by Leigh, J.
“Oh, trust me, boy. My leaving will do far greater for your cause to rule than my staying, but it’s only an additional benefit. I’ve lived here over thirty years, and a true craftsman and Bree follower does not limit his Ability or skills to one place, nor does he neglect the opportunity to glean new ideas. I’ve lingered here too long. It’s time.”
“Will you be coming back?”
“Conceivably, in time. But more so, I wanted to suggest…” He measured Jathen seriously. “Perhaps you’d like to come with us.”
That offer Jathen had not expected. “As a servant?”
“Don’t be naïve. We both are of some rank. You’d be tagging along as a companion.” Opening another drawer, he fetched a small stone. “I’m heading back to the Lu’shun Republic. I’m not sure how long, but if it gets to be too much of an extended stay for you, I can arrange a return home easily enough.”
“Why the Republic?” Jathen asked. “Why not back to the Clan Lands?”
“With civil war about to break out and no Avatar of Rhean sitting as emperor to quell it? Hell, no. I’m not a ruddy fool.” Amethyst shone between his fingers as he polished. “In Ca’june, I have some acquaintances I’d like to refresh, as does Jephue. He was born in the Republic, you know.”
Hatori’s offer did sound inviting, but leaving the country, or even the capital, would mean leaving Kyanith and other Tazu families free to smear him. However, Jathen had never seen a Lu’shun, who supposedly appeared differently to each person who gazed upon them, but he’d read a great deal about their architecture, as the Republic was famous for the use of spatial magic. Oh, the buildings I could see. There will be rooms upon rooms and all sorts of hidden surprises.
“I don’t know.” Jathen teased, “What are the chances you’re just offering this so you can try and seduce me?”
“Bah!” Hatori snapped the cleaning cloth at Jathen. “What do you take me for, boy? You think a Clansman of my age would view some nineteen-year-old upstart as a potential paramour? You’re more like a light snack.”
Jathen hooted. “Oh? How old is Jephue? He can’t be more than say, forty.”
“Ha! I’ll tell him you said that. He was almost your age when we came here.”
“Well, that’s still a drop in the bucket for an old codger like you. And I thought Feeding without consent was strictly prohibited by Rhean anyway.”
“Boy, never forget there will always be people who don’t give a damn for rules. More Clanspeople go to the Way of Evil than any other race, I’m sad to say.”
“I know, I know.” Jathen rolled his eyes. “Red followers.”
“Bah, not all the wicked in the world wear red.”
Fiddling with a scrap of discarded metal, Jathen asked, “So why do you think I should go with you?”
Hatori held out the intricately faceted gemstone he’d been buffing. “Do you think this is exquisite work?”
Jathen took the amethyst lotus, each petal sculpted so the natural shade of purple was darker in the center and faded lighter toward the edges. He raised an eyebrow. “You know very well you’re the premiere jeweler of the Kidwellith court and the personal charm master of the Monortiths for a reason. It’s beautiful. Far better than anything I’d ever be able to do.”
“Yes, well, I’m good. Some might say I am one of the best charm masters on the continent. Yet I realized for all my skill, I’d never compare to the likes of Originals Yvette and Orrick Ashton, the Mistress of Metals and Master of Minerals.”
“Um… who are they, exactly?”
The cleaning cloth snapped again. “Bah! Your lack of world history is insulting! They are the founders of the Ashoni clan, and two of the eight Originals who spawned my race.” He plucked up another lotus piece. “In addition, Orrick is a High Earth Mage, and Yvette was a premiere charm master, the undisputed best on the continent.”
Jathen tried sounding impressed. “Wow.”
“Wow, indeed. Can you imagine trying to compare to the work they created together? When a man can imagine any gem or metal in any form he wishes and simply hand it to his wife to set as she pleases? Not to mention the millennia they had to perfect this process.” He shook his head. “No, I realized that as long as I remained in the Clan Lands, all anyone there would ever see was what I was not, not what I was.” He sent Jathen a meaningful glance. “Sound familiar?”
Jathen became suspicious. “You heard.”
“Of course I heard about this denouncement crap. I’m Clan, boy. We all keep one ear to the ground, every last one of us. Rhean’s the patron Child of spies and micka, boy, remember that.”
Jephue came in from the front of the shop. “Oh, so great and mysterious Clansman. Ha!” He carried a large rectangular package wrapped in cloth and twine. Setting it down, he hooked a finger at his partner while addressing Jathen. “Who do you think was the one they called to replace the three-hundred-year-old mirror you broke, hmm?”
“Oh, he hardly broke it,” Hatori shot back. “All we need to do is replace the glass. Hausmannith said the silver pane behind it wasn’t even scratched.”
“Still, you make yourself sound oh so mysterious, and all you are is a mender of metals with wide ears.”
Hatori waved at hand at Jephue. “If you are going to be difficult, then shoo! I’m trying to make a point to the boy.”
“The best point to learn would be not to break things that are old. It is far too expensive.” Jephue waggled a finger at Jathen. “Both with money and information.”
“Three hundred years isn’t that old,” Hatori said as Jephue picked up the wrapped mirror and headed for the storage room.
“It is to me and the boy.” Jephue left the room, slamming the door behind him.
“Bah.” The charm master turned back to Jathen, who was trying desperately not to laugh. “What was I talking about?”
“Rhean is the patron of spies.”
“Ah, yes. All I was trying to say is that knowledge is a power in and of itself, and there is protection in that.”
“I thought power corrupts.”
“And absolute power corrupts absolutely, but that is only a problem”—he jabbed an etching tool in Jathen’s direction—“if you are powerless. The Red wins when good men do nothing.”
“That sounds more like a challenge to stay and confront the king, not slither away with you.”
“Confront him with what? Teenage angst? Not to be cruel, boy, but have some ruddy common sense! That Walker of Montage might sit in his temple and say ‘Advocate for yourself,’ but Hausmannith is the first type of Gold Walker and doesn’t know how to finish anything.”
“First type? You mean a general follower versus a trained Walker?”
“No, I said Walker and I meant Walker.” He held up two leftover raw ingots and raised the right chunk high. “The first type start directly with Montage, learn some of everything, and then pop themselves into a temple to spread their message without ever really learning the depths of all the Ways fully. The second type”—he lowered the right and raised the left—“are the ones who start along another path amid another Way, becoming specialized in one field. Then, along the journey of life, they start realizing things are more connected than originally realized, and they start seeing the patterns of how the other Ways overlap one another. Then they make the switch to the Ultimate Way. I’m not saying one’s better than the other or that some can’t ride directly into Montage and understand immediately. But in my experience, the second types tend to have a better grasp of how things work in the real world.”
Putting the raw bits away, the charm master continued. “Hausmannith wants you to tell Kyanith where to shove his shit? You can yell all you want, and nothing will change because you still see yourself as what he sees you as—a moot. If you demanded your birthright now, the order would be sha
llow, and he wouldn’t believe it because you don’t believe it. You really think you could hold the gold throne, boy? Hell, are you even sure you would want to?”
“Hausmannith asked me that,” Jathen said. “If I had the choice, would I choose it?”
“Heh, well, like I said”—he shut the last drawer with a loud clack—“just because he’s the first type, that doesn’t make him a complete incompetent.”
Jathen smirked. “Does everyone fit somewhere into your little categories, Master Hatori?”
“Heh, if not, I just make a new category.” Displaying his pointed canines, he grinned, then he grew serious. “Think on it, boy. I’m not leaving for a few months at earliest. But consider what you’ve got to look forward to here. Whatever fate decides to give you, it strikes me that getting out and seeing the rest of this rock will do you some good. Perspective itself is an education, and perhaps it will offer you some more options simply by virtue of the fact that not many Monortiths have done so.”
“Maybe.” More options… It would be nice to have any options. Slipping off the desk, he remembered something from his history lessons. “Didn’t she die?”
“Who?”
“That Original you were talking about… Yvette?”
“Yes, she did.” His tone turned bitter. “Over six hundred years ago now, by A’ron De’contes and his Red machinations.”
“Isn’t he the one who started that new path of ‘reformed’ Red followers over the past fifty years?”
“Bah, yes. He seeks to redeem Red followers and bring them back to the rest of the Ways as an attempt to redeem his sins.” Hatori spit into a wastebasket. “If he is so sorry for slaughtering the previous Avatar of Rhean and his Aspect, not to mention half the court at the time, A’ron should simply present his neck to Orrick and pray his stint in the Pit is for only half an eternity. Instead, he sits in his sanctuary in Tar’citadel and claims to be ‘saved’ for the last five hundred years. Bastard.”
When confronted with the reality of a six-hundred-year-old wound, Jathen felt as if his own slights were very shallow. “I’m sorry.”
“Eh. Pain is relative, boy. Like truth, it’s all just a little bit different for all of us.”
Meditating on that parting piece of wisdom, Jathen departed the shop. A growl from his stomach reminded him of his lack of proper nourishment. I’d best eat and bathe. Not as if I have anything else productive to do. Walking back to the scaffolding, Jathen glimpsed a rare sight: his mother in the air, twirling and diving as a tyrn. He halted in the courtyard, watching.
When female Tazu conceived, they stayed in whatever form they coupled in so as to not lose the babe during shifting. As a tyrn, they carried the egg for about six months and then laid it. After that, they were free to shift and go about their lives while the egg incubated for another four months. However, since Rhodonith had conceived and carried Thee to term while in Tazu form, Kyanith insisted she do so for every child since. So Rhodonith had spent ten months out of almost every year for thirteen years as a Tazu, which was taxing on one who—having been hatched—pined for the form that gave her wings. She dived, her grand twelve-point wings snapping open at the last second, sweeping her up and back, free for a moment from the world and worry.
Good for you, Mother. It’s been too long, and you deserve the feel of air under your wings. Spirit knows, one member of the family never will. In his mind, Rhodonith was not a particular building but rather an amalgamation of all the details he cherished, everything he loved and admired, perfectly imagined but never manifested.
When she headed back to the palace, Jathen made for his mother’s room via the balcony route. Reaching her gilded banister, he found the doors conveniently unlocked and ajar. Dark violet curtains danced in the wind, blowing inward and obscuring the view. Hearing her muffled voice, Jathen stared transfixed at the rippling fabric but could not force his hand to grasp the handle. The thudding weight of her steps told him his mother was still tyrn, her tail making an additional sliding sound as she paced.
Petalith asked, “You saw him as well?”
“Yes.” His mother’s voice sounded tight. “And we did speak. And that was all that was done, for I think very little listening was to be had.”
“There is merit to his threat?”
“Yes and no.” There was a slight vibration in the floor as she sat. “Uncle is making use of an unspoken formality. Only mothers and fathers can claim or disown a child. He has no right, legal or otherwise, to take Jathen’s Monortith name or his place within the family.”
“Of course not.” Petalith huffed, sounding as if it was incredulous for anyone to even suggest such a thing. “How does he mean to take the throne?”
“The technicality is that the king has always given a formal recognition of the firstborn boy as his heir. Kyanith never did this with Jathen.”
The burst of heat and fear exploding in his chest was too much to contain. Jathen strode into the room. “So I’ve never been the heir at all?”
His mother jumped a little, pink ears falling flat against her skull. “No. You are firstborn. You are the heir.” She shifted, then crossed the room and hugged him. The wide sleeves of her magenta Tazu-hide dress pooled across his shoulders. “He’s playing with it, saying your status has only ever been implied, not confirmed. It is as he taunted us yesterday, he intends to make a formal announcement at the next meeting of the council. At the end of the month, he’s going to name your brother as his heir, as if you don’t even exist.”
Pulling out of the embrace, he asked, “Is there no stopping him?”
“It’s tricky.” His mother returned to pacing the concourse, her pink-and-black-striped arms clasped behind her back. “I can contest him directly, of course. You are both my sons, and the title falls to the eldest, no matter what he contrives about formal recognitions.” She halted and exchanged a concerned glance with Petalith, who sat bipedal on the couch. “But a lot of people who would normally contest his unusual interpretation will not simply because…”
“I’m a moot.”
“Yes.” Her expression hardened. “But I am still the queen, still the right hand in all affairs of state and the final authority with regard to the legality of succession. To overturn me is to overturn the laws.”
Jathen’s heart skipped. “Won’t that start a war?”
“No. Uncle is bluffing, testing my mettle not your legitimacy. There is no good reason for him to press this issue now. He wants to see if I’ll push back at the meeting, which I will. Then he’ll have to back down or risk, at the very least, a political upheaval.” She shook her head. “It won’t go that far, Jath. I promise.”
Jathen took a deep breath. “What if it does go that far? Mother, I don’t think… I mean, these two days...” He struggled to make a point he barely grasped. “I’ve had to call into question, have had it called into question for me, again and again…” Steadying himself against the arm of her informal throne, he stopped rambling and gazed at her. “What if it’s not supposed to be? What if the throne is not a path I’m supposed to tread, and you push and cause a war?”
“Oh, my.” Petalith eyed them with a concerned air. “Dragonfly, the boy has a point.”
“Shush, Pet,” his mother ordered gently, wrapping an arm around him. “Come, Jathen. Sit with me a moment.” She led him to the couch opposite Petalith. “It is all right to doubt your place in the world and the path you are supposed to be walking. I’d be more worried for you if you had no uncertainty in you at all. Tracing our paths through life is not an easy task, not for any of us.
“My mother explained it to me in this way: It is as if you are flying in stormy weather toward a home you’ve never seen. You must beat your wings and fight with all your might against some winds or else be blown off course and lost to the storm, while with other breezes, it is better to relax
your wings and merely glide on the airstream, allowing the wind to carry you. The difficulty lies in trying to discern which of the gusting currents you should fight and which to coast on. If you beat your wings forever against a gale you cannot gain ground with, you will exhaust yourself. If you glide with every breeze, you can be dashed upon rocks or trees, or again, be lost to the storm. The easy answer is to pursue the ones leading you toward where you want to go, but in this tempest, you don’t know what your destination looks like. Where you want to land might not be the home you are searching for, and even if it is, the course you can see may not be the best way to get there. It is a grand balance of weighing each choice by each moment, all so we can fly home.”
“That’s all well and good, Mother, except I can’t fly. And never will.”
“Oh, Jathen, my sweet son and first little egg.” She cupped his chin, careful not to clip his face with her claws. “One day, you’ll learn you don’t need wings to soar.”
“Or a throne?”
“Perhaps.” She released him. “Though it has always been a strongly felt belief of mine that you at least be given the opportunity.”
“No matter how exhausted your wings get?” Jathen thought she looked gaunt. Her pink scales and black mane seemed less rich from the years of stress, but such an assessment might only be Petalith’s continual nagging imprinted in his brain.
She smiled and straightened. “I’m not even winded. It’s something I honestly believe is important. You were my firstborn for a reason, Jathen. You are a moot for a reason. And I’ll be damned if Kyanith is going to be the one to say it isn’t so.”
“You know I’m never certain what to believe. But what if the reason I am the way I am is that I’m not supposed to rule?”
She put a hand on his knee. “Do you really believe that?”