The Silvering of Loran (11 page)

Although the influence of the stone drove her mother’s emotional sentiments, Loran did not doubt her sincere regret.

“Deprived is not a word I could ever associate with my life,” said Loran, trying to comfort her mother. But as the words slipped from her tongue, Loran felt a twinge of unfulfilled desire. She did not rightly feel deprived, but she hungered for
control
of her destiny and her recently discovered legacy.

Leanna reclaimed command of her emotions.

“Even if Topen senses the use of his stone, it may be some time before he arrives,” said Leanna “Not because of indecision or lack of desire to do so, but due to the influences of time, in his realm and ours.”

“I don’t understand; the influences of time?”

“I’m afraid the power of this magic is affecting both my emotions and judgment,” said Leanna. “I want to thank you for this gift—for sharing your legacy.”

Leanna let loose of Loran’s hand and the mirror captured her transition to visible form. A few moments later, Loran appeared next to the table where they started. The stone she had held now rested on the table’s marbled top.

“That is the second time you have made a reference to time and Topen,” said Loran. “I remember your words to Topen as if you had just now spoken them;
I am aware of no other with more insight to the passage of time
. You said those words at the celebration of Rolam’s and Gervest’s sixteenth birthday.”

Leanna beckoned for Loran to join her at the mirror. When she did, they stared at their reflections while they spoke.

“I remember those words as vividly as you. Perhaps I should be surprised that you so diligently ensnared my words into your memory, but first I would have to underestimate you, and that, my daughter, I will never do.”

“Will you now explain their meaning?”

Leanna turned to meet Loran’s eyes—sparkling with expectation.

“This, I will promise; with Topen’s arrival, the meaning of those words—and so much more—will be revealed to you. Until that time, I assure you that the knowledge they convey will not alter our current course—to reverse an unnatural influence that if left unchallenged, will destroy all that we know is good.”

CONTACTS & CONSEQUENCES

––––––––

N
EAR THE GATED ENTRANCE OF a wide grassy road, two rapid snapping sounds broke the peaceful silence as Daramose appeared in the sky, just above the two iron gates securing the passage. He floated downward with his momentum for several feet and then landed soundly on the tree-lined lane—that leads to a white Manor in the distance. The ghostly trails that followed his arrival dissipated just before he reached solid ground. Long, white rail fences behind the tree line edged the lush green pasture on both sides of the road, and steered Topen and Daramose to the Manor’s entrance.

Topen had the sudden urge to pull on Daramose’s reins, but the stallion stopped abruptly before the thought reached his hands.

“You sensed it too, didn’t you?” Topen said to Daramose while he patted him on the neck. “I know it has been a long day, my friend, but we must not delay our arrival,” he urged.

Daramose snorted and bobbed his head before he took off down the road at a full run. When they had nearly reached the entrance, the stable manager, Hanson—who was remarkably fit and already bald at thirty-nine, hurried to greet them. Topen dismounted and gave the reins over to the outstretched hands of his stable manager.

* * *

T
he doors of the timekeeper room burst open to expose a large room of clocks. Topen swiftly entered and the panorama of timepieces on the walls surrounded him. The walls had all manner of clocks mounted on them, and each had on their face the words,
Last Visited,
followed by a plethora of metalized numbers that rotated on a mechanical spindle. The hands of the clocks spun at different rates, though most closely synchronized to the large master clock that hung from the ceiling—with its four faces it was viewable from every direction. Nearly twenty percent of the clocks moved
far
slower or faster than the master. One clock had a
minute
hand that rotated precisely in concert to the master clock’s
second
hand.

Topen stepped before a grandfather clock, pressed tightly against the wall. The minute hand twirled rapidly around the face—fast enough to watch twenty-four hours pass while only eight minutes would rotate on the master clock. An etched metal sheet attached to the body of the tall clock prominently displayed the words,
Rondros’s Avileen Empire
, and the numbers that rotated next to the words,
Last Visited
, read—.

Loran shot straight awake and lifted up in bed—her wide-open eyes locked on the two paintings hung on the wall in front of her. Breathing heavily, sweat tricked from her brow and flew onto her bedding when she shook her head to regain her bearings. She expected to see the morning sun glaring through the windows, but just a subtle glow was present. Of one thing she was chillingly certain, this experience was new—more vivid than any other dream.

Loran tossed the covers from her body and threw her legs over the side of the bed; her feet instantly carried her away when they touched the cool floor. She stared at the paintings one last time before she rushed into the other room to dress. Despite the sense of urgency that had been her companion over the last five months, there would be no attempt at the silvering on this morning—her dream having assured that the calm mind required for the ritual would not be possible.

* * *

A
knock on Rolam’s door so early in the morning was uncommon, but the loud noise persisted, nonetheless. Rolam resisted the urge to become conscious and turned away from the intrusive racket; he tugged tightly at his covers. Three more authoritative knocks nudged him awake.

“Who is there?” Rolam shouted.

“It’s Kelamar. There are matters I need to discuss with you.”

Rolam squinted his eyes in the fading darkness of his room.

“Come in.”

Kelamar entered the room, and Rolam forced himself from his comfortable bed. He reached for his robe, draped at the foot of the canopy, and slipped into it.

“It must be important, Kelamar, since I have never known you to give way to hysterics.”

“It is, indeed.”

Rolam yawned and motioned for Kelamar to join him at the timbered table near the entrance of his chamber.

“The ascension of Gervest must not take place,” Kelamar blurted out. “I have observed you closely since Gilvius announced his intent to appoint Gervest as Sovereign. I do not believe I am misreading your agreement with my words.”

“You have placed a great deal of confidence in your assessment, to now reveal your defiance of my father’s edict.”

“I would not defy a proclamation of the sovereign if I believed it was made of his own clear mind.”

“What do you mean?”

“Someone or something is exerting influence over him. It is familiar, from long ago, during the castle war,” Kelamar reflected, and searched his mind for the exact memory he could relate to Rolam.

“Have you proof of this?” Rolam asked.

“It is not so easily shown, but had Gilvius displayed his current condition more rapidly, we all would have been suspicious. As it is, the slow decay was deceiving—I believe to a purposeful intent.”

Rolam considered Kelamar’s solemn words and rose from the table to pace, and with each step, the thoughts of revolt sickened him to the depth of his soul.
How did we get here . . . to the edge of revolt?
He thought. Rolam held great respect for Kelamar, but now he knew it was complete
trust
he must grant.

“Gervest has recruited personal guards, whose loyalty to him is without question,” said Rolam.

“I am aware. They are outside of my command, but that is not the worst of it. I have heard rumors of a separate force established in the Kileson province—their ranks reported to be near three thousand, and growing. They are under the control of Samuel Kileson, but they answer to Gervest’s bidding.”

“How long have you known this?”

“Not for long, those I trust have been gathering information, quite stealthily, over the past two months.”

“I had no idea of the depth of Gervest’s ambition,” said Rolam, astonished at the boldness, but not the deceitfulness of his brother.

“Nor did I. And I should have detected the signs sooner.”

“What about the guards under your command, to whom do they give their allegiance?”

“Your father has earned their loyalty, and this they will give with their blood.”

Rolam returned to the table. As he sat rigidly upright, the fingers of his hands grasped the arms of his chair.

“You want me to ascend in my brother’s place,” Rolam calmly stated.

“I want what I know your father would—if his mind was free.”

“Have you considered how we would accomplish this, with but a month before Gervest becomes the sovereign?

“We must find a way, and we must do so without suspicion.”

“We will need help,” Rolam proclaimed, with a hint of resolution in his eyes. “We need someone who will support our cause, and who is gifted with the complexities of strategy.”

“By your look, I see you have already chosen an ally,” reasoned Kelamar.

Rolam reached over and slapped his hand to Kelamar’s arm.

“If I read
her
as well as you have me, we already have a valuable ally,” Rolam proclaimed, then retreated into his chamber. “I must get dressed, we have much to accomplish.”

“Her?” Kelamar shouted.

* * *

N
one of the gazes of the workers traversing the main hall met with Loran’s eyes when she arrived among them—most had their eyes fixed on the floor, a few feet ahead of their steps. Depressed stares and a few snarls was their only company. Loran hesitated to reveal the joy she felt for her dream, feeling the others might find her glee inappropriate—smug or cruel—flaunting her status above their misery. Still, she imagined that
her
joy would be
their
joy if what she dreamt had the meaning she yearned for.

Loran navigated the halls until she arrived a few yards from the doors of the library. The guards on either side of the entrance normally meant that the sovereign was occupying the room, but in these times, Loran took nothing as certain. Her father had not viewed his favorite books in months, but Gervest’s fascination with the library had long been a common theme in the subtle whispers of the castle—and Gervest rarely went anywhere without his personal guards close by. The last thing Loran wanted at this moment was a confrontation with her brother—not yet—so she walked briskly beyond the library entrance and put some distance from the guards’ observing eyes she felt piercing her back.

* * *

“W
hy didn’t you contact me the moment you found it missing?” snarled Penlaris, who was engaged in an intense conversation in the library with Gervest.

“There was no need, the stones you gave me are still safely hidden, and without them, isn’t the silvering solution worthless?”

“While you don’t require the silvering solution to command the blackened stones, you
do
need it to use the others . . . and since you have never undergone the silvering, you cannot obtain the solution on your own.”

Gervest pulled the blackened stone from his pocket and displayed it before Penlaris.

“I don’t need the other stones, I have this!”

Penlaris walked to Gervest and plucked the stone from his hand.

“This stone is but a small portion of the ability of the other blackened stones, but as I have explained to you, multiple times, there is a price for surging its power through you.” Penlaris grabbed Gervest’s arm and pulled his sleeve up to expose the bend of his arm. A prominent dark web pattern, with a small spindly spider’s body at its center—its long legs flexed outward—dominated the crease.

“You have noticed how this mark darkens and spreads with greater use of the stone . . . yes?”

Gervest pulled away assertively from his mentor and yanked his sleeve straight down his arm.

“There is a
price to pay
for using the blackened stones,” reaffirmed Penlaris. “That is why their use must be stabilized by the other stones. While the silvering can heal the damage the blackened stone has ravaged on you, a trace of its use will always scar your flesh. I gave you the stones and silvering from their hiding place in this room, not just to prevent their use by your siblings, but to give you the means to heal yourself after repeatedly using
this
stone.” Penlaris held the blackened stone to Gervest’s face, before he returned it to his hand.

Penlaris suddenly froze and started looking about the room.

“You are sure the stones are secure?” Penlaris asked, while he attempted to sense if there was something detectable in the room.

“Yes, I checked them just this morning.”

“Has Topen appeared recently?”

“Topen? It has been years since he was present in the castle.”

“How many years?” Penlaris asked. His eyes sought in all directions as he sensed the room.

“I’m not sure, is this important?” Gervest asked—agitated by the queries Penlaris spat out.

Penlaris redirected his attention to Gervest after he was satisfied that his caution was unwarranted.

“Never mind,” said Penlaris. He then retrieved a small bottle of silvering from underneath his cloak. “I trust you will take greater care of this replacement.”

Gervest snapped the bottle from Penlaris’s hand.

“I am not a child; do not propose to treat me as one.”

Penlaris studied Gervest’s face for a moment. He recognized that Gervest savored his authority, more so as he neared the sovereignty. Caution and a gentler tactic to diffuse the friction between them are required, he determined.

“No, you are not. You are going to be a great ruler of this land,” assured Penlaris. “I look forward to the day when you lay claim to your birthright.”

Gervest took to the flattery, as Penlaris knew he would—acknowledging his words with an arrogant smile and a nod of his head.