Chpter 3 – Part 6 – Fortune
Namar may be the best-known jungle on the northern continent, but others were thicker. Darker. More cloying with the scents of pollen filing the air year round, the pheromones of carnivorous plants and poisonous flowers choking the air. Set in the side of a low hill leading up to the major mansion of the Baron of Lockwood, the Chapel of Rahrin was host to many samples from each of these dark havens. Leaves and tendrils lined the floor cast from their parent plants which sat nested in pots and boxes against the walls lining the entryway, a narrow, blackened tunnel lit only by the occasional fronds of an Androposian nightflower casting its blue, shimmering light just far enough for a supplicant to avoid running into something. Far at the end of the hallway, in the anteroom that could only be the chapel itself, a red robed figure knelt before the low, long altar of the Destroyer, Mighty Rahrin.
Mireya ‘s eyes were everywhere at once, alighting on the plants as butterflies might with flittering lashed interest – catching passing flashes of the incandescent blue light to make her eyes seem like primordial ice. Oddly at home here, some ancient blood calling that felt right in the heady atmosphere even though her pale skin shone as an obvious target, advancing slowly, as she’d been told. The young woman a picture of fecundity, all curves and femininity – long curling hair loose down her back and whispering as she moved closer to the robed figure – cautious and inquisitive. A natural duality that keeps her steps short and pace quick
“Excuse me…I’m expected?” Voice as low as the air pressure, a honeyed headiness to it from tiredness.
“Please, sit,” the Accord Council said softly, gesturing to the pad beside himself. “Thank you for maintaining reverent quiet. Some of the others passing through here tonight seem to have disturbed the plants with their voices. Remain quiet throughout your visit here.”
Mireya did as bid, sinking to sit with a grace that suits her countenance – the assurance a new thing, sitting on her delicate shoulders with a gentle mantle of calm. Fingers nestle together in her lap and she nods a silent answer to his comment, quiet the most eloquent response she can give.
“I am told you are from Ckuien Penance,” the Council continued, folding his hands in his lap, his eyes remaining closed. “And that your grandfather was Auss Maran. I knew him. We both served in the King’s Halo, when the current King’s father still sat the throne during the War of Ascension.”
“You are given correct information.” Voice barely a whisper, but the bile in her throat made the words thick, a slow sideways glance at the Council – before she goes back to looking ahead.
“I hope so,” he whispered. “It came from both Rhayd Khalenn and Kintere Toralyon. The latter of whom should not even be here. Curia Edvard Thryche assigned him to Attensah, not to Jinda.”
Mireya was not sure how to proceed for a moment, so she lets the silence linger – listening to the breathing of the plants – imaging a jungle she never saw “He’d not want to leave Rhayd, or probably me. He’s my only friend.” Honesty and quiet “They told you true of course, I am the disappointment of Auss Maran’s life, his bastard granddaughter.”
Calenhad opened a calm eye and frowned, finally looking toward his current charge.
“Your father was married as last I knew. Auss was not proud of the match, I’ll agree. I assume he raised you, your mother having passed?”
“You know more than me then,” Mireya’s eyes widened, her surprise clearly showing on her delicate face. “I do not know my mother or my father, not even their names, I have been with Auss as long as I remember, he refused to give name to my beginnings and I soon learnt the folly of questions.”
“Well, some things perhaps are left to rest.
Mireya felt a moment’s disappointment – so close to a past here in a place that holds haunting echoes of a home she has been told she must have come from.
“One can but hope they rest in peace.” Turning away from the thoughts, glancing back to the Accord, letting question leak into her eyes.
“Do you know why you’ve been summoned here?” Deftly, the Accord Council dashed her question without batting an eye.
“I had thought you would meet most of the students at some point – it seems you have already spoken with at least two, Rhayd and Kintere.”
Calenhad nodded, turning back to his gaze at the altar.
“I have. I have spoken to the majority of the students. One of my duties here is to assess the talents of the incoming students and check in with them periodically after each set of Seasonal examinations. As you have just arrived, all of you, I need to see where you are. Anrui has taught you the rudiments of Calling the Mists, has he not?”
Mireya followed his eyes, settling on the altar as she listened – learning to enjoy the sound of silence, and all the nuances it had.
“Regulator Frost has taught us the basics of Calling, yes. Though it’s been easier for some than others.” She included herself in the some that it hadn’t been as easy for at first.
“I would assume as much. If you will, please draw a mote.”
Mireya nodded, a soft little bob of her head that sent her ashen hair in a silvery fall, letting herself calm – focusing as she’s been taught – drawing breath into her core and letting it expand out – only a moment or two until she’s done as bidden – not moving her focus to look for the next command. The small sphere of colourless, nearly invisible gas before her writhed with impatience, desperate to become, rather than to simple be. Within moments, Mireya found it was taking almost her entire being, just to keep the mote stable and unmoving, telling it to be patient and wait for its time to fulfill its purpose.
“Excellent,” the Accord Council muttered, his eyebrows rising. “Now, set it alight. Not all of it, not all at once.”
With a nod, she swallowed and closed her eyes, recalling as she had been taught the element of fire. Warmth, a hearth, the scorching feel of summer sun on bare skin. The outside shell of the sphere caught with a flicker, sending an ethereal scream ripping through her awareness, threatening to drown out her own imposed voice of control. Her self-control, so well seated in her manner out in the world, seemed to disintegrate in the presence of her Talent in motion.
“Enough,” the blond mage growled through gritted teeth. He waved his hand, the mote dispersed, the flame going out with a choked sigh as it collapsed on itself. Breaking the bonds of Mireya’s focus with a disdain for effort almost palpable in the mute, subdued environment of the Chapel. “I’ve seen enough.”
Mireya’s brows drew but the instinct that drips into her subconscious is stronger than her frustration at his regard. The growl, the hand movement, the words. Cowered, Mireya watches him with an expression that shows nothing, and eyes that are filled with fear.
“I..” Nervous, voice timid “Will I be going then?”
Calenhad leaned forward, closing his eyes, and propped himself up with his knuckles against the ground before the altar.
“Rahrin is the god of order, he opposes the Weaving of the Mists of Creation by any but the Gods and their agents, the Empyreans. In this place, most students cannot lift a finger, much less invoke an element. You’ve a rare power, Mireya Maran. Rahrin holds no sway over your Talent, which places you in a very small group on this island. I’ve yet to figure out which one, but there you are.”
“And I was worried you were about to send me back.” The words escaped her lips before she can stop them, relaxing into her skin again. The true meaning of the Accord’s words didn’t really sink in past that fact she’s not being send home “I’ve been different everywhere I’ve been….And I was hoping to fit in here. I won’t even have that, will I?”
“Fitting in isn’t always the best thing,” the Accord Council muttered with a soft laugh. “I never did. Nor did Auss. That’s how we met. Both of us were Wardens at Merdol during the war. Odd numbers, most of us were. Your instructor, Anrui Frost – his father was among that number as well. In a place where everyone is different, how can anyone fit in? Your place is what you make of it.”
“I’m sick of being forced to make concessions!” Mireya fumed, the exhaustion of having to sustain a Weave for longer than she’s accustomed finally breaking down the last of her restraint. “I don’t want to hear that I’m special, I’ve had enough of that. I just want to learn, to blend in to the crowd here! If I knew was going to stand out, I could have stayed in Penance, slaving away under Auss’ eyes, rather than one of his friends!”
A strange look of amusement filtered through the rough man’s features, his eyebrows climbing further toward his hairline, lips twisting into a surprised smile.
“Well,” he said softly. “Then I won’t tell you you’re special. Nor why. I’ve a suspicion your particular kind of Talent will show itself and become useful eventually. Perhaps then you’ll be prepared to deal with it appropriately.”
Mireya breathed a sigh of relief, cupping her hands to her face.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she said from behind her self-made mask. “I didn’t mean to burst out like that.”
“Dismissed, lady Maran.”
There was no malice in his words, and as Mireya chanced a glance at him, she saw he had turned back to his study of the altar, the amused smile still on his lips. Well, at least he wasn’t mad. Lacking an appropriate response of her own, Mireya stood and turned from the altar, slipping down the hallway toward the waning light of day beyond. The Accord Council had so much as promised to let her be mediocre, and that was enough – it had to be enough for now. She wasn’t sure whether she felt a strange kind of pride at sharing a secret with the head of the Regulators, or a profound anger that she still could not shake the memory of her grandfather, even this far removed from his angry glares and that huge, painfully heavy hand.