The Silvering of Loran

by G. B. WREN

Loran’s mouth gaped open in shock. Luciena seemed not to notice Loran’s surprise and answered her own query.

  “No, I think I’d prefer some color,” proclaimed Luciena, as she snarled her face, dropped the flower to the ground, and crushed it when she took a step forward.

  Luciena narrowly avoided an unrestrained flow of Loran’s abhorrence when Leanna, swift in her pace, cleared the entry doors to the conservatory. Loran eyed her mother drawing near with the skillful smile she fashioned for occasions such as this.

  “Luciena, are you enjoying the tour on this fine morning?” Leanna asked.

  “It’s very nice. I do wish there was more color,” Luciena replied, with an air of pomposity that lingered with her every word.

  Leanna took a quick assessment of the conservatory, and her senses feasted on a virtual rainbow of color in every direction.

  “Yes, I see we could do better. Possibly on your next visit we will have a more diverse selection,” Leanna articulated with polished discretion, then shifted her words to complete the purpose of her arrival. “I do hate to remove Loran from your lovely company, but her presence is unexpectedly required elsewhere.”

  Leanna did not pause for a reply and hurried her irritated daughter towards the nearest exit.

  “Was that a ghost orchid I detected trampled on the floor?” asked Leanna.

  “She just callously wrenched it from the pot, without any regard to its quality or value,” said Loran, still amazed over Luciena’s indifference.

  “Maybe her husband will help her to appreciate its value when he receives our demand for restitution,” said Leanna. “In the meantime . . . .” Leanna cupped the bottle in her pocket and withdrew it sufficiently enough for Loran to recognize its contents.

  “Isn’t that the silvering solution?” whispered Loran, attempting to cover her excitement.

  “It is,” Leanna affirmed, and then stuffed the bottle away.

  “Do you have the stones as well?”

  The women cleared the conservatory and halted near its entrance.

  “No, but with your stone, we may still have the means to alert Topen.”

  “How? It only makes you invisible.”

  “The stone belongs to Topen; it has bonded to him.”

  “How does that help us?”

  “Come, we mustn’t discuss this here,” insisted Leanna. The women shifted into the hall and rushed through it. “I’ll arrive at your chamber late tonight,” said Leanna, “but this much I will say; fortune has looked favorably on us this day and has renewed what we need most—hope.”

  * * *

  The council chamber was somber with the voices of Gervest, Michael—and his father, Samuel, all engaged in muted conversation. Gilvius sat in his customary chair in silence—staring without expression toward a painting that depicted a map of the eight provinces of the Avileen Empire. When Kelamar entered the room, he strode to Gilvius—with only a nod to the group huddled nearby. Samuel and Michael responded in kind. Once facing the sovereign, Kelamar followed Gilvius’s empty stare to the painting.

  “Sovereign?” Kelamar spoke, unsure if his voice had gotten through to Gilvius—until a sluggish smile of recognition formed on his face.

  “I received notice you had summoned me,” Kelamar continued.

  “I summoned you?”

  “Are you well, Gilvius?” asked Kelamar. Distracted by his concern for the sovereign, Kelamar was unaware that Gervest had approached him from behind.

  Gervest touched Kelamar’s shoulder, and at the moment of his contact, Kelamar pivoted and swiftly grabbed Gervest wrist and yanked it upward and away from him. The movement shocked Gervest, not only the speed of Kelamar’s reaction, but of his strength—demonstrated by the crushing pain he felt from Kelamar’s grip.

  Kelamar released Gervest from his hold and eased his alertness.

  “I would think you would know better than to advance from an unseen position, unless you’re intent is to do harm,” declared Kelamar, unapologetic for his movements.

  “I was only going to get your attention,” said Gervest, while he massaged his tender wrist. His eyes exposed his unhappiness at being humiliated—and in front of witnesses.

  “Then you have it.”

  “It was my father and I who summoned you,” Gervest proclaimed, “And you should be more restrained in the presence of your future sovereign.”

  “Perhaps we should allow this tense moment to pass,” interjected Samuel, showing composure as he ambled closer. “The sovereign and Gervest asked you to meet with us to discuss your future.”

  “My future? In what fashion do you feel you have any influence on my future?”

  “My father is a respected advisor to Gervest,” said Michael. “You should not dismiss his words so casually.”

  “I simply mean that, considering your . . . advanced age, it is time a younger man be considered for Captain of the Guard,” said Samuel.

  “A younger man with intense loyalty to Gervest, but not necessarily to Gilvius.” stated Kelamar.

  “Why you insolent . . . soon, my father will no longer shelter your arrogance,” seethed Gervest, undaunted at being overheard in his father’s presence.

  “I’ve been guilty of many things in my life, and I’m sure arrogance has been among them, but not on this day,” Kelamar replied.

  “Enough!” Gilvius spat out. He suddenly rose and fought to achieve clarity. “What is the meaning of this gathering?”

  Alarmed, Gervest trembled with anxiety as he plunged his hand into his pocket. His heart sank when he realized it was empty; he had left the blackened stone he sought in his chamber.

  “Father, you are ill, we can continue this at another time,” said Gervest, trying to divert his father’s query.

  “Samuel? When did you arrive?” asked Gilvius.

  “Just today, Sovereign . . . at the request of your son. He has sought out my counsel on matters important to insure a smooth ascension.”

  “And how is it you believe Gervest has been chosen to become the next sovereign, when any such announcement would occur at the yearly meeting of advisors?”

  Samuel feigned a surprised look at Gilvius’s query.

  “Sovereign, since my son and yours are best of friends, it could not be expected that I would be unaware of such important news.”

  Gilvius scanned the room and sat back down into his chair. He brought a hand to his forehead and yielded to the discomfort he felt.

  “Are you all right, Father? Do you need to rest?” probed Gervest, disingenuous with his concern.

  Gilvius just waved his hand dismissively. Kelamar leaned in so that Gilvius alone would hear his voice.

  “Gilvius, do you need my help to return to your chamber?”

  Gilvius grimaced with pain before he shook his head and accepted Kelamar’s assistance. Gervest watched as Kelamar lifted his father to his feet and braced his arm around him.

  “I’ll call for the guards to help you,” said Gervest.

  “No!” Kelamar barked. “I’ll tend to the sovereign myself.”

  “Yes, only Kelamar,” voiced Gilvius.

  “As you wish, Father,” conceded Gervest.

  Besides Kelamar, only Michael showed authentic concern for Gilvius—his face echoed empathy for the sovereign’s anguish. He moved toward Gervest and whispered near his ear.

  “I didn’t know the sovereign was so ill. Is there nothing to be done for him?”

  “Do not concern yourself. My father will live to preside over the day of my ascension,” whispered Gervest. With a smug expression on his face, Gervest watched as Kelamar helped Gilvius from the room.

  Michael grimaced, shocked at Gervest’s cold-hearted words. Michael was genuinely concerned for Gilvius, but he dared not mention his revulsion. For all his moral outrage, he was never closer to getting that which he most desired in life, Loran.

  * * *

  Loran had just finished placing the painting of Topen on her wall, only moments before her mothe
r discreetly slipped into her chamber. From across the room, Leanna glimpsed at the canvas she had not beheld in many years. She stood silently for a few moments, as she considered what to say to Loran.

  “Many years have passed since we spoke of Topen’s wishes. I thought that painting had been destroyed,” said Leanna.

  Loran wasn’t surprised by her mother’s presence or her words—her arrival was expected, and Loran was prepared to explain why the canvas remained in the castle.

  “I’m honoring Topen’s desire to not be in our recorded history—though a satisfactory explanation of why he wants this has never fallen on my ears,” replied Loran, as she admired the painting on the wall. “No one, but me sees this magnificent work of Holt. I brought it from its concealed location months ago. I felt this painting would help to calm and focus my mind, so I could achieve the silvering. Every night I place it here, next to the painting of the Manor. I can almost hear the wind blowing over the mountain peaks as my imagination lulls me to sleep. The most amazing thing happens; just seconds before my consciousness gives way to slumber, I see movement by Topen and Daramose. They come alive and travel in my dreams.”

  Loran turned and presented a resolute expression to her mother. She expected her disapproval, but knew her mother always retained her prerogative to be unpredictable.

  “After my silvering ritual every morning, it returns to remain hidden from all eyes,” Loran assured.

  “My daughter, you have always held a gifted mind. I will not be the one to dissuade you from your elegant solution,” said Leanna. “But I would offer just one admonition, that the painting be destroyed should it no longer remain within your control in the castle—be it tragedy or joyfulness that takes you from it.”

  “If . . . when Topen returns, should the existence of this painting be revealed to him?” Loran asked.

  “I believe Topen trusts us to honor his request and would never expect us to deceive him—on this point, he is quite correct.”

  Leanna took the bottle of silvering from her pocket and placed it gently on the marbled table nearby. Loran followed, her eyes wide in delight, as her hand removed the magical stone from her own pocket. She placed it next to the shimmering solution contained within the bottle.

  “Do I just activate the stone and he will know,” Loran asked, puzzled about how this would work.

  “Topen gave you one of the stones specifically carved for him. He has bonded with it through the silvering. I am no expert on the process, but I do know Topen will sense this stone’s use, and if we continue to be fortunate, he will return to explore why this is so.”

  Loran beamed with the excitement of becoming invisible again. She wondered if the event would live up to the memory she had relived so many times over the past sixteen years. She also wondered if her mother might be able to share in this enchanted moment.

  “What if you were to take my hand when the solution is poured into the stone, would you become invisible with me?” asked Loran.

  Leanna had never considered such a thought—even when Topen first exposed her to magic.

  “I don’t know,” said Leanna, and then she allowed anticipation to course over her.

  “Here, you pour and I will support the stone in my hand,” said Loran, as she lifted the bottle and presented it to Leanna.

  A child-like grin grew on both mother and daughter when Leanna uncorked the bottle and hovered the liquid over the stone. The women intertwined their free hands and looked gleefully into each other’s eyes. Their heads nodded in unison to begin the flow of the silvering from the bottle Leanna held. As she poured—and just as Loran had witnessed when she was twelve—the liquid attached to the stone and the bulge shifted on the center cavity.

  In seconds, Leanna was enthralled with the glowing, ghostly figure of her daughter beside her.

  “Is it working?” asked Leanna. “Are we invisible to any eyes other than our own?”

  “Yes, this is exactly how I remember it—though I was never able to see my face, as I see yours.”

  “Oh . . . I’m feeling a little light-headed,” Leanna announced. “I feel as if I have consumed too much wine.”

  That she did not feel the same euphoria she had when she was young, the same giddiness her mother now felt, surprised Loran, but it did not take away from the wonderment of the magic.

  “We have a few minutes before the stone consumes the silvering solution,” Loran informed her mother. “Come to the mirror and see what it reveals.”

  Loran guided Leanna to the full-length mirror, twelve steps from her bed. Leanna wavered on her feet. She was intoxicated by the power the stone transitioned through her, but she managed to remain upright when she stood before the mirror. Leanna waved her hand in front of her and watched the ghostly trails it produced—while she simultaneously noticed the absence of reflections in the mirror.

  “This is truly miraculous,” said Leanna, and then abruptly became teary. “I can’t believe I ever agreed to deprive you of such wonder.”

  Although the influence of the stone drove her mother’s emotional sentiments, Loran did not doubt her sincere regret.

  “Deprived is not a word I could ever associate with my life,” said Loran, trying to comfort her mother. But as the words slipped from her tongue, Loran felt a twinge of unfulfilled desire. She did not rightly feel deprived, but she hungered for control of her destiny and her recently discovered legacy.

  Leanna reclaimed command of her emotions.

  “Even if Topen senses the use of his stone, it may be some time before he arrives,” said Leanna “Not because of indecision or lack of desire to do so, but due to the influences of time, in his realm and ours.”

  “I don’t understand; the influences of time?”

  “I’m afraid the power of this magic is affecting both my emotions and judgment,” said Leanna. “I want to thank you for this gift—for sharing your legacy.”

  Leanna let loose of Loran’s hand and the mirror captured her transition to visible form. A few moments later, Loran appeared next to the table where they started. The stone she had held now rested on the table’s marbled top.

  “That is the second time you have made a reference to time and Topen,” said Loran. “I remember your words to Topen as if you had just now spoken them; I am aware of no other with more insight to the passage of time. You said those words at the celebration of Rolam’s and Gervest’s sixteenth birthday.”

  Leanna beckoned for Loran to join her at the mirror. When she did, they stared at their reflections while they spoke.

  “I remember those words as vividly as you. Perhaps I should be surprised that you so diligently ensnared my words into your memory, but first I would have to underestimate you, and that, my daughter, I will never do.”

  “Will you now explain their meaning?”

  Leanna turned to meet Loran’s eyes—sparkling with expectation.

  “This, I will promise; with Topen’s arrival, the meaning of those words—and so much more—will be revealed to you. Until that time, I assure you that the knowledge they convey will not alter our current course—to reverse an unnatural influence that if left unchallenged, will destroy all that we know is good.”

  Chapter Eight

  CONTACTS & CONSEQUENCES

  NEAR THE GATED ENTRANCE OF a wide grassy road, two rapid snapping sounds broke the peaceful silence as Daramose appeared in the sky, just above the two iron gates securing the passage. He floated downward with his momentum for several feet and then landed soundly on the tree-lined lane—that leads to a white Manor in the distance. The ghostly trails that followed his arrival dissipated just before he reached solid ground. Long, white rail fences behind the tree line edged the lush green pasture on both sides of the road, and steered Topen and Daramose to the Manor’s entrance.

  Topen had the sudden urge to pull on Daramose’s reins, but the stallion stopped abruptly before the thought reached his hands.

  “You sensed it too, didn’t you?” Topen said to D
aramose while he patted him on the neck. “I know it has been a long day, my friend, but we must not delay our arrival,” he urged.

  Daramose snorted and bobbed his head before he took off down the road at a full run. When they had nearly reached the entrance, the stable manager, Hanson—who was remarkably fit and already bald at thirty-nine, hurried to greet them. Topen dismounted and gave the reins over to the outstretched hands of his stable manager.

  * * *

  The doors of the timekeeper room burst open to expose a large room of clocks. Topen swiftly entered and the panorama of timepieces on the walls surrounded him. The walls had all manner of clocks mounted on them, and each had on their face the words, Last Visited, followed by a plethora of metalized numbers that rotated on a mechanical spindle. The hands of the clocks spun at different rates, though most closely synchronized to the large master clock that hung from the ceiling—with its four faces it was viewable from every direction. Nearly twenty percent of the clocks moved far slower or faster than the master. One clock had a minute hand that rotated precisely in concert to the master clock’s second hand.

  Topen stepped before a grandfather clock, pressed tightly against the wall. The minute hand twirled rapidly around the face—fast enough to watch twenty-four hours pass while only eight minutes would rotate on the master clock. An etched metal sheet attached to the body of the tall clock prominently displayed the words, Rondros’s Avileen Empire, and the numbers that rotated next to the words, Last Visited, read—.

  Loran shot straight awake and lifted up in bed—her wide-open eyes locked on the two paintings hung on the wall in front of her. Breathing heavily, sweat tricked from her brow and flew onto her bedding when she shook her head to regain her bearings. She expected to see the morning sun glaring through the windows, but just a subtle glow was present. Of one thing she was chillingly certain, this experience was new—more vivid than any other dream.

  Loran tossed the covers from her body and threw her legs over the side of the bed; her feet instantly carried her away when they touched the cool floor. She stared at the paintings one last time before she rushed into the other room to dress. Despite the sense of urgency that had been her companion over the last five months, there would be no attempt at the silvering on this morning—her dream having assured that the calm mind required for the ritual would not be possible.