The Silvering of Loran (6 page)

With an hour before the start of the ball, Loran was in her chamber and having difficulty fitting comfortably into her dress. Claire struggled to fasten the dress from behind, while Loran grimaced at each tug.

“It’s not going to fit,” said Claire, as she once again pulled strenuously at the halves of her dress in a vain attempt to clasp them together.

“Oh, Claire!” Loran cried out, as she pressed her hands across her chest. “You’re going to break something.”

In the heat of their battle with Loran’s dress, Leanna arrived and stiffened before the spectacle in front of her.

“Do not tell me you have waited until this moment to fit into your dress.”

An exasperated Loran was fighting too desperately to breathe for a reply, but the stare she returned to her mother made it clear she did not appreciate her comment.

“Let me try,” said Leanna to Claire.

Claire was grateful to release the dress and stood by with crossed arms.

“It’s not going to fit,” Claire once again proclaimed.

“Thank you, Claire!” said Leanna and Loran simultaneously. Leanna gave one last tug before giving up.

Leanna walked around Loran to see if she could detect the problem. After she noticed how taut the material was covering Loran’s breasts, she knew the solution was going to be displeasing.

“I am amazed you have . . . filled out . . . so much in three months,” said Leanna.

“My other dresses still fit comfortably,” Loran insisted.

“They lack the exacting requirements this dress demands, said Leanna. “Claire, go to my chamber and retrieve the narrow gray cloth you will find amongst my dresses.”

“Do you mean to bind her?” asked Claire.

“Wait!” said Loran. “There is another way . . . The cotillion itself honors tradition, those who have come before us.” Loran held her mother’s hands. “I don’t believe merely updating the attire I wear would offend our descendants. Honestly, do you?”

Leanna could tell from Loran’s pleading eyes that this was more than just an attempt to avoid the formal dress; this was a moment of growth.

“I am pleased to hear you articulate such wisdom, my daughter. And it is fortunate we purchased several elegant dresses in the Kileson province, any of which will provide a suitable substitute.”

Loran hugged her mother and whispered “thank you” into her ear.

* * *

B
y the time Loran entered the ballroom, the musicians had been playing for ten minutes, and young faces mingled between the tables on both sides of the room. Loran proceeded down the center of the room in a graceful, full length, sapphire blue dress made of silk. The guests gave way to her as she neared and Loran would acknowledge them with a comment; usually, “Thank you for coming,” or to those she knew well, “It’s so good to see you!”

Long before Loran reached her table, she spotted Michael Kileson seated there. The table disguised his height of five-feet-eleven-inches, but his short curly blond hair, which took on the warm color reflected from the portrait on the wall behind him, remained in plain view. He had the appearance of a young man of twenty, though he had just turned eighteen a few months ago. A few minutes of conversation would usually reveal his lesser developed maturity.

Michael conversed with the young woman seated to his right, and then his eyes suddenly fixed on Loran. She averted her eyes before they could lock. When she finally reached her table, Michael was standing and had pulled her chair out for her.

“Thank you, Michael,” Loran said with a practiced smile.

“You look beautiful in that dress.”

“My mother will be pleased you think so, she brought it back from your family’s province,” Loran replied, and seated herself.

“I had heard that you and your mother traveled there recently. I’m sorry I missed you.” Michael lowered to his seat in a gradual motion while he coveted Loran’s beauty. “But you know . . .” he leaned in closer, “. . . with the rumors floating around this place, you would think you made the trip just to see me.”

Loran resisted the urge to roll her eyes or any other such mannerism revealing her displeasure at his comment. She had decided that tonight was for her and her mother; she would do her best that her actions this evening would not cause any scandal.

A lone figure standing near the entrance doors drew Loran’s attention. After she discerned he was wearing a cloak, she abruptly rose from the table and Michael shadowed her action.

“I’m sorry; there is someone I must see. Please be seated and enjoy yourself. I’ll be right back.” Loran flew from the table and chose the most direct path to the entry doors. More than a few eyes noticed her rush out of the room, and whispers permeated the air.

Topen’s intent was simply to gaze in the room to see if Loran was present. He was surprised when he saw Loran closing on his location. He stepped back from the doors and stood in the middle of the darkened hall, just moments before Loran occupied the space he had just abandoned. She peered in all directions and did not detect his obscured form. When she finally sighted him, she hurried over to where he stood.

“Topen!”

When Loran was an arms distance away, she realized her urge to embrace him was overpowering. Even though Topen did not
deter
her affection, he did not return the same warmth as Loran exuded in their embrace. But it did not matter to Loran; the closeness satisfied her none-the-less.

“You have changed much, young Loran,” Topen observed at the parting of their embrace.

“Not so young anymore,” she pointed out.

The knowledge Topen now held from his conversation with Leanna put a sharp point on a dialogue that would normally flow easily.

“Won’t you come in and join us?” Loran pleaded.

“I would not wish to disturb this most delightful evening with your friends,” said Topen. “I had meant to speak with you when your festivities ended.”

Loran took Topen’s hand and attempted to lead him to the ballroom, but his feet stayed anchored to the stone floor.

“Oh, come on, I promise it will be fun,” Loran assured.

Topen gripped Loran’s other hand and studied her emerald green eyes. Loran’s face first reflected her puzzlement, then her apprehension as she became anxious over Topen’s next words.

“The passage of time is more mysterious than we can conceive, and we are all controlled by it. Sixteen will never return in your life. My wish is that you will live it with all the joy it affords you, for it will not always be so.”

Topen released her hands before he spoke the next words he knew she would not want to hear.

“I must leave tonight.”

“Why must you leave?” implored Loran. “Why . . . ?”

Loran knew her questions were pointless, that Topen was not the type of man who succumbed to questions he chose not to answer. Surely, she reasoned, he would answer the next one.

“When will we see you again?”

“Nothing is for certain, and I dare not make a pledge I would not keep.”

“Then make one you
will
keep. Tell me that we . . . I, will see you again.”

Topen found the promise he made to Leanna in conflict with the one desired by Loran.

“This much I can assure. I will not abandon your family. The Avileen bloodline will forever hold my greatest concern. And I would never leave a plea for assistance, from
any
of you, unheeded,” Topen proclaimed.

Though not the pledge she would have liked, Loran found much comfort in his words.

“Best of fortunes, young Loran,” said Topen, and then departed.

Loran’s heart fluttered when Topen began his trek down the hall. He paused and rotated back to her.

“Remember, that despite not always seeming so, your parents will always hold their greatest hopes for you.”

Loran waved and Topen responded with a raised hand.

The music from the ballroom floated into the hallway where Loran stood. Topen glimpsed back at the intersection of the next corridor and discovered Loran still watched him. She pulled her hand close to her face and waved again. Topen bowed, slipped his hood over his head, and faded down the hallway.

SECRETS

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Five years—‘till present day

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L
IFE IN THE AVILEEN EMPIRE was absent any major disruptions in the seven years since Topen had last visited the castle. Rolam had taken a greater interest in the administration of the provinces. Gervest seemed more content to spend his time studying in the library and taking extended travels, lasting months, with Penlaris. No one knew for sure where their travels took them, since Gervest was usually evasive when asked.

Accounts of changes in the sovereign’s accessibility were rampant in the empire. Gilvius had begun to reduce his travel beyond the closest towns. Concern was also growing over his health—his appearance presented a man a bit older than his years.

* * *

L
oran’s chamber in the castle had not seen much change, with the exception of the paintings that decorated her walls—commissioned from a local artist. Loran found her tastes at twenty-three had veered into mysterious landscapes and depictions of lands she could only visit in her imaginings. What was noticeably lacking in the décor were any of the many gifts her suitors had lavished on her—with the expectation of making a favorable impression. She had just one gift that she cherished every day, and it was currently in her hand, where her thumb rubbed against the smooth indentation of the stone Topen had given her.

The excitement that magic existed had simmered, but not left Loran. When she relished in the memory of being invisible, a secretive smirk formed with her lips.

A guard stepped up to the door of Loran’s chamber and knocked on it solidly. A skinny older man with thinning hair, who struggled to tote two large framed canvases, trailed behind him. It was Holt, an artist of some repute, who lived in Avilbrook, the town closest to the castle. When Loran pulled the door open, her gaze immediately rested on the wooden frames that wavered in Holt’s hands.

“You’ve finished them!” Loran exclaimed.

Holt responded amid a quick respectful nod and winded breaths. “Yes, miss.”

“Please, come in, I must see them in the morning light.”

Holt struggled to bring the paintings through the door, even as the guard began to withdraw—after a dispassionate observation of his exertion. Loran stepped in to assist Holt with the heavy wooden frames.

“Did you carry these up here all by yourself?” Loran asked in amazement.

“My son was not able to accompany me today, and I knew how anxious you would be to view the completed canvasses,” said Holt, “And, if I may be so bold, I did not want to disappoint you, miss. Your family has always been so generous in supporting my work.”

“You give us far too much credit. We are the fortunate ones to have such a skillful artist so near.”

Loran retrieved the largest canvas from Holt’s grip and carried the painting over to her bed, where she placed it flat and allowed her eager eyes to probe for a familiar figure. And there he was; he stood on a mountaintop, the hood of his cloak—which flowed in the wind—was drawn over his head and partially obscured his face, but not his eyes, which peered from beneath the cloak and pierced the viewer. In the figure’s hand was an object not easily discernable to those without a keen eye—a small stone. The colors were so vibrant; Loran felt that if she touched the figure in the painting, he would know it.

“Oh, Holt. You have outdone yourself,” Loran professed. “You have brought him back,” she whispered.

“Miss?”

Holt stood beside her and steadied the other canvas.

“Oh, let me take this,” said Loran as she removed the frame from Holt’s grip and made room for it on the bed.

The second canvas depicted a majestic Manor with multiple levels, surrounded by tall trees in the distance. White rail fences secured green pasture on either side of the road leading to the entrance of the estate. In the foreground of the field, was a sleek black stallion with piercing dark eyes, displayed in all his grandeur. As in the other painting, the vibrant colors drew Loran into the canvas. She was almost sure she saw Daramose shake his head.

Holt watched Loran viewing the paintings. She touched them in areas when the urge to do so seized her.

“I have never in my life had such detail given to me when commissioning my work,” said Holt. “And I’ve never seen a manor such as the one you described in that painting. Is it located in the Pinphon province?”

“No, prior to this day it existed vividly only in slumber,” said Loran, while she wistfully gazed at the canvas. “But it is a frequent visitor in my dreams.”

Loran surveyed her room for the best locations to view the masterful works. Holt followed her direction and fixed upon a spot where the light streaked across the wall in a diffused pattern. Holt stepped up to the area and rubbed his hand across the stone.

“Perhaps you might consider
this
location for the Manor,” he said, as he looked back to Loran. “The light is favorable.”

Loran grinned and nodded her head in approval.

* * *

S
even men of various ages—the youngest being twenty-eight and the oldest, sixty-four—were seated in tall-backed wooden chairs before a round marble table in the middle of the consultation chamber. Dressed in the formal attire of their province, the styles exhibited the unique flavor of the regions represented at this yearly gathering of the sovereign’s advisors. The event had evolved into a weeklong retreat, with participation in the hunting parties and festive dining. Each advisor had arrived with an entourage, consisting of a chef, a valet, and one or two additional domestics. Of particular note was the clothing of Samuel Kileson, father to Michael. The Kileson province manufactured the finest cloths in all the regions. The black and maroon colored silks Samuel wore enhanced his toned, six-foot frame, and were striking when contrasted by his straight blond hair—that extended beyond his shoulders.

Noticeably unaccounted for in the room were Gervest and Penlaris. It had become well known over the last two years that Gervest had less interest in the guidance of the advisors—while Penlaris was notorious for never meeting with the other counselors present, being the only one among their status to
always
be granted a private audience with Gilvius.