Arcana (38 page)

The men themselves bring to mind guardsmen or soldiers. They have a military air about them—something in their bearing, perhaps. The features of their faces all share a similarity to my mother’s, with leanly muscular bodies, almond-shaped eyes, and a beauty that has long been copied in the great Grecian statues. There is an otherness in the sheer perfection of their features, as though they are truly statues come to life.

At the other end of the hall, they form two rows on either side of the throne. They stand at attention, tall and silent.

I turn toward the entrance of the hall, searching for the source of their anticipation. “What are they waiting for?” I whisper to the fox.

A bell tolls, somber and eerie throughout the quiet hall. Beside me, the fox stiffens as if preparing for a blow.

A gentleman enters—he is of such regal bearing that I almost fall into one of the ridiculous curtsies I executed at the Royal Palace in London. His hair is long and as black as ink, and a diadem of silver branches sits atop his head. Beside him is a white stag, silver leaves sprouting from its antlers. A jolt of recognition strikes me as I realize it is the same I first saw in my mother’s vision. The gentleman strides toward the throne and settles himself upon it as the Sylvani soldiers remain stiffly at attention. His face, though beautiful, has a fierce quality to it, as though he does not often smile.

“The Court may enter,” he says, his voice deep but melodic.

Another bell sounds, this time much less somberly, and the doors to the great hall fling open. A crush of beautifully dressed Sylvani nobles enter, dressed in richly brocaded and colorful gowns and evening attire—clothing so lavishly adorned with silver and gemstones even the Crown Jewels would be hard-pressed to contend with. These ethereal creatures are strangely quiet as they take their places on either side of the hall. No inane conversations, no tittering from ladies; even the shoes upon their feet make little to no sound. This lends the whole proceeding a solemn formality, one that sends a chill of apprehension through me. Even more curious is the absence of spirit animals.

“Where are their animals?” I ask the fox, and it shakes its head.

Only King Brannor, the royal family, and the king’s guardsmen are permitted to have their spirit animals present at Court.

“Bring forth Isidora,” the king says from his throne.

“Isidora?” I say to the fox, turning in shock toward the entrance of the hall. “But surely he does not mean . . .”

The doors to the great hall open, and a girl with hair as pale as my own is brought forth, flanked on either side by Sylvani guardsmen and their wolves. Her head is held high, her mouth tight in an expression of displeasure I know so well.

“Mama,” I cry, my voice choked with a sudden torrent of emotion. I turn to the fox. “How can this be?”

The rattle of chains draws my attention back to the unbelievable scene before me, and with a slowly dawning horror, I realize my mother is being brought before the king—her father—in chains. Following at a distance is a snowy white fox, and the fox beside me hangs his head in sorrow.

Across the room, the king comes to his feet. “Isidora,” he says, his voice somehow carrying though he does not seem to speak in a loud tone, “it pains me to see you brought before me thus.”

“If it brings you so much displeasure, Lord Father, then you need only remove my chains and your pain shall be alleviated.” Her tone is calm but with a defiant edge to it that makes my chest swell with pride.

His face seems to darken. “I have been forced to call the Cascadian Court to bear witness to my sentencing. You have openly defied me, but if you will only recant your declaration to leave the Sylvan realm for the human one, then all will be forgiven.”

There is a pause so great it feels as though everyone present is holding their breath.

“And if I do not?” my mother asks, almost too quietly to hear.

“Then you will be kept locked away until your wedding ceremony with Lord Elric. I have no doubt he, with all the power he has been blessed with, will be able to bring you to heel.”

Anger, sharp and bitter, strikes through me on behalf of my mother. The words of her journal entry spring to mind:
my marriage was arranged without my consent.
Through some powerful arcana I have yet to understand, Mama’s spirit fox has brought me to the moment when she chose to leave the Sylvan realm.

“I have seen what the future holds for me, and Lord Elric is not part of it.”

A loud crack like thunder splits through the room as my grandfather bashes his fist against his throne. “Such insolence!”

All at once, the room darkens. The crowd of Sylvani nobles shift nervously, their eyes casting first about the room and then up at the ceiling. Black, ominous clouds hover over the great hall, as a threatening rumble of thunder sounds above us. The sudden storm is quite obviously unnatural. Aside from the fact that it is occurring indoors, every fiber of my ghostly being senses the arcana behind it. From the equally dark expression on my grandfather’s face, I can only assume the storm is his doing.

My mother stands unflinching in the face of such power; the tension mounting until I am sure lightning will strike her down.

“My Lord Husband,” a new voice calls from behind us, the tone harshly scolding. I turn to watch a grand lady stride toward us. She wears a flowing dress so celestially white it appears to be made from starlight. She is the image of my mother, only her hair is the color of a fiery sunset. “Enough of this!” She waves her hand imperiously at the thunderstorm above us. “Even your fellow nobles are cowed in the face of such temper. It shall not be borne.”

As she passes Mama, her fingertips just barely brush my mother’s arm, a pained expression flashing across her face before being quickly replaced by one of censure.

“Arria,” the king says, a reluctant scowl upon his face. As quickly as they appeared, the clouds dissipate. “I was told you were at sea.”

“And you thought I’d hold no objection to your sentencing our only daughter without my presence? What’s more,” she says, her voice shaking as though overcome with anger, “you have brought her before the Court bound in chains?”

“Our daughter is powerful.”

“We are
all
powerful,” Arria’s voice snaps through the great hall. She shimmers brighter and brighter, her gown becoming almost iridescent in the face of such radiance. If King Brannor’s anger took the form of darkness, then Queen Arria’s became a light more blinding than the sun. She stalks toward the guardsmen on either side of my mother. “Take the chains from her at once.”

The guardsmen scramble to do as she commanded. When the last chain drops to the floor, Mama’s spirit fox presses against her side as though relieved. I smile down at the spirit fox at my own side, but its expression continues to look solemn.

“What would you have me do, my queen?” the king asks from his throne. It seems that he alone can look at her while she is shining so brightly. Everyone else in the Court has averted their eyes.

“Do you deny our daughter has been blessed with the gift of prophecy? Many times you have called upon her to divine some political strategy or another.”

“I do not deny it.”

“And yet you think you can thwart the most important of all prophecies? A vision of future children? Children this realm, with so few births and much war, can ill afford to lose.”

Thunder growls through the hall again, but no darkness appears. “Children who will be half-mortal.”

The queen bows her head in acquiescence. “They will still be of our blood.”

“I do not choose this path lightly, Lord Father,” my mother says, glancing down at her spirit fox. “I understand the consequences. I know what I must leave behind.”

“You cannot possibly,” the king says. “List them for her, Arria. If you are to support this madness, then I, and the entire Cascadian Court, must bear witness to Isidora making an informed decision.”

The queen straightens. “Isidora, if you choose the mortal realm over Sylvania, then you must know all portals to our realm will be closed to you. Spending more than a short amount of time in the mortal realm will change you irreparably, and you will never be able to return. Separated from your Spirit Animal, you will be forced to seek another source of power. Only the sun of that realm will have the strength to provide your arcana with the energy it needs, and as you know, the mortal sun is a fickle thing. It is only present during a short part of any day. The queen pauses and meets her daughter's eyes. “But because you are full-blooded Sylvani, you will adapt.”

Mama remains silent throughout her mother’s speech, one hand upon the head of her spirit fox.

“Your future children will be gifted with the abilities of our race, but they will face unique challenges. Half-Sylvani, they will be born without a Spirit Animal and forced to draw on the sun as a source of energy. Always they will long for the realm of their ancestors. The portals will call to them, but should they cross, their power will rapidly desert them. Our realm is not their realm, and even the sun’s rays shine differently here. At best, they will live a half-life, never truly belonging in either realm.”

The king’s eyes search his daughter’s. “This is what you’d wish upon your future children?”

“Your dire warnings have been heard,” Mama says, “but I vow before all, I will do everything in my power to make sure my children are never affected thus.”

The barest hint of a smile appears on the mouth of the queen.

“I commend you for your selfless conviction,” the king says, “however, there is one last thing you will lose should you leave this realm. Arria, if you will continue?”

A murmur of distress works its way through the Court, placing a heavy weight upon my chest. Mama glances down at the spirit fox, her eyes shining as though full of unshed tears. The fox gazes back at her and nods once.

Though I do not yet understand this exchange, a dark sorrow descends upon me.

“In leaving this realm and losing your immortality, your Spirit Animal will be cast aside, forced to remain here—” the queen pauses and takes a shaky breath, “separated from you for the rest of eternity.” Everyone in the great hall flinches as though the queen cracked a whip above their heads. Mama, though, remains steadfastly silent.

“I understand the consequences,” Mama says in a steady voice, though tears stream unchecked down her cheeks. Again she glances down at the fox. It presses against her as though urging her on. “I choose the mortal realm.”

The queen gazes at Mama with sorrowful understanding upon her face, but the king’s face darkens once again. “So be it,” he says. “You have made an informed choice before the Cascadian Court. I will grant you permission to leave this realm, but you leave now.”

Mama’s head whips up, and the queen makes a move toward her daughter, but a powerful wind blasts through the hall. Everyone is thrown to the outer walls; several nobles passing through my unsubstantial body.

The queen and Mama are screaming, but I cannot make out their words. The wind is surely more terrible than even those in Hell. Mama and her spirit fox are lifted into the air, held aloft by some unseen force. Mama’s arms are outstretched, and the queen reaches for her. Mama struggles high above us, but the wind holds her captive.

Then, with a sound like a limb being torn forcibly from someone’s body, the wind rips the fox free from Mama.

Her soul-shattering scream is the last thing I hear before I am pulled away from the horrific memory.

TWENTY-EIGHT

T
HE
return to my body after being nothing but spirit is so painful and disorienting, I can do nothing but lie in a broken heap upon the floor.

“Why would you show me such a thing?” I ask the fox, tears streaming unchecked down my face. “I cannot imagine the pain you must have gone through . . . what Mama . . .” I choke on a sob.

Above all other memories, your mother chose this one. It was one of the most traumatic of both our lives, and yet, it was not such a singular event. As much power as each Sylvani possesses, that power is checked only by the harsh rulings of its leaders.