Memory Two It had been years since you have seen or heard from Jaenelle. You miss her and you are not the only one. A glance to his side tells you that. Since you live near each other and have both received invitations to Jaenelle's party your uncle had suggested that you and Morghann share a coach.
It is fine by him. You don’t mind travelling with her, and protecting her if need be. Something about the young Queen, just a few years younger than you draws you. You aren’t sure what it was, but it means that you are happy to serve as Escort, even though you are too young to really be an Escort and she is too young to rule.
At least, in theory you were happy. The actuality... The young woman's mood is like a third person in the sitting compartment of their coach. A person with the ability to change on a dime, but one who always filled the space with presence. Throughout the ride she had been moody, depressed, angry, anxious.
You are doing your best not to hold her crankyness and mood shifts against her. Jaenelle is a good friend to each of you separately, though the three rarely played together as a group. Jaenelle was an odd girl, but sweet and kind and funny and fun. You adored her not just because she had somehow found you at your lowest and helped you find yourself again. She wss confusing and curious and wonderful. She taught you so much and you tried to return the favor.
Her visits were always brief, but they were filled with fun and joy. Except for those times you could tell sometimes that something was wrong. But she never wanted to talk about it, and when you asked, she just got sad, so you would make a joke to make her laugh again . And then one day she didn't show up when you expected her. Morghann had been the only other friend of Jaenelle's that you knew outside of your family and you had reached out to her.
And then out of nowhere, a few days ago an invitation arrived at your house from SaDiablo Hall in Dhelman. You hadn’t recognised the handwriting, and you didn't recall her ever having mentioned knowing anyone in Dhelman. And given she was fair skinned with blue eyes and long blond hair, she wasn't from Dhelman herself, or at least, her parents weren't. You had checked with Morghann to learn she had received the same invitation. And now…
"We're almost there," you say.
The coach pulls up to the landing web outside a huge imposing stone building. "Mother Night," you whisper, staring up at it, running a hand through your curls. "A whole village could live in that building."
"Maybe one already does," she says. Then she takes a deep breath, grabs her bag from the coach and heads up the long walk from the landing web to the front door. You take another look at the building, then rush to catch up with her. You had planned to knock politely on the door. Morghann has... Other ideas. You jump at the sound her small fist made when she added craft to her one loud knock. It sounds like an explosion.
The door opens, and the man who stood aside quickly is clearly a butler by uniform, bearing, and the expedient of having been the one who opened the door. You’ve never seen a servant who wore a Jewel as dark as the Red before. Morghann seems less impressed and strides into the hall. It occurs to you that she is pretty… You blame the dress.
Still, she cuts an imposing figure, a hint of the woman she will one day be, her dark red hair flowing down her back, green eyes flashing with all the tension that had shared the coach with tyou, and her gown which had just looked brown and gold and patchy in the coach looked like the autumn woods in motion as she entered the Hall.
You approach the adults, specifically the man at the front and center of the small group. You’ve never met the High Lord before, but even without seeing the man's Black Jewels, you would have guessed that was who he was. Something tickles inside you, and he found your lips twitching in amusement. For the man in front of you might be dead, might be the High Lord, might outrank you in both Jewel Rank and Caste to say nothing of age or wealth, but Mother Night do you know that expression. You’ve seen it in the mirror tons of times when Jaenelle used to visit.
She’s here. She has to be. No one has an expression like that without having met her. The man looks like the horse he had been riding had just ran him over and he was trying to figure out when he had wound up under the animal instead of astride it.
You are emboldened by this and offer a hand in greeting, it is clasped, and you see long black tinted nails against your own pale wrist. "You must be the High Lord," you say with a smile. "I'm Khardeen, from the isle of Scelt." You a thumb toward the door that had closed. "That's Morghann."
Just as you finish speaking, the door opens. The girl who approaches you hesitantly is older than she had been, but then so was he. But still you'd know her anywhere. You'd know those eyes anywhere, to say nothing of her scent. Something settles within you. She really is alive. She is okay. You’ll consider tearing into her later for scaring you so badly for so many years, but then again, Morghann probably already did. So you’ll just have to figure something else out.
She holds out both hands timidly in a formal greeting, you realise your revenge is nearer at, well, at hand, than you had expected. Because after years of missing her, no way was she getting away with a formal greeting. So pretending to ignore her, you turn back to the High Lord.
"Did Jaenelle ever tell you about her adventure with my uncle's stone - "
"Khary," she gasps. You are surprised she had let you get that far. You catch her glancing nervously at the High Lord and filed that away for later.
"Hmmm?" you smile at her, your eyes twinkling with amusement. "Did you know that a proper hug can toss a thought right out of a man's head?" You ask her. "It's a well known fact. I'm surprised you hadn't heard of it."
She had been balanced on the balls of her feet, ready to bolt. Now her heels come down and her sapphire eyes narrow. "Really." Mother Night you missed her.
You just smile, waiting for your hug. When it fails to come, you turned back to the High Lord. "You see my-" you are cut off again. "You don't have to hug all the air out of me," you tease and carefully wrap your arms around her to return the hug.
"Now, what were you going to say?" she asks, ominously.
"About what?" you reply sweetly.
Laughing, the hug shifts as she throws her arms around your neck. "I'm glad you came, Khardeen. I've missed you."
Any anger you had any hurt you had, over how long she'd been gone melted away. At least for the moment. You gently untangled youtself from her arms. "We'll have plenty of time to catch up on things," You have a letter from your uncle after all, giving you permission to stay the whole summer if the High Lord allowed. "Right now you'd better get back to your sisters or I'll get the sharp side of Morghann's tongue for the rest of the day."
"Compared to Karla, Morghann's tongue doesn't have a sharp side," she informs you.
Your lips twitch. "All the more reason, then."
Jaenelle shoots the High Lord another nervous glance, then bolts for the room where the other girls were. Just as she gets there, there was a knock on the front door. After Morghann's bang, this one seems polite.
The people who enter when the door is opened clearly didn't come from the same place. There are two Satyrs, a small girl with iridescent wings that sat on the shoulder of the male Satyr. There was a boy about you own age with black hair and grey eyes who, from his clothes, probably came from Dharo. Behind here were two tawny-skinned kids with dark stripes, you guess they were from Tigrelan and a girl who looks closer to your age, or maybe even a little older who introduces herself to the High Lord as Kalush from Nharkhava.
The butler starts to close the door, but it is pulled back open. The High Lord pushes Kalush towards one of the other adults, an Eyrian male with wings as black as his hair, and tenses. You follow his line of sight, and found himself looking at centaurs. The girl is too far off for you to get a scent to tell her Caste, but the male, a Warlord Prince, approaches. You are still standing near the High Lord. No one has asked you to move yet, and it seems the spot with the best view.
"High Lord," the male Centaur says making the title sound like a challenge.
"Prince Sceron," the High Lord replies firmly. Not challenging, but also not backing down or ignoring the challenge. An interesting trick, you wonder if you could learn it.
Sceron's eyes blaze with suppressed rage. He isn't on the Killing Edge or things would be bloody already, but there is clearly anger there, all the same.
Before things can get ugly, while you desperately cast about for a joke to make to ease the tension, Jaenelle stalks over and punches Sceron in the upper arm. Given the difference in their sizes, the blow must be a joke at best, even if she had put all her strength into it - which you doubt she did.
The Centaur grabs her and lifts her up so he could look in her eyes.
"That's for not saying hello," Jaenelle said as if she os picked up like that all the time and it isn't even worth mentioning.
Sceron studies her face a long moment, then smiles "You are well?"
"I was better before you rumpled me," Jaenelle says, tartly. You grin. Sceron laughs and sets her down gently. Someone gasps and you turn.
If the Tigrelan are creatures of myth, the two who stand in the door were something worse. Everyone in Kaleer knew the Dea al Mon were real. And that few if any who trespassed in their Territory were ever seen again. Alive, at any rate. And the Dea al Mon almost never left their Territory. They are a secretive and insular race. These two had the look of their people with the silvery hair, pointed ears, and over large eyes. The male came over to the High Lord.
You can see the change in both this new comer and the High Lord. Anyone who grows up around a Warlord Prince recognises the signs if they had any survival instincts at all. It is the eyes. The sleepy glazed look filling both pairs of eyes. They were both rising to the killing edge. With Sceron it had been amusing, because it hadn't been as deadly. As serious. You are trying to figure out who you can shield and how to get people clear of the explosion that was about to happen when a familiar and haunting voice spoke.
"Chaosti," Jaenelle speaks, not in the voice she'd been using all along, but in that voice he heard only rarely when she used to visit. Her midnight voice. Witch's voice.
The Dea al Mon boy slowly turned to face her.
"He is my father, Chaosti. By my choice," she tells him.
It took a long moment, and you aren’t sure if there won't be bloodshed anyway. A Queen's will was the leash that held a male's temper in check. Especially a Warlord Prince. But not just any Queen could do it. There had to be a bond there. You don’t know if her words, her voice, her hand on the leash would be enough. After a long moment, it is clear that it is. Even if just. Chaosti places a hand over his heart. "By your choice, cousin," he replied.
Jaenelle and the other girls leave the room as Chaosti turns to face the High Lord. "She's been away so long and has been deeply missed. Titian said you weren't to blame, but - "
"But I'm the High Lord," the High Lord says with a trace of bitterness.
"No Chaosti says, smiling cooly as he shakes his head. "You are not Dea al Mon."
The High Lord relaxes. "Why do you call her cousin?"
"Gabrielle and I belong to the same clan. Grandmammy Teele is the matriarch. She also adopted Jaenelle." Chaosti's smile turns feral. "So you are kin of my kin - which makes you Titian's kin as well."
The High Lord wheezed as if he had been hit in the gut. You decide that this is a good time to step in.
"If we want anything to eat, I think we're going to have to fight for it," you tell Chaosti.
"I'll accept any challenge a male wants to make," Chaosti snaps.
You are really coming to like the guy. Which is why giving him the bad news was going to be so much fun. "The girls are between us and the food."
Chaosti sighs and seemed to deflate some. "Challenging another male would be easier."
"Safer, too," You agree.
"Gentlemen," the butler speaks. "Refreshments are also being served in the formal drawing room."
"Have you ever heard that red-haired witches have hot tempers?" You ask Chaosti as you follow the group of males into the formal drawing room. So long as it had food, you don't much care what it was called, really.
"There are no red haired witches among the Dea al Mon," Chaosti replies. "And they all have hot tempers."
memory two
It is fine by him. You don’t mind travelling with her, and protecting her if need be. Something about the young Queen, just a few years younger than you draws you. You aren’t sure what it was, but it means that you are happy to serve as Escort, even though you are too young to really be an Escort and she is too young to rule.
At least, in theory you were happy. The actuality... The young woman's mood is like a third person in the sitting compartment of their coach. A person with the ability to change on a dime, but one who always filled the space with presence. Throughout the ride she had been moody, depressed, angry, anxious.
You are doing your best not to hold her crankyness and mood shifts against her. Jaenelle is a good friend to each of you separately, though the three rarely played together as a group. Jaenelle was an odd girl, but sweet and kind and funny and fun. You adored her not just because she had somehow found you at your lowest and helped you find yourself again. She wss confusing and curious and wonderful. She taught you so much and you tried to return the favor.
Her visits were always brief, but they were filled with fun and joy. Except for those times you could tell sometimes that something was wrong. But she never wanted to talk about it, and when you asked, she just got sad, so you would make a joke to make her laugh again
.
And then one day she didn't show up when you expected her. Morghann had been the only other friend of Jaenelle's that you knew outside of your family and you had reached out to her.
And then out of nowhere, a few days ago an invitation arrived at your house from SaDiablo Hall in Dhelman. You hadn’t recognised the handwriting, and you didn't recall her ever having mentioned knowing anyone in Dhelman. And given she was fair skinned with blue eyes and long blond hair, she wasn't from Dhelman herself, or at least, her parents weren't. You had checked with Morghann to learn she had received the same invitation. And now…
"We're almost there," you say.
The coach pulls up to the landing web outside a huge imposing stone building. "Mother Night," you whisper, staring up at it, running a hand through your curls. "A whole village could live in that building."
"Maybe one already does," she says. Then she takes a deep breath, grabs her bag from the coach and heads up the long walk from the landing web to the front door. You take another look at the building, then rush to catch up with her. You had planned to knock politely on the door. Morghann has... Other ideas. You jump at the sound her small fist made when she added craft to her one loud knock. It sounds like an explosion.
The door opens, and the man who stood aside quickly is clearly a butler by uniform, bearing, and the expedient of having been the one who opened the door. You’ve never seen a servant who wore a Jewel as dark as the Red before. Morghann seems less impressed and strides into the hall. It occurs to you that she is pretty… You blame the dress.
Still, she cuts an imposing figure, a hint of the woman she will one day be, her dark red hair flowing down her back, green eyes flashing with all the tension that had shared the coach with tyou, and her gown which had just looked brown and gold and patchy in the coach looked like the autumn woods in motion as she entered the Hall.
You approach the adults, specifically the man at the front and center of the small group. You’ve never met the High Lord before, but even without seeing the man's Black Jewels, you would have guessed that was who he was. Something tickles inside you, and he found your lips twitching in amusement. For the man in front of you might be dead, might be the High Lord, might outrank you in both Jewel Rank and Caste to say nothing of age or wealth, but Mother Night do you know that expression. You’ve seen it in the mirror tons of times when Jaenelle used to visit.
She’s here. She has to be. No one has an expression like that without having met her. The man looks like the horse he had been riding had just ran him over and he was trying to figure out when he had wound up under the animal instead of astride it.
You are emboldened by this and offer a hand in greeting, it is clasped, and you see long black tinted nails against your own pale wrist.
"You must be the High Lord," you say with a smile. "I'm Khardeen, from the isle of Scelt." You a thumb toward the door that had closed. "That's Morghann."
Just as you finish speaking, the door opens. The girl who approaches you hesitantly is older than she had been, but then so was he. But still you'd know her anywhere. You'd know those eyes anywhere, to say nothing of her scent. Something settles within you. She really is alive. She is okay. You’ll consider tearing into her later for scaring you so badly for so many years, but then again, Morghann probably already did. So you’ll just have to figure something else out.
She holds out both hands timidly in a formal greeting, you realise your revenge is nearer at, well, at hand, than you had expected. Because after years of missing her, no way was she getting away with a formal greeting. So pretending to ignore her, you turn back to the High Lord.
"Did Jaenelle ever tell you about her adventure with my uncle's stone - "
"Khary," she gasps. You are surprised she had let you get that far. You catch her glancing nervously at the High Lord and filed that away for later.
"Hmmm?" you smile at her, your eyes twinkling with amusement. "Did you know that a proper hug can toss a thought right out of a man's head?" You ask her. "It's a well known fact. I'm surprised you hadn't heard of it."
She had been balanced on the balls of her feet, ready to bolt. Now her heels come down and her sapphire eyes narrow. "Really." Mother Night you missed her.
You just smile, waiting for your hug. When it fails to come, you turned back to the High Lord. "You see my-" you are cut off again. "You don't have to hug all the air out of me," you tease and carefully wrap your arms around her to return the hug.
"Now, what were you going to say?" she asks, ominously.
"About what?" you reply sweetly.
Laughing, the hug shifts as she throws her arms around your neck. "I'm glad you came, Khardeen. I've missed you."
Any anger you had any hurt you had, over how long she'd been gone melted away. At least for the moment. You gently untangled youtself from her arms. "We'll have plenty of time to catch up on things," You have a letter from your uncle after all, giving you permission to stay the whole summer if the High Lord allowed. "Right now you'd better get back to your sisters or I'll get the sharp side of Morghann's tongue for the rest of the day."
"Compared to Karla, Morghann's tongue doesn't have a sharp side," she informs you.
Your lips twitch. "All the more reason, then."
Jaenelle shoots the High Lord another nervous glance, then bolts for the room where the other girls were. Just as she gets there, there was a knock on the front door. After Morghann's bang, this one seems polite.
The people who enter when the door is opened clearly didn't come from the same place. There are two Satyrs, a small girl with iridescent wings that sat on the shoulder of the male Satyr. There was a boy about you own age with black hair and grey eyes who, from his clothes, probably came from Dharo. Behind here were two tawny-skinned kids with dark stripes, you guess they were from Tigrelan and
a girl who looks closer to your age, or maybe even a little older who introduces herself to the High Lord as Kalush from Nharkhava.
The butler starts to close the door, but it is pulled back open. The High Lord pushes Kalush towards one of the other adults, an Eyrian male with wings as black as his hair, and tenses. You follow his line of sight, and found himself looking at centaurs. The girl is too far off for you to get a scent to tell her Caste, but the male, a Warlord Prince, approaches. You are still standing near the High Lord. No one has asked you to move yet, and it seems the spot with the best view.
"High Lord," the male Centaur says making the title sound like a challenge.
"Prince Sceron," the High Lord replies firmly. Not challenging, but also not backing down or ignoring the challenge. An interesting trick, you wonder if you could learn it.
Sceron's eyes blaze with suppressed rage. He isn't on the Killing Edge or things would be bloody already, but there is clearly anger there, all the same.
Before things can get ugly, while you desperately cast about for a joke to make to ease the tension, Jaenelle stalks over and punches Sceron in the upper arm. Given the difference in their sizes, the blow must be a joke at best, even if she had put all her strength into it - which you doubt she did.
The Centaur grabs her and lifts her up so he could look in her eyes.
"That's for not saying hello," Jaenelle said as if she os picked up like that all the time and it isn't even worth mentioning.
Sceron studies her face a long moment, then smiles "You are well?"
"I was better before you rumpled me," Jaenelle says, tartly. You grin. Sceron laughs and sets her down gently. Someone gasps and you turn.
If the Tigrelan are creatures of myth, the two who stand in the door were something worse. Everyone in Kaleer knew the Dea al Mon were real. And that few if any who trespassed in their Territory were ever seen again. Alive, at any rate. And the Dea al Mon almost never left their Territory. They are a secretive and insular race. These two had the look of their people with the silvery hair, pointed ears, and over large eyes. The male came over to the High Lord.
You can see the change in both this new comer and the High Lord. Anyone who grows up around a Warlord Prince recognises the signs if they had any survival instincts at all. It is the eyes. The sleepy glazed look filling both pairs of eyes. They were both rising to the killing edge. With Sceron it had been amusing, because it hadn't been as deadly. As serious. You are trying to figure out who you can shield and how to get people clear of the explosion that was about to happen when a familiar and haunting voice spoke.
"Chaosti," Jaenelle speaks, not in the voice she'd been using all along, but in that voice he heard only rarely when she used to visit. Her midnight voice. Witch's voice.
The Dea al Mon boy slowly turned to face her.
"He is my father, Chaosti. By my choice," she tells him.
It took a long moment, and you aren’t sure if there won't be bloodshed anyway. A Queen's will was the leash that held a male's temper in check. Especially a Warlord Prince. But not just any Queen could do it. There had to be a bond there. You don’t know if her words, her voice, her hand on the leash would be enough. After a long moment, it is clear that it is. Even if just. Chaosti places a hand over his heart. "By your choice, cousin," he replied.
Jaenelle and the other girls leave the room as Chaosti turns to face the High Lord. "She's been away so long and has been deeply missed. Titian said you weren't to blame, but - "
"But I'm the High Lord," the High Lord says with a trace of bitterness.
"No Chaosti says, smiling cooly as he shakes his head. "You are not Dea al Mon."
The High Lord relaxes. "Why do you call her cousin?"
"Gabrielle and I belong to the same clan. Grandmammy Teele is the matriarch. She also adopted Jaenelle." Chaosti's smile turns feral. "So you are kin of my kin - which makes you Titian's kin as well."
The High Lord wheezed as if he had been hit in the gut. You decide that this is a good time to step in.
"If we want anything to eat, I think we're going to have to fight for it," you tell Chaosti.
"I'll accept any challenge a male wants to make," Chaosti snaps.
You are really coming to like the guy. Which is why giving him the bad news was going to be so much fun. "The girls are between us and the food."
Chaosti sighs and seemed to deflate some. "Challenging another male would be easier."
"Safer, too," You agree.
"Gentlemen," the butler speaks. "Refreshments are also being served in the formal drawing room."
"Have you ever heard that red-haired witches have hot tempers?" You ask Chaosti as you follow the group of males into the formal drawing room. So long as it had food, you don't much care what it was called, really.
"There are no red haired witches among the Dea al Mon," Chaosti replies. "And they all have hot tempers."
You laugh. "Ah. Well then."