13
A series of brief vignettes, to clarify events in the wish-altered timeline. And so, as it happened…
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Bound tightly with magic and physical chains, he’d been dragged to the chamber of judgment. Forced to his knees on that cold stone floor, right at the base of his father’s gold dragon emblem. A pair of imperial justiciars loomed at his right and left sides, armed with hooked prods. Masked for anonymity, cloaked in scarlet to hide spattered blood, they had extracted his confession through the most brutal means possible.
Now, not allowed to raise his head or look upward, the prince could only listen, grinding his teeth, as his father announced,
“Your crime is unparalleled in all elven history. It is irreparable and unforgiveable, forever harming this realm and its innocent subjects. The folk you were meant to protect.”
Ildarion’s voice broke slightly, then. In that brief silence, the prince heard his small brother whisper something. Urgently pleading, it sounded like. But their father had no ears for Korvin. Instead, His Majesty resumed speaking, his voice once again cold, hard and level.
“Therefore, it is the decision of this council that you be branded a criminal, stripped of your name, rank, magic and speech, then exiled forever from the lands that you’ve robbed. Effective immediately, sentence to be carried out at once.”
Prince no longer, he tried to look up at his father and brother, at the gathered nobles of the high council. Couldn’t, bound by magic so strong it defied comprehension. Next fought to speak, but no words came forth. Nor would they, ever again.
That sorcerous branding cut deeply into his body and aura, imprinting a magical scar that could never be healed or erased. Marking him as fair game for anyone, anywhere: Fugitive. Enemy. Prey.
He almost collapsed, but pride kept the agonized captive upright. They couldn’t take that, though his name disappeared from his memory, though his magic was entirely cut out and seared by his father’s command. Or… almost.
Just for an instant, he sensed Korvin’s presence inside of his mind, fighting desperately to shield him. No doubt, the little fellow would suffer for it, later. Small Korvin was there as a witness and for instruction, for he had become Prince Ascendant. And the other, now exiled prince? A gate opened up in the air just behind him. As the council (less Korvin) intoned,
“So may it be!”
...the former prince was hauled to his feet by those masked justiciars, then pitched head-first through that crackling portal. The last words he heard were:
“Never to return, all hands against him, lost and repudiated, now and forever.” The ban, only slightly lessened by Little Guy… Korvin’s… wild cry.
“No! Please, not forever! Please let him come back!”
Whatever their father’s response, the former prince never heard it. All of the voices fell silent, as he was hurled roughly away. Two heartbeats of darkness followed, along with the sharp, painful scrape of forced transport. Then the gate closed behind him, leaving the exile to crash on bare rock, roll upright and gasp.
A terrible vista of bleak, barren spires and endless red sand spread before him; a skeletal landscape silvered by moonlight and cold, restless wind. The poisoned waste.
It was then that he curled up and started to cry. Just hard, bitter heaves; his shoulders jerking in utter silence. She came to him there, a nearly transparent flutter of blossoms, all out of place in the desert. Still weak from captivity, she gathered him up in her arms. Kissed his face many times, healing bruises and cuts with her touch.
His fetters sprang open and dropped to the ground with a sharp, ringing clatter. Blood flow returned to his hands and feet, probably saving them. Only, she couldn’t afford to waste all that manna. Not drained as she was.
The exile shook his head, but he could not communicate. Not any longer. Hear and understand? Yes. Speak, sign or write? No. The ban forbade it.
…but all was not lost. There was still life, breath and heartbeat, and with that came hope. A cave and a spring were nearby and there, for a time, they were happy.
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There was a shabby estate at the edge of Milardin. A hodge-podge of forest, meadows and hunting grounds, with a big, rambling manse at its center. The old house was comfortably haunted by family spirits, who mostly stayed out of the way: Falling Boy, Shrieking Maiden and Headless Young Lord. You got used to them, growing up in the place, sometimes telling the maiden your woes, or playing the Crown Game with Headless. It was that sort of house, for that kind of family.
Not all of its hallways went anywhere. Not all of the rooms had a door. You had to keep a close eye on the children, because it was frightfully easy for little ones to wander off and get lost (sometimes forever).
In this sagging old manor, with its twining dark ivy, wisteria blossoms and mismatched towers, Tormun Arvendahl lived with his young wife, Faleena. She was a wood-elf, and their marriage pushed Tormun very far down in the race for succession. He was still noble… just barely. Had a patch of land, a small horde of wealth and a beautiful wife. Then, before long, a baby. A wild, precious scrap of a thing they named Anneka.
The girl was a shape changer, though, a talent she got through her mother’s half-feral blood. Tormun and Faleena laughed at first, when their child turned herself into a puppy or kitten or bear cub. Laughed, and helped her to turn herself back with plenty of coaxing, manna and treats. They might have banned or restrained her wild talent, but such binding spells cripple and hurt. Neither young parent could stand the sight of their baby girl’s tears, so they hired a nanny and settled for watching Anneka closely.
Time passed. Their baby became a happy and willful toddler, apparently settled and safe. Everyone’s vigilance eased. First a little, then a lot, as worry and watchfulness faded away.
What lured her up there, no one could say (not even the family ghosts). Something drew Anneka onto the mansion’s rooftop, though, one day in early spring. Some sparkle of light, a half-heard laugh, or a tinkling chime. Whatever attracted her, the girl climbed a newly sprung stairway, reaching up after that shimmering lure. Out through a window, next, and onto the slate-tiled roof.
There, laughing, she faced into the wind, spreading her arms in their hand-me-down sleeves. Black hair streaming, eyes bright and wide, Anneka watched the birds wheeling and darting above her. She jumped up and down on the loose mossy tiles, squealing,
“Fly! Wanna fly! Flyyyyyeeeeek!”
And she changed, becoming a hawk this time. Fluttered down to the roof, startled at first. Then she took flight, screaming with joy.
Never noticed her terrified parents and nanny, who burst onto the skywalk, as Falling Boy, Shrieking Maiden and Headless Young Lord oozed up through the cracks between tiles. Too late.
Their daughter was gone, and no treats, stuffed toys or pleading would bring the girl back or help to transform her. Though they tried. By the gods, how they tried, nearly destroying the family’s finances with hiring mages and clerics and buying costly ‘sure-fire’ potions.
Their daughter was gone, though day after day they went up to the roof or out in the woods and called to her. Nothing. No good. No answer at all but the wind.
“She’ll come back, Love,” Tormun assured his wife, trying to comfort her. Holding Faleena close, he whispered into her hair, “She’s not dead. We would feel it. She’s alive and we mustn’t lose hope, Leena.”
Against her lord’s chest, surrounded by helplessly sorrowing ghosts and the guilt-stricken nanny, Faleena nodded. The oracle had said only: Someday. Someday, not “never again”.
But that day was a long time coming, and many years passed before their hearts healed enough to engender another child. A boy, this time. He was blue-eyed and black haired and he had little magic, for which his parents thanked all the powers and gods. They spoiled and sheltered their son, surrounding him always with servants, pets and companions: Filimar, the joy of their grief-shattered hearts
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In distant Ilirian, Lady Alyanara had found herself faced with a burden and choice. She was an orphan. A child of the temple. Considered lovely and clearly semi-divine, she’d been given as bride to an absent young lord. One Galadin Tarandahl, to whom she’d been wed using long-distance magic and spell-globes. Necessary, because her new husband was off in the north, carving a realm for himself at the emperor’s whim.
Alyanara Temple she’d been, left as an infant on the topmost step of Oberyn’s Throne. The high priest had unlocked and entered the sanctuary, only to find a baby there, surrounded by flowers and coins; royal signet-ring clutched in one hand. Lady Alyanara Tarandahl she later became…
But unhappily so, for Ally knew nothing at all about being a wife or holding light conversation, and Galadin seemed very cold. As they’d exchanged their vows through the spell-globe, his voice had been distant, his pale grey eyes never quite meeting hers. Nor had he opened his mind at her tentative nudge.
Ally wasn’t a fool. Just an unloved and unwanted, awkward young bride. Left in Karellon, she’d stayed with her husband’s apologetic family for years, until Galadin finally ran short of excuses.
With Ilirian tamed and a castle ready to hand… with a town being built… her lord had no choice but to send for his wife. Not by portal, either (which would have been near instantaneous). The long way, by armed, warded caravan.
Her family… she’d come to think of Elrynn and Marta as parents… had provided potions and love spells and fabulous jewels. They’d given her more beautiful clothing than Ally had ever seen in her life. On top of all that, she got some advice from Marta. Blushing, her mother-in-law told her,
“It’s a little bit awkward at first, Dear… try not to laugh at him… but, anyhow, once love blooms between you, you’ll find so much happiness.”
Then she got a parting hug and a surprising dowry from Elrynn, who growled,
“You may tell that scoundrel from me that my daughter, his wife, is to be cherished, honored and loved, Ally. Half of my lands and my fortune are yours, no matter what happens with Galadin. Tell him I said so.”
She hadn’t, though. Not one word. Had instead reached Starloft to find her ‘husband’ drunk and in love with somebody else. A mortal woman named Lana. Worse, that he’d had a son with this Lana, a boy they named Reston.
It was a very hard and cold night for Alyanara. The first of many to come, until fate intervened. As it happened, fifty years later an eater struck Lana, giving Ally the chance to do something mighty, for love.
.