by Brian Fuller
“Let’s go, Udan!” the Shadan ordered, finding him snacking near the fire. They grabbed their gear and went a short way farther into the cave. A small section of the ice had been cleared from the cave wall, and it was here that Udan closed his eyes, the blue Portal shimmering into existence before them. “You go first, Gen,” the Shadan said. “And do try to keep your feet this time. I think you’ll be pleased at what awaits us on the other side.”
Chapter 9 - Beloved
Despite its foreign appearance, the Ellenais shard was the most perfect place Gen had ever seen. After emerging from the Portal and recovering from another fit of retching, Gen gaped in awe.
“Welcome to my home,” Torbrand said boastfully as he, Udan, and Gen removed their winter garb and repacked their gear. Gen muttered his thanks to Eldaloth for the instant relief from the cold, and he marveled at the scene around him as they descended a steep hill down a broad path of packed, rich soil.
After hours in the frozen waste, the warmth and humidity were both welcome and uncomfortable at the same time. On the heights of the hill where the Portal exited, tall pines rose majestically into the air, light green moss clinging to branches and limbs. Delicate ferns and small red flowers carpeted the forest floor, a breeze mingling their scents with those of sea air and pine. Elegant white birds whirled and sang overhead, some darting back to nests hidden in cracks and grottoes in the cliff wall to the east.
The shard was small, consisting of a clear green-blue sea and a thin island situated roughly in the middle of the water. It was little more than two miles across at its thickest point and five miles long. Brilliant white sand ringed the entire island save where the hill rose, forming a steep cliff on one side. In the distance, Gen could just make out the sails of small fishing boats on the water.
As they hiked down the switchbacks, Gen caught glimpses of the Shadan’s home, a massive complex of buildings that stretched away from a palatial manor house that sat close to the hill. The manor house was perfectly square, its domed roof and walls constructed of a white stone accented with thin grooves of gold and silver. Simple cylindrical pillars ringed the three-story structure, supporting the silver roof and a balcony that went around the entire building. Numerous doors opened onto the balcony, and gauzy white curtains hung in wide, arched windows.
The other buildings, built to the north, were simple, rectangular affairs with red tile roofs. The grandeur of the buildings lessened the farther they were from the manor house, though even the poorest quarter of the island seemed a paradise to Gen. A garden and park stretched down the middle of the island, separating the buildings on either side, and people—tiny specks from their vantage point on the hill—milled about lazily in its beauty.
As they neared the bottom of the hill, the firs intermingled with and then gave way to low deciduous trees with broad leaves and slender branches that stretched away from thick, twisted trunks, providing ample shade. Flowers of every shape, size, and color rocked softly with the breeze, their powerful scents pleading with the passerby to stop, smell, and forget his troubles—and in his wonderment, Gen nearly did.
Torbrand noticed him gawking. “Now you understand the sacrifice I made in planning to stay in your miserable town for the winter. I would gladly let one of my Warlords oversee the operation, but I can’t trust any of them to act as they should. Now be honest, have you ever seen a place as magnificent as this one?”
“No, sir.” Gen answered truthfully. In his mind’s eye he had always pictured Aughmere as gray and miserable, though, he reminded himself, Ellenais was not Aughmere proper. He chanced a look at Udan. The Portal Mage had thrown off his sullen demeanor, a comfortable smile overspreading his face in its stead.
“How long will we be staying, Shadan?” Udan asked with a bit of hope and only the slightest hint of apprehension—Torbrand was in visibly good humor.
“Only a day or two, Udan, so don’t get too comfortable. I’ll return you to your ice cave before long.”
The dirt path joined a broad road paved with a light-colored rock flecked with sparkling quartz twinkling like stars in the sunshine. Two soldiers in deep purple tabards bearing the device of the black hammer came to attention as the travelers neared the gate into the complex proper. Through the silver bars, Gen spied two veiled women, simply attired in formless brown robes. They watched with curiosity for a moment and then scampered away quickly. Somewhere children were playing, their high voices carried by the wind.
Torbrand stopped in front of one of the soldiers who tried to hide his surprise at his liege’s unexpected appearance. “Please inform my daughters they need to prepare my room and two rooms for my guests. We will need a hearty meal prepared for this evening. I would like Mena brought to the study immediately.”
“At once, Shadan.”
The guard opened the gate and ran through, taking the steps into the manor house two at a time. Gen and Udan followed the Shadan through the gate and up the same steps, which terminated in an arched wooden door of a blond wood tooled with the shapes of vines.
“Leave your traveling gear here and it will be taken care of,” Torbrand ordered. Three veiled girls, about the same age as Gen, appeared at a run and each came to a knee before Torbrand.
“Your will, father,” they intoned, heads bowed.
“Rise. Essa, take Udan here to his room. Leda, help her carry his things. Ona, take Gen’s gear to his room. I am taking him to the study with me. Is Mena there yet?”
“No, father,” Ona answered meekly. “She was in the park. The guard went to fetch her immediately.”
“Very well. Come, Gen.”
The inside of the manor house was light and airy. A broad hallway from the door terminated in a circular room open to all three levels. Late afternoon sunlight from a window at the apex of the dome roof fell aslant onto the balconies and walks, illuminating the colorful and comfortable furniture set about the room in the midst of large planters of flowers and pots of tall, exotic plants. Gen wondered why no one was there, all the time hearing activity all around him on the upper levels. Torbrand led him to a nearby door on the south wall and opened it. They entered a spacious study, Torbrand crossing the room and throwing open the shutters on the other side.
Light flooded in, revealing a single desk in the center of the floor, shelves and books running along the sides, and a red divan set against the wall behind the desk and beneath the window. A deep wooden chest abutted the desk, and Torbrand stooped in front of it. After touching the chest in several places in a confusing pattern, he lifted the lid and rummaged around inside. Gen couldn’t see what he removed, but the Shadan stuffed it hurriedly in his pocket and shut the lid.
“Make yourself at home on the divan, Gen. I will wait a little longer with you to introduce you to my daughter, Mena.”
Gen’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “Forgive me, Shadan,” Gen chanced, averting his eyes. “Why have you brought me here? What are you going to do with me? Am I to be a slave in this place?”
“You aren’t that lucky. Slaves have more rights than you do. Look at me,” Torbrand ordered. Gen complied. “There are no male slaves on this island, though there are some tradesmen. Unfortunately for you, I have a bard of several times your skill in my employ already. I will reveal what is in store for you when I choose. In the meantime, enjoy this place. You and I will be leaving it long before either of us will want to. Now sit.”
Gen settled himself on the divan, musing while Torbrand wrote a letter. If Torbrand wasn’t to use him as a slave or a bard, then why bring him to the island and why introduce him to his daughter? Was he going to kill him for sport, or perhaps shame him in front of his family as a display of power? Perhaps the Shadan would trade him or gift him to a Warlord.
Three soft knocks at the door interrupted his thoughts. The Shadan dropped his pen and rose immediately, crossing to the door and opening it himself.
A young woman waited on the other side. Gen judged her to be a little older than himself. She was ta
ll, slender, and unveiled, which surprised him. Her long black hair, blue eyes, and comely face marked her as the Shadan’s daughter, and—unlike her sisters—she greeted Torbrand with her head held high.
Torbrand embraced her enthusiastically. The Shadan’s eyes, so often cruel or sullen or tinged with madness, softened to an emotion that Gen understood and did not fear: affection. This was a beloved daughter. Gen’s mind fought with the contradiction. Could this be the same man who had so casually ordered the men, women, and children of Tell slaughtered not three weeks before?
Mena noticed Gen and pulled away from her father. “And who have you brought? This is not the Portal Mage. Is this a Tolnorian noble or a Rhugothian?”
“Mena,” Torbrand said happily, “I bring you a rarity. This is a peasant I found in Tolnor, and one who isn’t a complete idiot.”
“But he’s so tall,” Mena remarked, regarding him thoughtfully. “And pale.”
“A rarity, as I said. Gen, this is my daughter, Mena.”
Gen stood quickly and bowed.
Mena smiled. “I am not nobility, Gen,” she said, crossing to him. She wore a fine robe of blue silk quite different from the plain brown robes of the other women. Her hair fell about her shoulders in waves, and her blue eyes, while hard, still managed to convey an intelligence and kindness Gen did not expect to encounter in an Aughmerian woman. Her countenance showed a self-assurance found in those who know they are favored but have not been spoiled by it.
“A curtsey from me and a nod from you is all that is required of those of equal rank in Tolnor. Is it not so?”
“That is so,” he replied
She curtsied and he nodded, Torbrand watching with a self-satisfied smirk.
“I have matters to attend to,” Torbrand announced. “Mena, I leave Gen in your charge. I know you’ve been wanting to meet a real Tolnorian for some time. He might actually have useful information for you. Show him the Tolnor Room. He will probably find it most amusing. I will see you both for supper.”
After another quick smile to his daughter, he walked out of the room, leaving the door open behind him. Mena waited until the echo of his footsteps faded away on one of the upper levels.
Once she was sure he was gone, her face grew grave and she whispered, “I am sorry, Gen, for what I can guess my father has done to you and your village. He told me of his plan. But why are you here? He made no plans to come back. Did he say?”
“I don’t know. I asked him just prior to your arrival and he refused to tell me.”
Mena frowned, crossing to the door and shutting it. She motioned for him to sit at the desk chair while she sat on the divan.
“I am fearful of what he might intend. Be on your guard. While slaves have rights of challenge in Aughmere, prisoners of war do not. Do not be carried away by the comfort and finery around you. Aughmere can be a cruel place, though I must admit my exposure to the wider world is limited. My father protects me a great deal.”
“He allows you to go unveiled?”
“He has ordered me to go unveiled, though I would feel more comfortable with one. I wear one while he is away, and I am glad I had forewarning of his return. He would be displeased if he knew I disobeyed him. I’m sure you know that my father is of two minds.”
“Yes.”
“Then remember this, for there is one thing every member of his household knows: Torbrand Khairn, Shadan of Aughmere, despises three things above all others—disobedience, stupidity, and incompetence. He has said you are intelligent. . .”
“He actually said that I wasn’t ‘a complete idiot,’” Gen corrected.
“For him, that is saying you are intelligent. But listen. You stand the best chance of survival if you obey his every whim and do your best at the tasks he sets you to. If you falter . . . well, I imagine I am telling you things you know well.” Her face clouded over and she leaned back. “Torbrand cares nothing for ceremony. He respects nothing and loves nothing.”
“Except you.”
She frowned. “I do not know why I have his favor, though I am not sure I would call it love. It has been so since I was a child. I am not even a daughter of his first wife. I am the third child of his fifth wife, and, as such, I should walk these halls as lowly as any, but here I am dressed exquisitely and forbidden to wear the veil. I sleep alone in a room larger and finer than that of his first wife—for which she hates me—and I am never permitted to do any sort of work or be useful.”
“I am sure your other sisters are jealous.”
“It is true. I have no friends among my sisters. But come, that is enough. I must take you to the Tolnor room. I have a hundred questions to ask you, though I’m sure I’ll forget every one. Tolnor is a hobby of mine of late.”
The Tolnor Room was on the top floor up two flights of long stairs. They took them in silence, Gen engrossed in the finery all around him. Tapestries depicting wars, animals, and landscapes hung everywhere, and treasures of all varieties were on display on tables or in recessed spaces in the walls. Two young boys—no more than eight—tore past them, laughing and yelling, engaged in a raucous game of chase.
“Brand! Dolan! Father is home,” Mena warned. Both boys stopped immediately, eyes widening.
“Has he won the war already?” Brand asked.
“No,” Mena explained. “He is here for a visit, and I think he will want it more peaceful than you are making it.”
Gen took it as a sign of Torbrand’s severe discipline that two such energetic youths could change mood so quickly. Both tiptoed off as if a Gagon was sleeping on the floor below. Mena smiled at them and resumed the climb upward. A few other young ladies loitered in the hall, all veiled and attired in the same drab brown cloth. They whispered as they passed, gawking at him.
The third floor felt much warmer than the others. Mena led Gen down a broad hallway to the north and pushed open a set of double doors.
“This is the Tolnor Room,” she explained. “It has been here since the building was constructed one hundred years ago.” Gen stepped inside. To his astonishment, a complete replica of the southern half of the Menegothian shard from the Emerald Lake southward had been fashioned from clay on an immense wooden table. The Wardwall Mountains jutted up realistically, and even the Alewine forest was meticulously recreated with small trees. Every major geological feature was reproduced, along with cities large and small.
“You are from here, correct?” Mena said, pointing to a small cabin representing Tell, the name spelled out beside it in black paint.
“Yes.”
“Then you owe fealty to Baron Forthrickeshire and to Duke Norshwal. Have you seen them?”
Gen was impressed with her knowledge. “I haven’t.”
“Then come and look. Your King is here, as well.”
She directed his gaze to the walls, and Gen turned, taking in the entire room. There were small portraits of every one of the Dukes, their sons, and the barons hanging about the walls, sectioned according to Duchy. They had escaped his notice when he first entered due to his fascination with the map. Gen examined the pictures, finding the artwork exquisite, the faces almost alive.
Duke Norshwal had a fat, clean-shaven face and beady eyes that reminded him of Bernard. Baron Forthrickeshire was his opposite, his thin, angular head terminating in a long, sharp goatee. Gen went to the King, who had the largest portrait, finding him thin with long, blond hair. His beautiful queen, the black-haired Kerenne, was framed at his side.
“That is a wig,” Mena revealed. “Your King is quite bald.”
“How did the Shadan get these pictures?” Gen asked incredulously.
“It is quite clever,” Mena explained. “Something Kaimas—a Mage in my father’s service—thought up. Here.” She removed a picture of Duke Sothbranne of Bloodthrone. “Touch the canvas lightly.”
As Gen did so, the colors of the picture swirled and coalesced into Gen’s resemblance.
“Impressive,” Gen commented, examining his own face. The only mirror
in Tell belonged to Bernard Showles’s wife, Katrina, and she didn’t share. The best reflection of himself he had ever seen was in the dark water of forest pools.
A question came to his mind. “Surely you didn’t convince all the Dukes of Tolnor and their families to touch all these canvases?”
“No,” Mena replied, crossing the room to a set of drawers. “I do not know if my father would approve of me telling you this, but the canvases only need be touched by a personal item. Even letters and parchment will do, which account for many of the pictures, as my father has personally corresponded with your Dukes concerning the trip they made to meet the Ha’Ulrich this last summer.”
She rifled through a drawer, retrieving a letter and touching it to the canvas. Duke Sothbranne’s face appeared in the frame again. She put the letter back and returned the picture to the wall.
“Does the Ha’Ulrich come here often?” Gen asked. Gen thought that if he could chance to meet him and could gain his favor, he might find mercy and a way out of his predicament. Mena’s eyes widened.
“No!” she exclaimed fervently. “He has never been here, save when he was born. I beg you not to broach this subject with my father! It infuriates him that he couldn’t train the Ha’Ulrich—not in the sword, not in leadership, not in the customs of my people. We don’t even say Chertanne’s name for fear. ‘How can a man lead Aughmere or any nation without knowing the sword?’ he complains.”
Gen was perplexed. “Chertanne doesn’t know the sword?” Every tale of the prophecy painted the Ha’Ulrich as a man-at-arms.
“No. The Church of the One forbid him to be near blades or weapons of any kind, for his safety. He is to win by force of magic, not the blade. At least that was the argument they gave Father. In any case, it doesn’t help that Chertanne will take over this estate in two years. I do not know that there is another place large enough for Torbrand’s family. For your safety, do not mention this, either.”