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May 15, 1197
"Hello, Cousin Searle. My mother wanted to know if you were dressed and ready." Kay beamed up at Searle, taking note that he was. His big brothers were already at the chapel to usher guests into the pews and his father was talking with Searle's father and sister--neither of whom Kay had ever met before. That left Kay as the only man his mother could send to Searle's room, and she had to send a man because none of his sisters were overly fond of knocking.
As for his mother herself... "She would have come up and knocked, but I guess stairs are hard when you've got a baby in you. Not that me or you will ever know that."
Searle nodded. That was about the most Kay could expect from him, based on those years when he'd lived with them. Searle didn't laugh or smile much, even when he found things funny. If he ever found things funny. "That's true."
"Well, you're dressed, so that's good. I think she thinks we ought to head to the chapel soon." Kay swayed back and forth, privately in agreement with what he thought his mother was thinking. Weddings were... kind of boring, really. He wanted to get the ceremony over with. The feast, at least, could be good.
But, grown-ups all seemed to like the ceremony part. Maybe Searle did too. "Feeling good about it?"
"I suppose so. Eldona and I are good friends."
"That's it?" Kay frowned. He had lots of good friends, but he didn't think he wanted to marry any of them. "What about love?"
"We love each other in a way. Just... we both think the friendship is enough. Maybe you'll understand when you're older."
"I don't know. I still don't understand why the ceremony part has to be so long and boring."
"Honestly?" A rarity--Searle smiled. A small smile, but a smile nonetheless. "I don't understand why it has to be either. I think a lot of things just aren't meant to be understood."
NEXT CHAPTER:
July 21, 1193
"So..." Eldona let herself trail off, but only out of fear she'd otherwise stop abruptly. Had she thought Searle had any other friends, she would have left the comforting to someone else. She'd grown up as the daughter of quite possibly the sweetest, wisest, most loving mother on the planet. She had no idea what to say about a mother who was... not. "I'm sorry."
Searle kicked at the base of the bench. "I was a terrible son."
Eldona bit the inside of her cheek. It wasn't unnatural to think one ought to have been better to the dead--she'd had her moments of regret with both her father and sister in recent months--but from all accounts, Searle's mother had been a monster. "Searle--"
"No. I was. She hated me. She wouldn't have hated me if I wasn't terrible."
Eldona blinked. There could have been logic in the sentence, but there was little logic in an adult's hatred of a child. "But what could you have done that was so terrible?"
He shrugged. "I don't remember. I forget things sometimes."
That didn't surprise her. But he was a gentle, passive soul--almost incapable of anything truly terrible. "I don't think anything you could have done justified her treatment of you."
"She didn't want me."
"Then she ought to have given you to people who wanted to be your parents, or to have eliminated you before you were sentient. If she wasn't allowed to, then that's a pity--but no one deserves a parent's abuse, Searle."
It seemed such a simple concept.
And yet, he failed to grasp it. "But I did."
NEXT CHAPTER:
July 15, 1191
Morgan had no idea what had possessed her to wander into the forest in the middle of the night with her year-old son in tow. By the time she'd realized they'd left the bedroom, she'd been surrounded by trees. At least it was a warm evening, with no need of a coat for Kay.
The eerie quiet had not been confined to the castle. No owls called from their perches, no wolves howled at the moon. Not even the chirp of a cricket or the rustle of the wind. The world was a frozen stillness, sound no exception.
"So we finally meet." That voice, in some unfathomable way, did not fit the criteria of sound. "Welcome home."
She hadn't seen the woman before she'd spoken, but the figure hadn't appeared from nowhere. She'd been waiting, and waited still--staring amongst the trees rather than at Morgan and Kay.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that the world has waited a long time for your line to return to this place." Her head didn't move, but her eyes met Morgan's. Violet, even in the night. "Do you know the significance of this forest?"
Hadn't Naroni been a no man's land? Morgan bit her lip--but let go when she caught sight of a second figure. Her husband's former ward. "Searle?"
"He can't hear you." The woman glanced back at the still, seated figure--with a thing oddly akin to fondness. "No one in this kingdom can, no one and nothing. Think of time and space as a lover's body. If one knows what secret places to touch, they are clay in one's hands."
"You... stopped time?"
"I bent it. For all the world but the two lines immune to such distortions: yours, and mine." The woman smiled--or smirked, more like. "But you didn't answer my question. What is the significance of this forest?"
Morgan shook her head. "I don't know."
"Not many do. The world is rough place--rougher once than it was now, if you believe it. Rogue angels wondered about, mercenaries of a false god while the true creator watched their chaos spread, helpless in a cage of stars. Their lies nearly drove humanity to the brink of extinction. Brother fought brother, friendships were squandered, strangers were judged. Women were vilified and men became monsters. We set the world aflame with our backstabbing and raping and killing, destroyed ourselves as thoroughly as we destroyed anyone else. We were pawns in a game of deities, but how easily we took to such vile paths was equal to knowing and willing terror. Had we succeeded in killing off our entire species, we would have been well served.
"But the caged creator could take no more. Still, the Master Architect of the Universe, Being of All Creatures, Man and Woman and Both and Neither, sits imprisoned at the origin of the universe, where all began and all will end--but the decay of the earth was enough for them to launch from their bars a single shard of star. Where do you think that shard landed?"
Forest. Trees. "Here."
"Very good. Here, exactly where you stand now." The woman stepped closer--but still maintained a distance. "You're not the first to stand there. Another woman stood there, all those years ago. One of the a precious few decent people left on the planet. The blast of the shard engulfed her but she did not perish. A wave of calm tamed the beast of a world--not permanently, but just long enough. The magic of the shard took root in this forest and this land became the fountain from which all the magic of the planet springs. The descendents of the angels were drawn to this place, though their numbers dwindled in the absence of chaos."
Absence of chaos? "This is the most chaotic place I've ever lived!"
"It is chaotic by the laws of man. By the laws of nature, it is man who is chaotic, and this land bends for no man. That was why only the Nephilim dwelt here until recently. Humanity could only dwell here under the rule of one who defies corruption--someone who is more nature than man."
"You can't mean King Roderick. Or King Ietrin."
"No. I mean your father-in-law. It's hardly a secret who's really been pulling the strings all these years--though perhaps that will change, if the royal line manages to produce someone worthy." If she had any belief as to whether or not that would happen, her face didn't say. "But the magic has been waning for many years now. When the shard struck that woman--your ancestor--pieces of it vanished within her, tucked away in her blood. Your blood. Your son's blood.
"That is why you exist. The bloodline of your ancestor had dwindled until only your biological mother remained, and she was a sickly virgin dying in a convent. Had I not called in some favors from some otherworldly friends, you never would have been born, and it would have only been a matter of time before we once again plunged ourselves into darkness."
She thought she followed--logically. But, logically... what? "I don't know if I quite understand. Who are you?"
"My line serves your line. That is all you need to know." She would never even know this woman's name. "That, and that the magic of the world--the light of the world--is strongest when you are in this kingdom. How beyond fortunate it is that you married a son of Severin, as that family will always make its home in this land. Because you are this land. You, and your son, and any other children you may have and children they may have until the creator breaks from their prison and creates the world anew.
"At least one of you must be in this kingdom at all times, for all of time. If you understand nothing else of what I told you, do you understand at least this?"
In her arms, Kay squirmed. For his sake, Morgan tried. "Yes."
"Good." The woman's hands dropped from her hips to her sides--the first they'd moved this whole time. "Now, go back to your castle. Put your son to bed and return to your husband. Expect a rough morning; the rest of the world needs to catch up to you."
NEXT CHAPTER:
May 16, 1190
"A boy! How delightful!" Though, Searle didn't doubt for a second that the lady would have been equally happy for Morgan had Kay been a girl. "Now she has one of each, doesn't she?"
"Yes. She has an adoptive daughter."
"How charming. Plus her stepchildren now, too. I am most happy for her."
"Shall I tell her?"
Not that Searle had ever been good at passing greetings secondhand. Or firsthand. But the lady shook her head, her raven hair adrift on the sea of her red silk. "Thank you for the offer, but perhaps you'd best not. She doesn't know me from Lilith, after all; she might be uneasy with a message from a stranger, even a congratulatory one."
"Maybe..." Did he dare? Lonriad had said he could have friends over if he liked. Though maybe Lonriad had only said that because he doubted Searle would make friends. Searle hadn't thought he would either. "Maybe you could come and meet her?"
"One day, perhaps. But for now, I believe I'll give her and the baby their peace. The first few months are critical to the mother-child bond."
"Oh."
"But it seems a shame to cut short a perfectly fine trip, especially with this lovely whether in these parts. Perhaps we should stop at the bakery in the village?" The lady smiled. Her face was sweeter than anything the baker could muster up. "My treat."
Searle beamed. "I'd like that."
NEXT CHAPTER:
February 22, 1190
Searle had spent the past few months transfixed by Morgan's stomach. Over the past while, she'd taken to staying late at the university, claiming she wanted to get as much done as possible before her leave--and when she was home, she often napped, door shut. Lonriad had taken Searle aside and explained that it wasn't polite to stare at pregnant women's bellies while ignoring the women themselves, and that Morgan had grown a little uncomfortable. If that was the case, Searle was sorry, he guessed. Morgan hadn't wronged him.
But he'd seen pregnant women before. He hadn't seen his Aunt Maeja any differently when she'd been pregnant. If anything, he'd avoided his mother more diligently when she'd been pregnant.
Morgan, though... Morgan was different. That was odd, because she'd been more or less like most adult women who weren't his Aunt Maeja or his mother or his grandmother or the lady in silk: nice enough, but he felt neither connection or repulsion. But her baby beckoned him like a beacon and he wasn't sure why.
Maybe he'd ask the lady in silk about it. She knew lots of things, like how to call wisps of light from thin air. She'd asked about Morgan too, sort of, when she'd called a few months. She said she'd heard his cousin Lonriad had married, and she'd asked about his bride, whether or not there was a baby on the way, how healthy she seemed. If anyone knew what was so special about Morgan's baby, it would be the lady in silk.
He didn't know how to get in touch with her, though. She said he was the one who could bring her to Naroni, but he'd never managed to summon her on his own, not once in the dozen or so times he'd tried. He supposed he could write to her, but that would require knowing where she lived, or what her name was.
He guessed he'd just have to wait.
NEXT CHAPTER:
August 11, 1189
Of all the people Eldona might have thought she'd find at the school library before term even began, her cousin Searle had not been among them. He didn't have much particular interest in any subject. He certainly wasn't doing well in many of them. He was barely even aware of where he was more days than not, and it wasn't as if he had any friends to pull him anywhere on their days off.
Why was he here?
"Searle?" He jumped. Why had she expected he'd noticed her? "Oh. Sorry, I... are you all right?"
He shook his head. "No."
Poor boy. Perhaps looking for new poems would have to wait. "Do you want to talk about it?"
Searle sighed. "I'm writing to Aunt Maeja."
"Oh."
Her father had gotten the news some days back. Their Uncle Marsden had been killed just before the end of the previous month. Eldona had never met him, but Searle had lived in Dovia. He would have known him well enough. "I see."
She also saw the page: blank except for the phrase 'Dear Aunt Maeja'.
"I... I'm not good at words."
"Don't say that. You're just... unpracticed, maybe." At any rate, this was the longest they'd ever spoken. Some people who didn't talk much expressed themselves in writing, but it stood to reason that some kept their thoughts and feelings inside, in the forms they took before they were words.
"Help me?"
Help? "I don't know, Searle. Letters like that are pretty personal."
"But you're a good writer. All the poems you read in class were so..." He stopped, in search of a new word. Instead, he fell back on a familiar one. "...good."
"All right." Not that she was feeling too poetic after a conversation like this--but she sat down anyway. "'Dear Aunt Maeja'."
Searle nodded. "Then?"
She thought on it a moment. But, she had to shake her head.
"I can't write this for you. Only you know what's in your heart."
He bowed his head and stared at the paper, as if he wasn't quite sure he had one.
NEXT CHAPTER:
May 17, 1187
Most of the Naronians were wary about the forests. Searle didn't understand a lot of things, but this was a particular mystery to him. Once he'd finally worked up the courage to journey into one of these forests that Sevvie and Adonis couldn't seem to talk about without shuddering, he found it... comforting, almost, or as close to comforting as he knew. Like he was meant to be there. Like he belonged.
It felt like home.
And that was silly, because Searle didn't have a home. He didn't deserve a home, and had therefore never been given one. Cousin Lonriad did his best, but Searle was still the outsider, obviously so, and the others in the house didn't know what to do with him, much like he didn't know what to do with himself. So who was he to presume he knew what home felt like?
But he did know. It felt like the forest.
There was something in the air here. Something quiet, half-dead, a little sinister. Something rather like him.
"Hello, young man."
Searle stopped. He'd thought he was alone. He usually knew when he wasn't.
But one look up, and he'd been wrong in this instance. Standing in front of him was a woman--a lady--dressed far too well for a stroll in the woods, yet her magenta silk showed no dirt or clinging grass. She had coal black hair and a pale complexion, which combined with her heart-shaped face made for a curious ageless beauty. She was too far away for him to make out the color of her eyes, but they were fixed right on him, piercing through his core as she read the curses etched upon his heart.
He liked it.
"Hello, my lady."
"My lady?" She smiled, but she didn't blush. Perhaps she couldn't. She was all black and white, the only red upon her made of liquid fabric. "My, aren't you the polite one. My own sons don't even greet me so sweetly."
"You have sons?" She didn't look nearly old enough to be a mother. Nor scary enough.
"Two, and two daughters. My older three have given me grandchildren, even." The lady laughed. She must have noticed his gaping. "I've been told I don't look quite my age."
An understatement. Searle had never heard one before. "You're beautiful."
He'd blurted it out before it occurred to him that it might have been an inappropriate comment--but the woman beamed. "Thank you! You're a very handsome boy yourself. I'll bet you're quite popular with the girls."
Searle's face warmed. She might not have been able to blush, but apparently he could. "I don't know about that..."
"Ah-ha! Proof of it being so if there ever was. The most handsome boys never notice when girls like them." Did they? He got the feeling she'd know. She probably knew everything. "Besides--you're not like the others. You're special. You have powers."
Powers? His mother had accused him of that, though she'd always made it sound bad--evil. This lady, not so. In that moment, there were no two men he envied more in the world than her sons. "What sort of powers?"
"Well, they're quite complex," the woman started, drawing closer. Her eyes were violet, a color his mother had always loathed, a color he'd never quite seen before now. He decided it was his new favorite. "But you're a smart boy, and you deserve to have some idea of your own abilities. You see, this forest is a important place, and when you're here, you can distort the very fabric of time and space."
"Time and space?" He wasn't quite sure he knew what that meant. "Like magic?"
"Magic, and science. That's how I'm here. I live very far away, but thanks to you, I was able to travel here in a matter of minutes. I couldn't have done that on my own, you see; I'm only ordinary." She gave no hint of not believing it, but Searle didn't. She was easily the least ordinary person he'd ever met. "But I must thank you, for there is someone in this kingdom with whom I must have an audience. I would have had to put off the meeting for months if not for you."
"You're welcome." Had he ever said that? He didn't think he'd ever been thanked before. He rather liked that too.
"That's very sweet. Now that I think about it, I suppose I have a few hours to spare; why don't we go to the nearest village, and I'll buy you something almost as sweet as you. Would you like that?"
He liked this, liking things. "I'd like that very much."
NEXT CHAPTER:
January 25, 1186
"Comfortable?"
Lonriad had been called away for an hour or so over some dispute at a nearby inn, and it figured that Maeja would have left that very morning, but he'd left instructions with the staff to make sure his young cousin was enjoying himself--or, at the very least, comfortable. He hadn't expected to find him playing with his children, what with the age difference and everything. Even Searle's sparring with Donnie was a bit of a stretch, not aided by Searle's apparent lack of interest in fighting. Since he'd arrived a few days before, Searle hadn't shown much interest or even mild curiosity toward anything.
So, really, comfort had been all Lonriad could hope to provide.
Searle nodded.
Still not talking? The kid had said next to nothing since his arrival, a few murmured Thank yous aside. The boys were old enough to realize that not all was right, and Alina was too young to notice anything was wrong, but Honora was in that unfortunate between and seemed to find Searle off-putting. With the silence, the malaise, the inability to make eye contact... Lonriad couldn't blame her.
But his father had a busy enough household, and if Lonriad was honest with himself, it was still in his best interests to keep himself as busy as possible. He supposed he owed it to Asalaye too. Had she been here to greet Searle, she would have found some unique, forward-yet-sensitive approach to the boy--a key to making him feel at home.
"I hope you don't hate it here."
His cousin shook his head. Not surprising.
But the voice that followed was rather moreso. "It feels different here."
"Different?" From Dovia? "What do you mean?"
"I don't know." Searle shuffled against the pillow behind him. Motion didn't become him. He was a small enough boy, and fidgeting just made him smaller. "Something in the air."
Having been to Dovia and Carvallon and even Spain, Lonriad could not claim to feel a difference in air--not one that couldn't have been the fault of the sea, at least, and Dovia was just as landlocked as Naroni. But that alone could not make the idea shocking. Ashe came to mind, back when he'd told Lonriad of Rona's latest pregnancy, nearly in overjoyed tears at the thought of a child not plagued by latent powers like the rest of them. "Like... magic?"
The boy shrugged, his brief verbosity forgotten--and a haunted glaze over what Lonriad could make of his face. The poor child's mother had no doubt beaten the boy at any mention of the unknown.
So Lonriad wouldn't elaborate--not yet, at least, not with Searle. He was his cousin's host, after all. His guest needed to be comfortable. "My apologies. I'll send Donnie up when it's time for supper; should be about twenty minutes yet."
NEXT CHAPTER:
**Trigger Warning
November 17, 1185
Searle was not sure why he'd come. His mother had never wanted to see him at the best of times, and she certainly didn't want to see him now. But like a weak little morsel to a beautiful predator, he'd today found himself drawn to her lair. Or not like that. More of a compulsion, maybe. He hadn't given his condolences. He had to give his condolences.
His mother had never paid much attention to Riona, but she'd scarcely left her private chapel since the accident--scarcely even by her own track record. It made sense, he guessed. Riona had been the favorite by virtue of not being Searle. He supposed baby Agathe was the favorite now, for all his mother seemed to have forgotten her existence the moment the wet-nurse arrived. Agathe would be better off, maybe. The wet-nurse seemed nice.
His mother knelt before the altar, fingers to the Lord but no light streaming down on her, not here so far underground. Her dress was olive green, the drabbest dye she could find that was still technically a color, and she wore a white wimple. She was the only woman Searle knew who felt the need to cover her head, and maybe that had been the norm in her homeland, but she never spoke of Byzantium, and nor did anyone else, so it might have just been her. Her hair must have been brown, based on his hair and his sisters' and her eyebrows, but he'd never seen it. He'd asked his father once, but all the only answer he got was 'ugly'. If their hair was the same, he hadn't taken offense. He knew he was ugly--and stupid, and wicked, and a lot of other unpleasant things. If his mother talked to him at all, it was to tell him that.
Whispered Greek prayer possessed her lips. He didn't understand a word, but there'd be hell to pay if he interrupted. His mother, his grandmother had told him after some nasty incident he barely remembered, had only ever wanted to be a nun. When Roderick of Naroni had called for potential brides for one of his noblemen, her brother had put an end to that dream and sent her off. Lord Severin had married someone else, and King Roderick had sent her to Dovia to marry Searle's father--on Searle's grandfather's request, if he recalled correctly.
His mother had been punishing the world ever since.
The Greek ceased and his mother stood. With her slow and teetering motion, it was obvious she ached. Lord only knew how long she'd been kneeling.
But did he blame her, really? The tiny, private chapel--not even a proper chapel, merely converted from some unused guard common in the dungeon--was the only place in Searle's father's manor that was hers. The only place in the world that was hers. If kneeling helped her forget that...
Who was he kidding. Of course it didn't. "Mother?"
She froze. She often did when he approached her, even if her paralysis made quick leaps to anger and loathing. Aunt Maeja said his mother was afraid of him, which made no sense because she was a scary lady and Searle jumped at the sight of mice like some three-year-old girl. Searle had been born three months early, according to his mother. Aunt Maeja said he'd looked exactly as any full-term infant should, but save the obligatory consummation, his mother claimed to have not been intimate with her husband until six months before his birth.
Yet, he'd heard his grandmother and aunt talking once, and no blood had been found on his mother's sheets for months before his alleged conception. Double yet--his grandmother swore that none could deny Searle's Sadiel eyes, his father's 'good looks' that apparently only other people's mothers could see. His father was no help; he could only bed his wife if he was drunk enough to ensure that he didn't remember it the next morning.
And there were rumors among the staff that he'd been born dead. The boy never made a sound, they said. Wasn't even breathing. Eyes wide shut, and not scrunched like most babies--sleep shut. Dead shut. And cold. Not even a heartbeat. It was only after they shut his tiny little coffin that something started crying inside. He'd asked his Aunt Maeja about that once. She'd gasped and dropped her knitting and told him not to listen to such horrible stories.
And yet, in one of the cupboards in the crypt, there was a tiny little coffin, not likely to fit anything bigger than a baby.
"What do you want?"
Snarling, his mother turned around, any grief for Riona forgotten in favor of her hatred for him. She'd hated him since he was born. Sometimes, he swore she'd hated him since she was born.
"I--" He what? He wanted to say that he was sorry for Riona. He wanted to say that he missed her too, even if he didn't dare confess he probably missed her more. People died. He'd told a lot of people he was sorry for their lost loved ones. But he couldn't remember just how he'd said it. "I--"
"Spit it out, you horrid little worm!" She grabbed him by the ear and yanked him forward. Curse his luck, today was not the day she finally ripped it clean off, the day his father had to notice his wounds no matter how drunk he was, the day he'd at long last be allowed to leave this awful place and seek refuge with Aunt Maeja and Uncle Marsden. Or the day he bled to death and joined his sister, the only person in this house who'd ever cared at all.
"I just--"
"What? Have you come with some hellish edict from your father the devil?"
"Father didn't--"
"Thou shalt not bear false witness!" Her hand flew across his face, a swarm of bees in solid formation. Every time she slapped him, they gained another stinger. "Why must you torment me so? Even here, in the presence of God?"
"I don't want to torment you!" And, privately, he had his doubts about God's presence.
"Liar! Blasphemer! Devil child!"
"Mother--"
"I am not your mother! You are not my son! You are a satanic parasite that festered in me, tore me apart! You wouldn't even do me the courtesy of staying dead!"
"I--I'm sorry!" But not for Riona, not now. Lucky Riona had gone away. Not even the hell he spawned from was worse than here. "I'm sorry... that I'm here..."
"Liar!" The hand of bees struck once again. But he'd never lied to her once. "Liar! Demon! It should have been you who died!"
Searle bowed his head, deserving of another slap but not able to take it. Tears burned at his eyes but he didn't let them fall. She always hit harder when she saw he was crying. "I know..."
NEXT CHAPTER:
