“You can say what you want, Tivia; I’m not going anywhere.” By now, Nia was used to the star seer knowing precisely which comments to throw that would hit where it hurts most. “I’m sure Caris has already made it clear to you, as well, that the only reason he is tolerating Sylvie’s presence here is for the promise of me and Alster delivering on these portal mirrors. I don’t have to play nice with Safir for me to be here, and I never intended to.”
What irked her more than harping on her about her relationship with Safir, oddly enough, was Tivia’s insinuation that she wasn’t even well enough to hold her own. The star seer’s snide comment prompted her to sit upright in her chair, fueled by annoyance. “I spent three days traversing through the foothills to Eyraille in an unsteady carriage and fighting motion sickness because Ari vetoed my suggestion to go through Ilandria. So you’ll have to forgive me if I’m not on top of my game because I haven’t properly slept in three nights.” The Master Alchemist argued bitterly. “I’m not afraid of Safir, and I’m not afraid of Ilandria. When we’re through with the portal mirrors, you can bet I will not be going back to Galeyn the same way I came. Regardless of what you think, I’m not about to crumble. I’m tired and cranky and I’m through with people bothering me about the Prince of Blades. I’ve lived my past and found my way through it. Safir’s the one that has demons to face--and for all I care, he can face them alone.”
As much as she wanted to rest after Tivia finally took her leave, the star seer had managed to rile her up too much and too quickly. Her mind was restless, and where she was already overtired, and the meals of which she’d partaken had been rather meager (enough to quell any suspicions associated with avoiding food, but not enough to interfere too badly with her work in the days that followed), which left her stomach still unsatisfied. So when the door to her bedroom opened sometime later, and she rolled over to see Ari (thank goodness, as he was probably one of the only people she could tolerate at the moment), she waved off the Canaveris lord’s concerns that he’d disturbed her.
“You disturbed no one; I wasn’t asleep.” Nia smiled and sat up in bed. “Don’t doubt your impeccable stealth, Ari--and don’t sell yourself short as a dancer! I happen to recall some very satisfying dances with you.” At his question regarding her well-being, the Master Alchemist automatically sat straighter and her smile widened. At this point, it was almost like a survival response: a prey animal hiding all of its ails around its kin so that they wouldn’t cut her off like a weak link. “I’m alright. Three days of motion sickness is hard to shake, but I just woke up from a nice, long nap before you came in. Made a world of difference.” A lie; she hated lying to Ari, but there was truth to Tivia’s words. Ever since completion of the first portal mirror, Ari (and Alster, Elespeth, as well as the Sorde couple) had been walking on eggshells around her. Afraid to upset her, lest it make her all the more unwell. Bouncing back from working on that first mirror was taking longer than she’d anticipated, but she had jumped right into several days of uncomfortable travel. She didn’t want to lie to Ari, but… she wanted even less for him to treat her like she was made of fragile glass. She was a fucking Master Alchemist: the fact that she had those runes on her hands and had lived to tell about it was enough to speak to her durability.
Realizing he took her hesitation to reply to his inquiry about her meeting with King Caris as unwillingness to discuss the topic (and not from the brain fog born of her exhaustion), Nia was quick to provide him with a reply that he would find suitable. “Oh--you know, King Caris is exactly as his sister described. Very interested in the portal mirrors; we didn’t discuss much else. I guess what’s left of my Ilandrian accent did give me away and he knows my regional origins…but, don’t worry, he suspects nothing. As far as he’s concerned, I’m just another mage like Alster, and he doesn’t seem interested in me otherwise. The only thing he cares about is how I can be of use to him: that’s the sort of person he is. But,” she flashed a hopeful smile at his account of how Sylvie had fared during the festival of harvest. “Leave it to Sylvie to befriend everyone she meets. She has a rather infectious personality and is impossible to dislike. Good on her for making such a good impression in just a few hour!”
The topic pivoted yet again when Ari presented an unmarked satin pouch, proclaiming it to be a gift he’d picked up at the festival. Before she had time to ask what it was, the Canaveris lord took his leave to allow her more time to rest. There was something familiar about its contents, from what she could detect through touch, and upon opening it and smelling inside, the Master Alchemist immediately teared up. When was the last time she’d drunk the mixture of these leaves, herbs, and spices, which portrayed the perfect smell and taste of dark chocolate when consumed as a tea? Memories of dark nights in winter flooded her memory. Of fireflies, numb fingers and toes, and of Palla and Celene… She’d mentioned this once, to Ari, what seemed like an eternity ago. How had he remembered something that she missed so dearly? And how had he known what to purchase?
Closing the drawstring and tying the pouch closed, Nia clutched it to her chest and stained the pillow with her tears as she eventually drifted off to sleep.
“A hunch, then? You’re basing your suspicions on a hunch?” Caris raised an eyebrow at the star seer, who was usually so assured in her visions and perceptions of the future. The Eyraillian king had trusted her advice and guidance thus far, but without substantiated evidence (as much as visions could be considered as much), he didn’t feel entirely convinced. “I agree, it does strike me as rather odd that she would fancy herself a diplomat so suddenly at a time of war, when Stella D’Mare is still so broken on its feet, there is little to nothing it has to offer Eyraille. No offense, of course.” He lifted a hand to Tivia. “Clearly, you’re an exception--as is Alster Rigas, and the woman… married? Engaged? The one connected to Sylvie Canaveris and her uncle. How an Ilandrian finds herself in Galeyn of all places is a mystery to me.”
But, like Nia had claimed, Caris wasn’t interested enough to dwell on the oddity of her connection to Stella D’Mare and Galeyn. Not when Sylvie Canaveris was the topic of conversation. “Look, if Sylvie Canaveris wants to decorate the palace to rouse ‘festive cheer’, then she is more than welcome. This place hasn’t changed much since the days my father ruled--which is something I would like to change, when I am in a better position to do so. You know, without impending war.” The young king leaned back in his chair. “If interior design and playing nice with Mollengardian refugees is enough to supplement her self-importance, it is a small price to pay for the convenience of travel between here and Ilandrian. As much as I appreciate your offer to transport me yourself, Tivia, I’d rather you not wear yourself out on that end. Not to mention, it would be nice not to have to depend on anyone for ease of travel.
“Nonetheless,” Caris breathed a sigh and shrugged his shoulders. Only one day with his handful of new guests, and the Eyraillian king already seemed exhausted. Playing a (remotely) civil host to Sylvie alone had depleted the remainder of his patience for the day. “I will heed your advice and keep the girl away from sensitive places and discussions. It isn’t like she will be of any militant use to me or Eyraille, anyway. Let her have her fun,” he swept his arm in a dismissive motion. “And when we have the mirrors, we send her on her way. WIth a vague token of the possibility of future relations to reduce the possibility of tears.”
"Of course--my apologies." Safir bowed his head and his lips pulled into a sheepish smile, nonetheless grateful that Haraldur shook his hand. "I am certainly getting ahead of myself, aren't I? To presume any of us would meet as friends. Vega, you and I hardly exchanged more than a handful of words as children. I'm fact, if I recall," he flashed a mischievous grin at the Skyknight. "You refused to speak anything but Eyraillian for the most part. I think you were surprised when I happened to understand and respond with a handful of words."
Vega's cheeks coloured the very hue of her vibrant red locks, and broke her eye contact with the Ilandrian prince. Her tone took on a somewhat indignant lilt. "I by no means lay claim to being a model child or princess, and I never have. Caris, as I'm sure you have observed, gets his temperament honestly."
"Please don't misunderstand; that was not a criticism, Sir Sorde." The Prince of Blades tread lightly, realizing that he was still coming across as too familiar before a couple of people who were little more than strangers. Embarrassing, how badly he craved familiarity with anyone outside of palace staff and Ilandrian officials… but now was neither the time nor the place. "I am not exactly the pinnacle of conformity that my family hoped I would be, either."
"Well that is certainly news to me, Your Highness. And you needn't address me as such." The fiery redhead, as much as she tried to hold her head high, seemed to deflate a little. "I am no longer a Skynight. At least, I have not rightly been in a position to retain that title. Neither am I any longer considered Eyraillian royalty… 'Vega' is fine."
Safir took a seat on a chair at the desk and crossed one leg over his knee. "Whatever you wish, Vega. But even Ilandria has caught wind that many of Eyraille’s Skyknights would beg to differ. This is why I requested your presence, here. If your Skyknights wish to stand a chance against Mollengard, and maintain their untarnished name as Eyraille's best line of defense… I strongly believe you are what they need. Unfortunately," he sighed quietly and lowered his voice, mindful of any prying ears on the other side of the door. "Word has it their performance has not been the same since your departure, and declined even more when your brother saw fit to exile you. Some left their post altogether. I'm sorry to place this burden on you." His clear, azure eyes mirrored the regret in his voice. "I wish we could be meeting on less dire terms. But I am not exaggerating when I say Eyraille still very much needs you… even if Caris believes he doesn't."
Upon that news, Vega felt equal parts concerned and vindicated, and she wasn't sure how to respond. That her Skynights had revolted, in a sense, to her exile made her feel more connected to her lost home and people, and had her longing for a return to what had once been normalcy. But to hear that some had lost their will and altogether given up their posts was never what she had wished for them in her absence, exiled or not. "I don't know that I am the solution you, or Eyraille, is hoping for." The former princess sighed. She had deserted her crown, her kingdom, her brother, and now her Skyknights. Would they even receive her well, after all this time? "But you have my word that I'll do what I can."
“Don’t sell yourself short on your worth. I believe you’ll make a bigger difference than you think. Furthermore… I have some personal suggestions in terms of adaptations that will make your Skyknights more versatile fighters that I’d hoped you might weigh in on. And, Haraldur,” Safir shifted his gaze to the wary Forbanne commander. “I was hoping, for now, that you might serve an advisory role. You are far better acquainted with Mollengard and its tactics, and the Forbanne soldiers, than myself or Caris. Give insight into where we should focus in terms of combat, some insight into the Forbanne’s magic resistance, and overall what you think will be most effective in terms of fortifying the kingdoms and fighting back--because I highly doubt we that either Eyraille or Ilandria will walk from this entirely unscathed. In terms of your soldiers--the Forbanne who follow you, specifically…”
Safir’s demeanor had transformed from open, friendly and warm, to cool, straightforth, and brutally honest over the course of their discussion this evening. Finally, the textbook-authentic Ilandrian that they had initially expected had manifested before them to comment on reality as it was unfolding, and sparing no one’s feelings. “We will need them if we wish to have any hope of seeing this impending war through to the end. It is true that Caris hasn’t any idea that the two of you are in Ilandria right now, nor has he been advised that the three of us would be speaking. And, I have no intention to reveal any of this to him just yet. Not in the infancy of these planning stages. According to Tivia Rigas, Mollengard will not attack before the end of winter.” The Prince of Blades laced his fingers together and sat back in his seat. “We don't have a lot of time, but we have some. When we’ve decided how best to utilize your soldiers, that is when we bring them here--and that is when Caris will find out everything. At that point, we present our plan and explain everything. It will be up to the Eyraillian King whether he wishes to continue to let hurt feelings and injured pride govern his decisions, or to move forward with our plans that involve the both of you, and the Forbanne soldiers.”
“And if he doesn’t take kindly to this? Your Highness, you have met and interacted with my brother. What makes you think he won’t make another rash decision as a result of feeling undermined?” Vega asked, trying not to lose her cool. “With all due respect, he has a bloody history of this… Look what he did to Haraldur and I because we lingered too long in Galeyn, unable to travel with our children. What would lead you to believe that, even for a moment, he will forgive your transgression? Because that is exactly how he will perceive it.”
“I am aware of your brother’s history of rather rash decisions, Vega. However, I daresay, he has of late shown promise in terms of maturity. I believe Tivia Rigas is, in part, to thank for that; perhaps even myself to a lesser degree, but I am not here to claim stakes in your brother’s journey into manhood. I do believe he has finally come to understand the severity of the threat that faces his kingdom, and while he might still be too proud to reach out to the two of you, knowing well he had made a mistake in exiling you, it will be a relief to his still fragile pride for me to do this in his stead. So, if you want my honest prediction…” The Ilandrian Prince’s mouth quirked into a faint grin. “He will act affronted and betrayed at this news, but it will be just that: an act. In truth, I think he will be reassured and relieved to see the both of you, all the while being spared the humiliation of running back to you with his tail between his legs and admitting he was wrong. He hasn’t made it there, yet, but… he will. He is on his way.
Vega pressed her lips into a line and sighed. Haraldur had since taken a seat upon the bed opposite Safir’s chair, but the former princess remained standing. She had shaken her fight-or-flight response from the day she had completely unleashed upon Sylvie Canaveris… “While I am heartened you have such faith in my younger brother, you did not answer my question: what if he does not take kindly to this interference without his consent? What if he orders us away?”
“Then he will be faced with an ultimatum.” The words passed Safir’s lips as if the answer was obvious; like a true Ilandrian. “Either he accepts your help and the help of the Forbanne soldiers, or he will lose Ilandria’s support in this war--which he had fought so hard to obtain in the first place. While we have agreed to an alliance, it has been long since written into Ilandria’s policy that this kingdom cannot knowingly endanger itself on behalf of allied nations failing to cooperate. And it is my belief that both Eyraille and Ilandria will suffer if we do not involve you.” The Prince of Blades sat straighter in his seat. There was no longer a trace of a smile upon his face. “Caris might be stubborn, but I think we can all agree, he is not stupid. And if he really wishes to find himself between a rock and a hard place… He will not make the decision that will brand him as the King that let his own kingdom fall. At the very least, his pride is good for that much.”
When Sylvie finished speaking with the king, she didn’t immediately return to her shared chambers. Instead, she went to the rooms occupied by Alster and Elespeth. A few quiet, polite knocks, and the door swung open. Alster glanced at her from the threshold, concern veiling his face. “Sylvie. Is everything alright?”
“Oh, quite.” She gave him an easy, albeit weary, smile. “May I enter? Not for long, I assure you. I humbly beseech your advice.”
“Of course.” He waved her inside and ushered her to the circle of chairs that constituted the room’s small sitting area. “Please, have a seat. If it’s not too nosy to ask, how was your audience with the king?”
“It was about as I expected.” She held her skirts as she settled on a plush chair opposite him. “He was largely dismissive. I am a joke to him. A laughable distraction, trussed up in lace. As I am, he will spurn my contributive efforts. I’ve inherited a fraction of my uncle’s artistic talents; alas, an aesthetic eye has little use in a war room. This is likely a question better suited for Uncle Ari, but perhaps you will be of greater assistance. I,” she gave Alster a meaningful look, “want to hone my magical talents, and while our signature differs–you deal in the ethereal and I, the material, for instance–I believe you are an excellent teacher. I shall ask my uncle for his assistance as well, but he is like me in that magic augments his mundane skills, much like a special tool only he can wield. I intend to transform my latent abilities into an asset even the king cannot ignore.” She looked out the window, noting the jagged peaks and the eroded, tree-bare layers of exposed rock.
“The mountains hold power for an earth mage. Being here, I am rejuvenated. Strengthened by the land. With one well-timed jolt, I can send an array of boulders to rain on our enemies. Failing that, my contributions can fortify Eyraille’s walls in a fraction of the time. King Caris forgets that earth mages construct, build, refine, tunnel, and procure resources. I am able to sense iron ore and veins of gold in the ranges surrounding the palace. I need only to extract them. Help me improve upon what is already there,” she held out her hands to Alster imploringly. “My goal is that by the time everyone returns to Galeyn, I will surprise the king with a demonstration of my terrestrial might. Will you help me reach those heights in so short a time frame?”
Alster sat back in his chair, thrumming fingers on the steel of his prosthesis in thought. “I can certainly try. But you’re right, Sylvie. Your uncle is better suited for this task. I’m able to teach you the fundamentals and instruct, but my only experience with earth-based magic is through enchanting objects and the chthonic, which has dealings in the death and decay of organic material. What you ask for is far from my specialty. So why come to me first, and not your uncle?”
“Because I have another request.” Sylvie affixed the lupine bloom in her hair, which was beginning to wilt and sag. She should have asked Nia to perpetuate its longevity, or Ari to petrify it to a lovely shade of amethyst. “I met a young girl today. A native-born Mollengardian by the name of Thora. She claims to know Haraldur. If you’re in ready contact with him through resonance stone, I am sure he would love to hear from her.” She smiled conspiratorially. “And perhaps aid his old friends from afar.”
Haraldur noted the familiar gazes and conversational tidbits Prince Safir had thrown in Vega’s direction. His mouth pulled into a slight frown, but he said nothing; only watched the exchange that had quickly become one-sided as Vega resisted the Ilandrian prince’s friendly, pseudo-familiar nature. Fortunately, he readjusted and continued their discussion with the seriousness the topic deserved.
“I’ll do what I can to inform your armies on how to prepare for a Mollengardian offensive,” Haraldur said, agreeing with his role as an advisor. “It will also help if I’m privy to your army’s battle formations and fighting style. I will have to sit in on a few training sessions before I’m able to get a clear picture of how to instruct your soldiers for battle. Speaking of, I heard you called The Prince of Blades, and that you earned the title through merit, not inheritance.” He raised an intrigued eyebrow. “Care to show me how you wield your sword?”
“May I ask where we’ll be staying?” he said, moving on from swordplay to the logistics of maintaining their clandestine identity. “It will have to be somewhere that doesn’t risk exposure. I take it Caris visits regularly now that you’re allies. We’ll need to avoid common areas and be in frequent communication with each other if we need to make ourselves scarce in the event of his impromptu arrival. Now that you have a resonance stone, this will be easier for you to do. Don’t hesitate to use it.”
“I don’t know how you’ll put Vega in contact with her Skyknights, unless you plan on sneaking her into Eyraille,” he went on. “Because it seems we’ll both be twiddling our thumbs and playing advisory roles, or at the very most, delegating from afar, until we reveal ourselves to Caris. It may be that threatening to withdraw your alliance is the only way to get through to him. You’re correct about his pride, though. He’d sooner light Eyraille on fire than lift our exile and beg for our return. Let’s hope your assessment of his maturity is accurate, because nothing would please me more than to see him acting like a king and not a spoiled, tantrum-prone boy who puts his resentment before his reason.”
Although Prince Safir could not stay for long at the inn, he promised them transport to the inner city the following evening, and encouraged them to spend the rest of this evening (which was nearly over) and the next recuperating from their long journey on horseback. Safir offered them his room and headed out, leaving the Sorde couple alone to discuss their impressions on the famed Prince of Blades.
“I don’t know how I feel about him yet,” Haraldur admitted as he pulled off his boots and let his cramped, sweaty feet breathe after a tedious evening of hard riding. “Doesn’t it seem odd how he acted like you were old friends reuniting for the first time in years? Were you on friendly terms? …No matter,” he said, dismissing his curiosities with a hand wave. “At least his head’s in the right place when it comes to military strategy. I trust he would break the news to Caris about ending their alliance. You know, if your brother is as bull-headed as we believe he still is. What do you make of his claim that Caris is changing for the better? And that Tivia is in part responsible for the shift?” He shook his head incredulously. “I’d have to see it to believe it.”
Their conversation was interrupted by a deep vibration emanating from Haraldur’s pouches. He pulled out the resonance stone connected to Alster, and brought it to his mouth. “You arrived in Eyraille, then? How did Caris receive the delegation?” It turned out, well enough to accept their proposal to onboard Sylvie as a diplomat on the proviso that they create portal mirrors connecting not only Eyraille to Galeyn, but to Ilandria, as well. “We’ll have to inform Prince Safir of this plan. We met with him a few hours ago, but he’s gone back to the palace. I can’t say he would have a problem erecting one of these mirrors if it means ferrying resources and soldiers in moments, and in secret, with Mollengard none the wiser.”
But that was far from the only nugget of news Alster had to share. “Sylvie spoke with Thora?” Unable to stay seated, he shot to his feet and walked across the squeaky floorboards of the tiny room. “How did—? The Harvest Festival; of course.” The majority of the Mollengardians Haraldur had guided over the mountains into Eyraille were either farmers or shepherds. It made sense for them to attend the festivities at the capital, and for the bubbly Sylvie Canaveris to strike up a conversation with the youngest of the refugees, well on her way to womanhood. “How is she? How are they?” They weren’t doing too well, it turned out. According to Thora, they faced discrimination from native Eyraillians who suspected they were spying for Mollengard, and thus not welcome in urban spaces they previously enjoyed. Driven back to their homes in the remote mountains fringing the Mollengardian border, the refugees, who did not yield enough profit from their crop, would contend with scarce resources during a winter predicted to be the harshest one yet, especially in the upper elevations where they dwelt.
When he finished speaking with Alster, he leaned against the wall, rolling the deactivated resonance stone in his fingers, thoughtfulness plying his features. “I have to help them,” he said to Vega after a length pause. “I don’t know how, but I’ll find a way. Alster says that Caris will look into their situation, and Sylvie wants to help, but…they’re children,” he sighed, shaking his head. “I may be discrediting their abilities, but I can’t deny the truth, either. They’re children, and Caris is still immature, and I can’t rely on Alster, Elespeth, or Ari to solve this issue when it’s ongoing and requires,” he took a deep breath, weighing his next words, “another Mollengardian to address.”
A few days ticked by in Eyraille, a sluggish period where not much happened. The harvest festival had since ended and the refugees were in the midst of packing their wares for the long trek to their upper mountain home. Sylvie was taking magic instruction in secret with Alster and Ari as they all waited for Nia to recover her strength for the demanding task set before her. Ari advocated to the king on her behalf, requesting a few days’ reprieve for all parties, citing an involved and tedious preparation process to buy her some time.
Taking a break from her training, Sylvie opted for a stroll around the palace, figuring she would accustom herself to the sprawl sooner than later, so that Caris would find fewer reasons to scold her. If he were to air any grievances, it would not be for her lack of interest in her surroundings. When she was not training, she spent her hours at the library, obsessively reading over tomes of Eyraillian history and practicing her cursory knowledge of the language. But instead of occupying her time in one section of the palace, she extended her curiosity to all of it, wandering the halls, the courtyard, the ballroom, and the training grounds, wherein she stumbled upon Tivia Rigas stabbing haybales with a spear. In rapid succession she struck, grunting from exertion, but never relenting, even as beads of sweat poured down her forehead and her breath flumed from her mouth in harried gasps. Finally, she ceased her weapon drill, leaning against the spear to recuperate. Realizing someone was watching her, she twisted around, frowning at her company.
“Miss Rigas. Forgive my intrusion.” She lowered into a customary curtsy. “May I ask why you are fighting with a corporeal spear when you’ve mastered the ability to forge ethereal constructs with your magic? Is it because your enemy will deploy magic-resistant Forbanne and you anticipate fighting on the front lines?”
“Something like that,” came Tivia’s quick, terse answer. No elaboration, or attempts at adding to the exchange.
“I see.” She stared at the sawdust-layered ground, drawing lines with her foot. “I never had the opportunity to thank you for saving my life, at the masquerade. So—thank you. And if I have done anything to offend you, that was never my intention. I hope we may be able to work together toward a common goal.”
Tivia squinted at Sylvie, her expression hard-lined, far from friendly or disarmed. “That remains to be seen. Is that all you’d like to discuss?”
“Why, I suppose. I wouldn’t wish to disturb you further when you are so busy training. I’ll—“ but she froze when she saw the approach of none other than King Caris, surrounded by his guards, trussed up in armor and carrying a sword. “Oh. Your Majesty,” she swept into a deep curtsy. “Do not mind my presence here. I am merely touring the premises. I’ve no skill with a weapon, so I will not be seen here often, if at all, but I am hard at work honing a few techniques that will be of great use to you and possibly your armies. In the coming week or so, I shall be ready to display my abilities. I hope you will look forward to it.”
“Of course; you’re more than welcome to observe the Ilandrian fighting style. In fact, I was hoping you would, and that you could better inform us on what you believe will work best.” Safir was quick to agree to Haraldur paying a visit to Ilandria’s training grounds, and actually sounded relieved that he’d offered. “We’ll have to play it safe with regard to His Eyraillian Majesty; I would only contact you to pay a visit to our troops when we’re not at risk of crossing paths with him.”
“And what of other Ilandrians?” Vega asked, standing rigidly off to the side, near her husband. “What are the chances your own people will recognize Haraldur on the training grounds, and spread the news of his presence to Ilandria?”
In reply, the Ilandrian prince slowly shook his head. “I wouldn’t worry about that. While Ilandria is well aware you took a husband, Vega, and that your husband is a capable soldier…” He turned his gaze on Haraldur to address him directly. “It isn’t particularly common knowledge that you are Mollengardian, Haraldur Sorde, or that you’re affiliated with the Forbanne. And those who are aware do not know what you look like; I certainly didn’t, until tonight. So long as Caris or his Eyraillian entourage don’t wander into our training grounds--which they haven’t any reason to--your identity is safe. Unfortunately…”
Safir’s countenance turned apologetic when he shifted back to Vega. “Your face--or should I say, your hair--is widely recognized all over. I hope you don’t take offense, but I sincerely recommend that when you are out and about, you wear your hair differently, such that it may be concealed. Or, better yet, change the colour, and possibly the texture, entirely. I could send for a trusted alchemist, or even consult with Tivia. From what I have seen of her abilities, I feel there is little she can’t do.”
Vega’s hand immediately went to her hair, momentarily appalled by the suggestion she change it, but the former Eyraillian princess quickly sobered, knowing that Safir’s suggestion was a rational one. That was the difference between her and her brother; she knew when to hold her tongue… for the most part. “...I’ll cut it short.” She said with conviction, and her hand fell away from her fiery, red locks. “And I’ll change the colour to something less remarkable. If you think that will be enough for me to traverse Ilandria safely. Whatever it takes to meet with my--” She paused, catching herself, and amended, “With… Eyraille’s Skynights.”
“Your Skyknights.” The Prince of Blades corrected her without hesitation and folded his arms elegantly across his chest. “They’ve never stopped being yours, Sir Sorde. Whether you ever wished to disown them or not.”
“But I couldn’t even… My roc… Aerial is gone, Safir. She has been for a long time.” Suddenly, the wind was gone from Vega’s sails. She took a seat next to Haraldur on the bed. “I traded her life… for a debt I owed to a necromancer. Because I almost died, in battle. No--I did die. I couldn’t hold my own. Haraldur is an asset to you, to Ilandria, and to Eyraille, but I…” She couldn’t meet the Ilandrian Prince’s eyes. “I… am not the miracle you were hoping for.”
“Then you become the miracle.” When the former Skynight finally looked up, Safir’s expression, his voice, his stance… it all changed. Suddenly, it was as if she was talking to an entirely different person. This was the Prince of Blades that represented Ilandria; the one that everyone expected to meet, given the name that he’d earned. “You may be at risk of losing your home and more, Vega Sorde. Now is not the time to doubt yourself. When the time is right and it is safe to do so, I’ll have you meet with your Skyknights. I have suggestions regarding modifications to their formation that you should take part in. Speaking of: how are you with archery?”
Vega recovered from her shock quickly enough, conflicted about how to respond when she still felt the heaviness of losing Aeriel, and how her dealings with the necromancer, Vitali Kristeva, had almost cost her the life of her children. But as much as she wanted to retort… Safir was right. Of course the Ilandrian Prince, raised on logic, reason, and justice was right, and it almost made her feel resentful… almost. But with her home and the safety and wellbeing of her brother, she knew better. “Arrows aren’t my strong suit. Or that of the Skyknights. Are you suggesting they retrain entirely with different weapons?”
“In a sense, yes. We’ll discuss in further detail in due time. If Caris frequents the palace too much, then I’ll arrange to have your Skyknights train out of sight. And if he gets nosey--I think I have ways to keep him occupied. Haraldur.” He nodded respectfully to the Forbanne commander. “I would be honoured to spar with you, although I’m afraid you’ll have to compete with Caris for my time… and Tivia.” Safir’s mouth twitched into a wry smile. “Apparently, this is what the title ‘Prince of Blades’ earns a person. In any case: remain here for now, until I secure more suitable accommodations for the both of you. We will be in touch again, soon, but don’t hesitate to reach out if there is anything you need.”
Safir took his leave, and left the room for Vega and Haraldur to stay and get some well-deserved rest. Feeling all at once overwhelmed, and yet deeply in need of more information, the former Skyknight rested her forehead against her palm and closed her eyes. Perhaps this conversation would have been better suited to another time: when the both of them were not so exhausted… “Well, we weren’t on unfriendly terms, even if we weren’t exactly friends.” She replied, sounding far less interested in the topic than Haraldur was. “What--you’re not jealous, are you? Ilandria prides itself in logic and intellect, but it’s hospitable, and I have to say, the people are far more welcoming than Eyraille. Don’t read too much into niceties.”
She might have teased him more about his alleged jealousy toward Safir Vallaincourt, all for being friendly with a former acquaintance, but she didn’t have the energy. Vega ran a hand through the length of her vibrant locks, pausing momentarily upon the realization that it might be one of the last times it would feel this way before she cut it in favour of not being picked out in a crowd. “I’ve always believed--at least, I’ve wanted to believe, that Caris is capable of changing. That he’s simply still young and has to grow into his role. I can’t see any reason why Safir would like or exaggerate; it certainly wouldn’t be very Ilandrian of him. Although to think Tivia, of all people, might have contributed to that change…”
She couldn’t continue her thought to express her doubt, as the Sorde couple was startled by the sudden vibrations of the resonance stone. Alster’s voice came through, much to their relief, and he detailed what had since taken place in Eyraille since his arrival. As expected, Caris was not too keen on entertaining the idea that Sylvie would be at all useful, but he was certainly keen on Nia’s idea of establishing the portal mirrors: not only between Eyraille and Galeyn, but also, Eyraille and Ilandria. Vega couldn’t help but wonder if Safir had been informed, for surely, it couldn’t pass without his consent. And since he hadn’t mentioned anything about them during their debriefing, both Haraldur and Vega had a feeling that Caris might perhaps be getting ahead of himself.
But that wasn’t the only update that Alster had to share. It turned out the Mollengardian refugees weren’t faring well, of late--according to Sylvie, who had allegedly spoken with them. Of course that was enough to give Haraldur a second wind… but Vega reeled him in.
“One thing at a time, Haraldur--you can’t go to Eyraille. The majority of the kingdom witnessed our wedding, and will know you to see you. Caris certainly will.” The redhead placed a supportive hand on his arm. “Let’s have Alster keep us apprised. They may be children, but if I know Sylvie Canaveris, she’ll annoy Caris to no end until he does something about it if the refugees are being subjected to discrimination. I can’t say for sure what will happen, but… if what Safir says about my brother is true,” she paused, sighed, and shook her head, unsure of her own words. “We should give him a chance. I would like to see what kind of King he is turning out to be.”
Despite her proximity to Ilandria, and the conflicting feelings it brought, Nia had rather hoped that another mirror would have to be specially crafted to give her a few more days to recoup from travel. As it turned out, Caris had been right about the purity of the mirrors currently existing in the Eyraillian palace: coincidentally, upon close inspection of the choices gathered throughout the grand edifice and presented to her, the Master Alchemist found exactly two full length mirrors that met the requirements to serve as portal mirrors. Of course, this pleased the Eyraillian King immensely, as it meant he would have his useful travel alternatives sooner; unfortunately, it bought Sylvie less time to prove her worth to Caris, and threw Nia right back into gruelling work. But the Ardane woman knew better than to complain, and after two days with her (where she insisted on exactly zero interruptions, lest Caris learn her skills were not that of a mage), and one with Alster to work the spell as the finishing touches, the first pair of portal mirrors between Eyraille and Galeyn were complete. The only thing that remained was testing their efficacy.
Nia took the final day, where she’d passed the mirror onto Alster, to rest, and she very well almost had twenty-four hours of sleep under her belt by the time it came to presenting the works to King Caris, and demonstrating for them that not only did they do exactly as she said they would, but that they were safe. It wasn’t enough: she was still exhausted, and it required concentration to remain steady on her feet. But the Master Alchemist pinched her cheeks and bit her lips to bring colour to her face, and presented herself as best she could. Perhaps she wouldn’t fool Ari or Alster, but as long as she could come across as capable and credible to King Caris, that was all that mattered.
“So there’s a chance these won’t work at all?” Of course, the first comment from King Caris’ lips as they gathered in his private study with the mirror was one of pessimism, complete with arms folded tightly across his chest. Everyone even remotely involved--including elespeth, Sylvie, and even Tivia--had gathered for this final test to see if further portal mirrors would even be necessary. If they didn’t work, or worse, malfunctioned, then the Eyraillian King wouldn’t suffer another moment of any of them wasting his precious time.
“As with any spell, or any work of magic, Your Majesty, there is always room for error. However, I have exactly zero doubt in my abilities, and Alster’s.” Nia spoke with confidence, enough to buffer the utter fatigue that threatened to pull her entire body to the ground. “This is more a formality, and a demonstration for your viewing pleasure. Ari,” she turned to speak to her paramour, who held a resonance stone paired with one given to his mother prior to their departure. “Check that Nadira is nearby and prepared to receive this through the other mirror.”
There were five stages of testing the mirrors, the first which involved an inanimate object, then three consecutive living organisms of increasing complexity. When Ari gave word that his mother was prepared on the other side, Nia crouched near the mirror (which looked no different on the outside), and tossed a glass marble at its reflective surface. Instead of bouncing off the glass, the item disappeared into the silver surface, swallowed by it as if it had been tossed into liquid. Now, they only needed to wait for Nadira to toss it back… hopefully in one piece. There was always a slight risk of the mirrors failing, in such a way that the matter passing through the surface would not remain entirely intact, hence the necessity of testing prior to having a human step through.
Seconds later, the very same marble returned, dropping out of the mirror’s surface and clicking onto the ground. Nia picked it up with her gloved hands to examine it carefully. “Perfect. Looks pretty well intact to me.” She announced. “Typically, if something goes wrong, it would go wrong at this stage. I’m pretty damn hopeful that Al and I did this right. But, safety should always be thoroughly considered.”
Next, Nia sent an insect through: a single ladybug, small but very much alive. Seconds after, the very same ladybug crawled back through the silver surface, no less alive or vibrant than before. The experiment was then repeated with a single sparrow, successfully, and finally, the Master Alchemist opened the last animal cage she’d convinced Caris to let her bring into his study. A young, silver cat with bright golden eyes--not a kitten, but still juvenile--sauntered out and into Nia’s arms, and almost immediately began to purr. Immediately noting the look of concern on Sylvie’s face, she offered a comforting smile.
“He’ll be fine, Syl. I promise. Like I said, if anything were to go wrong, it would have gone wrong with the marble--or, the bug, if it wasn’t safe for living things to pass through. This is more a formality than anything.” Despite her confidence, the potential that she might very much upset Ari’s niece touched her nerves, and she could feel her palms begin to sweat beneath her fingerless gloves as she took a breath, and put the sleek, little cat down, watching hopefully as it passed through the mirror. Her heart was trapped in her throat for the next handful of seconds, which felt more like an eternity, as she waited for the animal to return. And sure enough, it did, leaping back through the mirror after Nadira had sent it away on the other side. It certainly looked no worse for the wear, although seemed slightly baffled and disoriented that it had passed through an object that had appeared solid to its eyes.
“What did I tell you? I’d say we’ve crafted a couple of damn good portal mirrors.” Nia beamed, scooping up the cat before turning to Sylvie. “Mind holding onto him for a moment? One more test, and we’re good to go.”
“You’re the last test subject?” Caris raised his eyebrows, surprised that Nia seemed to have no qualms putting her own safety on the line for the final test.
But the Master Alchemist didn’t seem concerned as she passed off the friendly cat to Sylvie and turned toward the mirror. “Well, someone has to be the first human to step through. I’m as good as anyone else. Prepare to be amazed.”
Taking a single, steadying breath, the Ardane woman met with her reflection, and stepped through the mirror. About a moment passed, longer than the other items and animals, causing the tension and concern in the room to build--especially on Ari’s part. But before the Canaveris lord could go after her to ensure she was alright, Nia returned, stepping through the mirror with a smile on her face, and immediately threw her arms around Ari’s neck, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Your mom told me to deliver that,” she chuckled before disengaging and taking the cat back from Sylvie. “Well, there you have it, Your Majesty. For now, anyone could pass through, but if you decide you’d prefer access restricted to certain individuals, we can establish that a little later.”
“While quick access to Galeyn is far less useful to me than to Ilandria… I am impressed.” True enough, it earned a smile and applause from the young King. “And these only took--what? Four days?”
“I’ll ask you not to get ahead of yourself, Your Majesty. This was still quite the process, and both Alster and I need some time to rest.” Nia explained before they accidentally gave Caris the idea that they were ready to move onto the next project. “Furthermore, you have yet to obtain Ilandria’s permission to establish a portal mirror in their territory, if I’m not mistaken. Anyway: so you don’t have to worry about just anyone waltzing into your space,” with her free hand, she picked up what looked like an ordinary woolen blanket from the floor, and threw it over the mirror, concealing the reflective surface. “Galeyn’s got one of these, too. Both mirrors have to be uncovered.in order for anyone to pass through. Like a door that needs to be unlocked on both sides. Furthermore, it doesn’t have to stay here: we can find a more suitable place for it so visitors from Galeyn don’t end up in your study.”
The Eyraillian King nodded, impressed, and so far did not seem concerned about the useful new piece of furniture before him. “I’ll have Safir’s permission in no time, but I will not deny you rest. Thank you, Mister Rigas, and Miss…” He realized too late that he still didn’t know Nia’s last name, but she was already taking her leave with Ari, very much in need of several days’ more rest completely undisturbed.
“He’s pretty cute, Ari. Don’t you think?” Nia cooed, scratching the young, silver cat behind the ears after they left Caris’ study. “Hey… isn’t Sylvie’s birthday coming up? How do you think she’d feel about this cutie as a gift? He was a barn cat, but I can’t put him back where I found him. He’d be good at catching mice, if nothing else!”
“Too bad Elias isn’t here,” Elespeth mentioned from beside them. “Word has it he adores cats. It would have a home in no time.”
Speaking of Sylvie, however, the Canaveris girl was one of the last to linger, aside from Tivia. Realizing she probably wouldn’t leave until he acknowledged her presence, Caris sighed. “Miss Canaveris. What is this ‘big surprise’ that you claim to have been working on? I planned to follow up on the refugees near the cliff sides shortly.” In so many words: Sylvie had until Caris donned his riding boots and heavy fall coat to debrief him on the “techniques” she’d alluded to a few days ago, before he dismissed her.
If the long journey on horseback hadn’t exhausted Haraldur, then the meeting with Prince Safir and the subsequent call from Alster reminded him of the weariness seeping into his bones. His shoulders sank like leaden weights, such that he hadn’t the energy to maintain the wisps of jealousy he felt for the Prince of Blades. Even so, he pressed on his feet, drawing nonexistent strength from a pocket reserved in the pit of his stomach—and which he would feel doubly in the morning, when he had absolutely nothing left to give. Ignoring the desire to rest, he continued to pace the room, hands firmed into fists.
“I’ll grow out my beard. And my hair. You won’t have to be the only one to go through a dramatic change.” Remembering his wife’s upcoming sacrifice and the doubts associated with her Skyknight command, he grounded him to a halt, and he looked at her, his gaze softening. “It will be a return to form. At least for me. If you recall, when we first met all those years ago, I had long hair and a beard,” a wry smirk managed to form on his face. “The refugees will recognize me on sight, but no one else in Eyraille will pay me any mind. I’ll be Enginn once more.”
“I’ll grant Caris time to prove himself,” he conceded, returning to his place on the bed beside Vega. “Like you, I want to see him grow into his role. But if there are no improvements on his end before the first major winter storm, then I will have to step in and help the people I’ve failed…so many times.” He finally allowed the exhaustion to creep into his voice. “If the portal mirrors between Ilandria and Eyraille are firmly in place, perhaps I can sneak into the palace and head north…but I know I’m getting ahead of myself. I’ll focus my attention here, and you, with the Skyknights. Command is a funny thing, as I’m sure you’re aware. You have more experience than me, but even with all the experience at your grasp, any major setback will convince you that you are unworthy, eating any positive progress you’ve made. But if that posh and polished prince had one good piece of advice to share, then it’s to buckle down and do what needs doing, whether we’re prepared, worthy, or not. Maybe our new hairdos will inspire the change we require,” he said, hoping his lighter tone lifted the heady mood permeating the room. “At any rate…once we get to the Ilandrian palace, I say we engage in a little target practice, you and me. Could be just what we need to let loose some frustrations.”
Turning to her, he kissed the top of her head; her fiery locks, which he had come to love. “You’re still you. No matter your appearance, you’ll always be fire incarnate. An unstoppable force who would lay waste to her enemies. But,” he tucked a loose tendril of hair behind her ear, “I hope to see you like this again, once it’s safe.”
A few short days after arriving in Eyraille, Nia and Alster were ready to present the completed portal mirror to the king. The momentousness of the occasion merited everyone to gather for the unveiling and demonstration. Sylvie glanced at the cages stacked to the side and covered with a sheet; judging by the chirps and meows emanating from beneath the shroud, they were to be used as test subjects to experiment the portal mirror’s success. Though necessary, she gripped the sides of her gown in anticipation as she watched a marble, then a ladybug, a sparrow, and lastly, a beautiful silver-gray cat with fur rimned with a faint halo of fuzz enter the mirror. They all returned, no worse for wear, including the cat, whom Nia invited to hold. She took the creature into her arms, wary, for she never kept a pet, let alone a pet armed with sharp teeth and claws who could shred her bloody if startled or annoyed by confinement. All she needed was a significant wound, a welter of blood to spring forth, and Uncle Ari and Caris would know of her curse. Unless—she cast a furtive look at Tivia, who stood quietly observing the proceedings, arms crossed and expression imperious. As a star seer, it was likely she already knew of her secret and revealed it to the king. If so, would he care? Or would it give him grounds to dismiss her from Eyraille? In that case, she would become the first official traveler of the portal mirror as she made her short but shameful return trip to Galeyn through the shimmering liquid glass.
Seeing as it hadn’t happened yet, Tivia Rigas hadn’t said a word, leading her to wonder why. Didn’t she despise Sylvie? Consider her an obstacle to be removed as soon as viably possible?
She held the cat tenderly to her chest and was surprised to hear the animal purr. No indication of lashing out in a bid to scramble out of her arms. For now, the chances of an incident and a dramatic revelation dwindled. She relaxed, but marginally. The mirror demonstration hosted one more surprise for the audience. Nia volunteered herself as the next subject–and first human subject—to enter the mirror.
Hesitation and incredulity loomed at her pronouncement. Uncle Ari tensed, his mouth souring, as if to entreat her to fall back. But his mouth hadn’t opened, and the words never came. Instead, he squeezed her hand, granting his support and encouragement.
“Be careful, Miss Nia,” she heard herself say. Without delay, the “mage,” walked through the mirror, vanished…and didn’t return.
“She is likely chatting with my mother,” Uncle Ari spoke into the uneasy silence. “Nothing to concern ourselves over, I assure you.”
It turned out, Uncle Ari’s faith and optimism were not misplaced. Moments later, the mirror rippled like a stone tossed into a lake and Nia re-emerged, no worse for wear, and confirmed Ari’s suppositions. Smiling with relief, he took Nia into his arms and returned her kiss; quick and polite, but with the promise of more, later. “Somehow, I doubt my mother said such a thing. Let me ask.” Bringing the resonance stone to his mouth, he posed the question—and received an answer he did not expect. “Well I’ll be. The two of you are in open conspiracy against me, now,” he mused, tucking the resonance stone into his pocket. “Your Majesty,” he addressed the young king, “as you have borne witness, our capable mages have successfully produced a set of portal mirrors. If by now you still cannot reconcile the aid of Stella D’Mare as an asset to your kingdom—or your easy proximity to a bevy of other useful mages—then I do not know how else to impress you. Alas, grant our mages a few days’ reprieve before they set out to craft the second pair. In the meantime, consult with your allies in Ilandria for permission to lay down a mirror on their premises. Once you obtain clearance, we shall speak further on initiating phase two of the project. Until then, we shall formally take our leave.”
Except, Sylvie did not leave with everyone else. Her arms free of the snuggly cat, whose warmth, comforting weight, and soothing vibrations she missed, she waited until the D’Marian entourage left Caris’s study, leaving her alone with the king and Tivia Rigas. At a loss for what to say, she was relieved when Caris began the conversation, steering it toward exactly what she aimed to discuss.
“Your Majesty, if I were to detail the parameters of the surprise, then I could no longer define it as one,” she smiled coyly. “I will offer this much, at least. My uncle described Stella D’Mare, in so many words, as a treasure trove of mages. I would offer some clarity to his statement. He is specifically referring to earth mages, like the Canaveris line, the majority of whom are possessed of terrestrial magic. Their like are quite handy in building and dismantling structures. The entirety of the D’Marian settlement in Galeyn, for example, was erected in less than a year, due to earth mage ingenuity. And should one require specific resources—iron ore, gold, precious stones—there is no one better to ask. Earth mages are the backbones of civilization. And subsequently, its destruction.”
During Sylvie’s short—and hopefully effective—speech, Tivia cocked her head, her one eye narrowing in scrutiny. “Are you volunteering to represent all D’Marian earth mages as one of their best and brightest?”
Sylvie tried not to bristle from the backhanded compliment. “No. I do not presume to embody their collective skill and experience. However, I am the daughter of the greatest earth mage of our generation. To honor his late legacy, I am happy to wear his mantle and contribute my power to your cause. In due course,” her eyes glinted with determination, “I will show you what I can do.”
“It is wise to exercise forbearance, lest you fall over,” Tivia said, a vague statement she typically favored, but her words carried a hard-to-ignore taunt. She knew of the curse, knew what happened when she incurred bodily injury. Sylvie looked to Caris, but judging by his unperturbed stance, he didn’t seem privy to the specifics of her condition. Yet.
Perhaps…she had some power over the situation, after all.
“I will be most careful. Thank you for your concern, Miss Tivia,” she bowed her head in gratitude, exuding grace. “I have not yet forgotten the debt I owe you for saving my life. How kindly that you continue to look out for my well-being when I can do nothing for you in return.”
Tivia’s lips twitched in response. Sylvie wanted to smile triumphantly. Now the king knows you are biased towards me. We have history. While it was a risky thing to say, she somehow believed the star seer would not react with retaliation. If so, she would have already revealed Sylvie’s secrets to Caris and emphasized why she was grossly unfit for the position. You must not despise me quite so much.
Tivia regained her foothold in the conversation. “For your own safety, I would suggest you leave Eyraille. If you truly intend to honor your debt, that is.”
“I do, but I would first ask for a favor.” She addressed both Tivia and Caris. “Delay your final verdict until after I demonstrate my magic. Let me first be granted the opportunity to prove my capabilities. If I fail to satisfy your discernment, I shall reconsider my status in Eyraille. However,” she stipulated, “so that this may be a fair measure of my talents, I ask that you invite your council and my retinue to attend, and let the majority opinion decide my fate.”
Tivia harrumphed. “And you believe that Lord Canaveris, Nia, Alster, and Elespeth won’t champion for you?”
“Considering Eyraille’s less-than-stellar opinion of magic, I see their involvement as a way to balance the scales to a more impartial ruling. Unless you can gather a sample size of neutral-leaning individuals to act as my jury, then I am happy to cooperate. Your Majesty,” she curtsied to the king, ignoring the spray of cat fur sheddings that cling to her gown, “I will leave you time to decide how best you would like to approach my proposal. In the meantime, I have but another humble request to ask of you.” She eyed his riding boots, fur-lined coat, and other accouterments indicative of cold weather and hard riding. “You mentioned you are to visit the refugees today and investigate their conditions. Might I come along? They will perhaps respond better to your sudden arrival if accompanied by a friendly, marginally more familiar face. It is a situation that I daresay would benefit from a diplomatic figure. Not to imply you are inadequate, your Majesty; simply that a king of your caliber must maintain a certain image of fierceness and strength. To balance those traits, I am here to offer a soft and persuasive element to the upcoming exchange. And if you should feel mired with doubt,” she gestured to Tivia, “I am sure Miss Tivia would fain to accompany us and keep a well-trained eye on me.”
Outside of Caris’s study, the delegation from Stella D’Mare minus Sylvie headed to their rooms to let the mage and the Master Alchemist masquerading as a mage recuperate in earnest after the last few days of tedious work. At first, Ari waited outside the study for Sylvie to join, but as it became obvious she was deep in conversation with the king, he joined Nia’s side. Extending one hand, he let the cat smell his scent before landing a gentle pat on his head. Alster, meanwhile, kept a wide berth, staying as far from the creature as he dared.
“Yes. Sylvie’s birthday is approximately one fortnight from now,” Ari confirmed. “It has always been a bleak time of year for her. Casimiro would often throw her the most elaborate and thoughtful of surprises. She has not enjoyed a birthday since his death. Much as she pretends, her cheer is an obvious front. I think she would enjoy the furry companion, especially when we are away and loneliness grips her. Though we are not far—compliments of your amazing mirrors—I am certain she will hesitate to travel home for a visit for fear that the king bars her reentry.”
“And if she does not accept, you could always give the cat to Elias,” Alster offered. “It’s as El says. In general, he seems to love all animals. He missed his calling as a healer of fauna, for as much as he despises humanity. On an inverse note,” he smiled nervously, “please keep the cat away from me. I don’t care how friendly he is. We will not get along.”
Caris had to hand it to Sylvie for her persistence. While the young earth mage had yet to prove her merit to the Eyraillian King (and it would take more than simply boasting her lineage), she was not willing to give up on finding a place in this kingdom--and court. For one reason or another, the young woman was determined to prove herself invaluable, insofar as His Majesty would not dismiss her entirely; which wouldn’t be so difficult, now that sending her back to Galeyn was as simple as getting her to step through a mirror. However, the source of her determination still eluded him… and Tivia as well, it would seem. The star seer did not seem at all content with the Canaveris girl’s presence. On one hand, the young king found it almost amusing to see that someone had gotten under her skin, as opposed to the other way around, but he couldn’t claim her suspicions were unfounded. There was an itch in his mind that leaned toward concern, but thus far, Caris failed to unveil precisely what about Sylvie Canaveris should cause him concern.
“So you think Eyraille is the ideal place to benefit from earth mages?” He leaned his weight against his desk, far more amused than convinced. “Or for you, specifically? Do tell who your father was. With such a legacy to boast, no doubt his name should ring a bell in my mind.”
Of course, he had never heard tell of Casimiro Canaveris. The name hadn’t meant anything at all to him until Sylvie and her family had graced his halls with incredibly vague offers of support. Even now, as Sylvie continued to insist on her value and boast her legacy and capabilities, her actual merit as a magic user remained to be seen. “In favour of honesty, I am rather leaning toward Miss Rigas’s counsel.” Caris nodded to Tivia. “Currently, no one in this kingdom is in a safe place with the looming threat of Mollengard. I admire your ambition and determination to lend a hand, Miss Canaveris. But I am not convinced you know exactly what it is you’re getting into. But, if it is an audience you want for a demonstration, then I will oblige.” After all, there was yet another portal mirror soon to be in the works. He could tolerate the young woman’s bubbly presence long enough for that.
Thinking the conversation was over, and that she would gracefully take her leave, Caris reached for the fur lined cloak draped over the back of his chair. His grip of the soft, heavy material hesitated when he realized he might not shake this persistent girl as easily as he’d initially assumed. “You’re rather quick to assume I require a social buffer to accompany me so that my own people don’t react poorly in my presence.” There was a bite to his tone that suggested his patience with Sylvie was beginning to wear--or that she had hit something of a nerve. “I’m really not in need of an entourage. But if you’re looking for an excuse to see some of your new friends, then I’m not going to stop you from traveling in the same direction as me.”
The Eyraillian king was quickly learning it was easier to oblige the Canaveris girl’s frivolous whims than to brush her off. She seemed to have the tendency of a rash, where if you scratched too hard to be rid of it, it would spread and worsen in intensity. Best to let her run her course and be done with her. Sure enough, after dressing for the cool weather (and the bite of cold closer to where the Mollengardian refugees were located), Sylvie met him in the stables, along with Tivia. He couldn’t be sure if the star seer intended to accompany them to keep an eye on the earth mage (as Sylvie had suggested), or simply to make a point that she wasn’t willing to allow the girl an inch of space as she didn’t approve of her being here to begin with.
Caris had intended to visit the homes of some of the Mollengardian refugees right away, but the young king did not find himself any further than partway through the city central before he pulled his steed to a halt. They had since passed the greater pubs, shops, inns and restaurants, and made their way to the lesser markets as they came upon several collapsed tents and damaged stalls. Goods of all kinds were scattered throughout the streets: food, tools, clothes, and trinkets. It looked as though a natural disaster had swept specifically through the high density area… where the majority of the vendors were not Eyraillian-born.
Owners of the tables, stables, stalls, and tents expressed all ranges of negative emotions: some calmly, albeit defeated, picking up the carnage, while others wept into their hands, comforted by family members and neigbours trying to comfort them, sacrificing their own desire to weep in favour of pretending to be strong. An elder woman wept, while her adult daughter frantically gathered pieces of shattered pottery, reassuring her mother over and over that it was alright, she could put it all back together. Two boys were on their hands and knees, trying desperately to salvage any fruits vegetables that hadn’t been smashed and otherwise damaged on the stones beneath their feet. And, off to the sides, going about their lives as best they could while ignoring what was taking place right in front of them, where easily recognizable born and bred Eyraillians appeared to exist in another world entirely.
This was the first time in quite a while that the young King had ventured so far into the city central. It wasn’t as though he personally sought and sourced palace supplies; and when he did leave the palace, it wasn’t to venture into high density areas, where he would be easily recognized and bothered. How long had this been going on--and entirely unreported?! If Sylvie hadn’t said something, who would have? And how long would it continue, completely unchanged, ignored by silent Eyraillians?
The scrambling Mollengardian refugees were so preoccupied with consoling one another and collecting their destroyed wares that they didn’t even notice when the Eyraillan King, clad in his very obvious blue and silver cloak, and azure eyes blaring when he dismounted his steed. Caris approached the older woman and her daughter, whose hands were full of shattered pottery. “What has happened, here? Tell me.”
Startled, the daughter looked up and almost dropped the bundle of shattered wares in her arms. “Your… Majesty.” Unable to properly kneel with her arms full, the young woman bowed to the best of her ability. “Please excuse this unsightly scene. We are working to clean it up. Just a little more time…”
“You didn’t answer my question. What happened?” Caris made a wide gesture, indicating the chaos before him. “Who is responsible for this?”
He already knew the answer, as this was proof enough that what Sylvie had reported was the truth: native Eyraillians, in their fear of the looming threat of Mollengard, had no kindness to show the refugees. But his question was met this time with silence. No one said a word, pointed fingers, or even speculated. They all knew, but were so afraid to implicate native Eyraillians in the crime that they preferred not to say anything at all, and shoulder their losses. Perhaps they felt it was safer to roll with the punches than to accuse Caris’ own born and bred citizens of cruelty toward them. Perhaps they assumed… that he wouldn’t care. Or, worse, that he shared in the same mindset as the perpetrators.
The very thought incited him, and his blood simmered. “What is this?” Caris stepped away from the woman, addressing anyone and everyone in the vicinity, particularly those off to the sides, pretending to be too engrossed in their own business to pay heed to the terrible act that had likely taken place before their eyes. By the looks of it, this bold travesty had taken place no more than an hour ago.
“I said--what is this?!” The young king raised his voice, kneeling to pick up the shattered remnants of what looked to have been a vase. “At a time like this, with the coming of winter and resources more scarce… With the threat of another nation darkening our skies with its shadow, Eyraille should not be stupid enough to turn on their own for absolutely no good reason. You should have the mental acuity to understand that other struggling people are not your enemy!”
Everyone was quiet, startled, and looking in his direction. And many of those looks reeked of guilt. “We have only recently acquired an ally in Ilandria--a kingdom of reason, and justice. How will they perceive such a cruel and reckless act? What will they think of thor new ally, knowing that Eyraillians are capable of such baseless cruelty? Whomever is responsible for this deserves more than to simply be shamed. And you:” He turned so as to make eye contact with each and every Eyraillian who had the courage not to hang their head regretfully. “All of you should feel deeply ashamed. I bear my own shame for not being present enough to have learned about this sooner. But you lot, who simply stood by, some allowing this to take place before their very eyes, and others walking onto the scene in the aftermath and pretending nothing is amiss… none of you deserve a restful sleep this evening.
“This is not the first report of banal acts of hate toward people who have come here seeking refuge, in hopes of starting a new life. And if I hear of crimes of this nature occurring again… mark my words, there will be dire consequences. Eyraillians!” A nerve in his cheek twitched as he raised his voice. “You will look at your King when he is addressing you! Listen very carefully.” When all eyes were finally, reluctantly, on him, Caris took a steadying breath. “No crime in Eyraille is tolerated. But hate crimes especially will not be tolerated, not at a time like this. You will live in harmony and unity with your neighbour, regardless of where they were born, regardless of whether or not they wield magic. And if you cannot… then there is no place for you, here, and no room for your hatred. Do you understand?”
Pressing his lips into a thin line, he thrust the broken vase into the hands of a nearby Eyraillian man who sat outside of a nearby pub, with a half-empty stein of ale in front of him. “Prove to me you are the proud people I think you are and help clean up this mess. For your sake, this street had better be pristine when I return.”
How Tivia or Sylvie felt about how he’d handled the situation mattered little to Caris. He was angry, and these people deserved his anger and outburst. If he didn’t make an impression now and cast the rules clear as day that this should never be repeated, it would just continue to happen. “You’ve already decided the refugees have become your business, Miss Canaveris.” He said, addressing Sylvie personally. “Well, now is your chance to make yourself useful. Take names and the extent of losses these people have endured. I’ll sort out compensation later.”
Sylvie was quick to oblige, at which point Caris turned to Tivia. “I’d planned to make for Ilandria this afternoon… but I have a feeling there might not be time for that.” He sighed, looking over his shoulder at some of the refugees, with whom Sylvie was currently engaged in conversation. “You can get there more quickly than by roc. Talk to Safir; pitch the potential for portal mirrors between Eyraille and Ilandria. I can’t see him putting up much, if any, resistance, considering it will expedite all current and future affairs. You have a way of being persuasive,” he added with confidence. “I’m convinced you’ll have no problems with the Prince of Blades.”
“So… Caris wants a mirror--apologies. Two mirrors built between Eyraille and Ilandria, as a means of quick access to either kingdom.” Safir certainly wasn’t instantly sold on the idea when Tivia paid him a visit, later that afternoon. But, at the very least, she hadn’t come to bother him about sparring--and the Eyraillian King hadn’t accompanied her. The both of them were far more tolerable on their own than together. “It’s no more than a few hours to Ilandria, traveling by roc. And you can manifest here whenever you wish, it seems.” The prince of blades raised a curious eyebrow. “I’m not saying I’m opposed, but it does seem a little overzealous, and could pose a dire risk to security…”
He was also well aware of the possibility that Caris was trying to convince him to conduct business in Eyraille, by means of facilitated travel, so that the young King wouldn’t have to be the only one continually making the trip away from home. But Safir continued to stand firm on his stipulation that he could not leave, for fear that his father might pass any day now. Although… Ullir Vallaincourt had been doing remarkably (surprisingly) better, of late. He was awake more often than not, and his bouts of lucidity and awareness of his surroundings had been far more consistent. Safir did not want to tempt bad luck, but he was rather convinced there was a chance his father might recover, after years of illness. And if he had been here for his sickness, he would also remain for his potential recovery.
“Oh--there was something I was hoping to speak with you about, in His Majesty’s absence.” Safir suddenly changed the subject, remembering his brief meeting with invaluable players in this potential future war with Mollengard. He lowered his voice, in case anyone happened to be nearby on the other side of his closed office door. “Vega and Haraldur Sorde have arrived in Ilandria. I have them currently residing at the furthest most inn along Ilandria’s western border. I need to have Haraldur inform Ilandria’s troops as to how to best counter Mollengard’s forces, taking into consideration that many of their soldiers are resistant to magic. And I plan to have Vega reunite with her Skyknights… and, ideally, train with them. I have yet to convince her to become adept in using a crossbow while atop a colossal avian creature, but I think she will come to realize it is a necessary adaptation. At some points, they will need to be present here at the palace, and although I’ve advised them to alter their appearances so as to not come across as recognizable… Caris cannot set foot here whenever he pleases. Ilandria might not recognize his sister and her husband, but there will be no fooling him.”
Tivia went on to explain that to her understanding, it would not be as simple as a perpetually unlocked door between kingdoms, and he would have ample opportunity to bar access whenever he deemed it necessary. Safir’s expression didn’t indicate that it was much of a consolation or ample precaution, and ultimately, the Prince of Blades was not entirely sold on this idea… until Tivia suddenly made vague mention that he would be very interested to know who would be working on the mirrors.
The Ilandrian Prince frowned and brushed stray tendrils of pale blonde hair from his eyes. A sudden sparkle in their verdant depths gave away his interest. “Are you suggesting I know this person? Ilandria has its own fair share of mages, Miss Rigas. What makes this one noteworthy?”
But this was yet another of Tivia’s aces, hidden securely up her sleeve, that she would not so easily give up. She only promised that this was someone he would be interested in seeing, and for the life of him, Safir couldn’t divine what it was she meant… until she had turned, and all but left his study. Realization dawned on the Prince of Blades, and he sat up from his deer hide chair so quickly it nearly gave him a head rush. “Wait--wait. Do you mean…” Nia? Was it Nia? But Tivia was already gone, leaving Safir to ponder at what he had to gain--or, potentially, to lose--by agreeing to these portal mirrors. Leaving him to wonder if the risk of a security breach was worth seeing the face of the only friend he’d ever had, as a boy.
Sylvie spent all afternoon speaking with refugees and recording their losses and accounts of what had happened in the city central; meanwhile, Caris returned to the palace to advise relevant parties and staff, and to consult with his palace’s lead bookkeeper to determine how much they could potentially allot to compensate the refugees for the losses of their goods and wares. Later that evening, just before supper and after the Canaveris girl had returned to the palace, the young King summoned her back to his study, where the new portal mirror had remained, covered with some enchanted quilt. He would have ot moved in the morning to somewhere less dire, should someone unauthorized somehow find their way into the kingdom.
“Miss Canaveris. You made these refugees your personal business before today.” Caris reminded her upon her arrival. No longer clad in furs and stark Eyraillian colours, he’d since dressed down in black trousers and a white tunic. The fire blazing behind the hearth across from his desk had warmed the room significantly, no longer warranting the need for layers. “You came to Eyraille because you wanted to be of use to me, and to my people. Well, I will not begrudge you your show of skills as an earth mage, but since your previous insights into hate and discrimination toward Mollengardian refugees have since shown their merit, this issue isn’t something that I or the rest of my kingdom can simply ignore. Not at a time where we must all stand united. So, should you choose to accept, I would like to establish you as a liaison between the refugees, and the palace and kingdom at large.” The young King took a seat--not behind his desk, but upon an unoccupied corner of it. A small but significant sign that, unlike Safir Vallaincourt, Eyraille’s leader cared less for stalwart propriety--either purposefully, or as a simple sign of his youth (and associated arrogance). “You made a rather bold point earlier today that the refugees are less likely to want to talk to me than to the likes of someone like you: and you weren’t wrong. So, be that face, be that friend to them, and I’ll gladly be the unholy terror to anyone who dares to continue these hate crimes in my kingdom, henceforth. So.”
He extended his hand for the notes upon parchment that Sylvie had scrawled while speaking to the refugees: a record of names, losses, and the few brave accounts of those who had witnessed what had happened. Even to Sylvie, so many refugees were afraid to implicate born and bred Eyraillians in the crime. But Carus would not let this incident slide; lack of consequences would only perpetuate future behaviour of the like. “What of the losses? And the number of families affected? We can afford to reimburse them this time, but we can’t afford to have this continue. I’ll determine how much we can offer each individual, and you can personally deliver the news, since I imagine they’d decline out of propriety should I pose the offer myself. So. Do you accept?”
Sylvie disguised her grin with a curt, sober nod, not one to encumber her more restrained and surly benefactors with outward expressions of satisfied pleasure. Caris likened himself to a long-suffering ball of fire about to detonate, so she wouldn’t push her luck in continually prodding near his highly flammable surface. Tivia Rigas, on the other hand, proved touchable, although she pretended otherwise. However, she was not one to infuriate either, lest she bite the prodding hand clean off. Keeping this evaluation of her temporary travel partners in mind, Sylvie carefully monitored any outward expression of behavior her companions might construe as too troublesome or aggravating.
Blank-faced, she met the king and Tivia in the stables and hitched a ride on horseback with the star-seer, who obliged wordlessly. Like Ari, Sylvie never learned to ride, partly due to her breakable condition (much as she shuddered to compare herself to a porcelain doll kept high on the shelves and out of reach of clumsy hands), and partly because her high noble station hadn’t demanded it. Always with an abundance of carriages, and carriage drivers, she and her large family were often chauffeured from place to place, negating the necessity or the desire to learn. Curiously, Tivia, a Rigas born of a pedigree arguably higher than she, commanded her steed with the expertise of a cavalryman, steady hands flicking the reins to a canter just shy of the king’s pace. Failing to pack riding clothes—for she had none—she sat sidesaddle, her skirts bunching up awkwardly as she Tivia’s waist with a pressure best described as “vise-like.” Surprisingly, the star-seer did not complain or even affix Sylvie with a glare of annoyance from over her shoulder. She maintained poise, and her breathing, as they followed King Caris through the streets of the city and to the outskirts beyond.
According to Thora, the majority of the refugees lived in the upper mountains close to the Central Mollengardian border. They were delayed in returning to their home for a number of reasons. As semi-nomadic people, they occasionally settled in the nearby valleys during the brutal winter months and argued for making the trek earlier than scheduled. Second, the threat of Mollengardian attack remained a concern for the citizens who preferred the proximity of the palace, the protection of the city gates, and the army of Skyknights patrolling the skies. Last, and most relevant, were the discriminatory attacks levied against them. Many felt unsafe in the city, but many others feared the risk of Mollengardian violence should they venture outside the ring of protection. The indecision divided the group, putting them at an impasse, and delaying their decision for departure indefinitely.
Though when they reached the encampment on the outskirts of the city, Sylvie wondered if the refugees reached a unanimous decision in favor of a swift and quiet exodus.
She couldn’t hide her horror at the destroyed neighborhood. Torn and tattered clothing littered the streets, clinging to bent tentpoles of ransacked stalls. The colorful canvas awnings had been slashed down the middle, the ragged ends blowing in the breeze like banners of surrender. People milled about the streets in a daze, their faces bleached of anything but dead-eyed shock. A few went through the motions of sweeping the shattered pottery from the road, or tossing buckets of water over the smashed, rotted fruits and vegetables, washing the unsalvageable remains down the gutters. A jeweler Sylvie had recognized lay on her hands and knees, individually picking up every intact glass bead that had survived being torn free from their strings of fish wire. Everywhere Sylvie looked, livelihoods were destroyed. Months of artisan work—paintings, pots, tapestries, embroidered scarves, and lovingly grown produce—reduced to debris and slop fit for a pig’s trough.
“Their wares—everything they had hoped to trade for the winter is gone,” Sylvie said, breathless and low, knowing Tivia wouldn’t hear her, much less Caris mounted on the horse beside them. She cleared her throat and spoke louder. “Even Braighdathians and Galeynians, who accuse D’Marians for stealing resources and introducing violent crime to their ‘peaceful sanctums,’ were not so cruel as to disregard D’Marian culture and trade so egregiously. This is…sickening.”
“How unbelievably wasteful.” Tivia wrinkled her nose. Not even she was immune to the tasteless scene before her, and expressed her outrage with disgust. “The Eyraillians responsible for the attack could have looted these goods for themselves, but it takes a special brand of hatred to smash everything on the ground.”
Turning the corner into the central square elicited a gasp from Sylvie’s lips. Written on the walls of a ramshackle shack in what she hoped was only animal blood, were the words, “Molly bastards go home.”
Sylvie loosened her arms from Tivia’s waist, feeling lightheaded. Perhaps coming to Eyraille was a mistake, after all. If natives treated foreign-born citizens with such hostility, then she, a magic-user and a refugee in her own right, would never receive a warm welcome. If any were to discover her true mission in Eyraille, destruction of property would be the least of her troubles. If she continued to associate with the refugees, would they be marked implicit by association?
Before her thoughts could disturb her shaky balance and unseat her from atop the horse, a sharp, cutting voice pierced through the nonsense in her head, prompting her to sit in stiffened attention—and listen. Caris, king of Eyraille, was a storm of fury, both terrible and impossible to ignore. He flew off his horse, his rage palpable, like the sensation just before the blood of an open wound crusted, and crystallized. She patted down her skirts and massaged her arms, double-checking for injury, relieved when she found nothing of concern. It was merely a reaction to seeing him aim his righteous anger…at his own people. She sat glued to her horse in awe, paralyzed by the lightning flashes surrounding his thunderous presence. To recover from the tableau, she looked to Tivia, who kept the king’s company for longer and knew of his moods. It could have been the angle, which obscured most of her face, or a trick of the light, but Sylvie was certain she saw a proud smile lift one side of the star seer’s dour face.
Although she offered her availability as a method of transportation and a speedy envoy option, Tivia did not enjoy the work. Transiting through the realms reminded her of when she fell into worlds not her own. Sharing proximity to the infinite places where she might carelessly end up was akin to waltzing too close to a wind-swept precipice and hoping she didn’t lose her balance and plummet. Strangely enough, taking a passenger with her decreased her chances of opening a gateway into a peripheral universe—likely because her companions were denizens of this realm, moreso than she, and locked their coordinates to the one and most relevant dimension; this one. Still, whenever she emerged on the other side of her improvised doorway, she checked her connection to the stars. It wasn’t a surefire way to confirm her place on the time-space axis, but losing her star seer ability tended to be the most accurate measure of illicit wandering.
Not like it should matter much if she ended up in another world. It would be another place she destroyed, as surely as she would destroy her homeworld. As it stood, she already set the gears into motion by reversing the damage at the Canaveris masquerade and preventing Sylvie’s death, the very same large-scale manifestation of her power she swore never to do again. It was, after all, how the other world met its end.
She hated knee-jerk reactions. Hated how they rejected rationale and operated solely on the human instinct of preservation. She possessed the power to end a calamity; therefore, in the interest of humanity, of those she…cared for, she had a responsibility to save them. She should save everyone, for as long as possible, before the pendulum inevitably swung to catch them for the final, fatal time. Otherwise, what else was left for her to do but retire to a locked tower and dispense half-crazed revelations until she lost her senses and died strapped to a bed that stank of piss and shit and dread?
Selfishness and boredom kept her trudging ever onward, despite the utter pointlessness of it all.
If there was nothing else to be done, then she would continue her fool’s errand, comforted in knowing that it didn’t matter what she did or didn’t do, so she might as well influence what she wanted. Including Caris. Including the war. Including the infuriating relationship between Prince Safir and the childhood friend who cursed his name and wished him the worst. Oh, wouldn’t the Prince of Blades love to hear such a wholesome detail about his dear and disinterested companion?
But she told him nothing revelatory or useful. Only what he cared to hear, and what benefited the kingdom of Eyraille at the moment.
“It is possible we would need an additional set of mirrors connecting Ilandria to Galeyn, if you hope to recruit Haraldur’s army in relative secrecy—from Mollengard and Caris’s prying eyes,” she added, as if he were entirely in agreement with hosting an abundance of magic mirrors now that she hinted at its semi-anonymous creator. “Harder for the king to reject the aid of an army if they’re already nearby.”
“Speaking of the king, you would be happy to hear about his latest exploit.” She detailed the events of the day, mentioning the extensive property damage carried out by irate Eyraillians who believed Mollengardian-born Eyraillians threatened the kingdom’s safety, and Caris’s outspoken outrage as he lambasted the citizens responsible for the crime and promised to do right by those affected. “I’m sure Haraldur would like to know that the refugees he helped rehome will not be overlooked any longer. I too will keep the king on task.” So will Sylvie, she thought, but didn’t want to credit the young earth mage until after she and Caris figured out what to do with her once the portal mirrors reached completion. In theory, she would be sent home, problem solved. But somehow, she believed ridding of the ebullient Canaveris maiden would be nigh difficult.
“Well, I should be off. I’ll let the king know your favorable decision regarding the portal mirrors so we may hasten forward with our plans,” she said, a twitch of a teasing smile. Before Safir could voice his objections or request more information on the mysterious “mage” behind the project, Tivia had vanished into the ether—where she would hopefully return on the other side unscathed.
“Here, let me be of assistance.”
Sylvie knelt before a pile of broken pottery, setting aside the ledger accounting names and the assessed worth of the items destroyed, freeing up her hands. Sleeves rolled up and out of the way, she concentrated her energy on the shards, feeling an innate sense of where the pieces belonged when they were whole. With a gentle, encouraging movement of her hands, they slotted into place and reconstituted as easily as unfired clay, malleable and free of cracks.
“This is the best I can do,” Sylvie apologized. “It is not the same vase as before—some shards will never be recovered, I daresay—but we can at least admire it as something familiar but new. A survivor of adversity, risen from the ashes, as it were.
Thora stared at the creation, mouth agape. “How—how did you do that? Put it back together like nothing at all!”
“Oh.” She smiled sheepishly. “My brothers were reckless helions, always knocking over fragile pottery and breaking other such toys and trinkets. It became my responsibility to fix them like new so they would not bellow and cry over their precious ruined keepsakes. I realize, though, that I may have overstepped.” Sylvie retrieved her ledger from the floor and pushed to her feet. “I was told magic is not a welcome sight in these parts, but above that, I do not want others to misconstrue my help as an act of charity or as an attempt to summon your troubles away with the wave of my hand. Even if I could restore all your goods as they were, it would not undo the horrendous event that has befallen your people this day. My dearest wish is that we could have prevented it; alas, we were too late.”
“Even if you stopped it in time, it would have happened again. The second your eyes turn away, they would have come. I don’t mean to speak ill of our neighbors,” Thora wrung her hands together, “but I won’t sugarcoat the truth. When Enginn was the prince of Eyraille, people did well to stay away and leave us alone. An insult to us would be an insult to him. These lands know where he’s from originally. They wouldn’t dare disrespect his deeds by slandering the people he saved. But now that the king has exiled him, and his sister, and war is all but assured,” she looked over her shoulder as expecting the king or his guard to materialize and arrest her for treason, “some Eyraillians believe they are justified to treat us terribly. Even when they’ve dined and celebrated with us a few short years ago. I…I’m scared, Sylvie.” Her wide blue eyes glistened with tears. “We’re all scared. We don’t know where to go. If we speak out, Eyraillians will call us rioters and it will embolden their hate. If we’re silent, this,” she gestured to the collapsed tents and smashed produce, “will keep happening. We’re grateful to the king for his interference, but I don’t think it will be enough. No one,” she hesitated, then whispered into Sylvie’s ear, “no one respects him well enough. They say he’s young, an upstart, impulsive and cruel. Please, I’m sorry,” she hurried, scrambling away from the secretive huddle with Sylvie. “I don’t mean ill intent. I—ignore what I said. I didn’t mean…we’re just happy to be alive. Unharmed and…and looked after. I’m sure his Majesty is as good as his word. Even if…” she trailed off, the light fading from her blue eyes.
“Even if Enginn will not return? Even if Mollengard comes for Eyraille?” Sylvie ventured to finish.
Thora nodded, but said nothing else.
“Your Majesty,” Sylvie curtsied to the Eyraillian king. Despite his casual impropriety, she was all solicitude and precision, not a hair out of place or a skirt left with unseemly wrinkles in his presence. “I have with me the ledger you requested. All told, there are—“
Something he said gave her pause. A few somethings, were she honest. Did he—appoint her a position in his court? A semi-permanent one? As in, she would not be returning home after the portal mirrors for Ilandria were complete?
“You honor me, your Majesty. Does this mean you have reconsidered my temporary status? I accept the offer, of course. This is a matter I am equipped to understand, and I will do my level best to foster positive relations between the two warring factions. Thank you for the opportunity.” Before she railed off a stream of effulgent language and high praise for the king, she stopped her tongue before she embarrassed herself. How would she recover if she acted a flustered mess in front of the king? Still, she felt impelled to say a good word.
“Unholy terror you were—in the best possible way,” she said cautiously, not knowing how well he would receive her borderline impolite comment. “You were quite ferocious. I thought I saw a few Eyraillians quaver in their boots,” she chuckled awkwardly, fearing she had begun to babble. “Do continue to roar, and I shall purr. A complement of temperaments, together which will silence the bold and ease the weary. Excuse the terrible analogy; I am afraid I’ve been in my uncle’s presence far too long such that I have absorbed his overwrought rhetoric. Forgive me. Your ledger, as requested.” She handed it to him in a manner that would conceal her pinkening face, at least temporarily, until she could regain her composure. Blessedly, he was busy reading her graceful and detailed documentation to notice.
“All told, thirteen families were affected; forty-two, in sum. The losses range from foodstuffs and provisions for the winter, tents and various camping supplies, wares ranging from jewelry, pottery, produce, creams, scarves, belts, and other such notions, quilts, knit-work, and tapestries…I estimate the total damage is,” she paused, “well, I am unfamiliar with the value of Eyrallian coin, but factoring in the flow of trade and commerce in this region, I would assume in the range of 370 to 400 gold. If it pleases you, your Majesty, and if your treasury looks dire, I know where we might mine for gold and other precious ore. Call it an earth mage’s innate sense. Your mountains are rich in valuable resources. It is possible, though I speculate, that this is the reason why Mollengard desires your land, so.”
Mirrors between Galeyn and Eyraille, Eyraille and Ilandria, and Ilandria and Galeyn… Safir was far from convinced that this didn’t pose a dire threat to security for all kingdoms involved. Furthermore, while he currently harboured favourable relations with Caris, he wasn’t sure he wished to grant the young and impulsive Eyraillian king easy and immediate access to his home whenever he pleased. He might then never hear the end of his demands to spar and improve his swordsmanship… Although, Tivia did have a good point. If the Forbanne were already at Ilandria’s fingertips, and the knew they needed the manpower if they wanted to so much as hope to thwart Mollengard’s aggression, then even Caris, in all of his emotion-driven decision making, would have a hard time turning them away.
“With the right precautions in place, I am open to further discussion about establishing portal mirrors between Ilandria and Galeyn.” The Prince of Blades conceded--at least partially. “But--what of our young King of Eyraille? Should I be concerned?”
On the contrary, Safir was… impressed. He even leaned forward at his desk. “Civil unrest is certainly nothing to celebrate, especially when it comes to Eyraille, but… Are you saying that Caris initiated this on his own? Entirely unprompted? You mentioned a sudden influx of visitors lately, including those capable of crafting these portal mirrors you speak of. Do you think he was looking to impress these foreign diplomats?” Which would be incredibly ironic, considering how little he’d cared to ‘impress’ Ilandria or its Prince when seeking to establish an alliance. On one hand, it was refreshing that the young King presented himself genuinely as he was without pretense, but there was no denying that it was likewise very aggravating. Like he knew he’d get what he wanted all along, so there was never any need for niceties.
“Regardless, I’ll be sure to inform Haraldur of this turn of events. I imagine King Caris currently has his hands full with conflict between his citizens, but you can inform him that I’m willing to further discuss the matter of the mirrors when he is available.” Particularly if it meant meeting this mysterious mage, whom Tivia Rigas was very certain would be of great interest to him. He was no fool; she had already made mention of Nia Ardane, dangling the woman’s name over his head like a carrot just out of reach. He’d be very surprised to learn that it was anyone else… but, in typical Tivia Rigas fashion, she only said enough to capture his interest. And he’d only get the rest if and when he agreed to her terms.
In any case, Safir hadn’t the time for a longer discussion at that moment, anyway. The specialized crossbows that he hoped to have Vega and her Skyknights use so as to award them more of an advantage were already in the works, and he was scheduled to meet with the smith at this time. But no sooner did the Prince of Blades rise to his feet that there was another knock on the door. Upon being permitted entry, a guard who had been making his rounds stumbled in, pale-faced and out of breath. “Forgive me… Your Highness. His Majesty--”
He hadn’t the chance to finish his sentence. Safir was too fast, his reflexes too primed to sprint to and out the door and into the corridor the second the guard uttered those last two words. He ran down corridors, through doors, and up two flights of stairs without stopping. He wasn’t even sure he drew breath before he burst into his father’s bedchambers… where he found Ilandria’s King, Ullir Vallaincourt, very still upon his bed. From the doorway, he could have simply been sleeping…
“Your Highness… he was conscious but a half hour ago. He asked us to stoke the fire so that the room would be warmer while he napped…” An attendant collapsed her hands in front of her and bowed her head. “He… he is still warm. It must have happened just moments ago, that he passed in his sleep…”
Safir didn’t hear a single word she was saying. He heard nothing but his own heartbeat in his ears as he raced to his father’s side and took his hand. It was warm; his skin was still warm. His eyes were closed. He could have been sleeping… except, his chest did not rise and all with the intake and expelling of breath. Just one… Please, just one breath. That was all Safir wanted. He knew, and had known for full well for a long time that his father was fading. For years, he’d promised Ullir (and himself) that whatever happened, whether he recovered or succumbed, he would be there, even if it was only for his last breath. But of late… he had almost been convinced that there was a chance the future might be brighter. He had spoken with his father, who had been relatively lucid, every night for the past week. A month ago--even two weeks ago, this would have been no less devastating, but would have been less surprising. But since allying with Eyraille, Safir had dared to hope…
And look where hope had gotten him. Just one more breath. I can accept this, if only you draw one more breath…
Someone touched his shoulder. Safir was vaguely aware of someone speaking to him, but the words sounded far away. He had yet to let go of his father’s hand.
“Your Highness. I’m very sorry.” When his father’s attendants failed to reach him, the palace’s head physician stepped in: a calm, supportive, but no less firm presence. One who had been a part of Safir’s life for as long as he could remember. At least as long as his father. “There is nothing to suggest His Majesty didn’t pass peacefully.” He added after a moment. Sympathy lined his face, yet it somehow made him look younger, despite the greying streaks in his pale brown hair.
Safir didn’t have words. His mouth was dry, his tongue stuck to the roof of it. He didn’t let go of his father’s hand. Releasing his grip would mean he’d have to accept this--and he wasn’t ready. However much he thought he would be when this moment came… he just wasn’t ready. “...I wasn’t there.” He didn’t even know who he was speaking to; anyone, or no one at all. Maybe he was just talking to himself. “I said… I’d be there when…”
“He knew where you were: holding up this kingdom on your shoulders, while he was unable to. He was so devastatingly proud of you in life, Your Highness. More than you know.”
More than I probably deserved. The Eyraillian Prince (and now, soon to be King), tried to swallow, but it was as if all the moisture in his body had dried up. Even his eyes were dry. Even if he wanted to cry… he couldn’t. “... Mister Somath…”
“‘Mister’ is hardly necessary anymore, Your Highness.” The physician shook his head kindly. “I was in your father’s service; and, if you will allow it, I would like to remain in yours. You may call me Rewalt. I realize there is nothing that I can say to relieve the gravity of this moment, but know that I am happy to assist you in any way that will facilitate this transition.”
“What… what happens now?” Only now, in this moment as it had come to pass, did Safir realize how devastatingly unprepared he was. All this time, he’d thought he’d had it together… “What am I supposed to do?”
“You let your staff do what you pay them for. This will be taken care of. The official announcement to the citizens of Ilandria, a proper funeral, and then your coronation will all be handled efficiently and with the utmost professionalism. You need only make the final calls on decisions before they are executed. For now… let the kingdom make peace with His Majesty’s passing with a proper period of mourning.”
All practical, sound advice; and the Prince could expect nothing less of a man who had been in service to his family for over thirty decades. Yet none of it brought comfort, or made him want to let go of the King’s hand. Rewalt was right: nothing could levy the gravity of this moment. Ullir Vallaincourt was not the first or last king to come and go from the Ilandrian throne: it would go through the motions of welcoming a new king, just as it had before. And, one day, it would be Safir’s turn to incite a period of mourning with his passing.
It was just life; the passage of time, and the procedures that followed. Nothing remained the same forever, and miracles weren’t real.
Safir released his father’s hand.
Later that evening, Ilandria received official notice of the passing of King Ullir Vallaincourt, but it wasn’t until the next day that the news unofficially reached Eyraille by word of none other than Tivia Rigas.
Caris had all but forgotten about the wild card that was Ullir Vallaincourt and his imminent death. He’d been too preoccupied with portal mirrors and banal crimes of hatred toward the Mollengardian refugees to be holding his breath for the old man, and unlike Safir, it certainly never crossed his mind that he might miraculously recover.
And since he had yet to hear from Safir about his thoughts regarding the portal mirrors, the Eyraillian King could only deal with what happened to be within his control: and right now, that was the refugees.
Contrary to what Sylvie had assumed when they last met, the young King did not intend to establish her as a permanent fixture in his court. Her stay would still be temporary; how long it lasted depended on how quickly they could fix this situation with Eyraille’s ‘us versus them’ attitude toward the refugees. And even so, even if this noble-born girl was the key to civil peace, she had yet to earn his full respect and trust.
“My father would have raised kingdomwide taxes to pay for this infraction.” Caris fumed at his desk, as the palace’s financial advisor ran the numbers with him. “That’s the least he would have done. But at the precipice of war, I can’t have Eyraillians turn on me, as well as the refugees.” He puffed out his cheeks in an exasperated sigh. While Eyraille was not a kingdom lacking in riches in its own right, this infraction came at a costly time, when Caris would have preferred to be putting money toward weapons, soldiers, training, and defenses. Instead, here he was paying for cruelty on behalf of his own people. I wonder if there is any truth to what the Canaveris girl said about valuable resources in Eyraille’s mountains…
“...send for the Canaveris girl.” He instructed his advisor, who bowed and quietly obliged. Moments later, a guard at the door announced Sylvie’s arrival, and permitted her entry to the study.
“Miss Canaveris. You asked me yesterday of your status, here in Eyraille--at my court, specifically. I’m undecided as of yet, but there are a few factors to consider before I make that decision.” He gestured for her to sit down, and folded his hands in front of him. “Your rapport with the refugees is, indeed, valuable. And I’d be lying to say I had the time right now, as we’re preparing for war, to be a reassuring presence to people in need. Furthermore… you’ve piqued my interest in mining Eyraille’s mountains. What the refugees lost yesterday is, indeed, a drop in the bucket compared to the currency in my family’s name, but at this point in time, sparing any gold could be a costly mistake down the line. The faster I can replenish what I intend to give up as compensation for the lost wares, the better. However, something caught my attention, yesterday.” His sharp, azure eyes regarded her studiously. “Are you able to ride a horse independently, Miss Canaveris?”
Her hesitation before replying was all the confirmation he needed to justify his suspicions. “You won’t always have someone at your beck and call to ride with you, here. My resources are already being spread very thin, and if you are not able to travel kingdomwide in a satisfactory amount of time, then you are a liability. I don’t make liabilities a part of my court.” He held up a hand to stay her protest or objection. “Let me finish. If you are willing to learn this skill, and learn it fast, then I am willing to invest in your potential, and there may yet be a place for you here. There are capable instructors here at the palace, and plenty of even-tempered mares and steeds. Although… you’d do well to invest in more practical attire.” He nodded to the muted, albeit well-tailored, pale-green gown that looked lovely in contrast to her deep skin tone… but no less a terrible choice for horseback.
Before Sylvie could reply, there was a knock at the door of his study. The guard informed him that Tivia needed to speak with him immediately for a very pressing matter. “...please excuse me a moment.” He said to Sylvie, before he left to meet Tivia in the corridor. His shoulders and jaw were tense in anticipation of whatever devastating news she had come to deliver. “What’s going on?”
Evidently… it wasn’t urgent at all. The Eyraillian King listened as the star seer explained that Ullir Vallaincourt had recently drawn his last breath, and she feared Safir had hit a rut where he was in dire need of support, if there was any hope in maintaining him as a strong ally. “So… what do you want me to do about it? The man was old and sick, Tivia. Even Safir was aware the end was near. You don’t expect me to show up, unannounced at a time like this, do you? I sure as hell wouldn’t want that, even if I happened to give a damn about my father on his deathbed.” He wrinkled his nose in distaste and folded his arms. “Give the Prince of Blades time and space to mourn, and he’ll be fine, I’m sure. He’s a grown man, Tivia; I’m not going to coddle him and insult his dignity.”
Caris’ shoulders relaxed and he massaged his jaw with one hand, feeling foolish for getting so worked up over what was really a non-issue. “As an ally of Ilandria, I’ll write and sign a letter of condolences to Prince Vallaincourt. He is free to reach out if and when he sees fit. If I am formally invited to attend his father’s funeral, then I will do so. But I will not be reduced to a shoulder to cry on. Have a little more respect for the man; I’m sure he already has all the support he needs. Now, unless you have another non-issue to get off your chest,” he turned back to his study, where he’d left Sylvie waiting. “I’m in the middle of figuring out how to clean up a mess that isn’t completely out of my control.”
During her impromptu meeting with Safir, Tivia could sense King Ullir’s star extinguishing, a candle losing air and fading, fading, into smoke. It occurred to her that she should feel guilty for keeping the Prince away from his father when his last moments were flickering away as they spoke. But she was no master of death like Vitali, able to pinpoint the time of passing to the day, hour, or minute. As an ironic twist of fate, Tivia often had terrible timing. At any rate, he was dead now. She found no need to play supernatural coroner when Safir would learn of the tragic news in a few moments.
She cut short their conversation and took her leave. Not like she had much else to say, but she would be merciful and release her captive hold on him. For a time, at least.
She waited until the following day to share the news with Caris, caring little for interrupting his meeting with Sylvie Canaveris as she informed a guard of the urgency. Considering his sudden interest in the earth mage, her concerns had branched in a multitude of directions like a wayward tree, and she grappled with which issue to prioritize, and which to ignore. The subject of Ullir Vallaincourt, and Safir’s vacillating health, however, was a matter she deemed of significant importance—particularly because she had seen where negligence of the soon-to-be Ilandrian king would lead. The stars shared a glimpse of Safir’s shaky trajectory. If left to his own devices, he would not experience a clean transfer of power.
“So you’re not worried,” Tivia said after news of the elder king of Ilandria elicited no reaction from Caris. “As our sole ally—of substance, that is,” she was glad Aristide was not around to catch wind of the scathing insult to Stella D’Mare, “it’s of particular interest to us what happens to Ilandria and its ruling monarch, lest our support becomes compromised. If he is racked by grief and unfit to rule, this will delay our plans for the mirrors, among other things. I’m not suggesting we coddle him, and heavens know I am the last person alive fit to comfort a grieving son when, like you, I have no sympathy for his loss. But it’s best we keep an eye on him. Safir puts on a strong front, but it is just that; a front. If the responsibility must fall on me,” she sighed, feeling stretched thin as it were, “then I’ll do it, just as long as you promise to keep Sylvie Canaveris at arm’s length until I return. I will reiterate that I am least suited for this task and will probably make the man feel worse as I regale him of the time when I gutted my father like a fish. I am not companion material, but something tells me he has little else in his life. His existence is a lonely one.”
When Caris was called elsewhere, Sylvie relaxed her shoulders, relieved for the interruption. She found it increasingly difficult to spend time alone with him without suppressing the urge to admonish him for his tactless speech, which always hinted at some flaw of hers he wished to address, and frame as fundamentally unacceptable, as though she were less for being unable to ride a horse. Yet, with every nitpick he addressed, she flared with the desire to prove him a fool for doubting her ability to learn. Not to mention the matter of misplaced priorities. Here she was offering him a road paved with riches, and all he could focus on was if she could adequately steer a steed around the kingdom. Developing the skill would no doubt divide her attention from other, more valuable pursuits; magic and Eyrallian politics chief among them.
Then there was the small matter of wandering alone on horseback through Eyraille, a foreigner saddled with no protection from hostiles and no hope for a cure should she fall off her horse and develop a gash in her leg. In the middle of an unfamiliar wilderness, she would surely meet her end, reduced to a pretty, human-shaped crystalline formation on the ground. Perhaps then Eyraille could mine her corpse to pay for their armies and refugees. Useful in death—and yet no step closer to freeing her father from his Mollengardian prison.
When Caris returned, Sylvie made up her mind on what to say. “I cannot help but wonder if you are more interested in sabotaging me than in saving your kingdom,” she said, lifting her chin to meet his fierce-set eyes. Had they always looked that devastating color? Like the type to chill one to the marrow. “If it pleases you, I shall learn to ride, but tell me honestly if you intend to send me on frequent solo missions, without an entourage or single guardian. Surely I am entitled to some level of protection, not only as an honored guest of the king but as a diplomat partaking in dangerous work that will likely pit me against an indecorous crowd. You claim you will invest in me, but what have you invested? I daresay you have received more out of this arrangement—I needn’t mention the portal mirrors—and can thus afford to grant me the resources I require. I do not ask for much; merely the bare minimum of decency to ease the insult you’ve directed to my person and by extension, your benefactors. So, allow me to suggest my conditions, and you will find them quite fair.”
She clasped her hands behind her back, emulating, best as she could, a shrewd businesswoman amid a fair negotiation. Nadira taught her well; it would be a shame not to utilize the skill. “In exchange for liaising with the refugees, initiating an ore-mining expedition, and learning to ride, I require two guards at the absolute least. They are free to ride in plainclothes to divert suspicion as to our identity and association with the crown. For mining operations specifically, I will require a fair deal more than a trifle. As I am sure you are aware, tools, load-bearing carts, lumber for support beams, mules, and a crew of able-bodied laborers are but some of the necessities vital for a successful excavation. If you hand me a parchment and quill, I shall write you an exemplified list so you might have a clearer expectation of this labor-intensive endeavor. Of course, this is all contingent upon what my expedition is able to find and what I am able to farm on my own, so I am more than happy to begin small-scale if you are serious and intend on granting me serious figures with which I can work. I understand you are pressed for coin, but denying me aid and demanding I produce miracles without proper support is not how one ‘invests’ in their potential assets.”
Tivia returned to Ilandria that day, but wasn’t surprised to be met with one of Safir’s personal guards barring her way to a private audience. “His Grace is not entertaining guests at the moment,” he said, firmly blocking the door to the palace. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but His Majesty the King has passed on, and His Grace must make the proper arrangements for the king’s funeral and prepare for his coronation.”
“May I ask,” Tivia said, “as a foreigner ignorant of Ilandrian policy, how long these preparations—from funeral to coronation—will take, and if they might interfere with Eyraille’s war plans. As far as I see it, we have much to discuss.”
The guard grunted, almost amused by Tivia’s blatant disinterest in the monarchy’s well-being. “Now I have no doubts you’re the Eyraillian king’s envoy. These things take time. Ilandria is steeped in old traditions and it is customary for the bereaved to mourn the late king for a fortnight; one week before the funeral, and one week after. The following fortnight will focus on the lead-up to the coronation, followed by the coronation itself.”
Tivia stared at the guard, her mouth twitching. “A month. You’re telling me the entire process, from start to finish, will take about a month. And during this time, we can’t see His Grace at all?”
The guard leaned on his halberd, appearing bored with the conversation. “I can put you in touch with the Ilandrian council. They will be handling affairs in his stead, until further notice. His Grace must concentrate on his ascension to the throne and the last rites of King Ullir. So if that is all, I will ask you to leave.”
At first, Tivia dug in her heels, prepared to ignore the impertinent guard and wander past the front gates of the palace with the ease of traveling through a portal mirror. Instead, she bowed, muttered her condolences about the late king, and returned to Eyraille in the style from whence she came. In lieu of sharing her disappointing news with Caris foremost, she knocked on the door behind which housed Ari, Nia, and Sylvie (with the latter still preoccupying the king’s attention). At her knock, Ari answered, a slight furrow of confusion on his brow.
“Miss Rigas; to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”
“May I enter? And is Nia about?”
“She is resting inside, yes, but is not asleep, so you shan’t disturb her. Although,” he frowned, seemingly aware of Tivia’s penchant for bringing bad tidings, “I must ask about the nature of your visit.”
Tivia looked over Ari’s shoulder, seeing a figure emerge from the corner of the room. Nia had stirred, and was likely listening in from her vantage point. “I suppose it doesn’t merit a private audience. This information will become common knowledge before long, but I thought it would please a select few to hear.” She raised her voice and enunciated so their eavesdropper could attend to her words without strain. “King Ullir is dead. That is all.”
“That is all?” Ari echoed, half-expecting Tivia to elaborate on her statement. When she did not, he sighed, casting one look into the room where Nia most assuredly lurked before offering his diplomatic interpretation, removed from his personal views on the Ilandrian monarchy. “I will be sure to pass along my condolences to the king’s bereaved son.” Leaning forward, he mouthed his next question, knowing well Tivia would read his lips. “When is his coronation? Perhaps I will pay a visit when the time comes. To solidify a tentative allyship with Ilandria…and to see for myself the measure of the new king’s rule.”
“It will happen in a month, unless I can influence events to happen sooner,” Tivia said, transferring to her telepathic speech. “After all, we are in a time of war, and can’t humor Ilandria to partake in their quaint little customs unabbreviated. I’ll let you know how it goes. Oh, and Lord Canaveris?” She gave the D’Marian head a meaningful look. “If Nia wants to go to Ilandria, let her. The threat of King Ullir is literally dead. Safir wishes her no harm. On the contrary; under his rule, her safety won’t be threatened. If I sense otherwise, I’ll be the first to act; you have my word.”
Before Ari could calculate just how much Tivia Rigas’s word was worth, she turned around and disappeared down the corridor. She needed a break. A quick distraction. Luckily, she knew where to obtain it.
“The fuck are you doing here?”
“Oh?” Tivia’s mouth spread into a teasing smile. “So you’re not happy to see me?”
“More that I’m floored you want another tussle. Thought that was a one-time thing borne out of self-loathing or something. Guess there’s still more of it to evacuate before you’re satisfied.”
“You’re doing well for yourself, Hadwin.” She pointed to his nest of leaves and bramble piled under a multi-hued willow tree. “Just roughing it in the Night Garden till you waste away, hm? That’s the plan?”
“I’ll say the same of you!” Hadwin chuckled, plucking one of the ombré leaves from his hair. “Doing the same shit but on a grander scale. More chances of a crash and burn than just a sizzle and a sputter, but damn do I envy you your fun.”
“You could always come to Ilandria and stir things up with the Prince who is soon to be king,” she raised an eyebrow at him. “I mean, I don’t know what else to do with him.”
“Tempting. Very tempting.” Tivia didn’t miss how his gaze briefly trailed to the skies and the invisible currents sailing above their heads, and she knew he wouldn’t leave, not even for a quick romp, if it meant ‘abandoning’ Teselin. “But from one bad influence to another, you know damn well what to do,” he landed her an alluring wink. “Now are we gonna fuck or what?”
Sadly enough, she did know what to do. And as they tumbled beneath the wide, lush canopies of the Night Garden, her head grew clearer the more she lost it to the sensuous pleasures of carnal desire.
“Come back whenever you wanna punish yourself some more,” Hadwin lounged on his side in the aftermath, grinning, teeth ready to snap.
“Sure, whatever it takes to knock the crazy out of you,” she bit back in farewell as she disappeared through the holes in the air. Leave it to Hadwin to put her in the mindset to enact the most reckless path imaginable, which for her…was bloody, weeping vulnerability.
On top of breaking and entering.
She appeared in Safir’s apartments a few nights later, skirting past guards and attendants unnoticed. He was still awake, and alone, perhaps a rare moment away from his dead father’s bedside. She stood before his tall windows, a shadow haloed by the moon. A ball of yellow etherea in her hand made her presence known ere he retaliated with a sword or called the guards to drag her from sight and toss her into the dungeons. Chances were high that it would still happen, unveiled identity or not.
“This is uncouth, I know,” Tivia said in a hasty whisper. “In bad taste. A violation of privacy. You’re free to yell at me and tell me to leave, and I will, but there is a reason I popped in uninvited. I had to know if the guards were selling me a story when I tried to request an audience with you the ‘proper’ way. They said you’d be too busy to meet with your allies. For the next month. But I’m not here to talk business because I have a feeling you could care less. So…your father is dead.” She inwardly groaned at her too-casual lead-in to the subject. “Do,” she hesitated, “you want to talk about it? Alternatively,” she jerked her head at the window, “I can get you out of here. For the evening, at least. Wherever it is you want to go. If I have the power to take you there, I will. Within reason, of course. I have some swill with me.” She patted the flask clipped to her belt. “Just enough to take the edge off. Some pipeweed, too, if you’re inclined to smoke. Or,” she threw one hand up in the air, “I’ll go—but I’m going to keep coming back, like a stray cat you can’t shake. So you better get used to seeing me. It’s not like I didn’t give you some time alone to mourn beforehand. The grace period is over. Now you have company, however unwanted it is.”
“Worried? About Safir Vallaincourt?” Caris wrinkled his nose. Clearly what he thought warranted concern did not align with Tivia’s opinion. “This was not a sudden happenstance, Tivia. He--hell, everyone expected this to happen sooner than later. I’m frankly surprised it wasn’t sooner. Do you really think he wasn’t prepared for this? Do you believe the annoyingly logical and practical Prince of Blades is suddenly willing to give himself over to errant emotions that he’s had ample time to process already? Here’s what I think.”
The Eyraillian King unfolded his arms and planted one hand on his hip, already assured in his assumptions regarding how his ally in Ilandria was bearing this turn of events. “Safir understands the dire nature of our situation, and that we are fighting primarily against time. He’ll likely require a handful of days to grieve; then, he’ll be right back to all of his diligent and methodical management of Ilandria and our alliance.” Which, to be fair, was precisely exactly what anyone who knew (or even simply knew of) the Prince of Blades would expect. Perhaps Caris simply didn’t have the insight that Tivia did to recognize Safir’s demeanor as a front… ir, conversely, he lacked the necessary magnitude of emotional intelligence. Either way, it was clear he had already made up his mind.
“If you truly see fit to go and keep him company in a bustling palace, where the man scarcely has a moment alone, then I won’t stop you. And I’ll send a letter, just as I promised. To let him know he’s in our thoughts, and all that nonsense.” Caris shrugged and toyed with a signet ring on his finger. “If suddenly things take a dire turn--which I doubt they will--then I’ll make an excursion to Ilandria and see to it myself. Although I strongly suspect that my involvement won’t be the betterment of anything--or anyone.”
Leaving Tivia to go deal with Safir however she saw fit, Caris returned to his study and closed the door behind him. “Apologies for the interruption. I cannot guarantee it won’t happen again.” The young King sighed his milt exasperation and reclaimed his seat behind his desk. I’ll do it, just as long as you promise to keep Sylvie Canaveris at arm’s length until I return. Tivia’s words hung in the air, and it suddenly occurred to him that leaving her alone in his study, even if only for a handful of minutes and with capable guards at the door, perhaps hadn’t been the soundest idea. Nothing appeared out of place, and it wasn’t as though she’d had enough time to rifle through anything, yet the star seer was still convinced this girl could not be trusted.
While he wasn’t yet convinced he could share in Tivia’s suspicion, Caris had thought he’d long since made up his mind about Sylvie Canaveris and her character. That is… until just now. Suddenly, this girl had a lot to say, about herself and her place here in Eyraille and his own intentions. The Eyraillian King did not interrupt; he let her say her peace, about her expectations and how she felt in terms of how he’d been treating her since her arrival. He couldn’t help but wonder… how long had she been hiding this side of herself? Parading around like little more than a debutant, in her pretty clothes and sweet voice? The person sitting across from him now was nothing like the person he had almost immediately turned away upon her arrival. And… he wasn’t sure how he felt about it.
“You’re bold to address me in that tone, and with those words, as a guest in my kingdom.” He didn’t raise his voice; there was no need. Caris Sorde had made it abundantly clear just the other day, when he’d publicly announced his displeasure with what had taken place with the refugees and their destroyed wares. For someone whose body was still filling out, and had yet to reach its greatest potential, and who stood only a few inches taller than his older sister, the young King carried the presence of someone twice his size and ferocity. People had feared his father, Valdrik Sorde, because he’d been a man who spoke with his actions. Words were never necessary when he consistently demonstrated what he was capable of, and how easily he was incited. Caris, on the other hand, did not walk a path sodden with the blood of innocents, and aside from brash decisions and a quick temper (and exiling his only sister and her husband…), hadn’t anywhere near the stain on his reputation that his father had toted. And yet, by virtue of being Valdrik’s only son, Eyraille held its breath around him; not because of what he did or didn’t do, but for fear of what he could do.
Tivia was an exception; she didn’t fear him. Nor did Safir seem to be on edge around the Eyraillian King. But that was only after he had established a rapport with the both of them, insofar as they had begun to feel comfortable enough to address him without pretenses (well… perhaps to a lesser extent, where it came to Safir and all his insufferable propriety.) The same could not be said for Sylvie Canaveris, who thus far had only spent a handful of hours in his company. Which meant these brazen comments indicated she thought she was calling his bluff, as a dangerous person living in his father’s bloody shadow… or, she felt so insulted by his dismissive gestures that she let her own feelings get the best of her, regardless of what the consequences might be. Either way, it wasn’t what he’d expected of her--and he wasn’t sure he knew exactly how to proceed.
She was right about one thing: her arrival was a boon. Even if all he got out of it were the portal mirrors, it was an end worth the means; and if she stalked off now, she would take Alster Rigas and that Nia woman with her. For that reason alone, Caris opted to follow Safir’s lead, and provide her with the reasoning she sought, as opposed to sending her packing and back to Galeyn that very afternoon, which had been the first thought to cross his mind. “And, you are bold to assume that I should see fit to invest the time and effort required to sabotage you. Have the decency to take a seat and speak with me at eye-level, and I will explain.”
Tolerating her attitude was one thing; tolerating her attitude while she had the audacity to stand over him, leveraging power and thinking it beneficial for negotiation, was quite another, and unacceptable. However righteous she felt, he wasn’t about to let her forget she was in the presence of a King, and that she should act accordingly. Caris drew a steadying breath. “You may have your guards, Sylvie Canaveris. I am disappointed you would think I’d send you alone into hostile territory, or that I’m so foolhardy as to assume you would be the one personally mining the mountains. True thought it may be that I sit unconvincingly upon a throne that seems too big for me, I am not an idiot.” The fact that she’d assumed such an oversight on his part almost annoyed him more than her abrupt change in attitude. “Detail what it is you need for mining expeditions, and I’ll appoint you to oversee that project. When you conduct meetings and interviews with refugees, you may be accompanied. I do not ask you to learn to ride because I expect you to go about your work here alone; however, I do not think it a big ask on my part to expect some independence on yours.” And, perhaps if he had simply led with that comment in the first place, this half of the conversation could have been avoided. It would never come up as a point of discussion, but Caris was very much aware he was still learning to be the best that he could be in his position: from the people around him, from his experiences, and from his mistakes. From Tivia, from Safir, and now, oddly, from Sylvie. He wasn’t above acknowledging that he still had room to grow… although, he would not be having that conversation with this slighted young woman.
“I have never been to Stella D’Mare, and I can only guess its size compared to how it compares to my kingdom on a map.” Caris pushed aside the papers and parchments covering his dark, oak desk to expose a very intricate continental map that had been carved expertly into the surface. It was topped with a layer of glass to both protect the craftsmanship, and to ensure a smooth face for writing, uninhibited.
“Now, Galeyn isn’t even on a bloody map, but from what I gather, it doesn’t sound as though it is much bigger than the home you are used to. But I can tell you, Eyraille is vast: entire villages built upon a single mountain alone, and well over a week on horseback from east to west.” He traced Eyraille’s position on the map with an index finger to demonstrate. “Because of the mountains and foothills, no straight line exists between two points in this kingdom. There’s a reason we use rocs at every opportunity--and, no, I’m not going to ask you to learn to ride one of those. But, you’re going to find very quickly that, without a horse, your reach here is very limited. Which is where I make my point.”
Caris removed his hand from the intricate map and sat back in his seat, comfortably meeting Sylvie’s stubborn gaze with his own. “Kingdom finances are a concern, yes, but not nearly as much as able bodies. As I said--you’ll have your guards to accompany you kingdomwide to facilitate your work. However, when you’re not out conducting official business condoned by me, I cannot guarantee accompaniment. In case you’ve forgotten, we are very much preparing for war, here. Mollengard’s numbers are not the only threat, but it remains one of our biggest problems.” For every man or woman in Eyraille and Ilandria, Mollengard must have ten times more. A very real concern for which neither he, nor Safir, nor even Tivia, currently had a solution.
“Right now, a plethora of new guards and soldiers with potential are occupied with accelerated training, so that they’ll have a chance when they come to blows. Even my seasoned infantry is in the process of retraining to ensure we have what it takes to face Mollengard. We need more men and women to monitor the borders twice as heavily, not to mention increased security here at the palace. So,” hoping he had cleared any confusion and misunderstandings that lingered in Sylvie’s mind, Caris exhaled slowly and folded his hands in his lap. “Unless you really wish to be completely beholden to others to take you where you want to go, I daresay it is in your best interests to learn to ride alone. Is that quite agreeable for you, Miss Canaveris?” Please say yes. “Or have you any other questions or concerns before we conclude this meeting?”
Please say no, he thought, desperate to end this conversation. It wasn’t often people had the spine to talk back the way Sylvie did; he hadn’t been prepared, and it was exhausting. Since safety was so paramount to her concerns in traveling and presenting herself alone, and he wasn’t interested in anymore back-and-forth, Caris took the opportunity to go one step further to ensure Sylvie would feel satisfied enough to leave him alone for a while. “No one will dare cause you harm or trouble if they know you are conducting business on my behalf. If it will help you rest easier, then I’ll have you fitted with appropriate palace attire. While you may not be a permanent member of my court, no one will know any differently if you’re dressed like you’ve come from the palace. Just say the word, and I will send for my tailor. Regardless,” he rolled his shoulders back, realizing they’d been holding far more tension than he’d thought. “I’ll have you meet with an instructor in the stables tomorrow morning. We’ll talk again when you’ve detailed your requirements for a mining expedition.”
As per her request, he pushed a blank piece of parchment, a quill, and an inkwell toward her.
A period of bereavement was only useful when you knew how to properly grieve; which Safir Vallaincourt, evidently, did not.
The day his father passed, Safir didn’t leave Ullir’s chamber. He didn’t eat, didn’t sleep, and even when it was finally necessary to allow palace officials to remove his father’s body to properly ensure it would be suitable for the funeral in a week, he remained where he was: seated at the bedside, barely able to process what had happened.
For the most part, everyone knew better than to bother him unless absolutely necessary. Those assisting in planning his father’s funeral occasionally asked for his say here and there, but mercifully, they did not linger… although, part of him wished they would. Anything to give him an excuse not to be alone with his thoughts. But at the same time, surrounding himself with people didn’t sound any more appealing… so all that was left was the void of his own solitude.
Neither Eyraille, nor Caris, nor portal mirrors crossed his mind since he found his father gone. And while it occurred to the Prince of Blades that he was not caught in a vacuum of time, autumn was slowly but surely marching toward winter, and every day, the threat of Mollengard drew closer, he couldn’t bring himself to sit at his desk and resume where he had left off on the day Ullir died. Fortunately, Haraldur and Vega had not contacted him since he’d paid them a visit, and if they did, he wasn’t sure what he would say to them. In the strangest sense, Safir felt as though he was trapped in a cage he couldn’t see, with boundaries beyond his ability to comprehend, and with no one to let him out.
Sleep deprived (yet strangely alert), the Prince of Blades paced his room, still dressed in day clothes because he had no intention of trying to sleep, hoping that it was just a matter of time before this invisible prison would shatter, and he’d find himself free to think and to pick up where he left off. Maybe just one more step, and he would find a way out of this fugue… Of course, one step simply led to another, and Safir was no closer to clarity and rejuvenated ambition than before. It was ridiculous, when logically, his father hadn’t been much a part of his life these past few years when he’d taken ill; now shouldn’t be any different. He was alone in this, in managing the palace and Ilandria’s affairs, but hadn’t that been the case for a long time? Why should it feel any different now?
He wasn’t sure how long Tivia had been standing there, in the sitting quarters of his own personal suite, but when he suddenly looked up, the star seer was there in all her uncanny glory. On any other day, Safir might have been started enough to draw a blade before realizing who stood before him. Evidently, he didn’t even have it in him to be surprised. “Tivia.” He blinked his green eyes once, then rubbed them to ensure he wasn’t hallucinating. “I don’t believe we were scheduled to meet at this time…”
She knew; because she wasn’t supposed to be here. Not in the palace… and certainly not in his room. “It’s customary that Ilandria mourns the loss of a ruling monarch one week before and one week after the funeral. Then, the coronation of the next monarch takes place a fortnight following.” The Ilandrian prince explained, as if reciting the policy verbatim, with little emotion or affect. “You were informed correctly…” What day was it, anyway? How long since Ullir had passed? How long until the funeral, where he would have to pull together the best semblance of himself and present it to the kingdom? He had been so out of touch with the passage of time it hadn’t even occurred to him that he no longer knew how long he had been out of touch with it.
“What is there to discuss?” Safir frowned, slightly taken aback by her question. “My father is, as you’ve put so eloquently, dead. I’m planning a funeral. Then, I will be preparing for my coronation. It seems fairly straight-forward to me.” He didn’t even realize he’d simply repeated what he’d just said: a timeline without any real meaning, events that he could barely acknowledge, aside from by name. Did he even want to discuss any of it? Even if the answer was ‘yes’, Tivia made it clear that as much as she wanted to help, and understood that now was not the best of times, she was only here because this was an inconvenience. Not because she could relate.
Taking a seat at the windowsill, Safir raked a hand through his hair. It felt unwashed; he didn’t dare behold his reflection in a mirror. “Have you ever lost someone who was important to you, Miss Rigas? With whom perhaps you missed an opportunity that you will never have again?” Ironically, and unbeknownst to Safir, she did; although in her case, she had not missed her chance because the person in question was dead. “You know, my father seemed remarkably well during the last week of his life. He was lucid when he spoke to me; we had sound conversations. And, there was a lot I wanted to say to him, so that the both of us could make peace with the past, the present, and the future.” Your massacre of the Master Alchemists was an embarrassment to your kingdom. You killed my best friend’s family; it broke my heart. You’ll never see me marry… for reasons I’m not even sure I can ever tell you, lest I break your heart, too. One week, he’d had ample opportunity to get it all off his chest while his father was in a state to cognitively grasp what he was saying… and he said none of it. Instead, he stuck to safe topics. He didn’t want to spend this precious time in conflict with the last remaining member of his immediate family; and as a result, he would never have this chance again.
“It doesn’t matter. What is done is done. I will live with my decisions, and lay my father to rest in a few days’ time.” Although his voice held all the conviction one would expect of the Prince of Blades, his sharp green eyes seemed far away; unfocused and not rooted in this world. There was no drink and no pipe that would live this heaviness from his shoulders, and nowhere he could possibly go to ground himself in reality again. Unless… possibly… Would Tivia take him to Nia? Would that even help? What were the chances his childhood friend would forgive him and his family for what had happened to hers?
Drawing a steadying breath, Safir clasped his hands into fists upon his lap. “I ask that you please respect me and my kingdom at this time, Tivia--and, if it was King Caris who sent you, I ask that he do the same. I received his letter this morning. Please thank him for his condolences.” If it had even been Caris who’d written the letter; the handwriting was familiar, but he wondered if someone else had dictated the prose. “You may inform His Majesty that he and anyone in his court is welcome to attend my father’s funeral. You can expect formal invitations shortly. Otherwise… for the next two weeks, at the very least, I trust you and King Caris’ court will only contact me in the event of an emergency. Good evening, Miss Rigas.”
Nadira Canaveris was quick to instill self-respect in her grandchildren. “Honor yourself first and foremost,” she often preached. “A Canaveris does not hold superiority above the collective; one should exert finesse and grace in all interactions, regardless of rank. However, if you notice that others mistake your kindness for weakness, kindly remind them otherwise.”
Sylvie might have taken her grandmother’s advice to heart. Realizing her transgression too late, she considered beseeching the king for an apology before he divested himself of her company and forced her through the mirror back to Galeyn. What would her father say when she confessed that her mission had failed because she let her errant tongue annoy the king of Eyraille? Forget Caris as the arbiter of her sabotage when she was faring nicely on her own.
It came off as strange, therefore, when the king did not dismiss her as insufferable and turn her away at the door, proclaiming an end to her provisional status as a diplomat. He heard her concerns, listened to her requests for aid, and offered to provide them. Not without some blowback, but punishment and retribution did not descend on her head as she had feared.
Out of respect for his mature response, she took a seat in the chair in front of his desk and nodded in agreement. “Consider it done, your Majesty. I shall learn to ride for convenience's sake. Never did I imply I wanted to remove my autonomy and make myself, as you said, a ‘liability’ by exhausting valuable resources consumed on my behalf alone. I merely sought clarity as to my role and the support I might gather in the facilitation of it. Now that I have what I seek, I’ve no further complaints. Do forgive my impertinence from earlier. I only aim to advocate for myself in the pursuit of accomplishing the responsibilities you’ve tasked me to do.” To express no hard feelings, she directed a grateful smile to the king.
To take a better look at the map, she stood from her chair and wandered to the desk, running her fingers over the mountains carved in stark relief. “Stella D’Mare lies in a mountainous region. The greater area of Andalari, our former sovereign, has much a similar topography, except the scale is far less grand. Our mountains and volcanoes are a fraction of the size as seen in your fair kingdom. I would much like to explore it in my free time and survey the land at large. It will be useful to have the option to ride horseback should the need arise. I would also request, if it is not too much trouble, for a Skyknight to take me up on their roc. A flyover would aid in familiarizing myself with the land from above, and help calibrate my magic to a particular crag or series of crags rich in ore. I shall add that to my list of specifics required for my expedition.” Accepting the parchment and quill from Caris, she began to scrawl the details in a whirling, elegant script.
“By the time the portal mirrors have reached completion, I will— ideally—have much to show you during my assessment. Not just news on the refugees, but on my mining efforts, and I daresay, a few additions that may fortify your armies.” She slid the parchment over to Caris, already lined from top to bottom with a step-by-step guide on her expedition and the materials required to build a mining camp. “I will also take up your offer on appropriate palace attire. Perhaps,” she frowned at the impractical skirts of her gown, “some riding trousers. I shall start tomorrow. Simply point me to the right instructor.” And let us hope I do not fall, she thought, twirling her tourmaline ring around her finger worryingly. Or I shall not be trusted around anything even mildly dangerous again.
Safir was worse off than Tivia had surmised. Not only did he hardly react when she revealed her identity, but a quick sniff of the environs revealed a stale, overripe, odor. For a man so invested in maintaining his outward persona, to neglect basic hygiene was a tad worrisome. People mourned in different ways, and some slip-ups were commonplace, even expected. She could ignore his stringy hair hanging about his wan face in clumps, and the rumpled clothes he wore. What she couldn’t ignore, however, was the lost glint in his eyes, and the permanent furrow etched in his brows that suggested his confusion for a time he would never gain back. A fog covered his aura, cloudy and curdled, and woe be to anyone who stood too close, lest they become swept up in the murk.
“It’s hardly straightforward,” Tivia supplied, already feeling in over her head. “Death is never such. Someone might inform you that your loved one will pass on tomorrow, and it will still come as a shock. No matter how prepared, a loss is a loss all the same. I am sorry, Safir. Whatever your relationship with your father, it’s nigh impossible not to react when that figure is no longer in your life.”
Perhaps to push the weight off himself, he turned the conversation to her, and asked about her experiences with death. It was as she feared; peeling back her protective layers and exposing her vulnerable, unarmored flesh. Nodding resignedly, she took a seat beside him on the windowsill.
“I lost someone, yes. He is both dead, and alive. The man I loved is gone, anyway. It’s complicated,” she sighed, dropping the attempt to explain the multifaceted components of her second life amid a world that no longer existed, where everyone she cherished was dead. “But some aspect of him roams this plane, yes, so I suppose he’s not entirely lost. I did lose my father, though. A few months ago.” She decided not to delve into the details behind his death; namely, that she landed the killing blow. “He was a hateful man, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say I wished things were different between us. To have his love, the way I always envisioned it in my head. Failing that, I would have wanted to know, ‘Why?’ Just…why. Alas, he was too self-serving and narcissistic to look past his own arrogance and delusions of grandeur to see his family as anything but extensions of himself. He would never confess to his sins when he felt above condemnation. Never an answer to the question other than, ‘Because I deserve it.’ There was no accountability in that man, and no love. He’s gone and the world is better for it. And yet…he was still my father. And it still hurts. So much; every day.” She blinked her one eye, surprised she admitted as much to an acquaintance she barely knew. But there was unity in death, a catharsis easily shared, to some. Moreso when a grieving son and a grieving daughter recognized their deceased fathers as the monstrous men they were. Monstrous; but not monsters. It made the truth even harder to bear. Tivia could forgive a monstrous man, but never a monster. It was far better to think of her father as the latter. Not a victim to her spear, but a necessary sacrifice. A beast she must slay.
“That happens, sometimes,” she said, rerouting the conversation back to him, lest she lose her foothold. “I know someone who is well-versed in death, and he gave that sensation a name; terminal lucidity. The period days before death where a loved one experiences sudden surges in energy and alertness. You couldn’t have known.” I tried to warn you, she yearned to say, but no one wanted the reminder that they choose futile hope over cold logic, even if they knew, deep down, that their cause was doomed.
It occurred to her that Safir would ask for Nia, the corollary in her “Within reason” limitation and thus, the one thing she couldn’t promise him. She planted seeds, rallied Nia through bribery and other means, but nothing aside from forceful coercion would guarantee her success—if success through attrition counted as a success at all. Despite her meddling in others’ affairs in the hope of a favorable result, she was no Hadwin, who possessed the charisma to clinch the results he wanted, and if he failed, it was no skin off his back. She, conversely, cared too much, and left no margin for error. No margin for failure. No one wants you around. Just leave them alone. They don’t need your hand to hold.
Tivia recalled Caris’s last words before she departed. ‘He’s a grown man, Tivia. I’m not going to coddle him and insult his dignity.’ Where he erred in his judgement, however, lay in his assumption that Safir was a paragon of logic and reason. Perhaps the answer fell somewhere in the middle; Safir desired comfort, but on his terms, and least of all, with her.
“Fine, I’ll leave you be,” she stood up from the windowsill and split the air with her free hand. “But Caris didn’t send me to check on you. I did it of my own volition. He actually suggested that I leave you alone, so the blame for this intrusion lies squarely with me. Take care, Safir.” She stepped through the cleft in the air and vanished, as though she truly were a figment of Safir’s imagination and nothing more.
When she returned to Eyraille, she didn’t bother to disrupt Caris’s busy schedule with a verbal update on Safir’s deteriorating condition, but informed an envoy to pass along a message to the king at the soonest opportunity. “He’s not doing well at all, and doesn’t wish to be disturbed for the next two weeks.” Caris could happily parse the obvious meaning behind her reconnaissance mission.
In the meantime…Tivia unclipped her flask of swill, lit her pipe, and stood outside on the balcony of her private chambers, alone.
“Ah, good morning to you, good sir,” Ari greeted the envoy at his door. “What tidings have you brought today?”
The envoy passed him a rolled parchment, embossed with the wax seal of Ilandria’s royal signet.
Ari turned the parchment in his hands, curiosity and concern gathering as one. “May I ask about the nature of this notice?”
The envoy shrugged. “I’ve been told to hand these around the palace. An Ilandrian messenger came with a whole satchel of these last night. All’s I know is that they’re invitations to the late king’s funeral. Your name’s on this one,” he pointed to the scrawl on the outer layer of parchment: Lord Aristide Canaveris and Guests. “The funeral’s in two days. Not a lot of wiggle room if you ask me, but death doesn’t wait till your schedule’s clear. No need to RSVP, so says the Ilandrian bloke. Just come if you’re able, or don’t. Up to you.”
The envoy headed out before Ari could ask any further questions, leaving him standing in the hallway with an unfurled parchment gripped in his hands. As he turned to the door, he hesitated, wondering if he should hide the dratted thing from Nia, or dispose of it altogether. He quickly dismissed the inane idea. Not only would it look poorly to discard the invitation from an ally-by-association, but he could not claim ignorance about never receiving it if Nia learned the news from Alster and Elespeth, who would no doubt receive a parchment, as well. The only correct move was to strut inside and inform Nia as to what he carried.
Unfortunately, when he entered their shared chambers, she was already awake and aware of his early morning visitor. Her gaze flicked to the parchment in his hand and the unspoken question hung on her lips.
Ari recalled what Tivia had said to him the other day before disappearing down the corridor. If Nia wants to go to Ilandria, let her. If the star seer postulated correctly, the death of the old king meant the death of the old doctrine, views that Safir Vallaincourt did not, nor would, reflect. He had to grant the chance for reconciliation. Much as he would rather go to Ilandria alone and scout ahead before bringing Nia on board, it wasn’t his decision alone to make. She was not his subject, but his equal, and she had free rein to do what she liked. Even if he disagreed.
Thus resolved to his decision, Ari handed the parchment to Nia. “I received an invite. To King Ullir’s funeral,” he said, taking care not to inject any unwanted inflection. He was merely spouting facts, not making a political statement or controversial point. “It takes place in two days. I may attend, as a courtesy.” Courtesy, he called it, but he meant to judge the new king on his merits, and ascertain his integrity, accountability, and his determination not to repeat the sins of his father. Such an assessment of character could only be done face-to-face. He might never come across another chance. While he didn’t ask her if she wished to come along, as he thought it would be in bad taste, neither did he deny her the opportunity to share her opinion. Or her decision. Rather, he left the discussion open-ended, and sought nothing from her. She didn’t owe him a response, though he hoped she would trust him with her intentions. “I have never visited Ilandria before. What should I expect?”
Although the news took a few days to reach Eyraille, Nia had suspected something was amiss in Ilandria before Tivia stopped by her room and confirmed her suspicions. In just a few days after completing the portal mirror between Galeyn and Eyraille, the Master Alchemist had sufficiently recovered and was on her feet. And, given how eager King Caris had been to establish another pair of mirrors between his kingdom and Ilandria, Nia had expected him to be on her and Alster as soon as they had the strength to cross a room and maintain consciousness for more than an hour at a time. On the contrary, she hadn’t heard from King Caris, nor received any summons; when she asked Alster if he’d exchanged any words with the young and eager Eyraillian King, he, too, confirmed he’d heard nothing. Given how well aware she was that Vega Sorde’s demanding younger brother wanted easy and convenient access to Eyraille’s strongest ally, this led her to suspect that this stalled progress was on Ilandria’s part exclusively. Had Safir turned down the idea of traversing the two kingdoms with such ease? Or was he going through some long-winded, bullshit protocols involving his council before landing on a finite decision? Even for such a pushover, she had a hard time believing he would adhere so stubbornly to convention when time was of the essence, and war was pending…
Despite Tivia’s impromptu visit, bribing her to reconcile with the Prince of Blades when he suddenly found himself alone at the end of his lineage, King Ullir’s death wasn’t the first thought to cross her mind. The fact that he’d continued to endure so many years after succumbing to illness of the mind and body had led her to wonder if he would ever give it up and just die. Of course, it was always a hope at the back of her mind, but she knew better than to invest in hope.
It wasn’t until Tivia Rigas paid her and Ari another visit one afternoon that she learned the truth. Nia had just woken up from a nap when Ari answered the door, and the star seer spoke loudly enough that she couldn’t have been trying to keep it a secret. It had happened: Ullir was dead. Her family’s murderer no longer drew precious breath, and her only regret was that she hadn’t been there to witness and relish in the last breath he ever drew.
Outwardly, the Master Alchemist had the good sense to conceal her glee and maintain composure--for the most part. She wasn’t so foolish as to out herself by celebrating this turn of events as a happy occasion, when Eyraille--as Ilandria’s ally--would most likely be expected to express condolences and respect a period of mourning. Even King Caris, impulsive as he was, had seemed to have reigned in his demands on Ilandria and Prince Safir for the time being. While she was far from crying rivers for the death of Ilandria’s monarch, Nia managed to keep her excitement to herself. She’d celebrate when she was safely back in Galeyn, but here in Eyraille, for all King Caris or any of his court were aware, she had no reason not to react the same as the rest of Ilandria. Now, it was just a matter of how far Ilandria would extend invitations to the funeral.
Had anyone asked her a week ago, Nia would have vehemently declined traveling to Ilandria for the sole purpose of ‘mourning’ the death of a man upon whom she’d been wishing death for over a decade. Instead, she might’ve chosen to spend the night at a pub and celebrate the end of an evil. But when a messenger--not Tivia, this time--approached their door with a parchment and made no effort to keep his voice down, the Ardane woman knew immediately that this was not something she could miss. Her heart hadn’t changed; she still had no intention to mourn or spill fake tears. What she did want was for her last and final memory of Ullir Vallaincourt to be that of his lifeless, wretched face looking up at her with unseeing eyes from a funeral pyre.
When Ari closed the door and approached her with the parchment, he had no way of knowing that she had already made up her mind, because she hadn’t spoken of it to him. Through her visceral reactions every time anyone had brought up Safir’s name, it was understandable that Ari (and everyone else who knew her) would feel that the very topic of him and Illandria was completely off limits. And as a result, Ari explained his intention to attend the funeral as if he would be attending it alone--but he wouldn’t.
“Of course you’ll attend. I’d expect nothing less of you and your character, Ari.” It wasn’t a criticism, and when she spoke, there was no surprise or disappointment in her voice. Ari was a courteous person, always concerned with propriety and keeping up appearances (one of them certainly had to, where she so often dropped the ball). “Ilandria won’t cause you any problems. You’ll probably like it; beautiful forests and a picturesque coast. And… I’m going with you.”
Whether he was relieved or disappointed, Ari at the very least didn’t seem surprised when she declared her intention to attend. Perhaps he’d anticipated this. “I’m sure it goes without saying, but I’m not going as a courtesy. I couldn’t care less to mourn for a man who deserved death long before now. Nor could I care less for Safir Vallaincourt’s feelings on the matter. I want to go because I want to see for myself that Ullir Vallaincourt no longer draws breath. Maybe Ilandria will feel different--better--without him.”
Upon receiving their own invitations, the question of whether or not Nia would be attending the funeral also crossed Alster and Elespeth’s mind. Later that afternoon, while Nia was off assessing any other potential mirrors in the palace that might later be used to link Eyraille and Ilandria directly, they took the opportunity to check in with Ari to see if he, too, had received an invitation, as a temporary extension of King Caris’s court. As it turned out, he had, and he intended to go--and Nia had decided she would accompany him.
Needless to say, they were not without deep concerns for this decision. At least, Elespeth certainly was. “Tivia really suggested letting her attend a funeral for a man she hates?” The former knight exchanged a deeply concerned look with Alster. “And… you really think this is a good idea? That this will actually help Nia?” After the Ardane woman’s visceral reaction whenever she was questioned about the ruling family of Ilandria, it didn’t paint a reassuring picture for how she might respond to being faced with the man responsible for killing her family--and his son, who she made it clear she despised. What was worse was that she feared Nia might fully believe she was ready to face all of this, when, in fact, she wasn’t.
“What do you believe, Ari? Nia opens up to you more than anyone else. Is this really going to do her any good? Or might this be an objectively bad idea? I’m not doubting Nia’s ability not to draw attention to herself, but… no one can deny she’s been through a lot.” Well… perhaps Elespeth doubted the stability of Nia’s composure a little, but her concern wasn’t just a front. “Clearly, she has a lot of pain tied to that place, and specifically, that person and his family. I know what that is like--I’ve been in Nia’s position. A fugitive, with my own home seeking my demise. And if I were given a similar opportunity in Atvany…”
The former knight clutched her forearms. Unlike Nia, she hadn’t expressed at length the pain that accompanied an event that was, in fact, far more recent than that which picked at Nia’s old wounds. Unlike Nia, she didn’t talk about Atvany, about her family, about Farran or any of her siblings who were still alive--not even to Alster, because she wasn’t confident in her ability to compartmentalize that pain and move on in spite of it. And if she ever found the opportunity to return to Atvany for any reason… she desperately hoped someone would stop her.
“It isn’t my business. Nia has agency and the freedom to make her own decisions. I trust she’ll do what she feels best.” Elespeth let the matter drop. There was no point in speculating either way when Nia intended to do what she wanted, and the more anyone pushed back, the more determined she would become. “If anything… happens, Alster and I will also be attending. Despite their proximity across water, Ilandria and Atvany are not and never have been allied, to my knowledge. I’m not concerned for my own safety.”
And, while it remained unspoken, both Alster and Elespeth were intensely curious as to how accurately Nia’s opinion of Safir Vallaincourt, the Prince of Blades, objectively held. A funeral might not be the optimal opportunity to judge the man’s character, but at the very least, it would give them an idea as to how close it was reasonably safe to keep Ilandria’s soon-to-be new King.
“Tell me how you’re faring with riding lessons. Any difficulties with which I can assist? And is your promised entourage to your liking?” True to Caris’s word, the young King provided Sylvie with everything she had requested--and, true to her promise, the staff attending the stables reported that the young Canaveris woman was, in fact, obliging his requests. It had only been a couple of days since they had last spoken, and he obviously wasn’t looking for leaps and bound in terms of improvement or comfort on the docile mares and fast steeds; her commitment was promising enough. However, he hadn’t called her into his study to discuss previous matters or pick up where they’d left off just a couple of days ago.
A piece of parchment, similar to what she’d likely already seen in the suite she shared with Ari and Nia, lay open upon Caris’s desk. An invitation to the funeral of Ilandria’s monarch; and this one was specifically addressed to Caris. “Unfortunately, our plans here have been temporarily interrupted. I’m sure by now it is no surprise to you that King Ullir Vallaincourt, Ilandria’s King, passed away this week. It leaves his own heir, Safir Vallaincourt, in line for the throne. As an ally of Ilandria, it’s rather imperative I attend the funeral, out of solidarity for Prince Safir. Furthermore, I think it is imperative that I attend his coronation in some weeks’ time. This, unfortunately, will take me away from Eyraille for at least a few days on either end of the month… and it would be irresponsible of me to leave any of my foreign guests here, unattended.”
By the look on Sylvie’s face, Caris wondered if she thought he intended to send her away for the next month, through the portal mirror and back to Galeyn. And… well, the thought had occurred to him, at least for as long as he was absent from the palace, but with her uncle and the other foreign diplomats and mages from Stella D’Mare intending to travel to Ilandria for the funeral, he expected she might otherwise feel singled-out.
“You mentioned you’d like to have a Skyknight show you with an aerial view of Eyraille atop a roc. Well, now you have an opportunity.” Caris folded his hands atop the parchment, scrawled with elegant Ilandrian script. “Your uncle has already confirmed he will attend the funeral in Ilandria; it would do you well to become somewhat familiar with the ally of a kingdom you wish to serve. And, the fastest transport is by roc. From this palace to the central city in Ilandria, you’ll see the majority of Eyraille from the skies with the exception of the northernmost point. We’re keeping a low profile in that direction, in any case, given the proximity to Mollengard. I understand this is all rather last minute, but…” He gestured vaguely to the parchment and frowned. “Welcome to Ilandria’s most efficient protocols: the timeframe is either never, or it’s now.”
Fortunately, Sylvie did not seem at all opposed to the idea. On the contrary, she appeared relieved to be included--much to his own relief. Caris wasn’t sure he had the energy to fall into another argument with the not-so-passive young woman from Stella D’Mare. “I won’t be staying for long. I’m not comfortable leaving my palace at a time like this; I intend to check in with Prince Safir prior to and after the funeral, but I won’t remain for more than a few days. Especially since I’ll be expected to return for his coronation, so…” The young king sighed and leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes temporarily as he envisioned the timeline between now and the moment the new King of Ilandria took the throne. “You’re welcome to return with me, or stay as long as your uncle decides to. Ilandria isn’t my jurisdiction; it’s Safir’s call as to how long he wishes to entertain guests, although according to Tivia… I am not confident he wants the company for long.”
As the funeral was to take place in two days’ time, the Eyraillian King and his entourage of notable subjects and guests prepared to make for Ilandria the next morning. Taking into consideration travel by rocs, and the time it would take to arrive in Ilandria, be received, and then shown to and settled in their respective rooms and suites, it would be well into evening. Since the funeral was to take place on the following morning, it would be irresponsible to delay departure any further.
Alster and Elespeth Rigas, the former who boasted powers somewhat similar to Tivia, reassured everyone that they had their own means of traveling to Ilandria. Trusting that Tivia, too, preferred her own, faster means of travel, that left Ari, Nia, and Sylvie the only ones requiring transport to the kingdom in the south. Since none of them had experience upon a roc, Caris made the concession to spare three of his most careful Skyknights to take them safely through the sky. The woman, Nia, hardly spared a breath of concern; her beau, on the other hand, Sylvie’s uncle, required a little more reassurance, but it was nothing a capable Skyknight and reinforced safety harnesses couldn’t remedy.
Evidently, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree with the Canaveris family. Just when it appeared Ari was comfortable and reassured with the method of transport, just when Caris mounted his own roc and almost everyone was prepared to take off in moments, the Eyraillian King glanced in Sylvie’s direction, and realized perhaps they weren’t s ready as he’d thought.
“This is the sky; hundreds of feet above the ground. You really want to know the ‘risks’?” The Skyknight who was supposed to take Sylvie was fast losing patience with the young woman. She had too many questions, too many concerns, and this Skyknight didn’t have all the answers and reassurances she’d hoped to find. “Just put on the harness; you’re disrespecting His Majesty and the Prince of Blades by delaying us further.”
The situation unfolding before him was only growing worse and worse. Sylvie was only growing more visibly upset; once so eager to mount a roc, and now having second thoughts at the most inconvenient of times. There was no time to allow this to escalate further. “Sylvie,” Caris dismounted his roc and called her over. Already struggling to swallow her fear and upset, the young diplomat looked as though she were steeling herself in preparation to be sent back to Galeyn for not following through on predetermined plans. Maybe he’d find the opportunity to be angry later; right now, it was his job to keep preparations on track.
“I know you’ve rode horseback while accompanied. This is very similar; just a lot higher from the ground, and on a much bigger animal. Here.” Waiting for either verbal or nonverbal consent, he adjusted the loose harness around her torso to better fit her body. “You’ll ride with me. I’ve got too much work to do to meet my demise today, so if I don’t die on a roc, neither will you.”
Seeming slightly more assured by his own confidence, she let him help her up upon his roc, and secured her harness to the giant avian’s mount. Then he climbed in front of her, secured his own harness, and handed her a leather mask over his shoulder. “To cover your mouth,” he explained. “Eating insects is one of the more prominent things to fear while traveling through air. Otherwise, trust the roc; they know where they’re going and they know what they’re doing. If you get vertigo, close your eyes, lean on me, and breathe through it. The trip will be faster than you think.”
While he probably hadn’t succeeded in alleviating all of her fears and concerns, Sylvie at least felt reassured enough that she would not be hurt--and they’d managed to keep to their schedule. “Hold on,” he advised. Moments later, after the lead Skyknight took to the skies, the ground disappeared in a flurry of golden-brown feathers, and the next thing Sylvie would see moments later were the trees and mountains, disappearing beneath their feet.
As Nia had suspected, her pronouncement elicited no open reaction from Ari. He simply nodded, neither elated nor horrified. A neutral smile touched his lips.
“I would expect nothing less,” he said, an echo of her previous words to him. “I knew it would be a losing battle to prevent you from stepping upon your homeland. Alas, I continuously pushed for roundabout reasons to thwart your reunion indefinitely. It was only a matter of time before our tantalizing proximity would draw you ever closer. Fool am I to stop you.”
“However, I have one concession.” He drew forward, running a thumb along her jaw and to her hairline, brushing a stray curl of warm brown hair behind her ear. “I ask that you disguise yourself, and your name—'Nia' included. As a protective measure, in case you should bring about unwanted attention, especially during the funeral service.” Although he didn’t state his meaning implicitly, the subtext was easily readable. Should you react in a conspicuous manner, fewer people may recognize the source of the disturbance, if you are adequately incognito.
“It may engender suspicion with the Eyraillian king, but he already knows you are Ilandrian and harbors suspicions of your true lineage.” You haven’t exactly been subtle in your approach to evade his questions, his hidden subtext read. “We might use any number of reasons to explain to King Caris why you appear different for your Ilandrian sojourns. I know I might sound too cautious,” he sighed, dropping his hand from her face, “but for good reason. Though you have grown, it is not a stretch of the imagination to assume others will recognize you by sight. It has been ten years, but you were a teenager at the time. You have not changed as much as you may surmise.”
Although he allowed Nia’s attendance (with conditions), when he met with Alster and Elespeth in his chambers to inquire if they too received invitations, he revealed Nia’s desire to come along to Ilandria for the funeral. Not surprising, the Rigas couple expressed their concerns, with Elespeth wondering aloud if Nia should be permitted to go at all.
“I understand your concerns, for they are mine,” Ari said, rifling through the bare selection of clothes he’d hung in the small closet, searching for an occasion-appropriate outfit. Black did not exist in his fashion’s vernacular, but he did possess one coat of the correct color—in Galeyn. He supposed he would have to make a trip through the portal mirror that evening. “Whether attending the funeral of the king responsible for massacring her family is a sound idea is beside the point. Nia wants to attend, and I am her keeper no longer. In anticipation of…a spectacle,” he hesitated on the word, “I’ve requested that Nia adequately disguise herself so that others are less likely to infer her origins.”
“That would be for the best,” Alster gazed sidelong at Elespeth, sharing concern, but not the same concern as she brought up the term ‘fugitive’ in reference to herself. “Even if the threat to her life is dead and gone, there might be others in the crowd still hostile to the Ardane line, and Master Alchemists in general. By virtue of being with you, Lord of Stella D’Mare, she may still draw attention, but less so if she doesn’t dress or look the part. If ever she feels unsafe, or overwhelmed, I’ll stick close to her, Ari, in case she needs a quick escape.”
“I much appreciate your discretion. And your counsel.” Turning from the closet, Ari bowed his head to Elespeth and Alster. “I will admit, I’d rather Nia not attend at all. Nothing would please me more than to bar her entry from Ilandria, but even if I had the power to deny her, I would refuse. Forcing my hand like so would prove only that I do not trust in her mental fortitude.”
“She’s made a lot of harebrained decisions before,” Alster shrugged, his smile coy. “But at least we’re going to the same place together. She won’t be alone.”
“And there is also the advice of Tivia Rigas to take into account,” Ari looked to the door, as if expecting the star seer to barge in at the merest mention of her. “I could not determine if she was dispensing prophetic wisdom, or friendly advice, when she suggested that Nia go to the funeral.”
“Knowing Tivia, probably both,” Alster said. “She acts all prickly as a rule, but she’s not heartless. Despite the company she’s kept—Vitali, for example,” he snorted, “I don’t think she fully sees us as pawns on a chessboard, to be moved around and manipulated. Her motivations may be unclear, and known only to herself, but I believe she has our best interests more than it seems.”
Since agreeing to the king’s proposition, Sylvie had followed through with horse-riding lessons. The instructors found her pleasant to teach, receptive, and respectful to the horses, which she always greeted by name and a gentle stroke of their manes. Sometimes, she would sneak them a carrot or sugar cube from the kitchens. Her report to the king reflected that of her teacher and in digging deeper, Caris would find no disparity. What he didn’t know, however, was how she would coach herself in front of a mirror every morning to stave off the panic. One bad spill, one careless mistake—and they would send her through the mirror. To charm the horses and reinforce her presence as calming and safe, she would sleep in the barn with them, if need be.
Apparently, her tactics were working, insofar as the king acknowledged her progress. He had even seen fit to invite her to the funeral of the late Ilandrian king, an exciting prospect, traveling to a neighboring kingdom she had yet to explore. While the circumstances were sobering, and her impression of Ilandria spoiled by Nia’s unforgiving account of violence and massacre, Sylvie focused on the positives; new experiences chief among them.
The promise of riding on a roc, and the sheer thrill of it, blinded her to the reality until too late. The following morning, when she arrived at the rendezvous point with her uncle and Nia (who, amazingly, wished to attend), one glance at the giant golden birds and their gnashing beaks instilled in her a thread of doubt.
Her uncle, too, seemed to have his own misgivings; a holdover, perhaps, from his decades of affliction. “Ah, forgive me,” he told the Skyknights after finally settling on the great beast, harnessed and snug astride the saddle. He chuckled and smiled and chattered to mask his nerves. “It appears my earth mage proclivities have accustomed me to the dirt beneath my feet. The sky is not exactly our forte, so consider this foray a new frontier for my kind.”
Sylvie’s turn came last. Everyone looked at her expectantly, wrongfully assuming her ebullient personality blessed her with a bold, adventurous spirit contrary to her uncle. Their suppositions were true—in theory. Would that she could embody the imagined version of herself, unshackled by duty and disease, dauntless in the face of spear-tips and obstacles meant to injure or maim.
Never in her fantasies did she envision a fall from a great height. Interestingly, most of her sojourns happened on solid ground.
As she took a few shuffling steps forward, she caught a glimpse of the world beneath the cliff-face upon which they were perched, and the thought of traversing the expanse of height without a firm foundation to rely upon filled her with a dread impossible to expel. She stopped short, rubbing her damp palms on her riding clothes and furiously devising reasons to stall for time.
“Ah, I…can you re-educate me on the safety protocols?” She smiled sweetly at the Skyknight standing closest to her. “How to fasten the harness, and such? A-and the rocs—care to regale me on a short service history? How long have they flown these skies as your faithful mount? These inquiries may sound unnecessary, but I assure you, they are paramount in my understanding of these majestic creatures, and the relationship between the riders. Knowing the ins and outs of any operation proves for a smoother transition, overall. You must agree that my questions serve a purpose.”
They did not agree. One of the Skyknights looked ready to ‘answer’ her questions by pushing her on the roc. Fearing the possibility, she backed away from the precipice. “If you would allow me a moment,” she said to the Skyknight, a firm request laden with as much dignity as she could muster. Despite there being an abundance of it, she felt winded, every breath a struggle. This could not be where she met her defeat! In front of a roc she refused to mount. What would she tell her father? I could not help you; transportation troubles kept me waylaid?
Disappointing. A disappointment. Her only destination now was the mirror home. She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing some modicum of courage, of bravery…
Sylvie.
She opened her eyes. Caris stood before her, his voice surprisingly soft and patient. He tightened the buckles on her harness and encouraged her to step forward. Dazed by his words, or distracted, she complied, edging closer to the roc, following his confident lead. Before she questioned her involuntary movements, she was sitting atop the roc, arms looped around the king’s midsection. In awe of what happened, she dare not ruin the moment by looking down, or catastrophizing the worst-case scenario. Somehow, she believed him. Somehow…she was safe with him.
“Do let me know before I smother you to death,” she said, indicating her arms. “I too do not wish to die by inadvertently killing the one responsible for my safety.” It was a risqué comment to mention casual manslaughter around the king, even in jest, but she didn’t linger on the consequences as she accepted the mask he offered, which required her to remove her arms from him to affix around her ears—just for a moment—but the uncertainty of relying on the strength of her legs, the harness buckles, and the mount and rider to stay aloft were too overwhelming to calculate. Within moments, her arms had returned to their original position, tighter than before.
She wanted to be brave, but on take off, she shut her eyes and leaned into Caris, harried breaths forming a lever of condensation in her mask. The rush of descending at such a hurried dip dropped her heart into her stomach. Gone was the earth, any purchase for which she could scramble. All that existed now was the endless sky, the pump of wings, and Caris at the reins.
After the initial shock of vertigo, she pried open one eye and chanced a look. Beyond the golden feathers of the roc’s wings, she caught a glimpse of numerous mountains, more than she’d ever seen at once, their ice-capped peaks glistening in the sun. No painting or description would do the panorama justice. The mountains went on, and on, endlessly, like ripples in the ocean.
Perhaps…she could grow accustomed to sailing atop a roc.
“I will admit, the experience was not entirely horrendous,” Sylvie told Caris as they landed in the expansive courtyard of Ilandria’s palace. “And I do thank you for refraining from playing a dastardly prank on me, such as opting for a barrel roll or the like. If…it would not be too much of an imposition,” she stared at the ground, which, despite her not-terrible foray in the skies she was grateful to have beneath her feet, “on the return voyage, may I ride with you once again?”
“Oh,” she turned to the roc, who curiously made a few trilling noises in her direction. “I would be remiss not to thank the bird who made such a quick journey feasible.” She stepped toward the golden-headed creature, but looked over her shoulder at Caris for assistance—and permission. “What is the name of this darling avian? I would like to make its acquaintance.”
“Sylvie,” her uncle wobbled toward her and the king, his warm brown skin tinted green. Despite his poorly state, he swept into a polite bow before Caris. “I am to go ahead inside the palace with several of the guards. A quick stop to the infirmary. I’ve a touch of a malady. ‘Sky-flu,’ as I have heard some so eloquently call it. Nothing of immediate concern. How are you faring?” He gave his niece a quick once-over.
“Surprisingly, I am well. It was a smoother ride than I had anticipated. I shall be fine where I am, Uncle, if my wellness gives you pause. I see that the others in our party have moved on,” she gestured to indicate Nia’s absence, but as she—and presumably Ari—had seen her with Alster and Elespeth, who were waiting for the small roc procession in the courtyard, none were concerned for her whereabouts. “I shall see you shortly. For supper, I presume?”
She shouldn’t have uttered the ‘S’ word. His face shading greener, Ari bowed his speedy retreat and shuffled to the awaiting guards. They offered him an arm for balance, but choosing dignity, he politely refused, opting for a valiant replication of an unhindered walk. Ari had needed to adjust his gait numerous times over the decades surviving his stony affliction. A little vertigo would not be his undoing.
“Men, I assure you, I do not require medical attention. Just a quick lie down in my chambers will suffice,” he said, slowing to a stop behind his small entourage of guards. “Your hospitality is appreciated. While I will certainly not turn my nose up at a tonic, you may simply deliver one to my door. Now,” he swerved in a different direction, one he assumed led to the guest suites, “I take it this route will guide me to my destination?”
Before the guards could sputter their protest, Ari had accidentally entered the royalty wing. Well, not quite an accident. He saw an opportunity, a notable figure from afar, and wandered down the corridor. The guards bellowed their protests and ran to stop him from proceeding further, but before they could lay hands on him, he swooned, leaned against the wall, and proceeded to have a fainting spell. Faking sickness—another skill he (shamefully) excelled at.
“Forgive me, men,” he said breathlessly, lowering to the floor. “Perhaps I am worse off than originally surmised. Would you fetch me a nurse or physician? I fear if I move an inch further, I might lose my breakfast.”
The guards, acquainted with dispatching dangers, but not vomit-prone noblemen, looked at each other, alarmed. Fortunately, the commotion seemed to lure that very same faraway figure. The elusive Safir Vallaincourt. What fortune! He gazed at the blond-headed monarch from his grounded vantage point, and balked, temporarily losing his composure. So this was the famed Prince of Blades…
“Your highness—or should I say, your Majesty?” He lowered his head into a bow, his tangle of wind-blown raven locks escaping from the ponytail the long journey through the skies had loosened. “Were that we would meet under more flattering circumstances; me, ill and on the grand floor of your palace and you, mourning the death of your father. My deepest condolences. I am Lord Aristide Canaveris of Stella D’Mare. I thank you for the invitation; although our respective sovereignties have yet to join in allyship, I hope to remedy our bare acquaintance in the near future. At any rate,” he smiled, dosed with a little humility, “I don’t suppose I might receive some first aid, or a supportive hand? It seems rather unbecoming of me to grovel on the floor.”
While not a Skyknight like his sister, Caris still had ample experience with the giant avians, and was no stranger to the skies, and the rush of wind in his face and eyes as he traveled more than twice as fast as a horse. Anyone accompanying him could easily expect a smooth and seamless ride through the air, without any unintentional sudden dips or turns. That wasn’t to say that riding with any other Skyknight would guarantee an entirely different (or less comfortable) experience, but at the end of the day, the Skyknights were soldiers. They learned to fly the rocs tactically, to secure an advantage in battle, and not so much to take passengers, or to consider the comfort of one if they did. This was obvious enough with the Skyknight who was supposed to take Sylvie; he didn’t understand the necessity of walking a civilian through the processes and procedures surrounding traveling by roc. If she wasn’t already aware, then in his eyes, that was her problem alone.
Now, “accommodating” perhaps wasn’t the first word that anyone would use to describe the young and impulsive King Caris of Eyraille, either. But of late, at least since the arrival of Tivia Rigas and establishing friendly relations with Safir Vallaincourt and Ilandria, Vega’s younger brother was slowly but surely coming around to realizing the value of meeting people where they were at, and perhaps compromising on expectations, especially when it had little impact on him. He very well could have seen Sylvie’s fear and reluctance to mount the roc as an opportunity to deem her unfit for her role. He could have sent her back to Galeyn through the portal mirror then and there, and found someone more competent to fill her shoes in his court. But that would require time and energy for her replacement (or two) to learn the crux of the issue with the refugees and how far she had come in her work with them, not to mention where they were in the process of mining for valuable materials in Eyraille’s mountainous terrain. On a more selfish note, dismissing Ari’s niece could incite the departure of all foreign guests from Galeyn, and that meant there would be no portal mirrors linking Eyraille and Ilandria (if Safir ever found a way out of his fugue to officially agree to them…)
And, on a level that was neither political nor self-serving… why make an issue out of something that wasn’t? It was no inconvenience to him to take Sylvie upon his roc if it made her more comfortable; it was no extension of time nor burden of coin. Perhaps it was that a part of him was starting to desire to be known as something more than an immature King, a stubborn King, or a demanding King.
When they landed in the courtyard of Ilandria’s royal palace, with attendants ready and waiting for their arrival, Caris helped Ari’s niece off the giant avian just as naturally as he had helped her onto it. Easily twice the size of a horse, it wasn’t uncommon even for Skyknights to require help when mounting their rocs for months into their training; he wasn’t so foolish as to expect someone who was barely able to ride a horse could easily find their way onto or off of a much larger (and frankly, more terrifying) animal).
“If you ask me, when you get the hang of it, it’s easier than riding a horse. It can’t buck you off mid-air, and it won’t compromise its own safety just to be vindictive.” Caris commented, as he first removed his mask and then helped his passenger out of her harness. While his face had largely been protected from windburn, the same could not be said for his hair, which was windswept across his forehead in pale, blonde waves. It was almost easier with long hair, such as Sylvie’s: you could tie it back and look no worse for the wear.
As if suddenly conscious of this very fact, the Eyraillian King raked a hand through his short, pale locks, trying to tame them into some semblance of looking acceptable for a King. “You know, playing tricks didn’t even occur to me. That would rather be in poor taste, considering we were en route with the purpose of attending a funeral. Going back to Eyraille is a different story, though. You really trust me not to get a rise out of you on the return trip?” He raised his eyebrows inquisitively. Nothing about his tone suggested the question was a thinly-veiled threat: he seemed genuinely surprised that she gave him the benefit of the doubt that he’d behave in the future. Not even his own subjects seemed convinced of that. “If you do, then you’re welcome to accompany me back. Kalaur doesn’t seem to mind the extra weight.”
Moving to face the giant bird in question, who--remarkably--bowed to his King, Caris unfastened the leather bridle and reins that restricted movement of its jaw. To the uninformed onlooker, the bird’s gesture might have appeared reverent. In reality, it was all part of the roc’s training (and the fact it was eager to shed unwanted accessories, now that it was no longer carrying its passengers).
“I didn’t name him. Not sure who did, actually. He was trained for the Skyknights, but ultimately deemed too unpredictable and noncompliant. Perhaps that’s why I’m the only one he gets on with.” He ran a gloved hand over the enormous beak that looked capable of breaking a grown man in half. “I suppose like calls to like.”
Their conversation was temporarily interrupted by Sylvie’s uncle, the leader of Stella D’Mare, who looked far worse than his inexperienced niece. He did not linger, however, and quickly hurried inside the palace to find relief for his symptoms. It didn’t take long for Caris to understand why Sylvie was so unfamiliar with riding a horse: her family didn’t appear particularly accustomed to long-distance travel by large animals to begin with.
“Perhaps your uncle might wish to consider alternate means of returning to Eyraille,” Caris suggested, though not unkindly. “Flight may be efficient, but… it isn’t for everyone.”
“Your Eyraillian guests are scheduled to arrive early this evening. The staff would like to know if they should prepare the same rooms as before, for His Majesty King Caris, and Tivia Rigas, or if you’d prefer they be situated elsewhere this evening. What shall I tell them, Your Grace?”
Rewalt Somath had lost count of the corridors he had covered that afternoon, walking abreast the Prince of Blades. He’d lost track of how long he had been speaking to the soon-to-be King of Ilandria, and estimated that Safir had taken in no more than a quarter--maybe less--of what he had said at all. Safir listened without hearing, replied without giving too much thought to his words, and hadn’t looked in the royal physician’s general direction even once. To say Safir was overwhelmed was an understatement: and to say he was prepared to be crowned King in three weeks’ time, let alone endure his father’s funeral on the morrow, was an outright lie. Unfortunately, there didn’t seem to be anything that anyone could say or do to make a difference. It was a matter of letting this entire experience run its course, and letting Safir come to terms with the fast-approaching change on his own terms.
Unfortunately… these changes would not wait for Safir to accept them, and he would soon find himself in the midst of them, regardless of his feelings.
“Eyraille?” Safir said after a long pause, slowly processing Somath’s inquiry, and only bits and pieces, at that. Such had been his state of mind for the past week: that feeling of mentally trudging through mud, of becoming aware of things long after they had come to pass. Everything he saw looked as though he was seeing from the wrong end of a telescope. Everything he heard sounded muffled and faraway, like he was listening from under water. Everything he felt… no, that wasn’t accurate. He simply didn’t feel anything, whether it be the warmth of a bath, the frigid, nighttime winter air, or his very footfalls through his home. If his senses weren’t muted, they were entirely gone. And while he’d found the drive to wash and dress in appropriate attire, he wasn’t convinced he even recognized the face looking back at him in a mirror.
Take it one day at a time, Somath had told him the day his father had died. But what did that matter when he could no longer distinguish one day from another? “...the staff may prepare rooms by whatever means they find convenient.” What should have been an immediate response took minutes to process and form. Safir looked down at the tips of his boots as he walked. One hand unconsciously clutched the polished ametrine brooch that gathered the V-neck of his white tunic. A long-developed nervous habit that he had yet to realize. “We should have ample space for everyone.”
“Your Grace--Safir. Forgive me for speaking plainly…” At a loss as to how to fully capture the Prince’s attention, Somath sidestepped and placed his body directly in Safir’s aimless path. He placed a hand on his shoulder and tried, desperately, to find something behind the shadows in Safir’s green eyes. “You do understand what must take place tomorrow, don’t you? No one is going to ask you this, but someone has to: I need to know you are prepared and able to address Ilandria tomorrow morning. Because if you are at all uncertain… then we must now decide what changes should be made to accommodate you.”
“No one will ask me because you are the only one who seems to doubt me.” Somath had certainly succeeded in getting Safir’s attention, for better or worse. “I know Ilandrian funeral rites. I know every minute of what will happen tomorrow because I had to approve every motion of the event. I could address Ilandria in my sleep, if need be.” Safir leaned in and lowered his voice, before adding: “What I don’t need is planting a seed of doubt on my behalf. I have worked hard for a very long time to earn Ilandria’s respect, Somath. I will not--I cannot lose it now, before I have to take my place on the throne.”
Safir was not interested in having this conversation; not now, not ever. He didn’t want stark reminders that he wasn’t himself, and it was glaringly obvious to anyone who knew him. He only wanted to get through tonight, and tomorrow… and the next three weeks. It didn’t end there, with the crown upon his head; on the contrary, it would spark a new beginning. He only hoped that that very new beginning would bring some clarity, or some sign that would reignite the flame that made him uniquely him. Something, anything, that would fill this shell that he felt he’d suddenly become.
The Prince of Blades quickly turned a corner as soon as he rid himself of his concerned companion, but did not get far before a man--a stranger, dressed well in regal attire--collapsed against a wall. While not clad in anything particularly regailing, himself, Safir must still have been recognizable by the insignia engraved upon the hilt of the shortsword at his hip; a decorative one, more a symbol than a weapon, but anyone who thought Safir Vallaincourt, Prince of Blades couldn’t make use of it would find themselves sorely mistaken.
This man, it seemed, was one of the guests Caris had brought from Eyraille, though was not Eyraillian himself. Safir couldn’t honestly remember the last time he’d encountered a D’Marian. “Lord Canaveris…” Safir paused. This meant the Eyraillians--Caris and his entourage--must have just arrived. Curiously, Ari might have noticed that his Ilandrian accent was actually a hair thinner than that of Nia’s, despite his home and lineage. “I’m afraid the guest quarters are several corridors in the opposite direction. Did my staff fail to attend to you upon your arrival? You should have had an escort….”
While Safir’s first thought was bewilderment at seeing an unfamiliar face in his family’s wing of the castle, it quickly became clear that this man was unwell, seemingly as a result of the means of travel. Fortunately for Ari, he was not the first case of “Sky-flu” Ilandria had witnessed, and Safir doubted that this mild infraction of etiquette was intentional. “My apologies for what you’ve obviously suffered just to come here. The rocs are a fast and convenient means of travel, but it isn’t for everyone.” He offered his hand to help Ari upright. The D’Marian man was unsteady on his feet, and the infirmary was much further than the guest quarters… and frankly, the Prince of Blades wasn’t convinced this afflicted individual could make it to either location in the state he was in.
“Your Grace--is something the trouble? What is the situation?” Fortunately, Somath had not been far, and had followed Safir’s path to catch up with him. As soon as he saw something was amiss, their previous conversation was all but entirely forgotten.
It wasn’t as if Safir could hold a grudge, anyway, when Somath was precisely the person he needed. “Our guests from Eyraille have arrived, but not all of them have arrived well, it seems.” The future Ilandrian King explained. “Please see to this gentleman for his symptoms. I am impelled to check on the state of the other guests.” And perhaps I should have better anticipated this…
“Do take care, Lord Canaveris. I thank you for making this trip, and I assure you, you are in good hands.” Carefully passing Ari over to Somath, Safir respectfully took his leave, and disappeared around a corner, none the wiser that Ari had actually gone out of his way to make his acquaintance.
“Unsteady on your feet after flight? I assure you, you wouldn’t be the first.” The royal physician smiled kindly. “This way, sir. You’d be best off your feet for a little while.”
Guiding Ari away from the royal wing, Somath had him seated just around the corner, in a small, unoccupied sitting room with a couple of settees and a fireplace. Well above the hearth, the late King Ullir Vallaincourt, with more dusty-blonde hair than grey, gazed stoically over the room from a tall painting. His left hand rested upon the shoulder of an unsmiling young boy--no older than five or six years of age--with pale blonde hair, and familiar green eyes.
“Lord Canaveris, is it? I’m Somath--a physician here at the palace.” The older man introduced himself, once Ari was settled comfortably upon a settee. “Just take a moment to relax. I’ll fetch something that should take care of the majority of your symptoms.”
Somath took his leave to fulfill his promise, but Ari was not left alone for long. Five minutes or so passed, before a woman with golden hair woven into a braid that circled her head like a halo, and honeyed eyes fervently glanced inside the sitting room. Taking one look at Ari, she expelled a deep sigh of relief. “Ari! You must’ve landed after I did. Some of the staff were saying you rushed inside, looking worse for the wear, but they had no idea where you went!”
Nia hurried into the room and grabbed the earth mage’s hands, very clearly concerned for his condition. Prior to their departure, Ari had made the sole request that she make herself unrecognizable to Ilandrians--and she had obliged, to the best of her ability on such short notice. The Master Alchemist had managed to bleed some of the rich colour from her rich, brunette locks and warm brown eyes, lightening both to the colour of fresh honey. Was she entirely unrecognizable? Perhaps to those who hadn’t seen her since her age was only as high as single digits, and it would certainly be difficult to pick her out in a crowd. But she wouldn’t fool her friends and acquaintances… and it was up in the air as to whether Safir would know who he was looking at, should she have the misfortune of coming face-to-face with the Prince of Blades.
As soon as Ari assured her he was simply recovering from a bout of travel sickness (something with which she could certainly relate, despite faring seemingly well on a roc), the Ardane woman’s expression grew a hair more serious. “How the hell did you even get here? The guest quarters are on the other side of the palace.” Nia lowered her voice. Embers of anxiety floated in her honeyed eyes. “You’re dangerously close to royal quarters. Do you think you can stand? I’ll take you to our room--”
“Apologies for the delay, Lord Canaveris. It’s been sometime since I’ve had to craft this tonic--oh. I beg your pardon, Miss. Are you with the Eyraillian entourage?” Ari and Nia didn’t have the chance to escape, unseen. Somath returned before she could finish her sentence, clutching a small, leather bag bearing the medallion of Ilandria’s sigil. Ari, quick to come to Nia’s aid, explained that she was indeed a close friend of the Canaverises so that she wouldn’t risk outing herself. Somath seemed to accept the explanation, overlooking how Nia hastily turned her face away, and set his bag down on the free settee, paying her no more attention. Unfortunately, the Master Alchemist was no less cornered: to reach the door and hurry out meant she’d have to walk directly in front of the physician, who appeared to be someone she feared might recognize her past her ‘disguise’.
“I beg you to oblige my practice as a physician--before I give you the tonic, I’d just like to ensure it won’t conflict with any other pre-existing aliments or conditions.” The older man took a seat across from Ari and opened his bag. “Do you ever suffer from shortness of breath? Vertigo under any other conditions? Do you currently take regular tonics to treat any other health conditions?”
Ari was as quick to answer the questions as Somath was to ask them, and when the Ilandrian physician seem satisfied with his answers and quickly checked some of his key vitals, he nodded and produced a vial no bigger than his thumb from his bag. “While it might seem like your stomach is the problem after flight, it’s actually the rest of your body struggling to transition between altitudes. Nothing that won’t go away on its own in a few hours, but this should speed up the process with a little bit of rest. I trust you don’t need directions to the guest quarters… your companion is very familiar with them.”
Just when both Ari and Nia thought they might peacefully take their leave without rousing any suspicion, it seemed that Nia had literally stumbled into the wrong person at exactly the wrong time. There was no denying now that Nia had been right to be concerned about being found in this wing of the palace--and that she was not unrecognizable to all former acquaintances (or enemies).
Nia had frozen, like an animal cornered, and Ari was hardly in any condition to spring to her defense. But Somath made no move that suggested he wanted to harm her. The older man closed his bag, securing the silver clasp at the front. “The door is open, Anetania. You are free to run--I won’t stop you.”
He seemed to be telling the truth, but even if Nia did rush out, she had no guarantee she’d remain safe until after the funeral. She didn’t know what to do; she hadn’t anticipated her cover would be blown less than an hour after landing in Ilandria! When she neither ran nor spoke, Somath added: “But, if you’ve returned to Ilandria with questions… I am happy to answer them, to the best of my ability.”
“...where is Safir.” When Nia finally found her voice, it was a hiss--but one of fear, not malice.
“Not in this wing, to my knowledge, if that is what concerns you.” The unspoken message was as loud as his spoken words: I will not lead you to him, since I am not convinced you mean him no harm. “...why have you decided to return?”
Every muscle in Nia’s body was tense. Her hands, balled into fists, were already shaking. “You said you’d answer questions. Not ask them.”
“Fair enough. Though I hope you might later agree to a simple, civil exchange.” When Nia’s body language made it clear she wasn’t going to run, for one reason or another, Somath rose from his seat to quietly close the wooden double-doors of the sitting room to allow them privacy. “You can relax; the staff will not attend to a sitting room in this wing. They are all far more occupied with other matters.”
“You really knew me at first glance. How?” Nia demanded, once again, sounding far more afraid than angry. “I know this is a shitty disguise… but it’s been well over a decade. I’d barely reached puberty.”
The physician took a seat again, looking suddenly older and more tired than he had just moments ago. “That’s easy. I recognize every child I’ve ever delivered.”
“Easier than riding a horse?” Sylvie raised a skeptical brow as she measured the distance between the bridle where she sat and the ground. Fortunately, Caris had accounted for her difficulty in dismounting and helped her down. She tried not to behave with eagerness when her feet touched solid earth. “At this juncture, I might prefer a horse, but my mind is variable; you may change my perceptions yet.”
Watching Caris fuss with his hair, which she frankly found endearing, reminded her of her own. While she’d braided it into a tight coiffure around her head, a few curls escaped the braiding, frizzed and frazzled into a fuzzy halo around her head. She frowned, also feeling a tad self-conscious.
“Try that on the return trip, and I shall break your ribs,” she said, too late to realize she was speaking to a king, not to one of her brothers, or a fellow contemporary. Quickly, she sputtered a hasty apology. “I only mean to suggest I would be acting on survivors’ instinct. As you are the only safe anchor available to grasp, naturally, if something were to go awry in the sky, I would cling ever harder to you. The harness may protect you in part, but I doubt it stands a chance against pure adrenaline. Proceed at your own peril, your Majesty.”
When conversation shifted to the giant avian beside them, Sylvie pulled down her mask and smiled sweetly at the bird, out of lack of how else to behave. In her youth, she interacted with cats, dogs, and horses—wolves, in a sense—but never anything wilder than a creature so massive, the smallest of its talons could pierce and hold her whole. Rightly so, proximity alone made her nervous.
“Kalaur. I understand why he took a shine to you. Were you cursed to take the shape of a roc, I suspect you would resemble him from beak to talon. Nonsense comment aside,” she chuckled, “I believe the resemblance is strongest in the eyes. Those eyes can scour a man alive—and pardon one, in equal measure.”
Why am I spouting the type of drivel a heroine in one of my novels would say? She scolded herself and exclusively concentrated on the bird. Not on Caris. “May I stroke his feathers? Upon the head only, as I’ve been instructed. Any lower implies elsewise.”
Before she went through with the attempt, Ari’s brief interruption slackened her resolve, and by the time he departed, she lost the desire to try again. “Uncle Ari fares well in carriages and on seaborne vessels of any size, but by roc, I believe he has met his non-negotiable limitation,” she said, with an empathetic grin. “Perhaps Lord Rigas will take pity on him for the return trip.”
Speaking of travel through the ether-realms, a pocket of dancing air appeared a few feet ahead of Caris and Sylvie, and out stepped Tivia Rigas. Sylvie squinted at the star seer. Something was noticeably off about her—aside from the lopsided way she stood, which suggested she had been drinking prior to departure.
“Miss Tivia,” she cleared her throat, unsure of how to address an obvious observation with as much delicacy and nuance as possible. “Your attire is fitting for a somber event,” she noted the black dress with the lace collar. “As is your hair. Is this an intentional choice? It is quite a bold one.”
“Can’t hear a word you’re saying, and I’ll be arsed to read lips today,” Tivia spluttered, her speech fuzzy, but comprehensible. “Really have to teach you lot how how to communicate with your hands. It’ll save me the headache one day.”
Playing by Tivia’s rules, Sylvie pointed to her hair, and the star seer nodded in understanding. “I dyed it.” She took a once blonde lock from her forehead, now inky black and iridescent blue under the dusky sunlight. “Not for the funeral, but because I wanted to. As a promise to someone else…” she murmured the last bit, then shook her head as if clearing out an unnecessary thought. “I have a shawl with me, if it helps.” Yanking out something from under her sleeve, she unfolded an opaque black shawl and tied it around her pate of black hair. “Better. Now, I assume our rooming arrangements are the same,” she said, referring to Caris. “Don’t know about you yet, Sylvie.” To the king, she pantomimed one motion, in case he’d forgotten. Arm’s length. She blinked at Sylvie, then satisfied with her reminder, headed inside the palace.
“Is she quite all right?” Sylvie watched Tivia’s retreating, unsteady form in worry. “Funerals can bring out the worst in people, I suppose.”
When it came to recognizing faces, Ari was a quick study. Bereft of a visual reference, one merely had to provide a detailed description and his imagination often filled in the blanks, to the amazement and satisfaction of the many clients who commissioned his sculptures. Regalia didn’t give Safir Vallaincourt away, though it certainly did not hurt to be granted additional context; context of location and context of clothing. Rather, from the collected stories and hearsay Ari had gathered, he recognized the prince from his long cornsilk hair, peridot green eyes, and skin of the finest powdered marble. He abhorred how he already visualized the man as component pieces of a sculpt-work project, but even during fallow periods, one could not take the artist out of Ari.
Beyond the Ilandrian monarch’s soft yet grieve-lined face, something else caught Ari’s attention. His gaze lowered at a brooch affixed to Safir’s lapel, a curious and rare gem comprised of amethyst and citrine swirled together in complements of yellow and purple.
“Ametrine,” he said under his breath. Realizing his mistake, he straightened up, well as he could half-pitched over on the floor, and corrected his off-base comment. “I was just remarking upon your stone, your Majesty,” he said, accepting the man’s gentle but firm hand to his feet. A little wobbly, but everything else, an exaggeration he maintained for authenticity. “If you are familiar with the Canaverises of Stella D’Mare, we are a family of earth mages. We’ve an affiliation for stones, gems, and crystals of all rarities. Ametrine seldom occurs naturally. If you’ve located a pocket of earth somewhere nearby, I would much like to learn of it. Well—I suppose I should not get ahead of myself. We are not yet allied, and I am not so greedy as to impose on a secret stash. Be that as it may, I thank you again for the invite. Were we to meet under cheerier circumstances…but it cannot be helped. I assure you, your guard was more than attentive. I merely am a tad scatterbrained after flying by roc, and am under poor advisement as I took matters into my own hands. Forgive my interruption,” he again bowed his head as he transferred hands from Prince to royal physician. “I shall see you on the morrow, your Majesty.”
The kindly physician elicited a similar reaction in Ari, as he smiled and followed his lead to the nearest unoccupied room. Not that Ari would have behaved any less gratuitously, no matter who he encountered. “It is fortuitous luck on my end that my crooked perambulations should direct me to the royal family’s own physician. I am truly honored, and humbled—I do not believe I’ve learned your name.”
They had arrived in a small sitting room around the corner. Ari took a seat on the settee as directed, his vantage point affording an unobscured view of the painting hanging above the mantelpiece. As the physician—Somath, as he introduced himself—exited briefly, leaving him alone, Ari stared at the painting, parsing the identity of the late king and his son. Analyzing the brush strokes, the lackluster pigments, and the staid expressions on the subjects, he found it…lifeless. Merely gazing upon it evoked the smell of dust, stale, forgotten, and bleached of its vibrancy.
Ilandria needed to hire a new artist.
Expelling such a ludicrous thought was easier than expected, when moments later, a woman he recognized on sight entered the room, despite her different hair and eye color.
“I saw you with Lord and Lady Rigas, so I assumed you were well looked after—and informed of my, ah, infirmary-bound status,” he said, a little shamefaced. Despite his willingness to exaggerate his condition, it was a game he did not often play, for the memories of bedridden weeks alone in his rooms nestled too close to home.
“Rest assured, I am better than I seem.” Careful not to utter Nia’s name, especially so close to the Royal wing, it was his turn to exchange an expression of concern. “You should not be about, even for my sake. My poor sense of direction notwithstanding, I had an interesting run-in, earlier. With Prince Safir.” He lowered his voice to a pin drop of a whisper. “He was wearing an ametrine brooch. Did you—“
They both startled when Somath returned, armed with a small physician’s bag. By the flash of fear alighting Nia’s eyes, she recognized the royal physician, which only implied that he would recognize her, too, were they not careful. With nowhere to go without eliciting suspicion were they to exit like fugitives, Ari girded himself for his next distractible skill; chewing the scenery. Leaning forward in the settee to partially obscure Nia’s face from view, he went on a mostly factual yarn about how Nia—not named—proved her loyalty to the Canaveris family, emphasizing his side of the story more than her own so as not to impel the physician to pay her heed.
“I suppose were you asking these questions of me a few short months ago, I would answer you differently.” Ari would gladly out himself as a medical anomaly if it bought Nia a modicum of anonymity. “Yes, yes, and yes would have been my responses. I once had a chronic and insidious life-shortening ailment that would have been the death of me under less caring hands. I am on the mend, but only just. Now, I am no physician, nor do I dabble in medicine, but is it possible to experience a few physical holdovers from my previous condition? Phantom pains, if you will?” He didn’t mean to ask a legitimate series of questions, but they sat on his mind for months, with none, not even Nia or Alster, learning of his concerns. Nonetheless, he would feel a residual stiffness in his hands, his legs, the all-familiar prickle of heat that preceded a flare-up, and red inflammation patches where petrified flesh once proliferated. Anything was better than his stone malady, of course, but the lingering after-effects brought him some measure of alarm. A presiding fear. Would the basilisk’s curse return?
“All suppositions aside, I assume we can rule out preexisting conditions as the reason behind today’s bout of illness. Seeing as it was my first time upon a roc, all signs point to the ride through the skies.”
He gratefully took the thumb-sized vial and was about to take his leave with Nia, when Somath’s innocent-seeming comment sent them both on edge. It wasn’t until the physician spoke her name—her full name—that their charade was truly over. How long had he known? The moment he set eyes on her?
“Somath.” Ignoring his unsteadiness, Ari stood, tucking the tonic into his pocket. “Grateful as I am for your attendance to my personal ills, I ask that you refrain from antagonizing my ward or unveiling her identity to the palace and Ilandria at large. As she is under the protection of Stella D’Mare in exile and I, its custodian, I need not list the innumerable infractions the kingdom of Ilandria will incur by doing harm to an invited member of Prince Safir’s funeral procession. In exchange, no harm will come to you or your monarch, either.” He planted a firm hand on Nia’s shoulder—partly to support himself, but also to keep her nearby. Safety, or the illusion of it.
The illusion, however, flickered and fleeted, when the physician closed the door, effectively trapping them inside a windowless room. Despite the alarming set of circumstances, and his greatest fears for Nia returning to Ilandria, laid out on a platter, Ari decided to hear the physician’s perspective. For lack of a better choice, yes, but also because he genuinely seemed nonthreatening. Moreso when he revealed his literal hand in Nia’s birth.
“You were her delivering physician?” Less surprise, more wonder. If not for Ari’s willful snooping in search of Safir, perhaps Nia and Somath would not have met under such questionable conditions. “Based on your admission, are we to assume you mean her no harm? What of your role ten years ago? Did you contribute to the extermination order set forth by your king?” Ari’s legs shook, but he refused to sit, masking whatever weaknesses he deemed possible. Although his latest questions were direct and removed of pretense, he didn’t utter them with malice. Merely as an effort to understand to whom they spoke—and if they could trust him. “Would you swear to me that you would never do harm to any child you have delivered—most of all,” his grip on Nia’s shoulder tightened, “to this one?”
In either providing Sylvie relief from her concern over her throw-away comment about breaking Caris’ ribs mid-flight, or further deepening her panic, the King of Eyraille threw back his head and laughed. Was it preferable to being lambasted with his ire in the face of an affront? That all depended on who you asked, and what they happened to find more unnerving. “Listen, now. I’ve sparred with Ilandria’s own Prince of Blades on more than one occasion, knowing full well that he can and will--and did, unfailingly--inflict unimaginable pain with any sharp object. Running from pain and danger isn’t a tendency of mine, however much others wish it was.” If he had a coin for every person who had ever tried to dissuade him from making a dangerous decision, money certainly wouldn’t be as much of a concern at the moment.
“Beware, I make no promises, Miss Canaveris. I suppose the smoothness of the return trip will all depend on my mood--and I’ve heard I happen to come across as rather unpredictable, for most. The potential risk of a few broken ribs will not alter my character.”
Something told him that Sylvie was already well aware of this, particularly in the manner that she waxed poetic on his similarity to Kalaur. Which meant she either thought she was calling a bluff, or an acrobatic rush through the skies at all angles wasn’t enough to dissuade her from riding with him again. “Is that a D’Marian means of paying a compliment?” Caris raised his eyebrows at her comparison to his roc, or more specifically, to the ferocity in the giant avian’s sharp, golden eyes. “Of so--then thank you. I think. If not, well, I’ve certainly been compared to worse.”
When the air suddenly seemed to tear open behind them, iridescent like a flimsy dragonfly’s wing, the young King found himself completely at a loss to find a comparison to what--or who--stepped out of the either. “...bloody hells.” He couldn’t help but mutter on a breath as Tivia, shockingly raven-haired (and suspiciously unsteady on her feet). The sun was still hours to setting, and she looked as though she’d drunk enough to knock a grown man off his feet.
“Did you incite this dramatic change in appearance before or after you drank a tavern dry?” Caris couldn’t help but ask, without really expecting any form of an answer, considering she wasn’t looking when he spoke. After a flippant comment about accommodations, and a clear gesture (that he still struggled to understand in context), the star seer headed toward the palace, earning a fair number of curious glances on her way.
“...no.” The Eyraillian King sighed in response to Sylvie’s concern. “No one is. No one here, right now, for one reason or another, is all right.” But that neither excused nor permitted public inebriation to the extent that Tivia had taken it. Trusting that Sylvie was more than capable of finding the accommodations set out for her, Caris hurried after Tivia until they were walking abreast, and he was in the field of vision of her single, good eye. At least he had the good sense not to reach out and grab a deaf, partially blind, and likely very dangerous person. Even for someone who didn’t turn away from danger, he wasn’t stupid.
“What has gotten into you?” He hissed; not that volume mattered. Even if she wasn’t reading his lips, his expression perfectly conveyed his sentiments on her arrival. “Hair colour aside, what possessed you to make such a dramatic change right before a politically significant funeral, especially when a large part of Safir’s court is already familiar with you?” Between her and the woman named Nia, who he’d noticed had changed both her hair and eye colour very recently, he couldn’t help but wonder if this was some strange, D’Marian tradition prior to attending a funeral, or if they were determined to not be recognized. If only he knew that one of those assumptions was right, about one of those women.
“Whatever; that’s your choice. I’m sure you wouldn’t tell me even if I wanted to know.” Caris shook his head. “But you reek of alcohol… can you even walk a straight line? Tivia Rigas, you might not be an official part of my court, but you are still here representing Eyraille. It was you who pleaded our case in seeking an alliance. Here, now, you are a guest of a guest. Surely it does not escape you that any behaviour on your part directly reflects on me and on Eyraille…”
Since he was no longer at risk of startling her, well aware as she was of his company, he reached out to touch her shoulder. “If Ilandria’s Prince is weak, then we need to be that much stronger. Vega used to spend far too much time with a bottle of wine when she was on the verge of giving up… Do not become the next person to let me down.”
Until just now, Safir wasn’t sure he’d ever heard the word ametrine, nor could he have explained what it was. The brooch, shining gold at one angle and violet at another, was simply a staple piece that the Ilandrian Prince had incorporated into almost every outfit he owned for over a decade. Not because it was his favourite stone, or even that it complemented the majority of his formal Ilandrian attire, but because it brought him the slightest modicum of reassurance. Sometimes, it even led him to reminisce about better times… Times that wouldn’t ever be possible, ever again.
“I’m afraid my knowledge of earthen materials is strictly limited to metals and ores,” the Prince of Blades admitted. Not that such a fact couldn’t be surmised with regard to someone who was known as the ‘Prince of Blades’. “I couldn’t even tell you if it was cultivated in Ilandria… It was a gift from a friend, long ago. All I know of it is what it means to me.”
Perhaps that was an agonizing note on which to leave Ari hanging, but Somath stepped in to provide the D’Marian guest the help he needed, and in any case, it was unlikely that Safir would’ve cared to elaborate.
And just as Safir was entirely ignorant as to just how Lord Aristide Canaveris was connected (intimately, at that) to his dear childhood friend, neither was Ari aware that the kindly physician, Rewalt Somath, was no stranger to a certain fugitive Master Alchemist.
But despite Nia’s very visceral reaction to Somath upon his re-entry, the royal physician did not let on to seeing past her flimsy ‘disguise’--at least, not at first. “A past condition, you say?” The older man furrowed his eyebrows, ever attentive to his temporary patient. “I’m afraid that without knowing the details of your past condition, Lord Canaveris, there is little I can say on the matter. However, I can tell you that when you grow accustomed to certain symptoms for a good deal of time, it can take even longer for your body to register the cessation of those symptoms, long after you are cured. Just as wounded soldiers claim to feel pain in limbs that they had lost several years ago, someone who has regained feeling a previously numb or paralyzed limb might yet be slower to register that they are feeling anything in it at all. The mind is a powerful machine.” He tapped his temple with an index finger. “And it requires retraining just as much as any body part. But if you have good reason for concern that what you are experiencing is a lapse in remission, then I do urge you to speak with your primary physician.”
Since this was certainly news to Ari’s “primary physician”, Nia almost forgot about blowing her cover and dared to look up, temporarily forgetting to hide her face. Perhaps this was enough for Somath to realize--and acknowledge--that he was not in the presence of two strangers.
“Please rest assured, Lord Canaveris, it would neither benefit me, nor his Highness, nor Ilandria to make a spectacle of spreading word about a very surprising guest at this time.” Of course, the only reassurance Ari and Nia had was the physician’s word--but the word of an Ilandrian, particularly one in service to the crown, held more weight than a foreigner might imagine. “We are amidst a period of mourning for this kingdom, and war with Mollengard is on the horizon. I daresay our time and energy is better spent not kindling the embers of old conflict.”
Ari might have been moderately placated by Somath’s words, but--understandably--Nia was not. Which only puzzled the royal physician more as to why she had returned to Ilandria, a place she still very much seemed to fear. “Indeed, Anetania was one of many babies of Master Alchemists I delivered in my time. In addition to serving the Vallaincourt family, I exclusively treated Master Alchemists for decades. As a result of their altered physiology, their bodies don’t always respond to conventional treatments… and often, they require special assistance in monitoring pregnancies and birthing healthy children. I delivered all four of the Ardane children.”
Nia said nothing meanwhile, frozen in either anger or fear (or a combination of both), her hands locked into fists, neither confirming nor denying any of what Rewalt Somath explained. But Somath was only free with that information because it consisted of details that Nia herself could contest; the same could not be said for the details of the massacre that had taken place over a decade ago, forever staining Ilandria’s soil with unnecessary blood. “I cannot speak for all healers and physicians, Lord Canaveris, but as a physician of Ilandria, I took an oath long ago that I mustn’t ever knowingly do harm onto another being, friend or foe, directly or indirectly. I have no intention to break my oath now. But I’m afraid that is all I feel I am free to say without Anetania’s consent.” The older man looked up to meet the Master Alchemist’s eyes for the first time to address her directly. “I know you must have questions about the past, but it is not for me to force the past upon you, or provide answers you might not want to hear. Furthermore, I have nothing but my word to convince you that I speak truthfully of the events of the past… so I shall leave it up to you, as to whether you’d prefer for this conversation to end here and now.”
The Ardane woman pressed her lips into a thin line. She didn’t know what she wanted, or what would make her feel better about the current situation into which she had so foolishly stumbled. If she’d just abided by her own precautions, trusted that Ari would be well taken care of, and avoided the royal wing altogether, none of this would be happening, and no one would know the Ilandrian fugitive had so foolishly wandered directly back to the place--and the people--who had wanted her dead over a decade ago. But, if Somath’s answers could satisfy Ari, then those were fewer answers he would seek from her. “Ari asked the question.” She said at last, after a long pause--in Ilandrian. “You already offered to oblige. If you’re really intent not to spread word of my presence in Ilandria, then keep true to your word, and give him a reason to trust you.” She doubted there was anything he could say that would earn her trust, but Nia didn’t want Ari to feel the need to shelter her from words. The fact he felt he needed to shelter her at all weighed on her heavily enough.
“Very well.” Somath nodded, and assuming Ari was not fluent in Ilandrian, continued in the common-tongue. “Then I should have you know, first and foremost, that I was not in favour of this decision King Ullir made all those years ago, and in no way did I facilitate it. It would have forced me to break my oath to do no harm. I tried to argue alternative solutions with His Majesty, at the time… More regulations to oversee the practice of Master Alchemists in Ilandria, but I am not a man of the law, and… needless to say, I was unprepared to provide a convincing argument.” The royal physician sighed softly. His pale-blue gaze fell to his lap. “When the severity of the sacrifices required to support the practice was brought to light, King Ullir, and a good deal of the kingdom, were enraged. Far more notable families with louder voices had His Majesty’s ear, and I… could not stop it. No one could. Ilandria’s King was entirely convinced that it was the only suitable path of justice.”
“So you did break your oath.” Nia pointed out hastily. She’d unclenched her hands, but they now clasped her arms, tight to her chest. “To my family. To Ilandria’s Master Alchemists.”
“Indirectly, and unintentionally, but I understand how you may draw that conclusion.” Somath was wise enough to know not to argue with a woman who had already made her mind up about so many things. He calmly went on. “I tried to warn as many targeted families and individuals as I could, but the ruling family acted very fast. To my knowledge, a handful managed to flee Ilandria by the skin of their teeth; but too many, sadly, did not. Those who surrendered--it is no secret that they were maimed. And I made it clear to his majesty that it was my inevitable duty to treat them in the aftermath, which I did. Your family…” When he looked up, the lines in his face appeared deeper. Carved with defeat. “They were very proud, and deeply affronted by the ruling family’s betrayal to them. I urged your mother and her husband to leave everything behind--to take you and run. She refused; she made it very clear she preferred to die for her dignity than to live, in her words, as a ‘coward’.”
Nia glanced in Ari’s direction. It was difficult to tell how he processed Somath’s story; whether it made him more or less wary of the man. Her face, on the other hand, was an open book. “No--no, you don’t get to spin yourself as a failed hero, Somath. I don’t give a shit how you felt then or how you feel now. If regret is all you suffer, then you deserve worse.” Somehow, there was more acid in the Ardane woman’s gaze than in her words--although for fear Ari would disapprove of the worst of her vitriol, she communicated those comments in Ilandrian. “You disagreed, you didn’t like the decision--and yet here you are, over a decade later, in the same place. Working for the same treacherous family, to whom loyalty means fucking nothing, by the way. The Vallaincourts can say what they want about Master Alchemists; a lot of it’s probably true. But Ilandria wouldn’t be where it is today without them. The Vallaincourts wouldn’t have the power that they do, were it not for the Ardanes. You knew this, you still know it… but you’re still here, working for the tyrants.” One hand peeled away from her body, and pointed directly at the lackluster portrait of her family’s murderer, and his son. “So, why? If you’re appalled by Ilandria’s past, by the Vallaincourts, and by the crown’s fucking hypocrisy, then why not step down and follow an actual moral compass?”
“It is my moral compass that kept me here. Aside from His late Majesty, I had patients here who continued to depend on me. What would I--or anyone--stand to benefit from letting them down, simply because I was sad and angry? Furthermore, the King had a young son, whom he was raising alone, and who was deeply affected by his father’s decision. Anetania… please do not misunderstand me.” Somath leaned forward on the settee, slouching, and clasped his hands in front of him. “I do not ask your forgiveness or your understanding. Nor do I intend to try to win your forgiveness. I simply wish to articulate that I am not your enemy, and I do not--nor have I ever--wished you any harm. To see you alive, now, grown and thriving in good company… it brings me relief. I may not deserve it, but it does.”
Nia didn’t reply, for better or worse. The Ilandrian physician turned his attention back to Ari when the silence drew on too long. “I hope I have adequately answered your question, Lord Canaveris. I have but one question for Anetania, and I’m afraid I do require an answer before any of us leaves this room.”
“And if I don’t give you an answer--then what?” The Master Alchemist challenged. “Let me guess--you throw me to the wolves. Is that it?”
Somath expelled a sharp sigh and ran a hand through his greying hair. It was the only indication that she had even remotely tried his patience. “I can’t imagine you are here out of courtesy as a guest of Eyraille. That doesn’t add up to me--which leaves only two alternatives. You’re here for closure… or for vengeance. I don’t want to believe it is the latter, but I must hear your truth.”
At first, it looked as though Nia wouldn’t answer. A solid moment of tense silence passed, before she finally uttered a quiet, “I don’t know.”
“Then I have only this to say. Anetania… everything you feel about Ilandria, about the Vallaincourts, and about me, is valid. I don’t have to know your perspective or how you have passed the last decade to know you are entirely and unconditionally justified in your feelings. The anger, the hate, the despair--I deny you none of that. And perhaps what I have to say now will only enrage you further, but just as I was once required to tend to the maimed Master Alchemists by oath, I must ask that you do not seek vengeance on Prince Safir. He is already navigating a very difficult time with minimal support… and he had no hand in what happened to you and your family over a decade ago.” Somath spread his hands and flexed his fingers as he searched for the words that would both honour the truth and make Nia understand. “...I failed to protect your family. I would like to protect you, now, but please know that I can only do so if you give me the means.”
The message was clear enough: choose peace, leave Safir alone, and the royal physician would do what he could to keep her identity a secret. Choose violence… and she was on her own, or worse.
“I’m not stupid, Somath. I’m not petty enough to jeopardize Eyraille’s alliance with Ilandria for my own revenge.” Nia snorted and rolled her eyes. “And I’m not going to pull Ari into this. Stella D’Mare is friendly with Eyraille; a bad move on my part would reflect on everyone who accompanied me here. Also--bold of you to assume I’d give Safir so much as a moment of my time.”
The Ilandrian physician sighed his relief, clutched his bag, and stood. “Then I hope you find what you are looking for, having returned here. Come.” He moved toward the door and gestured for them to follow. “I’ll see you both safely to the guest quarters.”
Satisfied that Nia would be safe in Somath’s presence, both Nia and Ari obliged, and walked silently alongside the royal physician into the sparsely-occupied palace halls. Nia broke the solitude with a whisper a few moments later. “...what of Ardane Manor?”
That question appeared to startle Somath ever so slightly as they stopped at the guest quarters, several corridors away. It was the most shaken the physician appeared, all throughout their conversation. “Condemned, but still standing, to my knowledge. Regardless… it is not a place to which I would return.” Don’t go there, was the message heavily implied in his tone.
“The serving staff will be able to point you in the right direction from here. Please rest well.” Somath bowed his head, and before leaving Ari and Nia to their devices, he added: “...should you need anything, don’t hesitate to find me in the south wing.”
The barrel-toned laugh that emanated from deep in Caris’s gut gave Sylvie pause for concern. The surly Eyraillian king, far as she knew, wasn’t often spurred to fits of joviality. The laugh did not seem pure-hearted, nor was it borne of malice. She had no choice to therefore take it at face value. For whatever reason beyond her wildest imaginings, she had gotten him to laugh.
“While I cannot speak for the Prince of Blades’ cutthroat strategies in battle, I can speak for the testimonials of seven younger brothers who have all sustained significant injury because they chose to cross me on a bad day. Do what you will, your Majesty, but I am no spring chicken in matters of doling out pain.” She granted him a side-eyed look of defiance, her best defense against his manic—and oddly rakish—laughter.
“Let us also hope, come the return trip, you have caught my mood on a fair weather day—for while one spurns the fair weather friend for their inconsistency, better that than stormy winds. I should not bait the rider, though, lest we should both find ourselves hurt and worse for wear.”
What caught her as a surprise was that he seemed to enjoy her banal compliment and comparison to his roc. Perhaps I do possess the capability to woo with my words. “You will have to travel to the D’Marian settlement and find out yourself,” she challenged. “One simple step through a portal mirror, and you have your answer.
Their flirtations (or whatever one wished to call them) came to a quick but rather satisfying conclusion moments before Tivia Rigas emerged from the ether, looking like she hailed from a different dimension as a parallel version of herself. Perhaps that had been her intention, but the alcohol on the star seer’s breath seemed to reveal all.
As Tivia Rigas teetered off, black head of hair only partially obscured by the shawl, Sylvie nodded her understanding to Caris. “She does not fancy me much, but she appears to harbor a strong opinion of you. You might be able to talk her down. I am more than well on my end. I shall see you for supper, perhaps? And…” her gaze turned shyly downward, “thank you, all the same, for the smooth flight, your Majesty.”
Tivia felt Caris before she saw him; his ire carried a charge, and he directed it squarely on her. Not bothering to outpace him, she stopped, and let him speak. Even if she didn’t guarantee hearing a word he said, the implication was there, and she picked it up just fine.
“Oh, so now you suddenly care about propriety, Mister Big, Bad King?” She tittered a laugh. “By all means, don’t let me stop your tete-a-tete with Little Miss Sunshine over there. You’re sweet on her, aren’t you?” But the king of Eyraille was in no mood for a subject change, so she sighed, playing with one black ringlet poking from beneath her shawl.
“I couldn’t stand what I saw in the mirror. I wanted to…not look like me, or a different version. No matter,” she snapped her fingers, and the pigment beneath her shawl lightened to its blonde hue. “For appearances, I can always cast a glamour over it, with no one the wiser. But that’s not what you really wanted to discuss, is it?”
She nodded knowingly as he referenced her drinking, her sloppy entrance, her tell-tale swagger—hallmarks of a lush and not a trusted advisor to the king. “I fucked up,” she whispered. “Safir’s—a mess. He hides it better than I do, but damn, I overextended with him. I almost didn’t come to this blasted funeral. Even you must admit how ridiculous it will look if I’m the only one losing my shit out there; a D’Marian, with no connection to the Ilandrian monarchy, least of all to its late king.”
“Look, I’ll clean up,” she admitted. Something he said latched hold of her rusty-hinged mind. “No one will know the difference in the morning. They can attribute my lopsidedness to inter-spatial travel. It’s very easy to lose your equilibrium through the ether-realms. I’ll debut the black hair after the funeral. Win-win for everyone.”
Ari knew how to play the role of an impartial judge. Despite the opinions formulating in his head, he kept an open mind and a neutral expression. It didn’t pay for Nia and Ari to raise their voices in unison, especially when Somath was complying with their many inquiries and answering their most pressing questions to the best of his ability. What gave Ari pause, however, was in how Nia chose to answer; not in the common tongue as they had been speaking, but in Ilandrian. What are you hiding from me, Nia? Unlike Alster, Ari was no well-traveled diplomat arrayed with dozens of languages on his belt, but in anticipation of possible relations with Ilandria, he’d been practicing the language in secret. Although he hadn’t made much progress, he parsed enough of Nia’s words to understand their meaning was none too pleasant. Even without his cursory knowledge of the language, vitriol translated well. She was angry—bristling, like a cornered cat, bottlebrush tail in the air. He had no right to condemn her actions. If she had not come to Ilandria for closure, then he hoped she would at least learn the answers to her most pressing questions and come to her own conclusions later, at her leisure. What he would not abide, however, was her revenge. Perhaps it was why Nia spoke with an Ilandrian tongue. To mask her true intentions.
Either way, he chose to believe her concluding remarks. Whether she thought Ilandria deserving or not, she chose peace—for the time being.
“I do thank you for accompanying us to our quarters—and for the tonic you provided.” Ari patted the pocket of his frock coat where he slid the medicine vial. They were the first words to break the silence since the tense back-and-forth between Royal physician and Master Alchemist. Out of respect, he chose not to interfere during the argument. Tensions ran too high and his perspective was not only superfluous, but redundant. All he could do was facilitate. “I am sure I shall be feeling right as rain in no time at all.”
Before Somath took his leave, Nia asked one more question of the Royal physician, the contents of which alarmed Ari out of his air of impartiality. “Nia, you cannot mean to go there,” he touched her arm and whispered in a low rumble in her ear. “It is not safe.”
Not safe in which way, he wondered? Dangerous, as in the structure was in disrepair? An earth mage could easily reinforce the walls, as could a Master Alchemist. Not safe, as in detractors would find her location and finish a decades’ long feud in honor of their late king? Or not safe, as in Nia’s peace of mind would disintegrate, and Ari would be helpless but to watch?
When Somath departed, Ari and Nia located their guest chambers and entered. Once he ascertained no random attendant or other surprising figure was hiding behind the corner, he relaxed his shoulders, sat on the bed, and invited Nia to join him. “Nia—I am sorry,” he said, hanging his head. “I was so intent on exploring the palace on my own, I had not realized you were searching for me. I will admit, I exaggerated my condition in an attempt to gain an impromptu audience with Prince Safir, but,” he shrugged, “it was far too brief to assess anything of note aside from his taste in jewelry.”
He waited to hear if she would mention the ametrine brooch he spoke of earlier, but if she didn’t wish to speak of it, he wouldn’t belabor the point. “I had not intended on introducing you, however inadvertently, to a shade from your past you never wished to cross. And please—before you think reckless thoughts, let us reconsider any decisions to explore your childhood home. Let us approach this day an hour at a time, yes?” He tenderly cupped her cheek and planted a small nip on the lips. “I believe we are both in want of a nap. A long, refreshing nap. Afterward, we shall discuss whatever you would like with fresher eyes, yes?”
Allowing Nia to handle Somath’s vial to assure it was not poison, Ari took the dose and lay with Nia to wash away the residual effects of the sky-flu. As supper arrived, Nia rightly decided to stay in their chambers.
“I shall return, shortly.” Although loath to leave her side, as a representative of Stella D’Mare, it behooved him to appear at supper, dressed in his finest and ready to utter honey-colored words of thanks and solidarity, despite his complicated associations with the kingdom that so harshly and violently turned its back on Nia—the woman he someday hoped to marry.
The delegation from Eyraille—aside from Nia—were all in attendance—Lord and Lady Rigas, Sylvie, King Caris, Tivia Rigas. Prince Safir made a brief appearance midway through the lavish seven-course meal, thanking everyone for accepting his invitations to attend this somber affair. The speech he delivered was precise with practiced royal flair—but also staid, stale. Dusty—like the forgotten portrait hung up in a little-known sitting room. The ametrine brooch shone fiercely under the flames burning from the above chandelier. A gift from a friend, long ago, he’d said.
I made and purified a couple as gifts back in the day, but I doubt anyone held on to them, he recalled Nia’s words about her favorite gemstone.
“Mister Somath, a word, if you will?” After supper, Ari located the Royal physician, who, contrary to the elusive prince, did not make his company scarce and was quite easy to find amid the crowd of Ilandrian royals and elites. “It concerns the sky-flu tonic you crafted for me.” Of course, both parties knew exactly what their follow-up appointment prescribed, and it was certainly not more sky-flu tonic.
Somath agreed, and led Ari into his proper quarters, a study equipped with shelves of herbs and tinctures and tables stacked with heavily annotated tomes and alembic stills of glass and copper. Another disappointing portrait took wall space in Somath’s study, a painting of Prince Safir in adolescence; a blurred shape in yellow and green. Beneath the blurred face—the selfsame brooch, a swirl of purple and yellow-gold, clearer in vision than the subject depicted.
“What shall I call you? Mister Somath, Royal Physician—unless titles do not appeal to you.” Ari gratefully accepted a glass of wine fetched from Somath’s small stores in the adjoining room. “By the way, the tonic proved quite effective. I will not require another at this juncture. I merely wished to ask about the welfare of a particular personage who shall not be named. Should I be concerned?” He swished around the burgundy-red wine, but did not place it to his lips. “My route is for peace, I assure you, but insofar as it benefits Eyraille during their time of need. If the Ilandrian crown means harm to our person of interest, then I cannot morally stand in defense of your kingdom should you require aid.”
“Nia is firmly under the protection of the Canaveris family,” he continued. “And I daresay, should she have me, I would see each other happily married. If this presents a conflict of interest, I hope you will tell me frankly. Exactly what was the relationship between Prince Safir and Nia? They were friends—close friends, if my suppositions are correct. Nia avoids the subject where possible. I do not blame her. Your monarch’s actions—or lack of action—must be seen as an egregious betrayal. Regardless of who is truly at fault, standing by and doing nothing in the face of an arguably objectionable decision can be viewed as tantamount to condemning one to the gallows. She has every right to despise the crown for their actionable malice. What alarms me is why you, specifically, would not aid her.”
He cocked his head to one side as he took a step forward, scrutinizing Somath’s appearance under the lantern light. “Grant me a moment of mindless self-indulgence. I am an artist of some renown in Stella D’Mare. A sculptor by trade. It is my vocation; I merely came into the position of Lord of Stella D’Mare by necessity. The people needed a strong figurehead, and I obliged. Long years I have toiled under the hammer and chisel, creating busts and effigies of the human form by request. After a while, one gets quite good at recognizing faces, of sensing patterns and similarities. A wry crinkle of the eye, a dimple on the chin, a faint dusting of freckles about the nose—I know Nia’s form well. I have rendered her often, in portrait and in stone. In other ways, too, which I shall not expound,” he almost snorted into his drink. “The two of you are related, no? A sharp relation. I see it in the shape of your forehead, the subtle line in your browbone. In eye shape, it is traceable, although wrinkles of age have impacted the angle. The giveaway, however, the true, dead giveaway, lies in the mouth. Not in the size, per se, but in how the two of you seem to mirror one another’s speech. They flap and waggle the same. The same mouth folds are activated. Quirks of the lip, the gnashing of teeth, clicks of the tongue, present even when you were not speaking Ilandrian. The interplay is fascinating. …And damning, to an astute observer.”
“I’m what?” Of all the things to say to get a rise out of Caris Sorde, that certainly wasn’t one that he’d expected. To suggest he--what, fancied the Canaveris girl? And for what? Simply because he’d made the executive decision to let her ride with him than allow a scene to unfold and wind up arriving later than he’d informed Ilandrian officials? “For the time being, it benefits me more to keep her around than to send her packing. I want my portal mirrors. And at the time, I really don’t have the energy to expend that the issue with the Mollengardian refugees requires. You really are drunk. Don’t say such ridiculous things.” Blood had collected just beneath the surface of his face, colouring it a half-shade darker. It could simply have been a result of Tivia’s comment getting under his skin, but she would probably interpret it differently. Especially where he was very quick to drop the topic entirely and steer the conversation in a more productive direction.
“I care about Eyraille. I care about Mollengard’s threat and this impending war. I care about maintaining Ilandria’s help, which evidently is inherently connected to maintaining propriety, and the possibility that a wrong move might cause us to lose it--so yes.” Caris huffed impatiently. “If you wish to extrapolate, then I do care about propriety right now. If I didn’t, I’d have been on Safir’s doorstep days ago, telling him to pick himself up and get over his self-pity so that we can move forward with plans. I’m a lot of things, Tivia: quick to anger, impulsive, impatient, stubborn… I’ve heard all of those things connected to my name. But I am not stupid. I’m…”
The Eyraillian King paused as words he’d never thought he’d utter were on his lips. Perhaps it was in solidarity, for Tivia’s vague albeit personal confession regarding her own mental and emotional turmoil. She was powerful, dangerous, yes, but not untouchable. Not beyond being affected or hurt, or oblivious to changes in environment. Until very recently, the young King had always believed that to be vulnerable was to be weak. Now, he questioned whether that was true. “I want to do better.” Caris sighed at last. The words felt heavy on his tongue; they felt foreign, like another language. Quietly, he went on. “I am the King that Eyraille has, but I am not the King that it needs: I know this. I’ve known for a long time, but I was never inclined to do anything about it. It was supposed to be Vega. It should have been. I was never a suitable alternative, so I didn’t try to be, but now… I don’t have a choice. Because I know the outcome if I allow things to continue as they have been since my father died and Vega abdicated. I’m not finished with being angry about it, and perhaps I will never be. But Eyraille needs my head in a different place for the time being, so… here we are.” He spread his hands, indicating the grand palace before them. “At a funeral where we have to pretend to care about the deceased, despite that we had little to no connection to him. I hate this as much as you do. But, if it is as you say--if we are losing the Prince of Blades because he is struggling with his mere existence as Safir Vallaincourt out of grief… then we cannot just stand by. Even if it means pretending.”
Tivia was never out of surprises, it seemed. In the blink of an eye, the raven-dark pigment drained from her hair, revealing the pale blonde that everyone was used to. She hadn’t been bound to oblige his request; as he’d already said, she was not an official part of his court, and he was not her King. But she obliged nonetheless, and for that, she had his gratitude. “Thank you.” He said, finally content with the results this conversation had yielded. “I’ll see you this evening for dinner. If Safir is still as out of sorts as you claim… then we talk to him. Both of us, together. He might successfully shake either one of us off, but there’s power in numbers. And for his sake, let alone Ilandria’s and Eyraille’s…” Caris’ mouth formed a thin line and he furrowed his eyebrows. “The Prince of Blades cannot afford to lose himself.”
Nia thought she could relax after they took their leave of Rewalt Somath, but that was not the case. Finding their accommodations, the Master Alchemist closed the door firmly behind her and scratched the back of her neck. “So I can’t ask after the state of my old home without everyone around me assuming I’m hellbent to go there?” She snapped, quite uncharacteristically given her typically jovial character. “Yet you see no danger in purposefully trying to seek out Safir Vallaincourt for reasons you conveniently decided not to divulge to me?”
It wasn’t Ari’s comment about the dangers of returning to Ardane Manor that bothered her, nor even his confession to attempting a private audience with someone for whom she had already been very clear about her feelings. Already angry, and with her mind veering toward irrational thoughts, she found curiously offended by Ari’s genuine concern… but, it did not last. There was only once when she’d found the ability to harbour prolonged resentment toward the Canaveris Lord, and that was under very unique circumstances. Even now, on edge with old wounds stinging and ghosts from her past confronting her, she couldn’t stay mad at Ari. He wasn’t her enemy; he didn’t deserve her vitriol.
“...I’m sorry. This isn’t your fault; you’ve done nothing wrong.” The Ardane woman took a breath and scrubbed a hand down her face. “I want to hate being here. But another part of me wants to love it. The person I’ve become wants to forget everything that happened in this place, but… the person I once was is still a part of me. And that part of me wants to remember whatever it was I once found here that made me happy. You can trust Somath. The man is honest to damn fault. It doesn’t make him innocent, or absolve him or his involvement with my family and the Vallaincourts… but if he says my identity will remain concealed, then his word is good.”
She looked positively exhausted; as if that single encounter, which couldn’t have lasted more than a half hour, had robbed her of several nights’ sleep. Nia leaned into Ari’s touch and covered his hand with hers. “Go to dinner without me tonight. I don’t want to see Safir; it’s bad enough I’ll see him tomorrow at the funeral.”
Ari obliged, and hours later, he left without Nia to attend dinner with the rest of the Eyraillian entourage, and a few notable Ilandrians. Somath was among them, along with Safir’s council, but the Prince himself was the last to arrive--and concerningly late, at that. “My honoured guests and fellow Ilandrians: please accept my sincere apologies for keeping you waiting.” Contrary to how Ari had encountered Safir that afternoon, the Ilandrian Prince was freshly dressed in complementary shades of grey, silver, and sleep slate, including a waistcoat and an overcoat (which probably wasn’t to Ari’s taste, for the lack of vibrancy, but did bring out the bold verdant of his eyes). His blonde locks were pulled away from his face, with strands gathered at the back of his head in a few tiny braids woven together like a thin rope. Aside from his eyes, the only pop of colour was that ametrine brooch, situated at his collar near the base of his throat. “And I can’t thank you all enough for being here, at this difficult time for my home. My father kept company with some of you, and those who he did not, I know he would have readily welcomed into his home. Would that we could gather under happier circumstances…” He trailed off, as if he’d forgotten what it was he wanted to say--or was supposed to say. Safir blinked once and shook his head slowly. If there was more to his speech, no one would ever know, for he seemingly decided to end it there. “I hope you’ll find this meal to your liking. And to His Majesty and my new ally, King Caris Sorde of Eyraille, and his friends and associates,” he motioned to Caris, who sat just a few seats down from him at the impossibly long table, “I hope you find your accommodations to your liking. And if you find anything lacking--then that simply is not acceptable, and I will see to it that your needs are sufficiently met. Now, please,” he spread his arms, motioning to the vast feast set out before them, “partake in the best cuisine that Ilandria has to offer.”
Different conversations within specific cliques began almost immediately… though, curiously, Safir was not part of any of them.
Alster and Elespeth, who had been seated next to Ari, had taken note of Nia’s absence. And while it made sense that she would wish not to have to share a table with the Prince of Blades, whose name she had lambasted more than once, Elespeth hadn’t quite shaken her concern with the Master Alchemist returning to Ilandria. “Ari--we couldn’t help but notice you weren’t in the best way upon arrival, earlier,” Elespeth commented, before picking up her fork and knife. Nia had boasted ad nauseum about Ilandria’s superior selection of spices when it came to cooking; and if the breads, the roasted meat, vibrant vegetables and vast array of cheeses tasted as good as they smelled, then she’d finally understand why. “How are you faring, now? Should we assume all is well?”
All referring not just to his health, but to Nia, who none but he had seen since they’d departed Eyraille.
Meanwhile, Tivia and Caris had other concerns--and the Eyraillian King had already made his mind up. “...I don’t even know who I’m looking at.” He commented quietly to Tivia, as he vaguely indicated Safir. Just a few seats down, council members attempted to make polite (as well as political) conversation with the Ilandrian Prince, who had barely touched the meal in front of him. “He doesn’t even know who he is. It’s like he’s never addressed a room full of people before… Does he really believe he can successfully facilitate a ceremony tomorrow? He is a disaster waiting to happen--and then what?”
Caris wasn’t the only one to notice. Rewalt Somath, who sat on the opposite side of the Prince, had one eye on Safir for the duration of the meal. “Your Grace. Is something not to your liking?” He asked politely, noting the concerning amount of food on the Prince’s plate a half hour later. “I’m happy to inform the kitchens if the roast has not been cooked to your taste.”
“No; that’s not necessary, I assure you.” Safir shook his head. “My appetite eludes me this evening. Perhaps I will dine later, in private.”
“With all due respect, Prince Safir… as your appointed physician, I must insist you eat something. It’s paramount to cultivate strength for tomorrow.”
“And as your Prince, Somath, I respectfully decline.” While quiet, there was a bite to Safir’s tone that was wholly unfamiliar to anyone who knew him well. Not to mention, he would never--in his right mind--insult the cooks by not enjoying the care and effort they’d put into the meal, nor would he slight Somath and his expertise as a doctor. Before the shocked physician had a chance to reply, the Prince quietly excused himself and stood, taking his leave quickly, in hopes that no one would notice, enamored as the crowded table was with Ilandria’s impeccable food.
Caris noticed; and knowing that no one would do anything about it, he decided to assume the responsibility as his own. Sylvie, who was seated almost directly across from him, had been grilling him about myths and stories she’d heard about Eyraille’s rocs; evidently, one ride on a giant bird was all it took to spark her interest in something that had been terrifying to her just a handful of hours ago. “Miss Canaveris, in light of finding myself in a kingdom that prides itself in honesty… I must confess, I have no damned clue why some wild rocs refuse to fly.” He said, while holding up a hand as if his truth were an oath. “Allow me time to find a suitable answer, and ask me again later.”
There were more important things to discuss at the moment than colossal avians, and Safir was getting away. “I take back what I said earlier. About alcohol; you might have been on to something.” He whispered to Tivia as he stood. “We gave Safir his space: we played by his rules, and he’s worse off for it. Maybe it’s time to put propriety aside.”
Tivia got the message, and together, they quietly excused themselves from the table and made as if they intended to return to the guest quarters. Fortunately, the two of them had become well acquainted with Ilandria’s palace, enough that they knew some corridors looped to complete a circuit, so instead of continuing back toward their rooms, they surpassed the guest wing entirely until they ended up in the royal wing--just in time to see Safir disappear into his quarters, and close the door behind him.
With all the boldness of a true Eyraillian King, Caris didn’t knock before inviting himself--and Tivia--into Safir’s royal suite. The Prince of Blades had barely crossed the room when he suddenly no longer found himself in the solitude he sought. “...King Caris.” The Eyraillian King’s name was little more than a groan. “What, exactly, is this? This behaviour is outrageous, even for you.”
“I’ll be honest, Safir, I have no idea what this is. But whatever it is, I already like it more than what I saw out there.” He vaguely indicated the direction of the dining hall, and crossed the room as brazenly as if he owned it. “Too many people, wasn’t it? It wasn’t helping. But, neither is the complete and utter absence of people, so--you get us. Myself and Tivia, for this evening. To talk about whatever you want, or sit in complete silence, is up to you. But you won’t be alone.”
Caris lifted a crystal decanter from a cabinet, pulled out the stopper, and filled three matching glasses up to one quarter with dark amber liquid. One, he handed to Tivia, and one he offered to Safir, hand outstretched. “I don’t know what this is, but I hope to hell it’s good.”
“You don’t even imbibe.” Safir rubbed his temple as if he already had a headache from a situation that had yet to even unfold.
The young King shrugged. “There’s a first time for everything. It might as well be in good company.”
Meanwhile, as the grand dinner drew to a conclusion, Somath was also inclined to check up on the Prince as soon as he could make a getaway--but someone beckoned his attention first.
“Of course, Lord Canaveris.” The physician had no choice but to abandon his plan for several reasons; for one, he couldn’t deny a patient his time, even if that patient was temporary. Furthermore… he hadn’t forgotten the sudden reappearance of the late Felyse Ardane’s fugitive daughter. If anything was amiss… he had to know. “Please, right this way.”
Somath led Ari to his study in the palace’s south wing, which looked no different than what one would expect of any physician or healer in a mage-friendly kingdom: paraphernalia of equal parts science and magic. However, several shelves of books were dedicated to something more specific; in fact, Ari might have recognized some of the very same books from Isidor Kristeva’s collection. Somath noted his brief interest and offered, “Ordinary alchemists were understandably not condemned in Ilandria. It was my primary profession for a few years, before I found myself walking a slightly different path. I don’t have the gift of being a vessel of transmutation, nor can I identify the physical makeup of organic and inorganic materials by touch… which is precisely what made me better suited to treat Master Alchemists.” He took a seat behind his desk, and with a gesture, invited Ari to sit as well. “When you are too distracted by the condition of everything that touches your skin, it is easy to lose touch with your own body and its needs, let alone to decide what is wrong with it. And ‘Somath’ is fine; I haven’t a need for titles. But none of this, I assume, is why you wished to speak with me.”
Of course it was about Anetania. He should have known it would take more than a half-hour conversation to convince Ari of her safety in Ilandria; unfortunately, there was only so much he could promise. “As I have said before, Lord Canaveris, I mean Nia no harm. The man responsible for her bounty, and the death of her family, is dead, and I can assure you, condemning Anetania is probably the furthest thought from His Highness’s mind. I cannot speak for all of Ilandria, however, and it is best to err on the side of caution and maintain her anonymity. Technically, as we speak, the warrant for her arrest is still active--it did not die with King Ullir, and it will live until the next monarch is crowned. Yes, you understand correctly.” He motioned to the portrait of Safir, in his youth. “His Highness, when he assumes the throne, will have the power to discontinue that warrant, in which case Anetania will be legally safe within Ilandria. And I can tell you right now, if he knew she was here, alive and well… he would most certainly agree to it. Although something tells me even that wouldn’t be enough to satisfy Anetania…” And, by Ari’s expression, he assumed correctly.
“So you intend to marry her?” His brows lifted briefly in surprise, and Somath smiled. “Then I certainly hope she accepts. She is lucky to have found you, Lord Canaveris. I don’t know that she’s ever felt as though she mattered so deeply to anyone. But if you are concerned that it will pose a conflict of interest with Prince Safir… I highly doubt it, rest assured. Much like Anetania, the Prince, as a boy, did not hold many people close. Did they love one another? Absolutely.” He nodded without hesitation. “Anetania was perhaps his only true friend, but insofar as I could tell from adolescence, neither of them harboured romantic feelings for one another. They were lost and lonely children, for very different reasons; and they brought one another comfort when there was none to be found elsewhere. Following the massacre, His Highness was… he was far from alright.”
That jovial smile brought on by reminiscence of young friendship faded fast as darker memories surfaced. “I found him the next day… he’d snuck off to Ardane Manor, against his father’s wishes. He refused to believe Anetania and her family were gone. The bodies had been cleared… but the blood had barely dried. He hardly slept for months after, suffering nightmare after nightmare that no treatment on my part could banish. Lord Canaveris.” Somath sighed sadly and clasped his hands in front of him. “I stand by what I told Anetania. Her feelings are valid. She is free and justified to hate the Vallaincourt name for what they did to her family. But I hope you understand now that Safir Vallaincourt is not her enemy. Like her, he was only a child at the time, at the mercy of his father’s final say. He did not suffer what Anetania did, but neither did he walk away unscathed.”
Somath was prepared to go into as much detail about Nia, Safir, or either of their families as Ari required to set his mind at ease. But the royal physician had not anticipated he’d find himself in a position where he’d have to answer for something that no living person in Ilandria knew. A secret--and one of his only secrets--that he’d truly thought would follow him to his grave. “...you do have an astounding eye for detail, Lord Canaveris. Especially considering Anetania’s features have always favoured her mother.” He unclasped his hands and sat back in his chair, as if a few inches of distance would make this easier to talk about. “Ilandria totes truth and justice. But I have always believed, Lord Canaveris, that while the truth is always the truth, the truth is not always the way. It isn’t always the solution. It isn’t always helpful, and it isn’t always needed. The truth can, in fact, be destructive.”
The older man’s pale gaze settled on a corner of the room while his mind wandered elsewhere, to a beautiful--albeit painful--time. “Felyse Ardane was sworn into a loveless, political marriage. She played the part well in pretending it mattered not, and bore Heryd Ardane a daughter and a son. I met her when she came to me to treat her son, Daryen, for a terrible affliction when he was just an infant. I saw her over a series of visits and check-ins while he recovered… I can’t tell you how it happened, honestly. Why we felt drawn to one another, but there came a day when we were young, and careless, and utterly reckless. And, the next thing I knew… she was pregnant again. This was after she and her husband had consciously decided to stop having children.”
The story practically explained itself, but Somath paused, just in case Ari needed a moment to make the connection. “Master Alchemist families, at least those in Ilandria, have always been oddly superstitious. Two children was always the optimal number; three, they felt, was a curse. And here Felyse was, carrying her third child, which was very clearly not her husband’s. Naturally, Heryd was livid, and ordered her to terminate the pregnancy. She came to me, and she said… she didn’t want to.” He furrowed his brow, accentuating his permanent bewilderment. “To this day, I know not why, but she was so intent on keeping her child that she lied to her husband and told him she’d followed the procedure. By the time she’d begun to show, she was too far along. Termination would have been too risky. And so, nine months later… I delivered my only child. I don’t believe Heryd ever learned I was the father. For whatever reason, Felyse refused to implicate me.” To this day, there were some answers that Somath did not have; and at this point, he never would.
“Given the Ardanes’ status and proximity to the crown, keeping up appearances was far safer than indulging scandals. So, while Felyse bore Heryd one more child, to break the curse of three, only she, her husband, and I were ever privy to this deep secret. And I… I had no opportunity to be any closer to Anetania than to any other patient. Not because I feared for my job or my own status; for Felyse and Anetania, I’d have fled with them in the middle of the night, if it was what she’d wished. And I’d have never looked back.”
The royal physician paused, and for a moment, it wasn’t clear that he’d continue. Perhaps he wondered what life would have been like for all of them, had Felyse made that decision. Perhaps Felyse would still be alive. “As soon as I learned that King Ullir would sentence to death those Master Alchemists who did not surrender… Felyse, selfishly, was the first person I ran to. I begged her to take her family, her only living child, at this point, and run; she refused. She was proud, and stubborn. But she promised me that she would die protecting our daughter. And… she did. And Anetania was gone--fled on foot, reportedly--before the chaos had even settled. Lord Canaveris…”
Somath pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. He suddenly looked unwell. “I cannot begin to tell you how many times I have reimagined that day, more than ten years ago. I’ve thought through so many alternate scenarios. I wonder whether I should have stolen Anetania away myself, against Felyse’s wishes, if only to ensure she was protected. But she hardly knew me. I was just another face she had grown accustomed to seeing from time to time, and despite her harsh upbringing, she was attached to Felyse. Her mother was the only thing she had left of her sisters, whom she’d loved desperately. I’m sure that if I had asked her to come with me, she’d have refused; and if I’d forced her against her will, it would only make me responsible for an entirely different trauma. So…” The physician’s eyes settled on Ari once again.
“The simple answer to what is actually a very complicated question, Lord Canaveris, is this: I didn’t know what to do. I was torn in so many directions, burdened by so many loyalties and responsibilities, and carrying the guilt of such a heavy secret that I couldn’t think fast enough. I didn’t know what was right, what was the best answer, or what would be an acceptable sacrifice. Because of that very indecision, I’m not sure I’ll ever find forgiveness for myself; and for that, I accept Anetania’s hatred. She was right: remorse really is the least that I deserve. But, knowing what you know now, and trusting you will only do what is best for Anetania… I ask that you reflect on what I said.”
Somath leaned forward in his seat, and for a moment, it was quite easy to see Nia Ardane in the royal physician’s face: they wore weariness the same way. “The truth is always the truth… but the truth is not always the way.”
Drunk, debilitated, and deaf, Tivia couldn’t determine if Caris had confessed some deep-seated truth about himself, if she hallucinated the exchange, or, realistically, if she misinterpreted the words coming out of his mouth. Lip-reading was hardly an exact method of communication. It relied too heavily on context clues and the assumption that every person spoke with clear, perfect diction and a steady, consistent pace, always positioned exactly in-center of their hard-of-hearing recipient to remove other negative factors like parallax distortion or annoying shadows. Considering how often she employed this method (out of necessity; she couldn’t teach everyone her hand language and only Alster knew how to answer her telepathically), it was a wonder she parsed nothing egregiously wrong more often.
Now, she questioned if she’d reached her limit.
“I am drunk, yes. So you’re going to have to confirm that I heard you correctly. You’re telling me something incredibly profound about yourself, an admittance of limitation that not even so-called wise or powerful kings would ever say aloud. And you’re saying this to me, who is likely going to vomit into her chamber pot the moment she gets to her rooms, pass out on the bed until supper, and struggle to remember this absolutely meaningful thing you’ve said?” She raised an incredulous eyebrow. “This funeral has kicked us all in our soft spots. At least it’s left your balls intact,” she huffed out a laugh, but prior to Caris’ confession, it breathed relief, like speaking of his own shortcomings kept her own demons company, for a time. Cheesy as it sounded, misery loves a crowd.
“Here is a new strategy, or a new one repurposed; let’s be angry from here on out. I’m sick of sad. Everyone is mourning and grieving and pussyfooting around feelings they don’t understand and—it’s aggravating. I’m even annoyed at myself for letting them get to me again. Anger breeds action. I’ll break down some doors and some bones if it will break someone’s fugue.” Close to an oath, close as a subject not sworn to a king, she said, “Don’t make me forget—or regret—these words. I’m with you, Caris. Take the lead, and I’ll follow.”
The supper might have impressed its audience if judged only by its culinary merits. Even Ari, whose appetite had waned from the after-effects of sky-flu, found himself partaking in bites of picante and wonderfully seasoned delights, a panoply of colors on his plate. The empty chair to his right impacted his ability to enjoy the spread to its fullest, but he ate well and often informed the servers to compliment the chef for his perfect portion sizes, plating creativity, and perfect spice ratio. He was among the number of receptive and gracious dinner guests in attendance and the most well-dressed aside from the prince, as if making up for the Prince’s mishaps at the table; principally, the flubbing of his speech, and his visceral rejection of the food. The Canaveris lord hadn’t meant disrespect from his actions. Not intentionally, but perhaps there lived in him an unconscious reaction to best the prince in table manners, manners in general, and showmanship, for the frock-coat he debuted to the dinner was a royal blue embroidered with silver thread running up the sleeves like whorls of wind, and he donned his own response to the Prince’s ametrine brooch; a lapis lazuli pendant and matching set of earrings, gifted to him during his first crystal naming day. He wore blue kohl tinged around the upper lids of his eyes, and bound his thick, glossy waves of hair into a half-ponytail. For his part, he commanded a presence at the table, as if he’d earned his place beyond his temporary role as King Caris’ foreign guest. A king in his own right. He hadn’t realized his gaze was always trained just shy of off-center to Safir—never making full contact at risk of suspicion—when Alster and Elespeth’s questions blinked him out of his covert concentration.
“Hm?” He turned his head to the Rigas couple, smiling politely.
“We asked if you are well, but seeing as you’ve been peacocking all over dinner, I’d say you’re faring just fine.”
“Excuse me, Lord Rigas—‘peacocking’?” Ari would have taken affront—mock or otherwise—if he understood the meaning. “Peacocks are majestic creatures. I would choose your verbiage more carefully if you meant to insult.”
“I know you’ve been watching him,” Alster whispered into his ear. “And you think you’re playing a subtle game of intimidation, but if I can see it, surely someone else must, too.”
“I’ve no idea what you mean, Lord Rigas,” Ari smiled blithely, either feigning ignorance, or exuding it. “If you wanted a fancier coat to wear at dinner, you should have asked me beforehand. No need to project your insecurities at me, so.”
But Ari was not the only person invested in the behaviors of Safir Vallaincourt. Caris and Tivia made disagreeable faces at each other whenever their eyes met, each new development a further ripple of concern.
“Ah, yes, I suppose that is a fair assessment, your Majesty,” said Sylvie, who tried to navigate through the hidden layer of communication between Caris and Tivia, to little avail. “I shall eagerly await your response, however far-fetched or hackneyed. No points for sloppy work though, I’m afraid.” She sat back in her chair, cut her losses, and gave the king his space as she initiated conversation with Alster and Elespeth, instead.
Caris and Sylvie’s newfound rapport was low-hanging fruit for Tivia to tear at with her teeth, but her resistance soon paid off, when Caris’ body language communicated the next anticipated step of their ‘Knock down doors’ plan…if one could call it a plan.
“Oh heavens yes,” Tivia hissed in staunch agreement. “I couldn’t stand another moment as a passive observer. Though, I’m not sure if I should take offense that you find me the role model of impropriety.”
Together, they slid away from the dinner proceedings and stealthed through the corridors. Their command of the palace layout, with an added component from Tivia’s concealment magic, helped them around the palace virtually undetected. They easily looped around to Safir’s quarters, and strode inside.
“Did you honestly believe I would take you at your word, Safir, when your word has lost its meaning?” Tivia crossed her arms. “So Caris and I decided to team up. Perhaps a two-way assault will be enough to defeat you.”
She peered over at Caris, surprised when the spirit he served them he had also served himself. “That is a bold choice for your first drink. Well,” she turned to the prince, “I’ve honored your terrible choices so far, Safir. It would be wasteful not to return the favor. I’ll get us started.” She took the first swig, a gulp that pinched her lips and heated the inside of her mouth like the kiss of dragon’s fire. “Where have you been hiding this stash? Keep this up and by the end of the night we’ll be hopping through different star systems. And yes, by ‘we,’ that means you, too.” She pointed to Safir’s untouched beverage. “Now drink or we’ll have all the fun without you. And if you impress me enough, maybe,” her lips spread into a mysterious smirk, “I’ll tell you a secret.”
Meanwhile, in another wing of the castle, Ari continued to seek answers. In lieu of sitting idle with Nia with worry over how to support her when he understood so very little of her life in Ilandria, he again went behind her back, not by malicious design, but to solidify her safety. To reinforce one’s safety, one had to undo the mechanisms, ensure the contents within hadn’t been burgled, and replace the lock with a stronger hasp. In other words, the truth would guide his steps toward an informed decision. Not quite unbiased—he would always side with Nia—but balanced.
Fool was he to know what he’d unearthed.
When Ari suggested Somath and Nia bore a relation, at most he assumed he was an uncle, or a cousin, and even then he based it on an inexact study founded on facial aesthetics rather than on objectivity. An artist reached for a feeling. It was up to them to translate and interpret the feeling into a tangible medium. Whatever Ari saw and felt between Nia and Somath hummed with symmetry, a slotting together of bricks after they’d been mislaid and ignored for decades.
But to have stumbled upon Nia’s biological father by pure, dumb speculation?
Ari kept a straight face and listened to Somath’s lengthy confession, an audience free of judgement or hostility. He, a stranger, bore no history with the royal physician save by association. By all accounts, he was an ideal impartial candidate to lend a listening ear; a juror who rightly could not condemn the accused until all facts were presented. From what he gathered, Somath was not a bad man. Principled, loyal, and too encumbered by the weight of the crown to step one square out of line and risk toppling it over. Fear and propriety stayed him from destabilizing the foundations he helped establish. To keep the peace, sometimes one needed to ignore horrible atrocities.
Keeping the peace…didn’t Ari employ a similar strategy during the reign of Locque, when he had wanted it both ways? To have Nia and the witch’s defeat?
“The relationship between Nia and me was founded on a pretense.” Ari sampled the semi-dry wine, satisfied by the full-bodied, complex flavor. Ilandria boasted an enormous viticultural industry, and the titles were well-founded. Though not enough to rival Stella D’Mare, in his opinion. He continued. “To make a long story brief, I betrayed her trust and had her convicted by the Galeynian crown, to stand trial before a tribunal for her contributions in service to a usurper. I and other allies ultimately stood in her defense and swayed the court against execution, but it was a long and complicated road to exoneration, and I feared it forever bruised relations with each other. It pleases me to say that we’ve been able to move past this dark hurdle, together. Give it time, Somath, and perhaps she might view your actions differently. Right now, she is confused. Conflicted. At war with the Ilandrian who yearns for home, and the fugitive doomed always to chase the horizon. To her, it is dangerous to entertain the former’s mindset, when the concept of home was seldom viewed as a bastion of safety or warmth. Merely a place of familiarity, and the wishes of a child unanswered in the darkness.” Fireflies, he thought, disappearing in the winter woods. Where did the lights go after the solstice?
“I share your opinion, of course.” He fingered the chain of his necklace. “As a leader of people, I have long learned it better to perpetuate a fantasy than demoralize with truthful, yet unnecessary starkness. Much like a painting, I render a likeness of reality. An idealized format, or a simplified one. The colors and details are mine to choose. It is not a lie, but neither would one call it honest. But people don’t praise the painting for its true-to-life form. They praise it for its message. The feeling it evokes. In that, truth and honesty bleed their rawest, most subconscious form; that which lies in the center of every human soul. That being said,” he inclined his head, “your truth is not mine to paint. I might facilitate an exchange between you and Nia, and work toward bridging any gulfs if I’ve the power to do so. The rest is up to you and her. In the future, you may want to revisit this conversation and review if the truth and the heart are in unison. If they are, then I believe you have your answer.”
“Thank you for the wine and the conversation.” Ari placed the empty glass on an unoccupied side table. “Perhaps I shall pursue talks with Prince Safir. Preferably at a later date; the funeral draws near and he is far from spirited conversation, I daresay. I wish him well on this difficult occasion. Well then,” he bowed his head and headed for the door, leaving the Royal physician to his musings, “good night.”
On his way back to his and Nia’s chambers, he came across Sylvie in the main corridor, accompanied by a few guards. “Ah, Uncle Ari!” She waved him over. “These lovely guards just finished granting me a brief tour of the palace grounds. “It seems everyone else has retired to their quarters. How did things go with the Royal physician?”
Ari clasped his hands behind his back and stood tall, unbent, and steady. “All traces of the flu are in the past, Sylvie. Come, I shall walk with you,” he nodded to the guards, politely dismissing them. “But first, accompany me to the kitchens. Someone has not yet dined and we would be remiss not to procure her a hot meal, especially from tonight’s fantastic dinner.” His voice faded to a delicate whisper. “It is not unreasonable to assume she would like to sample a bite or two of home.”
Earlier, during the meal Prince Safir had organized for his guests (yet had refused to partake in, himself), Caris couldn’t help but snort at the offense the star seer had taken at--what he had thought, at least--was quite an innocent comment about breaking the rules. “A few hours ago, you stumbled through a tear in space and time with hair the colour of ink, and the ability to keep steady on your feet.” He had no trouble reminding her, knowing full well she was still very aware of that blunder. “Role model isn’t exactly the word I would use. But, I think you might be onto something. It remains to be seen whether that ‘something’ pans out to be a good idea.”
Now, as they stood--entirely uninvited--in Safir’s private room, and as Caris boldly helped himself to whatever spirits the Prince of Blades had sitting around, the Eyraillian monarch was not yet convinced this was a good idea. After all that talk of maintaining good ties and relations with his kingdom’s strongest ally, this could very well veer in the other direction, and he would be solely to blame. Safir looked far from impressed; he had every right to call the guards on them, or worse, send them and their entire entourage packing, deeming his ‘honoured guests’ unfit to attend a very meaningful funeral on the morrow. And Caris had no right to assume that on the handful of occasions he and Safir had spoken or sparred that the Ilandrian Prince even held him in high enough regards to entertain his whims, tonight of all nights.
“No--this is not happening. I will not be played by either of you, let alone both of you.” Safir looked, for a moment, to be truly angry. There was a dangerous glint in his green eyes that had not been there at dinner. “Put that down, Caris. I’m not going to be responsible for the King of Eyraille making an ass of himself because he has no experience holding his liquor.”
Contrary to the effects Safir had hoped his loss of patience would have on the young King, Caris was, in fact, relieved--and all the more encouraged that this ridiculous plan might just work. That gleam--that was the Prince of Blades. He was still there; they hadn’t lost him, yet. “Oh, rest assured, I assume full responsibility for making an ass of myself. It can’t be nearly as embarrassing as the way you forgot your speech at dinner, before your guests, staff, and council.” Caris shrugged and brought the crystalline glass to his nose, which wrinkled in distaste almost immediately. “This does taste better than it smells, right? Am I going to hate this?”
Before Safir could object or Tivia could answer, the Eyraillian monarch tipped the beverage to his lips. If his first-impression of the smell hadn’t been visceral enough, his first taste certainly was. “Ugh--you really drink this? For pleasure?!” Caris turned his head and coughed into his sleeve. “How much more do I have to drink to know that I’m drunk and call it a night?”
“None, just… put it down.” Safir groaned. He already knew he was losing. “This batch shouldn’t be wasted on those who cannot appreciate it.”
“Pick yours up.” Caris challenged instead. “Because the more you drink, the less I will, and the more likely I’ll be to actually have the legs to stand on tomorrow morning. So for the love of all that is good…” Against his better judgment, he took another steady sip, and visibly winced. “Don’t make me have to drink more than what I’ve already condemned myself to, in this glass. Because I will drink more, and so will Tivia--with far more gusto than myself.”
Safir was willing to wait the stubborn, young King out and call him on his bluff. Surely this was all just a ploy to get him drunk, and if he refused for long enough, then they would leave. But Caris didn’t let up--and neither did Tivia. Much as he was not enamored of the strong taste and burning sensation in his throat, the Eyraillian monarch took sip after sip, and for fear that it would hit the young man all way too fast, the Prince of Blades finally conceded, and closed his fingers around his own glass. “Please, just… slow down.” He sighed. “This is simply not fit for the inexperienced. You’ll be in for more than you bargained for.”
“Thank the gods…” Caris sighed and lowered his glass as soon as Safir picked up his own. “I am going to finish this, but I’d much rather take my time. Though I’ll admit…” He rubbed his throat with his free hand. “It’s starting to burn a good deal less.”
Initially, the Prince of Blades only sipped on his beverage out of concern for the young monarch who had shown he was more than willing to completely lose himself in his. But Safir started to relax as Caris resolved to take his time instead of emptying his glass in moments. With his initial anger turned to concern, that very concern eventually gave way to amusement at the young King’s visceral dislike of the beverage, which did not dissipate with the more he drank. Somehow, selfishly, that was what Safir found profusely amusing.
“I should give you hell over such an egregious affront to Ilandrian spirits.” The Prince of Blades snorted into his own drink. “This is exclusive to my chambers for a reason. I don’t even offer it to guests.”
“As you shouldn’t… this is fit for punishment, Safir. Have you really been drinking this alone? Subjecting yourself to this for the past week? You should thank us.” Having grown too warm as a result of the beverage, Caris had already unbuttoned the front of his doublet. “As my friend and ally, I will accept the burden of partaking in more of this swill so that you might partake in less.” Blood had rushed to his cheeks, and he slouched against a settee, though to his credit, he still spoke clearly and with a clear mind. As someone who already did not hesitate to speak his mind when sober, it was a wonder as to whether alcohol would make him different, at all.
“Friend and ally? Congratulations, Your Majesty.” Safir couldn’t help it; he laughed. “You’re officially drunk.”
Caris pouted as he drained the remnants of his glass. “You think I’d do this for anyone but a friend?” He waggled the empty glass in his hand. “And to that point--would you really put up with any of this if we were not your friends, Your Highness? You had the boldness--or foolishness--to show yourself as less than impeccable, this evening. The least we can do, in solidarity, is the same. I might even let you get away with laughing at me.”
Safir looked between Caris and Tivia--one who was far more practiced in the art of drinking than the other--and sighed quietly. However aggravating, or improper, or ludicrous all of this was on the night before he was to lay his father to rest… they were doing this for him.
“King Caris Sorde… after tonight, you owe me a single bottle of Eyraille’s absolutely finest.” Safir said with a ghost of a smile, and knocked back the contents of his own glass.
For the sake of truth, and because Ari had presented himself as respectable (and infallibly loyal to Nia), Somath laid the truth out, bare and vulnerable, for the Lord of Stella D’Mare to pass his own judgement. It wasn’t as though what was done could be undone, and at this point in the royal physician’s life, dying with his darkest secret no longer felt as honourable as it once had. Then again, it had never occurred to him that he would ever again lay eyes upon his daughter--his only child.
He wasn’t foolish enough to interpret this as a second chance, by any means. But as Ari related his own beginnings with Nia, and how their relationship had unfolded all but perfectly due to factors the D’Marian Lord couldn’t control in their entirety… He couldn’t deny that it sparked embers of hope that he had once thought could never be revived. “I always recall how Anetania, in spite of what she went through, what she suffered, and the life she was born into, was someone who had always refused to be brought down.” The older man mused, and relaxed his shoulders when Ari confirmed this conversation would remain between the two of them. “She always was the epitome of resilience. Not just physically, but down to her very heart, she was the only one of Felyse’s children who was not afraid to smile. And her smile was so infectious, it spread to those around her… Should she find herself in a position where she wants to come to peace with Ilandria, Prince Safir, and perhaps even her own family, I know she will find the warmth here that she once felt. As for myself…”
The physician smiled faintly and shook his head. “What matters to me is that she has clearly found family in you, Lord Canaveris. Beyond our biological relations, there is much about her family--the Ardanes--that Anetania does not know, and that I cannot say for sure would benefit her to learn. Perhaps I will recount it to you, someday, so that you might pass it on to her when you feel she is finally ready. Not all secrets are mine to take to the grave. For now… simply continue to do as you have been doing, and look out for her.” Somath briefly glanced at his own glass of wine, which had remained untouched, in light of the gravity of this conversation. A bit of a waste, for an aged, aromatic red as dark as blood in the silver goblet…
“I don’t know how long you and she plan to remain here, in Ilandria, but I must insist on one thing, Lord Canaveris: Anetania should not return to Ardane Manor.” Ari understood; he must, for at this point, he knew Nia better than anyone. But from what Somath could glean from the wild look in the Master Alchemist’s eyes (that couldn’t be attributed to the colour change), and the tremor in her hands, he felt obligated to reiterate all the same. “Perhaps someday, but I fear, in her current state, she is not ready to set foot in the place from which she fled over a decade ago. I cannot see any good resulting from it, not even in your reassuring company… Good evening, Lord Canaveris.” With that final word of caution, Somath acknowledged that this discussion had come to a natural close. “I will see you tomorrow, at the late King’s funeral.”
An hour, and a grand total of two quarter-filled glasses: that was how long and how much it took for Caris to realize he was really and truly drunk. It had had its desired effect on Safir, for the more that the Eyraillian King let loose, the more the Prince of Blades found himself able to relax, and temporarily forget about the weight on his shoulders and the shadows on his mind. It didn’t hurt that the young king’s boisterous complaints about the taste of the beverage did not stop him from partaking in more than one glass, which was, admittedly, hilarious. He was coming to learn it was much easier (and more enjoyable) to take Caris Sorde in stride than to resist any aspect of his personality, and in fact, parts of his personality were arguably enjoyable. He was starting to understand what it was Tivia saw in the young king; he did have promise. Perhaps more than he was personally aware of.
But when the crystalline decanter was empty, and Caris had grown overly warm enough to shed his doublet entirely to the point where he lounged in his tunic and trousers, the trio all unanimously agreed that now was a safe point to call it a night. After all, they all had to be alert early the next morning--Safir in particular, but Caris, also notably as a visiting monarch. “I never thought I’d hear myself say this, but… I think I get it.” Caris placed a hand to one side of his face. He could practically feel the heat emanating from his skin. “If you hit me right now, I don’t think I’d feel it.”
“Don’t tempt me. Come on.” Safir clasped Caris’ hand and pulled the young king to his somewhat unsteady feed. “I already have it on my conscience that you felt the need to bend your morals to partaking in alcohol for my sake. I won’t be responsible for your first hangover as well.”
“No, no, it’s not your fault. Blame it entirely on Tivia.” Caris smirked at the star seer, and grabbed his doublet from the back of the settee. “Her poor behaviour was bound to rub off on Eyraille’s impressionable young King, eventually. Nonetheless--it was all worth it. You don’t look so sad anymore.”
With only a roll of the eyes as a response, Safir led Tivia and Caris out, with one hand on the younger man’s shoulder in case he was unsteady. “Where are we going? We know where our rooms are.” The Eyraillian King argued. To his credit, for being visibly drunk, his speech was still impeccably coherent, and the change in his stride was almost undetectable.
“I’m not taking you to your rooms. I’m ensuring you wake up tomorrow with a clear head.” Safir said, and led the both of them two floors down to the kitchens. At this hour, he didn’t expect to find anyone, albeit some of the cleaning staff, anywhere nearby. Imagine his surprise when he veered toward the scullery to find Aristide Canaveris, and a young woman who appeared to be his close relation, arranging some leftover food on a plate. The two of them looked startled, as if they’d been caught red-handed partaking in some egregious misdeed, but the alcohol (and his uninvited company) had long since dampened the extent to which the Prince of Blades cared for impropriety at this time.
“Lord Canaveris… have you recovered well from your disorientation?” Safir asked, as if it wasn’t perplexing at all to see any of his guests alone in his kitchen. “Is there something I can assist you with? Please don’t take it upon yourself when my staff is more than happy and capable of tending to your needs…”
“What, do you mean to throw me into the ovens now, Safir? I am already far too warm…” Caris complained and pulled away from the Prince of Blades, making for a door that led outside.
“Do not go far, so help me…” Safir called after him, at which point Sylvie offered to accompany the young King who was desperate for a breath of fresh air.
With a helpless sigh, Safir turned back to Ari. “I… apologize, Lord Canaveris. I can’t even begin to explain the situation in which I’ve found myself this evening, although His Majesty suggests I blame Miss Rigas, here. So I think I’ll do just that.” He raised his eyebrow at Tivia, as if to say, You brought this upon yourself. “Down in the cellar, somewhere among the dried herbs should be milk thistle and dandelion. One handful of each should suffice.”
As Tivia obliged to retrieve the herbs necessary for a hangover remedy, Safir stoked the embers in the belly of one of the smaller ovens, and placed a kettle full of water on top. “I can only imagine what it must be like to be a guest in His Majesty’s home,” he remarked to Ari with a sigh. Fortunately, the Prince of Blades was nowhere near as drunk as King Caris, although the telltale smoothness of his brow that suggested temporary relief from the emotional burdens he’d been toting earlier was enough to suggest he’d partaken in spirits to calm his nerves. He hadn’t even thought to take Tivia up on her promise to divulge her “secret”, whatever that could be. “It has certainly been an experience to have him as a guest in mine… But on that note, might I be of any assistance? I’m well aware I haven’t been the most attentive host. I hope you haven’t felt unwelcome, as a result.”
Meanwhile, Caris sighed in relief as the chilly night air hit his overheated face and permeated the thin fabric of his tunic. While vaguely aware Sylvie had followed him, it didn’t occur to him that it was odd to find her in the kitchens at this time of night. “I still don’t know the answer to your question, by the way. I don’t study the rocs; I just ride them.” He confessed, referring to their previously unfinished conversation at dinner. “But I have a theory. Two, actually, and they aren’t mutually exclusive. Some of the wild rocs don’t bother to learn to fly because their family unit never ceases to care for them. They grow comfortable having food brought to them, never having to learn to hunt or seeing the need to stretch their wings. Never worrying about predators because they have so few, and others will protect them. Or, alternatively,” the young King leaned his frame against a stone wall and leaned his head back, relishing the way the night wind stroked his hair. “Their family unit maims them--breaks their wings at a young age so that they might never fly. They will always be beholden to those stronger than them, with no means of thriving on their own, outside of what they already have. Break their wings young enough, and they will never fly a path different than what is intended for them.”
Caris turned his half-lidded blue eyes onto Sylvie. “I know what theory applies to Safir. And I think I know which one you’re desperately trying to evade. Want to guess which applies to me? I’ll give you a hint. For the children of monarchs… there is no chance of escape. None. But it’s not like that for you. Whatever your reasons for trying this path, Miss Canaveris… whatever reason you find yourself where you are now, I hope that path is yours. And if it isn’t, and your wings are still intact…” He closed his eyes and sighed heavily. His breath collected in a cloud in front of him. “Get away, before it’s too late.”
Somath’s comments about Nia’s indomitable spirit brought a small, fond smile to Ari’s lips. “Were it not for her tireless determination and persistence, even in the face of incalculable odds, I would not be alive. She has saved my life multiple times. The chronic condition I alluded to during your examination–it was she who performed the procedure, at extremely high risk to her own survival. To the Canaverises and the D’Marians at large, she has earned her position as a hero, and it is why I will refuse to ally myself with a kingdom that cannot recognize her contributions to the benefit of society. So if you are convinced that your monarch will see to it that she is properly reinstated, then I would consider fostering a proper alliance outside of Eyraille. But politics aside,” he casually scanned the smile lines on Somath’s wrinkle-riven face, “I can see another attribute in which she may take after her father.”
So as not to dominate much of the busy physician’s time, Ari began edging for the door. “There is another matter where we shall require the Ilandrian monarch’s cooperation, and it may call for an extended stay at the palace–for Nia, and myself, by extension, as her protector. During that time you may call upon me to pass along any information you deem relevant. Outside the proximity of walking distance, I shall open up easy correspondence between us by outfitting you with a resonance stone. For a more productive, organic flow of conversation–and preferably when Nia isn’t about for fear she might misunderstand–feel free to call me Ari.”
He hesitated over the door latch when Somath made a second mention of Ardane Manor. “Much as I whole-heartedly agree with your counsel, Somath, Nia wrestles with fits of impulsivity, and hastens towards questionable decisions the more she is denied them. If she has decided in her heart that she must travel to her childhood home, even I do not have the power to deny her, just as you assume I would lack in providing her reassurance. While I will do whatever possible to thwart her attempt, we should both prepare for a fast-approaching inevitability.”
As he opened the door latch to leave, he wavered on the threshold, hesitating. He did not wish to leave the conversation on a sour note, so he added, over his shoulder, “Do inform me if you are in the market for a court artist. The palace cries for an update.”
It turned out, Ari had made a good impression on the chef. As he and Sylvie approached the scullery, intending only to ask the staff to prepare them a meal, the kindly man, who appreciated Ari’s descriptive compliments of his cooking, was happy to discuss his process with the Canaveris lord. Genuinely interested, Ari made note of the recipes and the specific spices used in each dish, hoping to replicate the meals at the Canaveris estate for Nia whenever she craved something more region-specific. Floored by his enthusiasm, the chef invited the Canaverises into the kitchens and beckoned them to help themselves to the leftovers, of which there was plenty.
“You needn’t wait on us hand and foot,” Ari assured the overworked chef. “It is no difficult feat to compile the food ourselves. We shall clean up when we have finished. Do allow your staff a reprieve after tonight’s event. No need to stay around longer on our account.”
“It is fortunate you have an honest face, Uncle Ari,” Sylvie said once they were alone in the scullery save for a few fire stokers in the adjoining room tasked with the night-shift honor of always maintaining a lit flame and never to allow the cauldron full of pottage to cool. “Wandering around the scullery unattended could portend more sinister intentions, especially if we were not affiliated with Eyraille, and if they knew—“
“—Knew we were more than gourmands craving a new recipe?” Ari finished, commanding a finger of discretion over Sylvie’s mouth.
“Ah, yes. That,” Sylvie smiled contritely, ashamed at her reckless near-mention of Nia. Though they were as good as alone in the kitchens, one could never be too careful. “How much should we add to the plate? …Should I grab another?” But when she looked up from her work, she found that they were very much not alone, and practically face-to-face with the one figure they did not want to alert with the wrong idea.
During the hour of Caris’ drunken debut, Tivia was content to sit and watch the young king from her seat near Safir’s death, in part to watch his intake and ensure he didn’t imbibe beyond his means, and in part for entertainment. What type of drunk would he be, she wondered. Loose, upright, weepy, somber, energetic, sleepy, reckless? The combinations were endless. It shouldn’t have interested her so much to enable the younger brother of a sister with a documented drinking problem. The Sorde legacy’s reliance on alcohol had become a generational trait, doomed to pass down and pass on. What if this small foray into the vice inspired Caris to continue? What if he enjoyed himself too much?
Let me give him a chance, she thought, crossing one leg over the other. I believe in his resilience.
When was the last time she believed in someone that strongly? The one person who let her down, because she let him down, first. Because she thought too much of him, asked too much of him, and didn’t meet him where he stood. The difference between Isidor Kristeva and Caris Sorde was that the latter could be pushed and would turn up stronger. Forged in fire, his blade sharpened into reinforced steel without sacrificing the original hilt and built upon an already sturdy foundation. Despite his hardships, Caris thrived in them. A child of war, born to fight.
He could handle a little liquor.
“This beverage is pretty horrendous; Caris isn’t wrong,” Tivia baited as she took another sip of the caramel-stained ichor. “It’s not made for flavor, and don’t give me any guff about an Ilandrian’s refined pallet because I guarantee every nation in the world boasts a similar argument about their superior tongues. This stash is precisely a private stash because it’s meant for one person for the sole reason of getting drunk as fast as possible. And no, don’t argue with an alcoholic. I’m not proud of the shit I would mix up to create a concoction this strong, but at least it tasted better than tar. Quality for quality, all you owe this lout, Caris, is your finest jug of piss from a horse fed on a diet of fermented apples.”
All ribbing aside, she accompanied Safir and Caris to the kitchens without fuss. While she hadn’t imbibed enough to justify a hangover remedy, she joined the procession as an extra pair of eyes for their first-timer, who bobbed down the hallways like a balloon. During the shot trip they stood behind the young king, herding him to walk a straight line and holding his shoulders for support.
Inside the kitchens, they walked in on Ari and Sylvie stockpiling food.
“Oh. Your Grace. Your Majesty.” Sylvie abandoned her task and dipped into a hurried curtsy for the unexpected royalty influx. “We did not mean to offend, Prince Safir. We were granted permission to take whatever food we saw fit for a member of our entourage who could unfortunately not attend tonight’s proceedings. Forgive us this strange gathering.”
Ari, in contrast, was little bothered by the unorthodox spectacle, and less inclined to request the Prince’s pardon. “Your Grace; the chef was gracious enough to allow us our pick of the leftovers. For his generosity, I asked that he allow the staff early leave. I hope I did not overstep in my guest rites? As to answer your question, I am faring much better this evening, thank you. Your royal physician fixed me quite the effective tonic. You too seem to have,” he noted the Prince’s glazed eyes, “ah, improved in health from earlier. Some color has returned to your cheeks. There is no shame in partaking in the beverage, and it seems,” his gaze passed from Safir to Caris and Tivia, “the lot of you have been keeping yourselves preoccupied this evening.”
“They’re blaming it on me, which is unfair,” Tivia folded one hand over her hip. “My existence is a curse that sucks others into chugging distilled stomach acid not of their own volition. Must be my damning evil eye.” Despite her mock offended tone, she headed for the cellar to collect the herbs as per Safir’s instruction. At the same time, Sylvie followed Caris out the door, taking it upon herself to watch after him. It occurred to Ari that he was now alone with Prince Safir and at a loss for how to proceed.
“His Majesty has been quite courteous, despite the rough start,” Ari supplied as he trailed behind Safir, accompanying him to the small furnace. “It pleases me to see how he and my niece are getting on. Sylvie,” he gestured to the door where she and Caris had exited, “has enlisted her service to the king and for Eyraille. She has a kind heart. King Caris has accepted our meddling presence in stride. Heavens know I’ve had a number of unusual guests in my home. Literal wolves, for one,” he shook his head at the memory, but did not elaborate. “We strive for the model of best behavior so his Majesty will not find us too disruptive.”
A slight lull caught Ari shuffling one foot against the other. In comparison to Safir’s alcohol-smoothed brow, Ari’s furrowed with uncertainty. He stared at the kettle whistling forlornly over the furnace. “I cannot expect you to be at your best, your Grace, considering your loss,” he said magnanimously, King Ullir's complicated life notwithstanding. “You have a big day ahead of you, tomorrow.”
“What is this annoying small talk?” Tivia waltzed in on the two awkward gentlemen, handing Safir the herbs he requested. "I don't have to read lips to infer that what you prattle about is incredibly dull. So,” she clicked her tongue and nudged Safir's shoulder, “about the secret I promised you.”
“Secret?”
“He’s going to learn sooner or later, Ari. You’ve already spoken with Somath. You know this is the next step. Do you want to tell him, or should I?”
Another furrow knotted Ari's brow. He hesitated. “I want to believe you are a trustworthy man. King Caris and Miss Tivia believe in your integrity, as does Somath,” he trailed off, talking mainly to himself.
“Hey, if you don’t, I will,” Tivia shrugged. “I’m already taking the blame for everything else.”
Ari massaged his fingers through his temples. “Fine,” he sighed. “I am taking a meal to a member of our entourage who did not attend tonight’s dinner. Sylvie was correct in her statement. And her name is…Anetania.” He closed his eyes. Sharing her name felt akin to a betrayal; noting the other man’s reaction would only worsen the blow. “She is here for your father’s funeral. To observe. I will ensure she does nothing else. She has also made it clear to me that she does not wish to speak with you. If you would respect her space, and tell no one else of her presence here, I would be most grateful. And no, King Caris does not know who he houses in his kingdom. He believes she is a mage--albeit an Ilandrian mage--and he has no reason to think otherwise, considering she is the brainchild behind the portal mirrors and has already produced a successful set between Galeyn and Eyraille. If you are as loyal to your old friend as it seems, then please, your Grace,” he bowed his head, “grant her space, grant her sanctuary, and grant her pardon. As you can imagine, to return home after ten years as a fugitive--she is not faring well.”
Having no further coverage from the sudden blast of cold air, when Sylvie stepped into the night she gasped and immediately went to hug herself. Her initial amusement in watching Caris' inebriated antics waned in favor of huddling near the lee of the outside walls for warmth, though she did wonder what sequence of events led to Tivia Rigas and two royals to wander around the halls, soundly drunk. All this time, she pegged Caris as a humorless stick in the mud, not one prone to liquor or frolic.
She was about to ask, but silenced her inquiry when the king answered her question, but one from a few hours ago. Any remains of her mirth and curiosity slithered back inside the palace walls like a hibernating snake. She was suddenly, starkly reminded of why she had left home, and it wasn’t purely for adventure or escape. She didn’t know what made her presence in Eyraille worse; blissful ignorance of the horrors that would soon transpire…or being partially responsible for them.
How much longer would she ignore her problematic existence? How long would she continue to delude herself with the idea that she was on a harmless mission for personal growth? Her father was depending on her not to become too attached to her new responsibilities and lifestyle, least of all to the boy-king with the intelligent roc eyes and the broken wings.
“Are we ever on a path entirely of our choosing, your Majesty?” She looked out into the darkness. The cold-fire stars that exuded no warmth or guiding light. “Free will does not exist. Every day, our decisions are influenced by others, by society at large, by our harmful patterns of behavior or nonsensical morals, by the environment and by our day-to-day commitments. No, my path was not my choosing, if you must know. But neither are my wings broken." She twirled the tourmaline ring around her finger. "I can still fly, though I might be slow to start and out of practice. My wings are strong.” She turned to the drunken king, a sudden determination hearing her insides. She dropped her arms to the sides, no longer shivering. “And they can carry another passenger, if need be.”
