“Oh, this must be the exquisite Cantata!” Taken aback by the room, she hadn’t even noticed the small Prondolin’s presence. Gilden dropped tulle and rushed over to her while Ilgani stood at attention in the distance. The tailor’s small feet tapped hurriedly at his quick pace. “I’ve heard many delightful things about you from Sire Grude.” Gilden reached his petite hand out and lifted hers to place a kiss upon it.
“Oh, my!” She turned a bashful smile to Grude next to her, but jerked her hand away perhaps a little too quickly.
Grude laughed softly at this, whatever it was. It just felt right, to seem cheerful, he supposed.
“My name is Gilden!” The tailor bowed low. His blue suit was cut perfectly to fit his small frame. “And there—” he gestured his hand out to the other Prondolin in the distance, “This is Ilgani, my partner.”
Ilgani was slightly taller and muscular. With a touch of gray at his temples, he seemed older, and with the stern face, certainly not outwardly friendly. Ilgani only made a brisk bow and turned to resume his fidgeting. His hurried movements made no attempt to hide his interest in getting on with the business at hand.
Cantata had never actually seen a Prondolin before, but could tell that’s what they were based on their physical traits: the tiny build, delicate pointed ears, and fair skin—fair like her own. She had often wondered about them. It was no secret that the lands of Prondolin were legendary for having the most luxurious fashions, elite gem-work and jewelry, millinery, and exquisite fare. The place was said to have been positively dripping in luxury. The Odana Army of old had often been assigned there to thwart off invaders. Cantata had long lusted to go there one day to see for herself if the legends were indeed true.
She twitched as the tailor’s voice brought her back to reality. “Ilgani and I have come far, from the west, to measure you and show you all the lovely fabrics for new dresses.” He looked over at Grude and smiled. Ilgani dropped something in the background, but his partner made no mind. “Please, my dear, I’ll need you to follow me this way.” His small frame began moving quickly toward a stool. His stiff fabric swished at his fast strides.
Cantata stepped onto the stool for him. Her already tall frame towered over him further.
“Oh no, no, no, my dear! That stool is for me. I’ll need to measure you, but I’ll also have to reach your shoulders.” He smiled holding the measuring ribbon. Light blue lace cuffs decorated his tailored wrists and flitted at his deft movements.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, you’re so short and all,” she said in a dismissive snort. Aside from the General Prince, she imagined herself the tallest WynSprign female. “You know, you’re about the size of a juvenile WynSprign.”
He cleared his throat at the awkward, inappropriateness of her statement, but steeled himself and continued anyway, “That is quite alright my dear...now, let me seeeee.” Gilden squinted, holding out the measuring tape. He moved quickly, measuring various places around her, and the scent of mint breezed from him. As he measured close to her, she could see the details of his suit. The sky blue fabric of his shirt had tiny delicate brown swirls woven all over, an illusion of sorts that made the fabric seem indigo and oddly metallic. It was the most intricate fabric she had ever seen. He was certainly the best-dressed person she’d ever encountered, especially with these elaborate touches.
Ilgani had made his way to them and quickly scribed notes in a small pocket book as he walked circling them. He appeared to be the quieter one of the pair. His facial hair was perfectly trimmed and he had squared, smart features and wore the same suit as Gilden, but only a deeper shade. He was the masculine somber to Gilden’s apparent lightheartedness. A fit to each other—were perfectly tailored to one another.
After a few moments, Gilden was done taking measurements. “Well, my dear, it’s time to pick out your favorite fabrics,” he said contentedly. His facial hair was perfectly trimmed, adding more of an angular appearance to his rounder face.
Her heart fluttered at the rainbow of fabrics and textures that had been scattered and draped about the place. She placed a finger in her mouth as she walked and eyed them all carefully. It had to be perfect, her choice. She was to represent Grude, the castle, the WynSprigns. She was to become the lady of the castle.
Grude noticing a particular fabric, called Ilgani over quietly. He didn’t want Cantata to notice. “I’d like to order a functional everyday dress in this fabric.” He whispered once Ilgani was near enough. The somber Prondolin looked to Grude’s gray hand at the thin fabric he fingered. The tailor nodded solemnly and as usual, scribed in his small black pocket book in a written language Grude had never seen. His polished black hair echoed the delicate color nearby in response.
Cantata chose a deep sapphire fabric, an emerald green, another that was of bold crimson, and an unexpected light pink color—the same hue as that the deceased princess had been captured in the portrait above—she much liked that look and wanted to copy it. Ilgani jotted her choices down with hurried strikes and scratches that broke the silent air.
“Lovely choices for your fair skin, my lady…”
“Oh, yes I know. That’s why I chose them, of course.” She made high-pitched giggles that made the hair on the tailor’s arms prickle with a chill of icicles.
Gilden tossed a look to Ilgani, who nodded in return. “Alright. That is all we need for now,” Gilden said with a deceivingly dashing grin. “The dresses will take about two weeks.” It was rushed, but then again, the couple were most experienced at this, and at this point felt they could fashion a dress in their sleep.
Ilgani bowed with a tight smile at Grude and Cantata.
She and Grude happily strolled out from Lanico’s chambers and into the corridor beyond.
Ilgani gave a sour glare to Gilden and shook his head. His voice finally speaking, “Her manners are abhorrent. We have outfitted many lords and ladies of various lands, all over the continent and—”
Gilden shushed him while sprinting to the chamber door—fearful that Grude, Cantata, or any Mysra guard could hear their conversation. He peeked out seeing that Grude was only steps away watching Cantata sway off. Gilden quietly closed the door, turned glaring. “Well, Ilg...at least we’ll get paid handsomely,” he countered in a low voice.
“It’s not worth risking our lives to be here,” Ilgani snapped in a low tone of his own. “I don’t trust them, Gil.” He had voiced his reservations to Gilden about having been invited here, as such. He had been more interested in gathering the details for this project and had been fumbling with various measuring ribbons; an effort to avoid conversation with the two. It was to encourage his and Gildens leaving the Great Mist to return to Prondolin-sooner rather than later.
But it had already been said. This argument had been played out over and over again by the pair these past weeks. They still found themselves here and Ilgani always caved to Gilden’s requests.
“Only a week!” he snapped. “Or less,” he mouthed to the other tailor.
Gilden swallowed and the feigned pleasant smile faded. Ilgani was right and he knew it—needing for money or not, they shouldn’t have come. Gilden had made that secret realization shortly after their arrival.
Chapter 9
Any offspring you produce
He stepped away from the clash and ringing of metal, and the relentless training covering the glen. Things had been going well, but as a General, “well” was never good enough. “Well” wouldn’t win this battle. He had never been pleased and after the siege, he was committed to never being pleased with his military prowess. He would never again assume that he had the upper hand or that his subordinates were trained well enough. The trainings, the practices, the exercises had never been enough—would never be enough. Even though he was gratified at their growth, he harbored concern. The concern over evident, subsequent placement of trainees in harm’s way—but then again, he always had, that was his position. Even if these trainees included his own son and the others were becoming more like his o
wn by the day...No. No, he couldn’t allow himself to finish that thought. They would be highly skilled warriors, danger or not. Even then, there was the other mind-numbing issue. They were so few. It was with slow acquiescence that found himself wandering into his mother’s home.
He took in the scent of the place; earth-scented wood and sweet moss that clung in the air. It would likely be a long while before he’d venture here again after reclaiming his throne. He was to restore his entire kingdom. An effort of that magnitude couldn’t easily be measured in quantities of time.
She had been left communicating in meditation for hours with her Fray guardian sisters. He knew it drained her. She was often reduced to slumber following such lengthy conversations, but now more than ever, since her strength was tied to the lands over the past years. The hollowing of the Odana Mountains had left her increasingly weak. It was a pity that the trillium ran abundantly there. Every day a little further into her reduced state. Every chisel, lower. Every scrape against the purple trillium crystals, stabbed. She was Greta, Fray over light and woodland. The Odana Forest and mountain chain was her place, her assigned realm; was her energy source. Though she had always seemed exceedingly powerful, even Lanico had noticed her reduced state when he returned the first time—and to his horror, even slightly worse since then. And all of this for what? For the Mysra’s dependence on the rush it gave them.
Lanico’s power-laden steps carefully padded into the room, as quietly as he could manage. It was an effort to avoid startling her, but she was Fray—she picked up her son’s scent, his energy before he even entered.
“Lanico.” Her thin voice cracked, “I’m pleased the plans are being put into motion. Your rightful place on the Odana throne, only days away.” Her once looming form now hidden under her massive pile of puffed, white blankets. Her meditation had already ceased.
Lanico continued his steps into her room quietly. She groaned sleepily, “You must be growing excited.”
He hadn’t admitted it to anyone, but more so, he was growing anxious. Not excited. Anxious, of the inevitable battle, of his place on the throne, of his mission for the Odana and its people, of bringing loved ones into a battle with him. The warm smile for his mother faded as she studied him.
“Ama, I’d never admit this to another living soul.” His voice was even, matter-of-fact as he continued, “I am a seasoned General, but even I have my reservations. Reservations though, I gather, often lead to the wilds of survival.” He breathed, trying to focus on how to word this concern or admit his uncertainty. “I don’t know how. We are few in number, and the warriors are young and inexperienced and your support—your current state—” He had counted on her power to aid them. All this time he assumed he would also be able to rely on her legendary might but…
“Lanico.” She twisted from beneath the mounds and aimed her face up at his. “How soon you forget you were near their ages when you trained and fought, though you appeared even younger.” She grumbled, “To the many who trained you, who fought beside you, you must have seemed only a mere child. When will you understand that the change in Odana has already come to pass—a change for the better? The energy, it has already started to churn, whispering change to me.” She moved within her bed with effort. The thick bedding moved in response to her stirring beneath. Her Fray body had become so feeble, she really needed a time of repose.
His voice became soft. “Ama, what change?” He lowered to kneel next to her. Seeing his movements, she rummaged exposing her thin hand. He stared into her eyes, searching for answers. There were so many questions he harbored, and for so long.
“Lanico.” She took his hand in hers and squeezed, looking at him with an undying love. A mother’s love. “Sometimes the most unsuspecting can be the most impactful. Despite the arrangement he and I had, your father chose to raise you without the expectation to rule. You lived your life, second to him, but now’s your time. Though you haven’t voiced it, I sense in you this is an exceedingly large task, responsibility, but know you were made for this. It’s why you’re alive.”
“I don’t understand, Ama. Alive?” He felt her grip on his hand loosen. Her smile faded just as the house drew darker. Colder. A shift in the air drafted through unseen gaps within the walls just as a distant rumble of thunder sounded. A signal of her mounting displeasure—an obvious trait Lanico inherited from her.
Like the air, her tone had a cool bite as she said, “I gave all that I could, even while I lived away from you. Even now, I brought you and Treva together, to have unity and a shared purpose.” Lanico stiffened and her sight narrowed on him. “You don’t understand. You were made for great things! You were created because Father Odan Himself commanded me to lay with your father. I was tasked to create a strong, long-lasting, and ruling line for the Odana people.” Her voice heightened, “I gave you life for the sake of Odana. You were made to serve Odana. You are the very Son of Odana. That was your purpose before I formed you. I was the one. I won.” She paused as if she suddenly pricked her finger at that last statement. She took a pensive breath and her voice calmed as she continued, “And together we will win.
Lanico’s heart skipped. His mind swirled at her words. She won? Won what? But then his assuredness shifted. He was the Son of Odana. It was a substantial expectation placed over him. It was one thing to have been groomed all his life as a half-breed Prince and take on a role as a General, but this? To know that Father Odan Himself actually commissioned his life, his role, his status!
He had planned to take the Odana throne, but to know that the highest power, that Odan Himself had destined him for this was... He didn’t quite know, but he was astonished to say the least. His even voice was slightly elevated as he asked, “Ama, come now, what are you saying? That Odan Himself appointed my creation explicitly to save, to inherit the Odana Kingdom?”
“Yes,” Greta said wearily. “You were created to succeed and only to succeed in the care of the Odana. You are a servant to Odana. Odan Himself wanted a long-lasting line to rule, he needed a half-breed, he needed, you.” She resignedly shifted again. “But there is more to say Lanico.”
More? He steadied himself as if bracing for an impending tidal wave.
She continued, “The deep level of healing that you administered to Treva did more than link your level of communication. Unbeknownst to both you and she, it has extended her life.”
He was aghast at this and that his mother was able to sense the healing that he placed over Treva—at their communication abilities. Was there anything that escaped her? Instead of asking the myriad of questions that buzzed is mind, he heard himself merely ask, “How long?”
That wasn’t known. Greta simply answered, “She will live a longer life than any average WynSprign, that is certain.”
“What about Marin?” he asked, already sensing the answer.
Her eyes flashed. “Of course, any offspring you produce…” Her voice trailed, allowing that statement to linger, any offspring you-and Treva produce. She didn’t need to add. Their union would produce children with long-life expectancy. But not Marin—unless all those times he’d healed him for minor scrapes over the years made a difference?
Lanico then thought to her previous admission, serving Treva and he the notorious dew tea. That night they had spent together—had it not been for the physical exhaustion that followed his healing of her wounds, he imagined they both would have gave into an unabashed, passionate bucking right there on the sitting room floor! He realized just then; that is exactly what she had intended. Greta wanted him to produce more heirs—already. Her words were betraying the truth of her objective. Of course, she didn’t want Marin to inherit the throne. The boy wasn’t of Fray heritage. Shivers danced down the length of his back at the surreptitious realization.
Her weary voice broke his thoughts. “You may return to your training. I am in need of rest.” With that, the massive blankets tumbled, rolling to engulf her again. The air, the room, warmed. She was done with him.
&nbs
p; For years, there had been many unanswered questions floating in his mind: how his mother lived away from him and only stayed at the castle occasionally, or how his father would blanch at the very mention of her name. Or about his powers. He knew that he inherited her traits, but there was the healing power—the extent of which he didn’t understand. Or how his mood could also summon a storm. How he was entrusted a sword that somehow seemed to have an energy—a life all its own. And why Treva? Why had Greta been so unwavering on his being, coupling with her? When married to Raya, his mother had never been as enthusiastic about their union. What was it about Treva that Greta had noticed? Lanico was pleased, of course, that his mother approved—but why Treva? He took a breath. What is she not telling me? He felt heat against his neck, but he wouldn’t question her now. He chose to leave it—for now at least.
The Legacy of Lanico: Return of the Son: Book two of the Legacy of Lanico series Page 8