Double Life - Book 1 of the Vaiya Series (12 page)

Then the thought hit him like a bullet train;
he’d likely never see her again. From what he knew, there was no
portal he could go through to teleport back. Who was to say that
he’d ever return to earth?

Muttering to himself, he felt a sudden
annoyance for Hazel; if she hadn’t told him the attic was haunted,
if she hadn’t told him to check it out, he’d probably have never
even gone in there and would’ve been at the party right now. What
an awful contrast.

Dismayed at this misfortune, his irritation
for Hazel quickly fading away as he realized that there was no way
she could’ve known that this would happen to him, he picked up his
silvery belt, its gold buckle molded into the shape of a river, and
fastened it around his waist, before throwing an emerald-colored
cloak onto his back and clasping it to the upper front corner of
his tunic with a black brooch. Sliding his feet into a pair of
ankle-high black leather boots that had probably been seized from a
pirate, he inspected himself in the mirror--at least it appeared
that he’d put on everything right.

Encouraged by that thought, he straightened
out his short brown hair and dug out his cell phone and peppermint
gum from his blue jeans, dropping them into a small pocket in his
emerald cloak, before unbolting the door, sliding it open, and then
hurrying towards the exit. It took him some time to discover the
means of getting this main door open, but he eventually found
it--who would expect a small silver needle would be responsible for
this duty? As he left the place, meeting up with the messenger
again, noticing a distorted smile on his face, the owner, still
snickering, shut the door behind them with almost mad zeal.

Once things got quiet, the messenger turned
to him, noting the flowery scent that clung around him. “Lady’s
room,” he mused, while holding his folded hands in front of him.
“At least he gave you male garments.”

Before Ian could take in this humiliating
event, the messenger added, “There is nothing we can do for you
now. The king awaits.” As if this were some sort of cue, the elf
started dashing through the streets with cat-like agility, leaving
Ian no choice but to use up even more of his energy reserves to
catch up to him, as it was obvious the elf wanted him to
follow.

After running at a quick pace for nearly five
minutes, they came to a broad silver street, where many elves
stared inquiringly at Ian and whispered curiously among themselves.
Frustrated, he ignored them as he squinted at the dazzling golden
gate up ahead, which rose fifty feet into the air, its twelve
golden columns shining brilliantly in the setting sun, making it
blinding to look at for long. As beautiful as the bronze and silver
gates were, compared to this one they were as trifles, yet in spite
of this, Ian felt no true joy. It just made him fear his meeting
with the king all the more.

Still following the messenger at a brisk
pace, Ian reached the golden gate and waited for another heated
dialogue to begin with the messenger and the guards. This time,
however, there was no delay, and he was swiftly let in by the
myriads of guards standing atop the golden wall.

Unsettled and distracted, dreading his
meeting with the king, Ian barely noticed the flowing aqua-blue
rivers--nearly as transparent as bath water--on either side of the
wide marble road they traversed, the large silver fountains which
sprayed water one-hundred feet up into the air, the magnificent
silver arches they went under, or the sapphire statues of elven
kings and queens on either side of the royal road.

When he saw the palace, however, his thoughts
temporarily lightened as if he’d stepped from a dungeon into a
sunbathed meadow: the beautiful place looked to be built from
shimmering sapphires and towered two hundred feet above him. Its
majestic light pearl turrets protruded even higher into the evening
sky, reaching to heights of two hundred and fifty feet.

Briefly, he felt enchanted as if he were
gazing upon a fairy tale palace, but this emotion only lasted for
mere seconds, as the feeling of meeting the majestic king immersed
his heart with terror. Each step he took up the long flight of wide
ruby-colored stairs reminded him of a crime scene from a movie, and
each shaky breath he took reminded him of his mortality and how
easily he could be killed.

These thoughts and others like them were the
only ones he had as he reached the top of the stairs, hurried over
a twenty-foot long ornate scarlet rug, and reached the golden
palace door where the messenger awaited him.

After a half minute wait, Ian’s nerves on the
edge, the door swung open and five blue-clothed guards with swords
strapped onto their thighs stepped outside, putting their hands
over their hearts, and tapping their feet against the ground.

Following shortly after them, a rather
youthful-looking male elf with an unsettled look on his face sped
right past Ian, startling him, and nearly knocking him over.

Watching the young elf scamper quickly down
the ruby-colored steps, Ian felt his heart drop within him. The
last thing he wanted to do right now was to meet the king, but
sadly, he had no choice in the matter but to follow the guards.

Succumbing to their authority, he silently
followed them into the palace, where to his left, he immediately
noticed three golden-barked trees, awe-inspiring and lofty, and a
medium sized table with a small ornate box, behind two golden
thrones. The high thrones, both side to side, stood twenty feet
away from him up a flight of seven white marble stairs embellished
with ornate silver designs. Sitting elegantly on one of them sat
the king, his head emblazoned with a shining golden crown encrusted
with eight different kinds of gemstones and engraved with elaborate
blue-green spruce markings.

Splendidly dressed, he wore a silken purple
robe--with gold and silver streaks running horizontally through it
and a blue-green river symbol etched into it near his heart--that
came down to his golden shoes. His shoes, pointed at the end and
adorned with two silver straps, both had one silver wing jutting
out of each side--like something worn by the Greek god Hermes. His
right hand held a silver scepter, carved in such a way that the
upper part of it resembled a leafy tree flourishing with
blossoms.

Long russet-brown hair swept over his face,
covering up most of his forehead, while his probing green eyes
glowed with deep wisdom and mild hostility.

Fear drenching his heart, Ian turned his eyes
to the king’s two uncommonly handsome sons, who stood on either
side of the king. The two princes were both clad in brilliant
flowing yellow robes that shone with gold dust and descended to
their silver winged shoes, which fastened onto their feet with
three diamond-colored straps. Each of their robes had five vertical
aqua blue stripes embroidered on them as well as a diamond river
symbol etched into the front.

Unlike most of the elves Ian had seen, the
elder-looking prince had sapphire-blue eyes--a distinct contrast to
the shamrock green eyes of his father--medium-length auburn hair
that came partway down onto his light-skinned forehead, and a
serious, mystifying expression that seemed to have come directly
out of a labyrinth; the prince appeared to be critiquing his every
movement.

In contrast to him, his younger brother had
bright emerald eyes like his father’s, a thick head of fair golden
hair that seemed to glow softly as the hundreds of dazzling lights
from above shone upon it, and a curious, lighthearted countenance
that emanated with kindness and joy.

As Ian continued examining them, the elven
king strode elegantly towards him escorted by seven well-dressed
guards draped in royal blue, sharp-pointed swords in hand. Azadar
stood to the side, ashamed.

Seeing the king approach him, Ian knelt
respectfully, eyes focused on the jeweled pavement, heart pounding.
As he did so, the king startled him with a stern command.

“Stand up, human,” the king inquired grimly,
as he gestured for Ian to rise to his feet, while dismissing his
two sons from the room with a slow hand motion. Ian quickly obeyed,
his legs trembling, as the king’s eyes froze like glaciers as he
cut straight to the point. “Ian, the Elayans have been extinct for
three centuries.” His unwavering shamrock eyes stared into Ian’s
dark brown ones, frightening him. “Therefore, it is impossible that
any member of their royal line could still be alive.”

Ian’s eyes flickered with anxiety. He tried
hard not to argue, but found it nearly impossible. “I understand,
Your Majesty. Though do you suppose that someone may have dressed
up as an Elayan to try to deceive me?”

“No,” he replied with a slight flare of
anger, as if hating to continue this conversation, as he softly
brushed back his brown hair from his forehead. “Only death awaits
those who impersonate Elayans. Not even a fool would masquerade as
one.” Striking his silver scepter once against the ground in a
procedural way, he stared coldly at Ian as if he had him in
checkmate.

Ian’s heart trembled, as he watched Azadar
grow haughtier. There was no point in disputing the king anymore,
as he clearly wouldn’t yield to reason. Worse, any further
arguments with him would only make him angrier, perhaps even angry
enough to sentence him to death, and the thought of dying over such
a small matter seemed like pure foolishness to him.

He’d rather admit he were wrong and be called
a fool for the rest of his life than obstinately dying for
insisting that some ancient sorcerer existed. And even if the men
he’d met were truly Elayans, he had no proof with him to convince
the king, so arguing was pointless.

Besides all of this, he had to admit that
even he was beginning to have his doubts now--they might just be
evil wizards with a rebellious fashion sense for all he knew.

With those thoughts in mind, he confessed his
error to the king, feigning sheepishness: “I see, Your Majesty. I
was wrong.”

His compliance seemed to appease the king. A
glint of warmth now in his eyes replacing the restrained rage that
had been there mere moments before, he proceeded onward with a new
topic, as if the previous one had never happened. “Ian, do you know
anything about the ambassador from Sarith?”

A wave of confusion swept over him. “No, Your
Majesty,” he said, stammering a bit, hating to offer such a
pathetic answer to this powerful king. “Why do you ask?”

“Because he was supposed to have come here
two weeks ago,” he said solemnly, his eyes darkening, as Ian
wondered if the king’s tangent were connected with the Elayans, or
if it served some other purpose. Before Ian had thought over that
possibility for too long, the king then added, staring at Ian as if
he were somehow related to this long delay, his face stern and full
of disdain, “I am beginning to have my doubts that King Ralin
Taverak wants to establish an alliance with us. As the throne
endures, I believe that he has instead allied himself with Odak
Valduum.”

Eyes widening slightly with fear, feeling as
if he were somehow responsible for this, Ian knew the wisest thing
to do would be to not to say anything and to let the king’s wrath
pacify. As he waited in agitation for the king to cool down though,
Ian watched his frigid eyes shift from the wall to him.

“So, where do you hail from, human?” he
asked, scrutinizing Ian’s tannish complexion, his short cropped
dark brown hair, his dark brown eyes, and his tall, slim form. “The
Kingdom of Sarith? the Northern Isles? the Southern Isles?” He
drilled into Ian with his green eyes, making him feel as if all of
his mistakes were being displayed on a big screen in a movie
theater.

Trying hard not to stutter, more than a
little grateful that he wasn’t from Sarith, he forced out the
words, “None of them, Your Majesty,” his knees shaking as a sick
dread filled him; he didn’t belong here. He felt like a poor
peasant being interrogated by a mighty emperor. More than likely,
King Kadeth didn’t even believe him, yet after what the king had
just said about Sarith, who in their right mind wouldn’t claim
another homeland?

Fearing the worse, Ian held his breath, a
deep unsettling feeling sweeping over him.

It wasn’t long before the king replied, his
lips tightened, his face impossible to decipher, “If you do not
come from those regions, then where is your homeland?”

Tension mounting, Ian watched Azadar’s shamed
face take on the boldness of a mountain lion pursuing its prey. He
had to think fast. “I’ve come from a faraway land, Your Majesty:
Sparta, Illinois.”

“Sparta ... Illinois?” He fingered his hand
up his scepter, a slightly perplexed look now beginning to
overshadow his regal face. “Explain yourself.”

“Yes,” Ian murmured quickly, desperately
wishing he’d taken one of the choices the king had suggested.
“Sparta is the city and Illinois is the state, Your Majesty. My
country is the United States of America.”

His words did no good though. Azadar eyed Ian
with scornful skepticism before glancing back at the king, while
King Kadeth’s eyes narrowed in suspicion: “I do not understand this
at all, boy.”

Arms trembling, Ian calmed them by squeezing
his hands together. Frustration ruled his mind. After reflecting
over what to say this time, he spoke again, this time more slowly,
hoping this further clarification would clear up the mystified gaze
in the king’s eyes: “Sorry, for not explaining myself more clearly,
Your Majesty, but my country is unusual for it is divided up into
many states.”

The king paused, reflecting over his words.
“So your country is created from states?” he asked rhetorically.
“And what does each state consist of … a province, a duchy, a
cluster of cities?”

Ian hesitated, latching onto the only term he
understood. “Each state consists of a cluster of cities, Your
Majesty.” It wasn’t the truth, but it was the closest to the truth
the king was going to get.