Lithoniela

Ni Netela

Cin, Minue Elain o Run Lithoniela;

Ni Netela.

The silver medal used to read. The calligraphic intricately engraved letters blackened now, the fire and time having ruined, what once was polished and perfect. The shine had faded long ago and its surface, she now felt with the tips of her fingers, had turned rough, where a chain was once attached. The small hole leaving the sun rays pass through, creating a yellow dot on the water’s surface. If one were to glance at it, without knowing what it was, he’d mistake it for an old worn-out coin.

Lithoniela touched that bright small round mark with a long finger and recreated the phrase on the water’s surface, as if her finger was a quill. It stayed there, a blackboard made of water, as the day it was made, not by an engraver’s tool, but a Queen’s magic. The memories found the thread and resurfaced, the nature around her charitable and the Goddess sated from the offering. The latter, a shadow souring her mood and turning the moment bitter.

The shadow grew, the redwood tree so near the river, bend and half rotten, but tall enough to shade everything under it, accepting the familiar intrusion and adding it to its own. Fooled by the mummer’s trick. The shadow breathed, because it was alive, the illusion holding, when she turned her head and casted the ‘Seers Eye’, Glen had so foolishly used without permission the other day, using the old Imperial word for reveal.

Cenaeda.

Nothing happened.

The shadows remained, the energy flowing back into the tree via the exposed half-rotten root, she’d touched with her bare foot, when Lithoniela let go of the thread, ending her spell.

Lithoniela stood up gracefully and gathered her boots. She wore them one at a time, taking her time, feeling the eyes of the intruder on her all along. Old eyes, they were. The gaze strong and impossible to mistake, as she’d felt it again not long ago. She’d mistaken him for a stray then. A hapless survivor, horribly maimed, forced to live among the Sinya Nore and pretend he was something, other than what he was. His ruse wasn’t out of need then, or necessity, Lithoniela decided finishing up. It was a skill.

One of old Nym’s pupils. The lowest of the low. Still though, sworn servants to the Goddess’ son. Her youngest. Perhaps not cherished, as much as her only daughter, nor forgiving, as much as both her other prideful and older sons. For he was silent and gloomy. Always running from the light.

Bound he was, Oras and his servants, to the Goddess and her Queen. The one sitting on the throne of Wetull. The Empress of the Realm.

“That is what you gave,” Lithoniela said, in the old tongue. “What you lost to take the vow. He must have liked you, very much.”

The shadow stirred and like a thin fabric released, it collapsed and dissolved into the giant redwood shades, the man behind it appearing in its place. He smelled of death and foul magic. Lithoniela swallowed slowly and forced herself to stay still. A part of her wanted to run, a mix of shyness and fear behind it, the other cried for her to touch him. Taste his memories and the flesh they were written on. The longing so great, it sent a quiver down her loins.

She gasped, unable to hold it in and the Zilan assassin smiled.

“Apologies,” He said, his Imperial unpracticed, the accent rough, almost uncivilized. “I was stunned, when I realized… who you were.”

“I never visited Elas Study,” Lithoniela whispered, feeling apprehension at the mention of the vaunted place, where the Tower of Shadows stood. The island of Nureria. “Nor I remember you from elsewhere.”

If he was insulted, he hid it well. The man stepped away from the tree, the step noiseless. A taunt, the flaunting of his power ruining the well maintained veneer of indifference he’d managed in her presence and betrayed the sacrilegious source of his power. Lithoniela realized she was out of practice, unready to wrestle with one of her kind, if it came to it. The years living alone and aimless, dragging her down.

“It still remains. I sensed no thread, nor sacrifice. Smooth as a trade, the rest of us can only dream of,” Larn said, pointing at the surface of the river. The waters flowing constantly, but what she’d written still visible on them. “Only the royal line, could indulge themselves with art, without fear of injury,” He paused, as if unsure how much to say. “When Goras crumbled into the sea… the palace went with it, they say. The Queen entered Oakenfalls alone in the end,” Larn’s silver eyes examined her in a ravenous manner, his need as great, but more vulgar. “Perished there she did, leaving nothing of hers behind.”

Lithoniela clenched her fist around the medal tightly. She felt the forest awaken around them, sensing her turmoil. Every sound became clearer, every color brighter and the shadows retreated. Larn stepped back, his face now clearly visible; from the narrow chin, completely hairless face and plucked eyebrows, to the horribly maimed ears. Cut with a blunted blade and with his own hand, as with all parts of flesh, one offered to the God of Death.

Pain and suffering, being the real offering.

“Who do you serve?” Lithoniela asked, keeping the disgust from her voice.

“I serve the Fading Light,” Larn replied. “And perhaps you. If you wished it.”

“You follow the old ways,” Lithoniela pointed, with a small hesitation. “Nym didn’t.”

Larn smiled again, an unnerving routine obviously unpracticed.

“Same as you, mistress,” He replied knowingly and Lithoniela felt her stomach turn at the intimate turn and the shame, knowing he’d seen her fouling herself so. “Despite what your mother preached.”

Thee, are the foremost star of dawn, Lithoniela, the Queen had written on the medal, she had pried from her melted fingers, a hundred and ninety years ago.

Ni Netela.

My daughter.

END

OF

~ACT I~

A hint of Magic