by G. B. WREN
The apprehension that rose from her stomach told Loran to be cautious here. One does not trifle with her mother in a game of wits—even more so if she held any suspicion.
“It could be it was something he picked off the mountain; maybe Holt felt it helped to bring realism to the painting.”
Loran’s parsed words, that she uttered with such care, might not have been questioned when she was twelve, but she was no longer afforded that luxury. Although Leanna had suspicions, she chose not to pursue them at this time. She afforded herself just one subtle comment to alert Loran that deceit was not a path she should tread between them.
“Yes, it could have happened that way,” she said, glaring into Loran’s eyes.
The stare disturbed Loran, as was its intention. However, she reminded herself that her mother also kept a secret from her, and she knew that one day, secrets would clash on an open field.
Betaury swept back into the room carrying a silver platter with four pairs of his newest creations. Whatever had transpired merely moments ago washed away when he sat the plate in front of them.
“Please, enjoy!” Betaury said. His face gleamed with pride of his handiworks.
The women needed no further enticement; they picked up the confections and consumed them without restraint.
* * *
As the years elapsed, Gilvius had become an infrequent visitor to the library, but one of his sons replaced his indifference with an equally passionate interest, so it would have drawn little notice from anyone when Gervest walked to the library doors and pushed them open. Penlaris was perched high on the second level and held a thick book in his hand. He placed the book between others on the shelf in front of him and proceeded to the stairway. Gervest watched without emotion while Penlaris descended the curved staircase.
“I’m curious,” said Penlaris. “Had you decided on your reading material before you entered this room?”
“I was under the impression that was your prerogative,” Gervest replied.
Penlaris came to a stop at the far end of the table.
“Perhaps, but the question remains,” said Penlaris. “What did you hope to learn today?”
Gervest slowly paced the room and brought his hand to the back of his neck. He rubbed lightly as he considered his answer. Penlaris had taught him much over the years, and one of the skills he was to master was deception. The question was a test—would he be able direct Penlaris to choose the subject matter Gervest most desired?
“I trust in your sound judgment in this matter,” said Gervest. “I’m sure I will learn more by respecting your guidance than if I just blundered through the material unfocused.”
“Disingenuous flattery is but a single tool,” began Penlaris. “It fails when used improperly or when attempted with the wrong subject. You knew I was aware of your desire to learn more about the blackened stones; however, you failed to assess that vanity is not among my vulnerabilities. You must first look deep inside yourself and relish in your own weaknesses and desires before you can manipulate others.”
Gervest cringed at the words Penlaris spoke and turned away, feigning interest in the rows of books. His reaction caused Penlaris to reach under his cloak and withdraw a black stone, marked with green and red veining. He placed his thumb into the indentation of the stone, and as with all the blackened stones, a small raised point in the center drew blood—causing the veining of the stone to glow, ever so faintly.
“Do you feel the power flowing through you when you use your most base desires?”
“Yes,” snarled Gervest.
With his eyes closed, he took a deep breath and birthed a satisfied look of confidence on his face on reopening them—having not noticed how close Penlaris now stood. Penlaris hid the stone once again under his cloak and approached Gervest from his side; he placed a hand on his shoulder.
“You will make an excellent sovereign someday.”
“Someday soon,” said Gervest. He spoke with great sureness, still intoxicated with the feeling of power that Penlaris had implanted into him.
Penlaris crossed behind Gervest and swept his hand across his back. On reaching his other side, he leaned in closer.
“Patience . . . you have much to learn yet, and the people are not near ready to accept a new sovereign,” said Penlaris. “When your time arrives, our rule will be unquestioned, and unchallenged.”
Chapter Six
SECRETS REVEALED
Four months—‘till present day
THE SERENITY OF AVILEEN FOREST was shattered when three horses, riding close together, hurtled along a wide path that ran beside a slow moving river. The animals’ hooves ripped into the well-worn trail, and the riders’ cloaks flapped behind them. The lead was maintained by two skillful horsemen, who snatched rapid glances behind them—while they worked together to deny the third rider, Loran, any opportunity to pass them. Rolam and Gervest laughed with each unsuccessful attempt by Loran to squeeze by.
Loran slowed, broke off from their heading, and turned toward the river; her mare maintained a full charge and splashed into the cool dark water. Droplets of spray flew in all directions while Loran coursed over a little know rock shelf ledge, hidden just under the murky surface. The twins pulled on their horses’ reigns and slid to a full stop.
“What is she doing?” asked Rolam.
Gervest and Rolam briefly studied Loran’s movement and then Gervest dug his heels into his mount.
“She’s beating us, is what she’s doing,” yelled Gervest. “Let’s move!”
The twins coaxed their horses back up to speed.
“Did you know you could cross there?” yelled Rolam, as he maintained Gervests’s pace.
“No! How is Loran aware of it?” shouted Gervest.
Loran cleared the other side of the riverbank and paused for a sign of her brothers’ progress. It came shortly when she heard their horses crossing the wooden bridge further upstream.
“Not far now, Hermesis,” said Loran. She patted her white steed on the neck. “Let’s make our victory decisive.” A gentle nudge of Loran’s heels is all the encouragement Hermesis needed to resume the race.
Gervest and Rolam arrived at the agreed upon destination that concluded their contest and wager with Loran. Their sister greeted them, seated on the steps of the old wooden shed she knew so well from her youth. Its contents had not changed much in the intervening years—it still contained discarded pottery—but this spring, it also provided shelter to a family of raccoons, who kept their distance, but peered out through cracked boards along the front.
“How you split my responsibilities for the next two weeks is between yourselves,” said Loran as her brothers approached.
Gervest dismounted in a huff and stormed to Loran.
“You cheated.”
“She didn’t cheat, Gervest,” said Rolam from atop his horse.
Gervest shot back a stern look to his brother.
“You’re taking her view?”
Before Rolam could respond, Loran rose to speak.
“Did you think I would claim deceit had I lost to the strategy you employed against me?”
“Listen to her, Gervest,” Rolam advised. “Our sister has revealed a great skill to us today, a superior understanding of strategy. Congratulations, Loran, you have won your respite from your duties.”
With the passing years, Gervest had grown an intense temperament, and the smallest of defeats would often leave him sulking—as did this one. He was prepared to let Rolam know of his displeasure in honoring the bargain with Loran.
“Then you meet with the visiting women and chambermaids and discuss . . .” Gervest waved his hands in frustration. “I don’t know what they discuss and I don’t ever care to.”
A lone rider rode into their gathering. Michael Kileson had originally been part of their riding foursome when they cast the wager. However, not being as skilled as the Avileens on horseback, he trailed long behind them.
“So, shall we arrange for your
companionship while I return to my province?” Michael asked Loran, the confidence of her reply assured in his mind.
Gervest brusquely mounted his horse and directed him past Michael with vigor.
“Gervest?” yelled Michael. The confusion in Michael’s eyes was temporary and faded with Loran’s next four words.
“No, we shall not.”
* * *
A young chambermaid, newly stationed in the castle, worked her way around the bedchamber of Gervest with a duster made from the feathers of a bird—who had long since provided sustenance to the castle occupants. Alongside a recent portrait of Gervest dressed in armor, were paintings of warriors and battlefields that hung prominently. When she came across a particularly gruesome battlefield depiction, she scrunched her face in revulsion of the carnage. The chambermaid had neither knowledge nor care of the artist, but a discriminate eye could tell these were not the work of Holt.
She maneuvered to the table alongside the massive canopied bed. A bottle of grayish, luminous liquid on the floor, almost hidden by the bedframe, caught her eye. She bent down to retrieve it, and when she raised it to her eyes, it glistened in the sunlight that passed into the room. The bottle tilted by her hand and she was fascinated with the sluggish movement of the contents. A furtive glance around the room was her first impulse, before she slipped the bottle into her pocket.
* * *
As the Avileen children reached greater ages, the dining hall had become less of a gathering place for family to share meals and conversation; it had transitioned to a utilitarian purpose that was void of the laughter of family, in favor of the formality of guests. But on this day, Gilvius would not sit at the head of the table without the company of the present generation of Avileens in attendance. He had called for his family to join him on this night—for an evening that would ultimately surprise and disappoint those present.
Loran was the last to arrive. She viewed the variety of food dishes spread on the table, but it was with great unease she took her seat next to her mother. It was rare in these times that her father would insist on all being present, and with his appearance of a man fifteen years beyond his natural age, she feared the worst.
“I am pleased to see all of us once again gathered in a place that holds great fondness in my memory,” said Gilvius.
Leanna reached to touch her husband’s hand; her face did not disguise the ache in her heart for his grim appearance. He responded with a weak, but warm smile.
“Do not fret, my love. I am not yet willing to relinquish myself to eternity. But it is time to consider the ascension of one of our sons as sovereign.”
The realization that her father would soon no longer guide the Avileen Empire left Loran numb, unable to oppose the inevitable. However, Gervest’s eyes lit up with eagerness and he found it difficult to contain his excitement.
“Rolam, my son, you have demonstrated your willingness to learn from my advisors, and in doing so, have gained their trust and respect,” praised Gilvius. “You have firmly grasped the intricacies of governance.”
Gervest didn’t like the direction of his father’s words and slipped his thumb inside his vest pocket—Gilvius responded as if a sudden burst of adrenalin coursed through his veins.
“The regions outside the eight provinces will require a firm hand to unite them into the empire, and I fear war may arrive ahead of peace, said Gilvius, redirected in his thoughts. “The protection of the eight provinces will need a strong sovereign, with the will to demand submission from our enemies.”
In their glances to each other, Loran and Leanna exchanged shock of the words Gilvius spoke. Rolam remained attentive to his father’s eyes.
“You will make an excellent counselor to your brother,” said Gilvius to Rolam. “Guide him well in all matters originating from the council of advisors.”
If Rolam was in any way disappointed, he did not reveal it to the gathering.
“As you wish, father, I shall respect your judgment and offer what advice I can to the sovereign.”
“Gervest, the next council meeting is in six months,” said Gilvius. “At that time I will announce your ascension. Until that day, you would do well to acclimate yourself to the knowledge your brother possesses.”
“I will not disappoint your vision of the sovereign, father,” Gervest proclaimed, as he removed his thumb from his pocket and wiped a small trace of blood on his pants.
Gilvius nodded without expression while Gervest beamed. The rest of the family sat in stunned silence.
* * *
Leanna propelled herself through the main hall and lifted her dress just enough so as not to impede her hurried pace. Loran followed her and struggled to sustain her momentum—since her shoes persistently slipped on the marble floor.
“Wait, where are you going?” Loran asked.
Leanna did not answer, the determined look on her face drove her further towards the curved stairs that lead up to the family chambers.
“What is happening?” Loran yelled out in desperation, now trailing just a few steps behind her mother.
When Leanna reached the inner sanctum of her chamber, she finally turned to Loran—who had arrived mere moments behind her. Loran stood confused and waited for her mother’s explanation.
“There is something that has occurred here that is very wrong,” Leanna declared, greatly concern.
“Why was Gervest chosen over Rolam?” asked Loran. “There is no reason to—”
“That was just the final confirmation of a lengthy suspicion I have held over many years,” interrupted Leanna.
“What suspicion?”
“That there is something here we have not seen since the great castle war.” Leanna spoke with a determined will, shadowed with alarm. “I fear for us all if what I suspect is true.”
Loran considered her mother’s words with care as she observed her slow rhythmic pacing in the room. Loran stepped to Leanna and gripped her hands.
“I do not scare easily, another trait I received from you, for which I am immensely grateful, but I now see in your eyes reason I should embrace fear,” said Loran.
Leanna smiled and brought her fingers to her daughter’s face.
“Do not discount the qualities your father passed on. Gilvius’s bravery is renowned in our history. It was through that trait that I fell in love with him.”
Loran had heard her mother speak affectionately of her father before. Throughout the provinces, Leanna’s love and loyalty was reflected in her every deed and was admired with great regard, but she had never heard her speak of Gilvius’s bravery. It was only when she felt a tear flowing across her cheek did she realize how much she treasured her mother’s revelation—especially in the face of her father’s increased frailty.
“Tell me what you suspect,” urged Loran.
“This isn’t the time,” Leanna declared and peered around Loran at the open entry to her chamber. “Meet me in the library tonight after all the others have retired . . . I hope I have not waited too—” Leanna stopped herself. “Just meet me tonight,” she confirmed, as she squeezed Loran’s hands once more.
* * *
Loran paced in her chamber, anxious for the night to capture everyone so she could join her mother. She walked to the balcony and assessed the activity below; it was still, with no guard in her view. When she could delay herself no longer, she made a direct path to her door and snatched her wrap from her bed on the way.
Loran had just descended the chamber staircase when she met Gervest in the main hall.
“You’re skulking about late this evening,” snarled Gervest.
“I’m a little hungry,” said Loran. “The dinner meal didn’t sit comfortably, so I thought some bread and jam might settle me.” While her statements were true on their own merit, Loran had become more cognizant of how easily she relied on deception.
“I did notice an abundance of food was left untouched. Perhaps the excitement of our father’s announcement quelled your appetite.”
>
“Perhaps,” Loran replied, unflustered as she turned to leave.
“Loran!” Gervest called out, delaying her exit.
Loran halted and breathed a quick sigh before she rotated to face Gervest.
“I sense you do not approve,” said Gervest.
“I didn’t realize my approval carried such potency.”
Gervest could not remember a time when verbally sparring with his sister left him unscathed, but then again, he wasn’t going to be the sovereign in six months in those previous skirmishes.
“I trust you realize my approval as sovereign, does.”
“And, your meaning?”
“For one, I think you have avoided marrying for far too long, don’t you agree?”
“Shall I assume this will be an immediate agenda when you ascend?”
“It will.”
“And you have someone in mind . . . from the Kileson province?”
“A joining with Michael, and the children from your pairing, will bond two of the most advanced provinces by blood. I can think of no better fulfillment of your destiny.”
Loran edged close to Gervest’s face.
“My . . . destiny . . . is mine to guide,” declared Loran, before she turned her back and made a rapid exit.
With a satisfied grin, Gervest began climbing the stairs.
“Only for the next six months, Loran!” Gervest yelled to his sister—who had already distanced herself far down the hall.
Loran was fuming when she reached the library entrance. She had let her purpose for being there escape her mind when she threw the closed doors open. The room was dark, but for the light from the full moon that spilled through every window. The coldness of the library in its current view seemed appropriate to Loran; the bleak setting captured the isolation she felt in her heart.
Loran had just finished igniting a fourth oil lamp when she sighted Leanna, slipping silently through the still open entry doors. Leanna pressed the doors shut with gentleness, designed to avoid drawing attention to the room. After viewing her movements, Loran was embarrassed for her earlier carelessness.