Lin
Gwydolin, standing in her nightgown, rifles through her wardrobe while stroking her chin in thought. Deciding what to wear is her daily struggle. Shen can’t wear the same outfit twice, that would be too blase, and can’t wear something too beyond the norm, lest she become a high fashion trend setter. That’s a level of responsibility she’s not inclined to take. Lin would much rather weigh in on civil policy and urban planning than spend twelve hours a day charting next week’s fashion choices. For one, planning and policy are a straightforward process for Lin to wrap her head around; for two, the process behind the latest high fashions is unbearable and boring. Her friend Soryne is a trendsetter and allowed Lin to sit in on the unofficial Fashion Council of the Upper City most recent meeting. She tuned it out as a matter of course. Even though each of them had an Espreth, they wouldn’t let her bring Tessn along.
“Tessn?” Lin calls for her servant, scratching the itchy grey stubble of her shaven head. “I don’t know what to wear. What do you think?”
Tessn approaches, arms crossed inside her large sleeves. Her uniform today bears a repeating, nesting design of crossed lines inside two-toned boxes. “Lady Talivar, you could make even burlap sack cloth and hemp rope look like braided silk,” Tessn says, eyes closing as if imagining such a sight.
“Rope?” Lin strokes her chin thoughtfully, a carefully manicured eyebrow raising up in an arch. “Are you saying you want to tie me up?” Tessn’s eyes shoot open, a deep red setting in her cheekbones.
She stammers, choking up as Lin closes the gap, head cocked to the side. Tessn’s words are stuck in her throat and she swallows the lump of arrested protestations.
“Dirty, dirty.” Lin smirks and pokes the taller woman in the sternum. “Go fetch my wig before you get your other foot stuck in your mouth.”
“Of course, Lady Talivar,” the servant demurs with a bow. She swiftly exits the room without running. Once Tessn leaves, Lin claps her hands against her cheeks, flustered.
“Oh Lord Almighty,” she demurs. “Why did I say any of that?” Her other friend, Kenoirlin, had mentioned that one man courting her expressed his desire to tie her up with silk ropes while they were leaving Warron’s art studio the other day. The ensuing conversation surrounding the appeal of being restrained during such private and intimate moments made Gwydolin uncomfortable. Here she is, gleefully implying Tessn’s desire to do the same. Her servant does often go to considerable lengths to make Lin feel beautiful…
The Bright Caster slaps her cheeks again, shaking her head to dislodge her inappropriate thoughts. She delves into her wardrobe and extracts a pair of dresses that cath her eye. One silk is a solid, deep purple. The other showcases a vibrant pattern of birds and boughs. The bird dress demands a coat or jacket to go over it, to break up the pattern, but the blue dress can stand on its own with its half-sleeves and elegant silver filigree edges. It’ll all come down to what color wig Tessn brings her.
Tessn clears her throat to announce her arrival. “Your wig, Lady Talivar.” Her eyes are downcast, a gentle blush still on her cheeks, and she holds up a featureless bust wearing a shoulder-length wig of curled silver blonde hair. Lin’s lips part as she marvels at the color. It’s almost the exact inverse of her natural hair color, hailing from lands deep in the South where a permanent chill frosts the air and where the perennial sun never sets for one month and never rises for another. Such a wig is second only to copper red Stygrian hair in Gwydolin’s mind. Her hands tremble as she lifts it off the mannequin and places it on her own head.
It still needs Tessn’s gentle ministrations in order to look proper, but Lin couldn’t be more pleased with her reflection. She fluffs up the ends with her hands and looks at the dresses she set aside. It works well with both offerings, although the deep blue one has an edge. Lin returns to her wardrobe. She searches for a dark-colored jacket to go over the bird dress. If she can find one, the combination of color and pattern would set it so far ahead of a plain blue dress. She finds a burgundy jacket that cuts off at the waist and with a high collar. Yes, this will do. The hair, the dress, the jacket… Gwydolin will be the talk of the town as she graces the hanging streets of the Upper City with her presence. Her friend group is going to be consumed with jealousy, frothing at the mouth with how effortlessly Gwydolin wears this high-fashion look.
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Lin sulks at the cafe table, her cheek in her hand while stirring her drink with a silver spoon. It’s a new beverage imported from the North—caff—touted for its energy giving properties. Lin opted to have sugar, cinnamon, and a lemon peel added to hers, talking at length about how House Talivar has a dedicated machine and staff to make the beverage daily. That’s when Cygnen arrived, a beaming smile on her face, announcing her engagement to Soret sett Hayvris, the Merchant Councilor’s son. Now, all their shared friends are fawning over her engagement ring, a singular piece of diamond with a finger hole bored through it.
“He asked me this morning,” Cygnen says, her natural blush creeping from behind her rosy makeup. The silver and diamonds in her golden blonde wig tremble from her palpable excitement. “I wasn’t expecting it at all, but I honestly can’t see myself with anyone else!”
The topic remained untouched by them last night. Quite the opposite, in fact. They often talk at length about their disgust for men regarding romantic relationships.
“I can’t see a single redeeming quality,” Lin had said then. “The very idea disgusts me.”
“We women are the fairer sex in every regard,” Cygnen had said. “We have more eloquent speech, more intelligent discussions, and far more kissable lips.”
Gwydolin wondered about the validity of that last statement, wishing that they’d run a couple of tests. But nothing of the sort happened. Now, Cygnen sits across from her, all dressed up and excited to marry.
“Absolutely disgusting,” Lin thinks, grimacing to herself and clenching the knot in her stomach.
“Oh, don’t be so dour, Lin,” Cygnen says. “I’m sure you’ll find the right man for you soon enough.” Her words cut deep, but Lin chokes back her retort, replacing it with a demur sigh.
“Yeah!” Baeluz says. The emeralds in her chestnut hair quiver with every slight movement. “What about Jontonvair? His mother is on the High Council. He’s a powerful Bright Caster, and he’s just an absolute gentleman!” The other ladies murmur in agreement while Lin wrinkles her nose.
“I’ve thought about it,” Lin says. There’s a hint of truth to that. He’s harmless enough, but Lin gets the impression that he loves the pursuit of Bright Casting more than any woman. Or men. Besides, marrying someone because they are harmless differs from marrying someone because she loves them. She’s incapable of feeling that way about any man, full stop. “He’s not my type, though.”
“Well, what is your type?” Cygnen asks.
“Tall, dark, handsome.” Lin places her hand on her cheek. “Gentle and doting. Someone who understands me like their own mind.”
A woman, visually appealing yet honest and upfront, more handsome than conventionally beautiful. Although she doesn’t say that part out loud.
“How can you possibly expect someone to know you like that if you won’t let them court you?” Baeluz says, hands on her hips and cheeks puffing up. The glitter in her makeup shimmers and shines, and Lin’s mind wanders elsewhere.
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“I could make glitter work,” she thinks, no longer paying attention.
“It’s alright, Luz,” Cygnen says, “we can work with ‘tall, dark, and handsome.’ I’ve got a couple boys in mind that seem right to our dear Lin-Lin.”
Gwydolin lets out a dismissive puff of air, but that doesn’t stop her friends from talking among themselves about who fits her description as her Ideal Suitor.
Despondency.
There’s only so much marriage and courtship conversation Gwydolin can take before she excuses herself, bidding her farewells and abandoning her now cold cafe. Tessn follows without a word, as well as the Garrison officer assigned on chaperone duty for today and their half-dozen Praetors. Lin, with no destination penned into her empty schedule, returns to the confines of House Talivar’s spire.
“I’ll be awaiting your return, Lady Talivar,” the officer says with a bow as Lin retreats inside. Unlike her escort during Lin’s last Bright Casting lesson, this one has kept an air of absolute professionalism. “Should you wish to go elsewhere, that is.” Gwydolin ignores them, releasing a heavy sigh once the doors close.
“May I fetch you something to drink, my lady?” Tessn asks, bowing somewhat to meet Lin’s eyes.
“Something sparkling, I think,” Lin says. Her shoulders feel so heavy, and it’s not yet noon. “I’ll be in the library.” Tessn bows, diverging from their shared walking path into the kitchen while Gwydolin heads to the family library.
“Have I always been this exhausted?” Lin whispers, thinking aloud. She presses her lips together. “I need something to do. It’s merely the restlessness that comes with adulthood. A directionless apathy,” she thinks. Or rather, she hopes.
Gwydolin ascends the helical stairs, floor after floor, until coming to the House Library on the second-to-last level of her home. While she knows that the outside walls are all glass and steel, the inside shielded from the outer world by narrow wood panelling, rare timber cut by hand and not shaped by Elemnists. Few windows are near the study to allow daylight inside, and skinny slats of wood can draw closed like shutter blinds. Bookshelves stretch from floor to ceiling, stuffed full to bursting with books of motley size and incongruent shape. Wheeled ladders on rails traverse the shelves, of which Lin has fond memories of running away from her brother Dorian by riding the rails across the library, cackling like a witch. She runs her hand up and down the length of a ladder at the memory, thumbing the thin indent formed when the ladder came to an abrupt stop and drove her front teeth into the wood. Thus ends the story of how Gwydolin sett Talivar lost her two front milk teeth.
Lin selects a few thin books within reach, treatises on urban planning from last century, as well as a thicker tomb requiring the use of the ladder. It’s something to occupy her mind if busy work cannot soothe her. An Account of the First Elemental Accord, as it’s titled, embossed leather cover gilded with peeling gold leaf, corners reinforced with black iron guards. She hauls her stack of books to her study desk, secluded in a dim alcove in the corner, complete with reclining couch and shallow table. Someone must have expected her to return to the study, a bowl of sliced citrons and peeled sweet oranges standing in the center of the table. Gwydolin sets her books down on the desk, noting the letters lying in a neat stack, before she goes to retrieve an orange slice. She crams it in her mouth, forcing a smile, before taking her seat and picking up a letter.
She glances at the first line before throwing her head back in frustration. After letting her heart rate settle, Lin carries on reading it:
To the Honorable and Immaculate Gwydolin sett Talivar of House Talivar,
While your suggestions are—and will always be—appreciated, the High Council has elected to decline your suggestion to expand the Sideron Farming District. Nuaranth-by-the-Sea can afford to turn the soda water geyser into a fountain. Yet, another merchant quarter would draw trade from the harbor and noble houses leasing land there. We don’t want that, do we?
We will return the plans you sent us in another envelope, with notations. But please, never hesitate to send us your plans and recommendations in the future.
I have the honor of being your ever-obedient servant,
Lady Tulvaryne sett Amareas, of House Amareas, Urban Councilor
Oh, how Lin despises Tully. She dared to underline “Urban Councilor” to emphasize that she sits on the High Council, while Gwydolin does not. Gwydolin glances at the second envelope, knowing without a doubt that the Councilor’s red pen eviscerated her meticulously drawn schematics. She doesn’t need to see it to know the extent of its mutilation. Lin considers ignoring the letter but, as Tessn arrives and sets down beside her a crystal glass filled with effervescent fruit juice, she’s already penning her response:
To the Ever Radiant and Meticulous Lady Tulvaryne sett Amareas, of House Amareas,
While your feedback and notions are always welcome upon my writeups and drawings, they remain unnecessary in the aspects of aesthetics, urban design, and—most importantly—urban economics. It should be apparent to anyone who would consider themselves a competent Urban Councilor that building up the Sideron Farming District can only benefit Nuaranth-by-the-Sea on a social and economic level. Not only does a merchant quarter open up another market for those that live outside the walls of our fair city, drawing in trade from those who otherwise could not afford to enter Midtown, the land-lease would then convert to merchant and residential which, as I’m sure you are aware, sits in a higher tax bracket. And that’s not to mention the increased rent that comes with it. Land-leasing nobles in the Harbor and Sideron Farming Districts will benefit greatly from this project. Your predecessors and successors will verify my claims.
Enclosed is an itemized list of projects that have come across your desk, including mine and other petitioners. Also listed are the patricians who paid to have these projects blocked or stricken down by your unerring red pen.
I have the honor of being your ever-obedient servant,
Lady Gwydolin sett Talivar, of House Talivar, Second-in-Line for the Seat of the High Councilor.
“Tessn, when you mail out this letter, be sure that this list—” Lin holds up her aforementioned itemized list of Tully’s corruption “—makes it to my publishing friend in the Art District. I want it distributed across Nuaranth, from the Upper City to the Lower City, and even the farming districts.”
“Of course, Lady Talivar.” Tessn takes both letter and broadside. “Should I handle it immediately?”
“Please.”
Gwydolin returns to her books. She brushes aside the treatises, and her thoughts about Tulvaryne, before turning her attention to the thick tome before her. An Account of the First Elemental Accord sits heavy and daunting on her desk. Gwydolin doesn’t know where to start. She peels it open, flipping to a random page in the middle of the book, and starts reading.
It’s a long few hours until Tessn returns from her duty, setting another tall glass of sparkling juice beside the first glass, untouched and flat. Gwydolin doesn’t register her return, eyes glued to the pages, her writing hand scribbling fervent notes on a pad of parchment paper. The First Elemental Accord was signed one-thousand years ago, resulting in the formation of the Elemental Order and the shattering of the Empire into its constituent city-states, ages before Nuaranth came to be. However, that is not the sole reason Lin finds the text fascinating. It’s the reason “why” the Accord was signed in the first place, the reason “why” the Empire willingly dissolved itself and destroyed its Holy Crown. Ironwood. More specifically, the Iron Faeries.
These Iron Fae possess magics far beyond what Bright Casters are capable. They hold magic far beyond what Elemnists can conceive of. The book contains descriptions and drawings of the Iron Faeries, sketches of gray-black humanoids with too many limbs or too many digits. “Too many” is a recurring descriptor, whether it’s fingers or teeth or eyes. They can emulate Bright Casting with their magic, which the greatest masters of the time were incapable of distinguish Ironwood Outer Light from a Bright Caster’s Inner Light. Also, the Iron Fae can twist whatever lifeform they please into organic machines, pale facsimiles of their former selves without minds or wills of their own. Flesh becomes liquid, minds become inert. When it became apparent that only Elemnists who can shape iron can kill these creatures, the cities of the Empire relinquished their Elemnist populations to create the Elemental Order.
Gwydolin can’t explain why she’s become so enthralled with this subject. It speaks to some dark corner of her brain, a morbid curiosity that she can’t slake in the confines of her prison. She’s only stirred from her revery when Tessn lays a hand on her shoulder and shakes her, rousing Lin from her academic stupor.
“What-?” Gwydolin blinks, her eyes dry and bleary. Realizing her thirst, she downs both glasses of juice, though they’ve since grown warm and flat.
“Lady Talivar.” Worry etches Tessn’s face, and she chews on her lower lip. “It’s late. You have eaten nothing since this morning.” Gwydolin looks toward the windows, the white sun’s twilight bleeding through the wooden slats. She glances at the book again, feeling its allure pulling her back. But she’s noticed Tessn’s hand on her shoulder, gentle and doting, direct and forthcoming.
“It’s not too late for dinner, I hope,” Gwydolin says, rising from her seat. Pins and needles pierce her legs, and she grabs onto her servant for balance.
“Too late to eat with Master Dorian, I’m afraid,” Tessn says, keeping Lin steady. “But I’ve kept the kitchens prepared for your meal.”
“I can always rely on you, Tes,” Lin sighs. They stand there for a moment longer, Lin leaning against Tessn’s tall frame.