Valentin stood beneath a tree in the courtyard of his clan’s estate. His stroll through the dying and dead greenery of the courtyard was a purposeless one. It was the early morning and one of the few times that Valentin knew that he would be unbothered by anyone or anything else. As the days shrank, he found himself more and more desperate to bask in the light of Ortus without interference from any well-meaning instructors or clansmen.
Wisps of steam left his mouth with every exhale to signal the junction between Fomhar and Faur. The harvest was finished and it was time for Killicia. His fashion for the event was already made by Daga and just awaited for its wearer to don it. Yet Valentin lacked the same enthusiasm for the event that he once had. He could not tell if the lack of free time to anticipate it or the results of his previous Killicia weighed more on his lack of interest in the celebration.
Regardless, this Killicia marks a full cycle since Valentin had fled his home to entreat protection from Ferron Martelle. He wondered how he truly compared to the boy that existed only one cycle ago. Valentin was, by definition, living out the dreams that he had envisioned. He was a mercenary traveling around Strettia pursuing battle. Would his younger self believe that it was worth it given all he spent to obtain it? He hoped not, for his own sanity. He would not have been able to bear that even his past self would accept those conditions.
He discarded those answerless thoughts and tried to center himself by pulsing his favor through his body. This form of favor calling helped calm him down. His constant use of this power had gotten to the point where it felt almost instantaneous to summon.
His time alone was not infinite and he could not afford to spend it on such negative thoughts. He tried to purge all thoughts from his head and focus on what was around him. The leafless trees, abandoned by the birds stretching their skeletal fingers into the sky. The cold air entered his lungs with every breath and turned it into steam. The tingling sensations on his fingers.
He hummed a little song at a volume that he hoped that nobody could hear. The song was a lullaby from Corvello that he found pleasing to the ear. He hadn’t memorized the lyrics yet, but the tune itself was inescapable. It was a concert meant for just him. He had yet to find an instrument that he found interest or skill in playing, however, he did always enjoy the performances that his teacher would show as demonstration. So, instead of playing in earnest, he hummed along to the melody.
Cuinn, to Valentin’s dismay, was not the end of the parade of instructors that arrived at the Guerros estate. A poet, a musician, a riding instructor, and Hrost all encroached upon the estate that was housing Valentin. In combination with Cuinn, this roster of teachers ensured that Valentin would have little time to himself. He endlessly cycled between lesson to lesson, instructor to instructor, all with different styles and expectations of the boy. Ordon, the poet, was content to discuss beauty and teach little if it suited him while Cuinn and Hrost were demanding in their instruction as though they were the only ones worth the boy’s time.
The bustling of people stirring from the estate signaled to the boy that it was time to return and prepare for Killicia. He returned to his room to see a pair of servants standing at his door. They appeared to be flustered as they rapped their knuckles upon the wooden door in an attempt to stir the nonexistent boy. One held clothes in their arms.
“Oh, Young Master, you had already awoken,” one of them said with a voice of relief.
“I fancied a stroll,” Valentin responded, opening the door to his room.
The pair followed him in, draping the clothes on the rack in the room. “Allow us to help you change, Young Master.”
Valentin rolled his eyes but did not put up much of a fight over it. He could dress himself, but everyone always fussed at every wrinkle and imperfection that appeared. It was easier to cede that responsibility to someone else and save himself the headache.
The ensemble consisted of a green doublet, an ermine-lined cloak, a wool cap, and black breeches. Valentin preferred the simpler outfit constructions and was thankful that Daga took the boy’s wishes into account when he crafted the clothing. Due to his rapid growth, he went in several times for adjustments. Yet, after all that effort, the outfit still was ill-fitting under the arms and baggy around the chest.
In his new attire, he finally had the opportunity to stretch his sore knees. It was not just the season that was changing. Valentin, too, was changing in a literal sense. He was shooting up in height to the point that his aunt said he looked taller every time that she saw him. His knees and thighs now ached all the time from the sudden growth and, on days of more intense martial practice, kept him up at night. The muscle mass he had gained was now all but non-existent, spread out thinly over his lengthened bones.
While he hated his spindly form as it was currently, it was not as though he didn’t welcome his growth. His small childhood stature was his biggest flaw to his fighting prowess. However, he had underestimated the difficulty that would come from the transition.
It was not the only clothing affected by his bodily changes. Almost all his wardrobe had to be changed or retired completely. It was vexing to the boy to have his aunt purchase so many fineries that he would likely grow out of soon. He had no money of his own to handle such expenses on his own. Ferron and Yvonne insisted that he had no need for it as they would manage all of his wants and needs. In a sense, he was one of the wealthiest boys in the realm even without a single coin in his pocket.
The servants deftly finished their work and excused themselves from the boy’s room. Valentin was not far behind. He could spend a few minutes handling his studies but was more than willing to use the holiday as an excuse to shirk his academic duties.
The ground floor was abuzz with late preparations for the holiday. It appeared that the estate was preparing for a siege instead of a celebration. Servants with sullen eyes and grizzled visages moved and counted supplies and other inventory. Colored fabrics rippled by the boy as though the building were ablaze. People hustled around to reach their posts to receive orders from their deggan. Instead of armor, these commanders wore smudged tunics and smocks.
Valentin retreated from the main front and attempted to regroup in the dining hall. However, his plans were foiled when he heard boisterous noises emanating through the open doorway. The overwhelming noise forced him to reconsider the idea and find a different place to wait.
He instead found his refuge in the courtyard. He was fortunate that all those that surrounded him were too busy to pay him much mind. Even in the event that they had, they were all subordinate to his position. Though he loathed using that to get his way, there were just some times where such actions were required.
The boy moved through the chaos that surrounded him. His minimal festive spirit only further diminished at the stressful sight. In fact, he felt very detached from the entire ordeal, a passive observer of a foreign culture.
He sat on the chilled bench before his training area and stared blankly at the weapons he could not use today. His training of late had been frustrating. His bodily changes caused his form to slip as his trained movements turned around to become his nemesis.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.
Hrost did not appear surprised by this regression or Valentin’s subsequent struggle to quickly reclaim his old mastery. He had told Valentin that he would not return to continue their lessons until he recaptured the skill that he had before his transformation. Things were not all negative, his larger frame caused the strikes to have more devastating effects with less spent favor. However, his precision had yet to return to him in a satisfactory way.
It would be any day now that he would regain his skills. His form was getting tighter again. His fluidity was returning to where it was only a couple seasons ago. He would just need to hit the same spot every time without even the smallest deflections. He was sure that to an outsider, he probably looked plenty methodical and deadly with his attacks. But Valentin, who once possessed a higher level of skill, could not bear to allow even the smallest of regressions to his abilities.
Just not today.
“There you are,” Yvonne’s voice cut through his reverie.
To Valentin’s surprise, the woman had neglected the dress and opted for wearing an outfit similar to Valentin’s. Her doublet to be especially padded and she had a short sword on her hip as though she were preparing for a duel.
“I was appreciating the fresh air,” Valentin replied morosely. “I thought Killicias were more relaxing than this.”
Yvonne laughed with a powerful and confident air that was unsuitable for such early hours. “Your indolent southern blood is showing through,” she chastised. “Killicia is always meant to be a show of clan power and affluence and, by the Mother, are we going to show that our authority has not waned.”
“I must have never noticed,” Valentin remarked, unwilling to refute the idea that ran counter to all of his experiences. Things just must be done differently here.
In honesty, Valentin felt as though this realm were an entirely different nation than d’Gauval. The only things that led Valentin to believe they were fellow Strettians were their use to storm favor and their language. Even the language was turning out to be just barely tenable.
“This cycle is more important than the rest,” Yvonne passionately continued. “We must show Guillaume Bellafon that we will not be cowed by his petty threats. He will not dare reach his hand into our den if he’s worried about being bit,” she claimed, highly pleased with the allegory she had made.
With teeth made of speartips, the Guerros clan intended to rend the city asunder to protect their position within. Valentin had seen the outcome of a battle waged between two distant rivals but he struggled to comprehend what a war within a city’s walls would look like. The narrow side streets filled with warriors and homes full of corpses. Such a conflict would only assure mass deaths and leave the victor with scarred and resentful spoils.
If such a result would arise from one city embroiled in civil war, then what would happen to this realm when Ferron raised his banners? Valentin understood that he would play a crucial role in that conflict, but still did not understand the enormity of the results of those actions.
“It appears that the carriage is ready,” Yvonne commented, bringing the boy out of his thoughts. “Let us depart.”
Valentin glanced over to the servant motioning to the pair from in front of the carriage. He could see the cloaked Arlo take hesitant steps up to the seat while Allaine assisted. Seeing those that were departing, Valentin could not wonder a thought to himself. What was the purpose of everyone scrambling if the Matriarch was not even going to be present for the day?
Valentin sat in the clan carriage with Yvonne, Sleibhin, Allaine, and Arlo. The vehicle rattled along the uneven stone surface of the main roads and made the boy feel ill. Perhaps there was not a single carriage in all the realms of humanity that would not make the boy’s head throb. This particular carriage, despite being owned by the Marshal of Verbosc, lacked the same opulence as the carriage of the Steward of Briste. The frame wasn’t as large, the paint wasn’t as brilliant, and the seats weren’t as soft.
Valentin held his face up with his hands and focused on breathing the cool air to keep his head from overly aching. He knew that the streets flooded with revelers and booths and performers; he could hear the screams and shouts of people trying to communicate with others. Yet he could not see any of what the city could offer. Instead, he had an excellent view of his gloves and the carriage floor.
He was asked if he was alright several times over the course of the ride but the boy just grunted or dismissed the concerns. The only cure to his ailment would be his destination. His already low enthusiasm for the event plummeted to inconceivably low levels. He became bitter towards everything about the feast. He resented his aunt for bringing him with her, he resented the attendees that he never met, and he resented the hosts.
Whenever he thought he had stabilized his condition, another wave of nausea bathed him in sickly energy. Each rumble and jostle on the cart pushed Valentin past his predetermined limit. He constantly felt as though he were on the verge of flinging himself from the carriage to the unknown streets outside. His will and patience were tested over and over and over again until he was in a cold sweat and mild delirium from the lack of relief. His internal mantra repeated that it was just a little farther, only to be betrayed again and again whenever the cart would stop only to start again.
The carriage stopped and the door opened. Valentin didn’t believe it until those closer to the door stepped out of the carriage. When it was the boy’s turn to exit, he used the last of his energy to stomp his way down the steps and to his clan. However, it seems that his weak tantrum went unnoticed and unacknowledged. Instead, the focus of his clan was on the building before them.
A wide stone structure stood before them, backed by a large, multi-storied, building that loomed above them. Both structures were crafted with white stones that were radiant in the light that peeked through the overcast clouds and difficult to look at. Quill thin minarets stretched high above the structure and glistened with a metallic sheen of the statues that stood atop them. Banners of blues and greens with gold and silver draped down the walls and flanked the gaping entryways into the building.
The Guerros clan joined the procession of other brilliantly dressed individuals that were pouring into the entryway. Their pace was limited by the methodical steps of Arlo. The man treated his right foot gingerly with every step and people jostled around the clan to get further ahead.
Valentin, still emotionally affected by the headache that lingered in his head, showed more and more contempt for his cousin every time he was pushed to the side by someone else that wanted to get a position further ahead. Why could they not have left Arlo behind? Yvonne had not invited any of her other children. Better yet, why was he here? He had no interest in the political positioning of his aunt and thought it was in everyone’s best interest that he stayed as hidden as possible.
They passed through the exterior complex and into the courtyard. Much like the estate that he stayed at, the flowers and decorative plants were not faring well in the rapidly cooling temperatures. This courtyard, to Valentin’s interest, had a pond with irrigation channels that spread throughout the outdoor area. Small wooden footbridges connected the divided land together. Valentin could see fish floating around in the channel that they walked over.
The footpath that they took led directly to an immense set of doors that echoed out boisterous noise occurring within. Valentin winced in anticipation of what his presence inside that chamber of clamor would do to his ailing head.
Attendants garbed in the cyan colors of Bellafon stood with similarly colored guards at the entrance to the hall and processed the guests. The line moved sluggishly forwards as guests were provided with instructions as to where to sit.
Eventually, Valentin’s clan reached the front of the queue. Yvonne stood at the forefront of the five and stood with her chin high enough to not be in eye contact with the attendant.
“Marshal Yvonne Guerros and clan,” she proclaimed loudly enough that the people around her were also made aware of her arrival.
Yvonne earned the looks that she was hoping for as the waiting people within earshot all ceased their conversations to view her. The spectators whispered over the noblewoman in her aristocratic battle regalia and what it meant for the future of the city.
“Your Eminence,” the attendant bowed in greeting. “How many are attending from your clan?”
“Five.”
“F-five?”
A bewildered attendant stood before the bewildered crowd. Valentin did not quite understand the reason for the shift in mood. Only five of his clan arrived to Tiarna Lunoult’s feast last cycle. It seemed to be a perfectly acceptable number. Perhaps, the added attendance of Valentin ensured that there would not be enough seats.
“Yes, five,” Yvonne answered with a grin that relished in her play. “Would you be so kind as to show us to our seat?”
“Of course,” the attendant said with uncertainty, their brain lost somewhere in a faraway thought. “Keldan, please show the Guerros clan to their seats.”