Prologue
Origins
Ylandre, in the 825th year of the Common Age
The scribe droned on, enumerating the results of the latest census. It made for tedious listening and never more so when one wished to engage in an activity that required some physical mobility. Particularly on a fine day when the outdoors were more enticing than the confines of the royal study. Indeed, it was at the tip of the Ardan of Ylandre’s tongue to tell the scribe to stop and hand the report over to the chief advisor.
But one piece of information revived his flagging attention and he sharply looked up from the phantom tracings he had been making with his finger on the tabletop. Joram Essendri stared at the oblivious scribe who continued reading in his high-pitched monotone.
“Are you certain you read those last figures correctly?” he asked.
The Deir looked up to find his sovereign regarding him with unnerving intensity. He adjusted his nose spectacles and perused the numbers on the long piece of parchment.
“Yes, Your Majesty. It’s clearly stated here. Females comprise one in a hundred of the total urban populace. The percentages are even lower in the rural areas. Furthermore, the majority are past the middle years of their kind. Also, the number of females born per year in the last decade hasn’t changed. One in every thousand births in the cities; almost nonexistent outside the urban centers.”
Joram glanced across the table at his chief advisor who nodded almost imperceptibly. With a peremptory gesture, he dismissed the scribe. Leaning back in his chair, he tapped the table with his fingers.
“One in a hundred,” he murmured. “How long do you think before they vanish, Senen?”
“Considering that there has been no increase in the births of female gelra, I’d venture to guess that day isn’t far off,” the advisor said. “It may comejpm to pass during your grandson’s reign.”
Joram whistled under his breath. “I hadn’t thought it would happen so soon. The Inception wasn’t all that long ago.”
“Yes, my liege, but as our foresires didn’t care to breed them or with them, it isn’t surprising that they’re dying out.”
“Dying out,” the Ardan repeated under his breath.
Hearing laughter from outside, he rose from his seat and strode to the window overlooking the gardens. He gazed down at the wide expanse of lawn where several youngsters were chasing each other about, the great length of a Deiran childhood ensuring many more years of carefree innocence for them. His eyes were drawn to the elderly female who watched over them. The sole remaining female in royal service. When she went the way of her predecessors there would be none of her kind left in the Citadel.
The gelra did not possess either the longevity or slow aging of the Deira. They seldom attained even half the average Deiran lifespan of a hundred and fifty, an age surpassed by about a score of years by those whose blood was least diluted by breeding with Aisen’s indigenous folk.
“An entire race soon to disappear forever,” Joram muttered. He glanced at Senen as the latter came to his side.
“It’s not only the gelra who have all but departed from this world, Joram-dyhar,” the advisor gently reminded him. “We ourselves are no longer the same as our ancestors. In that sense, they are already a vanished race.”
Joram looked down once more at the children. They were distinctly male in appearance. Even to his untrained eyes, he could tell none would grow up looking anything like their forebears. Certainly nothing like the Deir who approached them with a tray of sweets. That one was obviously a throwback to a time when the evolving Deira still inherited the full androgyny of their ancestral race.
It was there in the softer cast of his features, the slenderness of his shoulders, the faint swell of his hips and the slight but unmistakable effeminacy of his gait. But he could not be mistaken for a female. And as time ground on, the number of Deira who still bore some passing resemblance to their primogenitors would diminish further.
Joram sighed. “I wonder, did our forebears foresee the sweeping changes in our kind? Would they have proceeded had they known?”
“I imagine they were more engrossed in ensuring the survival of our race,” Senen said.
“And survive we have. And flourished.” Joram shook his head. “Ah, I don’t know what’s come over me. I’m not given to foolish sentimentality.”
“It’s neither foolish nor sentimental to ponder the fate of one’s people.”
“Then what is it?”
“Solicitude. A trait well worth emulating.”
A child broke away from the group and now ordered them around with the authority of one born to it. Joram regarded his eldest son and heir with equal parts pride and melancholy.
“Will those who follow remember how we came to be?” he mused. “Or will they relegate our earliest histories to rumor and legend?”
“If they remain devoted to the pursuit of knowledge, I see no reason why they would forget our origins. What’s of more concern to me is that we’re becoming a people divided.”
"Joram frowned. “I hear some university students coined terms to point up this division.”
The counsellor nodded. “And all of them scions of High Houses. They’ve taken to calling themselves enyrawhile naming the less racially pure students sedyra.”
Joram stared at him. True Bloods and Half Bloods? “They think highly of themselves.”
“They take pride in their families having retained the gift of our forebears in large measure. Which admittedly is no longer true of a goodly number of Deira. It’s become a mark of honor to bear the blood as they put it.”
The Ardan scoffed. “They speak of honor yet they have no qualms about using the gift to their advantage.”
Senen shrugged. “They who hold the power rule the world. Had your family not been inordinately gifted, think you the Essendris could have tamed Ylandre and owned it all these centuries? Yet few would claim that your House has used its power to its sole advantage. This realm has greatly benefited from the stability your line’s continuity provides. Not all who wield the gift do so with base intentions, Dyhar.”
Joram fell into thoughtful silence. After a while, he faintly smiled. “My thanks, old friend,” he murmured. “I hope your faith in us will continue to prove sound.”
The counsellor departed to preside over another meeting. Joram continued to watch the children play, his eyes straying ever so often to their aged caregiver. An era was coming to a close, he thought, but few seemed to note it.
Joram turned on his heel, strode to his writing desk, and took out his journal. He sat down and opened the thick tome to a blank page. He selected a sharpened quill, dipped it in the inkwell, and began to write.
As he finished writing each page, he lifted the small bowl of fine sand in the corner of the desk and poured its contents onto the parchment. Once the excess ink was absorbed, he tipped the sand back into the bowl.
The Ardan reread the entry. What he set down barely filled three pages but he felt satisfied. When he passed on, his journal would become grist for study of the minutiae of his reign. If what he had written helped spur later generations to keep the memories of their people’s past alive, he would have achieved something whose import would last through the ages.
The scribe droned on, enumerating the results of the latest census. It made for tedious listening and never more so when one wished to engage in an activity that required some physical mobility. Particularly on a fine day when the outdoors were more enticing than the confines of the royal study. Indeed, it was at the tip of the Ardan of Ylandre’s tongue to tell the scribe to stop and hand the report over to the chief advisor.
But one piece of information revived his flagging attention and he sharply looked up from the phantom tracings he had been making with his finger on the tabletop. Joram Essendri stared at the oblivious scribe who continued reading in his high-pitched monotone.
“Are you certain you read those last figures correctly?” he asked.
The Deir looked up to find his sovereign regarding him with unnerving intensity. He adjusted his nose spectacles and perused the numbers on the long piece of parchment.
“Yes, Your Majesty. It’s clearly stated here. Females comprise one in a hundred of the total urban populace. The percentages are even lower in the rural areas. Furthermore, the majority are past the middle years of their kind. Also, the number of females born per year in the last decade hasn’t changed. One in every thousand births in the cities; almost nonexistent outside the urban centers.”
Joram glanced across the table at his chief advisor who nodded almost imperceptibly. With a peremptory gesture, he dismissed the scribe. Leaning back in his chair, he tapped the table with his fingers.
“One in a hundred,” he murmured. “How long do you think before they vanish, Senen?”
“Considering that there has been no increase in the births of female gelra, I’d venture to guess that day isn’t far off,” the advisor said. “It may comejpm to pass during your grandson’s reign.”
Joram whistled under his breath. “I hadn’t thought it would happen so soon. The Inception wasn’t all that long ago.”
“Yes, my liege, but as our foresires didn’t care to breed them or with them, it isn’t surprising that they’re dying out.”
“Dying out,” the Ardan repeated under his breath.
Hearing laughter from outside, he rose from his seat and strode to the window overlooking the gardens. He gazed down at the wide expanse of lawn where several youngsters were chasing each other about, the great length of a Deiran childhood ensuring many more years of carefree innocence for them. His eyes were drawn to the elderly female who watched over them. The sole remaining female in royal service. When she went the way of her predecessors there would be none of her kind left in the Citadel.
The gelra did not possess either the longevity or slow aging of the Deira. They seldom attained even half the average Deiran lifespan of a hundred and fifty, an age surpassed by about a score of years by those whose blood was least diluted by breeding with Aisen’s indigenous folk.
“An entire race soon to disappear forever,” Joram muttered. He glanced at Senen as the latter came to his side.
“It’s not only the gelra who have all but departed from this world, Joram-dyhar,” the advisor gently reminded him. “We ourselves are no longer the same as our ancestors. In that sense, they are already a vanished race.”
Joram looked down once more at the children. They were distinctly male in appearance. Even to his untrained eyes, he could tell none would grow up looking anything like their forebears. Certainly nothing like the Deir who approached them with a tray of sweets. That one was obviously a throwback to a time when the evolving Deira still inherited the full androgyny of their ancestral race.
It was there in the softer cast of his features, the slenderness of his shoulders, the faint swell of his hips and the slight but unmistakable effeminacy of his gait. But he could not be mistaken for a female. And as time ground on, the number of Deira who still bore some passing resemblance to their primogenitors would diminish further.
Joram sighed. “I wonder, did our forebears foresee the sweeping changes in our kind? Would they have proceeded had they known?”
“I imagine they were more engrossed in ensuring the survival of our race,” Senen said.
“And survive we have. And flourished.” Joram shook his head. “Ah, I don’t know what’s come over me. I’m not given to foolish sentimentality.”
“It’s neither foolish nor sentimental to ponder the fate of one’s people.”
“Then what is it?”
“Solicitude. A trait well worth emulating.”
A child broke away from the group and now ordered them around with the authority of one born to it. Joram regarded his eldest son and heir with equal parts pride and melancholy.
“Will those who follow remember how we came to be?” he mused. “Or will they relegate our earliest histories to rumor and legend?”
“If they remain devoted to the pursuit of knowledge, I see no reason why they would forget our origins. What’s of more concern to me is that we’re becoming a people divided.”
"Joram frowned. “I hear some university students coined terms to point up this division.”
The counsellor nodded. “And all of them scions of High Houses. They’ve taken to calling themselves enyrawhile naming the less racially pure students sedyra.”
Joram stared at him. True Bloods and Half Bloods? “They think highly of themselves.”
“They take pride in their families having retained the gift of our forebears in large measure. Which admittedly is no longer true of a goodly number of Deira. It’s become a mark of honor to bear the blood as they put it.”
The Ardan scoffed. “They speak of honor yet they have no qualms about using the gift to their advantage.”
Senen shrugged. “They who hold the power rule the world. Had your family not been inordinately gifted, think you the Essendris could have tamed Ylandre and owned it all these centuries? Yet few would claim that your House has used its power to its sole advantage. This realm has greatly benefited from the stability your line’s continuity provides. Not all who wield the gift do so with base intentions, Dyhar.”
Joram fell into thoughtful silence. After a while, he faintly smiled. “My thanks, old friend,” he murmured. “I hope your faith in us will continue to prove sound.”
The counsellor departed to preside over another meeting. Joram continued to watch the children play, his eyes straying ever so often to their aged caregiver. An era was coming to a close, he thought, but few seemed to note it.
Joram turned on his heel, strode to his writing desk, and took out his journal. He sat down and opened the thick tome to a blank page. He selected a sharpened quill, dipped it in the inkwell, and began to write.
As he finished writing each page, he lifted the small bowl of fine sand in the corner of the desk and poured its contents onto the parchment. Once the excess ink was absorbed, he tipped the sand back into the bowl.
The Ardan reread the entry. What he set down barely filled three pages but he felt satisfied. When he passed on, his journal would become grist for study of the minutiae of his reign. If what he had written helped spur later generations to keep the memories of their people’s past alive, he would have achieved something whose import would last through the ages.
~ o ~ o ~ o ~
They came in that time before written history in this world. A wondrous race of great daring and spirit. It seemed their fate to suffer extinction. They defied fate instead and won their battle to prevail against impossible odds.
The ancient scribes wrote that their world began to die. The climate slowly changed. An unending winter set in, killing plants and beasts alike. They realized that sickness and starvation would destroy them if the cold did not. And so the sharpest, most farseeing minds amongst them gathered together and strove to discover a way for their people to escape oblivion.
They were masters of the mind arts. They harnessed mental energy to heal or wound, to save or slay. They could communicate without speaking though they never forsook speech. Language was important to them for they were a highly cultured people who revered their teachers as much as their soldiers.
Yet they were first and foremost a warrior race. Their history was marked by conflict, the extension of borders routinely realized through the use of force and the attainment of power and property more oft than not achieved by conquest. Fortunately, by the time of the Great Frost, they had learned to eschew war for the most part and live in harmonious coexistence.
It was this general peace, this conscious will to cooperate, that won them salvation. They were learned enough to surmise that they were not alone in existence. At the behest of their scholars and leaders, they joined their consciousness in a shared endeavor to discover if there was another place to which they could relocate their race.
They saw it in that collective mind’s eye. A world similar to theirs that appeared untouched by sentient life. It held the hope of survival and promised a future for their kind. And so they came together on the last continent that could still sustain them. And for the second time, and likely the last, they joined minds, each and every survivor of that deadly winter. They harnessed the energy generated by that joining and channeled it into the creation of a corridor by which they could pass through the void to their new home. That was how they came to the world they named Aisen.
It was only upon their advent that they discovered the presence of a nascent homegrown race alike to theirs in appearance and intelligence. They called themselves the gelra.
The colonists had to make a choice. They were numerous, long-lived and strong. And they were possessed of a power with which they could easily overcome and supplant the gelra. But these ancient ones were wise. They comprehended that the indigenous population possessed what was needed to thrive in this strange new world. They chose assimilation over extermination, breeding with the native inhabitants over many generations until the distinctions between them blurred and finally disappeared.
We are the progeny of that wondrous era. The children of the Inception. A people hewn from the threat of extinction, the harshness of survival, the hardships of wholesale migration, the relentless toil of civilization started anew and the inevitable adversities of evolution. A mercurial race, as capable of bringing down empires as raising them, undertaking both with equal fervor. We are the result of the journey upon which those long ago gallant hearts embarked in a desperate bid to preserve their kind.
They were the Naere and we, the Deira of Aisen, are forever indebted to they who were our forebears, sprung from a world that no longer exists except in blessed memory.
Joram Essendri
Rikara, Ylandre
Year 825 C.A.
The ancient scribes wrote that their world began to die. The climate slowly changed. An unending winter set in, killing plants and beasts alike. They realized that sickness and starvation would destroy them if the cold did not. And so the sharpest, most farseeing minds amongst them gathered together and strove to discover a way for their people to escape oblivion.
They were masters of the mind arts. They harnessed mental energy to heal or wound, to save or slay. They could communicate without speaking though they never forsook speech. Language was important to them for they were a highly cultured people who revered their teachers as much as their soldiers.
Yet they were first and foremost a warrior race. Their history was marked by conflict, the extension of borders routinely realized through the use of force and the attainment of power and property more oft than not achieved by conquest. Fortunately, by the time of the Great Frost, they had learned to eschew war for the most part and live in harmonious coexistence.
It was this general peace, this conscious will to cooperate, that won them salvation. They were learned enough to surmise that they were not alone in existence. At the behest of their scholars and leaders, they joined their consciousness in a shared endeavor to discover if there was another place to which they could relocate their race.
They saw it in that collective mind’s eye. A world similar to theirs that appeared untouched by sentient life. It held the hope of survival and promised a future for their kind. And so they came together on the last continent that could still sustain them. And for the second time, and likely the last, they joined minds, each and every survivor of that deadly winter. They harnessed the energy generated by that joining and channeled it into the creation of a corridor by which they could pass through the void to their new home. That was how they came to the world they named Aisen.
It was only upon their advent that they discovered the presence of a nascent homegrown race alike to theirs in appearance and intelligence. They called themselves the gelra.
The colonists had to make a choice. They were numerous, long-lived and strong. And they were possessed of a power with which they could easily overcome and supplant the gelra. But these ancient ones were wise. They comprehended that the indigenous population possessed what was needed to thrive in this strange new world. They chose assimilation over extermination, breeding with the native inhabitants over many generations until the distinctions between them blurred and finally disappeared.
We are the progeny of that wondrous era. The children of the Inception. A people hewn from the threat of extinction, the harshness of survival, the hardships of wholesale migration, the relentless toil of civilization started anew and the inevitable adversities of evolution. A mercurial race, as capable of bringing down empires as raising them, undertaking both with equal fervor. We are the result of the journey upon which those long ago gallant hearts embarked in a desperate bid to preserve their kind.
They were the Naere and we, the Deira of Aisen, are forever indebted to they who were our forebears, sprung from a world that no longer exists except in blessed memory.
Joram Essendri
Rikara, Ylandre
Year 825 C.A.
PART ONE
Chapter One
Twofold
Calanthe House, Syvonna, Losshen, in the 2954th Year of the Common Age
The physician carefully ran his hand over the Heris of Losshen’s abdomen, his inborn healer’s ability enabling him to see the infant berthed within. He had not told either parent-to-be about his concern over the sudden swelling of the Heris’s belly. Not until the fourth month of the half-year gestation period did a breeding Deir begin to show.
At four months, Ildris Calanthe looked quite ready to whelp.
Barion stopped moving his hand when he sensed a faint but steady heartbeat. Well, that was a relief. The heartbeat’s strength was consistent with that of a four-month old foetus. But it did not account for the enlarged size of Ildris’s womb. The physician felt a prickle of fear.
What if there was a growth alongside the child? And what if it was not benign but needed to be surgically removed? The infant would likely not survive so invasive a procedure.
The healer glanced up worriedly at his patient.
Ildris was no longer that young or fertile. It was doubtful he would conceive again. Furthermore, his womb was not particularly sound—he’d miscarried three times already. Barion could not count on a hardy womb to help protect the foetus during surgery nor was he sufficiently strong or gifted to guarantee the safety of the Heris should the procedure induce another miscarriage and cause excessive bleeding. But neither did the healer relish suggesting to Desriq Calanthe that perhaps he should try being childbearer if he wanted an heir.
It was not meet for a Herun to breed and birth. The sight of a fief-lord going about his day thick-waisted and sporting a bump up front was deemed unseemly.
Swearing under his breath followed by a quick prayer to the Maker and St. Ovran, patron saint of physicians, Barion resumed his search for the suspected tumor even as he tried to remember all the highly gifted healers in the kingdom. He paused and stopped his hand once more. Frowning in concentration, he focused all his mind’s energy on the area beneath his palm. A moment later, he gasped and straightened up.
“Saints above,” he softly exclaimed.
At Ildris’s side, Desriq looked at him sharply. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
Barion shook his head. “Naught is wrong, Herun-tyar. But I’m surprised as this is quite uncommon.”
“What is?”
A smile curved Barion’s lips. “Twins, Your Grace. You’ve been blessed with twins.”
The physician carefully ran his hand over the Heris of Losshen’s abdomen, his inborn healer’s ability enabling him to see the infant berthed within. He had not told either parent-to-be about his concern over the sudden swelling of the Heris’s belly. Not until the fourth month of the half-year gestation period did a breeding Deir begin to show.
At four months, Ildris Calanthe looked quite ready to whelp.
Barion stopped moving his hand when he sensed a faint but steady heartbeat. Well, that was a relief. The heartbeat’s strength was consistent with that of a four-month old foetus. But it did not account for the enlarged size of Ildris’s womb. The physician felt a prickle of fear.
What if there was a growth alongside the child? And what if it was not benign but needed to be surgically removed? The infant would likely not survive so invasive a procedure.
The healer glanced up worriedly at his patient.
Ildris was no longer that young or fertile. It was doubtful he would conceive again. Furthermore, his womb was not particularly sound—he’d miscarried three times already. Barion could not count on a hardy womb to help protect the foetus during surgery nor was he sufficiently strong or gifted to guarantee the safety of the Heris should the procedure induce another miscarriage and cause excessive bleeding. But neither did the healer relish suggesting to Desriq Calanthe that perhaps he should try being childbearer if he wanted an heir.
It was not meet for a Herun to breed and birth. The sight of a fief-lord going about his day thick-waisted and sporting a bump up front was deemed unseemly.
Swearing under his breath followed by a quick prayer to the Maker and St. Ovran, patron saint of physicians, Barion resumed his search for the suspected tumor even as he tried to remember all the highly gifted healers in the kingdom. He paused and stopped his hand once more. Frowning in concentration, he focused all his mind’s energy on the area beneath his palm. A moment later, he gasped and straightened up.
“Saints above,” he softly exclaimed.
At Ildris’s side, Desriq looked at him sharply. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
Barion shook his head. “Naught is wrong, Herun-tyar. But I’m surprised as this is quite uncommon.”
“What is?”
A smile curved Barion’s lips. “Twins, Your Grace. You’ve been blessed with twins.”
~ o ~ o ~ o ~
Year 2969 C.A.
Calanthe House seemed like a misnomer. The estate was far more than the eponymous manor at its heart. Indeed, it was one of the most extensive in the kingdom, its total acreage taking up nearly a tenth of Syvonna’s size. But then Losshen’s capital city developed and expanded because of the estate and the family whose seat it was, not the other way around.
Once upon a long time ago, there was only a small town when the first of the Calanthes to be created Herun returned to the fief after the wars of the Interregnum. Not unexpectedly, the town flourished under the new dispensation. It quickly evolved into a thriving city and before long became the economic and political hub of Losshen. Whereupon Syvonna was named the new capital of the fief. Naturally, Calanthe House reflected the city’s prosperity and grew into the impressive holding it was today.
The estate was beauteous in springtime in that strange charming way of the north. The uppermost bounds were as windswept as the uncultivated heather-blanketed tracts of land that dotted the more sparsely populated areas of the fief. Here could be found the hardy flora only rarely seen in the more southerly regions. These blossoms needed the colder climate of the north in order to flourish. They grew in abundance in the estate gardens along with copses of sturdy fruit trees and thickly leafed shrubs that could withstand the blizzards that periodically swept across the land during the winter months.
It was in this largely bucolic setting that the brethren Zykriel and Gilmael were raised. Their striking features, wildly curling dark hair and strong, lithe bodies made them almost perfect matches for their home fief. Except in one respect.
Neither child was as quiet or placid as the land that had bred the twins.
To the folk who maintained Calanthe House and served Losshen’s ruling family, the word gamesome was a woefully inadequate description for the Herun’s sons. New servants quickly got used to the topsy-turvy nature of daily life when the twins were about. They were not willfully destructive, but they had a knack for turning things on their metaphorical heads or taking apart what could not be put back together without much difficulty. If at all.
Desriq Calanthe had that in mind as he approached his young sons.
They were arguing vociferously in the garden amidst the topiaries and fountains. He came up to them where they had planted themselves beside the smallest fountain. He reached out and taking hold of each child by a shoulder, compelled them to face him. Two startled gazes met his and he wondered what the boys had done to induce the alarm he espied in the depths of their sky blue eyes.
“Is there really a need to squabble?” he asked, his tone mildly stern. “Or is it a vain hope that a sennight might go by in reasonable peace?”
The brothers swallowed in concert and their features scrunched up in distress. Desriq blinked. He wondered if he would ever get used to the sight of two identical faces making the exact same expression at the exact same time. It was unsettling on occasion.
“We’re sorry, Aba!” Gilmael blurted, his eyes wide with apprehension.
Desriq shifted his gaze to Zykriel. The older twin looked terrified. “It was an accident,” he explained, his voice edged with a whimper. “We didn’t know it would fly that way.”
“I can see that,” Desriq said.
He eyed a mammet where it lay in the depths of the fountain. A gift to his sons from their birthing father’s sire, the cunningly crafted wooden puppet clad in minstrel’s garb arrived just a few days ago. It immediately spurred a figurative tug-of-war between the brothers that evidently turned literal much to the doll’s detriment. Its bright colors would likely fade after its dousing.
Desriq rolled up his right sleeve, thrust his arm into the chilly water and plucked the mammet from the pebbled bottom of the pool. He shook his head.
The vivid shades of the doll’s clothing were already starting to run and blend together into indeterminate muddy hues.
“Your Opa will be disappointed. He ordered this especially from Arvalde.”
To Desriq’s surprise, the twins gazed at him with seeming puzzlement.
“You’re not angry, Aba?” Zykriel cautiously asked.
“Angry? Why should I be?”
“Because we broke the statue!”
Desriq stared at his sons. They never paid particular attention to any of the garden sculptures to the extent of being barely aware of the existence of a few. Yet now they claimed they’d done harm to one of those few. He looked at the fountain again.
It was quite old, one of the first built as the estate expanded.
Atop a tiny island in the middle of the pool was the sculpture of a gelran child—a pre-adolescent female of the long extinct native race of Aisen. The third Lord Calanthe had nursed a fascination with that period of engineered racial evolution known as the Inception.
The little girl was clad in naught but a garland of tiny blossoms upon her head. In her chubby hands, she held a washcloth and a small bar of soap. She was poised to step down into the water presumably for a bath.
The Herun stared at the statue wondering what the twins were referring to.
Yes, the mammet had struck it before toppling into the water below. But the stone from which the figure had been fashioned showed no trace of damage beyond the hairline fissures that came with age. Surely something that had survived intact for nigh a thousand years would not come to grief just from a glancing collision with a spindly doll.
“I don’t understand,” he said. “What is it you broke?”
The brothers looked at each other accusingly.
“This is on your head, Gil,” Zykriel insisted. “You couldn’t wait for me to finish playing with the mammet!”
Gilmael let out a sound between a squeak and a sob. “Nay, it was an accident! If you hadn’t tried to grab it from me, it wouldn’t have flown into the statue!”
“You snatched it from me first!”
“Because you were taking so long!”
“Silence!”
The twins stopped arguing at their sire’s roar. They stared at him in round-eyed abashment and mouths tremblingly agape.
Desriq rubbed the crease between his eyes. He did not recall being subjected to constant headaches prior to his sons’ births.
“Zyk, Gil, what exactly did you break?” he asked as patiently as he could muster.
Gilmael frowned. “Can‘t you see it, Aba?”
Zykriel snorted. “How can he see it now that it’s gone?”
Desriq barely refrained from growling at them. “What is gone?”
Both lads turned and pointed at the statue. Desriq followed the direction of their fingers. His eyes zeroed in on the statue’s groin. For several heartbeats, he stared in bewilderment at the breadth of painstakingly sculpted prebuscent genitalia.
“I don’t underst—”
He caught his breath as he realized what he was seeing. Or rather what was not there to see. He swallowed back laughter he was certain would sound hysterical.
A tug on the hem of his tunic drew his attention downward and he looked into the teary eyes of a morose Gilmael.
“Will it grow back?” he whispered.
Desriq dissolved into guffaws. It was a long time before he could explain to his sons that they could not have damaged what had never been there to begin with. Their disbelief coupled with a lack of comprehension only served to rekindle his mirth.
At length, the twins ran off in a huff leaving him to deal with the ruined mammet. Within seconds of their departure, the Heris walked up to him, his expression questioning.
“What in Aisen has taken hold of you?” Ildris asked when Desriq continued to chuckle.
Desriq shook his head. “My love, our sons need tutoring in a delicate subject. You’ll have to teach them for I fear I won’t get far without laughing and probably offend their tender sensibilities all over again.”
Ildris’s eyebrows rose slightly. “What subject is this?”
“About the difference between our foresires and the gelra of old. In particular the females of that esteemed race.” Desriq indicated the statue. “They thought they’d broken off yon girl-child’s shaft!”
Calanthe House seemed like a misnomer. The estate was far more than the eponymous manor at its heart. Indeed, it was one of the most extensive in the kingdom, its total acreage taking up nearly a tenth of Syvonna’s size. But then Losshen’s capital city developed and expanded because of the estate and the family whose seat it was, not the other way around.
Once upon a long time ago, there was only a small town when the first of the Calanthes to be created Herun returned to the fief after the wars of the Interregnum. Not unexpectedly, the town flourished under the new dispensation. It quickly evolved into a thriving city and before long became the economic and political hub of Losshen. Whereupon Syvonna was named the new capital of the fief. Naturally, Calanthe House reflected the city’s prosperity and grew into the impressive holding it was today.
The estate was beauteous in springtime in that strange charming way of the north. The uppermost bounds were as windswept as the uncultivated heather-blanketed tracts of land that dotted the more sparsely populated areas of the fief. Here could be found the hardy flora only rarely seen in the more southerly regions. These blossoms needed the colder climate of the north in order to flourish. They grew in abundance in the estate gardens along with copses of sturdy fruit trees and thickly leafed shrubs that could withstand the blizzards that periodically swept across the land during the winter months.
It was in this largely bucolic setting that the brethren Zykriel and Gilmael were raised. Their striking features, wildly curling dark hair and strong, lithe bodies made them almost perfect matches for their home fief. Except in one respect.
Neither child was as quiet or placid as the land that had bred the twins.
To the folk who maintained Calanthe House and served Losshen’s ruling family, the word gamesome was a woefully inadequate description for the Herun’s sons. New servants quickly got used to the topsy-turvy nature of daily life when the twins were about. They were not willfully destructive, but they had a knack for turning things on their metaphorical heads or taking apart what could not be put back together without much difficulty. If at all.
Desriq Calanthe had that in mind as he approached his young sons.
They were arguing vociferously in the garden amidst the topiaries and fountains. He came up to them where they had planted themselves beside the smallest fountain. He reached out and taking hold of each child by a shoulder, compelled them to face him. Two startled gazes met his and he wondered what the boys had done to induce the alarm he espied in the depths of their sky blue eyes.
“Is there really a need to squabble?” he asked, his tone mildly stern. “Or is it a vain hope that a sennight might go by in reasonable peace?”
The brothers swallowed in concert and their features scrunched up in distress. Desriq blinked. He wondered if he would ever get used to the sight of two identical faces making the exact same expression at the exact same time. It was unsettling on occasion.
“We’re sorry, Aba!” Gilmael blurted, his eyes wide with apprehension.
Desriq shifted his gaze to Zykriel. The older twin looked terrified. “It was an accident,” he explained, his voice edged with a whimper. “We didn’t know it would fly that way.”
“I can see that,” Desriq said.
He eyed a mammet where it lay in the depths of the fountain. A gift to his sons from their birthing father’s sire, the cunningly crafted wooden puppet clad in minstrel’s garb arrived just a few days ago. It immediately spurred a figurative tug-of-war between the brothers that evidently turned literal much to the doll’s detriment. Its bright colors would likely fade after its dousing.
Desriq rolled up his right sleeve, thrust his arm into the chilly water and plucked the mammet from the pebbled bottom of the pool. He shook his head.
The vivid shades of the doll’s clothing were already starting to run and blend together into indeterminate muddy hues.
“Your Opa will be disappointed. He ordered this especially from Arvalde.”
To Desriq’s surprise, the twins gazed at him with seeming puzzlement.
“You’re not angry, Aba?” Zykriel cautiously asked.
“Angry? Why should I be?”
“Because we broke the statue!”
Desriq stared at his sons. They never paid particular attention to any of the garden sculptures to the extent of being barely aware of the existence of a few. Yet now they claimed they’d done harm to one of those few. He looked at the fountain again.
It was quite old, one of the first built as the estate expanded.
Atop a tiny island in the middle of the pool was the sculpture of a gelran child—a pre-adolescent female of the long extinct native race of Aisen. The third Lord Calanthe had nursed a fascination with that period of engineered racial evolution known as the Inception.
The little girl was clad in naught but a garland of tiny blossoms upon her head. In her chubby hands, she held a washcloth and a small bar of soap. She was poised to step down into the water presumably for a bath.
The Herun stared at the statue wondering what the twins were referring to.
Yes, the mammet had struck it before toppling into the water below. But the stone from which the figure had been fashioned showed no trace of damage beyond the hairline fissures that came with age. Surely something that had survived intact for nigh a thousand years would not come to grief just from a glancing collision with a spindly doll.
“I don’t understand,” he said. “What is it you broke?”
The brothers looked at each other accusingly.
“This is on your head, Gil,” Zykriel insisted. “You couldn’t wait for me to finish playing with the mammet!”
Gilmael let out a sound between a squeak and a sob. “Nay, it was an accident! If you hadn’t tried to grab it from me, it wouldn’t have flown into the statue!”
“You snatched it from me first!”
“Because you were taking so long!”
“Silence!”
The twins stopped arguing at their sire’s roar. They stared at him in round-eyed abashment and mouths tremblingly agape.
Desriq rubbed the crease between his eyes. He did not recall being subjected to constant headaches prior to his sons’ births.
“Zyk, Gil, what exactly did you break?” he asked as patiently as he could muster.
Gilmael frowned. “Can‘t you see it, Aba?”
Zykriel snorted. “How can he see it now that it’s gone?”
Desriq barely refrained from growling at them. “What is gone?”
Both lads turned and pointed at the statue. Desriq followed the direction of their fingers. His eyes zeroed in on the statue’s groin. For several heartbeats, he stared in bewilderment at the breadth of painstakingly sculpted prebuscent genitalia.
“I don’t underst—”
He caught his breath as he realized what he was seeing. Or rather what was not there to see. He swallowed back laughter he was certain would sound hysterical.
A tug on the hem of his tunic drew his attention downward and he looked into the teary eyes of a morose Gilmael.
“Will it grow back?” he whispered.
Desriq dissolved into guffaws. It was a long time before he could explain to his sons that they could not have damaged what had never been there to begin with. Their disbelief coupled with a lack of comprehension only served to rekindle his mirth.
At length, the twins ran off in a huff leaving him to deal with the ruined mammet. Within seconds of their departure, the Heris walked up to him, his expression questioning.
“What in Aisen has taken hold of you?” Ildris asked when Desriq continued to chuckle.
Desriq shook his head. “My love, our sons need tutoring in a delicate subject. You’ll have to teach them for I fear I won’t get far without laughing and probably offend their tender sensibilities all over again.”
Ildris’s eyebrows rose slightly. “What subject is this?”
“About the difference between our foresires and the gelra of old. In particular the females of that esteemed race.” Desriq indicated the statue. “They thought they’d broken off yon girl-child’s shaft!”
Chapter Two
Circumstance
The Nazcan Hegemony, in the 3012th Year of the Common Age
Journeying via translocation was deemed a feat in the world of Aisen. Only True Bloods bestowed with the gift could harness the mind’s energy to drive a tunnel through space, water or solid rock and cover vast distances in a matter of hours or minutes. And even then not all such enyra were skillful enough to navigate their way with utmost precision.
It was not so much forging the ephemeral corridors that connected one point to another or the travelling within that was the biggest challenge. Rather it was the exit that worried most.
If one was not precise enough, one could emerge in deep water several leagues from shore, above a yawning chasm, or on the edge of a volcanic cauldron. And anything or anyone unfortunate enough to be caught in the blossoming of a portal would be all but torn apart by the energies generated. Thus it was generally forbidden to open portals in populated areas and the majority of True Bloods preferred the tried and tested methods of transportation, eschewing swiftness for the relative safety of overland travel or passage across the seas by ship.
Such was not the concern of scions of the ruling house of Ylandre. The Essendris were among the most talented in the mind arts in all Aisen. One could count on one hand the number of True Bloods equal in strength to Rohyr Essendri, Ylandre’s youthful monarch and head of the Royal House. And while his kinsfolk of royal lineage might not be as powerful, they possessed most of the gifts associated with mental adepts and almost all had been highly trained in the wielding thereof.
The three Deira who emerged from the translocation corridor onto a wide plain mantled with pale green grass and dotted with scattered groves of evergreens and many a stony patch were not exceptions. They were well-born, evidently related to one another and a very comely lot, Yovan Seydon no less handsome, well-knit or lofty of height than his nephews, the twin sons of the Herun of Losshen, Ylandre’s most northerly fief. All three were dark-haired and blue-eyed though Yovan’s locks were a shade darker and Zykriel and Gilmael’s eyes a hue lighter.
Zykriel glanced behind him to ensure all their escort of six warriors had exited the pulsating portal. He then closed the opening which swiftly contracted until it winked out of sight. Catching Yovan’s brief nod, he urged his zentyr forward, the signal for the others to follow suit. The group traversed the plain at a brisk pace toward Elana, the capital city of Medav, current center of Nazcan political power.
The reason for their visit was ostensibly to negotiate the reopening of trade with this northwestern realm. Successful trade agreements between nations often led to mutual prosperity and closer political ties. Many alliances came about in the wake of beneficial economic relations. This had once been true of Ylandre and the Nazcan Hegemony.
Possessed of one of the more curious political systems of Aisen, the Hegemony was governed by a Triumvirate of a Prime and two Legates chosen from the four Herune or tetrarchs who ruled the quartet of nigh autonomous domains that composed the Nazcan realm. In reality, the Legates served in an advisory capacity leaving the reins of actual rulership to the Prime. This meant the entire Hegemony submitted itself to the supremacy of one domain for decades at a time.
This was ironic considering the realm’s nobility banded together two millennia ago, overthrew their Nazcan overlord and dismantled his domain. But the victors chose to retain their oppressors’ name to remind themselves of the remaining domains’ equality and keep ambitions in check.
Altogether bizarre, Zykriel thought, and proof that reality could be stranger than anything one’s imagination could conjure.
The last Prime to engage in diplomatic relations with Ylandre ruled during the reign of Rohyr’s great-grandfather. The succeeding Prime had allowed only a limited consular staff. His successor had gone further by resuming full diplomatic relations with Teraz, a principality hostile to Ylandre. Worse, an ill-advised, clumsily worded intervention by someone close to the throne exacerbated the tension and set back Ylandre’s attempts to rebridge the gap.
That was what made dealing with this realm problematic. One never knew if a new Prime would continue or overturn his predecessor’s decisions.
The reigning Prime was Eulan Shidara concurrently Herun of Medav. He had so far remained neutral in the conflict between Ylandre and Teraz as had the current Legates, the Herune of Savanar and Astura.
Rohyr desired to push the realm toward Ylandre’s side of the equation once more. The Hegemony made a formidable ally and could therefore be a dangerous enemy were it to back Teraz instead. Hence the keenness to negotiate with Eulan who had recently hinted at being predisposed to favor Ylandre in its ongoing quarrel with the principality.
Since diplomatic talks would be too direct an approach and alert Teraz to the attempt to reestablish an alliance, Rohyr had chosen the more circuitous route of economic relations. Hence the decision to send Yovan Seydon, his uncle and Chief Counsellor, and a representative from Losshen which had control of the northern trade routes.
Unexpectedly, Eulan had demanded that Zykriel and Gilmael represent their fief and sire rather than the Lossheni trade officer. But despite the suspicion that something might be afoot, it was agreed the opportunity to establish a new alliance with the Hegemony outweighed any unease over the Prime’s demand.
Zykriel breathed in the cool, crisp air, enjoying the refreshing scent of pine and heather. He had studied the geography of Medav and learned it was much like Losshen. It was also a land of mountains and moors with fertile valleys and thick forests. In the northernmost reaches, coniferous growth was the norm and the uneven landscape gave way to the tunneled hills and quarries of mining communities.
It was much more picturesque than its neighbor Bavia, seat of the Vashtins. Illustrations of Bavia presented a bleaker, less varied landscape. It was the main reason its ruling family hungered for more acreage. Hence their occasional incursions into the countries whose borders they shared. They were a greedy, grasping dynasty who grudgingly relinquished rulership each time a Vashtin took a turn as Prime. They were the most aggressive of the tetrarchic families and the least trusted.
With a grimace, Zykriel turned his thoughts away from that turbulent domain and focused on the city they now approached. He exchanged a glance with Gilmael and knew his twin as eager as he to explore the de facto Nazcan capital.
Elana was an imposing metropolis, extensive of size and rich in history. Much like Ylandre’s capital of Rikara, it was not enclosed within high forbidding walls nor did the sentry towers loom threateningly over the six gates. Farmsteads, orchards and a number of vineyards dotted the land around the city while small ships, barges and other water vessels plied the river that abutted the western section of the wall.
Though not as great of length or broad of width as the mighty Azira in Rikara, Elana’s river was nonetheless impressive and a major resource for the capital. One of the city gates opened on a long wharf where folk debarked and cargo was unloaded for transfer to dockside warehouses or delivery to establishments and residences within.
But it was nowhere as crowded as the thoroughfare leading up to the eastern gate, the main entry into the city. The road was wide, well maintained and saw much traffic. Even now as the sun rode low in the sky, carriages and wains continued to rumble along it and various steeds ambled or trotted to and fro.
Curious stares followed the visitors from another land. Though plainly clad, none of the Essendris could be mistaken for ordinary Deira
Their horned and dappled steeds were a giveaway that they were not common folk. Everyone knew zentyra were lawfully bred these days solely by the Royal House and the great fief clans of Ylandre. And only Ylandrins of noble stock or officers and select warriors of the kingdom’s army merited the use of these rare creatures that had once roamed the North Continent and South Vihandra and the plains of Khitaira.
The Essendris’ features hinted at noble blood but that was no certainty. Many a commoner could pass himself off as high-born if all it took was a refined appearance. Neither were their stations necessarily confirmed by the cut of their tunics—knee-length, belted at the waist and the sword arm sleeve ending above the elbow—or the emblematic earrings that dangled from their left ears. Emerald embedded in gold for the twins and an uncommon bluish-gray milkstone set in ley-silver for the Chief Counsellor. But then, charlatans were known to pose as aristocrats so dressing in the fashion of the enyran uppercrust was no guarantee of one’s authenticity.
What banished all doubt was the way the three Deira comported themselves.
With confidence rather than arrogance. And acceptance of one’s superiority unmarred by boorish condescension toward others. There was an air about them of expectation of their due, but without the galling sense of entitlement the less secure of station often displayed. When stopped at the gate where city officials inspected foreigners’ travel documents, they did not take offense but awaited their turn patiently. Small wonder they drew much attention as they made their way into the city.
They rode down the stone-paved main street toward what was known as Embassy Row, the district where the diplomatic corps resided or held office. Zykriel took stock of the city that would serve as the Hegemony’s capital for so long as its Herun ruled as Prime.
Elana was a fortress town in its earliest days when the Hegemony had not yet come into being and Medav was a small independent state. The remnants of the original wall that surrounded what now constituted the city proper were still visible albeit much worn down or assimilated into various structures. The predominant color of the buildings was gray, a characteristic of most cities north of the Ylandrin border. The farther north, the less variety the quarries offered.
The city was saved from drabness by the profusion of greens and flora that blanketed walls and crept onto roofs, hung in colorful arrangements from eaves, formed herbaceous borders for drives or pathways and sprouted from pocket gardens before every structure. The scents of blossoms, foliage and herbs faintly permeated the air.
They turned onto Embassy Row which was two parallel streets located three blocks away from the government district. Here were the buildings that housed the offices and residential quarters of ambassadors and consuls to the Hegemony while a Shidara bore the Prime’s coronet and staff. When the Widhan chose another tetrarch to rule, the embassies and consulates moved to the new ruling domain and Embassy Row nigh emptied of its residents leaving the buildings in the care of basic staff and groundskeepers. However Ylandre had closed down its diplomatic holdings in Bavia rather than risk the safety of its staff in that hostile domain.
The Ylandrin consular house was one of the larger properties, the spacious three-storied mansion serving not just as headquarters for the kingdom’s diplomatic representatives, but also providing accommodations for visitors of note or high station.
Nowadays, with Ylandre’s diplomatic status downgraded to a mere consulate, the staff was likewise reduced from three dozen envoys and clerks and a contingent of retainers to a barebones team of two junior consuls, three scriveners and a handful of attendants. Zykriel knew the staff’s main functions were to issue travel papers to Medavi who sought passage into Ylandre, officiate at handfasting rites for Ylandrins residing in the domain, and provide sanctuary for expatriates unfortunate enough to draw the local authorities’ ire.
Given that few citizens were permitted to travel to Ylandre and no Ylandrins lived in the Hegemony at present, the consulate was a very quiet, almost somber place to be. Zykriel could only wonder how much more dreary it was for the consular staffs in Astura and Savanar.
He acknowledged the greetings of the staff with a small nod and warm smile. He imagined they must be delighted to have guests to leaven the tedium and loneliness.
Strictly speaking, their visit was not a diplomatic one. Nonetheless, Rohyr had instructed his uncle and cousins to reside in the neutral territory of the consulate and thus claim the protection proffered on envoys rather than stay in the Shidara castle which their royal blood normally warranted. The Ardan was not about to leave his relations at the mercy of the Prime should he have a sudden change of heart or his shifting sympathies be no more than a ploy to gain potential pawns.
Journeying via translocation was deemed a feat in the world of Aisen. Only True Bloods bestowed with the gift could harness the mind’s energy to drive a tunnel through space, water or solid rock and cover vast distances in a matter of hours or minutes. And even then not all such enyra were skillful enough to navigate their way with utmost precision.
It was not so much forging the ephemeral corridors that connected one point to another or the travelling within that was the biggest challenge. Rather it was the exit that worried most.
If one was not precise enough, one could emerge in deep water several leagues from shore, above a yawning chasm, or on the edge of a volcanic cauldron. And anything or anyone unfortunate enough to be caught in the blossoming of a portal would be all but torn apart by the energies generated. Thus it was generally forbidden to open portals in populated areas and the majority of True Bloods preferred the tried and tested methods of transportation, eschewing swiftness for the relative safety of overland travel or passage across the seas by ship.
Such was not the concern of scions of the ruling house of Ylandre. The Essendris were among the most talented in the mind arts in all Aisen. One could count on one hand the number of True Bloods equal in strength to Rohyr Essendri, Ylandre’s youthful monarch and head of the Royal House. And while his kinsfolk of royal lineage might not be as powerful, they possessed most of the gifts associated with mental adepts and almost all had been highly trained in the wielding thereof.
The three Deira who emerged from the translocation corridor onto a wide plain mantled with pale green grass and dotted with scattered groves of evergreens and many a stony patch were not exceptions. They were well-born, evidently related to one another and a very comely lot, Yovan Seydon no less handsome, well-knit or lofty of height than his nephews, the twin sons of the Herun of Losshen, Ylandre’s most northerly fief. All three were dark-haired and blue-eyed though Yovan’s locks were a shade darker and Zykriel and Gilmael’s eyes a hue lighter.
Zykriel glanced behind him to ensure all their escort of six warriors had exited the pulsating portal. He then closed the opening which swiftly contracted until it winked out of sight. Catching Yovan’s brief nod, he urged his zentyr forward, the signal for the others to follow suit. The group traversed the plain at a brisk pace toward Elana, the capital city of Medav, current center of Nazcan political power.
The reason for their visit was ostensibly to negotiate the reopening of trade with this northwestern realm. Successful trade agreements between nations often led to mutual prosperity and closer political ties. Many alliances came about in the wake of beneficial economic relations. This had once been true of Ylandre and the Nazcan Hegemony.
Possessed of one of the more curious political systems of Aisen, the Hegemony was governed by a Triumvirate of a Prime and two Legates chosen from the four Herune or tetrarchs who ruled the quartet of nigh autonomous domains that composed the Nazcan realm. In reality, the Legates served in an advisory capacity leaving the reins of actual rulership to the Prime. This meant the entire Hegemony submitted itself to the supremacy of one domain for decades at a time.
This was ironic considering the realm’s nobility banded together two millennia ago, overthrew their Nazcan overlord and dismantled his domain. But the victors chose to retain their oppressors’ name to remind themselves of the remaining domains’ equality and keep ambitions in check.
Altogether bizarre, Zykriel thought, and proof that reality could be stranger than anything one’s imagination could conjure.
The last Prime to engage in diplomatic relations with Ylandre ruled during the reign of Rohyr’s great-grandfather. The succeeding Prime had allowed only a limited consular staff. His successor had gone further by resuming full diplomatic relations with Teraz, a principality hostile to Ylandre. Worse, an ill-advised, clumsily worded intervention by someone close to the throne exacerbated the tension and set back Ylandre’s attempts to rebridge the gap.
That was what made dealing with this realm problematic. One never knew if a new Prime would continue or overturn his predecessor’s decisions.
The reigning Prime was Eulan Shidara concurrently Herun of Medav. He had so far remained neutral in the conflict between Ylandre and Teraz as had the current Legates, the Herune of Savanar and Astura.
Rohyr desired to push the realm toward Ylandre’s side of the equation once more. The Hegemony made a formidable ally and could therefore be a dangerous enemy were it to back Teraz instead. Hence the keenness to negotiate with Eulan who had recently hinted at being predisposed to favor Ylandre in its ongoing quarrel with the principality.
Since diplomatic talks would be too direct an approach and alert Teraz to the attempt to reestablish an alliance, Rohyr had chosen the more circuitous route of economic relations. Hence the decision to send Yovan Seydon, his uncle and Chief Counsellor, and a representative from Losshen which had control of the northern trade routes.
Unexpectedly, Eulan had demanded that Zykriel and Gilmael represent their fief and sire rather than the Lossheni trade officer. But despite the suspicion that something might be afoot, it was agreed the opportunity to establish a new alliance with the Hegemony outweighed any unease over the Prime’s demand.
Zykriel breathed in the cool, crisp air, enjoying the refreshing scent of pine and heather. He had studied the geography of Medav and learned it was much like Losshen. It was also a land of mountains and moors with fertile valleys and thick forests. In the northernmost reaches, coniferous growth was the norm and the uneven landscape gave way to the tunneled hills and quarries of mining communities.
It was much more picturesque than its neighbor Bavia, seat of the Vashtins. Illustrations of Bavia presented a bleaker, less varied landscape. It was the main reason its ruling family hungered for more acreage. Hence their occasional incursions into the countries whose borders they shared. They were a greedy, grasping dynasty who grudgingly relinquished rulership each time a Vashtin took a turn as Prime. They were the most aggressive of the tetrarchic families and the least trusted.
With a grimace, Zykriel turned his thoughts away from that turbulent domain and focused on the city they now approached. He exchanged a glance with Gilmael and knew his twin as eager as he to explore the de facto Nazcan capital.
Elana was an imposing metropolis, extensive of size and rich in history. Much like Ylandre’s capital of Rikara, it was not enclosed within high forbidding walls nor did the sentry towers loom threateningly over the six gates. Farmsteads, orchards and a number of vineyards dotted the land around the city while small ships, barges and other water vessels plied the river that abutted the western section of the wall.
Though not as great of length or broad of width as the mighty Azira in Rikara, Elana’s river was nonetheless impressive and a major resource for the capital. One of the city gates opened on a long wharf where folk debarked and cargo was unloaded for transfer to dockside warehouses or delivery to establishments and residences within.
But it was nowhere as crowded as the thoroughfare leading up to the eastern gate, the main entry into the city. The road was wide, well maintained and saw much traffic. Even now as the sun rode low in the sky, carriages and wains continued to rumble along it and various steeds ambled or trotted to and fro.
Curious stares followed the visitors from another land. Though plainly clad, none of the Essendris could be mistaken for ordinary Deira
Their horned and dappled steeds were a giveaway that they were not common folk. Everyone knew zentyra were lawfully bred these days solely by the Royal House and the great fief clans of Ylandre. And only Ylandrins of noble stock or officers and select warriors of the kingdom’s army merited the use of these rare creatures that had once roamed the North Continent and South Vihandra and the plains of Khitaira.
The Essendris’ features hinted at noble blood but that was no certainty. Many a commoner could pass himself off as high-born if all it took was a refined appearance. Neither were their stations necessarily confirmed by the cut of their tunics—knee-length, belted at the waist and the sword arm sleeve ending above the elbow—or the emblematic earrings that dangled from their left ears. Emerald embedded in gold for the twins and an uncommon bluish-gray milkstone set in ley-silver for the Chief Counsellor. But then, charlatans were known to pose as aristocrats so dressing in the fashion of the enyran uppercrust was no guarantee of one’s authenticity.
What banished all doubt was the way the three Deira comported themselves.
With confidence rather than arrogance. And acceptance of one’s superiority unmarred by boorish condescension toward others. There was an air about them of expectation of their due, but without the galling sense of entitlement the less secure of station often displayed. When stopped at the gate where city officials inspected foreigners’ travel documents, they did not take offense but awaited their turn patiently. Small wonder they drew much attention as they made their way into the city.
They rode down the stone-paved main street toward what was known as Embassy Row, the district where the diplomatic corps resided or held office. Zykriel took stock of the city that would serve as the Hegemony’s capital for so long as its Herun ruled as Prime.
Elana was a fortress town in its earliest days when the Hegemony had not yet come into being and Medav was a small independent state. The remnants of the original wall that surrounded what now constituted the city proper were still visible albeit much worn down or assimilated into various structures. The predominant color of the buildings was gray, a characteristic of most cities north of the Ylandrin border. The farther north, the less variety the quarries offered.
The city was saved from drabness by the profusion of greens and flora that blanketed walls and crept onto roofs, hung in colorful arrangements from eaves, formed herbaceous borders for drives or pathways and sprouted from pocket gardens before every structure. The scents of blossoms, foliage and herbs faintly permeated the air.
They turned onto Embassy Row which was two parallel streets located three blocks away from the government district. Here were the buildings that housed the offices and residential quarters of ambassadors and consuls to the Hegemony while a Shidara bore the Prime’s coronet and staff. When the Widhan chose another tetrarch to rule, the embassies and consulates moved to the new ruling domain and Embassy Row nigh emptied of its residents leaving the buildings in the care of basic staff and groundskeepers. However Ylandre had closed down its diplomatic holdings in Bavia rather than risk the safety of its staff in that hostile domain.
The Ylandrin consular house was one of the larger properties, the spacious three-storied mansion serving not just as headquarters for the kingdom’s diplomatic representatives, but also providing accommodations for visitors of note or high station.
Nowadays, with Ylandre’s diplomatic status downgraded to a mere consulate, the staff was likewise reduced from three dozen envoys and clerks and a contingent of retainers to a barebones team of two junior consuls, three scriveners and a handful of attendants. Zykriel knew the staff’s main functions were to issue travel papers to Medavi who sought passage into Ylandre, officiate at handfasting rites for Ylandrins residing in the domain, and provide sanctuary for expatriates unfortunate enough to draw the local authorities’ ire.
Given that few citizens were permitted to travel to Ylandre and no Ylandrins lived in the Hegemony at present, the consulate was a very quiet, almost somber place to be. Zykriel could only wonder how much more dreary it was for the consular staffs in Astura and Savanar.
He acknowledged the greetings of the staff with a small nod and warm smile. He imagined they must be delighted to have guests to leaven the tedium and loneliness.
Strictly speaking, their visit was not a diplomatic one. Nonetheless, Rohyr had instructed his uncle and cousins to reside in the neutral territory of the consulate and thus claim the protection proffered on envoys rather than stay in the Shidara castle which their royal blood normally warranted. The Ardan was not about to leave his relations at the mercy of the Prime should he have a sudden change of heart or his shifting sympathies be no more than a ploy to gain potential pawns.
~ o ~ o ~ o ~
“What is Eulan Shidara like?” Yovan pressed the consuls for information over a simple dinner of quintail soup, smoked swylboar sausages, a mélange of northern root vegetables and cranapple tart. “Is he difficult to deal with?”
With so few staff left, only a section of the mansion was in use. The upper stories were closed off save for a few guest chambers. Only occupied or regularly used rooms were cleaned daily. The formal dining hall showed signs of having been hastily dusted and swept. But the many-branched lamp that hung from the ceiling was left unlit and the chamber was bathed in shadow save for the candlelit portion of the long table where the Ylandrins dined. Zykriel suspected the staff much preferred daytime however slow and boring the pace to the atmosphere of doom and gloom nightfall brought about.
The first consul glanced at his colleague. “He isn’t exactly difficult, Seydon-dyhar. But he’s quite aloof and reserved. It isn’t easy to read him.”
Gilmael took a sip of wine before remarking, “At least they’re upfront about their reticence as opposed to some who hide their machinations behind prattle.”
“And his sons?” Zykriel asked. The Prime had three who’d survived to adulthood.
“I would say the same of them, my lord,” said the second consul. “He’s trained them well in the art of dissemblance.”
“But they’ve gained much favor with the Widhan,” the first consul added, referring to the Nazcan council of nobles and church leaders charged with electing a new Prime. “There’s talk that they will choose Diarmin to succeed his sire. It will be a first in a long while if that comes to pass.”
“Yes, the last time a direct heir succeeded as Prime happened centuries ago,” Yovan said. “What of the younger two? Are they as capable?”
“Lioval is quite the rake. A patron of the fleshpots of Medav or so we’ve heard. We haven’t had much occasion to study Qristan. He stays in the background, whether by order or choice, we don’t know.”
“Which doesn’t mean he isn’t intelligent,” Zykriel said.
“Indeed, it doesn’t,” the first consul agreed. “Eulan’s sons aren’t official advisors to their sire, but we think he heeds their counsel more oft than not. Verily, I believe they’re all viable heirs, even Lioval for all his lecherous ways.”
“Will they be present during our audience with Eulan?”
“Diarmin always is. The others? I’m not sure.”
The second consul shook his head. “I think they’ll all attend if only for the opportunity to lay eyes on three of the Ardan’s closest kin. They’ll want to see for themselves what the Essendris are made of.”
Gilmael grinned. “I see the family reputation has preceded us.”
“But which version?” Zykriel mused.
Yovan snorted. He set down his cup and rose to his feet. “I’m for bed,” he announced a bit peevishly. “It’s been a long day.”
The twins chuckled as they and the consuls stood up.
“Not to mention you weren’t able to bid Uncle Mered a decent goodbye,” Zykriel teased.
“Uncle Yovan loathes not getting a proper sendoff,” Gilmael told the envoys with a smirk. “But given how ardently Uncle Mered goes about it, I don’t blame him.”
“Bite your tongue, Gil-min,” Yovan mildly scolded. “Not everyone is used to our particular brand of humor.”
He and the consuls left the hall and headed for their quarters. The twins however lingered while the retainers took away the dishes and wiped down the table.
“What say we take a look around?” Gilmael suggested. “Get a sense of the city. Meet some of the folk.”
Zykriel regarded his brother skeptically. “At this hour? Speak plainly. You just want to tumble some willing soul.”
Gilmael shrugged. “I believe I’m free to do as I wish.”
“Now you are. Again. You’ve broken, what, three betrothals to date? Or is it four? I’ve lost count.”
“Oh come now! They weren’t betrothals.”
“That isn’t what your aggrieved lovers believed.”
“It’s hardly my fault they thought warming my bed was tantamount to being formally affianced. Besides, I didn’t ask any of them to marry me.”
“Nay, you just intimated you might.”
“Which is still not an actual proposal.” Gilmael took Zykriel by the elbow and ushered him out of the room. “Ah, enough of this. Let’s not spend our first night here discussing my affairs. Admit it, you’re as curious about Elana as I am.”
“Not for the same reasons,” Zykriel muttered.
Nonetheless, he allowed a retainer to drape his dark gray cloak across his shoulders and followed Gilmael out of the house.
With so few staff left, only a section of the mansion was in use. The upper stories were closed off save for a few guest chambers. Only occupied or regularly used rooms were cleaned daily. The formal dining hall showed signs of having been hastily dusted and swept. But the many-branched lamp that hung from the ceiling was left unlit and the chamber was bathed in shadow save for the candlelit portion of the long table where the Ylandrins dined. Zykriel suspected the staff much preferred daytime however slow and boring the pace to the atmosphere of doom and gloom nightfall brought about.
The first consul glanced at his colleague. “He isn’t exactly difficult, Seydon-dyhar. But he’s quite aloof and reserved. It isn’t easy to read him.”
Gilmael took a sip of wine before remarking, “At least they’re upfront about their reticence as opposed to some who hide their machinations behind prattle.”
“And his sons?” Zykriel asked. The Prime had three who’d survived to adulthood.
“I would say the same of them, my lord,” said the second consul. “He’s trained them well in the art of dissemblance.”
“But they’ve gained much favor with the Widhan,” the first consul added, referring to the Nazcan council of nobles and church leaders charged with electing a new Prime. “There’s talk that they will choose Diarmin to succeed his sire. It will be a first in a long while if that comes to pass.”
“Yes, the last time a direct heir succeeded as Prime happened centuries ago,” Yovan said. “What of the younger two? Are they as capable?”
“Lioval is quite the rake. A patron of the fleshpots of Medav or so we’ve heard. We haven’t had much occasion to study Qristan. He stays in the background, whether by order or choice, we don’t know.”
“Which doesn’t mean he isn’t intelligent,” Zykriel said.
“Indeed, it doesn’t,” the first consul agreed. “Eulan’s sons aren’t official advisors to their sire, but we think he heeds their counsel more oft than not. Verily, I believe they’re all viable heirs, even Lioval for all his lecherous ways.”
“Will they be present during our audience with Eulan?”
“Diarmin always is. The others? I’m not sure.”
The second consul shook his head. “I think they’ll all attend if only for the opportunity to lay eyes on three of the Ardan’s closest kin. They’ll want to see for themselves what the Essendris are made of.”
Gilmael grinned. “I see the family reputation has preceded us.”
“But which version?” Zykriel mused.
Yovan snorted. He set down his cup and rose to his feet. “I’m for bed,” he announced a bit peevishly. “It’s been a long day.”
The twins chuckled as they and the consuls stood up.
“Not to mention you weren’t able to bid Uncle Mered a decent goodbye,” Zykriel teased.
“Uncle Yovan loathes not getting a proper sendoff,” Gilmael told the envoys with a smirk. “But given how ardently Uncle Mered goes about it, I don’t blame him.”
“Bite your tongue, Gil-min,” Yovan mildly scolded. “Not everyone is used to our particular brand of humor.”
He and the consuls left the hall and headed for their quarters. The twins however lingered while the retainers took away the dishes and wiped down the table.
“What say we take a look around?” Gilmael suggested. “Get a sense of the city. Meet some of the folk.”
Zykriel regarded his brother skeptically. “At this hour? Speak plainly. You just want to tumble some willing soul.”
Gilmael shrugged. “I believe I’m free to do as I wish.”
“Now you are. Again. You’ve broken, what, three betrothals to date? Or is it four? I’ve lost count.”
“Oh come now! They weren’t betrothals.”
“That isn’t what your aggrieved lovers believed.”
“It’s hardly my fault they thought warming my bed was tantamount to being formally affianced. Besides, I didn’t ask any of them to marry me.”
“Nay, you just intimated you might.”
“Which is still not an actual proposal.” Gilmael took Zykriel by the elbow and ushered him out of the room. “Ah, enough of this. Let’s not spend our first night here discussing my affairs. Admit it, you’re as curious about Elana as I am.”
“Not for the same reasons,” Zykriel muttered.
Nonetheless, he allowed a retainer to drape his dark gray cloak across his shoulders and followed Gilmael out of the house.