The visitor sighed softly. He was quite a tall man, taller than Zandrin even, and his hair was very dark indeed. His ponytail still bore five of his youth knots, which meant that he had not fought in a proper battle yet. Zandrin’s pale ringlets only retained a single knot, and he was younger than every other master in the school. He started off down the corridor.
Ulena hissed in Artemi’s ear, “Don’t you think we should stop him?”
“No. Let’s follow them. I think they’re talking about us.” Though the words came from her mouth, Artemi knew it was possible Zandrin had been
talking about some other escapees. Being shut in a classroom was not an uncommon punishment at that school.
Besides, she and Ulena had moved quickly in making their way to his rooms, and any messenger would had to have run at full speed from Gilkore to inform the masters of Fate’s. What path could they have taken that did not cross Artemi and Ulena’s? And the next assumption was that Gilkore had secretly decided their claims were worth considering at all. He did not seem the sort to change his mind.
Her own theory did not make much sense.
Zandrin and his friend loped off down the corridor with Artemi and Ulena following behind in silence. The room they eventually came to was not quite as expected, however. It was small, hidden in the deepest recesses of the compound and already filled with the other nineteen masters of Fate’s School. Artemi and Ulena were small enough to hide just beyond the main door and listen to the conversation that went on within.
“...Damned thing’s free. I want it captured this evening. No mess. If anyone in Hestavos comes to me tomorrow and tells me they heard
anything, or saw so much as a blackened fingernail in their porridge, there’ll be no beer for any of you.” That was Gilkore’s voice.
“We’ll need light in there – one of the wielders-”
“No wielding. They can smell it. Take torches.”
“How did the kids get out?”
There was a pause before Gilkore answered. “The floors in there aren’t good enough for anything larger than a few ounces of meat. One of them fell through it, and so did the damn biter. Keep your feet soft.”
Artemi had heard more than she wished to, and besides, there were the sounds of movements that implied a door might open soon. “Let’s get away from here.”
“Temi?” Ulena said as they trotted into the darkened corridors, “I didn’t tell the captain that I fell through the floor, only that the monster did. So how did he know?”
Artemi was not entirely sure she wanted to find out the answer to that. If he had been watching from a mystery vantage point, then why did he not come to their aid? Why would he want to allow any of this to happen, and then ignore their pleas for help?
Did he want to kill them? Was this a test?
The Forllan manor was a truly ancient building that glittered in all lights and from the many facets of its knapped-flint walls. It was wide and tall, but square and ordered. Though numerous additions had been made to it through the centuries, each one had
been so carefully planned that it matched the original core of the building with sublime perfection. And yet, in the face of this order - this block of impeccably clipped stone - rampant vines, wild roses and ferns grew to such heights they were almost trees of fronds. Everywhere was the sound of tumbling water: from small trickles of streams to violent crashes of waterfalls. It was said that these watercourses had been managed at one point, but the truth of that was now lost to time. Everything about the place indicated that the landscape ruled, and that the Forllans fought to endure in a small but
constant way, as their ancestors had always done.
Silar did not feel that will to endure in him now. He was still naked, unshaven and unwashed from the best part of two days spent sleeping. A stale mug of ale was cupped in one hand, while his chin was cupped in the other. He had no idea of the time of day, or the time of year for that matter, and he had no desire to find out either. He took a sip of his drink; it had lost much of the appeal of its former taste. He took another swig anyway, hoping that he could find some reassurance in its bitter flavour.
Some years had passed since his infamous dismissal from the court at Gialdin, and he had not been called upon for anything in those years. Not even advice on the simplest of things, such as which foreign king needed reminding of Calidellian interests, or how many soldiers ought to be recruited from the northern provinces. He knew these things, of course, even if he did not wish to. In the first year after his expulsion he had tried to shut every vision out, to close his mind to any possibilities that were not in the immediate future and to ignore all thoughts of the Jade’an bloody royal
family. But they continued to bother him: in his sleep, during his walks, at dinner or while he read. The talent he had worked so hard to cultivate was now an invasive and rampant weed with roots made of blasted, wielderwrought metal! No amount of digging or hacking or poisoning would kill the damned thing.
He finished the mug and set it down slowly, grimacing as the dregs formed lumps in his mouth. Time to visit the toilet. That was his life now: to piss, drink, sleep, occasionally remember to eat, drink again and then piss some more. He passed his
reflection in the mirror, and not for the first time, turned his eyes to avoid it. He was badly out of shape. Though he had not eaten enough to make himself fat, he had not raised a sword in more months than he could count. Talia would not bother to dawdle outside his room now, he thought with a wry smile.
As Silar watched the filtrate of his past few days of drinking wash into the abyss, he thought about the cool, crystalline walls of his old home in the palace, and the view it had offered across the city. He tried to recall the sounds of people moving about below,
and the way the lights had glittered at night. Whenever he did, his mind usually met with images of Gialdin burning, and those calm sounds would crescendo into a horrible chorus of screams. But this time his consciousness chose happier possibilities instead, and he was able to consider something closer to the place he remembered.
Just then, whilst in mid-flow, a storm of images and voices tried to force their way into his awareness. They begged him to listen to them, and he knew it meant something was about to happen, but he was not interested in
any of it. Silar focused harder on forcing out that last drip.
The door to his room slammed open.
“Blasted eyes! Get some clothes on, son!”
A shirt and a pair of breeches were hurled at Silar. He managed to catch them with a free hand, but also managed to miss with his aim at the privy. Follocks!
“I’ve had enough of you lying around here being miserable, and I’ve let you get away with it for far too long. Seffe’s here, and we’re having dinner in half an hour. Show your face, or you’ll no longer be sleeping under my roof.” With that the elder Lord Forllan shut Silar’s door behind him, and left the surrounding walls shuddering with the force of it.
Damn. Not Seffe! Now, he was guilty of hiding in the wilderness for some years. And what excuse did that boy have for leaving Calidell, anyway? Silar could make a firm guess, but he didn’t want to pre-empt Seffe’s stumbling words and squirming too much. Oh, that boy would be hearing some stern words from his older
brother this evening. Yes, he would. Silar thrust his head through his
shirt and his legs into his trousers. He would normally have bathed first, but he really could not be bothered with any of that. It was only for Seffe, after all.
He opened his bedroom door for the first time that week, and inhaled a lungful of air that did not smell of his own unclean sheets. Standing in the hallway felt rather odd, so much so that he found himself checking that he was actually clothed. It dawned upon him that his sword belt was missing, but then... what would be the point of his carrying a blade? He could hardly expect to wave the thing about now
without becoming immediately exhausted. It could stay in his room, he decided.
He ambled with no particular urgency to the hall where his family preferred to dine, and slumped into one of the empty seats. The room was still dark and otherwise empty, as none of the servants had yet come in to light the candles. Lords only ever entered a formal room when some poor scurrier had already lit the way for them; Silar did not consider himself much of a lord.
He placed his hands behind his head and leaned back against the
ancient wood of the chair. Three large windows, set well above the head height of any grown man, brought little light in from the fading day beyond. They might have illuminated the room better, if only the vines that now covered them were cut back. The rest of the room had the same appearance as just about every other noble’s dining hall. It was panelled with wood, lined with paintings and decorated with overly elaborate sconces. The only distinguishing feature was the stag, forged from silver and bronze, that seemed to leap from the wall. It was the symbol of his family, and below it
was the motto that Silar often laughed at: “Fight to live; fight to the death.” No other Forllans had chosen a military career since his great-grandfather’s generation, and even Seffe had apparently given his up.
The sounds of food preparation were distant but clear, as was the noise of his family talking in a nearby room. He could hear the sound of his father’s voice, and that of his older brother Sorann, of Seffe and also a woman. Could it be Demeta? Irritatingly, his own mind immediately answered his question in the affirmative. Sometimes it was nice to be surprised, though he
could not recall the last time that had happened.
A servant soon came in to light the candles by which the family would dine, but gave a start when the illumination revealed Silar. He smiled at her, but it only seemed to make her more fearful, so he chose to look at the table instead. His family took their time in entering the room, but he stood for them as tradition demanded. His mother would have been very disappointed in him if he had not. She had liked those sorts of manners.
“Light of- is that...? What the blazed, burning, fires happened to
you?!”
“Good to see you too, Seffe.” And Seffe did look annoyingly healthy. Silar offered a polite nod to Demeta, whose face was creased with what appeared to be horror and dismay. He didn’t look that bad, did he?
“Are you dead... or...? Have you been drinking pinh for the last twenty years? What’s in your hair? Where is the rest of you?”
“On holiday. Please sit down, brother.” Silar lowered himself slowly back onto his chair. Even with Seffe’s blunt words, this evening promised to be considerably more pleasant than one of the last encounters Silar had enjoyed with his little brother. That one had ended with far more accusations and punches.
“Silar has spent the last nine years in his room, crying over women and occasionally calling for beer,” Sorann said helpfully.
Nine years? Had it really been nine years since his dismissal? Ridiculous. It can’t have been that long. He smiled back at his older brother, who was heir to the Forllan estate and undoubtedly the most boring member of the family ever to have lived. True, he had many burdens and
responsibilities upon his shoulders, but he never drank, never fought, never charmed women – nor men, for that matter – and had yet to demonstrate any form of wit. Whatever he did say tended to come out in a voice so monotone that it drove everyone to distraction. Silar felt some guilt for thinking these things of his sibling, but it was unavoidably true. Boring, boring, boring.
Their father, another terribly serious man, shook his head. “Enough of that. He’s come out of his cave for dinner. We should be glad for it.”
Silence moved over the table as
the food was laid out before them, and the conversation started up again once the servants had departed.
The smells and sights of the meal made Silar realise a hunger he had quite forgotten. Before he sank his teeth into any of the juicy, peppered steak, he threw a question at Seffe, “Where have you been these last few years?” With a sort of ironic predictability, a list of destinations marched into Silar’s mind, along with Seffe’s inevitable answer.
“I don’t want to talk about that. I want to talk about your fall from favour, brother.”
Silar ignored him. “So, you went to Forda and spent several days climbing Mount Hredena. I’ve heard that’s a tough journey when you don’t have the aid of a wielder.” Seffe had used a lot of unearthly power to keep him warm on the ascent, or to provide steps where there weren’t any, though he would have felt some shame in that sort of cheating. Silar’s words would embarrass him.
Demeta was the sort of woman to clear her throat rather than blush, however, and that was exactly what she did.
“Get out of my head,” Seffe
warned.
“Can’t help it,” Silar responded. “Are you going to make your announcement?”
Seffe growled under his breath and rolled his eyes. “If it’ll get you to shut up.”
There was no more satisfying a reaction than for Silar to raise an eyebrow. Oh, he had missed controlling conversations like this one, manipulating the information and guiding the manner in which it would come out.
His younger brother pulled a face at him, then stood to address their father. “I have given Demeta Rosvanni the antler stone that was handed to me from you. It is her marriage gift, which she accepted, and I would be honoured if you would accept her into the family.”
Of course, their father had no idea what sort of woman Demeta was or where she came from. He had never met her before tonight. His eyes shifted to Silar for answers, and Silar was more than a little tempted not to give any. But that would have been very unkind to more people than just Seffe. Ah, he had done enough bad things already. Time to be good. “Miss
Rosvanni proved herself many times in battle for Calidell. She is a sound warrior and will keep my brother sensible. She was hand-picked to join our former queen’s personal band of fighters when it was formed, and though she did eventually desert without prior warning...” that got a fierce glance from the couple, “...it was precipitated by her desire to be with my brother. And if it matters, the Rosvanni family have some blood connections with the Menathars. It is a good match.”
His father nodded slowly, and then smiled. “Very well. Sahlke is
married off, and now you. I always thought you’d be the last of my sons to wed given your adventurous nature, but here we are. Demeta, you are most welcome in my family.” Their father’s dark eyes shone with genuine warmth, and Silar saw a smile in them that had been mostly absent since Lady Forllan’s death. But there was a concern that Silar could see beneath that happiness. His older brother, Sahlke, had married into a family of relatively low standing, and now Seffe was about to marry a woman who was not even a lady. Sorann’s chances with women were minimal, and Silar had
already done his best to bury the name of Forllan beneath a mountain of shame. Though he had never cared much for titles or blood, he knew that his father thought differently. The situation made him feel somewhat morose.
He studied his little brother for a moment, trying to look through those grins to the character of the man below. Two decades ago, Seffe would have ascribed very little worth to his relationship with a low-ranking woman, and probably less worth to the woman herself. Silar could hardly forget the words his brother had used to describe
their queen, or how Seffe had recommended she be dealt with. It truly was a remarkable thing that Demeta had brought about such a change in him. Now he really could be useful to the crown.
Silar shifted his field of view to Demeta. She was old, considerably older than Silar, and even his father, but still younger than King Acher had been at his death. During her lifetime she had been sent away from Calidell because of her powers, recalled for them, taken hostage for them, and then employed for them once more. Her age and experience, combined with the
angular set of features she bore, brought with it an impression of wisdom and solemnity, but
Silar could see that she was anything but solemn. She craved fun and adventure just as much as Seffe did.
A headache from the dearth of ale started to cloud Silar’s mind. He searched the table for a substitute, but found it sadly lacking in either beer or wine. They were trying to dry him out! Damn them! It was his business if he wanted to live in a cloud of inebriation and no one else’s! Ale was the only bloody thing that could dull the visions; already they were becoming far too
clear and frequent. Another glance at Demeta brought images of babies and children and other things that he really did not wish to see.
Burn these visions! Burn his mother for encouraging them in the first place! “I need a drink.” Silar buried his face in his hands and squeezed his eyes shut. If the images would just go away for a few minutes... As hard as he tried to force them to go, they did not. Instead he was hit by an old, familiar one, the one he hated the most. It was a world of white light so bright that he could barely see; a world full of death and
silence.
“What is wrong with him?” It sounded like Demeta’s voice, except it was warped somehow.
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