The Silvering of Loran (4 page)

Loran was relieved that her mother chose not to pursue any further. Certainly, she didn’t want her outdoor escapades discovered, but she also didn’t want to reveal what she had learned in the receiving room.

When Topen suddenly stood up and faced their direction, Loran imagined he must have felt them watching him. When his steps placed him a few feet away, she started to feel a little queasy and exposed her distress with a light shade of green on her face. She feared that Topen might recount their previous meeting at the wall.

“Leanna, I’ve never known a woman who wears her years more favorably,” said Topen.

“Since I know you are not a man of insincerity, and I am aware of no other with more insight to the passage of time, I thank you for the compliment.”

Loran emitted a puzzled look following her mother’s careful wording.

“Topen, this is my daughter, Loran. I understand she is already acquainted with
you
.”

Loran fidgeted on the grass, still fighting her queasiness as Topen crouched before her.

“Hello, Loran . . . I can say without question, the depth of your green eyes is remarkable. I don’t think I could ever forget them, no matter how much time had passed.”

Topen’s words unleashed Loran’s bottled-up anxiety, and her face resumed its normal shade.

Leanna bent over and placed her mouth close to Loran’s ear.

“Be cautious with this one, my daughter,” Leanna began, and then shifted her eyes to Topen. “His charm is known in many lands,” she said, with an ever so slight grin.

When Leanna rose to full height, she took her daughter’s hand.

“We should return to your father and brothers, we mustn’t ignore our obligations,” she announced.

Topen knew that being in the position of the sovereign’s wife was not always easy for the strong-willed Leanna. Nevertheless, her balance was noteworthy and her love for her family never questioned—by anyone.

“Until tomorrow?” Leanna spoke to Topen.

“Until tomorrow.”

Topen watched mother and daughter as they strolled through the crowd towards the castle. Loran turned her head just enough to mouth the words
thank you
to him.

* * *

T
he morning brought with it the sun’s warm glow and a slight breeze—heavy with the scent of fresh lavender that grew in the fields to the east.

The room Topen stood in was intimate by the standards of the castle, a few chairs and a single full-length mirror centered in the room. Against the wall was a small wooden table that supported the four stones Topen had just placed on it. While exact in size, each stone was unique in coloring, shading, and the veining that ran through two of them. Beside each stone rested a bottle, identical to the one he presented to Loran.

Gilvius entered the room alone. Topen turned to him as he deposited a small, leather-bound book on the table. On his release, the words on the cover transitioned to a mixture of letters and symbols—meaningless to any unintended viewer.

“Gilvius, you are the first to arrive. Will Leanna accompany your sons?”

“No,” he replied. “I wanted to speak with you alone.”

Gilvius moved to a chair and gestured for Topen to join him.

Seated across from Gilvius, Topen detected the same struggle in him he had witnessed in the receiving room, but when he began to speak, his voice was steady.

“The protection and guidance you have given to the Avileen line, from the time of Rondros, is unmatched. When Rondros’s father accepted you into his family, after you had left your own, he created an unwavering loyalty in you. But any obligations you may have felt you owed, have long been satisfied.”

There is another figure in the room—an invisible man. Thin, with flowing black hair, and near forty years of age in appearance, he circled behind Gilvius with ghostly trails that no one else could see. As he mouthed words, Gilvius spoke them.

“It is time in this land to continue forward, without magic.”

His words slammed into Topen like a fist. This was the last thing he would ever want to hear from Gilvius.

“Magic is the only defense you have against magical enemies,” Topen asserted. “Since they have not been ignorant of your existence since the castle war, all generations of Avileens
must
be trai—”

“Enough! I have decided,” shouted Gilvius.

Topen stood and left Gilvius where he sat to collect all the items he had positioned on the table. He meticulously placed the bottles into their cloth bag, and the stones into his pockets with haste. However, the book caused Topen to pause. He deliberated a few moments, before he lifted it from the table and into his cloak.

“In four years’ time, Loran will be ready for the ritual,” said Topen, still facing the table. He turned to Gilvius before continuing, “I will return on that day to see if the years have altered your decree.”

“It is not necessary.”

“Perhaps not, but should you find the ease in which you live with your decision
has
changed, then all of your children can prepare,” said Topen, while he streamed across the room.

The hidden man became anxious. Gilvius spoke, not just his words, but imitated his outstretched arm.

“Topen!”

Gilvius’s voice reverberated throughout the room. When Topen reached the door, he halted his movement, but did not turn to face Gilvius.

“I have not made this decision rashly, but know this;
your
return will be welcomed as always, but the items you have brought today are not,” said Gilvius.

Topen determined a reply was not necessary and flung open the door.

* * *

D
aramose’s hooves clattered on the bricks near the castle gate. Topen was prepared to leave, but became distracted when he detected the shout of his name.

“Topen! . . . TOPEN!” yelled Loran, as she ran through the courtyard—the best she could with her shoes on. “Don’t leave,” she urged, when she got closer.

Topen turned Daramose to face her and she came along his side.

“I have something to tell you,” she said, her neck crooked upward. “I know magic is real,” she whispered. “The stone worked.”

Topen nodded his head, but did not respond further. Although he had already sensed the stone’s use, her words confirmed to him that she had inherited the Avileen legacy.

“I also know my father may ban magic. I don’t understand,” she indicated. “Why would he do that?”

Loran removed the stone from her pocket and offered it up to Topen.

“This is yours,” she said.

Topen leaned down, and as he did once before, closed her hand around the stone.

“No, this is yours. It is part of your birthright.”

“But, I can’t—”

“For now, keep it in your most secret place. Do not show it to anyone—even if the urge to do so is strong.” Topen swung his stallion around to the gate. Daramose reared high into the air in anticipation of leaving.

“There will come a moment when we will meet again, Loran Avileen. Until then, I will never forget the depth of your green eyes, no matter how much time has passed.”

Daramose streamed out of the castle. Loran clutched the stone briefly to her heart before she secured it in her pocket.

Once clear of the furthest edge of the castle walls, Topen leaned into Daramose.

“It’s time to go home.”

Daramose galloped faster, and without warning leapt high into the air—as if he were jumping over a tall fence. At the point of maximum height, both rider and horse began to glow with ghostly trails. And with two quick snapping sounds, they disappeared in mid-air—their images replaced with wisps of trailing smoke that traced their path in the sky.

BITTERSWEET SIXTEEN

––––––––

Twelve years—‘till present day

––––––––

A
VILEEN CASTLE HAD WITNESSED MANY celebrated events in its past. Traditions, once established, were proving tenaciously rigid in their formalities—at least that was how Loran viewed it on her sixteenth birthday. She had spent the majority of her younger years trying to avoid many of the requirements expected of the sovereign’s daughter, but with greater years, came greater accountability—and obligations that were resisting evasion.

The grand ballroom was ablaze with activity. Each of the circular wooden tables throughout the room were covered with premium silks. The finest glass goblets were positioned on top—near the decorative ceramic plates. Folded cloth napkins displayed the Avileen Crest, and had cutlery deposited upon them. Long swatches of blue and turquoise fabric wrapped around the columns from top to bottom, and perched high above the center of the room was a tent made of white linen—with streaming corners that flowed to the floor.

* * *

L
eanna and Loran stood side by side while they scrutinized the three formal dresses that Claire had just finished spreading across Loran’s bed. By the time Claire retreated four steps to leave the room, Loran had already decided not a single one was acceptable to showcase at the ball tomorrow night. All of the selections carefully chosen by Leanna drew little more than an upturned nose from Loran.

“These are too antiquated,” Loran declared.

“How is that possible? They were fashioned only months ago.”

“Didn’t you notice what was worn by the young women when we traveled to the Kilesen province last month?”

Astonished disbelief swept Leanna’s face.

“You are not suggesting that the casualness of dress displayed in the Kileson province is acceptable for your cotillion on your sixteenth birthday?”

“Of course I wouldn’t expect to dress so casually,” Loran responded, “but I wonder if it is necessary to be as formal as in times past.”

Leanna took the hand of her daughter and guided her to sit at a marble bench adjacent to her bed.

“Loran . . . What is it you fear?”

A few moments lapsed before Loran settled on a reply.

“I don’t know if it’s fear, but for as long as I can recall, I have been instructed on the obligations of the sovereign’s daughter. I have desperately
tried
to honor the expectations of me, but as we both know, often without success.” Loran rose and paced a few steps away before she turned back to her mother. “I just feel, at least for tomorrow, I need to be like the other sixteen year-olds in the provinces.”

“I understand, my daughter, but your heritage comes with obligations. You do not have the same destiny as others.”

There was that word again,
destiny
. If ever there was a word that carried more weight, Loran was unaware. But more so lately it felt like an anchor, resisting all efforts to let her distance herself from it.

“Is my life not my own? Must I follow a pre-designed path guided by some controlling destiny?”

Leanna empathized with Loran’s frustration and she drew closer to refocus her.

“When you give into tradition, you are honoring those who came before you,” Leanna said. She then looked deep into her daughter’s eyes. “But, do not ever lose the strength of your own will.”

Loran’s expression exposed the surprise she felt for her mother’s last remark. The moment did not escape Leanna’s notice.

“I know this may sound conflicting, but it is not,” Leanna assured. “You will need your strength in the years ahead of you. These are the years where your decisions will hold the utmost relevance, where you are able to
guide
destiny.”

Loran returned to her bedside and blankly stared at the dresses before her.

“So much has been determined for me—my obligations, my tutoring, even my eventual marriage is to be useful to the Avileen realm,” said Loran. “How can I hope to guide destiny when its grip is suffocating me?”

Leanna joined her daughter and matched her vacant stare.

“I’ve never told you this, but I always considered one of the strongest traits I have observed in you, is the one I most recognize in myself. My passionate will may have placed me in a few precarious moments in my life, but it has also given me the means to be where I most wanted.” She turned to face Loran. “In time, you will discover where you most want to be. For now, honoring traditions will not deter the future from arriving.”

Leanna hugged her daughter, and with her arm around her waist, concentrated on the dresses.

“Which one have you chosen?”

Loran slumped her shoulders, and with indifference, pointed to the middle dress.

“That one.”

* * *

T
he guests who had arrived for Loran’s cotillion contributed to the above average number of occupants that filled the main hall—as well as the uncharacteristic laughter and gleeful ambiance. Rolam and Gervest traversed the hall, dressed in their hunting attire. In the opposite direction, Loran was on her way to the ballroom—having just left her mother to instruct Claire on how to care for the dress selected for tomorrow night. The conversation her brothers seemed so engrossed in barred notice of the others in the hall, including Loran.

“It’s all a matter of technique,” Gervest said to Rolam, when they almost collided into Loran.

“If you pay no better attention in the forest, the main course tomorrow will be bread,” said Loran.

“You should save that humor for your guests,” said Gervest.

“And speaking of guests, I understand that Michael Kileson will be attending,” said Rolam. “Didn’t you visit him last month?”

“I most certainly did not!” snapped Loran. “We purchased some goods and visited with his mother while in the province, but Michael wasn’t there.”

Gervest and Rolam looked at each other with eyebrows raised.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” said Rolam.

“I’m not uncomfortable,” insisted Loran, “It’s just . . . well, this is how rumors get started and I don’t want the guests to be whispering—”

“Don’t concern yourself,” interrupted Gervest. “Your secret is secure with us.”

“Yeah,” said Rolam.

The twins patted Loran on her shoulders and continued down the hall. Loran turned and shouted out to her brothers.

“It’s not a secret! . . . I mean, there
is no
secret!”