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Dea al Mon
"The girl, Gabrielle, stopped just inside the door. The boy -- oh, no, it would be extremely foolish to think of Chaosti as a boy -- came forward slowly, silently." - Heir of the Shadows.
Chaosti had the deer in his sights when he received Gabrielle's onslaught of emotions. Opal to Green, the link should have been clear but instead it was a gibberish sort of excitement mixed with urgency. Long used to Gabrielle's moods, Chaosti found himself at a loss to decipher this particular one, and so settled for caution. An Opal-Jeweled Dea al Mon Queen, no matter how young, was a woman to be handled carefully when her emotions got the best of her. *I'm busy,* he sent back.
*I don't care.* The annoyance at his response was obvious, but he couldn't detect any anger in the words; the taste of them was brighter, tinged with an absolute joy that Chaosti hadn't felt for the last three years.
The deer, suspecting that the hunter's attention was elsewhere, sprinted into the thick cluster of trees ahead.
Chaosti didn't pay it any mind. Three years. Only one thing, one person, had made Gabrielle act like a three-year-old witchling during a Winsol party. But it was impossible… wasn't it? Without his notice, the grip on his bow had strengthened until he felt the bite of the wood into his palm; the physical discomfort gave him the backbone to ask, *What is it?* It'd been years since he'd used such a tentative voice, even over a thread communication.
*She is back.* Gabrielle sounded like a girl who had just mastered air-walking. *Oh, Chaosti. Jaenelle is back!*
Three years ago, he would have caught the nearest Wind back to the house at those words. Three years of complete absence rooted his feet to the ground. *Is she here?* His tone was whispery, cold edging under the words. Older Warlord Princes looked at him warily when he used that voice. *Has the High Lord let her out at last?*
Gabrielle paused, her joy dimmed. *No. It's just a letter.*
Just a letter.
The Green Jewel on his chest gleamed into life before he thought to control it. The bow, a magnificent piece that his aunt had gifted him for his sixteenth birthday, turned to ashes in his hand. *I see,* he said, scrambling to keep his temper in check. Three years. Chaosti had heard Titian's words, had understood the motives his kinswoman had listed for Jaenelle's absence. While their friend had convalesced at the Keep, the desire to go to her had been chained back. He and Gabrielle had convinced each other that the Keep existed for Witch, and so Jaenelle would be safest in the Black Mountain.
Then, a few months ago, they heard the sweetest call, a reminder of childhood games of tag in the woods. 'Catch me,' it sang from deep in the abyss, 'Follow me.'
It had taken a direct order from his Queen to keep Chaosti out of Dhemlan after learning that Jaenelle had moved into SaDiablo Hall. "She needs to heal all wounds, Prince. Grant your friend that time," Grandma Teele had said, not without compassion in her eyes. "Besides," she said days later, when they were sure that Chaosti wouldn't take the Green Wind and make a dash out of the borders of their Territory, "I fear another Warlord Prince would be redundant at the Hall. That poor girl has all the male attention any young witch should stand."
As if the High Lord and a bunch of demons were better company than Jaenelle's childhood friends. But Chaosti had bitten back that comment, bowed his head in acceptance and stalked into his rooms to collect his favorite bow and quiver. He'd spent most days out hunting, riding his horse hard as he burned out his helplessness in the wilderness instead of bringing it to the court. For the last months, the only voice that had given him pause was Gabrielle's; whenever she felt that he'd been outside for long enough, she had called him back under the pretext that she needed something heavy moved into her rooms.
*Prince Chaosti,* she called now, her voice an order instead of a request, a demanding grip that hauled him back from the killing edge. Until the moment they'd met a golden-haired imp in their grandmother's garden, everything in Chaosti had belonged only to Gabrielle. It was as impossible to deny her something as it was to deny the power of the Green in his self.
He stepped back, then, returned all his senses to the woods and tried to ignore the irregular cold of a summer day. *I'm here.* He gave the small pile of ashes at his feet a regretful look. *Will you wait for me to write a response to our cousin?*
*I'll do better.* The joy flared again in their communication. *I'll wait at the Coach.* Gabrielle sent an image of several trunks in her room and his, servants rooting through their chests to pack their best clothes while Gabrielle discreetly vanished well-used pants and shirts. At his bafflement, she laughed. *It's an invitation letter, Chaosti!"
*Grandmother already gave her permission?*
Gabrielle sounded exasperated now. *Of course grandmammy already gave her permission. It's Jaenelle's own writing! I think she's rather sorry the Dea al Mon Territory Queen can't attend a party with such short notice,* she confided with another laugh.
It wasn't amusement what sparked Chaosti's laughter.
It was relief.
An invitation. A chance to see Jaenelle, to bask in that dark glory he'd missed as a boy and now hungered for. Even if the meeting had to take place at the Hall and not in complete freedom, even if the High Lord must be witness to what should have been an unrestrained reunion, he'd see her. Touch her. Be back under that bottomless sapphire stare.
Even if the party should last only an hour, it was… good.
But a better idea came to him.
If he had to meet his friend under the High Lord's conditions, Chaosti refused not to add a few conditions of his own. *Gabrielle?* If he'd thought about it, he would have been surprised at how much his voice resembled a purr. He did feel Gabrielle snap to attention, a girl's curiosity mixed with a Queen's assessment of a Warlord Prince's temper. He smiled as he mounted his horse. *Have you any plans for the summer?*
Dea al Mon witches were quick. Gabrielle caught his meaning at once, and happy approval reached through the Opal thread and engulfed him. *I'll ask Grandma to write a formal letter.*
*You do that.* Chaosti snapped the reins, eager to arrive. For a moment, he wished for the power of the Black just so his message would reach Dhemlan, *Jaenelle. We are coming to you.*
Scelt
"[...] this one was fire, with her dark red hair flowing down her back, her green eyes flashing, and a swirling gown that looked like an autumn wood in motion." - Heir of the Shadows.
Khardeen watched the redheaded Queen as she plucked another formal dress from the neatly packed trunks. "I see you let the maids do the work," he commented, holding back the laugh as Morghan jumped away from the evidence.
"Khary!" It wasn't a snarl; since they'd read Jaenelle's letter, her spirits had been too high to allow any real anger. Nonetheless, those narrowed green eyes warned a male to keep from playing with a witch's temper. "They insisted," she whined instead, waving at the trio of trunks that were to be taken into his uncle's Coach. "'You need to rest before a long trip, Lady,' they said. 'We'll take care of your luggage, Lady.' Hah!" She held up the pale yellow dress she'd discarded when Khardeen had come in. "I haven't used this one in months, and only because Grandma nagged at me to do it."
Khardeen wondered what Lady Duana would think of her granddaughter's take of that conversation. Males were taught to ride the waves of female moods, and while that was sound advice, Khardeen found that pricking Morghann's temper was a pastime that grew more interesting as they grew up. "It did look lovely on you," he offered, despite knowing that the praise would be lost given Morghann's current irritability.
Indeed, the dress flew towards him. "Then you can wear it!"
Unaided by Craft, the piece of clothing fell onto the carpeted floor between them.
Court training insisted that Queens should be treated with deference at all times; Jaenelle had taught him that there were loopholes a Warlord could take advantage of. "Whatever this is about, you shouldn't take it out on your clothing," he drawled. Using unnecessary Craft in front of a witch who was unable to do the same was insensitive, unless it was meant for something that would amuse said witch. (Of course, several men would argue that amusing a witch on her moontime was necessary.) Since saving the crumpled dress wouldn't soften Morghann's mood, Khardeen bent to retrieve the innocent item. A hearth witch would know a spell to straighten and fold it correctly; the best Khardeen could do was to drape it over a nearby chair. "Or, if you so wish to harm some clothing, at least wait until I bring out the sweaters Auntie has been knitting us for Winsol every year."
He didn't expect the shine of tears when Morghann raised her head. The playfulness was dropped instantly, and he crossed the room's width in three long steps. "What is bothering you, Morghann?"
Morghann sat on one of the trunks, uncaring that it groaned under her weight. "It's been three years. Years, Khary," she whispered. "What if she doesn't want to be my best friend anymore?"
Moontime moodies. That was the only explanation for such an idiotic question. It wasn't like Morghann to worry so.
Khardeen went on one knee before her, put a hand on her wrist and gently rubbed her hand into uncurling from around the edge of the trunk. "Did you read her letter?" The wording had been careful, almost shy, but the eagerness in the psychic scent still attached to the paper had reminded Khardeen of lazy afternoons spent in Maghre, pretending indifference as he watched two girls raid the local store of almost all their sweets, and then lightheartedly badgering them to share some. There'd been nostalgia for those days threaded into the letter as well. "Can you really believe she's changed?"
Morghann shook her head, but her stance didn't brighten. "What if I changed?"
Khardeen stifled a groan. At this point, if not for Blood conventions, he'd be ready to blame her current condition for her stubbornness. In all of Scelt, he knew no other witch their age with more of a no-nonsense attitude. In fact, everyone on the isle knew that they'd become playmates and then fast friends because Morghann had been the only girl able to handle his mischievousness, just like Khardeen was the only one who could make her laugh without restraints. By the time they'd found seven-year-old Jaenelle playing with his uncle's dogs in the garden, he and Morghann were as inseparable as two children of different sexes could be.
"Morghann," he started, taking her hand in his and lifting it to his lips, a gesture he'd once seen a visiting Queen's Consort do. "Does anyone know you better than I do?" Khardeen rather liked that her headshake was immediate. "In that case, when I say that you are the same as when Jaenelle last saw you, believe me."
Green eyes warmed over, and her hand gripped his in silent gratefulness.
"We have proof, too." Khardeen smirked and pointed to the pale yellow dress that had started the scene. "I don't think you've thrown anything at me since you were ten."
Mission accomplished.
Morghann scowled and snatched her hand away, snapping to her feet as she rounded back to trimming her luggage of superfluous gowns.
Relaxed, Khardeen moved to the bottom drawer of her wardrobe, where the maids daily hid the pants and shirts their Lady continued to borrow from him. He picked the clothes he knew to be her favorites, folded them into a bundle and placed it on top of the trunk where she'd sat before. Stealing a glance at Morghann, he noticed that her demeanor had softened considerably; she even took a look at one of the dresses, a pretty one in autumnal colors, and put it back where the maid had left it.
As she reached for the small bundle, Morghan raised her eyes to his, anxiety warring with hope. "Do you really think I'll need these?"
Khardeen laughed. "Says one of the girls who pushed me into a mud hole, and instead of being sorry her dress got splattered all over, decided to start stealing my clothes!" He chuckled, nodding at the open drawer. "There are things in there I never got to use before you snatched them." He feared he'd gone too far when there was no annoyed answer, but he shouldn't have worried.
He turned around to face her just in time to catch the oncoming shirt.
"Males," she growled.
Khardeen made a quick calculation and sighed in relief. The trip to Dhemlan would take place in two days. Thank the Darkness. By the time they arrived at the Hall, Morghann should be back to her normal self.
Now it was just a matter of surviving until that day.
Glacia
"[Karla] swept into the great hall, stopping where the sunlight coming from the lead glass windows above the double doors produced a natural spotlight." - Heir of the Shadows
After his return to the Hall bearing the High Lord's grim message, Karla had been inconsolable. Oh, nobody in their uncle's household would have noticed; to those blind fools, Karla was still the intractable teenage witch that had been returned to her family deeply damaged by her apprenticeship with the Hourglass coven. Karla herself wouldn't allow them to think anything else.
She wore Morton's old trousers to the dinner table; refused to join Uncle Hobart's pet witch and her simpering friends in their pointless meetings; left her hair to grow in the manner it better suited it, not bothering to listen to other ladies' advice on how to use Craft to tame the blond spikes.
There were differences, of course, though Morton was sure that the others would see it as a escalation of her attitude and not as a result from his mysterious errand.
Whereas Karla had kept to herself since her return to their uncle's state, too perturbed by the underlying alarming rules being born between Glacian males and females, now his cousin looked to be on the warpath. When outside her rooms, Karla didn't walk - she stalked around the hallways, ready to snap at the sycophant followers of their uncle or enlighten other young witches to true Protocol. Chin high and shoulders thrown back, there was a permanent wicked gleam in her gaze that Morton knew his own ice-blue eyes would never be able to replicate.
She was baiting them, Morton knew. Somewhere in that stubborn mind of hers, Karla had decided that it was better to poke and prod at Uncle Hobart's flimsy coating of family regard for her and make him act. A rash attempt to stripe her of her power had less chances of succeeding than if they should wait until Karla was incapacitated by her own body.
After all, Morton had often thought as he slept in a futon next to her door on those three tense nights for the last months, she had only one protector, and an untrained one at that. Meanwhile, their uncle had half of Glacia currying for his favor; how long until a man with Jewels stronger than Morton's Summer-sky offered to get rid of the young Queen that threatened the council's long term plan?
Despite the danger - and because of it - Morton had resigned from his own apprenticeship and become a shadow glued to his dear cousin. Hot-tempered and ill-mannered she may be, but Karla was his closest family, and his Queen. Many times he'd daydreamed of taking Karla, dragging her to the nearest Summer-sky Wind and riding it back to SaDiablo Hall. But if they left, it would be seen in Glacia as the final proof that Karla wasn't meant to be the next Territory Queen - as the council leader, Uncle Hobart would make sure of that. Morton couldn't stand that thought; their parents hadn't died in this silent war for them to flee and take refuge in an unknown place.
Karla deserved to step up to her rightful place when she became of age; she was the Queen he'd been meant to serve, and he didn't want to do it in Dhemlan while there was a chance that they could escape Hobart's traps and stay at home.
That was why Morton had attached himself to her, and felt his own fears grow when his independent cousin didn't send him away. Every morning he acted as a buffer between Karla and the rest of the household, and every afternoon he came with her on her daily walks around the state's grounds. Even in summer, Glacia's weather wasn't kind, and often they were the only two souls wandering around the park. A Queen after all, Karla relaxed in this encounter with nature, often spending long hours where the only sound was her humming to the growing plants. Morton often recognized one of the tunes that Jaenelle had taught them years ago, and he realized it was a homage Karla made in their friend's memory.
Today Karla sang, cheeful notes blending into the breeze, just as she had done for the last three days. Because three days ago, when Morton had started to despair that there was no hope for Glacia, Jaenelle's letter had come. Bearing the High Lord's formal seal, not even Uncle Hobart had dared to prevent it from reaching Karla's hands.
For the first time since his return from Dhemlan, Morton had seen a true smile on his cousin's face. *She's awake!* she had screamed into a private thread, hand shaking as she gripped the small note. At the curious look on their uncle's face, Morton's own glee had faded; furious that he'd be the one to dampen her joy, he'd send a warning back to her. The change had been immediate: her mouth narrowed as she lifted her gaze from Jaenelle's writing to stare at Uncle, blue eyes sharpened until Morton almost felt sorry for the man.
"The High Lord of Hell requests our presence," she'd explained sweetly, handing over a small square of parchment included in the letter. The High Lord had thought of every detail, indeed.
Even the Blood with no court experience would have known what the wording meant. Uncle Hobart had paled as he reached for what amounted to a summon from the most powerful male in the realm, and Morton had hoped that the man were entertaining thoughts of what the Prince of the Darkness would do to a Yellow-Jeweled Warlord who disobeyed the silent order to let niece and nephew depart for the Hall.
"This is most irregular," he'd stuttered, reaching for a handkerchief to dry the sweat off his forehead. "Who does that man think…?"
"Should I write back that our dear uncle, the head of the Glacian Council, has chosen to keep the High Lord's guests?" Karla asked, the gleam in her eyes almost pleading that Lord Hobart did exactly that.
"No. No!" He'd sounded terrified. It'd been the most pleasant sound Morton had heard in years. Three years, to be exact. "I'll arrange for a Coach," Hobart had said, giving each a dark glare as a way to channel his fear.
Morton had stepped in front of Karla, instinctively shielding the Queen from any perceived menace, and was thankful when his stubborn cousin didn't elbow him away. For all the unsaid threats under their uncle's roof, Lord Hobart had never dared to show such animosity in a single look.
Reminded of that lurking danger, Morton now reached out to touch the Sapphire-Jeweled ring on Karla's right hand. Even without her Offering to the Darkness, she was one of the most powerful Blood in Glacia. In a few days, if not the very next day, that wouldn't be an obstacle at all. Even though he didn't mind sleeping by her door, Morton feared that the evidence of the High Lord's protection would hasten the council's plans. The whole of Kaeleer knew that the Black Jewels were a firm wall around the Dhemlan Queens - what if they feared that the High Lord sought to extend his hand upon Glacia? Then the council would have no hope at assuming supreme control. Unless....
Morton swore silently.
Unless the prospective Queen's inner web were broken. Then there'd be nothing worth defending in the northern Territory.
"You are worrying," Karla told him, leaning against his shoulder as they gazed up to the slow sunset.
"I wish we could leave today," he confessed, passing his arm around her to hug her closer. To his dying breath, he would protect this Queen. He never wanted to feel that unending despair he'd glimpsed in the High Lord's eyes when he told Morton of Jaenelle's condition. Karla was too full of life to become a powerless doll in Glacian politics. But it was such a hopeless job when there was only one person between her and Uncle Hobart's machinations. "I wish…."
"I know." Karla's bright blue eyes turned to him. "It's only five more days, but we've waited for so long…."
"It's not that," he snapped, holding her hand so tightly her nails buried into his skin. For a moment, he wished the snake tooth would slide from under its hiding place, just so he'd know that even without Craft Karla wasn't completely defenseless. "Hell's fire, Karla. You know it's not that." The Blood didn't discuss a witch's moontimes. Morton didn't care. "You know I keep track. You know it's coming. And you know…."
"It won't!" she hissed at him, looking around them quickly to make sure nobody was listening in. "I made a brew."
"A brew."
"Yes. You needn't worry, Morton." Karla tugged on his hand, reminding him to relax his grip. "Don't look at me so. I am a Healer, after all. But I warn you," she grinned wickedly, "it'll be twice as bad the next time."
Morton was so relieved he knew he wouldn't care if Karla yelled at him for three days straight next month. "I love you, cousin."
Karla looked at him with the indulgence a witch reserved for overbearing males, then bent forward to kiss his cheek. "Love you, too."
The End
27/02/10