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ADGIT - Ch. 7
🕑 Added 2023-04-09 09:38:55 +0000 UTC“Not exactly this very place,” Aileen corrected herself, sheepishly grinning. “We’re in the inner ward of the Hold. From all historical accounts—” she neglected her history lessons and had no right to utter those words “—the Blighted Multitude never made it past the innermost walls you see over there.”
She nodded at the tall window with an arced top across the hallway, her auburn hair tumbling out of her forehead to reveal sapphiric blue eyes.
The visitors from Ottarla—a small kingdom, once part of old Grammanus, that Aileen had forgotten from her geography class until she was reminded a few hours ago—turned around to look outside. The expansive green bailey was bordered by imposing Gaolyan-built walls of unknown stone, interspersed by towers topped with floating purple crystals the size of the average commoner’s house one would find outside the Hold—the latter, a recent addition by the imperial sealcrafters to the Gaolyan’s legacy.
The Ottarlans should know well the story of the War of the United; everyone on Tabithala did. Yet, they had to pretend they were interested in Aileen’s words because they had no choice. What were they going to do? Tell her they were bored of it?
They should because I am. This wasn’t much better than her usual duty of standing still and not talking. Aileen was hoping the Ottarlans would ask her to change topics. But social protocol, and their stations, wouldn’t allow them so. Just anything else.
Even the weather was an alternative she’d graciously accept. The skybreams thought it was good, their translucent selves freely frolicking in the sunshine outside, unlike Aileen, who had to be a tour guide.
Though there was someone apparently interested in her monologue.
“I want to see! Wanna see the walls!” pleaded Emalee, the youngest of the Ottarlans, milky green eyes full of eagerness. She was the daughter of… Aileen couldn’t recall. One of the later wives of the Ottarlan King—the little girl was royalty, that much Aileen could say.
Emalee, only coming up to her half-brother’s waist, waved at him with her short arms. The teenage prince Orvin—fifth or sixth in line to the Ottarlan throne—gently picked her up. Emalee’s striking blue dress of fleuryn wool, the pride of Ottarlan trade, swayed as Orvin carried her closer to the window. Her copper locks caught the sun’s rays, shimmering.
No longer covered by the shadows of the hallway, Aileen saw how pale the little girl was, severely past the fair complexion of people in the northern Grammanus region. Sickly looking, almost. Even Aileen’s ivory tone couldn’t compare—Aileen reminded herself to get more sun.
Aileen could swear to the Mother Core that she saw purplish bruises when Emalee’s sleeves sidled down as she reached for her brother. Was that why they had her wear the long fleuryn dress? Summer was not the season for it.
And there was a certain translucence to Emalee’s skin, with some veins showing. Some illness? A blood disease?
Poor girl, Aileen thought. The circular family trees of backward monarchies rearing their ugly heads had no place in modern times. Did people not learn from the War of the Bloodlines and the fall of the Biosyn mind gardens?
In contrast to her pale sister, Orvin’s face and exposed right hand were made golden by the sun. There was a certain ruggedness and maturity to him. Too young to have participated in any battle—and there were no recent wars for him to join, a sad prospect that Aileen shared—so he must’ve worked hard in his Core swordsmanship, often practicing in the courtyard of their manor. Aileen saw the fine sword he surrendered to the palace guards before stepping inside the Fahllyr’s ancestral House.
“Impressive, when you think about it,” said Aileen. “The Coalition Army holding back the Blighted Multitude—it’s almost like a miracle. Remember, the mass of shadows had already consumed the entire East then. All the creatures, including humans, turned monsters…”
Gazing at the painting, Aileen pictured it was real—the sinister abominations at the bottom writhing, the defenders on the walls firing down on them, the small smudge encircled by a halo rapidly growing into as it crashed down on the Blighted monsters.
How she wished she had been there, fighting alongside the heroes of legend… and becoming a legend too.
“You were born three hundred years too late,” Jel would drawl whenever Aileen shared her fantasies.
To which Aileen would always reply, “The next war, I’ll prove myself. There’ll be books written of me; I promise that.” Rarely would Aileen get to finish what she wanted to say because Jel would hurl water pellets at her as if she was a misbehaving dog, lecturing her not to wish for war.
War is bad; Aileen knew that. But she’d rather be in the middle of one than listen to Orvin’s slimy tutor talk.
“It is as you say, Lady Fahllyr,” said Master Bemroi, a scholar of Lendel College, its prestigious rose emblem embossed on his leather vest. He spoke in a Grammus dialect, unlike that common in Krysperia.
Aileen could understand him well enough. There were only a few differences that didn’t bother her. It was his accent she found funny. When she was a child, she had a good scuffing from her elder sister after laughing at how a foreign dignitary spoke.
Bemroi presented an elaborate bow, his unfashionable bangs flopping forward, tempting Aileen to laugh. It was surprising that his glasses didn’t fall right off. “The renowned heroes of old are unmatched, of impossible prowess, unquestionable skill,” he said. “I fear we might not see the likes of them again in our days.”
“We’ll see about that,” Aileen muttered.
“Pardon, my Lady?”
“Moving on to the second painting of Sir Perriot Raynel—” I remembered the painter’s name! Aileen snapped the fingers of her right hand. Or she tried to but couldn’t because of the gauntlet she wore.
Instead of a clicking sound, she made a loud clang that startled Emalee into half-yelling.
Terribly delicate girl, observed Aileen.
Master Bemroi audibly tutted, glancing sidelong at his charges, his displeasure evident. Orvin noticed. He handed Emalee to her nanny and then came forward to dip his head at Aileen, uttering an appropriate apology.
Oops, that was my fault. Aileen turned around as if nothing had happened.
Walking to the next painting in the gallery, she purposedly stomped as if clanking metal would cover her embarrassment. She felt powerful, striding down the carpet-lined corridor in armor. It wasn’t a Powercore Armor—no Cores of beasts or Dust cells lined its insides. She had donned a complete suit of plate armor, decorative and ceremonial, and carried it as if fifty pounds was a feather pillow.
Her armor glinted as the sun’s rays hit it, tracing the gilded carvings of the now-extinct owl king on black metal—the emblem of House Fahllyr. It was said that one of Emperor Hiero’s favored beasts was the owl king. Alluverius Fahllyr took it up as his symbol, signifying his family’s fervent watch over the First Emperor’s tomb forevermore.
So much for that fervent watch and forevermore, Aileen internally scoffed. At present, no one knew where the fabled tomb was. Perhaps not even the gods did. Records lost and memories forgotten—the price of too much secrecy. What they had was a symbolic tomb at the heart of the Fahllyr House, where Fahllyr trainees were expected to stand as ceremonial guards.
Aileen pranced the last few steps back into the shade of the walls, demonstrating the physical strength gifted by her Bloodline. Show off—she could hear Jel’s voice. The fitted plates of her armor settled into place as she stood next to a painting taller than her, depicting a mighty dragon spewing fire on the Blighted, the walls of the Hold to its back.
“Continuing from that other one,” said Aileen, with real passion this time, “the First Emperor dived into the Blighted mass and transformed into a dragon. As you well know, the Krysperian ruling family are all half-dragons.”
The uptight Orvin relaxed, taking in the majesty of the massive artwork. His sister gawked at it, hugging her nanny tighter as she released a soft ‘wow’ of amazement.
Aileen agreed with their reaction. Since she had first seen this painting—she was only five years of age then—she dreamt of jumping off the Citadel walls like Emperor Hiero, dumbly thinking she could turn into a dragon if she did. Her father wouldn’t allow it, obviously.
“The sprinkles of light you see swirling around the First Emperor,” Aileen began to explain, “is Sir Raynel’s interpretation of aileh getting pulled from the air. Really, you can’t see aileh without special instruments. Sealcrafters and mages can feel it, though.” She eyed the hands of Prince Orvin and Master Bermoi. “Only dragons can filter aileh from their surroundings—proof of the royal family’s divinity. Isn’t that right, Master Bemroi?”
The Basadhins founded Lendel College to comprehensively study aileh as part of their worship— a century and a half ago. After admitting gifted people from other cultures and establishing campuses outside Basadhin’s rapidly dwindling territory, Lendel had become relatively secular. Aileen was checking Bermoi’s stance, as he didn’t have the large round eyes and long noses of Basadhins.
“Indeed, the Krysperian royal family is descended from the dragon long gone,” the Lendel scholar replied, coming up with a different way to bow.
Too automatic. The sliminess was there, and it didn’t answer the question—a response in the true scholar’s fashion.
Aileen could hardly blame Bermoi for sidestepping the subject of the royal family’s divinity. He was in the heart of Krysperian power; he wouldn’t dare offend them. And the quaint Ottarlan delegation had an audience with the princess later. They’d refrain from bungling that up after traveling such a long way.
“Other creatures can manipulate aileh,” Aileen said. “Voidbreams, lava wyrms, and fengharls, to name a few. We even got plants like the spectral lily that can do it to some extent. Yes, humans too. But we cannot draw aileh from nature and make it our own—a mage’s fire spell is only as strong as her internal aileh.
“Sealcrafters are an exception in a minimal way. Scarcely comparable with dragons that can draw as much natural aileh as they can from around them. Only limitations are the concentration of aileh and the dragon’s proficiency. Maybe we humans can catch up if engynare adepts can successfully recreate the lost technology from the time of the First Emperor.”
Again, this was something the Ottarlans probably knew.
At least, Master Bermoi should, and likely Orvin as well, if he wasn’t remiss in the required studies expected of nobility. The nanny couldn’t be expected to know, and not little Emalee either. The latter two wouldn’t care.
Still, Aileen went on with her small lecture to make herself appear attentive to guests. She was supposed to accompany them until Princess Adelind Melusine could see them. Maybe they’d put a good word of her behavior to the princess so people would stop being afraid of her like some wild animal waiting to lash out.
That and Aileen had an unhealthy obsession—there, I admit it—with dragons, devouring every information she could find.
One fantasy she’d never share with Jel or anyone else was that she sorely wanted to fight a dragon.
She’d make that happen! She didn’t know how, but she would. It’s a promise, even if she had to paddle for months over the Calm Sea to find where the dragon ancestors of the First Emperor had gone.
Maybe it’ll be easier if I tried convincing the princes to fight me. Princess Adelind’s dragon form was unimpressive at best.
“I don’t get it,” Emalee piped up, scratching her head. “Aileh in the air? I thought aileh… only inside?” She placed her hands on her chest. “In me.” She then pointed at Orvin. “And big brother. He can do stuff with aileh. Make a pretty fire and other stuff.”
“Yes, that’s true, Emalee,” Orvin said. “But there’s also—”
“Aileh flows in every living system, from the soil to the air,” Master Bemroi cut in, peering over his square glasses with narrowed eyes. “A divine gift, as the Basadhins believe. Where there is life, there is aileh. Or it can be said that there is life because of aileh. Don’t forget that.”
Orvin clutched his gloved left hand with his right. “I won’t, Master Bemroi.”
He’s really a sealcrafter, Aileen concluded. How odd for a prince to be one.
It was etiquette to cover coaxing lines with gloves, wide cuffs, or sleeves worn long past the hands. Bemroi had both hands gloved and had frilled cuffs, though that may be a fashion choice. Sealcrafters had only one hand etched, their less dominant one, so they’d lose only that if the procedure failed or there was an untoward sealcrafting accident.
An uncovered sealcrafting hand in a social setting was like waving an unsheathed sword. Aileen intentionally not wearing a gauntlet on her left hand was ill-mannered. Very. Pointing with her aileh-engraved finger made it doubly so. She’d earn a knuckle on her crown if her older sister were around.
But who was going to complain about it now? A little power play and intimidation never hurt anyone.
Will they tell Princess Adelind about it?
Bermoi wasn’t done imparting knowledge to his student. “We cannot draw power from the air as dragons could. You must be aware of aileh sources as a sealcrafter for making constructs.” And another bow, another hair flip, to Aileen. “Those granted the gift of life have aileh to impart,” continued the scholar, “from the tallest of gargoth trees caressing the clouds to the smallest of ants gathering the breadcrumbs off the floor.”
“I know smaller bugs!” excitedly squeaked Emalee.
“This isn’t a contest, silly girl,” Master Bermoi snapped, his tone unchecked. “How many times have I told you not to talk out of turn?”
Emalee’s lips quivered. She buried her face in her nanny’s chest, tugging at her uniform. The nanny had an uncannily impassive face as if nothing was happening in front of her.
“I apologize for her behavior, Master Bermoi,” said Orvin. “And Emalee’s just a child. She’ll eventually learn how to behave properly.”
“Eventually isn’t soon enough,” coldly replied the Lendel scholar. “We are in the presence of Lady Aileen Fahllyr, a direct descendant of Alluverius Fahllyr, one of the great heroes who fought the Blighted Multitude on Emperor Hiero’s side! This is the last place for Ottarlan royalty to embarrass themselves, whether child or aged.”
Orvin hung his head, holding his tongue. Aileen noted his moving cheeks and the tensing jaw muscles. The hand out of view on the side opposite his teacher formed an angry ball. Orvin’s hair swept down as he bowed to Master Bermoi, but Aileen saw determined eyes darting through the golden curtain, not submissive in the least.
A spare, thought Aileen.
Less than a spare, as four or five would sit on the throne before Orvin. Maybe more if the Ottarlan king’s higher-ranked wives gave birth to more children. Aileen could sympathize with Orvin to an extent.
For her part, Aileen had no hope of becoming the family head. The order of birth didn’t matter much for Fahllyrs.
Strength did.
Unfortunately, Aileen’s older brother and sister were so much more powerful than her. Age had a part in that—they had more experience and training—so their birth order really mattered somehow. But maybe that wasn’t so unfortunate. As she got older, Aileen realized that becoming the family head was a butt of a job.
There were so many responsibilities… and she’d be nowhere near the front lines.
Even if becoming the family head was off the platter, Aileen would do fine as a proud soldier of Krysperia. She was doing fine before that dunghill of nonsense led to her getting kicked off the battlefield. She longed to return to fighting soon. Every day in this golden cage, doing mind-numbing chores was numbing her mind. Who would’ve thought?
Anyway, what did spare princes do? Was Orvin learning to be a sealcrafter to make a path for himself?
Then he should’ve gotten a better teacher, a caring and attentive mentor. The nanny of little Emalee should be replaced as well. A tree with clothes on would be a better caregiver.
Was she even an actual nanny?
The nanny’s well-built body didn’t escape Aileen’s notice despite her uniform’s puffed sleeves and thick cloth attempting to conceal sculpted shoulders and muscled arms. Also suspect was the way the nanny carried herself. Rigid and straight as a rod, reminiscent of soldiers in line, instead of the respectful bearing of attendants. A nanny shouldn’t hold a child like a sack of rations.
The tutor was equally suspicious.
A sealcrafter to teach sealcrafting was… expected. But did he need to come with the prince? This was like bringing Orvin’s Core swordsman teacher for a diplomatic trip. That didn’t sound diplomatic at all.
Master Bemroi’s Lendel attire might be a cover. He didn’t have a tinge of Basadhin accent that any Lendel scholar would’ve acquired after spending years among the aileh-worshipping children of the desert. Bemroi’s accent sounded uninfluenced—too northern Grammanian—for a supposedly well-traveled scholar. And he acted too harshly with Orvin and Emalee as if he had a higher rank.
Aileen cleared her throat to stop Bemroi from scolding Orvin.
They froze as if thieves in the night caught stealing, the nanny included. She showed emotion for the first time as her eyes honed on Aileen’s exposed left hand with wariness. Emalee peeked from her nanny’s bosom, looking at Aileen like she was another stern tutor.
Relax, I won’t kick you out, Aileen cheerily thought.
Were they assassins? She hoped they were. The Hold needed some spice. The fountain festival, starting in a few days, was all everyone here could think of—an assassination would be a welcome change.
Aileen would be mildly happy if they were spies trying to infiltrate the Hold. A prelude to war? Even thieves scurrying to steal royal treasure would be an enjoyable break from the endless hubbubs to celebrate the mana node’s springing.
The real explanation was probably mundane, Aileen conceded.
She imagined an idiotic succession conflict brewing in Ottarla. The tutor and nanny were undercover elite guards for Orvin and Emalee. It wouldn’t surprise Aileen if they were going to ask help from Princess Adelind in their family bickering.
Aileen continued her art lecture, “The next painting after this—the third in the set commissioned by Emperor Malvar—was lost eighty years ago. It supposedly showed the First Emperor, in all his glory, pushing the Blighted Multitude back to the east, the Coalition Army behind him.”
“Why was it lost, Lady Aileen?” Emalee pipped, timidly raising her hand.
“Shush, child. It is not our place to ask.” Master Bermoi hissed, deducing what happened from the period Aileen mentioned. He could really be a scholar. “And what did I say about speaking out of turn?”
Aileen blinked, recalling her grandfather’s tales of the attempted rebellion that destroyed several royal treasures. “People just didn’t take good care of important things,” she picked as an answer, giving the little girl a pleasant smile. “We can’t turn back time, so let’s move on to other things.”
More prized artwork that Aileen didn’t prize lined the hallway. The owl kings were ever-present—in statues and carvings, all along the ceiling and floor moldings, on curtains and tapestries. They were sad witnesses of Aileen’s attempt at sharing the rich history of Krysperia with another country.
“…and that is the story of this painting by Minister Daria.” Aileen tilted her head left, tapping her temple with an armored finger, her blue eyes jumping from picture to picture. “Wait, I think the eccentric minister painted that one over there. This one… Whoever drew this, it’s another great painting of the War of the United. Just from the artist’s imagination, of course. I’m sure the real battle was much, much greater than this. I want to be—”
Aileen caught herself before blurting that she wanted to be there during the War of the United.
It was a patriotic and courageous statement on its own, but Jel would always tell Aileen that her expression when saying those things wasn’t… correct. It was like Aileen wanted to be there on vacation, Jel would frowningly observe.
Aileen was all smiles as she continued to tour the Ottarlans for several more minutes. So far, she had successfully suppressed the urge to scowl.
Why am I here? Why am I doing this nonsense? Why am I not fighting? She kept asking herself as she spewed facts—she probably had rewritten history several times already—about this statue, that painting, those displayed weapons.
Unlike history, Aileen did know why she was sent to the Fahllyr House in the middle of a pacification campaign. But that didn’t mean she agreed with it. She was doing her utmost to fulfill her duty to Krysperia, fighting the Vardan bandits in the eastern frontier, and she was rewarded by getting sent home like a petulant child.
‘Home’ was a stretch as she had barely spent time in the Fahllyr House years past or at the Hold—such a crowded place. For most of her life, Aileen stayed in the Fahllyr fortress manor on Rabisu Peaks, training and honing her skills under the tutelage of veteran family members, the best soldiers of the Empire, pitting herself against the dangerous beasts and harsh elements of the Aderenthyn mountaintops. She didn’t fit in this cushy, safe place with suffocating protocols and pretentious social conventions.
Insubordination and reckless behavior…
Needless bloodshed…
Enjoying killing the bandits…
The reports filed against her went on.
What was their problem? She was a Fahllyr—a soldier through and through. It was kill or be killed, and she plenty of the latter. She didn’t enjoy killing the Vardans that were raiding the eastern towns. She was happy to fulfill her duty, as any soldier should.
“This ancient gentleman with a marvelous silver beard,” Aileen said, moving to the next painting before her irritated thoughts could become words, “is the Venerable Fire Archmage, Clement Tiberius. If anyone can paint the War of the United from memory, it’ll be him. Though, I don’t know if he can paint.
“He is the last living Defender of the Hold—rumored to be so, anyway. No one has seen him emerge from the highest towers of Milla Lyceus for the last fifty years. Either the Biosyn did a good job of prolonging his life, or Milla mages are keeping—what is it?”
The Ottarlans followed Aileen’s gaze at an attendant—dressed in a fitted black tunic buttoned right down in front, the owl king’s emblem on his chest and sleeves—briskly walking toward them. “Her Majesty, the princess, is now meeting with guild master Siegfried,” he said, dipping his head.
“Our Ottarlan friends are next?” asked Aileen.
“That is so, my Lady.”
“Then my duty ends here.” Aileen stowed away a brimming grin, presenting a dignified nod instead. She circled a finger on the left part of her chest, where her heart was, finishing it with a ‘V’ across the center with two fingers tracing down—the sign of the owl king. “May the great owl king watch over you.”
Master Bermoi shot Orvin a sharp look. The young prince straightened his body and said, “We are grateful for your company, Lady Aileen.” He bowed low. “We learned plenty of Krysperian history.”
Don’t tell others about the wrong things you’ve learned from me, Aileen thought.
Emalee followed with a pre-rehearsed line of gratitude after another look from Master Bermoi. The supposed Lendel scholar was next, offering a convoluted amalgamation of flamboyant words and gestures. The nanny wordless curtsied in the background.
Aileen gazed up at the portrait of Archmage Clement after the Ottarlans were out of earshot. “Is it boring in your tower? I bet you got plenty of experiments to keep you entertained.” She sighed, turning the other way. “As for me, back to my duty of guarding an empty tomb. It won’t be half-bad if there’s someone actually in it.”
