Within half a minute or so, focus returned to the man’s striking gaze, which looked like living flames had been conjured within his irises. Disoriented and visibly confused, Ar’Daul looked up at him, stared for several seconds and then spoke up in a weak, disbelieving voice.
“Little Enquin…?”
Tears spilled down Enquin’s face as long-forgotten warmth filled his heart. Old and defeated though he was, Ar’Daul had recognized him almost instantly despite the fact that the last time they’d seen one another he had been a boy in his early teens.
“Ar’Daul,” he cried, hugging the man with strength he didn’t know he had. “What happened to you? Where have you been all these years?”
“Years?”
Ar’Daul stared past him at the handful of Drunaeda that had also rushed over to get a look at the person that was giving off such a prominent and commanding aura, one that they were much more sensitive to than the other people in the area. As more focus returned to the great king’s eyes, his face became slick with streams of tears as he glanced around at his surroundings with rising horror. The ovals that hung from everyone’s necks, the streamers, ribbons and banners that decorated rooftops, walls and windowsills, the flowerpetals that littered the street in all areas, all the same holy white that had characterized the uniforms of the human armies all those years ago. The haggard, drooping appearances of what few Drunaeda were in attendance and the glaring absence of any more of their kin.
Something seemed to click in Ar’Daul’s mind, and for the first time in Enquin’s memory he saw the revered and respected man’s shoulders slump and his teeth clench from a myriad of negative emotions. His eyes had grown wet.
“It was Limnin,” he said with a shaky voice. “He…was not what he seemed.” Glancing at the other Drunaeda and then back at Enquin’s concern-ridden face, his expression fell into one of tragic empathy. “Little Enquin,” he whispered, almost entirely supported by Enquin’s embrace. “You’ve done well to persist for so long. I’d expect nothing less…from my boy.” After pausing for a moment, he added in a guilt-ridden voice, “It must have been hard.”
Enquin nearly broke down, though strained to stop his tears for the sake of his long-lost friend. He needed to take Ar’Daul away from here as quickly as possible. The delegation from Providence Region would be arriving anytime now, which made this the worst place in the world for the forgotten king to be.
Looking around with disheartened eyes, Ar’Daul’s expression abruptly contorted in pain before he suddenly let out an anguished scream and fell to his knees as if fighting to retain his awareness. Swatting out with his arms in a clear effort to steer everyone away from him, Enquin realized with a sinking feeling that he had misdiagnosed the spell that ailed Ar’Daul as one that simply befuddled the mind. From what he was currently seeing, the man was under someone else’s control.
He knelt down to help the king back onto his feet, but the moment he recognized the manipulation at play it also registered in his mind that one didn’t manipulate someone like Ar’Daul without purpose, and that the amount of people that were capable of such a feat were extremely limited. The delegation’s tardiness, the sudden appearance of an impossible face, the words that the man had spoken as soon as he regained consciousness…
It was Limnin. He…was not what he seemed.
Enquin was overtaken by a strong surge of alarm. After all he’d endured over the centuries, he was positive that there was some sort of plot at hand here. His worries were confirmed when the surrounding air began to heat at a rapid rate, to the extent that the streamers that connected the rooftops above suddenly caught fire while the clothes of those nearest to Ar’Daul all began to burn, his included.
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The inexplicable presence of the strongest Daul in history and the evident possession of his faculties, the congested streets of Distan on this holiest of occasions…
A terrible thought ran through Enquin’s mind as he recalled the horrific incident responsible for sparking the dreaded conflict that had brought Mais to the brink of destruction all those years ago. A lone Drunaeda. A crowd of innocent worshippers. A justification for genocide, and the endless tide of hatred that followed.
No, he thought. Not again! Not again!
He wheeled around and fixed his gaze on the townsfolk behind him, almost all staring back at him and the other Drunaeda with contempt and disgust.
“Everyone, flee now! Flee as far as you can!”
He choked on hot air, unable to force out another word of warning. He had realized too late.
Soft white clothes aflame, the last sight that Enquin Herst saw before the world was replaced by pervasive, incomprehensible darkness was a collage of horrified, revolted expressions that seemed to be in the midst of confirming the longstanding biases that had been cultivated within them since their earliest days. Many tried to speak, but could only mouth the detestable word that had plagued Enquin for nearly all his life.
Demons! Demons! Demons!
Plural.
The last sounds to reach his ears were a mob of miscellaneous shouts, a whoosh of searing winds and the morbid cackling of sizzling skin. The protective charm that Alistar had gifted to him burned away beneath the matchless magics, an unwanted reminder that Ar’Daul’s flames were unparalleled in this world. Enquin’s final thought was to pray to Drune for the first time in many, many years. Above all else, he hoped that Alistar and his friends wouldn’t come to any harm.
***
Anice fiddled with her frilly dress as she stood beneath the shade of a particularly lengthy awning that had been erected outside of one of the many businesses located on South Street. With vast crowds stretching up and down the way, she couldn’t recall ever seeing the craftsman district look so lively.
Madeline and Patricia had spent hours fussing over what clothes she would wear to the parade grounds as well as how she would style her hair and which accessories she would wear to accent her look. Normally, she wouldn’t care, but a subconscious voice within her mind had urged her to heed their advice and present herself as any other young lady might aspire towards on such an important occasion. Her long, crimson hair had been combed into a luscious curtain of shimmering strands, with spade-shaped, ruby earrings dangling from her delicate earlobes that drew a stark contrast with her soft, white sundress. Her feet were encased by wooden sandals padded with white leather, thin strips of soft fabric tying them to her heels and toes.
Will Alie think I’m pretty?
Thinking of her cousin, her mood plummeted. Lessa had stopped by at their estate early that morning, not to pay her best friend a visit as would have been the case in the past but to spend some private time with Alistar. She would be leaving for Duke Antoine’s territories the following week, but rather than use the limited time that was left to her to hangout with her friends as much as she possibly could, she had done nothing but pester her cousin at all times of the day.
Did Alistar ever take Anice riding in the fields outside of their home? Did he ever invite her out for picnics in the surrounding forests, for dinner dates in town, or to sneak into empty rooms within the estate to do intimate things when they thought that everyone else in the house was asleep?
A while back she had seen her cousin sneak off to the stables to attempt to clean some very visible stains from his bedsheets, scarlet stains that had left no room for imagination in regards to their origin. After bumping into Priscilla later in the year and learning that Lessa had recently stayed the night at her home, her thoughts immediately returned to the blotched bedding from the previous occasion.
Anice was no fool.
Thinking of the relationship that had developed between Alistar and her best friend, she began to boil with envy. She had liked him first, and everyone in the group was aware that it wasn’t simply some one-sided affection. Why, then, had he picked the youngest daughter of the Silvus family as his object of romance? Deep in her heart, Anice knew the answer. Lessa was to be wed to another man in the near future and was destined to leave Distan for many years at the onset of the following week. Fate had decreed that the two would never be together, and Anice knew both of them well enough to recognize that the pair was deeply depressed by the thought. Likely, the sudden news of Lessa’s imminent departure had instigated a sense of romantic urgency between them that had resulted in the current situation.