The Silvering of Loran (2 page)

“My father is Gilvius,” she declared.

Topen was familiar with
that
name. His reaction to it was not undetected by Loran. However, what she perceived from him was not fear, or even a respect of her father’s name, but a puzzlement that resonated from his eyes.

“Then, your name is, Loran
Avileen
,” Topen confirmed.

“Yes.”

Topen couldn’t imagine any ruler would wish his young daughter to be alone outside the protective walls of the stronghold, and absolutely not in such a dismal condition. He wondered what—beyond the presence of an unknown addition to the Avileen lineage—had occurred in his long absence.

“Would you like
Daramose
to take you to the gate? I’m quite sure he would appreciate the company,” he remarked, and patted his mount on the neck.

Under most conditions, she would delightedly take any opportunity to ride a horse—much to the consternation of her father, but Topen’s question returned Loran’s focus to reaching her endpoint.

“Um . . . no, thank you, but do you have an extra covering you could part with?” She requested. “I promise to promptly return it before you leave the castle,” she quickly added.

Though Loran was not accustomed to pleading with strangers, she found this occasion to be surprisingly agreeable.

Topen sympathized with the youngest of the Gilvius line. He had no covering he could offer her, but he possessed something much more beneficial, something only an Avileen descendent would be able to use.

“I’m sorry, Loran. I’m traveling modestly, but—” Topen reached under his cloak and retrieved a petite, polished stone from a pocket within and handed it to her. “Take this,” he instructed.

She examined the object. It was pleasingly flat and cool, with a depression in the middle that was an exact fit for her small thumb—which she spontaneously massaged against the smooth rock.

Draped around the horn of Daramose’s saddle was a cloth bag that Topen retrieved. With care, he extracted a single diminutive bottle from within it, one of many the pouch contained. The grayish, lustrous contents moved slowly within the bottle at its tilt. He delivered it to Loran. She was still inexplicably enamored with the stone when she accepted the bottle. Topen sensed the bond she formed with his gift.

“The stone is magical,” he proclaimed.

Loran thrust her hand, with the stone resting on her palm, toward him.

“Magic isn’t real.”

“You’ve never seen magic?” Topen asked, as he closed her hand around the stone and gently pushed it back to her.

“I’ve seen tricks,” she said. “The best magicians in the eight provinces come here every year for festival. There’s always something new to see, but it’s always a trick.”

Topen thought her pragmatism, though useful, could also be stifling for such a young mind.

“Okay, let’s call it a trick. However, it’s a very good one. I’m positive you’ve never seen it before,” he assured.

Topen braced the hand Loran used to clutch the bottle.

“Pour all of the contents of this bottle into the cavity of the stone. The liquid will hold to the rock and will remain there until it has completed its usefulness,” he said.

“What is it supposed to do?” she asked, with a cynical stare.

“First, you must know that the effect will be fleeting, only minutes. As it dwindles, the liquid will darken, and then turn black before it’s consumed by the stone.”

“Yes, but what’s it supposed to do?”

Topen ignored her question and turned to his splendid horse, stepped into the stirrup, and swung a leg over Daramose’s back. He secured the reins in his hand.

“It will make you invisible,” he divulged. “Best of fortunes, Loran Avileen,” said Topen as he parted.

He pressed his heels to Daramose’s side and the stallion responded with an enthusiastic bolt down the well-worn road. Loran stood perplexed while Topen’s image diminished with each stride of Daramose’s powerful legs.

Loran returned to the bushes to recover her shoes, and the rounded pebbles they were sheltering. With her feet now securely covered, she arrived at the hidden entrance—with pebbles in one hand and the polished stone and bottle clutched in the other. She pressed the bottom of her fisted hands against two strategically placed stones in the wall and shoved, with no discernible result. She tried again with greater force and the stones yielded; a pivot point on this section of the wall released and fashioned a doorway. Loran entered and secured the wall section behind her. The thick candle she had left on the stone ledge in the passageway was still burning brightly near the neighboring fire steel.

Choosing which strategy she would carry onward was difficult for Loran. Her internal struggle between practicality, and what she considered
fantasy fairy-tales,
fueled her back and forth pacing. As she crisscrossed in front of the bright candle, the same words kept rolling about in her head:
It will make you invisible
. Finally, she committed and approached the ledge supporting the candle. Holding her hand a few inches above the shelf, her tight grip waned, and the pebbles—that had made this protracted journey with her—danced on the hard stone below.

Loran usually found her strolls through the hidden corridor by candlelight relaxing. The rounded ceiling was tall—with slits near the top that allowed a small amount of light to trickle in, and the walls were intimately close, though not so much that it felt constricting. But her experience with Topen had her consciousness reeling.

“Magic,” she growled.

By the time she arrived at the end of the passage, she had almost convinced herself that he was just playing a game with her, merely appeasing the sovereign’s daughter, she figured.

Her candle illuminated the rearward side of a wall alcove, the front, at this time of year, housed a vase of freshly picked flowers from the conservatory. A shelf to her right provided the resting point for the candle. She examined the contents of her hand and heaved an immense sigh. If she was wrong, and the liquid and stone resting in her palm are just tricks, then she imagined her access forever blocked to this secret passage.

The cork glided smoothly from the bottle, and Loran deposited the substance—which moved as an inseparable mass—onto the polished stone she had carefully positioned on the shelf. The shimmering solution attached to its center and formed a rounded, pliable bulge. Loran couldn’t know what to expect when she removed the stone from the shelf, not the feeling of euphoria, or the brief light-headedness that caused her to drop the empty bottle she held to the ground.

Under the dim candlelight, Loran could still see her hand, but it seemed to have a translucent glow—that left ghostly trails in the air on movement. She rotated the stone over, and to her absolute shock, the inverted bulge did not fall from the stone’s center. It remained firmly joined and slowly shifted from side to side—as it did in the bottle.

Candlelight danced on Loran’s expanded green eyes as wonderment replaced apprehension.

“Could it be real?” she whispered.

* * *

T
he formidable castle gates swung open moments before Topen arrived. A small hunting party of six riders thundered out of the castle. They barely acknowledged Topen as they grew near, save one, a teenaged boy who turned to take an extended stare. After they passed, Daramose walked with confidence through the vacated entry. A youthful guard in full battle regalia, which was not necessary for his post, met him. He grabbed his bridle aggressively.

“I don’t recognize you,” he barked to Topen. The guard’s distrusting eyes took a full measure of him. “What business do you have in the castle?”

Daramose pulled back gently and stomped his hoof on the bricks. The guard increased his hold. Topen remained calm when he addressed the guard.

“I am here to meet with your sovereign, and you will remove your hand,
now
.”

The impetuous guard felt overly secure in his authority and cracked a wicked smile. He tugged on the bridal, causing Daramose’s head to dip. Topen steadied him and leaned forward to pat his neck.

“Easy, my friend, only a small lesson is needed here,” he whispered to Daramose.

The great stallion lifted his head forcefully skyward and yanked the guard off the ground, but he refused to let go and seized the bridal with both hands. Daramose reared high in the air and effortlessly flung the stunned guard across the courtyard.

The entryway rapidly filled with castle defenders; the steel of their swords glinted at the ready. Having just seen how easily one of their ranks fell, they were at the height of alertness, and a bit twitchy.

Topen slipped a hand under his cloak.

“HOLD!” A strong authoritative voice shouted out from an upper level. A tall middle-aged muscular man, wearing thick leather armor across his chest, had observed the disturbance from an advantaged position.

“I know him,” he bellowed.

The guards halted their advance at his command, alternating their attentiveness between him—as he made his way to the ground level—and Topen. Raised swords still lingered menacingly when Kelamar, the Captain of the Guard, arrived at their backs.

He pushed the guards aside with little effort, clearing a path to Topen.

“Put them down . . . put them down,” he commanded in a good-humored tone, while he slapped arms at the same time. By the time Kelamar reached the front of the cluster, the tension eased and the remaining weapons lowered.

“We must be careful to never make enemies . . .” Kelamar pronounced as he paced towards Topen, “. . . out of our friends,” he concluded at Daramose’s side. Topen dismounted and stood with the man with whom he was so well acquainted.

“Especially, such formidable ones,” Kelamar added and placed his hand on Topen’s shoulder in a gesture of trust and respect.

“It’s good to see you doing so well, Kelamar,” said Topen.

A gregarious laugh flowed from deep within the captain.

“And you! Sixteen years and you look the same as when you last rode out these gates, right down to that bloody cape.”

Kelamar turned to Topen’s horse.

“Daramose!” said Kelamar as he brushed his hand down the stallion’s neck, “No mistaking you either. Still as strong and proud as ever, I see.” A rapid shaking and rising of his head was Daramose’s reply.

After Topen retrieved the bag suspended from Daramose’s saddle, the two men started to cross the courtyard when Kelamar paused.

“Take care of this horse as if he was the sovereign’s own,” snapped Kelamar to an adjacent guard. “And do not misjudge my meaning,” he warned, as he steadied a pointed finger his direction.

Though Kelamar’s finger was never near him, the guard still felt it pressing deep into his chest, and without thinking, brought his palm to his breastplate. In all of his time in the castle, he had never known the captain to bestow such a command.

* * *

T
he wall alcove swung freely on opening, and equally so when Loran pressed it shut from the front. A near silent latch automatically engaged. The fresh flowers in the vase facing her produced a sweet-smelling fragrance, filling this small niche off the main hall. Designed as a place for contemplation and privacy, two opposing benches sat in the middle of the room, with columns on each end that spiraled to the ceiling. On the walls, hung both landscape and still life paintings—of food, flowers, and vases—from the most notable artists in the provinces.

Holding the stone tightly, Loran stepped into the niche—enamored with the ghostly trails of her hand that she waved in front of her. A sentry passed the entry and gave a cursory glance inside before moving on.

“This is incredible!” Loran whispered, having not noticed him.

The sentinel stopped and turned an ear rearward. Though he heard no further sound, he retraced his steps back to the niche, only a few paces away. Viewing the entire area would normally require a few seconds at most, but the sentry was sure he heard a voice emanating from an empty room and took five times that amount to be sure it was vacant.

Loran was afraid to move. The guard hovered uncomfortably close to her face. She brought a cupped hand to her mouth.
He can’t see me!
She thought, when he continued to peer straight through her. When he moved on, Loran vigilantly did the same.

Gliding into the main hall, Loran bowed with playfulness to all the occupants she came across, including a few of the larger statues. She ran down the hall creating trails with her arms that only she could see. A sudden realization struck her when she noticed the puzzled look on a group of chambermaids’ faces, who watched the floor as she passed; her shoes were tapping when they hammered on the marble floor. Freeing her feet of their coverings took but an instant, and a spirited dash—while she suppressed the urge to laugh—took her the final distance up the curved stairs to her chamber.

Loran placed the stone on her dresser, and the moment she released it, she saw her reflection form in the oval mirror centered upon the bureau. The feeling of euphoria subsided and lucidity once again dominated her young mind. She examined the liquid on the stone, which had dimmed its luster and transformed to near blackness.

“Miss Loran?” said a chambermaid, standing a few feet away.

The voice behind her startled Loran and she spun to identify the owner. “Yes,” said Loran in mid-rotation.

Standing before her was Claire, the chambermaid recently assigned to her. Slightly overweight, and with plain features, Claire’s resigned expression was honed over her twenty-two years in service—having begun when she was just fifteen.

“I’ve just finished putting away your clean garments,” said Claire, while she assessed Loran’s appearance through placid eyes. “Shall I draw you a bath?”

Loran was worried that she may have been detected
appearing
from nowhere, but Claire didn’t show any noticeable surprise. In fact, she did not even appear alarmed at her muddy appearance, she mused. Possibly, Claire’s new station made her unfamiliar of what her
customary
appearance was, she thought; or maybe, having been transferred from her duties in her brothers’ section, her new chambermaid had seen it all and simply accepted the Avileens’ peculiarities. Whatever the reason, Loran decided to follow Claire’s unemotional lead and forego an explanation.