The Silvering of Loran

by G. B. WREN

  Gervest and Rolam looked at each other with eyebrows raised.

  “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” said Rolam.

  “I’m not uncomfortable,” insisted Loran, “It’s just . . . well, this is how rumors get started and I don’t want the guests to be whispering—”

  “Don’t concern yourself,” interrupted Gervest. “Your secret is secure with us.”

  “Yeah,” said Rolam.

  The twins patted Loran on her shoulders and continued down the hall. Loran turned and shouted out to her brothers.

  “It’s not a secret! . . . I mean, there is no secret!”

  Shaking her head is all that Loran could think to do when her brothers ignored her comments and re-engaged in their previous conversation without breaking stride. It was then she realized that the people in the hall had taken notice of her. With a forced smile, Loran made a rapid withdrawal.

  The main hall ran perpendicular into another, whereby crossing it brought you to the splendid grand ballroom entrance. Loran had her hands on the entrance door handles, but the sight of a figure to her left caused her heart to skip a beat in recognition as he paced away from her. Four years had passed since Loran had witnessed the unique style of his flowing cloak and hood—draped over his head. Loran was sure it could only be one man.

  “Topen!” she called out.

  The figure continued without pause and Loran’s pace intensified to a full run.

  “Topen, wait!”

  At the juncture of a corner, she caught up with him. He stopped and remained facing away from her.

  “Topen?” Loran spoke with less confidence.

  The figure turned to Loran and lowered his hood to reveal his identity—an older man with long white hair and whose face was clean-shaven. Loran was disappointed that he wasn’t Topen and her excitement drained from her body.

  “I’m sorry, I was sure you were someone else.”

  “Yes, I heard you calling the name, Topen. A most fortunate young man, I’m sure, to be worthy of such attention from the sovereign’s daughter.”

  “It’s just . . . I’ve only seen one other man wear a cloak like yours.”

  The older man looked down at his garment and captured the edge of the cloth along the opening of his cloak. He kneaded the material between his thumb and forefinger—while accessing a strong memory.

  “It is common in my land, such apparel. However, this particular cloak was a gift to my brother. When he had no further need of it, I took it as my own.”

  Despite the older man’s pleasant demeanor, Loran felt uneasy and gave more room between them.

  “Are you here as a guest for the celebration tomorrow night?” Loran asked, hoping his answer would mean his presence in the castle was fleeting.

  “No, I am a new advisor to the sovereign,” he said. “I am Penlaris.”

  Loran detected pride when Penlaris divulged his name, as if it carried great meaning. The urge to leave nagged at Loran and she had no desire to resist its pull.

  “I should return to the ballroom,” said Loran. “I’m sure we will see much of each other,” she added, while she withdrew without delay down the hallway.”

  Penlaris watched Loran depart, and when he was sure of sufficient distance between them, he swept his hand across his face with a flourish, causing his face to morph and reveal his true form—the invisible man who controlled Gilvius on Topen’s last day in the castle.

  “Of that I have no doubt . . . Loran,” he sneered.

  Penlaris rounded the corner and two rapid snapping sounds immediately followed.

  Loran entered the ballroom and Kelamar met her as he navigated his way out. A big smile grew on both their faces when Loran hugged him.

  “My burly protector,” Loran proclaimed affectionately.

  Kelamar delivered his familiar good-humored laugh and then held Loran by her arms in front of him. “My vow is that you are always safe in my presence,” he assured Loran before he released her.

  Loran beamed at his words, for she knew them to be unquestionably true. However, another matter nagged at her.

  “Kelamar, what do you know about my father’s new advisor?”

  “Why do you think the sovereign has taken on another counselor?”

  “I just met him, down the hall,” said Loran. “He seems nice, but there’s something I can’t place about him.”

  “I have not been informed of this advisor.”

  “And you would be, right?”

  “Without delay,” remarked Kelamar, with a troubled expression. “Anyway, your thoughts should be on this wonderful time in your life. You know, I’ve heard Michael Kileson will be here.”

  Exasperated by his comment, Loran rolled her eyes and walked away. Kelamar continued to speak to her, but Loran’s ears had stopped listening.

  “I thought you would be pleased of the news. Didn’t you visit with him last month?” he shouted. Loran just continued to put distance between them.

  * * *

  The sovereign’s library was a room that possessed great warmth in its design. Tall rows of books, encased in wooden shelves, filled the sides of the room. A stairway led up to a second level, and a walkway streamed all the way around the room, past the sea of books, to end at a second stairway that flowed back down to the main level. A large stained-glass window, fixed high atop the furthest wall, filtered the sunlight into the room, as did the stained-glass in the wall slits near the ceiling. The oil lamps on the supporting stone columns provided additional light when needed.

  Gilvius sat at the end of a long wooden table in the center of the room. Before him, was a thick oversized book that rested upon a reading pedestal. The title was indistinguishable, as was the text—a mixture of letters and symbols. Yet, Gilvius sat before the book with a concentrated stare.

  The doors to the library creaked open and a lone figure entered the room. Gilvius looked up from the book and squinted towards the entry.

  “Topen?”

  “It is good to be with you again, Gilvius,” said Topen.

  “Have four years passed so quickly?” Gilvius spoke with a residue of confusion. “Did you just arrive?”

  “Yes, I was told you were in your library.”

  “Topen . . . Yes, your presence has been missed.”

  Topen walked the length of the long table and seated himself at the edge near Gilvius. He glanced at the book displayed on the pedestal.

  “Is there some manner that you can now read that book?” Topen asked. Not waiting for a reply, he continued. “Considering your edict when we last met, I am surprised it is sitting in plain view. Does this mean you have reconsidered?”

  Gilvius stared back at the book and ran his fingers over the indecipherable open pages.

  “No, I must not waver from my decision to disallow magic.” Gilvius spoke as if he were reciting a memorized passage in a book and not from genuine consideration of his words.

  Topen leaned over and touched the leather spine of the book. The symbols and letters briefly glowed and reformed into a readable text on its cover: Chronicle of The Stones. Topen maintained contact with the book and swiveled it into his view. The chapter at the top of the page read: Origin of the Blackened Stones.

  Topen peered at Gilvius, who passively observed him, and then swung the pages back into Gilvius’s view. Gilvius beheld the pages that he could now read and scowled at their content.

  “It is apparent there is something troubling you,” said Topen. “Does this book have any meaning in your unrest?”

  Gilvius remained disturbed by the words on the pages until Topen released the book and it returned to its protected appearance. The sound of footsteps into the room broke the tension.

  “This must be the day for surprises,” bellowed Kelamar, standing at the other end of the table. His eyes focused on Topen. “I was not informed of your arrival . . .” Kelamar’s gaze turned to Gilvius, “. . . nor apparently, the arrival of a new advisor.”

  Gilvius, unexpec
tedly rejuvenated, closed the book in front of him and rose to address Kelamar.

  “An oversight on both occasions, Kelamar,” said Gilvius. “For now, I will attribute the lack of notices to the current activities that are consuming the castle resources. But I will leave you to investigate if there are greater concerns that need to be remedied.”

  “I do not mean to interrupt, should the need arise, I will speak with you later,” said Kelamar.

  “Nonsense, come join us,” directed Gilvius. “I will arrange for some drink.”

  Kelamar joined the two men and the atmosphere in the room soon shifted to cheerfulness. For the remaining time the men spent in the room, it was of three men laughing and reminiscing about how their lives crossed—falling into familiarity that made the passing years insignificant.

  Still, the book remained on the pedestal, and it did not avoid Topen’s frequent glances.

  * * *

  A messenger boy arrived at a small nook off the main hall, the one shielding the secret passage, which had seen its activity diminish over the past year. Leanna, seated on a bench, used the sizeable book she carried into the room as a support for the parchment her plume had marked.

  “You sent for me, my lady?”

  “Yes, I’ve heard that Topen is in the castle,” said Leanna, as she refreshed her quill from the small bottle of ink next to her and resumed writing on the parchment. “Do you know this to be true?”

  “Yes, my lady, I saw a man dressed in a cloak pass into the library some time ago. I was told he is Topen.”

  Leanna rolled up the parchment and secured it with a piece of string. She extended the roll to him. “Please see that he receives this.”

  “Right away, my lady.” He grasped the document and withdrew.

  * * *

  The last of the lamps were lit on the exterior of the castle as the night fell. High above the ground, Loran looked over the small balcony in her bedroom and watched the gleaming lights from the stars penetrate the black sky. One level higher, Leanna enjoyed the same view, but a knock on her door interrupted the serenity.

  “Enter,” said Leanna.

  The door creaked opened and Topen walked into the spacious and opulent room. He held a rolled up piece of parchment in his hand. Leanna strolled from her balcony to greet him.

  “Topen . . . I am thankful that you can be here tonight. I regret that your last visit to the castle was so brief.”

  “My apology that I could not stay, Leanna. On that day, a quick departure was the most prudent action.”

  “I’m sure you can understand my amazement when Gilvius made his declaration to me that Gervest and Rolam would not be allowed the training to carry out their legacy.” Leanna motioned towards a marble bench and Topen joined her there to sit. “When Gilvius first told me, I was more bewildered than outraged. He didn’t seem himself, and I thought with time he would acquiesce to a more reasonable judgment.”

  “It is unfortunate that has not occurred.”

  “The interim years have been peaceful, but I do not approve of my continued silence—withholding the true nature of my children’s legacy from them. Outside of you and Gilvius, the whole knowledge of the Avileen heritage in this land remains known only to Kelamar and me. And my brother, though surprised by the edict to ban magic, is intensely loyal to Gilvius. He would never challenge this proclamation of the sovereign.”

  “You know of the importance that training begins by age sixteen. With the passing years, their likelihood of failure to achieve the silvering will increase,” said Topen

  “Is there an age when the silvering becomes impossible to accomplish?”

  “The oldest I have known it to occur is the age of thirty five, but it was not without prolonged effort. By the time most reach twenty-six, they lack the determination and concentration needed for success.

  Leanna stood up and cupped her hands near her heart. When she paced a few steps away, she raised them to her chin, and finally positioned them at her sides when she faced Topen again.

  “There is another, more delicate issue that is giving me concern,” said Leanna. “Have you seen Loran since your return?”

  “I viewed her from a distance in the main hall. If not for the color of her hair, she could be taken for you near the time of your marriage.”

  “How you view Loran has always been with a mature eye. But up to this day, Loran has had a child’s remembrance of you. After today, she will hold a woman’s memory.”

  “I’m not certain of your meaning.”

  “This past year, Loran has rejected the aspirations of all her suitors. She has done so, not because they lacked qualification, but because she has been enamored with a man who has risen to great prominence in her mind.”

  “Who is this man?”

  “Do you really not know?” Leanna said, imparting her meaning through her eyes.

  “Are you saying Loran is infatuated with me?”

  “It extends beyond your gifted charms,” Leanna said with cautious sincerity. “She acts as if there is something grander she shares with you. She has sought knowledge of you, at least monthly, since your last visit.”

  Topen realized that Leanna’s concerns were not unfounded. Though his intentions in helping Loran were principled, he did not consider the aftermath of asking her to keep the stone a secret.

  “Leanna, I pledge to you that I will take all caution to safeguard Loran’s emotions.”

  “There is no need, Topen,” Leanna assured. “You have earned the trust of my family many times over. I have no doubts that honor guides your actions.”

  “Then, is there something you are asking of me?”

  Leanna returned to the bench to sit with Topen. She took his hand into hers and spoke to him in earnest.

  “There is so much about you Loran does not know. She does not know why your youthful appearance will remain long after she surpasses your age. She does not know about the vastness of your realm, nor the wonders that exist there. And she does not know that to love you would require her to make a very difficult choice, especially if you felt the same for her.”

  “Leanna . . . Loran is sixteen; she will mature and find the man who will capture her heart. With such beauty and spirit her mother has given her, how could this not happen?”

  A glistened tear flowed down Leanna’s cheek until it fell into the crease of her smile.

  * * *

  The day of the cotillion saw the final touches applied to the ballroom. In the tall vases centered on the tables were colorful bouquets of fresh flowers from the conservatory. The musicians’ instruments stood on their stands at the front of the room. And on each plate, a card was placed with the name of the guest who would be seated before it. The table of honor, the largest table in the room, was reserved for the invited sons and daughters from the most prominent families in the provinces. It was here that the name of Michael Kileson appeared adjacent to the plate whose card displayed Loran Avileen.

  With an hour before the start of the ball, Loran was in her chamber and having difficulty fitting comfortably into her dress. Claire struggled to fasten the dress from behind, while Loran grimaced at each tug.

  “It’s not going to fit,” said Claire, as she once again pulled strenuously at the halves of her dress in a vain attempt to clasp them together.

  “Oh, Claire!” Loran cried out, as she pressed her hands across her chest. “You’re going to break something.”

  In the heat of their battle with Loran’s dress, Leanna arrived and stiffened before the spectacle in front of her.

  “Do not tell me you have waited until this moment to fit into your dress.”

  An exasperated Loran was fighting too desperately to breathe for a reply, but the stare she returned to her mother made it clear she did not appreciate her comment.

  “Let me try,” said Leanna to Claire.

  Claire was grateful to release the dress and stood by with crossed arms.

  “It’s not going to fit,” Claire once
again proclaimed.

  “Thank you, Claire!” said Leanna and Loran simultaneously. Leanna gave one last tug before giving up.

  Leanna walked around Loran to see if she could detect the problem. After she noticed how taut the material was covering Loran’s breasts, she knew the solution was going to be displeasing.

  “I am amazed you have . . . filled out . . . so much in three months,” said Leanna.

  “My other dresses still fit comfortably,” Loran insisted.

  “They lack the exacting requirements this dress demands, said Leanna. “Claire, go to my chamber and retrieve the narrow gray cloth you will find amongst my dresses.”

  “Do you mean to bind her?” asked Claire.

  “Wait!” said Loran. “There is another way . . . The cotillion itself honors tradition, those who have come before us.” Loran held her mother’s hands. “I don’t believe merely updating the attire I wear would offend our descendants. Honestly, do you?”

  Leanna could tell from Loran’s pleading eyes that this was more than just an attempt to avoid the formal dress; this was a moment of growth.

  “I am pleased to hear you articulate such wisdom, my daughter. And it is fortunate we purchased several elegant dresses in the Kileson province, any of which will provide a suitable substitute.”

  Loran hugged her mother and whispered “thank you” into her ear.

  * * *

  By the time Loran entered the ballroom, the musicians had been playing for ten minutes, and young faces mingled between the tables on both sides of the room. Loran proceeded down the center of the room in a graceful, full length, sapphire blue dress made of silk. The guests gave way to her as she neared and Loran would acknowledge them with a comment; usually, “Thank you for coming,” or to those she knew well, “It’s so good to see you!”

  Long before Loran reached her table, she spotted Michael Kileson seated there. The table disguised his height of five-feet-eleven-inches, but his short curly blond hair, which took on the warm color reflected from the portrait on the wall behind him, remained in plain view. He had the appearance of a young man of twenty, though he had just turned eighteen a few months ago. A few minutes of conversation would usually reveal his lesser developed maturity.