I swallow another glass of the beverage.
“Hail, Sir Landor!”
I nearly choke on the frothing foam in my mouth. The servants always stand at attention and salute my brother when he returns home. It’s so comical that he never contradicts them.
“Not now, Evan!” Lan’s voice is as sharp as a knife and his boots stomp out a ferocious pace as they come closer – towards the “solar.”
I look around for a place to hide myself but the boots pass by the slightly cracked doorway, and I catch a glimpse of his face. Its white and sagging – like he’s lost his youth. The door of Father’s study clicks open. Silence follows. Until . . .
“He did what?” Father asks. His voice is so loud, so startled, that I nearly drop the decanter.
I should return to my rooms. I shouldn’t eavesdrop. I step out of the “solar” and face the empty hall. I glance at the stairwell and its shiny steps. I need to get some rest. But the light shining in the crack of my father’s study, the hushed voices behind it, beckon me closer – until I’m pressed against the doorframe, listening as if my life depends on it.
“Celectate Wood is seizing Lord Telman’s property and all of his assets . . . including Escar. He says the breeding of an army is very important to him and shall be one of his top priorities. No other High Lord can take such a matter as seriously as he does – so he’s going to do it himself.” There’s a slight tinge of mockery in Lan’s tone.
“The property of a High Lord must pass to a High Lord. There is no other way around it!” Father snaps. “Escar is a High Lord’s city. A High Lord’s heritage.”
“But that’s just the thing . . . Lord Telman had no heirs. His wife passed without the blessing of children. If he was low enough to take a mistress, his bastards cannot be found. The fight for his lands would create a rift between the Community as High Lords – like yourself, Father – bickered over who would acquire the lands.”
“Do you see me as a small man?” Father growls. I imagine the angry flash in his eyes at the insult. “I am not capable of breeding an army – the funds alone would cripple us. Lord Singh would be a suitable inheritor of Escar. Not only is he the High Lord of the Treasury, but he also knows how to frugally divide wealth – the creation of an army would be a small task for a man like him.”
I knew Lord Singh. He was a well-esteemed High Lord of the Community – a man with a harsh view on politics and a reputation for partaking in swordplay as well as treasury duties. I had met him twice, once at the young age of eight, and a second time when I had made my first appearance after “the mugging” at a party in High Lord Griff’s home. He had found me sitting quietly in the garden with my pens and parchment, drawing the horrors of darkness from my visions. I still remember the feel of his hand on my cheek when he sat down and asked what I was drawing. “Hell,” I had answered. He hadn’t batted an eye. Hadn’t gasped or lectured me on the qualities of a lady. Hadn’t asked why I was drawing it. He’d only looked at the drawing, pursed his lips, and then nodded. “Yes, indeed, it does look like I imagined it. Perhaps our hells are one and the same.” He had smiled, stood, and walked away. He’d never told my secret.
“Oh, perfect,” Lan groans. “You do know that Lord Telman and Lord Singh were the closest of friends, right?”
“So?”
“So by referencing him, you announce a traitor’s friend should rear an army. A traitor who had his greatest weapon – his tongue – brutally removed.”
“Lord Singh has the greatest aptitude for a task like Escar.”
“But Celectate Wood doesn’t care about that, does he? No. He cares about keeping his ass on that throne, his claws in your throats, and seducing the citizens. He cares about power. Supremacy. He wants Kelba to himself. You’re blind if you don’t see it, Father!” Lan has never sounded so furious.
“And he can’t do that with the Community breathing down his neck. We keep him in line. It’s impossible for him to act without our consent.” Father sounds so sure – but his words tremble slightly. Like the faintest breeze could decimate them.
“It wouldn’t be impossible – if there was no Community!”
Father gasps and I stifle my own. No Community? Such an idea was preposterous. There had always been a Community. They kept Kelba prospering.
“He wouldn’t dare!” Father snaps. “The Community gave him that throne. The Community gave him his power. And we can take it away!”
Even as he says the words – as the silence settles after them – the life fades from the conversation. Lord Drave. Lord Essan. Lord Telman. Five more names dotted that list. Five other High Lords. Once, the Community had been strong. It had held the final say in political matters. It had gripped Celectate Wood’s leash. Now the collar was retracting – and the Community had lost its former strength. The people were as enraged with the High Lord as they were with the Celectate. One pretty speech from Celectate Wood and they could cease to exist.
“Celectate Wood lacks the funds to abolish the Community,” Father fumbles, struggling – no, grappling – for a lifeline in the terrifying truth.
“But he doesn’t lack the power.” Lan’s voice is full of logic and lacks emotion. He’s only telling as he sees it. “He can ostracize every Community member if he has to until not one of you remains. Given a choice between the Wilds or proclaiming him a supreme monarchy, which do you think the Community lords will choose?”
They would choose life. It was the same for the people of Kelba. Rather than be ostracized, they stopped rebelling. Lord stopped refusing the Celectate. Citizens stopped refusing the lords. And fewer people were banished. Those who were became examples that we never forgot. Like Lord Telman. The Community would not want to become that example.
“It won’t happen,” Father declares firmly.
I hear him stand and duck back into the “solar.” I watch him exit the study and start up the steps towards his room. Mother must have been waiting so long for him. I’m sure he has much to tell her before they will actually sleep. I wait for Landor to turn off the study light, for his boots to stop clicking on the floor, before slipping into the hall. It is lit purely by candles and shadows dance in the walls before me. A tingling vine wraps around my insides. Those shadows look so familiar . . . look so . . .
“You heard it all, didn’t you?”
His voice startles me as he steps out of the shadows, arms crossed in displeasure. I try not to let him intimidate me. I have done nothing to be chastised for. He repeats the question and I nod.
He groans tiredly and rubs the back of his neck with his hand. “You really shouldn’t poke your nose into things that aren’t for your ears, Kyla. You have enough things to worry about without bothering yourself over father’s matters.”
Selena’s cruel words harass my mind. I have to know. I have to have the rumors clarified.
Landor’s body stiffens. He knows I’m getting ready to ask something that will surely change the simple “don’t ask” relationship we have.
“Father doesn’t support the Celectate, does he?” I blurt. I feel as if I’ve swallowed on of my physician’s horrid concoctions when I ask it.
Landor’s expression is response enough.
I know. Father doesn’t support the Celectate. Father, by Celectate Wood’s definitions, is a traitor. And traitors are . . .
Ostracized!
“Go to bed, Kyla.” Lan wraps his arms around me, and I realize I’ve started shaking again. “It will be alright. Father’s hidden it for years and shown no definite proof. The Celectate still needs him. Father possesses a fortune in white diamonds, the rarest gems in all of Kelba. He won’t throw that away for such a mere trifle as ‘disagreement.’”
He gently nudges me towards the stairs. The steps vibrate beneath my feet.
Nothing will be all right. Lord Telman hid his tyranny well. Lord Essan hadn’t even shown the slightest hint of disloyalty when he attempted to poison Celectate Wood. Lord Drave had become Celectate Wood’s r
ight-hand when he attempted to bury a knife in his side.
Father’s words, misplaced or misunderstood, could destroy him.
My room has grown smaller, and I feel cramped. My head pounds with frightening accuracy against the parts of my skull that are the most sensitive. I self-consciously touch the scars beneath my hairline, running fingers lightly over the indents. They pulse against my fingertips, creating their own melody in my ears.
Your father’s a traitor. A traitor! He can be ostracized. Ostracized!
If the Celectate did, indeed, abolish the Community and declare himself an official monarchy that would mean he could make all the rules, laws, and decisions for Kelba. Though the “Ostracized Act” had been quite efficient in handing him more control, it hadn’t completely given him everything he wanted. I had seen the hungry look in his gaze – that animal desire inside of him whenever he opened his mouth, or looked at a crowd during a “banishment.” The Community still held him at bay from what he truly wanted – complete power.
If he did gain such power and found out that father disagreed with his policies, would he dare ostracize him?
He won’t find out.
Father was a careful man. He had been playing this dangerous game between life and death before I was born.
I crawl into bed. The covers warm my skin and sleep brings its canopy that much closer. My memories play out before me as they do every night. The festival. Selena’s torturing accusations. The numbing attack. The words exchanged between Landor and I in the silence of the library. Aspen’s silent appearance from the shadows. Our conversations. Our goodbyes.
I sit up straight.
“Until next time, Lady Kyla. I hope your nightmares cease.”
Cold claws grip my throat. The only one who had mentioned my nightmares that night had been Landor when he’d rescued me from Selena’s presence. Right after Selena had mentioned the rumors about my father.
Aspen had heard everything.
Chapter V
I am different from most people. When I have pressing matters on my mind, I find a way to energize myself. It is unladylike to wrestle. It is unbecoming to run extensively.
So I throw knives.
When Landor first began his training, he came home every day with some new sort of weapon. He made himself his own personal corner near the stable walls. It was bare of grass or statues that decorated our lawn and occupied a twenty by twenty square foot space. He’d position himself in that square and practice every day, for hours. He was determined, he told me, not to bring shame on his father by failing his duty. He said he’d become adept with each weapon – and he did.
Eventually, I came out to watch him practice with the fellow trainees he would bring. They’d each try to have their own matches with different weapons: swords, daggers, lashes, and even their bare hands. They would also try to scale the barn wall, which had a height of twenty feet. Very few of them ever made it without scrapes or misplaced feet. None of them could get up in under ten seconds. The Wild boy scaled a forty foot high building within seconds, and with an ease I hadn’t seen in anyone else since.
I remember the day I made myself the laughingstock of Landor’s group. I was two days shy of my fifteenth birthday and still recovering from the attack four months prior. I’d watched my brother’s ease with the dagger. How swiftly he could aim and how fluidly the blade left his hand to find its mark. I immediately fell in love with the sight and tried to work up the courage to ask for his training.
At last, I readied myself for the task, walked up directly behind him at the water trough where he was washing the grime from his body along with his companions, and waited quietly for him to turn around.
Eventually one of Landor’s friends made a grunting in his throat and gestured at me. Landor had turned around, wiping water from his nose. I still remember how intimidating he looked, all sleek muscle and incredible height. But I wanted his help too bad to back down so soon.
“Teach me the dagger, please, Lan?” I had pleaded, taking his hand in mine, and looking up at him with earnest eyes.
For a moment, silence settled over the area. All the boys stopped splashing and turned to stare at me. Then they started laughing so uproariously my eardrums thumped with the strain.
“Hey, Lan, your little brother wants you to teach him how to fight!”
“Hey, Landor, she’s a regular tom-cat.”
“Landor’s little brother Ky!”
I remember my face burning hot with shame and tears welling up in my eyes. I looked away from Landor’s face as a red rash crept up his neck and into his face. Embarrassment. I’d embarrassed him. Something I’d promised myself I’d never do to him.
I had turned and wanted to run, but Landor didn’t release my hand. Instead, he pulled me back and his arm settled over my shoulders. He’d turned to face his companions. “Who said that?” he asked. I still remember the coldness in his tone. The fire in his eyes as he spoke. Everyone went silent again.
“Who called her a boy?” Landor asked. No one answered.
Landor had looked around at all the faces and picked one out of the crowd. “It was you, wasn’t it, Craig? You called her my little brother.”
Craig had gone white as a sheet and taken a step back. “I- I meant no harm by it!”
Landor hadn’t hesitated a second. He’d pulled me over to the square, placed a small knife in my hand, telling me to begin with something small, and work my way up to larger objects, like daggers. None of the other boys dared to leave while Landor taught me all the basics and had me throw it for the first time.
My attempt was very poor and didn’t even reach the wall. One boy laughed. A look from Landor silenced him forever. I threw again. Again. Again. Each result was poorer than the last, until my ears were burning with shame at my incompetence.
Landor observed my frustration and leaned close in my ear. “You’re failing because you think you’re going to. Don’t think. Aim. Direct your eye towards the place you want to hit, command your wrist as you throw, and judge the weight. It’s as easy as throwing a ball once you set your mind to it.” The last phrase was a lie, and we both knew it. But it didn’t matter. I did as he said.
The knife didn’t stick in the target but it did reach its mark – the hilt where the blade should have been. I had to learn how to balance it so the blade entered the target, not the hilt.
From then on, Landor made time after his practice for me. I was there waiting for him. His fellow trainees no longer laughed at me. Some even offered to help, handing me different knives, collecting the ones I threw, and sharpening the ones I made dull with all my practice. Eventually, my knives made it onto the target – the very edge. Slowly they started having more accuracy. More precision. Until I could successfully throw a knife at the circle in the middle of the target. The resounding shuck as it embedded itself in the canvas was the most pleasing sound that ever reached my ears.
When my mother finally wandered outside to see what I was doing during the afternoon hours, I expected to be scolded and taken back inside to stitch my own clothes. Instead, she had given me a smile that warmed my insides. Behind the smile was an aura of pride. She had been proud of me. Whether it was because I was trying to protect myself from future “attacks,” or because I was very stubborn about honing my skills, I’ve never known.
I’d once asked Landor why he’d taught me when all his friends had made fun of me for asking to do so. Why he had stood up for me when it was within his rights as an elder brother to scold me for even thinking to ask such a question. He had answered simply that I was his sister and that I had as much right to choose as he did. If I chose something that he could tutor me in, he felt it his duty to teach me. Because he loved me. The fact that my tough older brother, who had many important matters to deal with and was so much older than I, had told me he loved me chased away my nightmares for almost a week.
Pulling back my arm, I aim for a destination on the target and throw, moving my wrist fluidly f
orward. The blade flies through the air and lands right where I wanted it: the outer rim of the circular dot.
My heart pounds with the momentum of my exercise. Energy flows into my brain, buzzing along my spine. Any dreary thoughts distance themselves from my central focus, and I pick up another dagger, six inches in length. Its weight is greater than a minuscule knife, but its blade is thin and can surge through the air faster.
I breathe in deeply, grasp the hilt, and fling it forwards, releasing the breath. I hear it singing through the air and then the satisfying sound as it connects with the target. Directly in the middle.
I didn’t even have to look anymore!
Behind me, I hear clapping. Landor walks up to the target and pulls the dagger and the knife from their places. He tosses the knife at me, hilt first, and I grasp it before it can hit the ground. He nods, approving the move, and walks straight up to me, placing the dagger back into the sheath at my waist.
“You’ve gotten better, Ky,” he teases me, tweaking my chin playfully between thumb and finger. Though he didn’t approve of his friends calling me his “little brother” that long time ago, he did adopt the nickname they’d given me.
Ky.
He was the only one who used it. He didn’t allow anyone else to call me such a name. Moreover, mother and father wouldn’t dream of calling me by such an unceremonious title.
“You could test my skills, Lan,” I challenge with a lift of my eyebrows. I place the knife back in his hands.
“No thanks, Ky. I’m good. Craig and Asher completely spent all my energy on themselves already,” Lan sighs, and stretches his arms.
“Who won?” I’d often participated as a bystander in one of the many brawls that the three boys liked to call “wrestling.”
“I’d feel less of a man if it wasn’t me,” Lan says with a wounded look on his face. “Has your confidence in me begun to wane?”
“Not at all. My confidence in you is the same. But since Asher’s lost all that ‘paunch’ he used to possess, he’s been giving you a harder time. Do I need to make up another batch of butter-nut bread for him?”
Ostracized (The Ostracized Saga Book 1) Page 6
