Irrandor Castle: within the top floors of The Lord’s Tower
Climbing the last of the spiraling stairs, the steady, repetitive ‘click’ of fine boot on weathered stone was all that heralded her approach,
And—without breaking her stride—she manifested her Will, and Lady Lysira’ril—matriarch of the line of Querkus—raised a glowing hand, conjuring a fist-sized ball of concentrated mana from her outstretched palm.
With an additional act of Will, the sphere shot forth—and with a loud ‘BANG’—it impacted the heavy oak door that hindered her march.
The door, unable to withstand the force, swung in, crashing against the wall—its impact enough to rattle the sconces lining the tower’s walls.
Secretly pleased with the theatrics of her entrance, she swept in; her noble countenance stern; her aura radiating power—demanding deference from all present—as she eagerly readied herself for the anticipated confrontation.
“Fel’nar, I want answers,” she said, voicing her command with little consideration for how the lord and his steward might react.
Lord Ven'nirous looked up from the parchment unfurled across his large desk, his eyes narrowing. “My lady,” he said as politely as he could manage, “You will have to be a little more specific...” He frowned. “What answers... exactly, do you seek? I—my lady, am by no means privy to your every thought.”
She halted at the entrance; her nephew's courteous reply—managing to steal most of the wind from her sails. Her eyes flickered between the lord and his servant. “A word... nephew,” she said, completely ignoring the unspoken rebuke.
Unruffled, he turned to his steward. “Til'ven, leave us...”
Maintaining a practiced neutrality, Til'ven performed a perfect bow to each of the two noble alf’na-far present, before vacating the chamber. Lady Lysira’ril gave the aged elf a brief nod of recognition when he passed. She was well aware of his past, and his role at her nephew’s side. She was not above showing respect to a man of such loyalty...
With a light *click* the door closed shut; the steward’s sudden absence leaving a palpable shift in the room’s atmosphere. Lord Fel’nar Ven'nirous slowly rose, his eyes locking with hers. “Lady Mae’riel. To what do I owe this… rather dramatic entrance?”
“Fel’nar, this is not the time for feigned civility...” she retorted, her stride purposeful as she stormed across the room. “I speak of Lurian,” she said, now standing before him. “Your ward... Your grandson, the boy who would be Vel’lon to my own granddaughter.”
Leaning forward, she dramatically slammed her palms on his desk. “That child, he languishes under a blood curse! A curse so foul and of such magnitude that it defies comprehension! And you...you have kept this secret? Why—the scandal alone would see the fall of your line!”
Unruffled, Lord Ven'nirous calmly gestured to the plush armchair before his desk. “Please, my lady... be seated. Your outrage is noted, but I do not appreciate the accusation in your tone.”
She chose to ignore the gesture; she would not be seated—like some meek lesser—seeking the man’s counsel. “You take note of my outrage? That boy is to be protector to my Eleanora; heir to my line, yet he suffers from a curse that twists at his very being. And you, you sit here, presiding over your lands, while that child—while your kin suffers?”
At first, her anger was feigned, in hopes her nephew would become defensive, revealing more than intended. But she realized she was truly angered by the discovery.
And Fel’nar? Fel’nar just sighed. It was the sigh of a man weary after a long day buried under the weight of responsibility, without a hint of the indigance she was expecting.
He took a breath, mustering all the forbearance he could manage. “The curse, my lady...will not hinder Lurian’s ability to fulfill his duties as Vel’lon to your granddaughter. And of that, you have my word. Did you not see as much in today’s bouts... I ask, do not trust your own eyes—my lady?”
She stepped forward, her steely gaze carrying a challenge, a dare—to the man before her. “I trust my eyes, but I also trust in my magic. That is not some common affliction. It is potent. It is evil. And it is not something cast upon a whim. From the boy’s words, he has suffered from that heinous curse most of his life. Why is it—only now—I learn of such a crime against my kin?” Find the original chapter at novelping(.)com.
Fel’nar let out another heated breath, clearly tiring of her subtle—and not so subtle—accusations. “Mae’riel, I will not stand here while you barrage me with questions. You label me guilty, without giving me a chance to speak, and explain!” he said, his raised voice instantly quelling her rising outrage.
“Now... Please, be seated,” he repeated, his voice returning to its neutral calm. This time, Lady Lysira’ril obliged the man’s request. Though still indignant, she wanted the truth—so she would listen to her nephew’s explanation.
He paused, his gaze going distant for but a moment, as if lost to the past. “It, as you no doubt surmised, is a curse on his blood... on his very lineage. It cannot be ‘cured’ with simple magics, like some common ailment suffered by the masses. Nor can it be purged with an old ritual—found in some half-forgotten tome.”
He waved his hand. “What’s worse, I fear it was cast while Lurian was still in his mother’s womb; likely very early in the pregnancy. I suspect this, because this ‘curse’ has weaved itself into his very being, becoming a part of him as intrinsically linked to him as his own heart.”
Her breath hitched; the cold cruelty of it all—it struck her with full force. Why, the implications. She had suspected the boy’s condition was grave, but this—this was something far more sinister than some hex cast by some hedge wizard in the wilds.
Fel’nar’s gaze met hers. “I suspect the child was sent to me, expected to die before his tenth year.” He let his words hang in the air before continuing: “As for why you are only now learning of this... Aunty... I haven’t heard from you in twenty years. Nor did you reach out when I left the court. We are strangers, you and I. I ask why—why would I expect aid from such distant kin?”
His words hurt. It was not the manner in which they were delivered. For Fel’nar did not speak harshly. Nor did his words carry with them an accusation. Instead, it was the naked truth within them that hurt. It struck at her core. At everything she claimed to cherish.
It left her wounded—like a heavy blow does unguarded flesh.
She opened her mouth, attempting to put forth some protest, some counter, some string of words that excused her guilt. But none would come...
“To be honest, I was surprised when you replied to my letter. Let alone leaving your place at court and traveling all the way here upon word of my request.” He smiled, his bitterness clear. “Though... I suspect it had more to do with securing your granddaughter’s position—than any love for me and mine... I do thank you for that... at least.”
His words... they hit with a force she could not hope to counter. All her rage, feigned or otherwise, it all seemed so laughable before such raw, brutal honesty.
Still reeling, she asked, “Why now? Why seek me out and request to have the boy serve as Vel’lon to my Eleanora?”
“...He’s running out of time,” he said, stating the brutal truth with a detached air she hoped was feigned. “The curse, it grows as he matures... If we were to wait until the child is of age, we would risk losing him to the curse... The Tower, the Faiths... they're his only hope...”
At first she was confused, but then she understood—she understood it all. “You-You intend to have him undertake the Tower’s Awakening ritual in that condition?” Her eyes, once sharp with anger, now held a dawning horror.
Her nephew nodded, his face solemn as he sighed. “I’ve had him in training since he was six... in hopes it would somehow increase his chances. I have done all I could... all to see him live...”
Stunned, she took a moment to consider... “You must tell the boy,” she said, still horrified by the implications. “He has every right to know. It is his life, his suffering... he must know.”
“And tell him what?” he asked, his voice filled with heat. “That he is cursed? That it was done to him while still in his mother’s womb? Or that it’s a miracle that he still lives? Tell me, Matriarch; what exactly am I to tell him?” he argued, his words bitter, his eyes now filled with a father’s resolve.
She knew it well; it was the look of a man out of options. A man who would see his kin live... no matter the cost.
When she fell silent, not responding to his questions, he leaned in—invading her space. “Or perhaps you would have me tell him that I, his grandfather and guardian, have doubts about his lineage. Because no daughter of my line would allow such a thing to befall a child of her blood!”
Stripped of his lordly mask, the Dun-darie of the South’s potent rage washed over her—instantly shattering the delusion that she was the greater power. For a moment she panicked, thinking him lost to his rage, but soon, his fires dimmed, fading with the echo of his outburst.
Sinking back into his throne, he raised his hand, shielding his face from her scrutiny. He sighed, rubbing his face. “Anything I tell him will just leave him with more questions than answers... answers that I, myself—fear...”
Feeling the pressure of his anger wane, she relaxed. “Whatever truths you're running away from, Fel’nar, perhaps it is time you face them. If not for yourself, then for that child. I have seen that curse... That evil ball of hatred and malevolence that lives within his core. That boy suffers; he suffers more in a day than many do in a lifetime. The least we can do is give him the answers he seeks...”
She leaned forward, gently grasping his other hand resting atop his desk. “Fel’nar, not knowing is just adding to the boy’s torment,” she said, lightly squeezing his hand. “I—I imagine you’ve tried undoing its casting?” she asked, searching his eyes.
“I know,” he said, letting out a slow, weary breath. “And I have just about exhausted all possibilities available to me... I even dispatched one of my own Vas’sa-lon last spring, hoping he might bring me some answers... He’s had little luck. You see, my name does not carry the weight it once did. Few still respect me, thinking my move out here to the wilds was for some punishment, a punishment for some imagined crime.”
He scoffed. “A crime—that has somehow been swept under the rug to save face for my family. Because of this misconception, they block and hinder my man’s inquiries, leading to me learning very little.”
Hearing him sound so dim, so defeated—it sparked a fierce, quiet anger within her. “Then perhaps my name can help; few names carry more weight than mine,” she offered
His head snapped up. “You would do that?”
“Yes, yes—I would,” she said, her voice filling with her growing resolve. “That boy is a mystery, a mystery I would see solved. If he is truly your grandson, then he is of my sister's line, meaning he shares blood with me. Even if it is unlikely, given what we know, that chance still exists.”
She released his hand, and stood straight and proud. “And no blood of mine shall be left to suffer so...
“Of course, my lady,” he said, clearly unconvinced.
The doubt, and the note of surrender still present in his tone bothered her, but she ignored it. Given the twenty years of silence between them, she could forgive any skepticism he may hold. “I’ll send missives this very night,” she declared. “Nephew, we will speak on this again before I depart on the morrow.
He nodded. “Very well, my lady. Would you have me escort you back to your chambers?”
“No,” she said, a light chuckle escaping her lips. “I am by no means a wilting flower. I can manage the short nighttime stroll required to cross the yard. But thank you, Fel’nar.”
And with that, she left; like a parting storm, leaving naught but flashes and rumbles in its wake...
“A Woman’s mood is much like the weather whilst lost at sea. One moment, all is pleasant, and the next, naught but thunder and rain. It is a masterful display of emotional versatility that keeps you on your toes, perpetually wondering if you’ll be basking in warmth or bracing for a coming storm. My advice... only fools fight the storm; the wise survive it...”
—A wise man’s thoughts on the ever-shifting moods of women
Vas’sa-lon is a deeply trusted warrior servant. They swear a magical oath binding them to their chosen lord's service for the rest of their lives. It is considered a great honor, and it’s very unusual for a lord to ever have more than four of such servants at a time, as they are seen as extensions of the lord they serve. (‘lon means guard or loyal/sworn protector.)