IV. One Day I’ll Stay Home

Beneath the canopy of flowering fruit trees and fresh foliage, a fire crackled. Having finished a meal of river trout, venison and sautéed mushrooms, the elves sat around telling stories in their native tongue or performing maintenance upon their equipment. Aichlan polished his sword absentmindedly as he stared into the magic, sputtering fire, which consumed no fuel as it danced over a pile of stones.

Aichlan paused from his labor and turned his gaze to the sky, a full moon cast its pale green glow across the night sky. He had forgotten that it was the final days of Mistmoon, and summer was around the proverbial corner. The golden moon Aurum had just begun to sink beneath the horizon, dissipating the light given off by the stars in the great white scar that streaked across the sky, the remnants of the universes creation.

The rainy days and gloomy skies would soon be at an end, in a few more days, Virides Occuli would join Aurum in the night sky. During the first week of Flowersun, The March of Petals would have been held in Nassica, usually a joyous affair where he would escort the Priestess through the streets in a grand parade. He shook his head and blinked away the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes; this year there would be no parades, no drunken revelry in the streets, and no Priestess to hold under the starry night sky.

“So, Aichlan. Ye want for someone to bandage ye up, mate?”

“No…” Aichlan looked up to see not only Kielan, but also all of the elves staring at him. “Why do you ask?”

“Firs’ off, ya got a bloody arra stickin’ ootta yer bloomin’ shoulder.” Eth jabbed a dagger he had been whittling with towards Aichlan’s shoulder. “Secondly, yer bleedin’ all o’er tha place. Shall ay go oon?”

Aichlan examined his battered body, ruined armor and blood dyed surcoat with a cold apathy. “So I do…”

The pain had become like a constant throbbing part of him just on the edge of his conscious mind, he could not remember a time he had been without it. With some difficulty, he twisted and pulled out the arrow and cast it into the fire. Most present cringed and looked away, sickened by such a grotesque display of self-detriment. Aichlan swore under his breath as the wound began to bleed. Before anyone could offer assistance, he ripped some of the stuffing from his torn gambeson and used it to staunch the bleeding.

Eth let out an astonished whistle. “Oi, Oi! He’s a savage one i'nt he? Gonna wiggle yer fingers in it? Piss proud an arse o’er tip this!”

Aichlan smiled guiltily, as he could not tell if Eth was complimenting him or not. the Elfs accent was thicker and stranger than any Aes Sidhean he had ever heard. Once again, Aichlan was keenly aware that all eyes were upon him. He took up his rag and finished polishing his blade, his white knuckled hand held fast to the handle. From a rough estimate, he placed their numbers at around thirty; if it came to it, he doubted he would be able to take them all on. From their lack of shirts and generally light clothing, he assumed they must have come from a warm climate and were not familiar with the area, he could probably lose them in the woods. Aichlan subtly turned his gaze to the wood, shuddering upon spotting the deceptively tranquil river; his only viable escape route would be through their camp. If worse came to worse, their lack of armor could play against them, he might be able to hack and slash his way through. The few nicks he could land probably would not kill them, but it would at least slow them down, if it came down to that option anyway.

A woman in the crowd cleared her throat. “Yer s’posed tae break it an’ shove oot tha’ other end ya know?”

Aichlan looked up to find the woman who had spoken, and he nearly fell over from the sudden, dizzying movement. It was still a mystery as to who these foul-mouthed warriors that fished him from the river were, but they did not give him the impression they meant him harm. Still, he could not shake his paranoia, a presumed side effect of having dies once already.

“O’erwise” the women continued, still hidden in the crowd, “ye just needlessly shred the flesh and increase risk o’ infection.”

They had the ears of elves, but like nothing, he had seen coming from Alfheim. Whereas the elves of Alfheim were a haughty bunch that acted and spoke as if the world were their oyster, the Colby-Nau spoke in a manner crass like pirates but as indecipherable as the moor folk on Aes Sidhe’s border to the Hinterlands.

“I suppose I should get wrapped up…” Aichlan relented.

Without a word, a red-haired woman rose and approached him with a bundle of herbal healing salves and linen strips. The firelight danced in the piercings she wore upon her eyebrow, up her ear, the corner of her lower lip, and a nose ring. Her features were soft and delicate, though she exuded an air of competence. Without a word, she lifted his tattered uniform and gasped at his ruined armor.

“Bloody hell, luv, it’s a woonder you’re still alive wearin’ this mess.”

He looked down at his torso, several links were broken or missing leaving gaping holes, it was a wonder the rig still held together. He lowered his coat and winced as a broken link dug into an open wound. The woman clicked her tongue and lifted the fabric up over his head once more.

“Well I didn’t go into battle like that I assure you,” Aichlan countered defensively.

“Nae like it’d matter much,” she replied as she gingerly pulled off the mail. “It’s shoddy craftsmanship. I’ll see what I can do with it an’ get back to you by mornin’.”

He squirmed as she began to wash and apply a salve to his numerous cuts and bruises. Whatever she was wiping him down with smelled and stung like pure grain alcohol. His time in the river had washed quite a bit of the dried blood and dirt away, leaving his skin black, blue, and green from the bruises. The woman shook her head in amazement and muttered something in her native tongue under her breath as she worked.

“Well,” Kielan clapped his hands once, “now that food an’ drownin' is ootta the way, how about sharin’ yer tale with us?”

As before, his question sounded more like a command, though lacking in the malice one would expect. Regardless, Aichlan was unsure of where to begin, should he start with his exile to Arlien? Alternatively, he could start with the meeting with his dead father in the dark wood. Both sounded preposterous in retrospect, and he wasn’t entirely certain either event actually occurred. He recalled the divine task his father set him on, now just a vague memory. The more he thought about it, the more preposterous it seemed.

Why Garrick of all people? Aichlan wondered. How was he supposed to save the Priestess from Xanavene? It was essentially impossible to accomplish such a mission with so little information. He had no army, they had fallen in Arlien, and the rest of the Knights of The Order were Dawn knows where. He was not even clear on exactly what he was supposed to accomplish, assuming of course it was not all some fever dream. He had no idea where he even was exactly. He took a deep breath and stared into the fire for several moments as he debated on what to tell them, or even if he should just make a break for the woods.

Firelight danced in his eyes as the elves patiently waited, and Aichlan simply allowed the words to flow, “Since I could walk, my father trained me to be a knight—like himself and his father before him. When I was eight or nine I served as his squire, following him on various campaigns, mostly border disputes or bandit uprisings. I always remember being in awe of him, growing up hearing stories of his valor during the Aes Sidhe war with Rhodarcium. Later, it became an all-encompassing shadow; one I was never able to break free of.”

Eth removed a hand-rolled cigarette from a pouch at his hip, lit it with a snap of his fingers, and exhaled a thick cloud of purple smoke. Aichlan recalled seeing similar cigars in the port of Cassatt, where merchants told tales of a race of fire nymphs and warriors. He had put little if any stock in the tales, mostly hyperbole from a sailor’s imagination, yet now he could not be too sure. Aichlan tried to recall the stories he had heard, mostly tales of unlikely sexual conquest and little else. There had also been artistry he had seen; mostly pottery or cookware stamped with a strange elven symbol upon a stylized volcano, and wondered if it was their handiwork. This group certainly did not look like artisans however, their hands were too calloused and their weapons too plentifully and carried too confidently. There were also the rumors of a secretive warrior race west of the Wraith Wood, fortunately for him, the savagery those stories detailed had not happened.

“When I was sixteen,” He continued. “The Priestess of The Order of the Dawn passed through Aes Sidhe on her way to Catharone. It seems one of the Priestess’ knights lost his squire to sickness during their tour. Seeing an opportunity for me to reach his level of greatness, my father placed me in their service. I followed them to Catharone and then back to Elysia, the whole journey took around five years. Within three of those years I was appointed a personal knight to the Priestess, undoubtedly due mostly to my father’s influence.”

Aichlan decided not to tell them how on the return trip he went home to find his mother had died during his five-year journey, how he resented his father for sending him away and not contacting him when she fell ill. Nor did he mention how the only words of consolation his father had to offer was that it was “the way of the warrior to suffer loss and drive on.”

He was never opposed to following his father into the military, if fact he desperately wanted it. Everyone always expected it of him, coincidentally; the only way to break free from the legendary general’s shadow was to make a bigger one. Aichlan had always suspected that was why Garrick sent him away, so that his legacy would remain intact with his son relegated to obscurity in Elysia.

Later, before his career lay in shambles, he learned of Garrick’s injuries suffered in some honor duel with a Rhodarcian General. He contemplated not going to his father’s deathbed, but the pain of not being there for his mother’s passing spurred him to make the journey home, only for further criticisms by his father’s dying breath.

Even then, he renounced his commission and sought out the warrior who had slain his father, only to discover that they wound up killing each other in their duel. Ever the dutiful son, he sought the next of kin, but nothing came of it. The son he sought vengeance upon had also been living in the shadows of greatness, and they came to understand the other better because of it. Fortunately, Renata was all too happy to return his title and standing upon his return, or unfortunately, as it seemed now.

He broke from his thoughts and caught the captivated faces of his silent audience through the purple haze as the cigarette passed hands after puffs. There was much more that he could say, but was not sure how well they would receive it, particularly how he arrived here with them. Deeper than that, he wondered whether or not his fate would have been the same had he not become involved with Renata, if he had never left Westfaire. He was after all only dead and returned because of his involvement with her, was it worth it? The saying was that it is more painful to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all, but was that really the case? He could have just as easily found a woman in Aes Sidhe, likely one that he would not have been killed and resurrected over. He tried to recall Renata and the time they shared, but it was all a blurry mess in his mind. He felt the pain of loss, but could not recall the joy.

“Needless to say,” Aichlan continued at length, coughing on the smoke thick in the air. “Working so close to Renata, we eventually fell in love. We, she, denied it at first, but eventually we gave into our passions. Her position prevented her from becoming involved with anyone; this forced us to hide our relationship. When we were discovered, the Cardinals and Bishops in her council tried to discreetly dispose of me.”

The elf to his right tapped his shoulder, and he paused to examine the strange herbal cigarette handed to him. He hoped taking a drag would keep him calm as he spoke of the backstabbing and corrupt leadership of The Order in Nassica. After a shallow puff, he was overcome by a fit of coughing by the herbs potency, eliciting a chuckle from several members of the circle. Eth produced another pouch of dried herb and rolled it into another cigarette as they reduced the first one to a tiny ember. Aichlan passed what remained of the cigarette and continued his story.

“When word first arrived of Osric’s army mounting in Briternica, I was sent to Arlien at the fort upon the border of Aes Sidhe”—he briefly considered telling them about his death and how his father’s spirit sent him back to complete some vague task, but he hardly believed it himself and decided against it. “We were routed by their superior numbers. Four thousand against seventy thousand was hardly fair”—he sighed— “I was mistaken for the dead and overlooked. I tried to return to Elysia by way of the River Tear, but didn’t quite make it.”

The woman finished dressing his wounds and slapped him on the back. “There you go luv. Daen’t know how that shouder’ll heal, I’ll have tae stitch it closed later. Should close and mend in a few weeks or so after that. Ye really should be dead though love.”

Aichlan nodded his thanks; her lovely green eyes seemed to sparkle when she smiled back at him. He blushed and hastily resumed polishing his sword. She quickly returned to her seat across the fire, taking his armor and uniform with her.

“Well,” Kielan began, breaking the silence. “The good news is that ye’ve made it tae Elysia, while quite some ways from Nassica, closer tae Sorn than anythin’ really.”

“And the bad news?” Aichlan paled in anticipation of the answer.

Kielan paused to take a drag from Eth’s freshly rolled cigar. “The bad news is, so did this Osric bloke.” He exhaled a massive cloud of smoke and passed the cigar to the woman.

“Where?” Aichlan’s chest tightened.

“In Nassica.”

Aichlan nearly collapsed; the Temple of Dawn and Renata were in Nassica. He was not sure of what had truly happened prior to waking in the river, but if he had received some mission from the gods it would appear that, he had failed. A cold panic griped his heart as his mind raced, with this failure, would he know death again? His anxiety had him so wrapped up in his own head that he nearly missed the conversation.

“We passed ‘em several days ago, they were headed in that d’rection,” Kielan pointed back over his shoulder, “and the fleeing townsfolk were headed south to Renoir or Cassatt. Daen’t know if they made it, we stuck to the woods—it’s usually best if nae one notices us ootside o’ Rhode.”

Aichlan tried to stand but a wave of dizziness forced him back down. “Forgive me, but I must go.”

He planted his sword into the ground to steady himself. The campfire dimmed and the elves around it became shadowy wraiths that warped and rolled as if they were on rough seas. It took him several moments to realize that it was his own eye playing tricks on him as his mind slipped out of consciousness.

“Go? Lad, ye had an arra’ juttin’ ootta yer shoulder, ye’ll nae be goin’ anywhere.” Kielan motioned for the woman to see to Aichlan, who swatted at the air stubbornly.

“No! I must…” A spate of coughing overcame him and he vomited blood before falling over into the dirt.

“Oh bollox!” The red-haired woman exclaimed. “I missed tha one on yer belly, might need a stitchin’…”

“Ye’ll die, boy.” Eth said calmly as he took a hit from the cigarette. “Ye’ll nae fare against those numbers; do yerself a favor an’ rest.”

“Well said, Eth,” The woman teased as she began to mix several herbs and powders in a canteen.

“I can’t rest,” Aichlan protested weakly, though making no further effort to move again.

“Cinaéd,” Kielan called over his shoulder.

A young man, who looked quite similar to Kielan, stood from his game of dice and made his way over to the injured Aichlan. He looked down at him with a mix of disgust and curiosity, before he returned his gaze to the one who summoned him.

“Spread word, we camp ‘ere for about a week or so, at least till oor friend here can walk two steps without bleedin’ ‘is guts out.”

The young man nodded, looking at Aichlan curiously once more before going about his task.

“I can’t… I can’t stay.” Aichlan continued to argue, his vision faded in and out.

“Well if ye be so set on goin’, I’m certain Lillea is willin’ tae give ya a lift to yer destination.” Kielan idly toked on his cigar. “Guaranteed ye’ll be dead either way.”

“…I shall rest for the night.” Aichlan relented, unwilling to return to the Tear and its psychotic guardian.

Kielan leaned back, smiling as he smoked. “So, now that that’s outta the way, tell me Aichlan, what d’you know about the Colby-Nau?”

* * *

The Xanavien camp bustled with activity as soldiers took stock of and quickly gambled away their newly acquired spoils. The soldiers that actually cared about their duties went about preparing for the next march into Renoir. Maleah nervously stood outside her brother’s tent, debating whether to go in or not. She tried to block out the sounds of women’s screams coming from the impromptu rape dungeons set up in some of the larger tents. Her brother had at least attempted to crack down on the practice, but seeing as most the men in the camp were conscripted from prisons and slums, it was a losing battle. A couple of passersby whistled at her as they passed, their rapacious eyes lingering too long upon her in passing.

She blew and exasperated breath at her bangs and folded her arms across her chest. They knew who she was; as such, they would not likely do anything foolish, least of all right in front of her brother’s tent. The constant catcalls were more an annoyance than any real concern. They did seem to have grown bolder ever since the main army set off for Sorn however, and she wondered why her brother chose to send off the real soldiers and keep the craven scum, but knew better than to ask anything aloud.

She struck her booted heel into the ground several times, digging a small hole. With each strike, she uttered a small groan, and with each groan, her resolve wavered. They had just left Nassica two days prior, after learning that the Priestess fled to the isle of Therion. The news would mean a long ride south and a cruise across that cursed sea, and not least of all, a very aggravated Osric.

Maleah did not look forward to any more life in the saddle, yet her stomach turned at the very thought of the sickness the sea would bring. It was not clear what her brother wanted with the woman, and she did not really care either, she was just unwilling to go traipsing across the continent in search of her. She sure as hell was not in the frame of mind to put up with Osric's foul disposition.

Several moments passed as she stood lost in thought and the noise of the camp, trying to think of what she could do or where she could go. It would be a pointless endeavor, the armies of The Order were on their last legs, and Elysia was already lost. A third of their army could finish them off, maybe less. It would make more sense to have her stay behind and guard the camp; it is not as if they would need her or her men in the coming slaughter. After some deliberation, she decided to just ride into the woods and take a nap; she was uninterested in dealing with her brother’s mood or the duties of command at the moment—or any moment if she was being honest.

Just as she turned to leave, her brother summoned her in. Swearing under her breath, Maleah lifted the tent flap and entered the heavily incensed room. She coughed and swatted the stinging smoke from her eyes as she attempted to adjust to the relative gloom. The elaborately furnished tent had silk curtains, a round mahogany table, and a full-sized bed with silk sheets and a down comforter. Several couches and cushioned armchairs placed upon expensive and ornate Lyresian rugs completed the decorum. The tent poles were faux columns with gilded capitals, satin and embroidered velvet hung from the braces. Candles burned atop chests and tables around the room. Several glowing orbs lifted from their pedestals and cradles as she entered and floated into position across the room, lifting much of the gloom. It was an ostentatious and gaudy mess.

As usual, Osric was pouring over several volumes at once, his table littered with ancient texts he had taken from the archives in Nassica. He beckoned a glowing orb with his hand, and it came to rest hovering over his head. Maleah idly wondered how he was able to make sense of so much information at once. Most people could not even make it through one of his books, let alone four at once.

In the corner, an icebox kept last night’s dinner cold and fresh for an indefinite time via some form of magic, which was well because her brother rarely took meals in a timely manner. She sprawled out on the couch and idly played with her hair as she chewed noisily upon a locally made confection—gum tree sap mixed with flavored syrups and dried fruit powder. Osric briefly looked up at her in annoyance sneered at his sister’s unladylike mannerisms.

“Close your legs, Maleah.” He chided.

She obliged by crossing her legs, but continued to slouch. Osric glanced up at her again and sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as he marked his place in the book and closed it. She grinned; he was always an easy person to get a rise out of.

“Why haven’t you changed?”

“Why haven’t you?” she retorted.

Osric closed his eyes and took a deep breath to calm himself. “I have. This is a uniform, and I own several.”

“Last I checked the Xanavien army didn’t wear robes and purple sashes.” She pointed her index finger at him and sucked her cheek twice in succession. “That’s Asketillian, brother, not Xanavien.”

Osric slammed his palms onto the table. “And the last I checked, captains didn’t go around dressed as harlots!”

“This is my uniform,” Maleah retorted, still chewing noisily.

“Would you spit that out?” Osric barked.

Maleah stopped chewing and swallowed the wad of gum. Osric scowled, but it soon gave way to an ironic chuckle as he made his way to the front of the table. He held out his hand and a steaming teapot floated across the room for him to grab. He set the pot down on the table and summoned a tin container in the same fashion.

“Do you take me for a fool, Maleah? I can still see the same stains that I saw yesterday and the day before that.” Osric angrily stuffed tealeaves into the pot of boiling water. “Did you bring any change of clothes like I asked?”

Maleah shrugged and avoided his gaze. She had not packed anything. She reasoned that it was too much of a hassle to lug anything around, packing and unpacking, since they set up camp only to take it down a few days later. On top of that, she would have to wash clothes, or find someone else to do it for her. Her philosophy was that it is just easier for her to borrow what she needed, or have Osric get it for her. When Séverin still traveled with them he saw all of her needs met, especially sparing them the slop prepared by the so-called “cooks” in the camp.

“No,” she responded innocently.

“I am not overly fond of the attention you are gathering around camp.” Osric’s tone softened as he ran his hand through his hair. “It is only a matter of time before some fool does the unthinkable and I am forced to make an example of most if not all of them.”

“They’re still our countrymen Osric.”

“And since when has that mattered? The Wolves were our countrymen as well and that didn’t stop them.”

She bowed her head, the last thing she wanted to be reminded of were The Wolves of Balalaika, the gang of bandits that ran their home village with impunity since before she was born.

“Do you have any more of those bath salts?” She asked, eager to change the subject.

Osric sighed and retrieved the salts from the shelf. He had issued an edict that all soldiers must bathe regularly with soap and warm water, since then sickness had all but been nonexistent in the camps. Everyone knew bathing was beneficial, it was still not clear how the use of soap aided in disease prevention, as far as she knew it only aided in keeping body odor from becoming insufferable. However, these salts from Elysia did something called “exfoliate,” which translated into silky skin, and Maleah had little qualms with that prospect.

“The fact that you are my sister and a competent warrior is the only reason I tolerate you, dear Maleah.” Osric tossed her a bottle of yellow salt crystals.

“I love you too, brother,” She replied sarcastically as he tossed her another filled with creamy teal syrup.

“It's for your hair. It’s bad enough you insist on dressing the part of a harlot, I’ll not have you looking like an urchin as well.”

Maleah tugged at a tangled lock and smelled the liquid, ignoring his comment. Her brother poured two cups of tea, and loaded one with several spoons of sugar. He levitated the sugary drink to his sister and took a drink from his own cup. Maleah frowned as she took her cup from the air before her. It was no coffee and vodka, but it would suffice.

“I swear, Maleah; I can’t understand how you drink it like a syrup.” He laughed, some semblance of humor returning.

Maleah sipped at the hot sludge. “And I can’t see how you drink it plain.” She turned to smile at her brother, but his golden eyes were vacant and fixated on a distant point. “Osric?”

“Hmm?” he grunted, snapping back into focus.

“Why are we here?”

He was silent for several moments as he flipped through the pages of a book. “Because we were ordered here. Why else?”

She sucked at her teeth and put down her cup. “You know what I mean.”

Osric contemplated his sister silently for several moments before closing the book. “The Order has become too powerful, it’s become a threat to our sovereignty, and in fact all of humanity. Men are easily corruptible sister, and so few should not wield so much power over the many. Especially when they stand to gain so much when offering only fairy-tales in return.”

Maleah stared into the half-empty cup as steam slowly rose from it. She was never explicitly religious, but she did attend services from time to time, and certainly did believe in the taint on humanity and the salvation that was the Elysium fields.

“I’m not here to question orders Osric,” She shook her head and set down the cup, “but it doesn’t seem right. Taking out Catharone and Thiudoricus made sense, we have had off and on conflict with them for years. But, Elysia? Moreover, why provoke Aes Sidhe? They’ve done nothing to us, and their armies still outclass our own, even if we have greater numbers.”

“Are you familiar with the creation of our world?” Osric asked, seemingly ignoring her previous points.

“What? Osric this is serious. What is the—”

“Do you or don’t you sister? It is a simple question deserving a simple response.”

Maleah waved her hand in a “so-so” gesture, surprised by the sudden change in tone the conversation took. He had been odd ever since this campaign began. When they first left Sarevon, he was often sick with fear. As they approached Elysia however, a change came over him, and it was not altogether pleasant.

“I figured as much.” He took a sip of tea before continuing, “Abigor, the beast that towered over even the mountains of southern Thiudoricus, ruled in The Realm of Dusk. In his fury with the singing children of Dawn, the Eloi, he cast a stone that became our world and the universe we reside in. When our worlds collided, and the ensuing vortex subsided, Abigor was left alone with his rage and sorrow.”

“How sad,” Maleah teased.

“He was later imprisoned in his realm of Dusk after trying to cross the void to the realm of Dawn,” Osric continued, ignoring the comment. “Fearing another such attempt, the Eloi destroyed their gateway to the realm, shutting Silex off from the realm of Dawn for good.”

Maleah scrunched her face as she contemplated his words. While she often deferred to her brother when he presented some fact or another, this revelation went at odds with what little she did know. One of the tenants of The Order was that through diligence, man could purge himself of the Dusk’s taint and find paradise in the Realm of Dawn. It was the basis of their religion, of their teachings and many would argue the basic morality of their civilization.

“But that doesn’t sound right brother, the church says—”

“The church was founded by a woman sick with grief after all she knew had been destroyed.” Osric hissed, silencing her. “She created these little stories of purging taints or whatnot to try and hold onto the last shreds of her sanity. Other’s latched onto her stories and it only served to reinforce her delusions.”

Maleah pouted as she crossed her arms. “Do you have any proof of this?”

“That is what we were sent to find.” Osric held out his hands, “The other nations will pursue us, and they too shall see the proof, that Elysium is a lie and the only chance of paradise we have is what we can make for ourselves here and now.”

“And where is that exactly?” She asked, still doubtful.

Osric smiled and dismissed the scrolls and floating texts; they stacked and rolled themselves up, returning to their place in chests and upon tables. “Abigor was not an evil creature, but neither was it intelligent. It was a beast awoken from deep slumber. No, its cunning came after the Eloi’s scorn, for the realm of Dusk is the realm of Dawn’s reciprocal. When the two worlds were separated, the Dusk-born were free to evolve, shall we say.”

“Evolve? What the hell is that?”

Osric summoned a chair from across the room and took a seat, crossing his legs as he sipped his steaming tea. Maleah slurped her own drink, wishing her brother did not insist upon creating questions and leaving them unanswered. How did the church lie? Moreover, about what? Who started this campaign in the first place?

“That demon holds the truth,” His voice took on a distant quality, as if convincing himself more than anything, “having been there since the very beginning.”

“Well what does all this have to do with the black gate?” Maleah finally managed to ask; leaving several moments of silence and her brother’s cold gaze to hang between them.

“I want to open it.” He said, as if it were obvious, and took a sip of tea.

Osric had taken on the fervent look that he attained when speaking of his passions or some experiment, which he had single-mindedly put all his efforts into. She had watched him give lectures in the Academy, and had often seen him gain this look during heated discussions. Though she rarely knew anything of the subject matter, she felt pride at her brother’s knowledge and confidence regarding the subjects he spoke of passionately. Now, however, anxiety quickly replaced that proud feeling and she shrank away from her brother.

“But why?”

Her brother laughed aloud, the spontaneity of it frightened Maleah.

“Osric…?”

“Why?” He laughed. “Because he swore vengeance upon the Eloi, those fool children who seek to keep humanity in a state of infancy! That is why, Maleah.”

She recoiled at the maniacal glint in his eyes. “You scare me, brother.”

Osric waved his hand in dismissal. “Good. Maybe now you will do as I say. Now go bathe and change. You’ll find servants and clothing in your tent.”

Osric looked up at Maleah as if to ask, “Why are you still here?” She promptly rose and stormed out of the tent. Upon exiting, she crashed into two Elysian women who hastily bowed their heads and blushed. One scrambled to pick up a bundle of towels and a straight razor blade.

“What do you want?” Maleah snapped, further angered by their reticence. She was about to continue when the realization dawned that they did not understand Xanavien, so she repeated the question in halting Elysian.

“The Lord Osric hath commanded us to attend to the lady Maleah.”

Maleah snorted in derision and turned her back to the women, her brother grew up on the same shitty plot of land she had, he was no Lord. Though Maleah readily admitted to laziness, she was hardly lame or incompetent, she did not need two slaves to indulge and wait on her every need; that was the job of her brothers. Maleah shifted her weight to one leg and placed her hand on her hip as she looked over her attendants. They must have worked for some aristocrat or church official as their manner of dress, though tattered, was quite expensive, and they did not bear the look of working class women.

“Has he now?” She responded with heavy accent.

“Yes milady,” the shorter woman began, stumbling over her words, likely fearing for their lives. “He instructed us to prepare the lady’s bath…” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, only for it to fall free again as she glanced up at her new master, embarrassed and fearful.

Maleah ignored the two women and strode off, unconcerned if they followed her or not. The women hurried after her.