by T. A. Miles
It seemed particularly settled in his mind, though he knew very well that his heart wasn’t quite so willing to meet with such determination. He envisioned his resolve snapping with the ease of a sapling in a storm wind the moment one of them presented altercation of any kind.
Gods, return me to the sea. Naturally, the gods did no such thing.
After nearly forty years, the house was as familiar as if Korsten had only left it yesterday. The innermost halls remained as exposed to the open air of the central courtyard as they ever had been. The tapestries and banners his family had collected over the years remained in their places along the walls and pillars, fluttering in the incessant ocean breeze. Birdsong resonated softly through the passages and the persistent southeastern sun made stone and iron architecture warm to the touch.
His room was on the third floor. The second story housed the conservatory and library. A wing of the house facing inland boasted a ballroom two floors high, which connected to a garden and overlooked vineyards further out.
Oh, the indiscretions involving that ballroom.
Korsten would have liked to sever his adolescence from his memory completely, if only it were possible. The thought brought him back to the waking memory he’d had of his very young self, misbehaving. That was a memory—of many, no doubt—that he had tucked away. It was likely that the incident had occurred not long after a meal, one which Korsten may not have been agreeable about. It was unsettlingly easy for him to recall himself a very choosy eater. The knife had probably been pilfered off a serving tray and Sethaniel—observant as a scholar ought to be—had more than likely seen his child commit the act, and followed him directly. Sethaniel had an uncanny way at knowing just exactly when Korsten was going to do something mischievous, rebellious, or plainly stupid. Korsten didn’t like to consider how much of that may have carried into adolescence; it made him feel decidedly unjustified.
You did not imagine your war with Sethaniel, Korsten told himself firmly—if not stubbornly—and simultaneously closed the matter in his mind for now.
As he and Lerissa traversed the open corridor surrounding the courtyard, Korsten made gradual steps away from memory and the familiarity of home to begin to consider how he should present himself here. He planned to avoid confrontation, with either Sethaniel or Sharlotte. He was a mage of the Seminary, and in light of that fact, he was an emissary wheresoever he came to travel outside of its walls. Cenily was no different than Indhovan, and Sethaniel was no different than Irslan in his role—whether voluntary or not—as a host. Korsten determined to maintain civility and diplomacy.
“It really isn’t as awful as all that, my red-haired lovely,” Lerissa said, clearly having gained the magical ability to hear his worrying.
Sarcasm aside….
“I’m working at explaining that to myself,” Korsten said.
“Your father has been a wonderful host since we arrived here.”
“When was that?”
Lerissa looked over her shoulder at him as they rounded the bannister at the top of the stairs leading down to the courtyard. “The first time here was near twenty years ago. We’ve been in the area sporadically since and began this most recent stay not quite two years ago.”
Korsten was at a loss trying to digest that information, on top of the fact that two mages from the Seminary—well, three, counting himself—were in Cenily at all.
“I know you have many questions,” Lerissa said. “And there are answers waiting, but let’s join Sharlotte first. She and I have questions for you also. It’s been quite nearly forever, you know.”
“It hasn’t been anywhere near forever,” Korsten countered with a small smile, which she returned in full before heading down the stairs. He considered again that she did look older. Not much more than a decade to what she had appeared at the Seminary, but considering the fact that her appearance had been one of a girl still less than twenty, it was quite noticeable. He also noted the black moth, Hessath, fluttering in her wake and felt an unexpected sensation of relief that the soul-keeper was still with her, despite her distance and separation from the Seminary. He imagined, under the same or similar circumstance, that he would find Analee very much a comfort. He steeled himself in that thought and the butterfly’s presence—he felt her stir near his hair—then followed Lerissa down to the courtyard.
Fancifully wrought iron slats rang beneath their footsteps as they descended the spiral stair. The sounds were only slightly muted in comparison against the tiled stone at the bottom. A fountain trickled in the center of the yard, surrounded on all sides by topiary and other potted plants, some of which cast vines up the pillars in a pleasing array of richly colored leaves and blossoms. On a very small scale comparatively, it reminded Korsten of the garden at Vassenleigh. He was still quite a distance from there, but returning would not be difficult when the time became appropriate or necessary. By the gods’ blessing, he’d been relatively uninjured and what damage he had earned from his dealings with Serawe seemed to have mostly healed. Fortunately, her nails had not gone too deep and she’d never been granted the opportunity to use her teeth. Presumably, it was Lerissa’s skill at Healing that had recovered him; almost fully, barring some lingering tenderness at his side. He’d yet to ask how long he’d been unconscious, left to his dreams of demons and the past. He had yet to fully absorb and comprehend all that had happened since Serawe, since she and her fellow demons were rent spiritually asunder by the ocean itself … the vast and constant energy of the sea.
Thinking about its immense power, he was reminded of the crone’s summoning of the wave. He dearly hoped that Merran and the others had managed some way to counter it. He couldn’t even begin to imagine the toll such a force would have taken on Indhovan and its population. If he were to believe his dreams, the spirits of the water themselves had been behind the surge. In that event, this was truly a war of sensational proportions; a war not only between men or even between men and demons, but among the very powers of Nature itself. How had it come to this? When had it all begun? What final hand would the gods themselves play in this before it was over, if it could truly end? Merran would have some sobering comment for Korsten’s many questions, he was sure.
Thoughts of where he’d left his fellow mage resurfaced with the notion. Korsten could almost hear the crone’s self-assured laughter again.
Merran….
I sorely wish there was a way for us to communicate over distances. You would know that I’m well and hopefully, I would know the same of you.
There’d been a brief period during his chaotic and surreal state of dreaming when Korsten felt as if they’d brushed past each other, or rather that he’d brushed past Merran’s Eolyn on his spiritual flight. But that experience was neither solid enough nor sure enough for Korsten to be comforted by it.
So much had gone on in such a short period of time. Indhovan had transpired in a span tantamount to the turning of a page in a book. Korsten longed to turn it back and reread the lines, affirming to himself that all had indeed played out the way he felt it had. And of the many volumes that lay between his childhood past and his life as a mage, Korsten could not say that he had the same desire. Not with the same sense of urgency, at any rate.
But that was not what he faced at the moment. What lay immediately ahead of him was Sharlotte. He recalled with clarity her vow to kill him should they meet again outside of the Seminary. As he hadn’t been murdered in his sleep—the uncharitable side of him entertained the notion that Sethaniel would allow such a thing—he presumed that she had reneged on that promise. Or maybe it was Lerissa keeping her at bay.
He considered again the woman on the beach who stood over him as he was coming to consciousness, and how immediately he’d returned to a lack of it by way of a particular spell. Without question the caster had been Sharlotte. He could not recall her words, but only her voice, the tone of which had sounded as resentful as he remem
bered it.
All for love of you, Ashwin. I wonder if she would believe me if I confessed to her that you and I remain only friends and have refrained from laying a lover’s touch on one another. Somehow, I don’t believe that she would.
Knowing what he knew of himself and of Ashwin, he felt somewhat vexed at her stubborn insistence that he had ever conspired against her relationship with the Mage-Superior or that he had known of their spousal arrangement at the time and behaved recklessly or thoughtlessly with that knowledge in hand, making himself even a helpless instrument in their estrangement. They had done nothing; not then and not since her stubborn leaving, which was all to satisfy Sharlotte’s irrational jealously and suspicion. Perhaps the real problem the two of them faced was that they were too much alike. He recalled himself often jealous and insecure about Renmyr’s potential for wandering romantically and … much as it chagrined him to admit it these days … he also had not gotten past his love for a man who may not have been for him after all. What of that he understood in the past had inspired sympathy for Sharlotte as his accidental rival, but currently he found himself less sympathetic toward her. As he and Lerissa came to a small sitting room on the ground floor of his father’s house, and his gaze sought out and landed firmly on the woman with brown hair, tempestuous green eyes, and an instantaneous frown that was all too familiar, he found himself glaring in return.
Sharlotte seemed disarmed by the expression, enough to allow a sliver of puzzlement into her own, but she held her chin firm and her assessment as stubborn and out of date as she possibly could. Before Korsten could exonerate himself as a changed soul, he reminded himself of his own stubborn attitude where his father was concerned. But before that had him bending beneath the weight of Sharlotte’s contempt, he set the matter of his past with Sethaniel aside, focusing solely on his and Sharlotte’s unfortunate history. Particularly the very recent history.
“What you did on the beach was childish,” he let her know, and there was no tone or edge of haughtiness or indignation to his voice when he said it. He stated it bluntly and with disapproval.
Offense leapt to the woman’s features and she stiffened. She nearly stood, Korsten thought, but something anchored her to her seat, which was a familiar bench with an ornately embroidered cushion and carved legs. There were a few such benches arranged tactfully throughout the room. This room had been one of his sisters’ favorite rooms and he found himself thinking about them again, and of how different they each were from Sharlotte. For that matter, they were all very different from Lerissa. He wondered what had become of them.
Sharlotte’s eyes went to Lerissa.
Korsten realized in that moment that Lerissa had probably been prompting her not to start a confrontation. If that was how the peace would be kept, then so be it. He moved away from the doorway and toward the trio of archways adorned with delicate doors of glass and iron which provided the room with the airy atmosphere his sisters had so loved. Looking out at the garden they had also adored, he could see the roses beginning to bloom. The house was beautiful. He hadn’t fully realized that as a child.
“After leaving the Seminary we both realized that we still wanted to take part in the war,” Lerissa began, directing them immediately into a topic of greater worth than any grudges anyone may have been holding onto.
Korsten looked over his shoulder to let her know that he was listening.
From her place beside Sharlotte, the blonde mage continued. “Despite everything, it was in our plans to return one day, but we found ourselves quickly caught up in things.”
“What things?” Korsten asked quietly, looking from one woman to the next, wondering helplessly how the situation may or may not have grown between them as he recalled Lerissa’s hope for Sharlotte’s heart.
Lerissa hesitated to answer his question and Sharlotte stepped in. With calm that appeared somewhat forced, she said, “The Ascendant.”
Korsten frowned with instant curiosity. “What do you mean? What about them?”
“Finding them, of course,” Sharlotte fairly snapped.
Korsten held his tongue in a moment of deliberate pause, though he cast a pointed look in Sharlotte’s direction. Again she seemed both perplexed and irritated in expression.
Ignoring that, he asked, “What led you to believe you might find the individual here?” In Cenily, of all places.
“Your predecessor died in this region,” Sharlotte told him bluntly.
Korsten felt his jaw tense at the delivery, not in defeat beneath the woman’s aggression, but in sudden anger. His predecessor, as Sharlotte had so impersonally put it, had been Ashwin’s former love—predating both him and Sharlotte—and it occurred to Korsten suddenly that Sharlotte was not only jealous of him and what never happened, but of Adrea as well, and what had surely and mutually transpired between his predecessor and Ashwin. Sharlotte was possessive, he was beginning to think, and she was paranoid. He found it every bit as irritating as she had once found his weakness. He saw the difference between them now; that being that he was actively working at putting his faults behind him and she seemed to hold little interest in doing so where her own were concerned. She may have been somewhat justified in disagreeing with Ashwin’s ideas and practices regarding relationships, but she was wrong to expect or require him to forget a past love, particularly where separation was caused not by choice or mutual desire, but by death.
Before his thoughts could manifest vocally, Lerissa offered further explanation. “Adrea devoted some of her time serving Edrinor to tracing the Rottherlen bloodline, as you may know.”
Korsten took his eyes slowly from Sharlotte. “If such a topic came up between Ashwin and myself, I don’t recall it,” he admitted. In that moment, his mentor’s voice strummed across his senses and stirred memories of his early life at the Seminary to the surface of his mind. Perhaps it was Sharlotte’s presence and recalling what had made them enemies to begin with that enticed him to consider the circumstances in fuller detail just now. That included how dear Ashwin had become to him through his kindness, compassion, and wisdom. Sharlotte could think whatever she wished of Korsten, but it severely irritated him that she should criticize Ashwin in the process, with no lenience. Did she love him, or was it the idea of him that she had fallen for?
The idea of him was something, yes, and it was the very idea of his glory that had Korsten resisting his mentor. Knowing the man behind the radiance Ashwin’s ancient state gave off had earned Korsten’s respect, and a love that he had no desire to spoil with frivolous physical acts. He had long ago decided that if he should ever find himself at the threshold of truly embracing Ashwin’s love in its fullest, it was not going to be a surrender, but a commitment. He had a commitment to Renmyr to see through first. If there was a heart in this world left for him afterward….
He didn’t allow that thought to finish out and forced himself to conclude the matter currently facing him. Perhaps it simply was that Sharlotte and Ashwin were not for each other, that they could not mutually connect at every level. It was senseless to blame. Love was challenged enough in their world; it did not require such adversity as jealousy and contempt. He would hear no more on the topic from Sharlotte. He was decided.
“Adrea’s investigations led her to this area,” Lerissa was saying. The pause she implemented let Korsten know that she was aware his mind had been wandering.
He gave himself fully to the discussion with more direct eye contact and with words. “She would have been looking for distant relations, if all the immediate family had been murdered.”
The thought brought him to the realization that Adrea would have died after the Vassenleigh siege, then. She would have died very recently, considering the potential lifetime of mages. If Ashwin had lost her within the last century, then that would also mean his and Sharlotte’s relationship would have been relatively young by the time Korsten arrived at the Seminary. And maybe that was part
of the reason Sharlotte felt so insecure. Perhaps she felt as if Ashwin had never fully recovered from the loss, and before she could bring his heart fully around to her, a new interest had arrived. And not a random one, but none other than Adrea’s successor. What an unhappy coincidence. What a grievous error on the part of the gods. How cruel.
Lerissa’s voice drew him away from his darkening thoughts. “The blood would have been a mere trace, more than likely. However….”
There was a familiar expression of well-intentioned guilt lurking behind her still young-looking features. Without having known her very long, Korsten felt that he knew her too well. “However,” he prompted.
“Some speculated that a child may have been born outside of any traditional arrangement at some time before the murders, and that such an individual might have gone on to continue the line.”
“Did Adrea believe that?” Korsten suspected that she did, and when Lerissa nodded he felt that it was now explained—at least partly—why Ashwin held on to such faith that there was an Ascendant at all, one whose blood could make a difference.
Lerissa explained the guilt Korsten had detected with her next words. “I convinced Ashwin to discuss the subject with me to great lengths when he was feeling particularly lonely one evening.” A glance in Sharlotte’s direction preceded an evident urge to offer apology, along with a touch that Lerissa similarly withheld. “He even let me turn through her journal a bit.”