The City of Mordove

Foundations:

No one is sure precisely how Mordove was founded, or when.  There are mentions of strong stone walls in the first records to be found in ancient Palentian.  They took the city despite its defenses, and kept it as an outpost protecting against any potential Anderhale incursion several decades before the Lycian genocide.  The conquest of Lycia redoubled the importance of this outpost, which fell to Anderhale forces ten years before the Lycian rebellion retook their nation.

Ancient Mordove was sacked three times during the following decade as the three nations fought over the strategically important position.  It was ultimately abandoned by Corinthian forces after the fall of the Anderhale capitol, as Corinth recalled troops to help hold a tenuous grasp on the conquered nation.

Palentine retook the abandoned outpost, and built a new set of walls that would later outline the shape of the main academy.  Mordove went unassailed for a decade, and the general holding it refused to accept initial introduction into Corinthia when southern Palentine joined.  This meant Mordove operated as a city state for another decade, and remained an independent nation state when joining the empire under the Lord General’s successor.  This title of Lord General would persist until the treaty of Mordove restructured the city state to function more as a capital, and less as an independent body.

By the third decade of Corinth’s reign Mordove had already become a challenger to the royal academy.  The original central fortress was completely subsumed by the institution, and spilled into the surrounding city.  The main royal academy would however continue to outshine it until the destruction of Corinthia during the dragon war.

As the most renowned surviving institution of higher learning in the post war world, Mordove was the natural place to found the Council.  Representatives of all the nations of the former Empire were called to write, and ratify the Treaty of Mordove.  The articles of which helped enshrine the next few centuries of relative peace.  One of the critical articles called for the encouraging of migration of gifted to Mordove.  This was done in a number of ways, from political pressure, to stipends for gifted residents based on the strength of their aura.  Further support was given to gifted women who bore and raised gifted children.

Mordove was the place to be if one sought power or prominence in the post imperial world.  Mages were banned from military and governing positions in most lands, with a few grandfathered in exceptions for some royal lines.  A limited number of positions as caravan mages, and mercenaries were all that were left for the conventional battle mage.  Enchantment became an over saturated market, and many competent mages found themselves to be lack luster enchanters.

This did lead to a number of renegade mages forming bands of brigands, a pattern which continues into the modern era.  All together though, most mages are happy to seek out Mordove, and find a place, and a role.  Councils, sub-councils, instruction, raising more gifted youth.  Bulk enchantments for distribution by caravan where needed.  Fortune telling a perennial niche.  More mundane craftsmanship flourished, often refined with magic training.

Structure:

The city of Mordove is the largest contiguous city on Thaea with a population of nearly a million residents, and a disproportionate gifted population of over thirty percent.  More than a fifth of its residents are at least part time students, instructors, or support staff of the Academy.  Fully a third are in the direct employ of the city for upkeep, maintenance, construction, and other public services.  The overlap between these two catagorise is harder to parse.

City government is primarily managed by seven elected Ministers who represent the physical areas of the city, and eight appointed Councilors from the Low-Council who represent broader reaching concerns and disciplines.  One of these is elected by the group as Chancellor, who in turn technically answers to the sitting Archmage, but the two historically stay out of each-other’s business.

The Archmage is a mostly honorary position granted to an elder council member, and requiring their replacement as sitting council member.  The Archmage does however have a number of enumerated functional powers in directing council business, and may vote in the event of a tie, or abstain, leaving a deadlock, and direct business on.  The Archmage may be drawn from Provisional Seats, and in fact three of the past ten Archmages have been enchanters, and one Diviner.  The Archmage may also refuse the post, forcing another vote. This has happened five times in three hundred years.  The Archmage is also the de facto head of the Academy, but many have appointed all major duties to a deputy administrator.

The Actual Treaty:

The Treaty of Mordove is one of the most lengthy, exhaustive, and convoluted legal documents ever crafted.  This often impenetrable, ever growing collection of precedents, subsections, appendices, and amendments outlines a deceptively simple premise.

Kings are not mages (not always true, given a number of exceptions,) and reign at the sufferance of the Council, and the laws of the Treaty.

Only two kings have been deposed under the terms of the treaty, and a third by the super majority vote of the council, requiring seventy percent dissent, and a clear moral imperative.  The very definition of clear moral imperative is outlined in one of the lengthiest appendices, which itself has an entire volume of amendments.

If all this seems absurd it is perhaps because the council often has little better to do, given their function is not to govern.  Rather they manage who governs, the legality of their decrees, and the best interest of the world as a whole.

The Prime Council seats:

The Prime Council has 16 Members, representing the nations of the former Empire.  Their relationship to the nations they represent is however often complex, or even indirect.  The successor to each seat is sponsored by the sitting member while still alive, and need only be accepted by assent of both their peers within the Mid Council, and the members of the Prime Council.  Assent requires a vote of always one less than half the votes available.  That is seven votes for from the prime council, and whatever it amounts to among their available peers.

Voting Council members may be removed by a vote of seventy percent of the Prime and Provisional council, or the unanimous vote of the rest of the Prime council.  The prior has happened twice, the latter only once.

There are sixteen Prime Council seats, but for brevity we will discuss only the most controversial in their number.

The Clarion Ascension
Corinthia
Western Palentine
Eastern Palentine
Southern Palentine
Central Palentine
Napir

Notable is the seemingly disproportionate influence of Palentine, this must however be taken in context that these four nations are very often not in agreement, and contentious with one another.  Though Southern and Central Palentine are often more moderate, and unreliably will side with Eastern or Western, often canceling each other.

Corinthia conversely is disproportionately influential as more than a quarter of this nation has been rendered uninhabitable, and the border territories have grown ever more depopulated.  Corinthia votes reliably, and all but in lock step with Lycia.

The Clarion Ascension is made up of many smaller city-states, and governed regions.  It has petitioned relentlessly to see its power in the council expanded with additional seats, and been consistently denied.

Napir openly refuses to recognize council authority in their nation, and yet wields it with a voting seat.  This muddled arrangement however is enshrined in the Treaty of Mordove, and Napir’s very particular structure of governance cannot be adapted to council rules.  This is largely due to the unique nature of the position of Storm Queen, and the incredible literal powers wielded by this landlocked sovereign.

The Provisional Council:
The Provisional Council adds a variable number of seats that hold votes, though these seats are sometimes dropped to the lower council, it is most often enumerated as:

Enchanters
Architects – the only council seat occasionally held by an ungifted.
Diviners
The War College
Healers
Druids
Shapers
The North Eastern Tribes
The North Western Tribes
The Knights of the Empire – most often absent.
Osyrae

The Osyrean seat is particularly controversial, as Osyrae has recognized their own representation only four time in three hundred years.  King Heron recognized the sitting representative at the time of his ascension to the throne, and so the Osyrean seat is currently a member of the provisional council, in spite of his brother taking his place.  King Vharen has neither recognized or refuted the sitting representative.

As a rule the active inclusion of many of these seats is determined based on the question of the Prime Council’s view if they are both in alignment with the charter of the Treaty, and if they truly represent those they stand for.  Three times an entire Provisional seat has been dissolved, and reformed.

The Mid Council:

The junior entourage, circle of support, and heirs apparent to the seats of the Provisional and Prime seats of the council.  Mid Council members do sometimes stand for the sitting member if they are ill, by order of precedence of their understood position within the group.  Beyond this Mid Council members often make up committees, rather than deposing a Prime or Provisional member with the details of legislation.

The Lower Council:

A somewhat erratic list of guilds, aristocrats, and other intellectual circles.  They tend to grow in number, rather than shrink, as the council has proven more apt to add lower seats than rescind them.  This council has limited power or influence on the far reaching affairs of the council, but significant power over governance of Mordove itself.

The enchanted wares and textiles of Mordove are second only to those of Osyrae, but cheeper, and more plentiful.  All other rivalries aside the crafters of these two nations are locked in ageless war of refinement on their arts.  Osyrean silks and fine wools, satins and delicate dense threaded cotton from Mordove.

One of the more exotic wares from Mordove however are the work of an isolated druidic circle who have grown a small forest within a corner of the city.  These master shapers create practical, and aesthetic works of living wood, and are the last great school of shaper magic in the world.  The rise of this sub-group of the druid circle created the modern Shaper seat on the provisional council.

The Knights of the Empire:

The Knights of the Empire are recognized, and sanctioned under Council law, and only two of the Imperial Knighthoods have been stripped since the founding of the council.  One was stripped, but restored.  Three more have died out.  There are twenty three recognized Knights of the Empire, of which three are practicing mages of note, the rest primarily martial in training.  As most (Lord) Knighthoods through the former empire the title is heritable, but easily stripped for miss deeds.

The Knights of the Empire directly serve not the council, but treaty law, often with much wiggle room around the expanded volumes that have been written since the signing.  The distinction on this is often lost, particularly since the Knights were given their own seat, but it is filled less than half of the time.

Officially Knights of the Empire cary a rank slightly below that of a Duke or equivalent in any given Council land, but rarely exert this authority, and rarely would such flexing work.  Leading only to complicated political ramifications.  Though the Knights do not directly serve the council the Council does have enumerated powers to “call” the Knights to any given land to serve as they see fit.

A City by Any Other Name:

A great deal of confusion exists about the name Mordove, and competing theories swirl around possible origins.  Mor, not to be confused with the western moor, was a rather specific Anderhale word for a common rocky terrain type that is hard to cultivate, develop, or traverse.  However in old Palentien mor was simply more.  Dov in old Palentian is white, where as e was often added to Anderhale nouns to imply whiteness, and duv was their word for pidgins which are a common bird in the land.  This pattern is known to be the origin of the modern dove.

What this leads to is a bit of a miss match.  In straight old Palentien Mordov would be more white, the sense of which is not understood, and the origin of the e would be mysterious save to form the rather redundant more-white-white.  Mor of Doves is suggested as an Anderhale origin, which while not completely implausible does rub up against a general belief that Palentians first made the settlement there before fortifying it, and later being conquered by their kin.  White Mor is suggested by other scholars, as the rocky outcroppings in the area are mostly pale to white granite.  This is a plausible transitional dialect option.

Most popular amongst common residents however is the inverse suggestion of simply More Doves.  This translation gained notoriety due to joking about the overpopulation of pidgins and doves through the city.  The absurd suggestion is rejected by most, but not all scholars.  The only strong linguistic argument against it is that it is silly, but it is none the less as valid a transitional dialect solution as White Mor.

The Resolve of the Council:

In over three centuries, and baring the initial decades of marginal chaos for which records get spotty, there have been four recognized rebellions, five coups, two civil wars, three royal assassinations, and fifteen border skirmishes that have been deemed to warrant Council intervention.  The result of every single one has been controversial, and re-litigated to stalemates, upsets, or upheld only on technicalities.  In spite of this the actual force that the Council has occasionally brought to bare maintains enough fear to keep most nations on the straight and narrow.

All of this of course also ignores acts that occur outside the bounds of the Treaty of Mordove.  From internal struggles in Osyrae, to abuses of the peoples of the northern wastes, or wars between them.  Their seats on the Provisional council have proven ineffective at best, and superficial more realistically.  Given these regions are fractious the representation has been spotty if the sitting member is not of an effected tribe.  More so the two seats do not show any common interest, and in recent decades the Eastern seat is more closely aligned with the Clarion Ascension.

The single most controversial case was the assassination of the King of Thebes in 523 E.R.  This assassination was blamed on the heir apparent, shown later to be the work of his younger brother who got Council favor to take the throne.  He was then deposed, and the rightful heir freed, only to be killed in a Clarion backed coup.  This finally resulted in the installation of Queen Regent Margarite, the consort of the slain King who reigned for fifteen years till her son was of age to take the throne.  The boy however in the meantime proved to be a mage prodigy, and Margarite was left on the throne for another twelve years while the Council bickered over succession.  They finally picked the young Duke Astair, who rather than simply taking the throne instead married the aging Margarite, and deferring to her as the proper ruler till her death in 590 E.R.  He then stepped aside, naming his bastard son by his well known mistress to the throne.  The Council relented to this rather than destabilize the nation again.

This particularly egregious series of failures, and lacking leadership has left the clout of the Council in question for decades, and is considered endemic of a larger problem shown through other historic examples.

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Chapter 18

Not all nature hath given is worthy of trust,
the instincts of body are animalistic urges,
these care not for light, mind, or spirit will,
and err toward a primitive world that was,
yes endure we must to walk worthy paths,
yet a tainted soul is for the voids sure gain,
commit not the nature fickle flesh to spirit.

– The Path of Ascension, Saint Taurien, circa 10 B.E.

Fighting Instincts

Jovan 1st, 645 E.R.

“The Empire Reconciliation began in the year thirty-four of the reign of first Emperor Corinth,”  Kiannae read, and then frowned.  “Though Corinth is said to have resisted putting such emphasis on the year of his ascension, it was ultimately…”

“We’ve covered this,” Katrisha protested.

Moriel turned a bit tersely, but then hesitated.  He marched up to the desk the twins were sitting at, flipped through a few pages, checked the cover, and shook his head.

“My apologies, I seem to have crossed up lesson plans with the young prince,” he said, and walked the book back across the room.

“But we covered that a year ago,” Kiannae said a bit incredulously.

“He’s older,” Katrisha added, and rubbed a sore shoulder from morning training with Horence.  She had fallen rather hard on it when Kiannae had swept her leg.

Moriel tapped his finger along the spines of several books, pulled one out, and set it before the girls.  “Yes, he is.”  There was no particular tone with it, nor an expression that hinted at humor.  Kiannae nonetheless started to laugh, but stopped at a stern glance.

“Katrisha, please begin,” Moriel said when he was satisfied they had both calmed themselves.

She opened the book, turned a few pages, and pursed her lips.

“Perceiving Magic,” she began.

The underlying organism appears to have e-volved in abstract of the gift, and acquired it later.  Further this is reinforced in the individual by the gradual growth of aura, leading into adolescence and adulthood.

“Evolved?” Kiannae asked curiously.

“Hmm,” Moriel considered the two.  “Perhaps we should have begun instead with Cadius’ Comparative Species.”  He shook his head.  “We’ll get to that later.  Laurel thought this one would be good for you when I showed it to him.  In short, evolution is the manner in which the creatures of the world – people included – have changed over time by inheritance, mutation, intentions of the world, dire instincts, and mortal intervention.  Though the distribution of these effects, and mechanisms are sometimes in debate.”

“How the Sylvans are part cat?” Katrisha asked, and brushed the tip of her ear thoughtfully.

“Or the eastern ones part wolf,” Kiannae corrected.

“That would fit into mortal intervention in all likelihood,” Moriel nodded.  “Though it causes all manner of problems.  Shaper magic to our knowledge was not refined enough for such a task till at least the middle empire, but the Sylvans were as they are long before the Magi. Perhaps something more akin to the instinctual changes of dire creatures.”  He seemed thoughtful a moment.

“I’m not dire,” Kiannae said crossing her arms, and staring up at their tutor.

Moriel perked a brow, and leaned over the table, peering over his glasses in an almost comical manner, even if his expression remained its usual neutral.  “Aren’t you?  I think I’ve heard some tales that imply a few youth of the court might disagree.”

“I think that was me,” Katrisha said jumping to her sister’s defense, and with very little sheepishness about it.

“As if they can tell you two apart,” Moriel waved dismissively, and stood up straight again.  “A dire creature is at the heart little more than gifted are.  Yet instincts in an animal seem liable to shape them in ways mortals are – at least typically – not.  Still, there are exceptions.  Mostly shaper magic such as changed Roshana, and the other dragons.  But some with profound gifts not trained as mages do become larger, more muscular.  The legends refer to Osier, first king of the nation that still bears his name, to have been more giant than man.  A warrior who should have been counted among the shaman, but was refused.”

“That’s how Osyrae got its name?” Kiannae asked curiously, it had never come up before.

“Yes,” Moriel nodded.  “Much the same way that the nation – later Empire – of Corinthia came to be named such.  Formerly it was Anderhale, named for another line of kings.  In Osyrae, and perhaps the whole world, Osier was the first king.  That land though had no other name as a united people.  I’m sure the vale people referred to them all as Nords at some point, though I am aware of no clear written record of it.  Nord of course derived from the old vale speak nor, or North.  Much as Nohlend…”

“So was Avrale conquered by someone named Ave then?” Katrisha interrupted dubiously, not having realized Moriel was going to continue after a momentary pause.

“No.”  Moriel sighed.  “We are off topic,” he said as the interruption allowed him to consider he was rambling.  He glanced at the twins, and saw they seemed determined.  He marched up to the blackboard, and tapped the chalk thoughtfully.

“Words, Names, Titles, Language itself is much like the organisms of the world.  Changing, adapting, mutating over time,” he began.  He scrawled four letters quickly on the board, ‘Cwen.’  He underlined this, and turned back towards the girls.  “Writing was in a primitive form when the Magi left ancient Osyrae, but after the things they experienced the preservation of knowledge was critical to them.”  He turned back, and wrote ‘Maji’ and drew an arrow to ‘Magi.’

“So the spelling changed?” Katrisha asked.

“And the pronunciation,” Moriel said with a nod.  “The original form is believed to have sounded more like maz-i.  It meant, ‘teacher,’ or perhaps ‘teacher of peace.’  In all the great irony that gives us.  It changed further you might know, to refer to those they taught, and became mage.”

“What is, C-wen,” Kiannae sounded out, and then the look on her face almost implied she got it.

“Seems you have a guess,” Moriel said shrewdly.

“Queen?” Kiannae offered.

“In one,” Moriel said encouragingly.  “In the original form it meant woman, or possibly more like the honorific Lady.  We owe the original connotation to Navi, who declared herself Cwen of Every Vale, though it is most often translated as She of Every Vale, or Lady of Every Vale.  We owe then the modern queen to Napir, and the influence of the Storm Queen, who took up the word, liking the implication of female rule.  There is some semantic debate if Navi or Ashai the Storm Queen of the day would be the first true queen.  The line of the Storm is older, but their role is more Empress than queen, but the word in its modern form comes from the land.”

Moriel shook his head.  As in instructor he hated questions he had not predicted, not because he did not know the answer, but because he sometimes struggled not to ramble on with too much more.  A natural affliction perhaps from having spent too many years buried in books.  With his eyes as they were, his face a bit more buried than most.

“So is king just man in the end?” Katrisha asked dubiously.

“A reasonable guess,” Moriel offered, “but no.  It is related to kin, or kon in the original Osyrean.  The g was added to the end implying a sort of ownership, or possession, being above kin.”  He turned, and wrote two more words on the board.  “Notably it sounded more like Kon-ing, than Kong, as one might expect to pronounce it.  In some irony kin’s original meaning was ‘to birth,’ or ‘to spring forth.’”

Kiannae laughed.  “So both King and Queen come from feminine meanings?”

“In a matter of speaking,” Moriel offered in an indecisive tone.  He could sometimes be a hard man to read, with his somewhat pudgy face that always looked oddly jovial, even if his thin lipped expression rarely varied to either humor or displeasure.  He did have moments he cracked to an impish smile, but they were rare, even when it did seem he was joking.

“So,” Katrisha started with a pause, “Cwen was the title taken by Navi, Cwen of Every Vale, and like the song Every Vale became Avrale with time?” she guessed with less than certainty.

“Precisely,” Moriel nodded.  “Sorry, this happens when one doesn’t set out to follow a lesson plan.”  He turned back to the board, and again scrawled out some letters.  “Avr Vrael is the best record we have of the ancient words used in the title.  Though as Avr meant all, in a context of the land, and all of the land was vales it was somewhat redundant.  How exactly it shortened to Avrale over time is less well understood, but it is surmised that the two ‘vr’s merged.”

He considered his two pupils a moment.  “I will be glad to prepare lessons on comparative linguistics, and evolution if they are of interest, but let us return to the prepared topic for the day.”  He pointed to Kiannae.

She shifted the book, and tried to pick up where her sister left off.

As such the mind and nerves do not develop a direct method of understanding these energies they can later perceive.  The result is a form of syn-es-the-sia.  Eliciting texture, smell, taste, warm and cold, and perhaps most notably visual or rarely auditory phenomena that are not gathered by the eyes or ears.

“Synesthesia?” Kiannae asked curiously.

“It is much as the text implies, a conflation of one sense with another.  If you have ever noticed what seems like light when rubbing your eyes, this is at least related.  Injury, disease, and other causes do sometimes impart more widespread crossing of senses.  You each could speak to the fact better, but this text implies that your perceptions of gift, aura, and magic are thus.”

Kiannae pursed her lips, and resumed reading aloud.

To this end tuning out the direct stimuli and focusing on those intruding on a sense helps to better observe auras.  For example, unfocused vision, or even closing your eyes can be of use.  Unfocused vision is the preference as closing one’s eyes can confuse, and remove visual cues that help anchor perceptions in our grasp of depth.  

On the whole physical sensations are more reliable because – ironically – the confusion of stimuli is deeper to the point of making it hard to tell what comes from the gift, or from touch.  At the root all such perceptions are the influence of auras on our own, and by consequence our peripheral nerves which is their primary source.

“We already know this,” Kiannae protested.

“Do you?” Moriel pressed.

Katrisha frowned.  “I think perhaps more we know some of it.  I’ve heard of nerves, they let us feel things, but I didn’t know they were the source of our auras.”  She held up her hand, trying to look deeper, but she wasn’t sure if she could make out anything new.  She grabbed her sister’s to a small sound of protest, and tried again.  She just shook her head.

“Why don’t you continue reading, Miss Katrisha,” Moriel suggested.

She shifted the book, and found her place.

This connection is one aspect of the strength of gestures in performing gifted practices.  Gesture itself carries kinetic energy, and intention, forming symbolic linkages with the power of the primordial mind.  Though with this said, keep in mind that gesture is easily more crutch than boon, and can be deeply limiting if relied upon too heavily.

Magic is ultimately an abstract process, unlike the more primitive applications of conjuration and channeling.  With practice one can form spells around themselves without any motion at all.  With further practice more primitive offensive spells can be directed with gesture, while the conscious mind focuses on the more arcane areas of defense.

“That does seem more useful,” Kiannae admitted.

“I would surmise,” Moriel said with a thin sort of humor.  Having no experience in the matter himself, it had proven an interesting read when trying to better understand the girls he was expected to help teach.  Getting the twins to accept he had something worthwhile to teach them, was often enough of a challenge to give him a touch of pride when he got through.

⁃ ◇ ❖ ◇ ⁃

Harfast 32nd, 645 E.R.

Katrisha kissed Wren on the forehead, and then helped him up to Renae’s waiting arms on the horse.  “I hope you two will visit again soon, it had been too long since the last time,” Katrisha said, as Renae settled Wren behind her.

“Yes, of course,” Renae said with a smile, “Perhaps you could come visit the Cloister as well, it’s very pretty there this time of year.”

“I fear Laurel is still far to cross with us to let us off castle grounds,” Kiannae said dismissively.  In truth she was quite sure the tensions with Arlen would also play some role in insuring that was not an option.

“Rightly so, it sounds as though you two were being very reckless,” Renae said disapprovingly.

“Yes,” Katrisha said sheepishly, “anyway, take care of yourselves.”

“You too,” Wren said as Renae urged the horse to turn.

“I will try and arrange to be here in the spring, but I can never be sure,” Renae said as she started the horse out the castle gate.

“I’ll miss you Wren,” Katrisha yelled as she waved, and turned to her sister who seemed cross.  “What’s wrong?” she asked after a moment of silence.

“Nothing,” Kiannae grumbled, and turned to climb the stairs to the upper court.

⁃ ◇ ❖ ◇ ⁃

Katrisha was startled when Kiannae slammed their chamber door in her face before she could enter.  She opened the door slowly, and watched as Kiannae finished marching across the room to the window, where she leaned on the seat, and stared out at the valley below.

“Ok,” Katrisha said taking a breath, now a bit cross herself, “what is bothering you already?”

“Nothing,” Kiannae muttered.

“That’s obviously not true, you’ve been stewing on something all day.  This isn’t because I finally beat you in a spar this morning, is it?”  Katrisha walked over and put her hand on her sister’s shoulder, but the gesture was shrugged off.

Katrisha was not really sure how to take Kiannae’s behavior, they had each seen the other angry countless times, but Katrisha couldn’t think of an instance where her sister had ever been unwilling to talk to her.  Katrisha frowned, and started to walk towards the bed, intending to flop down in frustration.  If it was really about the spar, she was going to be very cross, after all the times Kiannae had beaten her, and teased her for it.

“Why do you like him so much?” Kiannae demanded just as Katrisha reached the foot of the bed.

“What?” Katrisha said honestly confused, and turned back.  It was so far afield of her expectations it took her a moment to even begin to put a who to the implication.

“Wren,” Kiannae said angrily, “why do you love Wren so much?”

“He’s our brother!” Katrisha snapped tersely, and marched back towards Kiannae.

“He’s weird,” Kiannae said uneasily.

“One to talk Ki,” Katrisha said scrunching up her face angrily.

“It’s true,” Kiannae said shrugging off Katrisha’s attempt at levity, and turned to her angrily.  “And whenever he’s here, you pay more attention to him than me.”

“Because he’s here so rarely, and you are always here,” Katrisha countered defensively.  “He’s your brother too,” she added.

“I’m not like him,” Kiannae said narrowing her eyes, and clenching her fist,  “I didn’t kill mother.”

“Don’t say that,” Katrisha snapped back angrily, balling up both fists.

“If it wasn’t for him mother would be alive,” Kiannae insisted flatly.

“That wasn’t Wren’s fault,” Katrisha protested, and started her sister square in the eye, half remembering something, the oddest horrible little thing.  She had asked for a little brother, she remembered that suddenly.  She had forgotten.  She wasn’t sure why she had asked – she hadn’t been sure why at the time.  It nagged at her like something important, like a voice in a dream that had planted the idea.  Did that make it her fault she half wondered?  Had she asked for Wren…why had she?

“It’s still true,” Kiannae said stubbornly.

“I said not to say that,” Katrisha demanded fiercely, stepping up on her sister, “you know how he feels about it.”

“Is he here,” Kiannae gestured around, and sneered.  “What does it matter, I can speak the truth when the little killer isn’t here.”

“You don’t even remember mother,” Katrisha growled, “you don’t even listen when Wren talks.”

“What do I care what he has to say?”  Kiannae said turning away furious, but Katrisha grabbed her shoulder, and made her turn back to face her.

“I remember mother sometimes when I talk with Wren, when he tries to sing,” Katrisha said in a pained tone, almost crying.  Her mother’s smile intruded on her memory, her wrapping her arms around their father, and asking what he thought of the idea.  He hadn’t objected.  Katrisha’s nails were digging into her own palm.  She was so angry, but she wasn’t even entirely sure who with.  It was a jumble of sorrow and rage out of proportion with sense.

“That’s because he stole her soul,” Kiannae growled, and wrested fiercely free of Katrisha’s grasp.

“Don’t say that,” Katrisha said tearfully – not sure if she was defending Wren, herself, or both of them.  She pushed her sister hard enough to stagger her.  There was a clap like thunder, and Katrisha found herself thrown across the room, and dazed.  She wasn’t even thinking at that point, her sister had attacked her, had thrown her clear across the room.  She didn’t even quite realize she had stopped herself from hitting the wall, or just how hard she had been thrown.  Something snapped in her, some foreign instinct took hold, and she struck, struck before she had even stopped herself from hitting the wall…struck almost before she had even been thrown.

There was a moment of frozen horror on both sister’s faces as they realized what had happened, as they both realized what they had done.  A shard of razor sharp ice the size of Katrisha’s arm hung inches from Kiannae’s left shoulder, and was thrown forcefully to the floor where it shattered, and sizzled.  Both looked unsteadily to the door where Laurel stood, a hand out stretched, an expression stricken with complete horror, shock, disbelief, and rage on his face.  His own hand slowly curled into a fist.

“Why!?” was all Laurel seemed to be able to yell, panting from the adrenaline of the moment as it caught up to him.  Even the instinct that he had spun on, even the sound that had nearly rattled their chamber door from its hinges.  He had reacted before it had happened, and his ears were ringing.

Kiannae nudged a frozen shard with her sandal.  Katrisha tried to look at her sister, but couldn’t meet her gaze.  She couldn’t fathom what had just occurred, what she had just done.  She didn’t even remember doing it completely.  It had been a gesture at most, one half caused by the blow itself as the air was forced from her lungs.  That was what the book had said, one could learn to do simple offensive spells with a gesture, but she had not learned to do any such thing.  Yet as much as she could not understand how she had done it, as much as no thought or intent had time to enter into it, it was hard to feel it was an accident.

Kiannae hesitantly started to walk towards Katrisha, and gave a hurt glance to Laurel as he stepped towards them, prepared to intercede.  Kiannae held her hand out to her sister where she was leaned against the wall.  At first Katrisha didn’t notice, and continued looking anywhere but at Kiannae.

After a moment Katrisha managed to bring herself to glance at her sister, and at the hand that was offered to her.  Hesitantly Katrisha took hold of her sister’s hand, and was helped to her feet.  Kiannae slowly stepped closer, and wrapped her arms around her twin, who stood there impassively.

“I can’t believe…” Katrisha said hauntedly.

“I…” Kiannae started meekly, “I felt it too, I could have…”

“You…” Katrisha stepped back, and looked her in the eye incredulously.  “I…I nearly…”

“I threw you hard, really…I…I…” Kiannae stammered starting to cry.

“No,” Laurel commanded agitatedly.  “No, no!  You two do not get to break down into tears before you tell me what in the abyss just happened!  Both of you, too my study,” he growled.  “Now!” he snapped when the two simply stared at him with injured expressions.  He still seemed short of breath.

⁃ ◇ ❖ ◇ ⁃

Laurel stood, rubbing his head tiredly, and looked again at the two identical girls, who stood silently before him, holding the other’s hands tightly.  Not the image of two children who had just nearly killed one another in a violent outburst.  He looked at them more closely, they weren’t quite identical he noticed, Katrisha was slightly paler than her sister, and it was beginning to make her freckles stand out more.  It was subtle, hard to notice, probably no more than Kiannae favoring getting more sun, but there it was, nonetheless.  It was the first time he had ever noticed such a distinct physical difference between them.

Laurel sighed after the uncomfortable silence had dragged on for too long.  The two girls accounts of their conflict had been equally sheepish, and strikingly similar – each had accepted blame without question for striking out at the other.  Kiannae had struck first, neither had challenged this, though Katrisha had vehemently insisted that the force she had been thrown with was not significant.  Laurel knew Katrisha was wrong, he had felt the magic, and the shockwave.  It had shaken their chamber door nearly free of it’s hinges beside him.  Had he not been there at that exact moment…

He closed his eyes, and steadied is rage, at that moment directed as much at himself, as the girls.  He had been concerned when he had heard of a splintered staff that morning in the girl’s spar.  Horence had insisted it had just been cracked before hand.  Laurel had an instinct it wasn’t.  Horence had previously reported that Kiannae seemed to be the naturally better fighter, always keeping Katrisha on her guard, but that he found it curious, that the harder Kiannae pushed, the better Katrisha seemed.  The staff had splintered at the moment Horence had been about to step in because it was getting out of hand.

Katrisha had taken the force of the blow, and brought the other end of her staff around so fast that even parried the blow followed through, and struck Kiannae hard enough on the shoulder to leave a bruise that she had spent an hour healing.  It was possible Katrisha herself had swung too hard, almost likely, but if Laurel did the math, with Horence’s description, the short to high leverage, force enough to have splintered a staff one one end, and break the attacker’s own block on the other…

“I am doubling your time with Horence,” Laurel said almost dispassionately, still in shock.  He had stopped Katrisha’s attack milliseconds short of catastrophic consequences.  He had managed that only because of the same instincts he knew in his gut had caused it.  The terror of the incident had left a mark on him he had not yet allowed himself time to fully process, distracted with far more intellectual ramifications.  “What you have told me…” he held a moment, calmed, changed his tone, and rethought his words.  “What Horence has told me of your training leaves me with almost no doubt.  You have the instincts of battle mages – and as much as it displeases me, I know what must be done.”

“What?” Kiannae asked uneasily.

“What happened between you two today…was not wholly your own faults,” Laurel said in a reserved tone.  “Though you will bear the responsibility of learning to control these instincts, as well as it seems, your tempers.  And as much it rattles every parental instinct I have come to harbor, as a mage I know that the only way to train you to control this, is to fully train you in combat magic.”

Laurel watched the small, confused, and almost excited glance between the girls.  “And to be clear,” he said with agitation, “I will work you so hard, as to leave no question this is a punishment.”

“Yes,” Katrisha said in a small voice.  Kiannae simply looked down again.

“As I said,” Laurel sighed, changing his tone again.  “This is not entirely your fault.  I fear I may have stirred these…’gifts’…through your training with Horence.  They would have emerged eventually, but…”  he shook his head.  “You will also need to resolve your conflict over your brother,” he said focusing squarely on Kiannae.  “I believe the escalation you experienced fed on itself presciently, and only the shock of the outcome startled you two out of the cycle.  I can only hope by learning to control it, that this kind of emotional feedback will not occur again.  Failing that, some form of meditation may be necessary.”

Laurel ran his fingers through his hair.  “As to the subject of your conflict, I can not tell you what to feel,” he said still focusing on Kiannae. “Only that I do not hold Wren responsible for your mother’s fate.  There is a great deal of blame to go around for what occurred, but no singular person can bear responsibility for the end result.  Do not throw away a sibling, who from all my dealings with him is a wonderful, promising boy, over something he had no choice in.”

⁃ ◇ ❖ ◇ ⁃

Styver 1st, 645 E.R.

Wren slowed his quick gate, and his sobbing trailed off as he took stock of where he stood.  The wood beyond the north wall of the cloister contained a large clearing.   Wren had known it was there on some level, the cemetery was not a secret, just rarely spoken of.  Death was inevitable, even if great gifts could stave it off for a time.  The many gravestones arrayed in ordered rows before Wren stood as a reminder that even that was not forever.

The number was striking, given the history lessons ingrained upon children of the order from a young age.  The cloister was only a few hundred years old, and had not stood at the time of the great war.  The dead that lay in that hallowed ground had passed in the simple course of time.  The eldest of the founding sisters and brothers came first, and then the younger members of the first generation in due course.

The weathering of the stones lessened towards the back, and Wren plopped down near a gravestone, and with a puzzled look reached out his hand to touch it.  He traced the name Somavera as hasty footsteps cracked twigs entering the clearing behind him.

“Are you alright?” Celia asked in a consoling tone.

“No,” Wren said plainly.  “I’m not right at all.  He’s right about that, I’m a monster.”

Celia ran up behind Wren, dropped to her knees, and hugged him tightly.  “Stop saying that,” she demanded.

“If I didn’t say it, it would still be true,” Wren choked out.

“It’s not true at all,” Celia said as a chill wind blew across the clearing, and made her shiver.

It was growing darker, the sun long out of view behind the trees, and the mountain range to the west beginning to shadow Highvale from what was left of the evening sun.  A few flickers of light began to dot the edge of the woods.  Celia scrunched her face with some concern, she’d never seen such a peculiar occurrence.  The lights danced ever so slightly, slowly swirling about each other in graceful arcs.

Another set of footsteps could be heard crunching leaves, and slowly entering the clearing behind the pair.  Celia turned to see Audry transfixed by the sight.

“They are like fireflies,” Audry said in a curious tone, “but they aren’t, are they?”  They were too large, and many much too blue in color.

“What are they then?” Celia asked confused.

“Wisps,” Wren said looking up almost irritably at the display before him.

“That sounds about right,” Audry said with an air of false authority.  “I remember now, a kind of elemental, right?”

A group of the wisps grew closer together, swirling about above one of the graves near Audry, and then quite suddenly scattered as a shimmering form appeared, and looked around as though confused.  Audry fell over backwards in shock, and Celia clung tightly to Wren who seemed expressionless as he stared at the new arrival.

This unnerving process repeated three more times, lastly right next to Wren and Celia.  She grabbed Wren’s hand, and pulled him off balance as she scurried away, but lost her grip.  Wren struggled to sit back upright, and simply looked up at the glowing white figure above him.  The ghost knelt down, and looked at him curiously.

“I’m Wren,” he said, as though answering some unheard question.  “No,” Wren said in a correcting tone, “Renae is not my mother, but I call her such.”

The ghost cocked its head to the side curiously, and looked up as an angry voice called out from the thin strip of wood between the clearing, and cloister.  “Audry?” Andrew called out irritably.  “Why won’t you listen?” he demanded.  “He’s evil I tell you,” he implored as he stepped into the clearing, and found his sister on the ground before him, and ghosts milling aimlessly.

Andrew had never seen a ghost before, and without much hesitation he grabbed Audry’s arm, and pulled her to her feet.  He tried to drag her with him from the clearing, but she shook his grip free, and stared at him defiantly.  There was a touch of fear in her eyes nonetheless.

“This isn’t right,” Andrew said sternly.  “This shouldn’t be happening!”

“What do you know?” Audry growled.

“I read it,” Andrew insisted, “ghosts are rare, very rare.”

“Since when do you read?” Audry cut back, all eyes, living and dead upon the brother and sister arguing.

“I read,” Andrew cut back.

“You certainly don’t read your assignments for class,” Audry sneered.

“Cause that’s boring,” Andrew muttered, “but this…this isn’t right.  Let’s get out of here, and away from the little soul eater.”

“Wren is not a soul eater,” Audry snapped, and pushed her brother who almost fell over.

“He’s not just a soul eater, he’s a necromancer,” Andrew yelled, grabbed his sister’s arm forcefully, and tried to pull her from the clearing.

“Wren didn’t do this,” Celia said, uncertainty in her voice, as she turned to Wren who still sat passively, his eyes closed, and tears running down his cheeks again.

Audry struggled again to get free of her brother’s grasp, and did so, falling over, and through an approaching ghost, which swept right up to Andrew, and stared down at him with a disapproving glare.

“To the Abyss with all of you,” Andrew said as he turned, and ran.

“He’s right,” Wren said.  “This shouldn’t be happening, I shouldn’t hear them.”

“Hear, what?” Celia asked.  “I don’t hear anything.”

“I do,” Wren said, and looked at Celia, his lips pursed definitely.  “They ask, they whisper, I don’t understand all of it, but I hear it.  I shouldn’t, no one else does, but I do.”

“How do you know?” Audry asked walking cautiously past one of the ghosts, and sitting down next to Celia and Wren.

“Because I read the same book he did,” Wren said with a shrug, and looked away.

“Just because it’s in a book doesn’t mean it’s true,” Celia offered.

“Do you hear them?” Wren asked rhetorically.

“No,” Celia admitted again.

“It just means you are special,” Audry offered uncertainly, her eyes darting nervously about at the ghosts that were slowly circling the trio.

“That’s a word for it,” Wren said, and closed his eyes again.  Celia reached out, and took Wren’s hand comfortingly, and Audry did the same.  There was a moment of painfully uncomfortable silence, and then without warning Wren whispered just loud enough to be heard. “Rest,” and the ghosts seemed to wash away in swirling strands of light caught in the gentlest breeze.

The wisps remained for a little while, some slowly swirled off into the wood, others seemed to flicker and fade.  “No,” Wren said sorrowfully, stood, and helped his friends to their feet.  “He’s right.  I did this, though I couldn’t tell you how.”

⁃ ◇ ❖ ◇ ⁃

Renae considered her adopted son thoughtfully.  Wren was all too aware of the coming question, but did not press to be asked.

“Can you explain to me the things I’ve been hearing?” she finally questioned, seeing the impatient irritation in Wren’s eyes.

“Depends what you have heard,” Wren said grumpily, and crossed his arms.

“Andrew raised a holy ruckus to his mother, in public no less, about you conjuring ghosts in the graveyard.” Renae sighed.  “As preposterous as it sounds…I’d not even ask, but, something tells me I should.”

“It’s true,” Wren said, “not that conjuring is the right word.”

“Then what is?” Renae said in a metered, perplexed tone.

“Causing?” Wren said uncertainly, looking out the window.  “I didn’t go out there to do anything,” he protested, “just to get away from Andrew.”

“He’s still not leaving you alone?” Renae asked unhappily.

“He’s never left me alone,” Wren said venomously.

“And you are saying what he said is true, that multiple ghosts manifested in the graveyard?” Renae asked uncomfortably.

“Four,” Wren answered.

Renae took a long slow breath.  “A ghost has been reported, now and then,” Renae said thoughtfully, “but four…”

“I caused it,” Wren said flatly.

“How could you have caused a ghost to appear?” Renae demanded doubtfully.  “Let alone four.  Real necromancers, if you can argue there even is such a thing – and not simply charlatans – have only the scarcest of success rates when mustering all their will.”

“I just did,” Wren said angrily, wishing he could deny the truth as easily as Renae seemed to be trying to.  “Do you want me to prove it?”

“I just…” Renae started, winced, and walked over to Wren, knelt down and hugged him.  “You don’t have to prove anything.”  Renae said, somberly.  “I’m just trying to understand.”

“I don’t know what’s worse,” Wren said, not returning the embrace.  “Andrew hating me for the truth, or you not believing it.”

“I believe you,” Renae said reassuringly, but there was still a touch of rational doubt in her voice.

“Iraen was your mother, wasn’t she?” Wren asked pointedly.

“Yes,” Renae said, “she’s buried out there.  She was older when she had me, much older than most, and she died young…there was a flaw in her heart that would not heal.”

“She said to tell,” Wren seemed to struggle for a moment, “‘Button,’ that she loves her.  That her heart is still with her.”

Renae pulled back and looked stricken for a moment, staring at Wren.  It was possible – only possible – Wren had heard her mother’s old pet name for her at some point, but she knew in her heart she had never told him, and it wasn’t the first time.  The winter morning with the wisps in the courtyard, when for just a moment she thought she had heard the hum of her mother’s voice, singing her to sleep.  He had said it, she had pushed it aside, he couldn’t have known, he shouldn’t have known even then.

“She called me Button,” Renae said weakly, “that I was the Button on her heart, that kept it together.  She…she died while I was far away.”  Renae began to cry, for so many reasons, not the least of which was the kind gifted boy in her arms, that she so rarely knew what to do with.

⁃ ◇ ❖ ◇ ⁃

Laeur 3rd, 646 E.R.

Wren tapped his foot impatiently as he leaned against the wall next to Celia.  He glanced over as Celia’s incessant swirling of her finger in the air began to produced a thin trail of light, which momentarily distracted him from his boredom.  “You did it,” he said with a slight laugh.

“Took me long enough,” Celia sighed, and shook her hand attempting to get feeling back from how long she had been trying.  Her progress dissolved, and she glanced at Wren.  She smiled somewhat in spite of herself.

Wren’s presence was like a hearth on a cold autumn night.  He somehow made the world away from him seem a little colder.  Yet all at once there was a sense of that nature of fire behind it, an intensity that smoldered – perhaps impatiently – for the world’s plodding way.  This was enough to give the wary pause, and he could seem a flame that easily called all the moths of the world toward him.  That thought lingered, and bothered Celia, she wasn’t even sure why she had thought it.

“You’ve only been at it a couple days,” Wren said encouragingly, “on your own, Aaron has been training with Sister Calis for weeks.  I’ll ask Renae if you can come with us the next time I visit my sisters.  They can do so much more, maybe they could teach you.”

“I’d like that,” Celia laughed, “but I don’t know if my mother would let me leave the cloister.”  She started again, and almost instantly a trail of light formed.  She bit her lip excitedly that it had come quickly that time.

Wren glanced down the corridor again.  “Where is Audry?” he asked with a faint hint of concern, “it’s not like her to be so late.”

“Maybe we should go look for her?’ Celia said with a shrug, and let her glowing figure-eight drift away.

“I guess,” Wren said and started walking down the hall.

As they rounded a corner they came upon Andrew.  In the past year had undergone a growth spurt to the point of towering over the two.  He had long had an intemperate presence, one that shifted from a harsh breeze, to stone.  That moment he felt like a rolling boulder coming towards the two.  Neither had in their lives seen someone so obviously, and violently angry, but some instinct kicked in, and told them both to back off.

It wasn’t enough.  Andrew marched menacingly straight up to Wren, even as he tried to get out of the way.  “Stay away from my sister!” he barked as Wren found himself frightened and backed up against a wall.

“Leave him alone!” Celia yelled, but fell short of laying hands on Andrew to pull him back.

“Stay out of this,” Andrew spat, turning towards Celia, who stood her ground, but couldn’t quite bring herself to move towards Wren.  “Do you hear me?” he demanded turning back to Wren who was hunkered down on the floor against the wall.  “Stay away from my sister.”

“Shut up,” Wren squeaked in a small frightened voice.

“No,” Andrew said, “not till you promise to stay away from my sister you little mongrel.”

“Leave him alone,” Celia repeated demandingly, and moved to put herself between the two.  Andrew pushed her back, and she fell.

“Answer me you little shit,” Andrew demanded, “what are you going to do?”  Wren shrunk further, as Andrew leaned down over him, “hello, do you hear me you little freak?  Stay away!”

“Shut up,” Wren whimpered in a tiny voice.

“No,” Andrew said, “not until you promise.”

“Shut up,” Wren squeaked again, just a hair louder.

Andrew grabbed ahold of his robe, and shook him.  “No,” he said viciously, “promise me you will stay away!”

“SHUT UP!” Wren suddenly boomed in a horrifying voice not at all like his own.  The sound of it seemed to reverberate in the rafters, and rattle the bones.  It frightened Celia to her core who had grabbed ahold of Andrew to try and pull him off Wren, and her fingers slipped weekly off his arm.  Andrew fell backwards barely catching himself.  He scrambled in a strange helpless fashion for a moment.  His eyes were wide, and his face as white as a sheet.  He frantically clutched at his throat, he opened his mouth as though trying to speak, trying to yell, and suddenly without a further word pushed himself up against the far wall, and ran away.

Celia watched as Andrew stumbled, and flailed down the hallway in his haste, and then turned back to Wren who was curled up in a tiny ball, sobbing.  “Are,” Celia coughed slightly as though her throat was dry.  “Are you alright?” she asked cautiously moving towards her friend.  Wren simply continued to cry, and didn’t answer.  “Wren?” Celia said questioningly, her concern quickly starting to override her uneasiness.  She coughed again, and rubbed her throat.

“I…I…” Wren sputtered between sobs, and then gave up.

Celia wrapped her arms around him consolingly, and gently stroked his hair.  “It’ll be alright,” she said softly.  “It’s ok, he’s gone.”

“I…” Wren tried again, “he…he was right about me,” Wren whimpered.

“What do you mean?” Celia asked in confusion, but Wren seemed to just descend further back into sobbing, and began to noticeably tremble.

Several minutes passed, and Wren slowly began to calm.  When he finally met Celia’s gaze his expression was one of horror, sadness, and utter heartbreak.

“What happened?” Celia asked in as gentle a tone as she could manage.

“I don’t know,” Wren said with a haunted voice.  “I did something…I don’t know what I did, but I felt myself do it.  I think I might have hurt him.”  He looked away helplessly, unable to look his friend in the eye after admitting his fear.

“He was attacking you,” Celia said softly, “it’s ok.  He was well enough to run away.  It’s ok.”

“I don’t know what I did,” Wren said again with and unnerving tremor in his voice.  “It’s not…I…” he couldn’t bring himself to finish the thought as the memory of South Rook gripped him.  How everyone had stopped for a moment, and even afterword seemed dazed, how he had ran to his room, and hid not knowing what he had done, or how.

“It’s ok, whatever it was he deserved it,” Celia said trying to calm Wren down.

“Maybe I deserve it,” Wren said in a small voice.

“No,” Celia said firmly, “you are sweet, and wonderful, and he is an ass.  He’s always hated you, for no reason.”

Celia turned as quick footsteps echoed down the hall.  Audry was running towards them, holding her arm tightly.  “Is he alright?” she asked obviously scared.

“He isn’t hurt,” Celia said, “but he’s been crying for a while now.”

“What did my bastard brother do to him?” Audry said in a tone almost as angry as Andrew’s.

“He was yelling, and shaking him,” Celia said, “and then…” she hesitated not sure how to describe Wren’s part.  “He ran like he was terrified.  Is your arm alright?” she asked trying to change the subject as her own suspicions sunk in.  It wasn’t possible, and yet it fit.

“He was keeping me in my room,” Audry growled, “wouldn’t let me leave.  Kept yelling at me, trying to make me promise to stay away from Wren.  I tried to push past him, and he pushed me down, and I hurt my arm.”  Audry rubbed her arm a bit.  “I’ve been working to heal it.”

Audry leaned down and looked Wren in the eye.  “Are you alright?” she asked anger and concern mixed in her expression.

“I think I hurt him,” Wren whimpered.

Audry’s expression suddenly shifted to dumbstruck.  “You…are crying ‘cause you think you hurt, him?” she asked incredulously.

“Yes,” Wren said in a small voice, “partly.   I’m scared,” he added.

“He ran off,” Audry said reassuringly, “and if he comes back we’ll make him leave.”

“I’m scared of me,” Wren corrected her.

“You…” Audry started bewildered, not sure what to say.

“He had him cornered,” Celia offered, “his voice changed…it was so loud it hurt, and I kind of felt it when he lashed out.  I…”  She rubbed her throat, which felt a bit like she needed to clear it, but the coughs had done nothing.  She remembered Andrew grabbing his.  “He earned whatever he got.”  She added, keeping her suspicion to herself.  It was passing, whatever it was.

Audry shook her head.  “You darling, impossibly wonderful little thing,” she said touching Wren’s tear streaked cheek. “You get cornered, frightened half out of your wits, and now you are more worried about what you did to the monster who was bullying you, than what he did to you?”

“He’s not a monster,” Wren said defiantly, “he was scared, angry…I…”

Audry pulled Wren to her, and hugged him.  “Quiet,” she said firmly, “it’s no excuse, you never did anything to him, nothing.  He’s my blood and I won’t defend him, not for a moment, don’t you.  Don’t you dare waste another thought on him.  You are wonderful, and that’s all you need to know.”

⁃ ◇ ❖ ◇ ⁃

Laeur 22nd, 646 E.R.

Rennae rubbed her face tiredly as Andria walked into their room.  “Are you alright?” Andria asked with some concern.

“Shandra has been harassing me repeatedly about her son,” Rennae said looking at Andria with a cross expression.  “He won’t talk, won’t leave his room, and has been crying a lot it seems.”

“I’ve heard,” Andria sighed, “no one knows what’s wrong with him.”

“She’s started saying odd things about Wren, but nothing outright,” Rennae said looking out the window. “Nightmares, and obsessions.  Of course she mentioned none of this when I had talked to her repeatedly about the boy harassing Wren.”

“You don’t actually think he has something to do with it do you?” Andria asked doubtfully.

“I…” Rennae sighed. “I don’t know, I don’t think so, but I’ve heard he’s been bordering on bullying with some kids.  Getting worse not better, particularly towards Wren, and Wren has been…different lately.”

“And so…what?” Andria asked not sure where the connection was.

“You know as well as I do the potential power of that boy,” Rennae said laying her forehead on her hand.  “I mean…maybe if he cornered him somewhere, pushed him to the edge, maybe he could have done something…I don’t know.  I don’t think I could bring myself to ask him either.  He’s seemed so distant lately, and I…  I don’t know what to think.  There were also reports of a terrible yell heard in part of the cloister the other day.  Something, unnatural according to those who heard it.”

“You aren’t thinking of the madness in South Rook, are you?” Andria pressed.

“Wren was there,” Renae answered.

“That doesn’t mean Wren had anything to do with it.”

“No it doesn’t, but no one has an explanation.  No one has heard of anything like it.”

“It bears watching I guess,” Andria said with a frown. “Even if it’s true, as you say, if he was pushed to the edge I don’t think we need to worry about a repeat…but if some one else comes to that conclusion.  How can we control this if people start talking?”

“I don’t know,” Rennae said darkly, “and that’s why I’m worried.”

< Previous || Next >

Chapter 10

The twine once unwound,
shall again be re-bound,
and from the least of these,
shall come the greatest to be,
all things move both ways,
just as in those ancient days,
that which once has passed,
shall come again at last,
and order’s brightest day,
shall in deepest night decay.

– Book of Entropy, circa 30 B.E.

Shifting Threads

Rhaeus 40th, 641 E.R.

Wren glanced nervously around a large room as he entered.  He had never been inside one of the classrooms, and didn’t really know the nine older children that surrounded him.  There was a glimmer of mutual recognition with a girl sitting by the door.  After a moment the girl waved Wren over, and seemed to be searching for his name.  “Wren, isn’t it?” she finally asked.

“Yes,” Wren said awkwardly.

“Come sit by me,” the girl offered, sliding over on her bench to make room.

“Leave him be sister,” Andrew said, glancing back from the next row, “can’t you tell he’s in the wrong class.  No one that young is here.”

Wren hesitantly climbed up onto the bench, and continued to look around the class.

“I’m Audry,” the girl said after a moment, “I don’t know if you remember me.”

“I do,” Wren said quietly.  “You arrived last year with your mother, and brother.  You had been traveling with a caravan.”

A girl about a year older than Wren, but still clearly younger than the rest of the class entered, and looked around with an even more meek demeanor than Wren had entered with.

“What’s with all the lost kids today,”  Andrew grumbled.  “Where is Sister Charis to send them to the right room?”

“I’m supposed to be here,” the girl said defensively.  “I was just moved up a class yesterday.”

“Scoot over Wren,” Audry said quietly, sliding further down the bench herself.  “Come sit with us,” she said waving the girl over.

The girl climbed onto the bench next to Wren, and looked over at him.  “Hi, I’m Celia.  Have you been moved up a class too, I don’t remember seeing you…”

“No,” Wren said hesitantly, “I was just placed this morning.”

“Have you been traveling with your mother?” Celia asked.

“No,” Wren said uncomfortably, “…mother has just been teaching me.”

“Oh,” Celia said, “is your mother one of the instructors?”

“No,” Wren frowned, “my mother…” he paused, “is Rennae.”

“I had heard the Matron had an adopted son,” Audry said sizing up her new classmate again.

“So your real mother is…” Celia started to ask but thought better of it.

“Dead,” Wren said tersely, and looked away just as the instructor entered the class.

“Two younger students are joining us today,” the woman said.  “For their benefit I am Sister Charis,” the woman said looking about the class, and settling her gaze on Wren and Celia.  “Would you two stand and introduce yourselves?”

Celia looked to Wren, and then slowly stood first.  “I am Celia Adesia, daughter of Renoa,” she said nervously, looked around at the other students in the class, and then quickly sat back down.

Wren got up onto the bench he was sitting on, and looked around at all the faces already turned his way.  “I am Wren Ashton, son of Meliae,” he said with some determination, “it’s nice to meet you all.”  He looked around again, sat down quickly, and slowly sunk out of view.

Charis pulled a book out from under her arm, and set it between Wren and Celia.  “You two will be sharing, I assume you know your basics since you have been placed in this class.   Everyone, please turn to page three ten.”

There was a shuffling of pages, and as it slowly came to a stop Charis looked back and forth between her new students for a moment.  “Sister Celia, would you read the first line please?” she said in a very proper tone.

“Emp…eror Corin…th was not born to any of the royal lines, of the late age of Kings,” Celia started shakily, “but to a com…an woman often recor…ded as a…har…lot.”

“Very good,” Charis said, and turned to Wren.  “Brother Wren, please continue,” she said softly, mindful of the fact that the small boy had sunk all but completely out of view behind the table.

Wren slowly pushed himself up, and got into a position where he could see the book, and search for the next line.  “Though…” he started nervously, “though…” he repeated, “his lin…e…lineage is not known for cer…certain, his mo…ther even…tually married a prom…promi…promi..nent…” Wren gave up and sank back into his seat.

Charis sighed, and moved on, her gaze fixing on Andrew whose expression did not suit her.  “Brother Andrew,” she said firmly, “please continue for us, would you?”

⁃ ◇ ❖ ◇ ⁃

Jovan 19th, 641 E.R.

“Some mistakenly think it proper to attach ‘Protectorate of the Storm Queen’ to the name of the land Napir.  This however both ignorant, and incorrect.  Napir itself means Protected.  Properly Napir Ami, Protected [by] Storm would be the correct form,” Wren read aloud, and set the book aside with a sigh.

“I don’t see why you stutter so in class,” Audrey offered, her head leaned back against the window, listening to the rain.

“Is easier when it’s just you two,” Wren protested.

Celia reached over from her spot on the floor, and grabbed the book.  She flipped through the pages curiously till she found where Wren had left off.  She only read to herself though.

“Huh,” she said after a moment.  “Napir is one of very few lands that maintains its own language, though its use has begun to wain in larger cities.  It says here the suffixes that dragons take are words in Namin, the proper name for the language.  Except black dragons, who took the tradition as well, but use allusions to ancient Osyraen instead.  Hmm, what’s iron…y mean?”

“How is it used?” Wren asked.

“Etten, for instance, with some ’irony’ is derived from a word meaning ‘loyal.’”

“I think it means…contrary,” Wren offered.

“Oh I remember now,” Celia said with a spark of realization.  “The Green Matron’s mate, Mar’etten.  Yes, that would be contrary I suppose, and here it is in the footnote.  Yes.”

“You could have just read the whole bit aloud to practice you know,” Audrey chided.

“I think there will be plenty of time for that, it’s been raining for days,” Celia cut back.  “I will gladly have garden duty for a week just to be outside the cloister for five minutes without getting soaked.”

“The Court Mage says the high winds are shifting again,” Wren offered.  “He doesn’t think this position is sustainable, and perhaps it will finally snap back to its normal northern flow, ending the drought.”

“You always come back with the strangest things to say after you visit your sisters,” Audrey said, and gave Wren a funny look.

“I don’t think it’s strange at all,” Celia protested. “I’d rather be learning about,” she struggled for a moment trying to remember the right words, “atmospheric phenomena, than all this old, dry history.”

“If the north was half as dry as these text books, no amount of rain would ever end the drought,” Audrey offered with a smirk, and closed her eyes again.

Celia reached over, grabbed a pillow and threw it at Audrey who caught it without even opening her eyes, wedged it behind her neck, and settled in more comfortably against the window.  “You may continue reading, Sister Celia,” she said in officious tone that sounded nothing like Charis, but clearly was meant to.

“You are terrible,” Celia chided, but was noticeably trying not to laugh.

“Terribly bored,” Audrey corrected.

⁃ ◇ ❖ ◇ ⁃

Laeur 13th, 642 E.R.

“Assessment?” an older woman asked leaning over Wren.  His hands were just above the forearm of an older man.  He was so deeply wrinkled with age that if he had any appreciable gift he would have to be close to the end of his second century.  Giftless as he obviously was on examination, he was only likely about ninety.  He was also in a deep peaceful sleep.

It felt mostly like fire, tingly, uncomfortable, almost itchy.  The result of various inflammation, and irritation through the man’s arms.  “Arthritis, in most joints,” Wren said.  “Inflammation of the tendons in the right arm.  The nerves of the arm are sickly for some reason as well, Sister Seline.”

Selene did her own cursory pass.  “Very good,” she said.

“Wait,” Wren said.  He shifted down the man’s body, and hovered searchingly over his thigh.  “I’ve felt this before, at Broken Hill, when there was an accident.  My mother said to mention if I ever felt it again.”

Selene followed the boy, and focused a long moment.  “Oh dear,” she said.  “A a deep vein thrombosis, nasty little thing.  You felt that all the way up at his arms?”

“Yes,” Wren answered awkwardly.  “Or well, I felt something was wrong, anyway.”

“Everyone else gather around.”

The ten other students, including Audry, and Celia all gathered around Wren’s patient.  The mismatch of a six year old caring for the ancient man was all the more strange as the range of students gathered.  Wren and Celia were by far the smallest, and youngest.  Audry even was clearly a bit younger than most, nine, ten, even a twelve year old.

“Everyone, one at a time, very carefully, extend your senses in here, just behind the bone of the upper thigh,” Selene said, indicating the location.

The students did one at a time.

“This is a deep vein thrombosis, a clot in a major arterial vein.  They are very dangerous, because they can break loose, and wedge elsewhere in the circulatory system.  They are also hard to detect,” Selene lectured, as the last student finished their cursory examination.  “Now, pay close attention,” she said, and moved back into position herself.  “The clot must be carefully dissolved from the free edge, towards its attachment point.”

Everyone tried, at least at first to follow what she was doing.  Roughly half could not.  It was reduced to nothing more than a fine grain of platelets, until the vein surface itself could be soothed, and healed.  “This here,” she indicated, “while not the root cause, is part of the underlying problem.  This is where the clot began to form.  By smoothing, and making the vein more youthful we will reduce the chance of recurrence for many years.  You did very good finding this Wren,” Selene added encouragingly.

“What about the nerves in his arm,” Wren asked.

“Yes,” Selene nodded.  “Another reason I called everyone over.”  She moved back up the man’s body.  “The symptom if you would all care to examine, is largely here, here, and here.”  She indicated areas of the forearm, and elbow.  Everyone did a cursory pass, more than a few cringed slightly at what they felt.

“What’s wrong with him?” Audry asked uncomfortably.

“I’m sure he has mistaken it for more of his arthritis, but it’s not,” Selene nodded, and moved up to his shoulder.  “Here, under his clavicle, I want you to all examine it, and then someone tell me what they think they feel.”

Everyone took a turn, all with a mixture of expression on their face.  Wren saw it almost immediately, but when he saw Audry tilt her head, and seem thoughtful, he decided he would stay quiet when the instructor asked.

“Well, anyone?” Selene asked.

Audry glanced at Wren, and Wren justs nodded back at her.  She pursed her lips, uncomfortable being the first one to offer an observation.  She sighed.  “I think the nerve is pinched,” she said.

“Elaborate,” Selene pressed.

“Between the rib, and collarbone,” Audry said.

“Proper term,” Selene chided lightly.

“Clavicle,” Audry corrected herself.

“Very good,” Selene nodded.  “Very good indeed.  The problems here are two fold.  One is through repetitive use.  This man is a weaver by trade, poor posture from age, and bad habits hunched over his loom have contributed to the problem, also repeated motions.  This alone however was not the full cause.  Some of the problem is congenital, the bone is thicker here than it should be.  This was not a problem till the muscles that should be holding it up atrophied from posture.  Dealing with the bone will be a slow, detailed process, but we can begin restoring the atrophied muscle.”

“Observe,” she said, and began feeding energy into the muscle, encouraging it to pull the shoulder back, and the collarbone up.  “There, now to heal the underlying injury.”  She restored the long impinged nerve, and moved down the arm restoring life to the rest of it.  She then returned to the shoulder.  “Normally we try to avoid pain in those we heal,” she said, again lecturing.  “Pain however does serve a purpose, it encourages us not to do things that hurt us.  I will now grow a sensory nerve here,” she indicated the point of impingement.  “It will not hurt him much, but if he assumes a posture that exaggerates his condition it will give him a twinge of warning.  Since normally this part of the nerve has no sensation.”

A small cluster of nerve growth formed off the main nerve branch.  “This will also encourage him to return, and give us the time to properly adjust the bone, at which point this will no longer bother him.”  She rolled her soldiers, and her neck.  “Ah hypocrisy, I’ve been slouching myself.  Everyone, back to your own patients.  Wren, you may begin treating the arthritis.  Wait, Audry, may I speak with you.”

Audry returned to the instructor, worried she had done something wrong.

“Where is your broth?” Selene asked.

“I don’t know,” Audry said uncomfortably.  “He was being very cranky this morning.”

“Could you have your mother come talk to me, he’s making habit of this.”

“Of course,” Audry said, and with a nod from Selene returned to her own patient.

⁃ ◇ ❖ ◇ ⁃

Vhalun 27th, 642 E.R.

Sister Charis walked slowly down the aisle, looking back and forth at the students following along in their shared textbooks.  “Lady Adria, was crowned Queen of Lycia in the year two B.E,” she said stopping at the second to last row.  She leaned over the table, and knocked hard right next to Andrew who shot upright from having drifted off.  “If you please Brother Andrew, read the next line.”

Andrew looked at the page before him hesitantly, and started to sound it out “Lady Ad…ria, was, cr…owned…”

“That was the previous line,” Charis sighed, “If you ever wish to be assigned to something other than maintenance duties, I recommend you pay more attention.”

“What do we need this for, our gifts are what matter,” he said obstinately.

“And I have not heard particularly astounding things about your healing studies either,” Charis chided him.  “Very well, how about you Brother Wren?”

“Ye…yes,” Wren stammered, and found the line in the book he was sharing with Celia and Audry. “Corinth was granted the title of Imperator, supreme commander of Lycia’s armies, and struck back against his homeland.  The two year campaign ended with the legendary siege of Tar…sis, and saw Imperator Corinth installed as regent, after King Dar…mon’s defeat before the gates.”

“Very good,” Charis said with a smile, “six months ago when you joined our class I had my concerns that you had been misplaced, but your progress is exceptional.  I can only hope others,” she stressed with a sidelong glance, “take after you.”

Andrew shot Wren a dirty look as Charis slowly walked back towards the head of the class.  “Now seems as good a time as any to break for lunch, those who wish may read on.  Extra marks will be given for those who can read aloud an entire paragraph this afternoon without stuttering.”

Audry placed the ribbon on the page where the class had stopped, and closed the book as Wren and Celia got up to leave.  Audry moved to follow, but her brother stopped next to her.  “Have lunch with me, and Lena today,” he said in a demanding tone.

“I was going to eat with Wren and Celia in the courtyard,” Audry protested.

“You do that every day,” Andrew countered.

“It’s ok,” Celia said, “there’s always tomorrow.”

“Ok,” Audry said with a frown.

⁃ ◇ ❖ ◇ ⁃

Vhalun 31st, 642 E.R.

Wren considered the intricate web of string wrapped around Celia’s fingers.  “I don’t know which ones to take next,” he said with obvious frustration.

“Let’s start over,” Celia said untangling the string, “you go first this time, and then at this step I’ll show you.”

Wren turned as he saw Audry out of the corner of his eye.  She was at the far end of the court yard, arguing with her brother rather animatedly.  She suddenly pushed him, and stomped off towards where Wren and Celia sat.

“What was that about?” Wren asked curiously.

“Just my brother being stupid,” Audry growled.

“What about?” Celia asked.

“He…” Audry trailed off.  “No, nothing.  He’s just stupid.”

Andrew walked up on the three and sneered at Wren pointedly.  “Fine, stay close to the smart little soul eater,” he growled turning to his sister.  “Maybe he’ll eat your soul instead of mine.”

Wren cringed, and shrunk away from Andrew, and Celia rested a hand on his shoulder comfortingly..

“Shut up,” Audry yelled at her brother.  “Just because you have nightmares about being hurt by little boys doesn’t mean anything.  Wren is sweet, kind, and innocent.  You are just stupid.”

“Cassandra said to trust dreams, they are a warning,” Andrew muttered as he walked away.

“And mother said not to listen to Cassandra,” Audry yelled after her brother as he left.

“What did he mean soul eater?” Celia asked incredulously.

“Ever since Wren showed him up in class the other day, he’s been angry,” Audry sighed.  “Then he had a couple nightmares.  Heard some rumor from one of the other boys, and now he’s convinced Wren is evil.”  Wren looked away embarrassed, and obviously uncomfortable.  “He’s just stupid,” Audry said and hugged Wren, “you would never hurt a fly.”

“What rumors have they been spreading about Wren?” Celia asked angrily.

“It’s stupid, and not worth repeating,” Audry sighed.

“Tell me,” Celia said, “we all should know, so we can set them right.”

“Like anyone listens to any of us,” Audry frowned.  She gave Celia’s insistent expression a dubious look, but finally relented.  “It’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, but they say he ate his mother’s soul.”

“That’s horrible,” Celia all but yelled, “who would believe such a thing?”

Wren pulled away from Audry, got up, took a step away from his friends, and dropped to his knees crying.

“I’m sorry,” Audry said moving behind him, and hugged him again.  “I shouldn’t have told you.  It’s so horrible, and stupid, and I hate him.”

Wren sobbed, and tried to pull away again, but Audry wouldn’t let him.

“It’s true,” he finally squeaked between sobs.  “I’ve always known, Renae never told me directly, but I’ve always known.”

“What?” Celia said in disbelief, “you can’t mean that…”

“She gave me everything, to let me live,” Wren whimpered.  “I remember it sometimes, like a bad dream…I can’t wake up from.”

“That’s horrible,” Audry said consolingly, “but that doesn’t make it your fault.”

“It wouldn’t have happened if it wasn’t for me,” Wren cried.

“You don’t know that,” Celia said kneeling down in front of Wren and looking down at him sweetly.

“I…” Wren started, but looked away.  “I don’t know.”

“She loved you,” Audry said confidently.  “She loved you, and she wanted you to live, that doesn’t make you bad, it makes her good.”

⁃ ◇ ❖ ◇ ⁃

Coria 5th, 642 E.R.

Kiannae looked curiously down a side street at the sign for The Grey Lamb as they passed.  Mercu had assured the girls that they would not be back.  It had been over a year since Laurel would allow the girls out of the castle following the events of their last visit.  And even were there any reason to go – which there was not – Mercu had no desire to be scolded at length.

It was a more peaceful day than their last visit.  No caravan in town causing commotion with fresh wares, and weary, wealthy travelers.  Still a fair number of citizens filled the streets of the village, and it was no surprise that a lone old woman along the road side did not catch anyone’s attention.

Katrisha gasped as a wrinkled hand clasped onto her arm.  She turned to face the old woman who held her firmly, and stared at her with vacant glassy eyes.  After a moment of silence the woman spoke in barely more than a hoarse whisper, “The second is born but the first to die, yet over the life and death of stars presides.”

Kiannae turned, noticing her sister was no longer beside her, and took a step back towards the woman who held Katrisha’s arm.  Before she could even demand an explanation the woman turned to her with fire in her eyes, and spoke wildly, “what then of the heir, the Sylvan first born, the one whom a crown shall one day adorn.”

Katrisha pulled her arm away, and backed up not sure what to make of the woman or her strange words.  Her presence was unnerving, it felt almost like a broken mirror reflecting back unidentifiable parts of one’s own impression.

Mercu had noticed the twins were no longer following him, and turned to the scene as the woman all but yelled, “Fear the schemes of the dragon who lies, and a coming age when men wail and cry, dread more the child at the eye of the storm, and for those from which all mortal is torn.”

“That’s enough Cassandra,” Mercu growled as he marched up to them.  “We have no need of your fortune telling, and you won’t be paid for spouting your nonsense in little girl’s ears.  Come girls, move away from the mad old woman.”

“I’ve no need of coin old bard, my days are short, head my words children, you will do great deeds, and meet uncommon ends,” Cassandra spat.

“What was that about?” Kiannae asked as the trio walked on through the square.  She glanced back at the woman still staring after them.

“Just the new resident fortune teller plying her nonsense.” Mercu sighed.  “Pay her no mind.”

“What did she say to you before I came up,” Kiannae asked Katrisha.

“Something about second born and first to die, and stars,” Katrisha said with a touch of nerves.

“Like I said,” Mercu grumbled, “ignore it, odds are it means nothing.   Simply having heard it will changed it, or at the very worst paying it any head will just lead to its fulfillment.“

“How does that work?” Kiannae said obstinately, “you seem to imply it is real, but that it’s also not to be listened to?”

Mercu sighed, and stopped to lean against a shop porch.  “There are a lot of layers to it.  The first of which is that people lie, and if they aren’t lying they are getting things wrong.  Precognition, and prophecy comes from so deep in the subconscious,” he said tapping his head, “that by the time it reaches the surface it’s a garbled mess tied up in preconceptions, fears, and obscured by past memories.”

“So it’s misleading then?” Katrisha asked irritably.

“Even assuming something useful can be wretched from the mess that is the very process, the result is unpredictable, and can either be self defeating, or self fulfilling,” Mercu said running his fingers through his hair.  “Happened to me once.  I was told of the woman I would marry, and that I would be my own undoing.  The first part might have come true, if I hadn’t known, hadn’t behaved too rashly, and so the second part came true…”

“That’s very sad,” Kiannae said soberly.

“It is what it is,” Mercu laughed, “I’m happy now.  I can’t say if I’d be any more happy with her, but I doubt it.  I probably would never have met the two of you, Laurel, or lived here at court.  I think the long and short of it is don’t trust prophecy, and unless it’s very dire, and very specific, ignore it, and certainly don’t dwell upon it.”

“Dyeing is pretty dire,” Katrisha muttered.

“Yes, but we all die, someday,” Mercu laughed uncomfortably, “did she say how?  Did she give you clues, things to watch for, and when to be careful?”

“No,” Katrisha sighed, “except maybe dragons…”

Mercu cracked a crooked smile, “Yes, well, dragons are always something to be careful of.  If you spend every day of your life – and it could be well over a century and a half – worrying about the words of a mad old woman who might be nothing more than that…mad.  What will you have gained?  And what will you have lost?”

⁃ ◇ ❖ ◇ ⁃

Laurel sighed and looked at the two girls before him.  “Mercu has told me of your run in with the fortune teller that’s come to live in the village.  Does what she said still trouble you?”

“No,” Kiannae lied.

“Maybe a little,” Katrisha admitted.

“Maybe a little,” Kiannae recanted.

Laurel shook his head.  “Mercu told me what he told you of prophecy, precognition, and visions of the future in general.  He’s right, every bit of it, prophecy is real.  It is also remarkably useless.  At best it’s like a memory of a dream, a memory of the future, but no less distorted than any other memory in a dream.”

Laurel rubbed his eyes tiredly.  “That all said maybe it will give you all some comfort that I’ve heard that prophecy before, or well, a close enough variation.  It was ‘the child at the eye of the storm’ that caught my attention.”

“How is that supposed to make us feel better?” Katrisha laughed darkly, “doesn’t that make it more meaningful?”

“Well,” Laurel started, and picked up a black book with an elaborate S embossed on the cover.  “The line reads, ‘A woman with hair of purest silver, shall stand at the eye of the coming storm, and from all that is mortal be ever torn.’  I don’t think either of you are in any immediate danger of having silver hair.”  Laurel closed the book for emphasis.

“It only speaks of one at the eye of the storm, the other could be dead,” Katrisha said crossly.

“There are a lot more verses,” Laurel said drumming his fingers on the book, “and by most interpretations the woman at the eye of the storm is interpreted to also be the second born, who is said to be the first to die.  It also contradicts itself at times, some think that the first to die remark should not even be taken literally.  The prophecy most held to refer to the Avatar, referred to his ascension as death.  So as Mercu advised you, and as I have always done – save for the necessity of my early schooling – ignore prophecy, it’s rubbish.”

“Ok,” Katrisha said hesitantly, as Kiannae simply nodded.

Mercu entered behind them, and Laurel shot him a look.  “Please leave girls, I have things to take care of.  You have the rest of the afternoon to yourselves.”

As Katrisha and Kiannae closed the door behind them, Mercu gave Laurel a very shrewd look.  “What’s troubling you?”

“I feel guilty,” Laurel sighed.

“What for?” Mercu asked with some confusion.

“They needed to stop troubling themselves, so I left out a line from a prophecy,” Laurel admitted, “and if they ever chose to look into it, they will catch me in that lie.”

“What did you leave out?” Mercu asked with a worried expression.

“‘A woman with hair of purest silver,’” Laurel started, “that was what I told them, to reassure them, since their hair is black.  It’s probably nothing really, but the next line, the one I didn’t tell them, reads ‘and eyes of truest emerald green.’”

“You don’t think then?” Mercu asked with agitation.

“No, I don’t.  I’ve no interest in prophecy…it’s just,” Laurel trailed off for a moment.  “I’ve had the dream myself, the most prevalent of all supposed prophetic visions.  The woman at the eye of the storm.  I’ve seen her face, it could be either of them, older to be sure, but her hair isn’t grey from age, it’s something else, it shines like polished metal, but flows like satin.”

“Take your own advice dear Laurel,” Mercu laughed darkly, “forget it, ignore it, and move on.”

“If only,” Laurel sighed.  “There is one more thing, troubling enough in itself…” he trailed off.  “I have heard a report just today that a dragon was successfully captured in Osyrae, and is being force marched to the capital.”

“The fools did it?” Mercu said in disbelief.

“I still worry to what end,” Laurel muttered.  “Twice in one day I hear ill tidings pertaining to dragons…”

⁃ ◇ ❖ ◇ ⁃

Coria 8th, 642 E.R.

Jeoffrey pulled his hood tighter.  It was far too warm for his tastes to be wearing such apparel, but crowds had made him nervous since the festivities had begun.  There was a fire in the hearts of the people of the city since word had come.  It had been shouted from the rooftops, criers ran through the streets declaring the great victory.  A dragon, bound by mages, being marched fifty miles on foot from the northern steppes.  The reports he had received from scouts confirmed it, and the sudden lack of pressure on his people to leave the capital told him that the King wanted them to be there, and see.

It had been nearly two weeks since first word of the capture.  Enough time for a message to have reached Avrale discretely, not enough for word to have returned with the same caution.  Jeoffrey was anxious, even though he knew King John would have nothing helpful to offer him.  Still, just contact would have brought him some peace in such unsettling days.

A great silver cage stood a thousand feet beyond the city gates, past the outer slums that lay in the shadow of the capitals ancient walls.  The runes that bound the cage shone with fury that even ungifted eyes could see.  It was all a great show, with one obvious purpose; to inspire the people. It was working.  Shops and merchant stalls were everywhere, and word was that the dragon would arrive soon.

Jeoffrey moved aside as a squabble broke out between two drunks, and noticed a way out of the dense part of the crowd.  The gathered throngs thinned, and his eyes turned down the road.  It was lined with people all the way to the crest of a far rolling hill.  Two days the estimates had claimed the dragon would arrive.  It was then three, and there were whispers the delay had been due to a moment of carelessness, ending in one of the binding mages being bitten in half.

He felt the brush of something, and years on the streets of Osyrae had given him quick hands at that feeling.  He caught a wrist barely.  Small and quick, it almost slipped through his grasp before he could spin to face the wouldbe cutpurse.  His glance was already down, and even then his eyes almost slipped off her as she tried to pull away.  She was a bit smaller than he had even expected, and there was something hard about even getting a look at her.  The crowd bumping into him did not help.

He caught her other hand before she could stab him with the knife she had meant to slit his purse with.  She was very quick, but with both her wrists in his hands he was able to get a good look at her.  Her hair was blood red, purer than his had ever been.  Her eyes no longer evaded his but stared at him with fire, golden as the sunset.  She was about seven, dirty as any urchin, and a beautiful bronze like her countrymen, if just a shade paler.  The eyes froze Jeoffrey, they were eyes he felt like he knew.  Eyes that made him want to cry.

They were not the eyes of a sad waif ready to worm out of being caught.  They were the eyes of one proud, and determined, angry at having failed.  They were eyes that should not have been there, and then a bumbling fool stumbled into Jeoffery.  He lost his grip, and she was gone.  No amount of scanning the forest of legs before him could find her.  He tried to convince himself she had even been there at all, that she had been real.  He had to force himself to believe, even for a moment, what he wished to think he had seen.

There was movement in the crowd, and Jeoffery quickly got to his feet, and turned around towards the distant rolling hill.  He forced himself to look at what was urgent, rather than think of the girl.  She couldn’t have been, and the longer he tried to focus on the matter at hand, the more easily it seemed like she hadn’t – that it had all been a trick of the heart, and his foolish old head.

People at the crest of the far hill suddenly moved back down towards the throngs below, and a flash of black could barely be seen as a wing rose fleetingly, and then descended.  Jeoffrey watched transfixed as a head slowly came into view, then wings, and a body, all bound with bright blue runes that shimmered, and flashed.  The men about the dragon that held it were mere specks in the distance, but the great lumbering beast was clearly defined.

It was closer than Jeoffrey had ever been to a dragon.  He had seen a few in the past, in the distance, on a high hill, or up in the sky.  It was still closer than he really wished to be.  Those other dragons he had been told were greater dragons, intelligent, many times more deadly, but less likely to strike on a whim.  This beast being force marched to the capital was a wild animal, a furious monster bound only by the skill of a few dozen powerful mages.

The entire process was hard to fathom – the dragon was like a great marionette, that defied its puppeteers with every step.  The throngs along the road spread like a great wave, wisely moving from the dragon’s path, with only a few brave stragglers who let themselves get close.  It took over an hour for the dragon to be marched up the hill, and as it approached the cage it flailed, and roared more furiously before finally being forced in.

Jeoffrey struggled through the procession to maintain a vantage point from which he could see, but did not mind at all if that point was very far from the action.  As soon as the cage was closed upon the dragon, it was released from the bindings, and threw itself wildly against the enclosure, roaring, and shrieking in pain from the impacts.  Ten minutes of this persisted before the silent crowd, which backed ever farther from the enclosure.  Slowly as the dragon grew weary, the crowd’s murmur began to transcend the creatures groans and great labored breaths, until at last the massive beast collapsed in exhaustion, and the crowd burst into a thunderous roar.

A strange sympathy rose up in Jeoffrey for the deadliest of all creatures.  This wild beast, this monster that dwarfed any man had been subdued by the mages of Osyrae, and the message was as clear to him as to the people.  The dragon was the world, and the world would fall just the same, kicking, screaming, and groaning to the bitter end, but in the end defeated.  He almost forgot the girl, almost, but not quite.  Her eyes had made that impossible.

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1-6b: A Journal of War

Here we have the first of the Chapter Extras.  This is a collection entries from the journal of Gwendoline (referenced in Chapter 6,) Princess of the Empire, Duchess of Midrook, and Queen Regent of Avrale.  This series of excerpts chronicle a very personal experience of the Dragon War, from one of few mortals to witness both the beginning, and the end of the most bloody conflict in recorded history.

⁃ ◇ ❖ ◇ ⁃

It has been a century since I have truly looked into the eyes of my sister… Of all the horrors of the day, this is what hangs on me.  I have seen a goddess bleed.  I have seen scales like diamond rent, and heard the baleful cry of our Dragon Empress.  I have seen her fall weakly upon the cliffside before my gates…and I have bared to look into her eyes…after all this time.

My sister was dead.  My sister was something timeless, and inhuman… I had let her go.  I had mourned, and pledged nearly the same fealty to the dragon that had taken her name.  I had looked at those eyes before.  I had seen the dragon…and how wrong I was.  For today as she cried, as healers tended to our Empress, and I looked into her great eye.  I saw her.  No matter how large, and changed that eye, it was hers.  It was my Roshanna, eldest princess who would read to me when we were little.  I abandoned her, I forgot her, I left her alone for a century of our lives.

My old bones could nearly crack beneath the weight of it.  My sister…my sister who lives, who by all measures seemed immortal, the last ruler this world would ever need…  She has nearly perished, fallen at the might of another dragon.  Fear grips me, there is not merely another of her kind now in the world, he has an army like him, and we…my country…my son will be first to bear the brunt of what is upon us.  The horror of an age.

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The Empress…my sister…  She has gone against the advisement of healers, and flown on to the east.  Some are whispering of cowardice, others do not blame her, but few see the truth.  She has failed once against our coming foe, she must seek hope at the heart of the Empire…and yet what hope can there be?

Now I must flex my own political authority, already weakened by the Empress’s retreat.  My son seeks to rally the troops, and prepare to defend against the inevitable.  I must depose him from the station he seeks to take up, and send him away.  I pray that he has more of my reason, than his father’s steady but stubborn will.  It is fortunate perhaps, that I wed the young duke, and not the elder prince after all.  For now I may press my dear cousin in law, our King to tap my son to diplomatic service.  By this force him out of the path of the coming storm. I have sent my letter, now…now I wait, and hope.  My years are short, let a princess of the Empire stand, let it be my blood that is shed when the war comes, not my son.

⁃ ◇ ❖ ◇ ⁃

Ashrook has fallen, only a lone soldier was spared the dragon’s wrath.  I wonder if he was allowed to escape, only to spread fear.  It is unclear how many might have been taken prisoner, and there is no word of the duke, though his wife arrived some days ago on her way to Broken Hill.

My entreaty has been answered, and my son has threatened to defy the King.  I have pleaded that he accept the role he is called to, and he has correctly blamed me for the King’s order.  First I have waited for word, and now I wait for my son to see reason.  There cannot be long for him to accept.

⁃ ◇ ❖ ◇ ⁃

Broken Hill is aflame.  My son is no longer a Duke…he is a King.  A King in a war where the high mountains of Avrale mean nothing.  Where a force of dragons can fly swiftly in the dead of night, and lay siege to the capital before even an alarm is raised.  There is no longer any command that he need head.  If I can no longer go above him, then my dear daughter in law is my only hope.  If she cannot speak reason to our new king, then at least she can carry my grandchildren far from here.  I only worry to where.

Would South Rook be safe enough?  To Wesrook perhaps, and the chance to retreat across the Strait of Carth?  To send her all the way through Niven, to seek refuge from our cousin?  Could even the Storm Queen stand, if the Empire falls?

⁃ ◇ ❖ ◇ ⁃

My son…my King.  I think I have lost any right in his eyes to ever call him son again.  He has abided his wife’s words, and she has left for the south.  He knows this was right, but my constant maneuvering behind his back has wounded him.  It matters little if it were for his own good, that of his family…this nation….

Now we wait, and an old woman will fight beside her son… My only hope left, that I die first – for I cannot imagine victory.  Nohrook has been sacked, though some reports say the tower itself still stands.  The greatest mage king of our age could not even scratch Roshanna, and these dragons laid her low.  Nothing has phased the attackers.  Human mages and soldiers march in unresisted to clean up the destruction the dragons bring.  Pride will kill my son, duty be my undoing…but my grandchildren will live.

⁃ ◇ ❖ ◇ ⁃

They have set up camp down the pass, and dragons circle high above us, out of reach.  It is only a matter of time.  The wards of Midrook are strong, some of my best work, and my son’s.  I am proud of him, much as I wish he would have fled, and let me stand here for the inevitable.

He has looked into my eyes again, for the first time since his wife departed.  No words were said, and no words were needed.  What could they be?  Neither of us are sorry, but there is still love there.  It is good to know that again, before the end.

⁃ ◇ ❖ ◇ ⁃

I have been permitted my journal at last, and may finally record the fall of Midrook, my home.  My son is dead…I have outlived him.  Perhaps I was too stubborn to grant my own wish for death.  We stood side by side on the wall when it fell.  That even with the best of my skill I broke but a single of my brittle old bones, being thrown clear into the heart of the city, is a wonder.

Flames, death, destruction.  The screams of the dying, and the crackling of burning wood, as dragons melted a path of oblivion through the city.  There was nothing I could do but try to tend to my own broken leg, and watch as the smoke rose.  The street where I fell was empty.  All the remaining horrors of that day distant.

It was the flames that saved me.  Not a pain I could bear to die in.  I extinguished the fire around me before shock took me, and woke some time later at the point of a sword, and the azure coat of a royal Osyrean mage standing over me.  I surrendered.  Could I have bested him?  Perhaps, even in my condition – yet what was the point?  A lone old woman with a broken leg, in a fallen city, surrounded by enemy soldiers.  Dragons still perched on hilltops.

I did not offer my identity quickly, till it was forced from my lips to spare the life of some poor servant girl.  From then I was important…and guarded closely, kept from the eyes of any other prisoner.

Recently I have been moved to a tower chamber that was chosen – I am sure – for its view out over Midrook.  A black trail of glass cuts through the wall, and the city.  The houses around it reduced to scorched rubble.  Much of the city still stands, cut in half by that obsidian scar, but I do not imagine it ever rising to her former glory.

⁃ ◇ ❖ ◇ ⁃

Smoke fills the sky to the north east.  I have heard the whispers of guards.  The Sylvans are putting up a remarkable fight, and I wish them all the best.  Perhaps one day they can be allies after all, if they do not take Osyrae as merely a part of our human world.

There are other rumors of the Empire fortifying Helm.  Towers that can unleash beams of pure light, one of which purportedly exploded.  The guards chuckled over that.  I am in the end just a prisoner listening to the quiet chatter of her jailers.  What I know does not matter, and does not leave this tower.  What I know confounds me more than it comforts me, terrifies me for the world so much as those I could ever even name.  This will get worse.

⁃ ◇ ❖ ◇ ⁃

I have lost a sister, and Vhael has lost a general.  Oh Calista, dear proud Calista.  It did not need to be you to finish the cursed dragon.  Her name is not mentioned, not by my guards, but a woman who lead paladins, who’s blade cut the throat of a felled general of the black flight.  It could have been no other.  Pride and sorrow, joy and tears.  I am wracked with clashing emotions.  That a battle went at all in our favor, and then the cost of that meager victory.  Dear little Calista…a princess who wanted nothing more than to be a knight.  She died living her truth.

I cannot even write anymore, my tears smudge the ink, but I must.  If nothing else I will leave some memory in this world of my love for my sisters, as all the world falls to ash and ruin around me.

⁃ ◇ ❖ ◇ ⁃

I cannot even comprehend the whispers of my jailers.  They say Corinthia is no more, burned to nothing.  That it was this terrible crime that lit the night sky a thousand miles away.  Yet all at once they whisper their King was wounded, that a god was born on the battlefield, and defied them.  Harsh curses of traitor.  It is all madness, utter madness.  Are they toying with me?  Are we winning?  Losing?

⁃ ◇ ❖ ◇ ⁃

My high perch, the one they gave me to witness my country laid low.  Even my old eyes could see their Dragon King flounder.  Yes, the beast is wounded.  His Queen though is strong, his general loyal.  Oh but the other vultures circle, black fiendish flying things that they are.  Let not their scales fool you, they are no more than scavengers, not proud birds of prey.  All ready to fall upon the chance to take command for themselves.

Can I hope that this setback will tear them apart from within.  Can I believe that treachery, the betrayal of the empire will be met in kind among these traitors, these monsters.  I can name a few old gods, none I believe in in my heart, and yet I pray to every name for this simple justice.  For my enemies to be their own greatest foes.

⁃ ◇ ❖ ◇ ⁃

Dragons, green, white, one even black as the enemy.  They routed the Osyrean’s from my city, driving back their leaders, and leading all that remained to throw down their arms, and up their hands.  The Emperess has returned, and when I heard the feet scramble up the stairs to my chamber, when I heard the key turn.  I was ready to slay any who came to end me before I might see her again.

One of the guards, he had killed at least one other who had such ideas.  He prostrated himself before me, he begged his life.  I was sorely tempted not to oblige him, but no more would I kill him there on the ground.  I made him look me in the eye, and then I lost the nerve.  I am not them, I cannot kill in cold blood.

I nonetheless kicked the bastard to the ground as we left the tower, as I marched amongst the prostate soldiers of Osyrae, up to my sister, and threw my arms around her great fore leg.  So gently she set her vast snout to my back, so gentle this giant I had once scorned in my heart.  I knew the war had not ended, I knew there were terrible deeds left to do, and yet, there, that moment, nothing could ever be wrong with the world again.

⁃ ◇ ❖ ◇ ⁃

I have never thought much of the Clarions.  Some, noble enough, I suppose.  I know less what to think of this…thing…the adherents call Avatar.  The tale none the less gives me pause, a man who stood before dragon fire, who stood defiant as enchanted shield, and armor failed him, who did not burn away, but burned brighter than the fire that sought to consume him.  He is glorious, strange, strong, and yet oddly frail.  I am not sure I see him right at all, and I do blush sometimes to look upon him.  He wears nothing but light, though I must admit that brilliance does sometimes blind one to the details, he remains a man, even if some now worship him as a god.

This creature is our ally, and yet, I worry.  He does not speak, though they say actions are louder than words.  There is much we do not know about his nature, and much more I fear in the reverence the Clarions feel for him.  The Clarions already often undermined Imperial authority, now they have a god, a thing to hold up against dragons, for he has proved at least so powerful as several.

I see it in Roshana’s gaze, she does not trust him either.  Though her words are of implicit faith, she sees it, she sees perhaps more than I.  What are these things I see in the shadows cast by his light.  What are the echoes he calls up around us.  They only appear in the corner of the eye, always familiar, but never fully seen.

⁃ ◇ ❖ ◇ ⁃

I ride with the army.  They abide my presence grudgingly, but I want no claim to the world that is left if this campaign fails.  Let me be there to see it done, to victory, or ruin.  Yet every day it seems victory is more likely, and every night strange, and incomprehensible dreams wrest me from somber sleep.

She shines brighter than even the Avatar.  I see her before him, a little girl, unafraid, then a great woman brighter than the sun, awash in light, devoid of gravity.  I know the prophecy of the storm child, yet why am I seeing it?  Who is this girl to me?  Just a fragment of this Avatar’s future?

⁃ ◇ ❖ ◇ ⁃

The Black King is dead, but my heart finds little solace in it.  I find almost more hope in his son, maddening as that is.  He stood defiant before my sister, a sword held up.  Not a threat at all, just a punctuation, a sign of conviction, no more.

Roshana has had no part in it.  If there is to be peace she says it is for others to forge.  I have ridden to the high hill where she has perched, and she gazes not to the fallen capital we took, but east, I know in my heart, to the one we lost.

She has spoken to me of the words of the infamous Sylvia Grey, a name that has reached even distant Avrale.  I am of mixed opinion, though I have tried to console my sister.  I believe she judges herself too harshly, that the blame cannot fall to her.  She who ruled fair, and kind.  Who founded another golden age for an empire determined to hunger for darker days.

Yet what solace lies in the lack of blame.  She is the image of the monsters that have ruined our world, and whatever treaty is struck, how gladly will the world again bow before a dragon?

Yet even these worries pale to fights yet to be had.  Niven still stands occupied, and my sister, my Empress, she plots more war, even as her heart is no longer in such endeavors.

⁃ ◇ ❖ ◇ ⁃

Less than half the council survives.  Yet even then they have never held true authority before.  I cringe at this course, but I can offer no better.  The Empire will be no more.  We will enshroud what we can of all that it stood for in new treaties, and laws.  We will steal from the world the brightest gifts, bringing them to Mordove.  They will live together, they will be family, friends, and the free nations listen to their kin.

It is a new world though, one now more divided, borders tighter.  The open roads of the empire now subject to sovereign regional authority.  Will they maintain the spirit?  Will these few centuries stick in their hearts?  When already they longed for war.  Perhaps that fire is quenched, perhaps it will work.

Mage kings are forbidden, or at least discouraged.  Exceptions have been made.  Nohlend’s King is a good man, with precious few to pass authority to.  My grandson shall not be trained further though it pains me.  I am a Queen, and a regent even then, small distinctions.  I shall live out my days, rebuild that proud tower at Broken Hill, and leave this world as best I can.

⁃ ◇ ❖ ◇ ⁃

I have said goodbye I think, perhaps for the last time to my sister.  All that I saw, the girl I still knew in her that day beyond my gates, it has faded, though the shadow is there.  This war has cost much of what was left of her humanity.  The final battles of Niven have left her shaken.  She will not even speak of what happened in the routing of the dragons from that land.

Her throne renounced she says she will take refuge in Napir, with the grace of our cousin.  She jokes she will take a nap for a century…and I wonder if there is any jest at all behind the growling laugh with which she said it.

⁃ ◇ ❖ ◇ ⁃

I was wrong.  Though I needed be carried to the castle gate, my sister has returned to me.  She offers me a scale, one wrested painfully from her own hide.  It contains the magic to make me immortal, if I survive it, to make me like her.  I wept at her side, cried into the night tucked beneath her mighty wing.

I have read much written by the woman Sylvia, now passed.  I have asked a group of her followers to take up residence at Highvale, and tend the orchards there.  I am torn.  Death…it is the great unknowable enemy.  Do I defy it, do I give up my humanity…or do I embrace the foe I can never love?

Only two sisters remain of seven daughters born to our kind Emperor.  When I die…will anything be left of her?  If I become as her, can I save her from the morose I see in her great eyes, or will it take me just as well, in time.

I know my answer, and yet I can hardly believe it is so.  If there is a world after, I will seek my son, and husband there.  My lost sisters, our father…and wait to see if one day an errant dragon might come home to roost.  If there is not…at least there will be peace.