Paraden hadn’t expected the shadowa to be so moved by the Higher’s judgement, but while watching her beg him for some form of closure, Paraden found that he was becoming hard pressed not to express how amused he was by her naivety.
Until now…
“Why are you smiling, Paraden?” asked the elvess, a flicker of doubt perceived in her eyes. “Why are you smiling? He didn’t do it? He didn’t kill his daughter?”
Paraden got up from his seat, looked at the elves and shook his head. “No,” he said. “No, he didn’t.” Paraden turned around and amidst the uproar of the hall, he walked out and headed towards the Portals of Blydran, thinking that the investigation had gone very well.
Epilogue
Paraden sat in front of the fire, watching the logs burn, was poised in a contemplative state that gave way to guilt and doubt. He was waiting for the final report of the operation that he led. But it was while waiting, while watching without seeing the dancing flames that his conscience chided him mercilessly, telling him that he had gone too far and had crossed a line within the spheres of morality.
Too young to choose, Guilt whispered to him, while Doubt added ruefully; too young to know.
But then another voice broke in, one that held a softer cadence: Daughter of a Higher, said the voice of Reason, Daughter of a devout Adonai follower. She would have grown up as steadfast as her father, as loyal to the Whispers as her sire. You have dispatched a future enemy of the Old Gods.
Or a potential asset to the Old Gods, interjected Doubt. Too young to choose, came Guilt in agreement to Doubt, who said again; too young to know.
Paraden shifted in his chair, having grown very uncomfortable and discontented by the internal struggle.
Only those who have chosen are deemed enemies of the Old Gods, said Guilt.
Only those who have taken a stand, said Doubt.
But we are losing, whispered Reason. While the High Council creates these codes, these laws that constrict us, the Whispers remain in power as the Old Gods remain in death. The time has come to take drastic measures. The time has come to at last win the war, gain the upper hand.
“Yes,” murmured Paraden.
The High Council allocates, positions its members in the Realm, giving orders for when to strike - who to strike. But only now will they start seeing the necessity in expanding their laws and exceeding their codes. We need to start attacking the heart of the enemy, make them as erratic as we once did during the First Moon.
Paraden continued to murmur soft agreement with his reasoning, his expression hard and pensive while he watched the logs in the hearth collapse, his eyes absentmindedly following the flickering embers floating towards the chimney.
Outside, Paraden was only vaguely aware of the sound of swaying trees. He took a moment to forget his inner conflict, to savour his current solitude, for he knew it was not to last. Soon, he would need to return to his service to the Realm as shadowa of the cursed and vile Old Way Hunter.
Reminded of his master now, Paraden sighed in despair, dreading the return to the Lightmarsh building, the journey up those stairs to the fourth floor.
Old Gods take him, Paraden seethed internally. Old Gods have him!
Perhaps they should? Suggested Reason. You have spent years mastering the art of deception. You have developed the creativity of finding misleading ways to frame and falsely accuse your enemies. So why not set your resolve against the master you serve and who you hate so passionately?
Because the High Council haven’t sanctioned it, said Doubt. Nor will they.
Paraden shook his head in annoyance, knowing the High Council would not be readying themselves anytime soon towards the downfall of Paraden’s rotten master! It was an infuriating realisation, one already visited many times before while alone and thrust into self-reflection.
Paraden’s knuckles turned white as his fingers coiled tighter and tighter into angry fists. He would never be able to avenge himself on his master, who for years has been ridiculing him, patronising him, insulting him - even beating him, though that had only happened once! The High Council would never allow it, damn them. Damn them all!
The fool has been made too valuable, said Reason.
Paraden narrowed his gaze. Since he had joined Andarken’s service, the High Council had begun forging cases together that they knew Andarken would be drawn to and employed for. But unbeknownst to the old fool, each case had been carefully planned in order to produce a particular outcome, one that remained in the interests of the Old Way… and not Andarken’s.
Using Paraden, the High Council could direct Andarken towards their purpose, manipulating him towards achieving their goals. So far, Andarken hadn’t disappointed. Not yet.
Knowing Andarken was a puppet in the hands of the Old Way was the only pleasure Paraden could draw from his position. However, if he were to be honest, as much as he relished watching his master display his ignorance with each new investigation, it was his master’s death that Paraden craved. To witness his death, or even perhaps to orchestrate it, would offer him more pleasure than, let’s say, having his administration assistant, Revara, for one whole night of bliss.
Paraden cocked his head back in thought, feeling doubt stir within him at this sudden crossroad of choice; the hypothetical option of choosing Vara over ultimate revenge.
Paraden found himself perplexed until he started dwelling deeper into his options, weighing each in thorough consideration where naturally, suspicion took root. He became suspicious over the fact that as much as he longed for his master’s destruction, he wanted Vara more.
Would you really choose Vara over Andarken’s death? Enquired Doubt.
I think you would, said Reason, smugly.
No. I don’t think you would, contradicted Doubt. Remember all the slurs you have suffered; all that your master has done to you!
Yes, but given the choice, who would you pick? Asked Reason.
Paraden knew how to answer that. Already he felt himself relax as he leaned back comfortably in his chair, his mind whisking him away into an imaginative world where he alone decided his circumstances and the outcome of his decisions.
Seeing as followers of the Whispering God frowned upon sexual activity outside of a union, Paraden knew that if ever he could sate his thirst for Vara, it would only be in a Consummation Ritual.
The Consummation Ritual was one of the Old Way’s most common. And like all Old Way rituals, the Consummation Ritual would be headed up by a selected member who was responsible for reciting the right prayers, portioning the right amount of meat for those in attendance and then, of course, taking responsibility for the consummation itself.
The selected member would, after the prayers, engage in sexual intercourse with the chosen sacrifice. Afterwards, that sacrifice would be offered to the Old Gods by dismemberment. But before that happened, ultimate pleasure would be achieved!
Just now, Paraden longed for fantasy to become reality. He wished with aching longing to one day see Vara’s name appear on the Target List so that he could be given the opportunity to give her to the Old Gods. But even while he hoped, before his mind’s eye Paraden could already see Vara tied down naked upon the altar, her long and luscious legs spread open to reveal a bush of hair that Paraden imagined was dark. He focused on that image, intrigued over the secret petals that hid beneath and the sultry slit that in his imaginary world, would be silky to the touch.
In his mind’s eye, Paraden could see Vara’s perky breasts bounce during her struggle to break free from her bonds, titillating him as he removed his ceremonial robe while climbing the altar, trembling slightly in anticipation while he positioned himself accordingly, guiding his ---
“Fair evening,” came a voice.
Startled, Paraden shot up in his chair and with a low and husky voice, coughed out a, “Come in.”
Paraden could hear the careful steps of his new guest and could feel that guest’s fear shape the atmosphere of the room. It was sobering, bringing
Paraden back to the reality of the seriousness of the interaction that was now set to begin.
“Is it done?” asked Paraden.
“It is, Master,” replied the guest.
Paraden couldn’t help the bitter laugh that escaped his mouth. “Master,” he said, shaking his head at the irony of the elf’s reply, seeing as Paraden spent most his days addressing another with that title.
“Did she struggle?” feeling Guilt tug at his conscience.
Too young to choose.
Too young to know.
“No, she didn’t.” said Paraden’s guest. “The baby, for now, remains asleep. Content.”
Paraden took some solace from that, thinking gratefully, the potion from the High Council worked.
“Good. I would want her to be so… until the end.”
Too young to choose.
Too young to know.
“Master, I ---” the Moon Elf began.
“Do you think we did the right thing?” interrupted Paraden.
Too young to choose.
Too young to know.
Paraden closed his eyes and shook his head, regretting the question immediately as it left his tongue.
“Never mind,” he said. “As you say. It is done. Whether wrong or right, the wheels of this cart have been set in motion and nothing now will be able to halt the spin of it.”
Paraden leaned forward in his chair and asked, “Where is the baby now?”
“Downstairs. She is waiting for you.”
Paraden took in a deep breath and then exhaled. He shot up from his chair and turned to face his guest, knowing time was of the essence, for after the ceremony was complete, they would need to hurry in delivering the body to its intended location, one far away from here, with floors reciprocal to the last vial of potion Paraden had received from the High Council, called the Yellow Cloud.
Paraden recognised how much younger he was to his guest, recognised as well, who his guest was; Naruder, who lived in Olian’s Greathouse, the shadowa of the master who ran its kitchens. Paraden wasn’t surprised to recognise too, the astonishment written across Naruder’s expression, though did find it hard to judge whether his guest was shocked over Paraden’s youth or because of who Paraden was: the shadowa of one of Alepion’s most renowned Old Way Hunters. Paraden decided in favour of the latter.
“Surprising, I know. But it is I.”
Turn the page to read an exclusive extract from Jeremy Forsyth’s soon-to-be-released full length novel
Upon the Sands
The Brothers Fairleaf
Eldrian Fairleaf emerged from the portal and walked onto white pavement that held an invasion of weeds between serpentine cracks. He looked up and saw the Portal Guards peering down from the top floor, took in a deep lungful of air and sighed.
Home.
When his bladewatcher appeared behind him, Eldrian remarked mildly, “Took you long enough.” He turned his head to fix his eyes upon the black gate that stood as the courtyard’s exclusive exit.
“Fear to be left alone, Blademaster?” mocked the Bladewatcher, whose name was Ulumious Clearsong.
Eldrian ignored him, proceeded towards the gate in order to take his leave from the courtyard. The gate was opened to them almost immediately by the guard stationed there amidst the shadows. After ascending the flight of steps, they arrived at the top floor to be greeted by one of the Portal Guards.
“Welcome home, Blademaster.”
“We heard news that the Elder has returned from Norrhan?”
“Yes, Blademaster.”
Eldrian took in a wary breath almost unconsciously, as a result of having his disappointment confirmed after having hoped for the alternative: to deliver his report of the Seasoning to the Lady of the Moon, Salune Flaramoon, united-one of the Elder. There was nothing to be done about it now, he resigned, except to accept the inescapable eventuality - he would now have to contend with Alepion’s Great Servant, perhaps the least of his favourite personalities living here at court.
Eldrian moved past the guard, made his way through the circling corridor that bent around the courtyard.
“Blademaster!”
Eldrian turned around to see the Portal Guard run up to him to say in a discreet voice, “The Elder has been in a dark mood since Norrhan. The darkest I have seen him.”
From the guard’s tone, Eldrian was inclined to believe him, but believed too that whatever else could sour the Elder’s moods, by comparison alone, Eldrian’s mere presence was enough to render all other vexatious inconveniences disavowed by their sheer inability to compete, the result being that when it came to Eldrian, the Elder’s moods were always dark.
“Stay here,” he commanded Ulumious, adding, “I will meet with the Elder alone.”
“As you wish,” said the Bladewatcher, in a tone that to Eldrian’s ears sounded very much like relief.
Eldrian turned, pushed open the doors before him and while crossing the threshold, he made his way through the Throne Room; a large hall that even while empty, evoked a sense of authority and power, contributed to by the grandness of its interior design that pronounced itself with floors made of marble and intricate balconies positioned on either side of the walls, separated by long rectangular windows, permitting streams of sunlight to anoint the hall with bright golden rays.
Then came the hall’s presiding facet and most distinguishable feature: upon an island of seven steps, the golden Throne of Alepion stood exalted and, at present, vacant. But while Eldrian’s eyes were locked onto its golden sheen, two thoughts occurred to him; the first was an acute awareness over the definite silence of the hall. To disturb it seemed almost defiling, as if the silence itself was a preserver of sorts for something unseen, something holy.
The second thought came more as an assault upon him rather than from his keen discernment over the room’s celestial quality. He didn’t belong here. For some odd reason, when at last he passed through a secret door behind the throne and entered a narrow corridor, Eldrian felt lighter.
The corridor walls bore a series of portraits of those who had once ruled the Realm; Elders and Ladies of the Moon whose eyes followed him as he progressed to the end. But of the past rulers; the revolutionary Rareshades, the illustrious Lightmarshes and renowned Skysingers, it was the portrait of a Flaramoon that bade him stop and consider it.
The late Elder Tarran Gathe Flaramoon was poised in red. He held at his side the Veilnar-forged longblade, Flame. His portrait was an accurate portrayal of the type of elf he had been when alive and the artist did well in giving Tarran lucid resemblance to his son, Alepion’s current sovereign. However, in contrast, Tarran was a leaner figure than Alepion’s present ruler and, to Eldrian’s feelings, Tarran possessed less of a belligerence too, enough to make Eldrian wonder who he would be better received by if the father still reigned instead of the son.
Suddenly, the door opened and when Eldrian turned his head, he was confronted by the petite Wanda Purestorm, an old and wise elvess of roughly seven hundred years. But what she lacked in youth and height, Wanda made up for in resolve and wit, did possess an intellect and resourcefulness that all the Great Servants she had served so far had come to rely heavily upon. As Left Hand of the Elder, Wanda also remained one of Alepion’s most influential elvesses and in addition to all that, she was also one of Eldrian’s favourites at court.
“Blademaster!”
“My Lady,” said Eldrian, warmly.
Wanda took Eldrian’s hands into her own and looked up at him with shimmering eyes. “Blessed be Adonai; He has brought you home.”
“It seems I am not the only one who has been brought home,” gesturing towards the room Wanda had just now appeared from.
“Indeed,” she answered solemnly. “It is a foul business living among Strangers, dear Blademaster.”
Wanda’s change in tone sparked Eldrian’s intrigue, for since the Humans of Norrhan had entered an alliance with the Throne of Alepion; the derogatory term ‘Stranger’ had not be
en used to describe them for years. Eldrian wondered what had changed.
“But let us not bother about Humans,” said the elvess, whose nurturing demeanour failed to induce Eldrian away from his curiousness. “Let me rather leave you to carry on as you were. Welcome home.”
The Right Hand of the Elder - Filian Summerfell – received Eldrian inside. One look at him and the disparities between him and his equivalent pronounced themselves in an appalling fashion, causing Eldrian some strain while he attempted to suppress the natural impulse to draw back in shock. Though Filian was much younger than Wanda, just now, it would have been difficult to say otherwise.
The Right Hand appeared most put out; his usual steadfast gaze expressed through a hard and rigid expression bereft of hesitation and doubt, had now yielded to a colourless, weary façade. That there were bags beneath the elf’s eyes, suggested sleepless nights and implied that whatever happened in Norrhan had followed the Moon Elves home.
Eldrian stopped in the centre of the room, concentrated on Alepion’s elder. His name was Tarranice Lowvilla Flaramoon and he looked as all warrior rulers should: broad shouldered and tall, with long golden hair, wearing a golden beard cut to a point with the ends speckled in black. He was dressed in a long, smart jerkin with grey and black patterns, fastened with black elaborate buttons, wearing a white shirt beneath. The ring on his right index finger was the only jewellery he wore, the physical evidence of his union with the Lady of the Moon.
Just now he looked up from behind his desk to cast Eldrian a telling expression, one that made it clear that neither of them was enthusiastic about sharing a reception with the other.
Eldrian bowed, “my Elder.”
“Your service to Alepion?”
“Successful. The new sentinels show incredible promise.”
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