The Silvering of Loran (7 page)

Rolam sat near his father, but in a chair adjacent to the table. He had not yet earned the right to sit among the advisors. Gilvius, who was heading the yearly consultation, sat tall in the ornate chair fashioned from supplies procured from the various provinces. Every region was represented on the chair—be it the dark woods from Avileen forest that formed the frame, the exquisite jewels from the Soronyen province that lined the outside edge of the arms, or the fine fabric upon the upholstered seat the Kileson province provided.

Haster
, the representative of the Lanuse province, was a small older man with a healthy head of gray hair and prominent shallow cheeks. Shyness not being a quality of his, he brought forth a pressing concern.

“Sovereign, rumors have reached our region that you are considering withdrawing this council, that you will no longer seek guidance from every province.”

A hot iron against his backside could not have raised Rolam any quicker from his chair.

“That’s a lie.”

Gilvius glanced over to his son. Rolam took from his father’s eyes that impetuousness was not the reaction he had hoped for.

“You must forgive my son, as you can see, he still retains a youthful exuberance that sometimes runs contrary to the decorum we have set here,” said Gilvius. “Let me assure you, Haster, they are simply back alley whispers that carry no truth in their utterance. This council will never be disbanded as long as an Avileen decedent presides over it.”

“Which directs another question, Sovereign,” Samuel Kileson interjected. “Have you given thought as to which of your sons may, in the distance future we sincerely hope, ascend to the sovereignty?”

Rolam’s attention did not waver from Samuel. Gilvius turned his head to catch Rolam’s scrutiny.

“As you say, Samuel, the time for such decisions will be reserved for when they are needed.”

“Certainly, Sovereign, I’m sure either of your fine sons would ascend admirably,” Samuel continued with an elitist tone. “As you know, my son, Michael, is close friends with Gervest, and even though Gervest has not attended the last two gatherings, Michael tells me that he is
most
concerned with the welfare of the provinces, and of this council.”

“I’m sure Gervest will be pleased to know that he has such a fervent advocate in this body,” said Gilvius, ending any further discussion on the matter.

* * *

W
hen Leanna arrived at Loran’s chamber door, she was met by Holt—who had just vacated the room with his head down.

“Oh, excuse me, my lady,” said Holt, startled to find Leanna in his path. “I think she’s
very
pleased with the results!” he disclosed, and trekked toward the stone stairs.

Leanna looked in all directions when she entered the room, searching for any new painting Holt had obviously provided. Standing nearby was Loran, still entranced with the canvas of the manor.

“It’s beautiful,” said Leanna.

Loran jolted at her words. “Since when have
your
footsteps become so stealthy?”

“I don’t think Holt has created a more magnificent depiction. It feels . . . alive,” Leanna said, mesmerized by the realism. “Is that . . . Daramose?”

“When I described him to Holt, he told me he knew of the beautiful black stallion,” said Loran. “Evidently, he knew him well.”

Leanna managed to avert herself from the painting long enough to make an inquiry of Loran. “I had hoped you might like to join me on an excursion to the town. We haven’t allowed ourselves such fanciful indulgences in some time.”

Loran knew the
indulgencies
Leanna spoke of were the various confectionaries only attainable from a reclusive shop in Avilbrook. She also knew her mother never risked refusal of such an invitation, since a fondness for the decadently sweet creations was a weakness she shared.

“Let me get my wrap,” said Loran.

Loran retreated to the other room while Leanna perused the walls to look for any additional recent displays. When her eyes froze on the image of Topen on top of the mountain, she was hesitant to move any closer to the painting; she feared it would confirm Loran’s continued fixation with Topen. But as she edged closer, another aspect of the painting drew her eye. A perplexed look accompanied her raised fingers when she touched the image of the small stone Topen held.

“How does Holt know about the stones?” she murmured.

“I’m ready,” said Loran, on re-entering the room.

Leanna spun around.

“Then, our carriage awaits.”

Leanna extended her bent arm and Loran slipped her hand around it. When they arrived at the doorsill, Leanna took one last look at Topen’s painting before she secured the door behind her.

* * *

T
he cobblestone streets echoed, in a rhythmic fashion, the hooves of the four horses that pulled the coach containing Leanna and her daughter through the wide main street of Avilbrook. The lane was busy with pedestrians and riders alike—who carefully choreographed their movements as to not collide with each other. An abrupt stop signaled that the adjoining street was too narrow to continue by carriage. The women exited their transport and proceeded through the narrower corridor until they arrived at a small confectionary shop with no sign.

The brick building displayed extravagant delights in its window next to the door. That was all the notice needed. A small bell above the door announced their entrance into a wonderland of sweet decadences. Loran’s and her mother’s eyes drank in the dozens of different confections and candies displayed on tables and within glass cases throughout the room.

Betaury, an older white-haired man, peeked out between the curtains that concealed the back room and saw the women in his shop. He displayed a vigorous smile beneath his flowing beard as he passed through the threshold separating the areas.

“My lady. Miss Loran. It has been too long that you have been deprived of our secretive pleasures.”

“Deprived is exactly the word I would use, Betaury,” said Leanna. “What new creations have you for us to behold?”

Betaury looked around the shop and then unexpectedly clapped his hands together. He waved a finger into the air and signified he would return, and with the spryness of a man half his age, rushed into the back room.

Leanna pointed to one of the three available tables. “Let’s sit there.”

“What do you think he’s doing?” Loran asked.

“I would not be surprised if he returns with numerous temptations for us,” said Leanna. “
Temptations
,” she murmured.

“Excuse me?”

“I noticed the painting of Topen on the mountain.”

“I know what you’re going to say,” said Loran. “But there are no portraits of Topen anywhere in the castle. Don’t you find that strange?”

“It is by Topen’s request that we do not recount his words or deeds in any permanent fashion.”

“Not even his image?”

“Definitely not his image,” insisted Leanna. “I noticed in your portrait that Topen is holding some kind of rock in his hand. Is there some significance to that stone?”

The apprehension that rose from her stomach told Loran to be cautious here. One does not trifle with her mother in a game of wits—even more so if she held any suspicion.

“It
could
be it was something he picked off the mountain;
maybe
Holt felt it helped to bring realism to the painting.”

Loran’s parsed words, that she uttered with such care, might not have been questioned when she was twelve, but she was no longer afforded that luxury. Although Leanna had suspicions, she chose not to pursue them at this time. She afforded herself just one subtle comment to alert Loran that deceit was not a path she should tread between them.

“Yes, it
could
have happened that way,” she said, glaring into Loran’s eyes.

The stare disturbed Loran, as was its intention. However, she reminded herself that her mother also kept a secret from her, and she knew that one day, secrets would clash on an open field.

Betaury swept back into the room carrying a silver platter with four pairs of his newest creations. Whatever had transpired merely moments ago washed away when he sat the plate in front of them.

“Please, enjoy!” Betaury said. His face gleamed with pride of his handiworks.

The women needed no further enticement; they picked up the confections and consumed them without restraint.

* * *

A
s the years elapsed, Gilvius had become an infrequent visitor to the library, but one of his sons replaced his indifference with an equally passionate interest, so it would have drawn little notice from anyone when Gervest walked to the library doors and pushed them open. Penlaris was perched high on the second level and held a thick book in his hand. He placed the book between others on the shelf in front of him and proceeded to the stairway. Gervest watched without emotion while Penlaris descended the curved staircase.

“I’m curious,” said Penlaris. “Had you decided on your reading material before you entered this room?”

“I was under the impression that was
your
prerogative,” Gervest replied.

Penlaris came to a stop at the far end of the table.

“Perhaps, but the question remains,” said Penlaris. “What did you hope to learn today?”

Gervest slowly paced the room and brought his hand to the back of his neck. He rubbed lightly as he considered his answer. Penlaris had taught him much over the years, and one of the skills he was to master was deception. The question was a test—would he be able direct Penlaris to choose the subject matter Gervest most desired?

“I trust in your sound judgment in this matter,” said Gervest. “I’m sure I will learn more by respecting your guidance than if I just blundered through the material unfocused.”

“Disingenuous flattery is but a single tool,” began Penlaris. “It fails when used improperly or when attempted with the wrong subject. You knew I was aware of your desire to learn more about the
blackened stones;
however, you failed to assess that vanity is not among my vulnerabilities. You must first look deep inside yourself and relish in your own weaknesses and desires before you can manipulate others.”

Gervest cringed at the words Penlaris spoke and turned away, feigning interest in the rows of books. His reaction caused Penlaris to reach under his cloak and withdraw a black stone, marked with green and red veining. He placed his thumb into the indentation of the stone, and as with all the blackened stones, a small raised point in the center drew blood—causing the veining of the stone to glow, ever so faintly.

“Do you feel the power flowing through you when you use your most base desires?”

“Yes,” snarled Gervest.

With his eyes closed, he took a deep breath and birthed a satisfied look of confidence on his face on reopening them—having not noticed how close Penlaris now stood. Penlaris hid the stone once again under his cloak and approached Gervest from his side; he placed a hand on his shoulder.

“You will make an excellent sovereign someday.”

“Someday soon,” said Gervest. He spoke with great sureness, still intoxicated with the feeling of power that Penlaris had implanted into him.

Penlaris crossed behind Gervest and swept his hand across his back. On reaching his other side, he leaned in closer.

“Patience . . . you have much to learn yet, and the people are not near ready to accept a new sovereign,” said Penlaris. “When your time arrives,
our
rule will be unquestioned, and unchallenged.”

SECRETS REVEALED

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Four months—‘till present day

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T
HE SERENITY OF AVILEEN FOREST was shattered when three horses, riding close together, hurtled along a wide path that ran beside a slow moving river. The animals’ hooves ripped into the well-worn trail, and the riders’ cloaks flapped behind them. The lead was maintained by two skillful horsemen, who snatched rapid glances behind them—while they worked together to deny the third rider, Loran, any opportunity to pass them. Rolam and Gervest laughed with each unsuccessful attempt by Loran to squeeze by.

Loran slowed, broke off from their heading, and turned toward the river; her mare maintained a full charge and splashed into the cool dark water. Droplets of spray flew in all directions while Loran coursed over a little know rock shelf ledge, hidden just under the murky surface. The twins pulled on their horses’ reigns and slid to a full stop.

“What is she doing?” asked Rolam.

Gervest and Rolam briefly studied Loran’s movement and then Gervest dug his heels into his mount.

“She’s beating us, is what she’s doing,” yelled Gervest. “Let’s move!”

The twins coaxed their horses back up to speed.

“Did you know you could cross there?” yelled Rolam, as he maintained Gervests’s pace.

“No! How is Loran aware of it?” shouted Gervest.

Loran cleared the other side of the riverbank and paused for a sign of her brothers’ progress. It came shortly when she heard their horses crossing the wooden bridge further upstream.

“Not far now, Hermesis,” said Loran. She patted her white steed on the neck. “Let’s make our victory decisive.” A gentle nudge of Loran’s heels is all the encouragement Hermesis needed to resume the race.

Gervest and Rolam arrived at the agreed upon destination that concluded their contest and wager with Loran. Their sister greeted them, seated on the steps of the old wooden shed she knew so well from her youth. Its contents had not changed much in the intervening years—it still contained discarded pottery—but this spring, it also provided shelter to a family of raccoons, who kept their distance, but peered out through cracked boards along the front.

“How you split my responsibilities for the next two weeks is between yourselves,” said Loran as her brothers approached.

Gervest dismounted in a huff and stormed to Loran.

“You cheated.”

“She didn’t cheat, Gervest,” said Rolam from atop his horse.

Gervest shot back a stern look to his brother.