On the balcony above...
Lady Mae’riel Lysira’ril, Matriarch of the line of Querkus, stood tall; her back straight, her eyes down. She was watching—watching the world below, an air of detached curiosity about her; the kind only found in those who believed themselves superior to all that existed beneath their gaze.
She had witnessed much this day. A once great man—self-banished to the kingdom’s fringes—had emerged from obscurity—seeking her aid.
A boy, yet grown, doing battle with men twice his age; and—with a flair for combat—rarely seen in one so young, defeating foe after foe without rest. Then, that same boy stood before the crowd—and taunted his foe—after receiving debilitating injuries that should have kept him down. Only for his valiant struggle to brutally end at the hands of the man who trained him.
All this... under the eyes of uncaring kin...
And finally, she watched—as that same man stomped his way through the crowd—clearly bothered by his part in what had just transpired.
‘How curious.’ Her cold gaze drifted back to the boy. He was fascinating to her eyes. She thought him quite the talented, determined young man, with a level of fierce pride not often seen in one so young. She thought he had the skill and grit to go far.
‘That is, as long as his pride doesn’t get him killed before he blooms,’ she mused.
It was a common enough occurrence for those who shine too bright to be snuffed out in their youth. She searched her long memory, unsure if she had ever seen such traits in one so young. A few figures came to mind, but she quickly dismissed them. Even they were not as young as the boy when they started to exhibit such qualities.
“So, what did you think?” her companion asked, snapping her from her musings.
Looking up, she met eyes with her host. Lord Fel’nar Ven'nirous, scion of the line of Pynous, stood at her side; the man elegantly draped in the neat black and gold fineries expected of those born of the highest of blood. Standing there, his stern face and sharp eyes were unable to conceal his growing anxiety—as he awaited her verdict.
‘The boy looks as if in mourning.’
Why he would choose to don himself in black—of all colors, she didn’t understand. But it had been years since they had last shared wine, so for now she had chosen to ignore his rather gloomy attire.
“My lady?” he asked
“He is rather impressive, Fel’nar,” she finally said. “...The child is skilled, but his skill-at-arms will only get him so far. He lacks the speed and power expected of a Vel’lon.”
Fel’nar straightened, smoothing the crinkles in his vest. “He is yet unaugmented,” he said, his eyes returning to the unconscious youth. “In fact, his strength and speed are still above most aspiring to take the Tower’s trials—even while unenhanced.”
Her brow rose. “Really? Now that is impressive,” she said, not hiding her surprise. “Do you intend for the child to go through the trials of the tower without the aid of such enchantments?”
“Yes, my lady. Though disadvantageous in the beginning, it won’t take long for the boy to make up for any lacking speed or power that such enchantments might bring.”
She frowned; her crystal blue eyes communicating her concern and doubt. “You have one of the greatest magi in the kingdom under your employ. Surely such enchantments would be easy for him? Why not give the boy the best you can?” she said, her eyes returning to the battered, unconscious youth. “I know they fade in the tower, but they give aspirants a reliable crutch that aids them in the beginning. Why deny him such an edge?”
“Master Can'tarrous believes that the Faiths will look more favorably upon those that can overcome such initial disadvantages, so we decided not to cast them upon Lurian.”
She scoffed. “I do not share such beliefs, but no matter, the child does appear to have the ability to do well enough without such helpful magics,” she said, noting the practiced ease with which they loaded him onto the litter. “What of the boy’s talent for the arcane?”
“Master Can'tarrous informs me that the child has great potential in the craft. And given his heritage, there is little to worry about when it comes to his latent talent for the arcane.”
“Heritage?” she asked, confused, only to quickly realize what her counterpart meant. “Ah yes, the boy is half mystic if his father is who they claim. It would explain the dull color of his eyes, and that silver sheen to his hair.”
She tapped her nails atop the stone parapet, thankfully sparing them their lessers’ scrutiny. “So you only wish for this boy to accompany my granddaughter into the tower, nothing more?
“Yes, my lady, that is my only intention.
“I have absolute confidence he would make a valued addition to the heiress’s party.” He turned from the boy, his blue eyes locking with hers. “Would you not agree, my lady—given what you’ve seen?”
She considered her answer. It had far too many implications for her to simply agree. She also doubted the man’s intentions. The man was a little too eager to have his promising grandson join under her granddaughter’s service.
The child’s only 20 summers... why not wait a few years? Why the rush? And why wouldn’t they just form a party all their own around the boy? His status—though not high—is still sufficient to have a pair of Vel’lon of his own. She looked to her host, wondering if there was something obvious she was missing.
“Yes, yes, I would,” she finally said, nodding as her eyes took on a touch of frost. “That is, as long as the boy can keep his hands to himself.”
She chuckled, running a delicate finger around the rim of her empty brass cup. “The boy is a handsome enough lad, and I fear once they make it to the tower the young maidens will go to war for a chance at his affections.”
Her face turned stern. “But Fel’nar, know that he is not for my granddaughter; make sure he is aware of this stipulation. Normally, I wouldn’t care who she chooses for a partner, that is, as long as their pedigree is worthy of her... But not your Lurian. There are far too many unanswered questions pertaining to the boy’s birth for me to be comfortable with their possible pairing.”
“Yes, Lady Lysira’ril. I will make sure the child is aware of the limits of his station.” She noticed his shoulders relax at her agreement, but chose to ignore it.
“Good,” she said, “As long as he directs his affections elsewhere, I have no issues with his inclusion in Eleanora’s party... The girl has lived a rather sheltered life, and will need all the help she can get...”
For a time, they stood in silence, both lost to their musings; both wondering if they were doing the right thing. Abandoning the balcony’s view, Mae’riel gracefully wandered over to the small table—ladened with refreshments.
Spotting the wine, she began pouring herself a generous helping. It was naught but sour swill, but she supposed it was the best they could manage this far south.
Growing uncomfortable with the lingering silence, she asked, “How goes your relationship with your daughter, the boy’s mother?”
Fel’nar—following her with his gaze—frowned at her question.
‘Curious,’ she thought, not expecting such a reaction.
“She is no daughter to me, nor is she a mother to Lurian,” he said, his eyes sharp, his voice curt. “And of that, I’m sure you are aware.”
She observed his unexpected reaction whilst filling her cup. ‘He’s guarded? What don’t I know?’ she thought, deciding to probe further.
“I merely question if there have been any overtures at making amends,” she explained, sipping her drink whilst perusing the table’s bounty.
“What of your mother?” she asked, reaching for one of the finer-looking plums. “Will there come a time to mend the chasm growing between you?” She took a delicate bite of its flesh, her nose instantly crinkling at its tart taste.
Disappointed, she returned the plum to the table. “I know she wishes for nothing more than to repair her relationship with her only son.”
“Perhaps it is better to leave things be—my lady,” he said, a hint of warning creeping into his voice.
She reluctantly gave up on the spread and turned back to face her host. “I am merely asking,” she declared, frowning at his tone, “I have come all this way, at your request—I might add. Surely I am owed some answers?”
He seemed to bristle at the question. “I owe you no such thing—my lady. Do not confuse my deference for your station—as complete submission. You are a Matriarch of a great and noble Line, that in itself is worthy of my respect. But you are not, my Matriarch; know that I am under no obligation to indulge your every curiosity. Nor will I tolerate you poking and prodding at wounds yet healed.”
Her eyes flared with the na-ven’s disrespect; ‘The gall of men,’ she thought, restraining the growing urge to rouse her slumbering power and put him in his place. If he were anyone else, she would not afford him such a luxury, but he was family, and she could be lenient with family.
Taking a deep breath to cool her rising wrath, she decided instead to play for sentiment. As a relic of the lost elven court, she had been making men look the fool for longer than he had walked this earth, and felt no guilt using such innocent manipulations upon her kin.
Feigning a mask of hurt and anger, she turned—her wounded eyes meeting his. “I may not be your Matriarch, young Fel’nar... but I am still your aunt, sister to your mother. Meaning, your family—is my family. We share blood—you and I. Whether you acknowledge this truth or not, changes nothing. As your elder, I have every right to know why my family lay shattered and broken.” She looked away, as if distraught by the concession.
He sighed; the ven seeming to cave, despite knowing her well enough to see through her pitiable facade. “I apologize, aunty; it is all still so raw, even after all this time.”
She nodded, appearing mollified by his apology. “Nephew, I am merely concerned for the well-being of my baby sister... She would not share what ails her heart, no matter my pokes and prods.” Follow the newest chapters on novelping dot com.
He frowned; his eyes filled with a pain she could not name. “Then perhaps it is better to leave it be, aunty,” he sighed. “Some wounds are just so deep and painful that they are best left to scar with time.”
They both paused, ruminating on the little revealed throughout their short back-and-forth. “Very well, I’ll leave it be.” She raised her hands in surrender. “You have both made it clear that it is not my place to meddle. As much as it hurts to see my sister’s family so fractured, I will keep out of your business. That is, as long as it remains none of mine.”
“Thank you—aunty,” he said, looking away. “And thank you for giving this chance to Lurian. The child has suffered more than any his age ought to.”
She was surprised by the earnestness in the man’s admission. After the almost callous demeanor he maintained during the day’s bouts, she thought him uncaring of the boy’s suffering. It lightened her heart to know that he wasn’t truly indifferent to the child’s well-being.
“I see... you really do care for the boy—don’t you?” she asked, her mask slipping.
“Aye, I do. In my own broken way, I really do...” he muttered, his stoic mask cracking for but a moment.
Seeing this, she frowned. ‘It’s as if he’s surrendered to fate...’
His resignation was clear as day to her, who knew the man he once was. She could not fathom what could have transpired to leave such a bright star so dim, so defeated. But she had already decided to leave it be. For she knew that if she continued to push, he would be lost to her as well, cutting off his last ties to family.
“Then perhaps a life of peace outside the tower would be better for the child,” she offered, knowing that if the boy was to lose his life to the Tower, it would only break her nephew further.
“No.” He sighed. “I’ve known for some time that the only way Lurian has a future is if he can gain the power that only the Tower can provide.” He looked down into his swirling goblet. “He simply has no other option.”
She frowned, sensing there were truths hidden in Fel’nar’s words. “Now you’ve got me curious,” she said, musing aloud.
Hearing her words, Fel’nar’s mood instantly shifted, as if he were some temperamental cat—readying its claws.
It amused her to see him suddenly so guarded. ‘The boy was always so honest. So easy to read. I suppose that straightforward nature of his is why he made such an excellent soldier... and such a poor politician...’
She raised a hand, halting his outrage. “Do not fret; I will no longer pry. You have made it perfectly clear that your business is none of mine.” She waved her hand. “Know that it will remain so, as long as your secrets do not endanger my house—or hurt my granddaughter’s future.”
His eyes searched hers.
Seeming satisfied, he bowed. “You have my oath, my lady. I swear that it is not that kind of secret,” he promised, returning to a more respectful tone.
“Very well, I will trust you at your word. Now, how about some lunch? I am in need of something more substantial than these meager offerings,” she said, gesturing at what was left on the small table.
He inclined his head. “Of course, my lady. Please... follow me. I am sure Til'ven has already made arrangements for our midday meal.”
“Pride is often the only thing left for a man who's lost everything. It’s the last stubborn pillar that holds up his spirit, while all else crumbles under the weight of duty—and the bitterness of circumstance. When all else is lost, pride is the only thing you can cling to, the only thing still your own.”
— Lord Fel’nar Ven'nirous, Dun-darie of the south
Note: Vel’lon is an Elven word for tower guard. It's a role for those who enter as warrior retainers who protect a fellow aspirant, often of much higher status.