The procession through the canals was largely conducted in silence. Aya had tossed a few questions to the guard captain, but he unerringly answered that all would be explained in the near future. So, Aya sat before Lillian as they were propelled in one of the sleek bronzed boats of the sand-shell legion.
When they reached the large red stakes of the river gate, they were instantly waved through. The buildings were larger here, and considerably older at a glance. The streets were almost completely empty, save for the occasional patrol working through the streets.
“Is it common here? Crime, I mean,” Aya said, pointing to one of the pairs of guards.
“No,” said the captain, “the old district is a peaceful place. The patrols you see are for the sake of the Festival. Young rascals have been known to sneak in to pinch fireworks and the like for their own ends.”
“Fireworks?” asked Aya, vaguely remembering her mother talking about such things.
“If you stay for the festival, you’ll see,” he said, the start of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
After a few minutes, they drew up to the steps of a particularly large ziggurat. This one was a bright white studded with grit, like dirty snow. Aya was helped out of the boat by the captain, Lillian stepping out behind and keeping close to her. As large as the pyramid was, the structure on top of it was magnificent even by comparison. Aya did not fail to notice the bridges and walkways connecting it to other, similarly massive buildings.
“This is the entrance to the Eisen estate, my lady,” he said, “you’ve been given leave to enter, though I do not know what kind of reception you should expect to see.”
Aya fingered the sygil, wrapped in the embroidered cloth with her family tree on it, took a deep breath, and began to climb into the pyramid. They were welcomed into an expansive parlour, with wooden plank flooring covered in ornate carpets. A maidservant was on hand to offer them a tray containing a richly detailed tea set.
While it was pouring for them, Aya became aware that a considerable number of voices were arguing nearby. Lillian also seemed to notice, perking up and tilting her head to sus out the signs. Quickly however, she slumped back and took one of the tea cups.
“It’s no use,” she said, “I can’t hear half the words, and they’re all in the Karkos tongue.”
“You can hear them?” said Aya, distracted from her trembling hand holding the delicate porcelain.
Lillian nodded, taking a sip, and blinking in surprise.
“That’s good,” she said, “what is it?”
“Peablossom,” the handmaiden said, before taking the tray in her arm and informing them that someone would see them soon.
True to her word, there came an older man, dressed in relatively simple, if well made grey-green robes, shutting the doors behind him. Aya took a close look at him, noticing the smile lines on his face and the streak of grey in his hair and beard.
“Baeinto. Good,” he said, “you’ve arrived. My deepest apologies for keeping you waiting. You must be Aya, and you must be the paladin. I’m afraid I haven’t heard your name.”
“Lillian, Paladin of the Church,” she said, putting down her cup and offering her hand.
“Oh, there’s no need for that,” said the man, “you are guests in our home, not associates on business. A pleasure to meet you. I have the fortune of being named Fasili. I am the husband of matriarch Aystara, and the manager of the household.”
Aya blinked. It took a moment for the realisation to set in.
“You mean, you’re my…?” she said, stopping just short of the words, Lillian looking at her in confusion.
“Your grandfather? Well, not exactly,” he said, “let’s say for the purposes of your meeting, yes. I don’t know how much your mother has told you about the history of your family. It’s a little complicated. Now, we should go to the main house. It'd be best to explain on our way.”
They were led out through the hallways, her ‘grandfather’ walking ahead of them.
“Now, you see, you’ve caused quite a stir, Aya,” he said, smiling, “half the family’s up in arms because of your claim. They view it as a forgery, a sham to access our wealth and status.”
“What?” Aya gasped. The notion hadn’t even crossed her mind.
“Now, now. I’m not saying I agree with them,” he said, “but it’s not an entirely unjustified reaction. This is not the first time something like this has happened.”
“But I- I have this,” she said, “my mother gave it to me. Said it was from my family.”
She fished out the knife, sygil, and the embroidery with her family tree. All were taken and examined with great interest by Fasili.
“Oh my,” he said, “well, if you are a forger, you certainly have talent.”
He had a quiet laugh, gently reassuring her that he meant nothing by it. She was handed back the various implements, promising to keep them on her person.
“In fact,” he said, “I happen to specialise in the finer things as a hobby. Those certainly look genuine to me. Your mother was Assyeria, no?”
She nodded fervently at her mother’s name.
“Yes, that’s right. Either way, I will not be making the ultimate decision. That’s for the matriarch,” he said.
“And where is this matriarch?” said Lillian, “seems awfully strange to send for us, then not even be here to greet us.”
“The matriarch is a very busy woman,” said her grandfather, “she’s out attending the preparations for the festival, as she does every year. We’ve sent out messengers to inform her what has happened. As to who sent for you, you have my deepest apologies.”
He gestured back behind him.
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
“That was the argument you might have heard while you were waiting. One of the younger members of our family got hasty. He invoked the matriarch’s name to prompt the sand shell legion to action. That Ayria, always so protective…”
He tutted in a way that communicated complete understanding and sympathy, tempered by a measured disapproval.
“In any case, he’ll be in quite the spot of trouble when the matriarch gets back,” he said, “she’ll not be happy with this behaviour. Not at all. No, no, he shouldn’t have done it, despite his reasoning.”
“So- I’m sorry, we were led here on false pretences?” said Lillian.
“Not entirely,” he said, “the matriarch would almost certainly have sent for you when she found out. I imagine she’ll be marching her on the double once the messages reach her. We’ll wait for her in the main hall.”
They reached a bridge, its supporting pillars strung with ribbons and lanterns, as well as elaborate curling cast iron pots encasing brilliant blooms. It led to the centre of the complex of buildings, a smaller pyramid separated by a shallow moat of water, covered with lilies pads and marsh plants.
They entered the pyramid, finding themselves in a space double the size of Kieren’s hall. Whereas she’d had a corridor separating two large kitchens which led into the main hall, this was entirely open.
At the centre, a series of steps escalated to an ankle-deep pool hosting immense stone tables. Upon these were racks of every kitchen implement imaginable. Most impressive of all was the enormous slab of white granite flanked by two ancient shelves of knives. Far above the assembly, an opening in the ceiling showed the cloudy sky.
“Welcome to the main hall of the Eisen, the oldest pyramid in the city,” said her grandfather with a humble bow.
“My mother told me about these!” Aya said it, and, unable to stop herself, she raced up the steps to the pool, only stopping just before the edge, “each set belongs to a different member of the family!”
“The Eisen have always had a tradition of cooks. The culinary school of Karkos bears our name for good reason. Writing was more my art of interest, but still, I cannot help but enjoy being surrounded by such history,” said Fascili, stopping beside her.
Aya looked around, and sure enough, there was a set with a paring knife missing. She drew out the one gifted to her by her mother. It was the exact same, the pattern of the steel, the green wrapping around the dark grey handle.
“May I?” she said, gesturing to the pool.
Her grandfather looked at the knife, then at the position on the rack, and smiled.
“You may,” he said.
Aya made her way over to where her set was stowed, and placed the knife along with its siblings. A perfect fit, without a doubt - these were her mother’s knives.
“If I hadn’t been convinced before, that certainly would’ve done it,” said Fascili, hiking up the edge of his robes to walk into the water.
Lillian, to Aya’s amusement, kept at the edge of the water, probably to avoid getting her boots wet rather than any sense of propriety. Her grandfather peered down, examining the knives and nodding in approval.
“Say, want to use them?” he said, with a twinkle in his eyes.
“I can use them?!” she practically shrieked, fingers reaching for them, then shrinking back, “won’t grandmother… I mean the matriarch, get angry with me?”
“If she does, the blame shall fall squarely on my shoulders,” he said, tilting the knife set and sliding its holster from the rack.
He handed the entire set to Aya, who reverentially set them down on one of the great tables that surrounded the centre platform. She took out each one, inspecting them for fractures or chips. Clearly they’d been kept in excellent condition, for there was relatively minor damage to only a select few. Her grandfather had taken out what must’ve been his own set, and was busy laying them out on the surface.
“Far be it from me to brag, but I’m confident in my knife work. Not far from holding a brush. Shall we have a little contest while we wait?”
“What kind of contest?” asked Aya, trying to sort the knives in the order that he’d done on the table.
He called in the rapid tongue of Karkos, which Aya could only pick up a few words. One of the servants came forward with a series of plates and pots. There were vegetables, olive oil and vinegar, as well as a slab of aged meat. Soon Aya was happily chopping and slicing on a provided wooden cutting board.
“So, Aya, tell me about your life,” her grandfather said, working just as fast as he claimed, “As I know so little of it, I’m afraid.”
She told him as she disassembled cheese and heads of lettuce, celery and olives, all going into a bowl. About her life in the village, seemingly dirt poor and simple compared to Karkos. She left out the sickness that had prompted her leaving, rather suggesting that it was her parent’s wish that she be a ward of the church. She was looking at Lillian the whole time while she told the half truth, the woman’s expression unsure if gratitude or discomfort was the correct response.
She detailed the many trials of being chased through the mountains and forests by the horrid creatures. This drew exclamations of horror, sympathy and commandments for her bravery by the man, who was largely consumed with cutting shockingly thin slices of the salted meat. Aya had laid out her final journey to Karkos, save for her lesson with the mage, while adding the finishing touches to the saad.
“Well, that is quite a tale, I do admit,” he said, stroking his beard, “now we’d better eat this.”
“Did I win?” she said, having quite forgotten what they were competing over.
“Yes. But I listened to your life’s tale, so in a sense, we both won,” he said, picking up the plates.
The plates of the salad were actually looking quite inviting, and he and Sorore clambered out of the pool and down to one of the many tables. Lillian was looking on as they began to feast on the fruits of their labour, but politely refused the offer to try some.
“What did you mean about how you’re not really my grandfather?” said Aya, picking at a leaf with her bare hands.
“Oh that,” he said, chewing and swallowing another mouthful, “I am your grandmother’s second husband. She already bore your mother before she met me. The first one… well, we don’t talk about it in this house. It ended poorly.”
“Oh,” said Aya, quickly digging into the remainder of her salad to avoid any further awkward questions.
“I don’t mean to imply that you are lesser for it,” he added, “your grandmother adored Assyeria and when she left well…”
He leaned over and said with a smile.
“Don’t tell her I said this, because I think she would throw me in the moat, but she was heartbroken when her baby left for the north. She’s been wanting to meet her granddaughter for years.”
“Mama said she brought her a lock of my hair, five years ago now?”
“Yes,” he said, “which is one reason I had cause to believe your story. You have her look. Your grandmother keeps that locket on her neck, constantly.”
The image of an elderly woman, dressed in fine silks, being led arm in arm with Fascili, all while a bronze locket hung from her neck, was pleasing to her. Though Aya wasn’t entirely sure it fit with ‘going out often’.
“So do I have no cousins?” she said.
“Plenty,” said Fascili, “oh, you mean… no, no true aunts or uncles. We’ve never had other children. Another reason why your mother’s departure was difficult for the family. Left something of a mess to clean up, unfortunately.”
Aya tried not to feel inherited embarrassment on the part of her mother, though she couldn’t imagine why she’d want to leave.
“It’s not her fault,” said her grandfather, picking up on her thoughts, “the matriarch, in my humble opinion, was being unreasonable. She’d found a man that made her happy, just like your grandmother did. I can absolutely understand why your mother wanted to leave. Tea!”
One of the servants came forward with a tea set and firewood for the inbuilt stove. He quickly apologised, as he’d forgotten the fire starter and would have to return to the main house.
“Oh dear,” said Fascili as he raced off, “I think he forgot that we keep flints in the kitchen.”
Aya thought for a second as she finished the last of her salad. Then she swung her legs out from under the table, and made her way around to the little fire pit underneath the stovetop.
“What are you doing?” said her grandfather, plainly confused.
“A small trick,” she said, crouching by the bundle of wood and pickling up a bundle of shavings, “something I picked up back home.”
Memory of flickering flames and warm shadows dancing on the walls. The intention of heat in her blood. A desire to impress this man she wanted fully to believe was her grandfather.
Pop.
She couldn’t believe it was so easy. There it was, above her fingers, a little wavering orange flame. But her hand was quickly becoming uncomfortably warm, so she lit the kindling and thrust it into the stacks of wood. After a moment of panic, she managed to stop the magic, her fingers becoming cool once more.
“How did you do that?” said her grandfather, craning over the table to look at her.
“It’s a secret,” she said, smiling at him, “I can’t tell you everything in on-”
She saw Lillian’s face. White, eyes widened, mouth clenched. If she’d not seen, then she’d sensed. Of course, how could Aya have been so stupid? The woman was also a magic user, and her senior at that. Lillian opened her mouth, trying to speak, to exclaim what her worst anxieties told her.
In that moment, Aya was saved from a spectacularly awkward confrontation by the sounds of commotion at the entrance to the pyramid.
“Ah, that sounds like the Matriarch,” said Fascili, “we should go to her.”
Leaving the magic question for later, the paladin got up and followed Aya and her grandfather. They soon came to one of the bridges, where a group of people were arguing at its centre. To the right of the bridge, there was a younger man, to the right, there was an older woman flanked by four adults in fine clothing.
Whatever conversation came to an end as the older woman grabbed the youth’s shirt and, with a sharp shove, sent him flailing backwards over the railing and into the moat.
“Oh dear,” said her grandfather, “seems like she found out about Ayria. Not happy at all.”
Aya watched the woman turn to the centre pyramid, several of her retinue cringing back in fear. All her images of a wizened, grey haired grandmother vanished, as she remembered that her own mother had told her she’d been bore young. The result was a woman perhaps in her mid-fifties, with raven hair and sun-darkened skin. She was relatively short, but with a broad frame that spoke of practised strength accentuated by confident strides.
“Now the little shit’s been dealt with!” roared her grandmother in accented continental, “Where in the name of the Bloody-Handed is my so-called granddaughter?!”