The servants of the Artoss family were experts. Shepherding around drunken cultivators was a dangerous business, a stumble here or there could take out a wall. So the fact that I awoke in a particularly fine bed in a guest room I had no recollection of was a significant achievement. What raised them to masters of their art was the large pitcher of water and the still-warm sandwich layered with bacon and lettuce.
Even for cultivators, dehydration could leave your head pounding, so I greedily gulped down the water. My room was luxurious. A four-poster bed dominated the space, and a brief inspection led to a washroom that included a personal bath, which was still steaming. I sank into it, revelling in the decadence of regular access to hot water. I inspected the soaps with the expertise of an alchemist, and after a sniff and scrub, realised that they alone would likely be worth their weight in gold.
I was drying myself when a knock came at the door, and I was informed that Pellinore wanted to know if I’d join him for a walk in the gardens.
After following Robertson for a few minutes, I was surprised when our journey concluded in a clanking room of metal, steam, and roaring flames, with him pointing me through a discreet door. I opened it to a wonder. We were in a vast glass building as big as the main hall, the place choked with plants blooming in riotous colour. The air was muggy and warm. A thousand and one smells assaulted my nose until my senses worked out how to mute the different scents.
Pellinore was looking at some flowers that were oddly angular, as if made from sharply folded paper, which, even as I watched, shifted from red to purple to blue and back again. The flowers grew from a mass of vines that wound up a vast stone pillar supporting the central spine of the glass ceiling. I distantly remembered hearing of such a flower, maybe I’d seen a faded picture? It was a fuzzy memory, and I couldn’t even recall the name, let alone where I’d learnt of it.
“How do you like this place?” Pellinore said with a smile. He seemed at ease. I noticed that we were alone, with no sign of anyone else about. Even Robertson the butler hadn’t joined us.
“It’s truly a marvel, Patriarch,” I replied a little stiffly. I was still trying to find my way with the enigmatic Artoss. Part of me wanted to believe he was everything he appeared, but it was just so hard to trust someone tainted by the concept of family.
“Please, I loathe the title. Pellinore, if you must. You know this is my favourite plant in our special gardens,” Pellinore called over his shoulder, his tone laconic and relaxed, as if this was but a mere stroll, not a long-sought reunion.
“I recognise them from somewhere, but I can’t remember where,” I offered as I approached and inspected the oddly geometric blooms. I didn’t dare touch them; they had a strong sense of glamour, so who knew what properties they might have.
“Your mother planted this vine. She spent a lot of time here.”
“She did?” I almost reached out, forgetting my earlier caution, my eyes locking onto a flower, only to snap back at the last moment, a frown on my brow.
“Indeed, her path was always among the witches, no matter what my father wanted. She’d go out questing, and while everyone else returned with the cores of monsters and tales of battle, she’d have a satchel full of dirt and flowers.” Pellinore smiled. “This was something she found during her questing. It had no name we could find, so she called it a Dupliciflorous.”
“A two-faced flower.” It was a fitting name.
“Indeed. A fool might think it was because of the colour changing, but anyone—any Artoss—would spot the truth that hides beneath that.” He chuckled.
“Is this a test?” I felt my hackles rise. This was closer to what I thought should be happening. That he’d called me out here to see if I was worthy of the Artoss name, no matter if I wanted it or not.
“It would be if I didn’t know you’d already worked it out. I didn’t call you out here to make you prove yourself, especially not at what I’ve long treated as the memorial to your mother.” There was a hint of reproach, a sense of hurt in his voice. I bit my spiteful tongue and tried to think of him as someone like Miss Peaches.
Powerful beyond measure but not unthinkingly cruel.
“These aren’t flowers. Each petal is some kind of illusion over some kind of thorn.” I could sense the glamour, light and dream working together to create the petals.
Dupliciflorous, the two-faced flower that’s not a flower at all,” Pellinore sighed and flicked a wave of glamour over the vine, disrupting the illusions. Each petal was a fan of hair-thin spines with hooked tips, and trapped in them was a litter of small bugs. “A greater lie, hidden behind an obvious deception. That’s the Artoss way. A way we lost under my father. We lost so much under his rule, and among the greatest treasures lost was your mother.” Pellinore sighed and stepped back, revealing a small plaque: ‘Dupliciflorous, added to the collection and named by Gwendolyn Artoss.’
I was there a long while, until the tears cleared and the sharp pain in my throat passed. I looked over to him, and we began to walk down an avenue between the plots, each planter filled with ingredients that rivalled natural treasures for rarity.
“Do you have questions for me?” Pellinore asked. Of course I did, a thousand and one questions, many burning with resentment. Why did it take so long for him to fight back? Why was my mother sold off? The encounter with the vine, though, had filled me with fresh questions. What could he tell me of my mother? What was she like before she was sent to Albion?
My head was stuffed with a cacophony of warring emotions, not helped by the distrust and fear of family, and that tension that came from speaking to someone so much more powerful than me. Was this all a trick? Was the Dupliciflorous a hint? Was this a test? I racked my brains, wondering what I knew of Pellinore Artoss, really. The only source I could consider truth was the little my mother had told me.
“I have a question.” I called up one of the only stories I really knew. “Did you really win a horse race disguised as a horse?”
Pellinore froze, and for a moment the look of sombre serenity on his face vanished, replaced with a hollow-eyed, fragile look of profound loss. It was so potent it echoed in his glamour. As with Maeve yesterday, his aura shifted, and there was a crushing sense of weight, as if I were supporting the whole world upon my back. It lasted a fraction of a second, but it was enough to make me stumble, my body fighting the imaginary weight.
A hand caught me. Pellinore helped me back up. “I’m very sorry. You caught me off guard. I’d forgotten I’d told her that little secret, so that was a shock. Are you alright? My aura slipped.”
“I’d rather avoid it, but I’m tougher than most.”
“That is not in doubt. As to your question, I did, in fact, compete disguised as a horse. However, I only ever told two… three people, and the only other person who knew was my brother. As he was the front of the horse he was acutely aware of my involvement. It was a secret that I’d served as the back legs. Those who knew are all… gone. Have been for some time, so it’s a story I’ve not had a chance to speak about in a long time.” The warring emotions on his face cleared, and the smile returned. “I’m pleased it’s not forgotten.”
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
We walked quietly for a moment or two more as I digested what that meant. I knew little of the internal workings of the Artoss house, but it was clear to me that a great upheaval had occurred.
“What was the goal? Why did your fath… the previous patriarch do all this?” I changed how I framed it. I hated being associated even casually with the Harkleys. I doubted Pellinore enjoyed having his heritage rubbed in his face.
“The Artoss have always been one of the houses closest to the Fae. You likely don’t know, but the houses elect diplomats to visit their courts, and for millennia, the Artoss have been part of those delegations.” Pellinore paused and opened a door into another glass room. This one was dry and as hot as an oven. The planters were no longer earth but lined with sand. The plants were spiky and bulbous. “Pellam Artoss just didn’t have the spark. He was powerful, strong, and blunt. The Fae didn’t favour him; the summer court once even expelled him. They didn’t see him as an Artoss. He was ‘a goose among swans,’ as the Summer Queen once put it.”
“A sensible man would’ve gone off and formed an Order or something. But no, Pellam tried to reform Artoss, cast aside what we once were, and make us anew. He vandalised our identity, pushed away those, like your mother, who exemplified what it was to be Artoss, and sent any who resisted out on impossible quests, giving them ignoble exile or honourable death.”
“You… this was allowed to happen?”
“Each house of renown can
only have one Mithril. This is an ancient agreement. There are other Mithrils out there who are from our line, but they can’t just show up and strike his head from his shoulders, especially not with the Divine Cultivators waiting for a chance to strike. The only way to get rid of him was for another family to go to war with us and slay him, for him to step down, or for another of our Steels to rise to Mithril and demand control of the house.”
“My father was head of our family for less than a century. My rise to power was meteoric. I was determined and hid my ambitions, my growing power, and the favour the Fae lavished upon me. Pellam never stood a chance. A century at Mithril is no time at all to build your power. The aid promised by the Divine Cultivators he spent so much time courting evaporated like morning dew. Know that if I could’ve done it sooner, I would’ve.” Pellinore paused, looking at an odd plant that looked like it was made up of repeating blobs of plant matter, each one a different shade and holding different types of glamour. Succulents, I remembered the plant family being called.
All Pellinore’s words had been true. Maybe a Mithril could hide from the Fae senses, but it didn’t seem right. I felt like I was seeing the real person here. Maybe I was foolish or naive to think such things, to trust him on nothing more than a strange sense and gut instinct, but I did.
“Gwendolyn… Mum didn’t speak of many of the Artoss fondly. But she did mention you and your stories, though.”
“In that, I am pleased, and I’m pleased to meet you. It’s strange—I’ve had images made of you before, and you had parts of her there, but this version of you leaves no doubt that you are her son. I must confess a great shame of mine, that I doubted your heritage. Part of why I didn’t march over there and grab you as soon as I came to power. I blame my lack of creativity, a lack of faith in your mother, and a lack of faith in you. From the outside, you must know it seemed the weakest lie—you disappearing for years, only to return acting as a subservient little bootlicker! I was irate, and like a dullard, I sought out the aid of the Fae. I wanted to know if you were the real son of Gwendolyn Artoss and Regus Harkley.”
“You never imagined she had them all fooled! So when they told you I wasn’t…” Things started to fall into place. I looked back at the man. The looming presence, among the most powerful in the realm, was embarrassed. He wasn’t just trying to make amends for his father’s failure with my mother, but for the way he’d failed me.
“I abandoned you as lost. Even if you’d had that hateful heritage, I’d have come for you. A reminder—despite our favour, never trust the Fae with your emotions. They speak the truth, but they revel in hiding lies within it, and there is little they enjoy more than seeing us weep.” Pellinore took a deep breath and led me through to another room, this one so wet that droplets began to form on my hair the second I stepped in. We were following a wide loop around the central glass building in which my mother’s vine resided.
“So imagine my surprise. I’m summoned by Morgan to talk about my fake descendant slain at a fake wedding. I think Morgan Chox—sorry, most call her the Raven or Mother Chox. Make sure you don’t call her that yourself.”
“I think I’ll manage,” I muttered, trying to purge the memory. To distract myself, I examined an odd plant behind a metal fence, jumping back as it lunged at me.
“Yeah, stay away from that. I don’t know its name, but it’s always hungry. There’s something uniquely unsettling about a plant with teeth.” He glared at the thing, which shrank back from the railings of its enclosure. “Now, where were we? That’s it—I’m called over by her and told this exquisite story, a man who hid himself as a delicate, injured parfumier, all the while finding the perfect place to sink a dagger. Imagine my shock when they reveal not only your deception but Gwendolyn’s. And to top it off, you’re still alive! Somehow beyond the bloodcurse!”
“Imagine how I felt.” That got a dark laugh out of Pellinore. We exited the steam room and now headed back to the vine-coated pillar.
Pellinore paused as we entered the avenue that led back to the Dupliciflorous, his face taking on a stern look as he radiated strength. As he began to speak, I could feel his words held power. This wasn’t mere speech but a decree. “Taliesin, son of Gwendolyn, I wish to know more of you. I want to support you and see what you will grow into. Know this, whether you wish to bear the name Artoss or not, you have my protection. I dare not insult you by saying you’ve earned the name, not when you are the embodiment of it.”
“Thank you, it is more praise than I know what to do with.” I felt itchy. Had I ever been praised in such grand terms? Not since my mother. I felt equal parts flattered, unworthy, and livid. To know that people recognised my labours and respected that hardship was unexpectedly heartening. Yet the angry part of me seethed; how dare he speak as if he knew me, act as if his words mattered? It was akin to asking for forgiveness. If I carried that name…
“I don’t expect an answer now. Please, rest with your friends, consolidate your power, and decide where your path might take you. I would like it if we could keep talking, even if it is on less personal topics. There’s plenty of practical training you’ve missed out on.” I bit my tongue before I said something I’d regret. We came back to the pillar, and I looked over to find Pellinore staring at the colour-changing vines. His easy look was gone, his face a mask like the one I’d so often worn, hiding emotions beneath it.
I didn’t know what I wanted. The idea of family hurt. My body reacted to the very concept like poison. The images it conjured were so overwhelmingly negative that I couldn’t stomach it. Looking at the vines, though, made me wish my mother was here. I longed to hear one of the little songs she’d sing, or feel her pop over my shoulder as I struggled with alchemy. I could easily imagine her pointing at this beautiful plant and telling me everything about it.
She should be here.
From the ashes shall rise beautiful chaos.
The intent twanged in my mind, the power rippling through me and shaking loose my memories. It stamped down the parts of me that were angry, that lusted for revenge. It cut through the urge to pull apart every little detail of the story, to rake him over the coals for failings he had no hand in and had fought hard to stop.
This place was beautiful and chaotic. That it was a place I could tell my mother loved only made it resonate with me more. I shed the hate and anger. It didn’t matter what I thought or how I felt about the Artoss, she deserved to be here. From somewhere far away, I found my voice. I tried to speak, but nothing came out, my throat full of nothing and yet blocked by grief. I looked at the vines again, and finally, words came.
“She has a grave, you know? After we escaped, we lived among the mortals. She was practising alchemy to pay the bills, hiding her power. She didn’t ask for it, but I couldn’t—I wouldn’t let her go to the pits. It cost me a good portion of our savings to ensure she got her own plot. I haven’t visited it. I didn’t want them to know, or they’d have dug her up and taken her.” I took a deep breath before I could finish. “If I tell you where it is, could she be buried here?”
“I would like nothing more.” His voice was small, made all the smaller from the titan of a man from whence it came. I didn’t look at him, and he didn’t look at me. We just watched the colours change. In this strange oasis of calm, I felt a connection to the man beside me. His story was a different telling of my own—stuck beneath someone he despised. Only he’d been Steel and still had to hide, to sneak, to pretend not to be lining up the blade for his father’s heart. I wondered what sacrifices he’d made, what choices he regretted, and what manner of nightmares woke him up. I didn’t know how I felt about all of this family stuff, but I knew from that moment I had nothing but respect for Pellinore.
“I cannot speak on being an Artoss, nor do I yet know if I can call you uncle, but if you don’t mind, during our future talks, I could call you Pel.”
“That is more than I deserve,” Pel answered in that same quiet voice.