THE INNER EMPIRE
The Inner Empire [https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cfo4Y40NpeM/YQBqoQYa0PI/AAAAAAAAGG8/c0SexOPDVV41LEuV7GAandnASRor08AfACLcBGAsYHQ/s1000/I4%2529%2BThe%2BInner%2BEmpire.jpg]
BY LAND
CHAPTER IV
“...allegiance traced and traitor bought
by grace of distant lessons spurned...”
Karyeh Njuyek Gusya III
2:3:1:3/5, III:IX
The winding press of ether split into sunlight, and a clap of mage thunder resounded off the towers of A’lara. Within the western library, Jorn rose from his studies to investigate. The sight of Haisrir doused him in cold outrage, and he dragged his chair to the window to scrutinize the mind reader. For the first time, the ache of Larin’s absence lifted, and Jorn prayed her safe in the wild reaches of the glade.
Haisrir assayed the humble city with a perturbed scowl. “You’ve been here before,” Kingard reminded him. “I brought you here to show you, after the occupation. Do you remember?”
“No,” grunted Haisrir, adjusting to the eerie thrum of the city’s ancient power. “It seems... peculiar.”
The elves strolled for the training courtyard, where rubble from A’lara’s unbinding rimmed a cracked stone dais. “There was a tower here,” Kingard probed, hoping to trigger some recollection.
“No farce,” scoffed the blond. “Any fool can see that.”
Nerves raw, Kingard delved into the chilling darkness within his friend, seeking a foothold to anchor his unturning. “You were born Varyan Sentolad Vedrosh of Jyasyen,” he diverted, his covert sweeps lapping across impregnable magics. “Born in old Ryerin to scholar Rana and gryphon rider Sento, my brother in arms, wingmate, and best friend. Your father forged A’lara with me, over three centuries ago.”
The younger elf sneered. “Really, your best friend? How convenient.”
“But true. He made you my greatson.”
“Greatson?”
“A tradition of the tree elves. Parents chose a dear friend to mentor each of their children. I was yours.” Regret prickled through Kingard’s stomach. “When the Colkh’rak invaded, they burned Ryerin to the ground. We fled, but your older sister Julya died in the escape.” His eyes darkened in memory. “She was six. We left you with Rana, to shuttle survivors from the blaze.”
Gauging Haisrir’s silence, Kingard sustained, “The Colkh’rak swept the Rishi. They razed old Sierlyn and carved a fortress into the mountain. For eight years, Allana toiled under their hellish reign. We reunited, but Sento and I weren’t around much,” he admitted. “As gryphon riders, we led the rebel forces stationed in the D’jed. Like most refugees, your mother tilled Rishin farmland for scraps. But you loved the sea, and you honed your powers as a forge mage, drawing cold metal from rock and sculpting it like clay.”
A shudder ripped through Haisrir, and he recalled waking in darkness, tearing off chains with his bare hands. His oldest memory, this grim fragment surfaced on occasion, but he quelled its horrors and cleared his throat. “Yeah. I do like the sea.”
“We forged A’lara the year your sister Kendra was born. You were eleven. Your father gave his life to this city, Varyan. And with its magic, I drove the Colkh’rak from the land.”
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“Yes, the mighty hero. That I remember.”
Guilt stained Kingard’s shrug. “Then I returned. Sento avowed me to watch over your family. But refuge had turned to poverty, and the Rishins hated the tree elves.”
“Ah.” Several underlings in Sierlyn had opposed Haisrir’s command, but he’d rectified their attitudes with swift vengeance.
“Over a decade passed. Then one day, you came home from the tavern with a broken nose.”
That piqued Haisrir’s interest. “Me, a broken nose? Who dared?”
“Her name,” Kingard chuckled, “was Leja. You loved her instantly – your words, not mine. She was a plains elf, but you wouldn’t give up. After a year of wooing, she relented. With child upon her two years later, you asked her father for her hand.”
Something crumpled and dusty twinged in Haisrir’s chest. “But he was an old racist bastard?”
Kingard broke into a laugh. “Your exact words! He ran you out of town, and you asked me to negotiate with Leja’s father. My hero status convinced him, and I returned with Leja. But...” Breath deserting him, Kingard turned to gather his thoughts.
“But what?” Haisrir craved a happy ending for the star-crossed lovers, and he resented their story for terminating with his lonely prestige.
“The house was ransacked, your mother and sister slain by your new masters. They stole you, the last of Sento’s known bloodline, for when the unbinding drew near.”
“But I didn’t unbind A’lara!”
“They still tampered with you. How long can you hold a thought, Varyan? How long before your memories dissolve into the unwritten past?”
Irate at the accusation, Haisrir refused to storm off, burning to finish the tale. “What happened to Leja? To... my son?”
The yearning in his voice warmed Kingard’s heart. Though he couldn’t breach Varyan’s turning, those seeds of recognition might topple it from within. “We searched for you, of course. Leja stayed in my rookery while I scoured for years. Your son was born and raised a gryphon rider.” But after a decade of grief, Leja had asked Kingard to stop visiting. Come back when you find him, she’d begged, or not at all. She slipped from his rookery with her son, Sento’s bloodline lost to the ages until Sharis and her brother landed on Kingard’s riverboat that spring.
Rubbing his face, Haisrir sorted flickers through the fog of centuries. A hut, the crash of waves, the scent of dark hair. “There was... a crown?” he ventured, squinting with his eyes closed. “I made a crown. For her?”
Elation consumed Kingard. “Yes! A wedding gift.”
“She never wore it,” inferred Haisrir, trembling with indignation. “I never saw her wear it!”
With more jubilation than sympathy, Kingard affirmed, “They took you before you could give it to her.”
“I make them, crowns. No matter what I do, how detailed they get, they’re never done.” Kingard gripped his arm, and Haisrir waved off his hand. “I just... I need some time to think. This is... there’s so much to...”
“Done,” soothed Kingard, clapping him twice on the back. “Take all the time you need. That’s the inn there, for once you get hungry. ...It’s good to have you back, Varyan.”
“Yeah,” Haisrir echoed. “Thanks.”
Meandering into the northeast tower, Kingard found Sharis awaiting him. “How’d it go?” she greeted from the window with a charming grin.
“He only remembers pieces yet, and I can’t unturn him. It’s so smooth and so dark, there’s no anchor point at all. But he’s awakening. He’s not in his right mind yet, but my hope is he’ll weaken the turning so I can free him permanently.”
Spying the tree elf’s approach through the window, Sharis moved for the door. “Can I meet him?”
Kingard flinched and grasped her arm. “Not yet! He’s... blood of the builder, Sharis,” the elf confessed under her quizzical stare. “He’s your ancestor. And you look a lot like his belated bride. I’m so sorry; I should have told you but... I didn’t know how. There’s no telling how he’ll react to the sight of you.”
To Kingard’s great pride and relief, Sharis handled the news with unerring practicality. “So I might help him remember her, and you?”
“Perhaps.” She guided his arm around her shoulders, and Kingard allowed his cheek to touch her hair. “I hope so.”
Outside, Haisrir wandered in aimless turmoil, unable to recall Deira but driven to find what he sensed he’d lost. The elf peeked into each tower on his groundless search, and his eyes fell on Kingard in a quiet embrace.
Haisrir reeled from the window, fury roiling in his chest. The lady elf’s face skewered him with agony, like she’d walked straight from his dreams into another man’s arms. Leja? He careened into the depths of lust’s hold, and envy quenched Kingard’s tale of his long-dead bride. Leja. The woman for his crowns. The name behind his longing. And Kingard had stolen her.