with Topen. But as she edged closer, another aspect of the painting drew her eye. A perplexed look accompanied her raised fingers when she touched the image of the small stone Topen held.

  “How does Holt know about the stones?” she murmured.

  “I’m ready,” said Loran, on re-entering the room.

  Leanna spun around.

  “Then, our carriage awaits.”

  Leanna extended her bent arm and Loran slipped her hand around it. When they arrived at the doorsill, Leanna took one last look at Topen’s painting before she secured the door behind her.

  * * *

  The cobblestone streets echoed, in a rhythmic fashion, the hooves of the four horses that pulled the coach containing Leanna and her daughter through the wide main street of Avilbrook. The lane was busy with pedestrians and riders alike—who caref
ully choreographed their movements as to not collide with each other. An abrupt stop signaled that the adjoining street was too narrow to continue by carriage. The women exited their transport and proceeded through the narrower corridor until they arrived at a small confectionary shop with no sign.

  The brick building displayed extravagant delights in its window next to the door. That was all the notice needed. A small bell above the door announced their entrance into a wonderland of sweet decadences. Loran’s and her mother’s eyes drank in the dozens of different confections and candies displayed on tables and within glass cases throughout the room.

  Betaury, an older white-haired man, peeked out between the curtains that concealed the back room and saw the women in his shop. He displayed a vigorous smile beneath his flowing beard as he passed through the threshold separating the areas.

  “My lady. Miss Loran. It has been too long that you have been deprived of our secretive pleasures.”

  “Deprived is exactly the word I would use, Betaury,” said Leanna. “What new creations have you for us to behold?”

  Betaury looked around the shop and then unexpectedly clapped his hands together. He waved a finger into the air and signified he would return, and with the spryness of a man half his age, rushed into the back room.

  Leanna pointed to one of the three available tables. “Let’s sit there.”

  “What do you think he’s doing?” Loran asked.

  “I would not be surprised if he returns with numerous temptations for us,” said Leanna. “Temptations,” she murmured.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I noticed the painting of Topen on the mountain.”

  “I know what you’re going to say,” said Loran. “But there are no portraits of Topen anywhere in the castle. Don’t you find that strange?”

  “It is by Topen’s request that we do not recount his words or deeds in any permanent fashion.”

  “Not even his image?”

  “Definitely not his image,” insisted Leanna. “I noticed in your portrait that Topen is holding some kind of rock in his hand. Is there some significance to that stone?”