Reality's Plaything 3: Eternal's Agenda

by Will Greenway

  “Well, the ‘standard uniform’ doesn’t leave enough to the imagination.” The elf woman smiled. “Trust me.” She held out her hand. “Come. I need to inform the servants.”

  The princess gestured and the guards opened the gates for them, and allowed them to enter the sweet-smelling precincts of Green Run.

  Bannor trailed along, listening to the fluted tinkling of water from the various fountains and water troughs along the walk. He reached into his pocket and verified the ring that Senalloy gave him was still there. That would go a long way toward smoothing things over with Sarai and salving some of his misgivings about not being able to afford something nice for their wedding. He had actually used his new abilities to benefit someone, and get something tangible and nice for a lady who had practically everything.

  He found it convenient that Janai had found something to distract her from whatever machinations she was working in Coormeer. He was fairly certain that she was running amok simply for diversion’s sake, giving herself and Daena something to do. With these new guests to keep her occupied and entertained, she’d stay out of trouble, at least for a little while. She seemed fascinated by Dulcere. He had to admit that the gold woman had a strange allure… those dark eyes had witnessed such a vast amount of time yet she still seemed approachable. Senalloy was the same way. He guessed that was part of their appeal, great elders without the off-putting arrogance usually associated with creatures that ancient.

  “Bannor?”

  “Hmmm?” He turned, surprised to hear Wren’s voice.

  The blonde savant walked along next to him, hands behind her back. She had a speculative expression on her face. “Quite a day, wasn’t it?”

  He leaned his head back. “I’ve had worse. We both have.”

  She blew out her cheeks. “Well, that’s certainly true. What I meant was, what did you think of all the things you saw? Weren’t you amazed? I’d already seen some of it, and I think I reacted more than you did.”

  Bannor’s brow furrowed. “I was amazed. Didn’t it show? The Kriar magic was impressive. I think what caught me the most was looking out the windows of the moving walk—seeing the stars in a way we’ll never be able to see them looking up from the ground.” He gazed up at the sky. “You know, I don’t know why, but there was a part of me that seemed to be coming home… As strange as it was, I didn’t feel uncomfortable or afraid. I guess it’s because I see more with the Garmtur now than with my vision.” He dropped his gaze to meet Wren’s ghostly blue eyes. “You know, there are few days that go by that I don’t know whether to thank you or curse you for helping me find that ability in myself.”

  She grinned. “I’m certain it’s equal parts. I’ve cursed myself for being born more than once—being a savant usually isn’t much fun.”

  He pointed a finger at her. “We helped them today.” He rubbed his sore head. “We got beat up, but we accomplished something I think.”

  “We did,” Wren agreed with a nod. “I was very impressed with you, by the way. I’ve never seen you—like that.”

  Bannor rolled his eyes. “That’s because when we’re together someone is usually trying to kill both of us—and we’re both doing our best just trying not to die. Not that today was much different. Someone did try to kill us…” His voice trailed off. “Before then, it was me being border marshal, investigating a crime, trying to track down the bad guys… I mean that’s my job… or it was…” He sighed. He looked around at the huge archway, as they proceeded up the steps together, the doors being opened for them by the guards. His voice and footsteps echoed in the marble hall as he spoke. “I have no idea what my job is now.”

  Janai looked back from the head of the procession with a grin. “Why brother, your job is will be to look pretty and lay at the feet of my sister, of course.”

  He frowned at the princess.

  The princess looked chastened by his expression. “Bannor—I was teasing.”

  “I know.” His tone sounded more flat than he meant it to, likely because she simply echoed what a dissatisfied part of himself had been saying for more than fortnight. How could he possibly fit in here? He didn’t know anything. He had to learn everything, and there was no possible way to catch up with elves with hundreds of summers of experience and training.

  “Bannor, I have no idea what you’re frowning for,” Wren said. “Your situation is hardly different from the one I was in five or six summers ago. I came back to my mother and father, the baron and baroness—I didn’t know them…I didn’t know how to be their daughter, and I sure as Hades didn’t know how to be some titled Baron’s daughter with all that entailed. Kick something in the teeth, stick a knife in the enemy’s eye, sure—I know how to do that… but be a diplomat to visiting dignitaries?” She rolled her eyes. “I’d never even worn ball gown much less attended one…”

  Ziedra nudged her with a superior expression. “Weren’t you glad I was there, hmmm?”

  Wren let out an exasperated sound and smacked her friend’s shoulder. “What! All you did was get me embarrassed!”

  Ziedra grinned. “Can I help it if you’re so gullible?”

  Wren looked to Bannor and scowled. “It was fortnights before I figured out why people looked at me so funny at the formal banquets, this thing with the damn forks and spoons…” Her face turned red and she glared at Ziedra. “It still makes me mad sometimes. I think it was worse because Mother and Father let it go on… it wasn’t that funny…”

  Bannor shook his head. It hit too close to home for him. He was already having trials just like those.

  Wren put a hand on his shoulder. “You do get the hang of it though. That’s the thing about us savants—we’re smart…” She shot a wounded look at Ziedra, who tried to look innocent in return. “Perhaps not wise… but we are smart… and we figure things out eventually.”

  “Yes,” Bannor agreed half-hearted. She was right, of course. It was simply a battle that, for whatever reason, sucked more strength out of him than fighting a dozen demons.

  As they wound down through the structure and into the inner courtyard, Bannor watched their guests. Dulcere was moving slowly, space black eyes hooded and expression somewhat dreamy, hands occasionally touching the decorative rocks, trees, and plants, slowing to listen to the melodies of the wind chimes, birds and the gurgling water than ran beneath the decorative arched bridges.

  The ancient creature might be used to living inside walls of metal, but it was obvious that she had a heartfelt appreciation for nature and beauty.

  His attention went to giant silver-haired Senalloy, swaying through the garden. Here was a creature made and designed to fight—that and make babies. The creatures that designed the Baronians were anything but subtle. After seeing enough of them, he’d come to the conclusion that Senalloy and the others were not a natural product—somewhere in their past, somehow some creatures with the power of creation designed a being that excelled in war and conquering.

  The Baronians.

  They had succeeded too. A creature that was powerful, determined, with an inherent sense of honor, not because honor helped in war but because honor inspired respect and trust—which in turn encouraged team-work. These creatures were highly adaptable, individualistic enough to be solo operatives, but with enough social dependence to work well in groups. The more amazing part to him was not all of Senalloy’s evolution, but that he could look at her now and know all those details about her people. When did the Garmtur start working like that in him?

  Being a warrior by nature and upbringing apparently did not keep the silver-haired woman from appreciating the creative work of the elves. Where Dulcere was serenely soaking it up, the big lady was more demonstrative, bowing over the flowers to sniff them, dipping her hand into the waters, and caressing the carved wood. Perhaps, that was even more amazing, how could a creature capable of such violence be in turn so gentle? She had been mistreated most of her life. She knew little but captivity and hostility. The natural outcome of decades of mistr
eatment like that should be a person meaner than a hungry fang-snout with a toothache.

  Did the Baronians internalize that anger somehow and focus it at need? Was it another adaptation—a defense mechanism? A creature designed for war would have to thrive on adversity, practically feed on it. Did that mean their society mistreated the women on purpose? It made them meaner, or if his thinking was correct, it gave them fuel—a frustrated rage to focus on the enemy. He guessed having that rage focused back against society was a natural hazard of the process.

  Watching Janai work was a marvel. Chatting with all the guests, making everyone smile. The elf lady had extraordinary talent, able to put even the most aloof person at ease. He could tell from the glint in her amber eyes that she already had some scheme in mind. That was another thing that amazed him—he could see all those details in Senalloy, but never seemed to be able to figure out what Janai was up to…

  It was close to five bells when he finally returned to the quarters he shared with Sarai. Though it had been close to three moons, he still hadn’t grown used to the huge expanse of their area.

  Sarai’s gray-haired and milky-eyed elderly steward, Bellard, dressed in his snappy gold buttons and sash opened the door for him as he came down the corridor. Another bit of magic he still hadn’t figured out. How did the oldster know he was coming? The elf certainly couldn’t stand out in the hall all day just for the opportunity to open the door.

  “Bellard,” Bannor greeted the elf with a nod.

  “Milord,” the elf answered with a dip of his gray tufted head and gesturing him in.

  He stepped across the threshold into polished granite greeting circle in which the family griffin crest had been carved. There in the entrance hall were stylized wooden busts of Sarai’s family, on the right her mother and father, on the left her sisters Ryelle and Janai. The carvings were nestled among sprays of flowers, and highlighted against wall murals depicting vivid natural vistas.

  “Lordship,” a high chirpy voice said.

  He focused on tiny red-haired Yvelle, standing at the steps leading down into the domicile proper. The thin maid, dressed in blue and black chased with silver thread, bowed to him. “Boots and weapons, Sir.”

  He settled on the bench beside the steps and began pulling off his boots. “Has it been quiet today, Yvelle?”

  The maid straightened clasping her hands at her waist, her long angular face composed in the reserve he’d come to associate with elves. The corner of her mouth quirked up. A glint flickered in her gold eyes. “Very quiet, Sir. Some might say—too quiet.” The elf lady raised an eyebrow. “You had three guests in your absence—appointments.”

  He pulled off the first boot with a wince, and started on the second. “Important appointments?”

  “Milord, that would depend on who you ask. One of them was Maestro Kilanastro—he seemed very concerned.”

  Bannor sighed and rolled his eyes. He wedged the toe of his other boot with his heel, and yanked his foot free with a grunt. Damn, his head ached. It had taken a long time, but the backlash was finally starting to crash on his brain. He put the boots on the bench beside him.

  He stared at the worn leather boots—they’d seen many a league and were starting to get stiff and hard to get on and off. Those boots had trekked all over Ivaneth, the icy wastes of Gladshiem, and the streets of Asgard. He guessed he would have to break down and replace them with a new pair like Sarai had insisted on a dozen occasions. Could he help it if he wanted to keep some part of his former life?

  He was the only person in the house not allowed to wear his footwear inside. Two little mistakes and Sarai had insisted that thereafter the servants would not allow him onto the main floor without “house-approved” shoes. He knew the servants found it amusing. Yvelle obviously took pleasure in being able to order him to take off his boots.

  Bannor focused back on Yvelle. “Matradomma didn’t threaten him with some kind of harm if he failed to teach me, did she?”

  Yvelle’s gray eyes widened. “I wouldn’t know, Milord.”

  He let out a breath. “Who else?”

  “Dom Bertrand.”

  “Matradomma’s brother?”

  The maid nodded.

  “He wanted to talk to me?” he pointed at himself, incredulity showing.

  “Yes, Lord.”

  He shook his head. What could that be about? Kalindinai’s brother, Sarai’s uncle Bertrand, was anything but fond of Bannor. The elder elf took sour distaste in the fact that his sister and nieces could stomach associating with humans much less have some kind of familial relationship, or worse yet… love—unthinkable. So, what possible unpleasantness could Bertrand be thinking to jump on him in Sarai’s house?

  He untied and unbuckled the two sheaths for his axes, and removed the two dagger sheaths and put the collection on the bench next to his boots.

  “So who was the last person?”

  “Two actually, Milord, they were together, the—” Her face tightened. “The green ladies.”

  “Tymoril and Kegari,” Bannor said. He tilted his head. “Don’t you like scales Yvelle?”

  The maid looked down at the granite floor. “Lord, they are—unnerving.”

  “I suppose they take getting used to,” he said. “Especially the fangs.”

  “Yes, Lord. They seemed—disappointed that you were not here.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “Right. Well, you have your boots and weapons, may I pass now?”

  Yvelle grinned. “Yes, Lord,” She bowed. “Welcome home.”

  He touched the maid’s shoulder and nodded with a smile. He headed down into the white-carpeted main commons, and past the large circular seating depression. Steps led down into a circle more than five paces across scalloped into two comfortable cushion-padded tiers.

  Much of Malbraion hall, Sarai’s personal quarters, suffered from a dichotomy of desires spread between comfort and simplicity on one-side, and the innate elven need to make things attractive. The original artisans and Sarai herself had obviously struggled to meet a happy medium between the two. Many things in the house succeeded spectacularly in one aspect or the other, the seating circle being one example; comfortable to a large degree, but not particularly pretty. The thirty seat formal dining hall and adjoining veranda with the hanging gardens, carved caryatid columns, and frescoed floors was almost too beautiful to sit in. Everything from the shaped and stylized chairs, to the fluted centerpieces of the multi-tiered and inlaid banquet table all epitomes of elven cleverness and eloquence. He much preferred the tiny meal nook on the east veranda looking out over the river and the forest. In the evenings they could watch the moon rise through the archway, and listen to the churning of the river and the cry of night-birds.

  Two housekeepers turned from their dusting, and bowed as he turned into chamber hall. “Valese, Norielle,” he nodded to them as he passed.

  That was one thing that had really worked well for him since coming to Malan. Because his elvish was spotty, and many elves disdained to speak common (even when they could), he found just learning names (and using them) had made the atmosphere in the house much more friendly. It had been a suggestion of Sarai’s eldest sister Ryelle, to whom he owed more than a little thanks because it helped make the mansion livable for him. When he first came to live here, in Sarai’s presence the servants were obsequiously cordial to him, but the moment she was away he couldn’t get a kick in the pants, much less find out where to get a drink of water.

  When he told Sarai about the problem, she reprimanded the servants—that only made the situation worse. During one of Ryelle’s visits, he happened to mention it to her. She had suggested he learn the names of all the servants, to call them by name and greet them, even if they weren’t cordial back. She wagered that given a little warming time the atmosphere would lighten up.

  It took a while, but Ryelle’s idea worked. For that gesture alone, he would have appreciated Sarai’s gentle and quiet sister; a lady as demure and reserved as Sarai
and Janai were flamboyant. Even if it was just a carefully performed act, Bannor appreciated her careful propriety just the same.

  He headed down the long hall past the kitchen, the ancillary sitting rooms, the gallery and view chamber. His mind flickered back to Bertrand. What did he want—especially now? It had been more than a fortnight since the last encounter. One would think the elf could afford to be a little more magnanimous, Bannor did travel all the way to Hel’s domain, and break his sister and niece out of prison. He also brought his brother-in-law the king back from Gladshiem. Didn’t that mean anything? Of course, there were many that blamed Bannor for Hecate’s assault on the citizens of Malan, and all of the unfortunate things that grew out of that attack—like the king being sucked into the outer planes when Hecate’s dimensional gate collapsed.

  No-one in Malan even would have known that it was Bannor the goddess was after if she hadn’t circulated thousands of leather leaflets with his likeness carved into them. It wasn’t until later that people knew what it was about. Some elves, like Bertrand, simply were not going to forget that it was because Hecate was chasing Bannor, that a lot of elves got killed, and a lot of property was destroyed.

  Bannor still didn’t know if he would ever be able to counter that criticism. He did feel somewhat to blame. However, he certainly couldn’t accept the destruction as being his fault alone. That would be like accepting the blame for being born. He was conceived, he was something that Hecate wanted and was willing to hurt others to get… In Bertrand, and others thinking, he should have just immediately given himself over to the goddess in order to stop the bloodshed.

  How easy it was for people to think such ridiculous things when it wasn’t them who was going to get their soul consumed by a death goddess.

  One of these days, Bertrand or one of those others who thought he should just slit his own throat because of a potential threat would get the flat of his axe upside their head. He felt guilty enough without them trying to leech away his will to live with recriminations of how he should have bravely sacrificed himself for the good of others. It was interesting to note that most of these detractors had never been a soldier, or ever experienced real adversity that required risk or sacrifice. Such words, spoken by people that had never given up anything, rang hollow indeed, especially after he had been forced to choose between giving up his life and his greatest love and making the universe safe for others.