by Ren Garcia
Apparently, the God Sperm carried the field as, two years later after a very difficult pregnancy, Stenstrom the Younger was born.
* * * * *
Stenstrom the Younger was a delightful boy; everybody thought so, including his army of older sisters, most old enough themselves to be his mother, and the younger ones as well. Dark-haired in the Belmont fashion, bright and smiling, he lit up Lady Jubilee, she sitting and watching him play with his two next youngest sisters, Virginia and Lyra, for hours on end in the nursery and about the grounds.
Circumstance, though, appeared to be conspiring against Lady Jubilee and her new son. The Wirguild of old was still in effect, and with the birth of her son, Lady Jubilee saw sinister conspiracies and hidden threats floating about more than ever. She was convinced Lady Vendra in far away Remnath was at it again in earnest, and, even though the Wirguild was legally only for Lady Jubilee, as with Amazing decades before, it appeared she was going to come at her son, as that’s what would hurt Lady Jubilee and the House of Belmont-South Tyrol the most.
Apparently Lady Vendra was quite patient—she’d waited over eighty years.
One evening, Lady Jubilee found a poisonous wasp in Stenstrom’s nursery, placed there in a glass vial through the window. She had a terrible nightmare of a spring-loaded, iron-jawed trap lurking beneath the sands of her son’s play area. She awoke from bed and ran to the play area, finding nothing, but was certain she’d seen the outline of it in the sand—that it was there and had been removed.
Then, one afternoon, it happened. Her son was abducted. Lady Jubilee had taken her daughters Virginia and Lyra, along with the toddler Stenstrom, to the city to see a children’s play in the park. Virginia wanted some candy from an inviting stand. Lady Jubilee turned away for a brief moment to get it for her, and, when she turned back again, Stenstrom was gone, the remains of a Waft cloud quickly dissipating in front of his stroller.
A crowd gathered as Jubilee screamed for help. A hastily organized search of the nearby city streets found nothing.
Lady Jubilee took her daughters and went straight home to get her coach. She was going west to Remnath, to face Lady Vendra of Cone and kill her—perhaps she hadn’t given her enough credit for holding a deadly grudge. Perhaps she should have done this years ago. And if her son had been harmed in the least, if one hair was out-of-place, she would kill every last one of them.
When she got to the manor, she was surprised to find a contingent of Sisters waiting for her.
Her son was happily playing at their feet.
The Sisters told her that they had, in fact, listened to her pleas regarding Lady Vendra’s improper conduct and, by attempting to abduct her son, Lady Vendra had violated the terms of her Wirguild; therefore, it was immediately revoked, and Lady Vendra had been taken into custody and was to be punished in an undisclosed location.
The Sisters, through their Marines, told her they were glad they could help, and that her son was a joyous, beautiful boy and a testament to the virility of House Belmont-South Tyrol.
Jubilee was elated for the praise and took her son into her arms. She never had much good to say about the Sisters, and they’d nearly been her death during her pregnancy, but they had come to her son’s aid. “Whatever we have is yours, Great Sisters, for my son’s life.”
“Thank you, Great Lady,” they replied. “We shall remember that . . .”
5 The Ruins of Caroline
Belmont Manor was divided into several wings. Stenstrom and several of his sisters lived in the east wing, and his parents, along with any of his remaining older sisters, lived in the northern. As he steadily grew and became more aware of his surroundings, one thing was made perfectly clear—the manor home and the grounds surrounding it comprised his entire universe, and that universe was sternly ruled by an implacable goddess.
His mother.
Sitting at the grand table for meals, Stenstrom usually sat toward the back end where he could see outside through the Merian arches to the hillside beyond. His two favorite sisters, Lyra and Virginia, usually sat with him. The rest of his sisters appeared like adults to him, like their mother—regal, elegantly dressed in their Belmont-South Tyrol gowns, their various heads of styled hair a mixture of Pewterlock, half-Pewterlock (black and silver), and black. One of his sisters Ione had blonde hair, the burnished color of a golden candlestick, and nobody was quite sure how that happened. Ione was a blonde oddity at mother’s black and silver table.
As Stenstrom grew old enough to understand the goings on around him, he soon discovered that, though he had a great many sisters and only one mother, she was equally disruptive in all their lives. Mother, by herself, surrounded every one of them in a smothering embrace, and the situation, though apparently harmonious on the surface, was anything but.
The game was played many times over the years, with any of a number of his sisters sitting at one side of the board, and his mother, the grand-master, sitting alone at the other.
He recalled his sister Celesta sitting there properly with knife and fork in hand, her hair a gloriously shiny shade of Pewterlock. “Mother, I hate you,” she said quietly.
“And I hate you too, Celesta. And no, you shall not marry that fool from Tuk. Whoever heard of such a thing?”
Celesta sat there stiff as a board, with only her trembling utensils held in white-knuckle fingers betraying the rage she was feeling within.
His sister Nylar, sometime later: “Mother I wish to go to the schools in Vithland . . . .”
“And why do you want to go to the schools in Vithland?”
“I wish to learn mathematics. I believe I would excel at such a course of study.”
“I will not have a mathematician for a daughter.”
“But I have already filled out the required forms and passed the necessary entry exams. Please, Mother.”
“No, Nylar, and that is all, least you wish to face the knife.”
Knife and fork trembled in her hands as well.
And on and on it went, each sister being foiled in one manner or another by their omnipresent mother. Of course, there were the short-lived rebellions, the minor schisms—the empty chairs at the table from time to time, Stenstrom’s sister Calami being the most persistent at trying to escape, at running away. Her chair was frequently empty at the table, but always—always, there was the flash of smoke, the clap of thunder, and there was Calami, dazed, bewildered under a travelling hat, often holding small suitcases and other baggage.
Always, there was the whirling about and shrieking in frustrated rage, usually right in front of everybody at the table. “Right on time,” Mother said. “Come, remove your hat and eat your dinner, young lady—we shall discuss this in more depth later.”
Stenstrom came to learn there was no escaping mother—run wherever you wanted, hide wherever you liked, mother would find you and have you home in a literal flash of smoke. He had no idea how mother accomplished the things that she did—but she did, the proof was at the dinner table—an empty chair at the beginning of the meal, an angry, trembling sister occupying it by the end.
Mother was everywhere in the manor—almost as if she were the manor—a living, silver-haired embodiment of the house. She could move silently, and she could vanish from sight and pop up out of nowhere at any given time. The shadows in the manor and on the grounds were full of mother—she could come out of any one of them whenever she wished.
Stenstrom and Lyra often played in the old Merian ruins dotting the grounds, looking through the old telescopes and old astronomical instruments left there.
“What are these things for?” Stenstrom would ask, putting his eye to the viewfinder.
And mother’s voice would answer. “They are for seeing the star that only the Merians can see. A star that doesn’t exist.”
And there she was, like a ghost.
Yet, however stern and unbending Mother was, she was also loving and nurturing, having equal time for all her thirty children. There was enough time in the da
y to tend to her children—mother would stop time and make the day longer if need be, such was her power, he thought.
He recalled seeing his sister Calami—yes, that same Calami who often tried to run away, Calami the rebel, Calami who said she hated Mother—weeping into her chest, sobbing over a man who had jilted her. “There, there,” Mother said holding her heart-broken daughter. “There, there.”
* * * * *
“Tighter! By Creation, make it tighter!” Stenstrom heard coming from his sister’s room as he walked down the corridor. He was on the prowl for Lyra—that little tart. She had gotten him into a painful wrestling hold and made him say “uncle!” earlier in the day and he was going to get her back.
The door to his sister Constance’s room was ajar, and a yellow beam of light came spilling out. He peeked in.
Inside was Constance’s large bedroom with an open terrace and a view of the sea. Constance was sitting at her parlor, apparently getting ready for a night out. His other sisters Jonnia and Ione—the weird blonde-headed sister—were there attending to her. Jonnia was working on Constance’s hair, and Ione was pulling on the strings of a tight corset, squeezing Constance into a painful, sunk-in hourglass shape.
A holo-terminal image spun on the boudoir—the image of an oddly dressed, green-haired woman was illuminated there.
Ah!—there were Virginia and Lyra sitting cross-legged on the floor watching.
He crept up and got Lyra from behind, pulling her backwards. She managed to turn around and they were arm in arm, rolling about on the floor. Though Lyra was several years older, Stenstrom had matured to the point where she couldn’t muscle him around anymore. He pinned her down, though she struggled fiercely.
Constance turned to them. “Will you two cut it out!” she hissed. “If you want to fight, go outside into the hallway and fight. This is important.”
Stenstrom had a powerful respect and a bit of awe for his sister Constance. She was seven sisters down the line and, to him appeared as a fully grown woman. She was tall and broad-shouldered and carried herself in a distinctive manner. He let Lyra go and they seated themselves next to Virginia, who was eating from a bowl of fruit. She offered a piece or two to Stenstrom and he took them.
“What are you doing?” he asked as Ione continued pulling on Constance’s corset.
“I’m leaving,” she said. “I’m going Carofab.”
“What? Why?”
She sighed, both from Stenstrom’s question and from the tightening of the corset. “Because . . . I need . . . to go. I need to be my . . . own person. I’ve had enough.”
Stenstrom gazed at Constance. She looked odd. Jonnia had made her face up in thick white makeup, especially around the eyes, which were heavily highlighted in black. Her cheeks also were deeply rouged. Her Pewterlock hair was pulled into a strange style and painted a distinct shade of fern green. She appeared to be making herself up in the image of the green-haired girl floating in the holo-terminal.
Ione, her foot placed at the small of Constance’s back, tied off the corset. Turning a slight shade of red, Constance stepped into a black silk garter inlaid with sequins. She pulled it up to mid-thigh and arranged it.
“What’s that thing?” Stenstrom asked.
“It’s my attempt to duplicate a VERY MARY.”
“A VERY MARY?”
“You’re full of questions tonight, aren’t you, little brother?” she said.
Ione then fetched Constance’s gown. As she put it on, Stenstrom could see the frilly, somewhat garish gown wasn’t what his sisters usually wore. Again, just like the holo-terminal image.
“Before you ask, this is a Caroline gown, Bel,” she said, touching up the black makeup around her eyes. “I’ve spent months putting it together.”
“What’s a Caroline?”
“An old House that went Xaphan long ago. Their ruins still stand to the west in the Halalands. As the story goes, every so often, a Caroline maiden will simply pop up out of the blue amid their ruins. That’s the VERY MARY—that’s how it works. If a Caroline maiden gets into trouble, the VERY MARY zaps them back to their ancestral grounds. Gentlemen seeking a bride often go there bearing gifts, hoping to encounter one. I’m going out there tonight and I’m going to win a love—I am going to go Carofab. I’m going to pass myself off as a Caroline maiden. I heard Lord Trevor of Howell shall be out there tonight, and I am going to meet him amid the ruins, disguised as a Caroline.”
“What if a real Caroline lady shows up? I heard that actually does happen sometimes,” Ione said, tying up Constance’s gown.
“Then Lord Trevor will get a show—I’ll scratch her eyes out right in front of him if I have to.”
Constance stood, looking odd and rather austere in her Caroline gown, weird hair and heavy makeup. “All right, I think I’m ready.” She shook her hand and produced, out of thin air, a small, round mirror. She looked herself over. “Yes, yes, I am ready. Oh, this is so exciting!”
Stenstrom was confused. “So, you said you want to be your own person?”
“Yes.”
“So, you’re going to do that by pretending to be somebody else?”
Constance stopped and thought a moment. “I am going to be my own person . . . by . . . pretending to be someone who doesn’t have our mother. How about that?”
That made sense to him. “Oh,” he said.
Constance went to Ione and hugged her. She moved on to Jonnia and hugged her too.
“Mother will not allow this,” Stenstrom said. “She’ll have you back here in no time.”
Constance turned to Stenstrom. “Will she?” She pointed to the door. “Look there.”
Stenstrom turned to the door. When he looked back, Constance was gone—vanished.
“Constance?” he asked.
“I can do what Mother can do, Bel,” came her voice from behind him. “And, I know her tricks—I know how to avoid the Maidens.”
He looked behind and there was nothing there. He felt a hand touch his shoulder and there she was, all strange-looking again.
She smiled, knelt down as best she could and gave Stenstrom, Lyra and Virginia a common hug. “Oh, you three little sprouts, how I love you. Be good to each other, and don’t let Mother put an end to all of your dreams. Promise me that.”
“When will we see you again, Constance?” Virginia asked.
“I don’t know. If all goes well, possibly never.”
With that, Constance vanished again. Her voice called back on a cloud. “Farewell . . . .”
* * * * *
Constance’s sad parting was a bit overly-dramatic, as Stenstrom soon learned. He would see his sister Constance again, many times, she sitting at the table on holidays and at other times with her new husband, Lord Trevor of Howell. Though he heard that Mother had been enraged at Constance’s antics—passing herself of as a wayward Xaphan maiden—she apparently found favor with Constance’s bold inventiveness, and Lord Trevor was welcomed to the family warmly.
In later years, Stenstrom would wonder if Lord Trevor ever realized that his Lady Constance, the woman who appeared before him in the ruins of Caroline manor was not, in fact, a Caroline. He had to, as he didn’t seem to be a complete idiot. He wondered if it really mattered. He’d gone out there to find love, and his mission had been accomplished.
6 The Blood Promise
Lady Jubilee was a smothering blanket, protecting Stenstrom from every harm and perceived threat she could. It could have been that Lady Jubilee, in her fearful mind, was seeing things that weren’t there. She continued to see threats coming for her son left and right, from the incarcerated Lady Vendra. If Lady Vendra’s hope was to create uncertainty and panic in Lady Jubilee’s mind, then she had succeeded. That had to be the most fiendish revenge of all.
Under Jubilee’s watchful gaze, Stenstrom grew into a strong boy, bright-eyed and eager to meet the world around him. Though he was several years younger than Virginia and Lyra, he was fully able to keep up with them, his body a
nd face only marginally addled with the childhood Puffies. Lyra, a certified tomboy and self-proclaimed ‘Son of Belmont-South Tyrol’ at first resented Stenstrom, loudly denouncing him as an intruder. However, as he began to show his prowess, Lyra warmed to her brother and accepted him as “one of the guys.”
Stenstrom grew up in a virtual bubble. Smothered by his fearful mother, all he knew was the confines of Belmont Manor and its lands. He rarely got to see the city hugging the coast to the north, and almost never was placed around children his own age. He knew his mother and father, his older sisters, Virginia and Lyra, and the house staff, and that was all.
They were the only people inhabiting his lavish but rather small world.
One thing soon became very clear: Stenstrom had inherited his father’s love of adventure. He and his sister Lyra loved watching the vids and posts of bold men and women doing grand things. They thrilled to stories of adventure and quest. They followed the exploits of the colorful vigilant from Rustam—the Mad Lord of Walther, a man of apparent skill and power who took things into his own hands without waiting for the Sisters to tell him to act.
And, they turned to gaze at the stars and all the possibilities that were there. Using the Merian telescopes placed about the manor grounds, he and Lyra often gazed at the stars. They thrilled whenever they caught a glimpse of a Fleet vessel in their viewfinder, watching it soar, off to wherever.
Looking up into the sky—there was freedom, a place where their father sailed. They made a wager between them as to which would become a Fleet captain first, Lyra or Stenstrom.
And there was the steady stream of gifts that flowed in. Pint-sized Fleet coats, hats, leggings, boots, buckles—the works; certainly gifts from his father in space, hoping that his son would want to follow him someday. There were models too—of the Caroline, a proud Straylight–class warbird, the second to bear the name. There were small toothpick models, large dura-plas ones, even holo-projections with controllers. Lyra and Stenstrom tore into them, putting the clothing on and marching about like little captains, their holo-Carolines soaring through the halls. Lord Stenstrom’s son and his tom-boy daughter both had their hearts set on joining the Fleet.
