|| The Knight's Ephemeris / First ||

|| The Knight's Ephemeris / First ||

|| Clausewitz // the First ||


You must… limits…

His mind… fragmented… just how…

Quiet… Listen…

He stirs.

Dreams pushed him awake.

->-<-

“Is he going to sleep forever?”

He had already tried. Though he willed them so, he had woken into the darkness. They were unbearably heavy; his eyelids were petrified. Soon, he realized that his entire body was just as inexpressive to his mind’s urgings of movement. An unidentifiable tune cupped his ears, hindering intelligibility. Thus, the only way he knew someone was trying to rouse him was the harsh force of a slap.

The unkind pain surged everything to life.

“Calia! What if he’s ill?”

The sincerity in the girl’s voice – something so sweet and delicate vibrating in those words – snapped his eyes open. They soon lost focus, a split second of clarity prior showing two distinct silhouettes crouched over him, splayed over a bright backdrop, pencils of shadow crowding him. Or was that grass? Then it all fluttered shut to darkness again. Owing to that, he could not see their faces, expressions either of concern or boredom, but he could hear muffled conversation. One was not amused while the other, the one that relayed tones of concern, was distant, as if facing the other way. Something inside him stirred and yearned for that kind voice to turn towards him, look at him. . .

“He shouldn’t be here, this place is. . . Well, of course, we shouldn’t be here either,” the voice curved upwards slightly, a soft smile. “Doesn’t look like anyone we should know. . .”

“No, and we’d be glad for it. The little thief probably had no idea where his little adventure was taking him.”

Judged by the annoyed tone in ‘Calia’’s words, she herself was harboring feelings along those lines. But he did not realize the full meaning behind the accusation, and her cynical assay had yet spat acid into his pride. Before he could inveigh, an arising question stopped him.

What had he been doing?

His arm dropped from hovering an inch above the grass, the question alien. The movement went unnoticed.

“Don’t be so rude. He’s just lost, that’s what I think. . . Maybe.” the girl said and pouted, with a quelling glare of warning equally scathing to Calia’s remark. She was glaring, betraying her features, which the boy could not see but could oddly visualize. Sharp features complemented by soft green eyes creased to reprimand. Perhaps also a weave of blonde. . . Calia, on the other hand, picked up on the last spoken word and arched an eyebrow. Jabbing a finger at the boy’s chest - it was not a light prod, so the boy was provoked to make a reaction - he squirmed slightly, however not to a scale where it was remarked on. Her fingertip had arrowed him between the ribs.

“Lost? Lost, out here? You’d have to be pretty- wait, very stupid to be lost in this kind of place. Definitely a thief. More stupid than I thought first actually, more I think about it,” Calia snorted, shaking her head in increasing dislike. “Something’s wrong with you today Lyrien – you’ve been getting airheaded lately.”

“You and your running mouth. Here we go. . . He’s coming around.” Lyrien peered over the boy’s eyes, which were gradually opening to their fullest extent. They still felt weighty, but the presence of the two girls dissolved their unwillingness to open. As a sigh of relief escaped Lyrien’s lips, as the gentle puff washed over him, he gasped. Noises became voices, and a sweet scent drifted into the boy’s nostrils. Words became distinguishable, and the muffling tune lifted from his ear, the oppressive feeling scattering. As if all had been deliberate.

“He’s alive,” she said, smiling to Calia, “and starved.”

Truth to these words, the boy’s stomach had let known a bereaved beast living inside. Lyrien giggled, a stifled one of surprise that soon developed into a laugh. As this started to become a full-blown fit of lung-wracking gasps for air, the other girl watched all this, almost frightened. Calia found herself retreating, afraid Lyrien would infect her with the same disease.

“Being hungry is so funny?” Calia said. She tapped the boy’s leg to incite some sort of reaction, foot dangling off her body a good distance away. Aside from trying to blink several times to clear his vision, each time achingly slow, he could not do much else despite his earlier effort to retort. When he did open his mouth to speak, Calia cut him, thinking that was enough for her to come to a verdict.

“He’s a mute, too. Great, a thief and a mute? Whoever catches this one is going to burst an artery. . .”

“I’ll burst your. . . be nice. . . we don’t know. . . is,” Lyrien managed to blurt out, half in between trying to stop herself laughing by holding her breath. Her hand was trying to cover her mouth, while another was clutching her stomach – Calia shook her head, turning around at the sight of the hysteria with disapproval. There were hands bouncing on the grass before almost too soon, the boy spoke his first words. To add to this he sat up. Grass blades tickled his nostrils.

“I’m not a thief.”

Lyrien froze, mirth evaporating. Calia turned. He was even more surprised himself. Not at the fact that his tongue was functioning properly – opposed to the rest of his body - but how his voice sounded. . . So childish. High pitched. As if he had expected a different voice. . . The boy cleared his throat, and repeated clearer than before. It had been more of a garble of dialect than proper speech that brought the girls’ attention.

“I’m not a thief.”

“So you say. Then who are you?” asked Lyrien, her uncontrollable smiling erased by the progress of conversation. She was taking greater interest in him now, searching him with amused eyes, piercing beyond the first impression of a sleeping child. He seemed somewhat out of place in such rags; as she imagined him suitable attire, he had the potential to be striking. He definitely did not have the pinched look of a beggar or the greasiness of a thief. There was an aura about him that told her instincts different. And she trusted her instincts. More often than she should, but when it came to matters concerning people, they rarely deviated from truth.

“If you’re speaking aright, I’d have to say that you look like you escaped from the Garophan. Not that it’s a bad thing,” the other girl scoffed, shrugging in evident skepticism, eyes squinted to reinforce her point. The thinly veiled meaning in her words was obvious to herself and Lyrien, something agreed tacitly. Still, that did not mean Lyrien condoned her attitude.

“Calia.” whispered Lyrien, a warning. Before she could exert more of her displeasure, the other girl muttered something, but the boy cut the rest of her words, sudden curiosity making his brows furrow. He did not even think about asking, more like in a visceral reflex as the question popped out of his mouth.

“What’s a ga. . . Gar-what?”

An awkward silence.

“Do tell me I’m wrong, you aren’t one of- . . . Nevermind.” Calia groaned, shaking her head in disbelief, hands quickly massaging her shins. They seared as Lyrien had kicked her with dire accuracy. Having forced her silence before she could speak words she would later regret, Lyrien hissed, for there were limits to even her patience towards Calia’s vulgar taste of words. Hesitantly, the boy bit his lower lip, afraid that he had somehow angered the girl. When he began to open his mouth to apologize, a gentle hand at his arm stopped him. Sighing at Calia, who threw herself down onto the grass, Lyrien rolled her eyes.

“Don’t let her get to you. We don’t have too much time. First of all, what’s your name? To save us from awkward conversation.”

“My name? What’s a name?” the boy asked innocently, his head tilting, this new term alien to him just as the ‘Garophan’. In response, Calia stood up in incredulity, unable to process what the boy had just said, all pain forgotten.

“Did you break open your head or-“

“Obviously, you’re not from here,” Lyrien interrupted smoothly, another well placed kick bringing Calia kneeling into the grass. Lyrien smiled, trying not to scare the boy. Lyrien saw that he had ignored their playful – and purposeful - exchanges, having curious eyes keenly inspecting her; a child gleaning information. “But where you are now, a name is our leitas.”

The information surprised him. He did not recognize the language – or place it, nevertheless – but he had known what she said. How and why, did he know what she had just said? Lyrien’s had been a particular dialect, and with a strange accent. Confusion began to grasp him, stirred by the sudden rupture of his peace - frustration beginning to sprout at his insides.

But what peace?

Forcibly, the boy swallowed all this down and tried to answer as appropriately as possible, lest he rudely ignore the girl. Even despite the emotional tangle he wished to show his reserve of propriety, a bizarre urge at the back of his head. The term leitas referred to a title, not something to be called casually. However, that did not seem to apply here. The boy once again had to quiet the curiosity of asking how he had this knowledge. His title, no, his name. . . Translated, it would sound like -

“Vin. . . cent.”

The name did not surprise him. It sounded fitting. A missing piece of a puzzle, a ring made for the right finger. There was even a trace of relish in the boy’s words by saying his name out loud. Lyrien also seemed to take it in with a smile. Calia, her reaction could not be seen – hidden by the grass, she seemed to be unmoving, possibly pretending to be asleep. In an encouraging gesture, Lyrien playfully ruffled his hair – and for the first time, Vincent realized his hair had been red – crimson red. Long hair draped his shoulders, curtaining his neck. As Vincent descended into a silence for his thoughts, Lyrien decided to let him be, eyeing the scarlet depths of the hair, the volume just perfect so it did not result in a mass of tangled strands, but light bangs that stood to the viewer’s attention, an uncommon marker amongst the regular crowd.

“Red hair is rare. . . Who are your parents?” she asked, without hesitation. Perhaps which House would have been a better question: crimson hair usually meant nobility, a color only amongst the noble pool, yet still rarer even. That made her think; she would not assume too far as royalty, but she did not completely push aside that thought. Appearance wise he did not command charisma and authority, but just an aura of himself, albeit even though a child, his posture and the tone naturally seeping into his words, all lead towards suspicion of rich Blood running in him. Things of such like were drilled into one’s head since birth in the average noble household, and nowhere else – such strict a code of conduct, only the nobility had such leisure to pursue. In addition, the knowledge of the ancient Eastern tongue, Seihtal, concreted the idea. Most of all, his eyes. . . They amused her. On eye to eye basis they were azurite, one of the deeper hues she had seen. Yet that was not all - when she looked at them with the corner of her eye, they looked different than what she would see front-on, but then her peripheral sight would haze like fog.

She cast off this thought aside when the boy in question started to frown in concentration. Some time had passed after her question, and Lyrien had been busy analyzing his eyes. They were, however, abnormal to an extent that she decided to give them proper thought later.

“My parents. . .” Vincent trailed off, as no answer came forward from his mouth. The thoughts of parents probed his brain at his insistence, but to somewhere inaccessible. Somewhere he could not reach; a place where the information was missing. He frowned heavier, trying to recall the faces of a father and mother. The smell of cooking, the warmth of a mother’s embrace, and the reassuring grip of a father – the love given by two figures simply was not there. It was not that he could not remember them. All he drew was a blank sheet of paper. Unwritten memories could not be recovered, Vincent realized, unexpected hollowness coming over him. Or was it that he just could not pluck those memories from his mind and visualize them? He had known what to expect and recall, after all.

“Don’t you. . . Remember?”

Vincent nodded, answering dumbly to the question. He felt as if he was learning his life through these seconds, through Lyrien’s questions, as if discovering these facts about himself just now. It was an experience feeding a growing irritation – an unsolvable puzzle that had a solution only if another helped him for it. Why had he not thought about it before? When had been before? Most important of all, why could he not remember anything? The frustration he had felt before now began to intensify from sprouting to frothing inside his stomach.

The moment of strained quiet was broken by Calia, a large yawn escaping her lips as she rolled over to them.

“What are you moping about? You look like a choked toad. And you’d better have quick legs. Kynith - we have Yellows on the loose.”

Immediately, the statement urged Lyrien to pull Vincent to his feet. Taken off guard, Vincent stumbled, startled at the rush of action. Pushing him forward was Lyrien’s firm hand on his shoulder - her expression ordering him to shut up and move. Brought back to the reality of the situation, where he did not even know where he was, he decided to follow the girl’s orders. The way Calia had spoken ‘Yellows’ sounded wrong, somehow, but he did not know what the name signified.

He soon was going to.

Distantly, he heard voices shouting at each other. The breeze drove their cacophony, splinters of noise. They appeared to be close. Impulsively, he jerked his head back, but before he could see more than a blur of green, Calia slapped him on the side of the head and forced his head forwards.

“Ow!” Vincent exclaimed, glowering as he vigorously rubbed his earlobe.

“If that hurt, I’m sure you want to know the alternative. Common sense: Never, ever, look into the eyes of a Kynal. Once they see you, well. . . Let’s say they’ll like you stewed than fried.”

Vincent could have laughed, had he understood those words fully. The seriousness pervading Calia’s expression made him gulp. There was little humor – only the plain truth. She did not bother to explain how someone could actually eat him whole, without being malevolent beasts and all, but he complied silently. Lyrien told him they were to be safe, and he did not doubt her, whatever “safe” meant. Calia’s words had an unpleasant effect on him, as if he had been struck in the face with something heavy; and was still pressing against him.

They were now hunkering down into the grass to avoid detection. Vincent felt the coarse grass brush against his legs, tickle his toes and stab his cheeks. He was swimming, he thought, splitting a path through the green. He could not know where they were headed but the girls seemed to have the general idea. Only after a few minutes of crouched progress, much to their dismay, their efforts at a hidden but swift retreat were foiled, one growling shout enough to throw them all into full sprint:

“I smell you!”

He was so surprised that he jumped and nearly tripped. Lyrien had literally thrown him into a breakneck pace. Calia went ahead first, effortlessly covering ground, loping, moving at speeds only capable for the fit. He did not know it, but she was navigating them, acting the guide. However to Vincent, the abrupt exercise demanded more energy than he had. He had eaten nothing since. . . Since when? The boy nearly tripped again while thinking, and such was the jolt that he firmly decided to push aside all thoughts and concentrated on putting one foot ahead of each other. Lyrien ran at even pace beside him; she seemed to have no fitness problems. Vincent was the only one with sheens of perspiration on his forehead.

Howls ripped through the skies from behind, and at the very air vibrating around him, he felt his body shiver by the effect. Vincent knew they had to be at least a few minutes away, but by the girls’ hastiness, it evidently made no difference. Lyrien mumbled something about their voices being instruments of war, implements of terror. He was not sure if she was talking to herself or to him, but he nodded in understanding. The dreadful pitch had jarred his ears and brushed his bones. Though her words had been barely audible above the rustle of grass, harshly thrown aside by the increasing celerity of their wake, he could not do much else.

Despite knowing how far away they were, despite unconsciously denying Lyrien’s deepening frown the only way the inexperienced can, the Yellows’ presence riled Vincent’s heart, the clash of their greaves, swords dancing on shields swaying control over his drumming chest. Fear jabbed away at him, bleeding out air, energy and sweat. Swallowing loudly, already having forgotten Calia’s sharp warning, Vincent chanced a peek – and what breath he had held dissipated. One pair of black pupils tore through him as teeth gnashed against each other in savage fury. As if the creature knew Vincent would look back. . . Still locked onto those maddened eyes, in his peripheral sight he saw that they were obviously prepared for battle. Ochre hovered, prevalent among the green, embellishing cuirass, pauldrons and helmet as the rest blended into the environment. But this observation passed away as he noticed something else, the outstanding colors making it all the more emphasized.

They were so fast.

Indeed, figures were gliding across the intervening space between them. Their leaps made Calia’s appear timid skipping, and Vincent no longer saw their limbs but smudges. He clutched his chest, doubly riving his sight back forward in an effort to calm himself down - firmly squeezing Lyrien’s hand as he caught up with her. She gave him a brief glance, and squeezed his hand in return – an unmistakable rueful smile on her face as she noticed the Kynith homing in on them. Vincent took her encouragement to heart and her strengthening determination – for when the silence was thickening with the effort of flight, save for the random moments of laughter burst into from behind, Vincent felt fleeting terror; that their pursuers were right behind them, and the warm breeze was their vile mirth caressing his back. Those eyes. . . Thinking about them, he certainly felt that malevolence without growing fur or horn was a capable feat. This gave an extra skip to his pace.

“Where are the others?!” was all Calia managed to growl before that too, was lost to the increasing toll of running, though Vincent did not catch whatever else she grumbled to herself after.

Again, laughter erupted behind them. But this time, much closer than they dared to remember. As if they were mocking them and their toil – speaking in a rasping tongue, coarse speech pricked Vincent’s ears. They were beginning to dive into even taller grass now – although Vincent could easily hide in them, Lyrien’s and Calia’s head bobbed up and down, making them an easy target to search for. If they could just duck. . . But that opportunity had closed many moments ago. The Yellows were much too close to be deceived.

As if Calia had read his mind, she braked into an alarming halt, almost toppling him and Lyrien off their feet. They managed, however, as Calia pulled them up by their shirts – his neck in Vincent’s case – and pushed them in the opposite direction of which she was facing. A bead of sweat hit Vincent’s face, and it took a moment to realize that the sweat was not his own; albeit he was drenched with it. This bead was cold. It had been from Calia, who had fished something out of her pocket. In their escape they had flattened enough of the grass to make a makeshift clearing, and thus, visible to the immediate vicinity, the Kynith scowled and slowed down to a stop at the sight of this object. Some raised their shields as if they were blinded by the thing Calia was holding, and some shook yet tried to hide it. Vincent felt a small ripple of laughter through Lyrien’s arms. A giant of a being, human-like, towering over all of them by head and shoulder, and muscles bulging that would probably explode on touch – to see something like such shake wide-eyed was a sight to behold.

Reflexively, the Yellows took a step back as Calia raised her hand and the thing in it. It was a shining orb, and from focused inspection, there was a mysterious yellowish vapor encased in a dark sphere. The glass itself was ornate in decoration, writings illuminated by the light. From the distance Vincent could not make out the fine details of the etchings, yet he intuitively knew they were of no language he could recognize. The Kynith hissed in reply, and Calia smirked at this reaction.

“Isn’t it pretty? No need to cover your eyes, now." jeered Calia. Vincent was to later learn that the defensive gestures were justifiable with the simple reason that the Kynith despised light. However many centuries of survival had adapted them to the sun’s radiance – but light, borne of artifice - such light was a completely different matter. Several now blatantly cowered, knowing full well that if the girl decided to smash the glass restricting the monster within its prison, a more than little fireworks would entertain her. . . And disperse the crowd. Rage and hatred iced as the situation seemed likely to realize the thought into happening.

“And here I was thinking your brains were also made of muscle!” the gleeful taunt passed unanswered, and Calia’s superior demeanor leveled with the unfamiliar emotion the Yellows found themselves engrossed with, the girl’s every move and twitch becoming more meaningful than a subject of derision.

Panting for breath, Lyrien took hold of Vincent’s arm, and tugged at it urgently. Vincent hesitated, finding himself wishing to stay with Calia, oddly protective of the girl, but his mind fragmented to the decision to flee from what he felt to be walking death. He could not know death as he was, but it was a perception struck from the Kynith appearance to his gut. Even through a split-second’s luxury, it had been enough for the Yellows to impress their shocking image raw to his mind. Their movement had suggested it, and Vincent noticed it once more, the interweaving of golden-yellow armor to mahogany flesh, the fluid transition that made it appear like additional parts to their body, a second skin. Additional parts that illustrated screaming faces, shapes of all kinds wrought to show persons under the most gruesome mortal agony. . . Shapes he could not have imagined to see. But what had struck Vincent most was their helmets. Heinous faces infringed what little attempt at calm he reserved. The smirk twisted on the facial overlap was inhuman, belligerent. The eyes within, the only part he could see, no longer feasted on the boy’s with bloodlust, but not yet knowing why they had ceased their pursuit, Vincent could not find the moisture in his mouth to swallow.

Without himself knowing, his hesitation a second too long, Vincent moved towards Calia. Or so he thought. The girl seemed to become smaller, and his surroundings grow. Lyrien was pulling him away. Calia did not seem to mind, waving her hand without looking back, holding the Yellows at bay. Their midnight eyes watched them go, a tinge of regret mitigating those vehement pupils, but immediately overpowered by terror as Calia dropped the orb to the ground. A collective shudder spread through the crowd, steps backwards and notions of shaky fingers, and Calia had to laugh. She planted her feet over the orb, rolling it back and forth.

“Oh please, some of us humans are hesitant to even name your kind!”

At this, a Kynal swallowed and advanced, albeit timorously, managing to wrest speech from his mouth; the tone was ruined from the intended effect by fright, yet care matted over his words so that his speech would not hasten what appeared to be a darkening day. Calia shifted her weight so that despite their alacrity, if she was attacked, nothing would be left standing except the grass. The Kynal mustered the remaining dregs of its audacity and spoke – stuttering even more at this sight - in a tongue that Calia barely understood.

“The boy. . . Is mine, his eyes . . . on me.” the Kynal said, and teetered on the verge of scampering as Calia frowned, more at the thought that the boy had disobeyed her than at the Kynal’s brazenness. Nevertheless, the Yellow shrieked as Calia raised her leg and brought her heel down fierce.

Dropping all it held, it began to leap witless, flinging off all excess baggage - helmet, cuirass - in fear that the light would catch up to it. Its screaming head grew smaller as others followed not a second after, cursing darkly and baleful in their tongue. They bolted without looking back, onwards, blind and deaf by the overpowering urge of survival.

Now only six remained. The orb, of course, was whole and rolling merrily under Calia’s foot again, companied by her silent laughter. She was in a way, impressed. Two or three had been her expectation, but it seemed that on this side of the border, they were being better bred than the others she had encountered. The humor of the situation quickly passed. Wordlessly, she surveyed the remnants of her pursuers, those who bared their teeth in reply, and hefted their weapons as if to throw them. It was better to finish it quickly. Though she was not superstitious, to hear – or let a Kynal speak – more than twenty Kynith curses in in one day would bring her ill luck for an equal amount of years. Not that many people would have that chance; the Yellows would have ripped them apart in the first three words. And she had already enough of ill luck today – having even blown her chances of clean retreat by her tarrying, or rather, Lyrien’s frolicking with the boy.

She sighed. She was never going to get over this.

“Xeist, Yellows. . . Bloody freaks never know the right timing.”

She frowned, hesitated, and frowned some more until she just closed her eyes, clenched her toes and pushed.

“Kalahas, qlisihn.” (1)

The reflexive reaction of the Kynith – those who had doubted she would actually waste this priceless object on them - was immediate. Their screeches gurgled in their throats as the glass orb at first embed itself deeper into the grass, then shattered. Its cage rent, blonde began to trickle from the gaps, oozing as if liquid-

Whispers. Words were breathed, yet not from a single voice; a clash of syllables, tones high and low. Deceived, thought the Kynith, and color returned to their frozen faces. But Calia watched. Now it having reared to strike, she was simply waiting.

It came with the lashes of a gale. Wailing enveloped her, the roar of wind and Castial light gushing into her ears, a blaring craze. The ride of air deafened her, walls of it ramming onwards from behind, summoned by the orb’s magic. All she could see was yellow, smell ash, hands clench against the strings of wind pulling her arms in all directions and her eyes became slits. Yet even that was a price as they felt thrashed by the maelstrom, and her legs too, punished by the insane fervor of the grass the winds slapped them around in.

Then it was over.

But she definitely was not jumping up and down in joy.

Silence reigned as Calia sighed inwardly, rearranging her hair, splayed to and fro. She picked at the molten remnants of the glass – wisps of incandescence hung in the air, residue to tell what had erased six beings in the moment to catch a breath. Little remained of the Kynith, only remains footprints and pallid sand, which were even now sifted into the air by the lingering breeze. Abruptly, she chucked the molten pieces back to the ground.

“. . . And I’m using it for what? For loitering around for a kid. . . Ugh.” said Calia, continuing her thoughts in words. Her jaw muscles were hurting. She hated it, herself, for having not thought of a wiser alternative, and the Kynith for forcing her hand. Why did the Yellows had to be mixed with the proper ones? She could have, though at her expense of risking danger, switched the orb to a fake one, afterwards where she could have used her other devices to vanish, leaving Yellows still quivering in panic. But no, they had to believe themselves brave. Another priceless trophy used, one of many, and the blame fell on Lyrien. Again. The belated reminder of who was responsible burned her.

Fiddling the liquefied heap with fond regret with her toe, she finally whipped around, intent on giving Lyrien a string of complaints when she caught up with her. And the boy. That stopped her in mid-stride. It struck her odd, the boy being found in such a location. Where he had been was Kynith territory, with good reason. Thinking, Calia began to jog.

As if to remember this strange day, the weather was unseasonably cool for summer.

->-<-

Lyrien lurched onto her knees, desperate to pour air into her lungs. The air was luscious – edible – she felt it an age since she had appreciated breathing this much. If ever. She turned, and saw Vincent miming her, but he was in a poorer state than even she was; he was struggling to fight bile rising to his tongue.

“That was. . . Are you okay?”

Reaching her hand out, she fended off Vincent’s protest and laid him down on the ground. He forced a grunt as cool hands rubbed circles over his stomach. He would have turned over if he wasn’t busy fulfilling his own gluttony of oxygen to not shrivel and suffocate.

“Deep breaths. . .”

He inhaled and fought the reflex to cough out his stomach – even though dimly registering it was probably only a lump of flesh – and exhaled without too much trouble. Clean, crisp air cycled exhaustion out of his lungs and the niggling sour taste seemed to recede. Suddenly uncomfortable with his stomach bare to Lyrien’s touch, Vincent cleared his throat and tried to squirm out of reach. She absently forced his stillness and acquiescence, looking over her shoulder for some sign. Calia or the Yellows, he did not know.

“Who. . . What are they?” asked Vincent, rubbing his head. It was beginning to throb faintly.

“The Kynith? Well. . . Calia can explain that better than I can.” Lyrien answered without looking at him. When she realized he had left him hanging though, she smiled at him and it was replied with the boy’s own. There was something about her that just tugged his face into automatic response. “She knows things more than I do.”

He was burning to pry, but felt doing so would be inappropriate. Lyrien had turned around again, looking in all directions now. After some time, Lyrien gave into her anxiety and stood to circumspect. Vincent was content to just lie there. His eyes drew to the sky – the white bubbles littering across the expanse drew likeliness to his state of mind: cloudy. Stormy was not the word; distress seemed to have unknotted by Lyrien’s touch, but if he could put another name to what his head was full of now, it would be fog. It was full of questions, gurgling at every word he had been told, at every situation, at every apparently, new, sight. But nothing truly gave him the snap of surprise – nothing seemed unfamiliar. It was like rewriting a blank page that was stained with traces of ink.

Even now, it was concluding that it seemed they had reached another field, one tranquil enough to suggest no murderous maniacs inhabited the place, and one silent enough to suggest nothing moving took residence either. The fields were no longer dominated by tall grass, but short scattered bursts of bush; hard, packed brown earth filled as the background. Drooped and listless flowers swept the ground as breeze nudged them, and no trees were in visible vicinity. He knew that before, only a few hundred paces away, vibrant, lush coats of greenery stretched from one horizon to the other – why did it look so bland here, everything so barren? Why were only stumps left of trees? And why were there noticeable patches of faded black on them, as if burns old time gone?

Vincent started, alarmed at a flurry of activity, and leapt to his feet with surprising agility. A wave of wobbling anemia passed as tufts of dead grass slid off him. The entertaining of his curiosity had him rolling around. Then the two let out a collective sigh as they saw ashen gray hair, crowning the running figure of Calia. The boy sat down, weakness returning. Lyrien did the same when Calia came and almost fell to her face with a groan. Sweat was streaking on her face, and she was evidently spent. Just like him not so long ago. He erased the thought. The thought of puking would twist him inside out again.

“I will sell your limbs for meat someday. . . To a butcher who can’t even tell the difference between them and a goat’s rib.” Calia managed between composed, deep breaths, one hand barely supporting her face from falling to the ground. Still, it was a fierce stare that she gave to the girl sitting beside Vincent. “Do you know what I went through to even think about that? That was a Castial orb! Priceless! It costs us more than our lives threefold! Bloody priceless!”

All Lyrien did was smile. It was a placating gesture that threw Calia into an internal fury of whether she should smack her silly; huffing a sigh, fuming but trying to control herself, she endured.

No one was following them – and they would not dare. Not much was left of the Yellows to try and hunt them again. The remainders, even if they realized the immediate threat was over, were highly unlikely to show the same bravado their fallen comrades had. There was no need for safeguards; they were safe enough now that the land had changed. But Calia remembered faces. . .Faces witnessing death before the actual happening. She should have been satisfied, hatred and fear towards the Kynith having been instilled in her since long, yet as a person who prized possessions over pretty much everything else, her reward was regret and irritation, for the orb, to Lyrien. Whose name that once thought of, evoked yet another seething, barely-restrained snarl. She could not even begin to count the things she had to waste, sell or throw away for the girl’s sake, who was kneeling beside her, talking to the boy now, who, in turn was a complete stranger getting more attention from Lyrien than herself.

She faced the other way. According to him, he had dropped out of the sky – not even knowing who he was until Lyrien had picked his brains. He had no valid reason to be in Kynith territory. He looked – foreign. Not the look of a commoner, but on par with the nobility. That ticked the onset of suspicions – if he truly belonged to a House, why in the world would he be in one of the most dangerous places any human could be?

For him, Vincent was confused as much as Calia was. Now that time was sinking the facts into him the questions lay dormant, his head rewinding. All he could dredge up was his conversations with Lyrien. And his name: Vincent. His leitas. It made no sense that people should be calling him by his leitas casually, but it seemed nothing extraordinary. Nothing made sense. His parents, too. Before he was interrupted, he was trying to remember his parents. He could not. There was nothing there to remember.

“What is it?” Lyrien asked gently, brushing away his bangs from his eyes to attract his attention. Vincent’s thought broke off and he frowned, pushed onto reality once more.

“My parents,” he began as if talking to himself, “I couldn’t remember them.” He grabbed a handful of earth and tossed it over his shoulder.

“Maybe it’s just-“

“It just isn’t there – I don’t know.” blurted Vincent, cutting Lyrien unintentionally, and a little too expressive on the last words. He was not surprised Lyrien had become silent. He knew it – she did not what to say, and he did not either. His head was a shamble by itself, what could she say?

At a faint rumbling sound in the distance, Lyrien and Calia stood. Uncertainly, Vincent forced himself up too, but there was no urgency in the girls’ faces now. Lyrien smiled as Calia gave enough of a scowl to make him hide behind Lyrien.

“And here they finally come,” hissed Calia, hand raised to acknowledge the oncoming party. Dangling in her hand was a badge Vincent noticed she had been wearing earlier on her arm, a circular ornament with stylized flames on the outer rim. He was not sure whether anyone would have good enough eyesight to see that small an object from the distance, but the colors decorating it seemed to suffice.

Five riders halted before Calia. They were mounted on four legged beasts Vincent knew to call horses, with two more riderless among them. The one with the sorrel gelding smoothly slid into place and dismounted. A flick of the head revealed he was a man, and cap flung off him, he caught it with one hand and propped it at his side. One hand rested across his chest. He bowed deeply to Calia.

“Life on your sands, vaelin.” the man said, a greeting as was proper to someone of her station. I am afraid one of our mounts foundered half way and we had to replace-“

But Calia’s scowl deepened and the man changed the rest of his words.

“Or rather, one of us should have walked and made expedite pace without tarry. My apologies, milady.”

The apology was there, perhaps not fully sincere, but enough for Calia to divert her glare to the other four standing, hoods pulled back to show all of them were women. They were looking at her expectantly, or waiting for the coming harsh words. Vincent noticed they wore the same kind of clothing. Uniform, the word popped to his head. On their arms were the same emblems Calia had held.

“Initiative – learn it.” Calia snapped, and a sharp glance to Lyrien and Vincent followed, one meaningful enough for even the boy to understand they were not to mention what had happened. The silver-haired girl strode forwards and took the reins of a cremello, patting it gently. “We have a guest. I trust someone will take care of him since we are bringing him along.”

The question of who was unnecessary as all eyes glanced to Vincent’s hand clutching a handful of Lyrien’s skirt.

“Who exactly-“ was all one of them could say before Calia’s abrupt mounting cut the woman off. The rigid set of the girl’s back emanated enough atmosphere to imitate a winter storm.

Taking the hint, the man adjusted the cap back on his head and promptly returned to his gelding and while checking the straps on his saddlebags, motioned one of the women to hand the remaining horse over to Lyrien. She took it with a smile, and the woman nodded. Vincent stared blankly at the palomino. As Lyrien ran a hand over its forelock the horse neighed, and Vincent took a step backwards. Quietly standing behind Lyrien, from under her arm he poked the mare in the ribs. Lyrien was busy feeding it something from one of the pockets on its saddlebags; the horse was intent on whatever she was chewing too much to notice.

“Her name is Ryia,” Lyrien said, turning and smiling to him, and sidestepping to give him a clear view. “she doesn’t mind passengers, but she can be a little wild at times. Just try not to pull on her mane too much. She’s sensitive about that.”

At Lyrien’s insistence, Vincent hesitantly began stroking, a careful hand on the withers. Although his hand had to reach over his head, it was not unpleasant or uncomfortable as he had expected it to be, touching a beast. It gave him the impression of touching someone’s – Lyrien’s – head, all populated with long hair. Yet just as he was about to enjoy it, Calia snapped something to them and Lyrien dug one foot in the stirrup, and landed lightly on the saddle. A monetary feeling of flight, and he had joined her, sitting in front, both legs either side of the mare.

“Where are we going?” asked Vincent. Things seemed to be moving faster than he could cope.

“Home,” Lyrien whispered into his ear, nudging Ryia into the right direction. Judging by the sun beginning to set, beginning to disappear into the horizon, he was told they were going west. “Zelian.”

Home. Home? There was a reminiscent familiarity in the word. But it was familiarity that had encompassed everything Lyrien and Calia had told him. The feeling of knowing but not feeling. Or the other way around. Perhaps both – all he could chase out to conscious thought were vague threads of fading whispers.

He watched Calia lead the way, the hunch of her shoulders still rigid but tired; the other women, the man, all around Calia in a protective circle. He noticed an array of weapons between them. That was odd – Calia and Lyrien carried no weapons. Yet as Lyrien hummed an unknown tune above his head, the sound silenced everything. He put his hands over Lyrien’s, acknowledging the destination. They all seemed eager, either by the conversations they shared or by the most trivial things such as an impatient hand on the reins. He was the only one who was a stranger to ‘Zelian’, the only one oblivious to why everyone had a smile on their faces. But Lyrien was so warm on his back, he snug in closer, Ryia now lurching into a trot.

Vincent nodded, but only to himself, resigned to let things happen, intent to follow wherever Lyrien would take him.

That was all he could do.

->-<-

Scribe’s Interstice:

Zelian. . . Still a relish of memory on my tongue as I speak that name. I will not apologize if my following words are enamored by my memories.

To my remembrance, it was possibly the closest place to be called haven. Its location made it a target of many refugees – just shy of dead centre of the continent, Zelian also built a reputation of welcoming all kind of outcasts, whether those who could not earn one day’s worth of food, those banished or those with reasons unspoken. A swirl of all kinds and races – in reality, they all sought one thing, a place to call home. Zelian provided that with open arms.

Sixteen centuries prior, Eutychieth Lelnias raised from mere sand and stone a palace. Needless to say, grand intentions were laid out on the table by the idea of such an edifice in the middle of the Uhyril Desert. The reckless scale which he attempted was thought nothing but a dream, a spurt of youthful zeal. Lelnias was quick to dispel this as an illusion as he revealed foundations of an arcane civilization several Epoch past; with crumbling ruin as backbone, inspired by the brilliance of architecture the scant – but colossal – structures held, the undertaking soon gained popularity. As forgotten knowledge was tapped into, revived and improvised, impervious to senescence, desert dwellers who renounced their nomadic lifestyles flocked to this new hope of stability.

However the most unlikely feat he achieved did not lie with the resurrection of archaic buildings, but with the success with vegetation – greenery, in the arid conditions of cracked earth and sandstorms was unheard of. Seeds were scattered and trees matured – from then and onwards, forests bloomed, and as if positively responsive to the ambitions of their designer, communities began to form. Some say, attributed to the bizarre nature of managing such a feat, that Lelnias made use mystical objects he had found during his excavations of the ruins. Such whisperings were justifiable even I think, as not even decades later, climate and terrain seemed to alter miraculously. . . Recording history not having been a focused factor at the time, no one. . . Apart from me, knows the full story behind this. In this way knowing too much has its merits.

However, what is known is that through the toils of Eutychieth Lelnias, a dismissed dream had become from a mere dot on the map to a smear, a blur filing residence for a staggering population of ten million to the present day.

Eutychieth did not live to see his city in its full splendor, later to be recognized as the wealthiest and most stable judet(although the term tehsil, is more appropriate) in central Asphzein; no other free city rivaled, and rivals, Zelian in wealth and size. Though far from perfect, blemished from such status by a good portion of the population being formed of refugees and outcasts, a number of them wastrels’ bitter of their fortunes, yet the nature of the city endowed everyone a little bit of something, following the Yurhilzaist tradition of practicality.

Buildings were not the only things Eutychieth left behind. One and a half millennia later, his descendants remained firmly thriving, upholding the principles of its ancestor. What had started as a leader of a mansion-building endeavor had become the ruling monarchy enthroned atop the highest point of the city – the Argent Palace.

That was exactly where Vincent was heading towards.

->-<-

The journey was more or less, uneventful. After the Kynith scare any remote signs of activity, hostile, friendly, large or small was treated with indifference. And after his scare, Vincent fell asleep during most of the journey. Only at the call of food did he wake, groggily at best, and he ate his fill. And more, much to Calia’s displeasure. Even Ryia seemed to be uncomfortable with the dead weight lolling about on top of her, and even tried to buck him awake once. Lais – the man with the cap – offered him a seat, but even forced awake Vincent was a corpse. That carved Calia’s frown deeper and Lyrien had trouble keeping her laughter silent.

In the end Calia flicked his forehead until Vincent grew irritable. Growling, Vincent sat upright and faced to meet Zelian.

And it was a sight.

Awe erased the grog of sleep. He would have been less surprised if he first saw them in the distance, but now Vincent was rubbing his eyes, creaking his neck just by visually climbing the white-washed walls rooted at the outskirts of the city. If some comment could escape him, it would have expressed wonder at the seamless rock. Simply, it seemed like the earth had spat out its white innards. Above, on the wall walks Vincent strained to see, people in glinting clothes – armor, came a whisper - moved back and forth, with the occasional one disappearing from view. Too busy marveling, he almost ignored the approaching gate.

The group slowed to a halt under the great archway. Six people gathered to greet them, summoned at the sight of the banner of the Burning Wheel, dutifully held by Lais. These six came armored, armed and prepared to escort the House Head – vaelin – of House Lhareis, for what was a noble without her retinue?

Though easily told by Calia’s expression, she approved discretion more than the preservation of her standing. Yet as things happened, she warmly greeted her servants, took several refreshments they offered to her and shared them with the rest. Having reached Zelian, there was no need to hurry. Safe ground did not whip need of celerity. Dismounting, from her servants she heard a brisk update of any events she missed during her absence, issued instructions on pending decisions. She mingled with fellow House members, citizens, friends – for the first time since she had left, four months ago. Four months well spent outside Zelian walls, four months in secret.

This happened all the while as Vincent lingered behind, and left unchecked, he explored his surroundings. Hopping off Ryia he wandered to the wall, something about them attracting him. He swept a hand over intricate masonry, absorbing the details, appreciating the balance of rough and smooth textures. His first encounter with aesthetic pleasure was a surprise – every inch of the wall was elaborated with some sort of pattern or marking, variations of shallow and deep. But this hardly scratched the appearance of solidity, yet rather, imposed softness in all the hard white rock. It was a subtle effect, like a vague scent in the air that would tickle his nose. He would caress any part of it absentmindedly and be rewarded with the tangible feeling of fine art: grooves and protrusions, curves and lines. It made him smile.

This ended as Lyrien called him, and Calia dismiss her servants, announcing they would leave. It was unbidden, but he kissed the wall as if to say goodbye. A second later, he whipped around, and found nobody had seen him – as relief calmed his burning face, he touched his lips. Why had he done that?

“What is it?” asked Lyrien, finding Vincent by himself, Ryia following her by the reins. The mare neighed as if to echo the girl’s concern.

“I don’t know,” he replied. It was the truth, but Lyrien took it in stride nevertheless. Patting the horse Vincent took Lyrien’s help to mount, and on Calia’s tail was about to sink into thought-

But once more, awe erased memory.

People. That was his eyes saw. Sudden noise what his ears heard. He flinched at the pain, confounded at first, and slowly recovered at Lyrien’s soothing and the finding of its source.

Streets branching left and right, stuffed with traffic, people of varying demeanor, shape and size all interacting with each other. A good number smiling, others hostile. Strange devices crawling along, loaded with cargo, finding little purchase towards their destinations with bodies on all sides. The driver was polite – he was a strange one, with a gnarled horn where a nose should have been – or at least, he was trying, yelling to clear the way. People snarled and some even ignored him. They were already being shoved by hands and shoulders alike in ten directions; no one could walk without bumping into someone else along the way. Those who ignored the driver cursed loudly as the vehicle roughly nudged them into movement, and consequently, rocked their precious load from their hands.

The primary market district, Vincent was told later.

Smothered from view were doors to shops, windows luxurious with slogans or names, either of glass, wood or absence of stone. But the main attractions were the stalls, elderly merchants sitting and advertising their wares with not so elderly voices, youths scurrying about with items bundled in their arms or under the crook of shoulders, middle-aged men with yellow teeth roaring a tale of slaying some beast to boast the quality of their product. What was a Tyriol? But the ringing jingle of coins, sound of goods being exchanged and money grudgingly being handed over and taken with dancing fingers was everywhere. Laughter, oaths, groans – trade filled the air, and the noise was incredible.

But as Vincent neared the crowds the hubbub grew a little more bearable, and then, increasingly quieter. He did not know it but it was the effect of the presence of the banner Lais carried, and none walked under a House ensign except the vaelin. Some even hailed Calia and she, despite all cold demeanor she had thrown towards Vincent before, replied in earnest. It was wonder to see so many quiet after such a riot. But as their group reached a different path from all the rest, activity resumed and they hurried to save their ears from demise.

The path they were on was deserted, which seemed impossible in such a crowded area – but it was. Bright silver bricks paved underneath their feet were free from any other presence except them; and the road continued down further than could be seen.

“Why are people avoiding this path? I mean, the street is all stuffed full of people.”

Vincent’s tone told his inability to understand.

“It’s a path to the palace. Law. Walk on it only if you have purpose to meet the royal family - the Lelnia - and the obligation of a newcomer is to register, but we don’t need to worry about you.”

Oddly it was Lais who replied, and Lyrien nodded to confirm, squeezing his hand.

The boy looked up at the looming structure of their destination, and felt a slight dread. Why escaped him, only that lelnias was the word for zeal in Seihtal. This time he did not even bother to ask himself how he knew this, but the revelation did not comfort him. Zealots, if they were, struck a gut image of the Kynith.

But in a few minutes he fell asleep again in Lyrien’s arms.


->-<-

Hushed muttering behind doors. It was a purely symbolical gesture – as they were explicit about not being disturbed. The tone that order had been relayed in brooked no argument. The truth was none would dare eavesdrop. Two banners winged the double doors, ruby and silver flushed on the Zelian coat of arms: two horned serpentine creatures snarling at shield of silver emblem and twin red swords.

The royal ensign.

Thus, meaning this was the personal bedroom of the Oryalist saist Lelnia: the Queen of Zeal.

On the bed lay Kristel Lelnias.

“Calia is returning, mistress.”

Next to the bed knelt a woman, one knee bearing the weight of her armor, worn even indoors as was proper for her station. Her posture was stiff, but the subtle movements of servitude elegant. Her head remained bowed as her mistress frowned. Bedraggled, disgruntled, having just been woken up, Kristel swiped the curtains to leer at her Cardina Aegis.

“How many times do I have to school you Caitlin, you are beyond calling me ‘mistress’, ‘highness’, ‘milady’ and certainly not ‘majesty’.” chided Kristel, and she slapped the woman on the arm. It was meant to be a brief touch, a sign to stand, but fatigue and the early morning was irking her. Swinging her legs to the side of the bed, she revealed all that she was dressed in – or lack of it. The thin nightdress reddened Caitlin’s cheeks and she bowed her head once more.

“What are you, a man?” said Kristel, half-chuckling, beginning the process of dressing herself: stretched toe found silk, and yanked only to find Caitlin’s hand on the other side of the camisole. The older woman’s stronger grip pulled the garment free, and Caitlin gently placed it onto a nightstand. “And the man likes to see me undressed!”

Kristel groaned and pulled her sheets closer. Caitlin had opened the balcony doors – presumptuously – letting in stream of warm light but overshadowed by a colder breeze. At the edge of the bed she huddled and silently relished the returning warmth. She dully braced herself from Caitlin’s chastising, but there was no verbal blow, whether spoken softly or not, as Caitlin’s cheeks burned now. The casual comment had mortified her, even the possibility of such an idea. During her years of grueling for this position, the honor of personal bodyguard to the Queen – for royalty to utter things so unbefitting of their Blood had been unthinkable to her. But her mistress had shattered whatever expectations she had once held, in the manner that made Caitlin feel as she was feeling now. With a fleeting start, she wiped away the thought and berated herself for being caught off guard.

“My mistress jests again,” said Caitlin, a hand firm on the camisole, jaw locked.

Kristel sighed at her tone, the set of her expression, knowing she would not yield – and flumped on her back to the pleasure of her feather bed. Though packed tight, Kristel felt the mass of goose down quiver underneath the covers to make way for her ungracious sprawl. She intoned her delight and searched Caitlin’s face. The Cardina was still red, and now fidgeting to stop herself from blundering out of her mouth something inappropriate. Kristel giggled and sat back up. She wondered how she would have looked now, only a breath of linen away from nudity, the Queen of Zelian, lying on the bed like a drunken prostitute. This was without doubt one of her more personal moments, away from her responsibilities, as only with those who had her closest confidence could see her act so.

The arduous lessons of etiquette, painstakingly forged into her brain and numerous enough to be worthy of the crown princess, had been unceremoniously thrown out the window after her inauguration. The subject was still a chuckle among her retinue; after the ceremony, trusted attendants and persons had been summoned to her privacy of her room, where she had declared she was tired of pretense and wished to do whatever she chose inside palace doors. Decorum was to be practiced to those outside of then-present company. Naturally, as they were those who respected, admired or simply followed her – also the criteria that had selected them – the decision was not disputed.

So thus, there was no chance of the public realizing how their Queen acted inside the castle doors, unlike her established image of royal material, elegant, kind, generous, forgiving but just, and perfect.

“Twenty three winters have passed since my mother bled for me,” said Kristel, standing, “is that so old that I should prance around, taxed by public perception?”

Caitlin had not been there to hear the Queen’s impassioned speech about the façade of dignity.

But Kristel did not reiterate her words from five years ago. There was even a small hope in the Cardina that she had grown out of it, but action seemed to always crush that thought. Kristel slipped past Caitlin’s hesitant panic of proximity and surveyed the disorderly mess of her room. Deftly, much to Caitlin’s annoyance, Kristel circled her and snatched up the red clothing from the nightstand. In her scowl she made a half-way motion to summon the Queen’s attendants inside, Kristel met her with a hand on her shoulder and a glare.

“And I can dress myself, thank you very much.”

The Cardina acknowledged her wish, and reluctantly, abided. It was unheard of for royalty to take up the work of a maid. And it was seen to that no one disturbed the room’s content. That much was strictly reinforced; Caitlin briefly remembered a servant relegated to the scullery. Finally, as a response to Kristel’s question, she pointedly looked her queen in the eye and her tone took a scolding turn with a thin grimace of a smile.

“It is old enough to act maturely your highness, if you’ll allow me to say so.”

Kristel laughed at this, noting her bodyguard’s forced politeness.

“Nonsense! For a woman, this phase of her life is the time for her to blossom. She must bloom and enjoy life to its fullest, live life as she wishes, not subdued by the duties of. . . Office.” Kristel said, the last word a whisper. The queen ruefully smiled. Caitlin had the grace to avert her gaze as the linen nightshirt lay on the ground, the camisole fitting her perfectly. Kristel ran her hands over her side, down to her hips. Of course, the garment had been tailored for her and only her. Ignoring this fact, Kristel peered at her reflection in a grand mirror. Vividly colored beasts writhed, framing glass large enough to capture Kristel despite her height. Caitlin moved to say something, but Kristel pretended to take no notice, her eyes scrutinizing every part of herself.

“Hmm. . . Look at that, would you say it’s a lie if I say I’m stunning?”

With a discreet gesture of frustration, there was a curt grunt of agreement.

“Mistress, please, the matter at hand-” Caitlin said, moving to her, where she stood face to face with her queen, leaving no space for further interruptions. At a respectable enough distance. To reinforce that she asked, and not demand attention, she did not use the full measure of her handspans’ advantage of height over the queen. Kristel decided that she had held off her Cardina long enough, her jesting having carried on longer than intended. A trifle. Giving into Caitlin’s wishes, Kristel began the process of properly dressing herself, intent to listening on what the other woman had to say.

“So she’s coming back?” asked Kristel. She did not bother to hide the tinge of excitement in her voice. She had not seen the girl in quite a time – it was not a friend that tingled impatience but the information she had to offer. Kristel had to admit she had fondness for the girl, admiring the resilient bravery Calia possessed. But she was Queen, Calia citizen. Or rather, more appropriately, queen and subordinate. There was a sensitive reason to why Calia was returning, matters discussed only among her circle of trust. This was what was happening now. And was supposed to happen when her queen had first woken up, Caitlin added to herself.

“Yes, along with a boy.” said Caitlin, if not questioningly. But she did not doubt the word of her sentries. A crimson haired boy, no older than twelve, had been sighted with the girls. It was not uncommon for Calia to collect trophies, but a living, walking human? That was an aberration from protocol. And to present it open to public scrutiny was another black mark.

“Who?”

Kristel turned, immediately attentive. After closing her windows, her hair was even more unkempt, but it was clear her eyebrows were raised. Caitlin was surprised by the sudden interest. Despite her casual stroll to close the other window, there was some other expectation behind those hazel eyes intently looking at her for a reply. The Cardina wondered, but she had to reply.

“We have no idea. He isn’t a resident of the city, we know that by the. . . Clothes he wears.”

Of course, ‘clothes’ was an overstatement. What the boy was wearing was little better than pillowcases with holes in them, but what was peculiar was that they were not dirty. Torn and pitiable, yes, but it was clean – and perhaps even whiter than the Queen’s own clothes. Which made no sense at all. There was no fabric whiter than fircin. A trick of the daylight.

“She will explain herself in due course, I suppose.” Kristel shrugged, dismissive of the subject and Caitlin’s disapproval on her face. Though the Cardina did not say it, the air was taking on a deeper turn of anticipation than simple expectation, one from the pending arrival of a two month long wait. No, this had more layers than her Queen was willing to bare. But who was she to question?

They bantered a good while, arguing about who and how many would be attending audience, and whether she would be in her full regalia. Kristel had reverted back to her mood of tease and poking enough for voices to be raised that the sharp rapping on the door was almost ignored.

Calia had arrived.