A Child of Forever, Chapters 3 and 4.

3
The Rift Opens

“Fool!” He charged across the room purposefully, coming within a pace of the cowering man before raising his arm swiftly, catching him across the jaw with a backhanded slap. The man cowered no more, tumbling sideways and coming to a stop flat on his back. “Do you have not the capability of seeing the implications of it? Are you to tell me you do not realize the complications this brings?”

The man had gone back to cowering, though on his hands and knees this time. He paused only to wipe a trickle of blood running down his chin on the tattered sleeve of his shirt. “Y-yes, my lord; that is, I do not realize.”

The man standing before him spat at the term the man used to address him. “I had no need of any disturbances happening at this time. The plan was to let everything become calm, to allow l’i’chalam to take them. Flogging lack-witted…arrogance was not supposed to enter into it! Did you think it would do you good; Raise you in the eyes of your lord, perhaps? Even attempting to take him like that was foolish, but letting him escape in the process…” He swallowed, hard. “You’ll be lucky if Ha’saar’ett doesn’t have you drawn for it.”

The man on the floor flinched at hearing that. On the walls of the room, torch flames surged in response to the ancient name.

“My lord, all I t-t-thought was that we couldn’t let it slip away again. I thought that it would solve a problem, and that it would be very quiet. No one would hear of it.”

He chuckled to himself. “No one would hear? If you thought that, then I was correct; a fool is exactly what you are.”

He raised his leg, bringing his foot down forcefully. The heel of his boot made a dull packing sound as it connected, first with hair, then human skin. The man on the floor collapsed and let out a groan, deeply unconscious now. You just may bleed to death. You’ll be lucky if you’re still breathing come morning, thought the figure standing over him, and, scraping the sole of his boot clean on a stone in the floor, he smiled and began to whistle. The eerie melody echoed off the cold walls, filling the empty stone room as he closed the door behind him.
 

4
The Hunter Watches

Azrael was having some trouble sleeping. The excitement of the day in town was still fresh in his head, it is true, but it was more the last events in the town square that were keeping him awake. It seemed that every time he was close to drifting off into unconsciousness, something intangible would catch hold of him, drawing him back. Eyes would open, glancing around the room. He would look at the statue of the baron sitting on the small table in the corner, where he had placed and lit several candles so that he could clearly see the figurine. His father, ever indulging when he could afford to be, had realized his desires and stopped at a tallows to purchase the candles for his young boy. Inevitably, he would think of Arimon, and what would possibly become of him. He had seemed to be such a pleasant man. Azrael had no doubt in his mind that the young instructor’s son was no thief, but then, Azrael’s opinion didn’t seem to amount to anything. It didn’t keep Arimon from being taken by the palace guards. There had been nothing he could do about that; every time the thought of it crossed his mind, he was overcome by feelings of uselessness, and that in turn made sleep even harder to come. Finally, sleep did take him, and sooner than he would have thought possible. Had he been lucid, he would have thought it strange that as he was drifting off, his mind turned to thoughts of Erianne Chotieré, walking through the marketplace, giggling and whispering with her friends.

* * *

He sat up in bed and put his feet on the floor. The candles he lit had gone out; the room was cool and gray, foreboding and uncomfortably silent. The moon shone outside, and some scant light stretched across the floor as Azrael stood up and stretched. A couple of loose boards groaning under his weight, he walked over and sat down at the corner table. Consciousness was starting to override sleep’s hold on his mind, and he picked up and lit one of the candles that lay there.

The baron figure stood there just where he’d left it, just as impressive as it had been when he’d held it in the market square. Picking up another candle, he almost lit it, and then stopped. Something seemed different about the statuette, now that his eyes were starting to fully focus again. With his free hand, he wrapped his fingers around the figurine’s base. It looked just as it had every time he’d laid eyes on it before. Still, some little odd thing...that was when he noticed it. The center gray line that divided the silver armor, embellished with those strips of blue and white, and the black, dead-seeming half; that line didn’t look so blurred anymore. It had sharpened, becoming very clear and thin, very defined. Azrael watched as the line became almost imperceptible. Then, the dark side of the figure seemed to…spread. The silver armor began to darken near the line in the center of the statuette. The thin gray line turned deepest black, and the slit in the holy-looking side of the helmet contorted, taking a shape not unlike the hollow socket on the other side of the face. As the blackness spread across the figure, cracks and depressions began to appear in the armor as the blue and white fabrics fell away, fading into the air. Finally, even the fingers on the right side had become black, as dark as the sky in the hour before dawn. Azrael’s fingers slipped as the right half of the figure slowly crumbled, turning to dust in his hand. When it was all done, Azrael felt a tear run down his cheek, and looking at the half-man he was holding, dropped it to the floor. He never had thought he could feel as sad as he did right now.

“Azrael!” An urgent whisper drug him awake from the horror of the dream. Khalton stood over him, shaking him lightly. Azrael’s face was wet with tears, and his father was already dressed to go this morning. “Come on, son, it’s time to get ready and get moving. Are you okay? Why the tears, son?”

“It’s nothing, father, just a bad dream.” For some reason, he didn’t want to mention any details to his father; At least, not yet. “It’s nothing to dwell on. I’m fine.” It was then that Azrael noticed that there was already a faint amount of light coming in through the bedroom window. Something was wrong. The sun was rising. They should be well gone towards the market by now.

“Father, are we late this morning?” Azrael’s question came out as a mumble, his throat dry from sleep, not to mention that awful dream. “Has something happened?”

“I guess you could say that.” Khalton’s reply was slow, as if it wasn’t quite what he meant to say. “I was up late last night. I thought quite a bit about Sir Arimon. I know that the venison those guards pulled from his pocket was the cut he had paid for earlier yesterday.” A slight pause, then, “Overpaid, actually.” His tone was guilty. Khalton Di’amo Toban was not one used to taking things he hadn’t earned.

“I’ve decided not to go to market today. Instead, we will pay homage to Domeni Vittori, and ask him for an audience with the Domennati, in the hopes that I can resolve this matter and ensure the freedom of Sir Arimon.”

All Azrael’s sadness over Arimon’s arrest could not contain the excitement he felt. A visit to the Erstati Vittori? And his father had said ‘we’. Azrael had never been to the house of a noble, and the Erstati’s house would be even better. He imagined how it would be. Paintings, suits of armor maybe, guards, servants, and probably collected treasures that would make his newly acquired statuette pale in comparison?

The baron! Azrael remembered his dream, his eyes turning to the table where he had made his impromptu shrine for the figure upon arriving home last evening. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that not only was the baron whole, but the candles were, in fact, still burning, though one had burned to nothing and would soon falter.

“Azrael! Are you sure you’re awake?” His father’s voice broke the trance. “Come, get dressed, and by the Gods, fix your hair and get some food! We are visiting nobility, and more than that, ruling nobility today. It won’t do for you to look like a mongrel or pass out for lack of nourishment, boy.” Khalton was smiling. He knew the excitement his son must surely be feeling at this moment, and only wished that he had that virtue of youth. He definitely felt no excitement about paying this visit. He was nervous, but definitely not excited. A visit to the Erstati was enough, but the Domeni Sió Vittori was well known for not pursuing requests of audience with the Domennati, unless the requestor had an issue of dire importance to Vittori’s political career.
Azrael was already dressed and in the main room of the house, gobbling down sausages and eggs, the latter given from Adri, who kept a coop behind his unimpressive home. As Khalton came into the room, he saw that his son had put on his best clothes, a bright sky blue vest and pants, along with an azure cloak that was sewn for him by the servant Edythe, at the cost of a gardener who owed a sum of money to Khalton. He also observed that his son had applied grease to his hair, and that it now fell in shining, dark brown strands to his shoulders.

“Had enough? It won’t do for you to fall asleep because you overate, either,” he said aloud. “It’s been too much time already. We must be on our way, Azrael.”

* * *

The journey to the Erstati Vittori was long, but not quite as long as the journey to the market at the base of the Castle Taleni. The sun had hardly separated itself from the hills on the horizon when the manor came into Azrael’s view. He thought it was one of the most glorious things he had ever seen, and grew more impressed the closer they came. He had seen the Castle Taleni, of course, in his days at market with Khalton, but the castle never impressed him. He thought it to be rather plain, despite its size, and didn’t have much of a liking for the unremarkable, cold stone blocks that made up its walls. That dislike is something he would carry with him for the rest of his life, and given how it would turn out, would seem well-founded.

The manor, though, was glorious in his eyes. Surrounded by a modest wall, the house was miniscule in comparison to a castle, but larger than any home Azrael had seen, and in its most basic definition, that is what this manor was. He saw several people, a gardener tending the lawn, another watering in a small flower garden, a woman hanging clothes on a line, and a couple of men repairing what looked to be a couple of loose stone tiles on the roof of the west wing. These men stuck out against their workplace, their plain clothes in contrast to the bright, rose-like hue of the tiles they worked on. Three flags flapped listlessly in the breeze, the Talene flag, being the largest of the three, in the center. On its left, the flag of the Erstati flew, in essence a smaller, two-color version of the larger Talene flag. Usually, the Erstati flags had a unique design, but because Erstati Vittori was where the Castle Taleni stood, this similar design was used. Opposite this, gracing the right side of the larger banner, hung the coat of arms of the line of the family Vittori. A bright green background surrounded a shield emblazoned with a bronze cross, held suspended over an open hand by a hawk, its wings outstretched. The hawk’s eyes each encompassed a swath of orange flame.

Several hanging plants grew up along the sides of the home, their vines stretching in a myriad of lines, and where a vine would end, small white flowers bloomed, their petals tinged with spots of blue. Azrael thought they were the most beautiful of all, much more so than those blossoms in the garden being watered.

“What do you think, son? Will it serve?” Khalton spoke for the first time since they had left their home, disheveled and poor compared with the manor that they were almost upon.

“It will serve, father. You bet it will!” His thoughts wandered, and after a moment, he unthinkingly added, “I will live in a house like this someday.”

Khalton knew that owning a manor such as this, or any manor, was all but impossible for anyone not born into nobility. He felt no need, however, to crush his son’s dreams with his observation, and so said nothing.

* * *

Sometime later, father and son found themselves at the walls surrounding the manor of the Erstati Vittori, and in the presence of two guards positioned in front of either of the iron gates. There was a guardhouse standing just outside the gates, plain and unassuming, and from what Khalton observed, rarely used. The Domeni Vittori must have some very well-trained and disciplined guards; guards who weren’t in the habit of leaving their posts, as most any man is prone to do when the hours grow long and lack for excitement. The only man who seemed to have any use for the guardhouse was a runner, not sitting in the guardhouse, but outside, leaning against the wall and taking a draw on a roll of mountain smoke. Khalton didn’t smoke personally, but mountain smoke had an unmistakable odor to it. Pungent and like to hang in the air, it was an odor that many were familiar with, if not for its regularity, but its staying aromas. People in general didn’t have much taste for the young man’s indulgence, but this particular substance was known to heighten the senses, open the lungs, and increase blood flow, qualities desired in people who were sometimes required to deliver messages of urgency to towns that could be miles away. Runners needed every advantage they could get.

“Good day,” Khalton removed his hands from his cloak and held them out, palms up, to show that he was a friend and meant no ill. “We are Khalton Di’amo Toban and Azrael Aramad Toban, Citizens of Vittori and Taleni, wishing to see the Erstati.”

The runner crushed the smoking end of his cigarette between the fingers of his right hand and stepped away from the guardhouse, stopping just a few steps away.

“A fine day to you, Sir Toban. May I tell the Erstati the nature of this visit?” The runners tone did not carry a note of respect, and that was not surprising. Good runners were a cocky bunch, and those good enough to be selected for noble service came downright arrogant, more likely than not. The fact that the boy even used the word 'sir' was somewhat uncommon.

Khalton was unfazed. “To petition for an audience with the Domennati Taleni. We most graciously thank the Erstati for hearing our request.”

The runner did not respond, merely gave a nod before turning and jogging to the guards, one of whom had stepped back and opened one gate just wide enough for him to get through before closing it back behind the runner with a loud click.

“What do we do now, father?” Azrael must have thought that it was over, that they were done.

“Isn’t it obvious, Azrael? We wait.”

Scant seconds had passed since the runner had disappeared into the house when he emerged once again, jogging back down the front steps. He left the manor grounds and wordlessly returned to his impromptu leaning post at the guardhouse. A moment passed, then the manor doors opened once again, and an attendant stepped out onto the landing. “Guard, open the gates, and allow them passage.” He did not shout, but his voice carried with perfect clarity. The guards complied without hesitation, swinging the large iron gates back after planting the blades of their swords into the ground in front of them. This was traditional, symbolizing that the visit would be peaceful, as well as a reminder that these citizens were safe from harm while within the walls of the manor.

Azrael thought that his heart might leap from his chest; such was his excitement as they entered the grounds and made their way down the walk and up the steps to the manor’s front door. He kept revisiting his thoughts from that morning when his father told him of the trip, thoughts of armor and paintings, maybe jewels and other treasures which he couldn’t even imagine.

Sadly, Azrael was to be disappointed. The paintings were there, as well as one full suit of armor. It was standing in an alcove beneath the dual stairway that greeted them as they stepped inside the manor’s doors. But jewels and unimaginable treasures, there were none. The architecture in the main room was ornate, no question; the banister posts adorned with intricate carvings of angels, knights, and even demons that clawed at the angel’s feet. But nothing as fantastic as this boy’s imagination had conjured up.

The Attendant, no doubt the butler eminente of the Erstati Vittori, directed them through a doorway to the left into a sitting room, and told the two to make themselves comfortable. Azrael took that as license to do as he wished. Dragging his father along, the pair spent their waiting strolling around the rather large welcoming room, observing.

This room would be far more to Azrael’s liking. Rare paintings graced the walls, and there was a bust on a pedestal, undoubtedly the likeness of Sió Vittori. Upon closer inspection, an engraved bronze plate at the base would certify just that. It was comfortably warm without being overly so, and each thought how the room smelled sweet. Like roses, or subtle perfume, but with a hint of something else, fresh-baked bread, maybe. That was entirely possible. Neither one could’ve known from the main room how close the kitchen or dining hall were to the front doors. Khalton was lingering somewhat, but that didn’t stop Azrael from moving on his own around the room.

As he walked the room, Azrael noticed that the beams set into the walls, more ornamental than necessary to keep the house standing, were carved with figures. The same angels, knights, and demons that characterized the main room were present here as well, though in different reliefs. He stopped now at one sculpture he had noticed when they stepped into the room; when he saw the statue up close, he nearly cried out. It was a perfect replica, though much larger, of the baron of light and dark that sat upon his bedroom table. All the features were there, but the intricacies were carved with much more detail. Also, this statue wasn’t merely painted like his. The right side had to have been constructed from an actual suit of armor, the breastplate, helmet, and armguards polished so thoroughly that they reflected the room, with the unmistakable blue and white laid in with amethyst and diamond. The left, dark side had undeniable overlays of polished obsidian. Azrael could see his face in the black stone. Uncut, non-faceted garnets and rubies made up the spots of blood that had only been painted on his own, and the face, he wasn’t sure what it was constructed of, but it looked just as he imagined it should, perfectly simulating dead, blackened flesh. The statue was so masterfully crafted that it almost seemed real, as though the baron would at any second step off of its perch and march around the room. Azrael hovered here for many minutes, noticing how benevolent and protective and just inherently good the right side of the head looked with its polished silver mantle. He observed the dark side as well and it sent chills down his spine. It was a moment past their subsiding before he moved on.

The next display was a rudimentary carving of a man in a field, and Azrael didn’t care for it at a glance enough to hover over it. He did however stop at the next display, an arrangement of weapons set upon plaques behind glass. There were kitanas, a flail, a brightly polished cat o’ ninetails, and a sword that the plate below it claimed was the sword of Alderith Te’Shaine, the conqueror who founded the kingdom of Teshai. Azrael didn’t pay much attention to the gold hilt set with rubies, jade, and other precious stones. He remembered Adri telling him some time ago that Alderith’s sword was lost, it being many ages since Alderith himself had tasted air, and that though many houses displayed swords claiming they were his, they were always copies based on the sword’s description from the legends and stories of Alderith the Conqueror.

At passing this sword in the display, Azrael’s eyes came to rest upon another set of weapons. These made him stop. A pair of hand axes was crossed before him. Azrael had never cared much for the design of a sword, it being far too common. Maces and ninetails were a little better, but you almost never saw someone who knew how to fight with axes. Azrael assumed that many were just not fond of them, or couldn’t learn the intricacies of battle with such a blunt and brutal weapon. This is what made his fascination with these particular weapons.

They are beautiful, he thought. He marveled at their construction. The handles were made of ironwood, it being necessary for them to sustain countless impacts without breaking. The steel joined the wood at two separate points, the closest joining about a foot and a half from the handgrips. Two points, Azrael thought, so as to spread the force of any blow. The blades were sharpened to a razor edge, and the body of steel behind the edge was engraved with many arcane symbols. The handgrips were wrapped leather, and the base of the oak poles had a spike protruding downward from it. Azrael marveled at these, the finest axes he had seen in his short life. He swore that some day, he would try his luck at hand axes, even if he would never have any reason to really use them. He passed several other things, another bust, not knowing the likeness. He walked past several more paintings, but didn’t notice them. He was dreamily lost in his own thoughts.

After Azrael was done with his inspection of all the treasure the room held, they sat down upon a beautiful sofa, its soft, golden brown surface a welcome repose after all the walk of that morning. They sat in silence for several minutes, though Azrael’s eyes never ceased darting from one object to the next.

The solitary guard in the room was holding a pike, which he definitively raised before slamming the pole into the floor, the steel-coated end producing a loud crack. “Our lady, the Domeni Chotieré,” He announced. “All stand.”

Khalton was taken aback. She was here? He looked to the door, his expression a mixture of confusion and pleasant surprise. It was then that Azrael jabbed him in the arm, hard. “On your feet!” His son actually hissed at him. It was not something Khalton was used to hearing from Azreal, who was usually a very outspoken boy, but respectful towards those he should be. Azrael’s face looked like it had run away from his body, and was actually quite pale. The boy was so nervous he couldn’t stand himself, and Khalton suddenly felt much the same at hearing the name the guard had announced. He clambered to his feet just in time, as the lady Sashaime Chotieré, in all her splendor, took her last step down and turned toward the sitting room.

She was stunning, to put it into a single word. A dress of gold and white hugged her hips and torso, ribbons of lace around the hips, the neckline sewn in with pearls. Spiral curls of golden blonde fell down her back, framing her face. Her complexion porcelain and her facial features exuding femininity, there was no one in the land that would exceed her in beauty. And there was no way one would ever mistake Erianne as anything other than her daughter. As she glided into the sitting room, a smile spread across her face.

“Khalton! It has been far too long since I saw you. I am glad for your visit this morning, whatever the circumstances that brought it.” He took her hand, and kissed it gently. She responded by taking his arms in hers. “You haven’t aged a day, my friend. And who is this child?” Her voice held no doubt. She was being pleasant, and maybe a little coy. Khalton was flustered, though Azrael didn’t know why.

“This is my son. Azrael! Say hello. Sashaime is an old friend.”

Azrael looked as though he was going to be sick from nerves. Still, he offered his hand, and kissed hers, following Khalton’s example. “It is my pleasure, Domeni Chotieré.”

“Very charming boy, Khalton! Azrael, did you know that this man is one of the most skilled hunters that I have ever seen?”

“Skilled enough to survive, maybe.” Khalton replied, looking to Azrael. “She always has overestimated how good I am at what I do.”

“Humility has always been a part of your charm, Khalton. I shall hope you never lose that.” Her face beamed, and as she stood there for a minute, her eyes went sort of dreamy, as if she was recalling thoughts she hadn’t entertained in years. She stayed like that for a moment. Khalton brought her mind back to the matters at hand.

“Sashaime, I don’t mean to sound rude, nor out of my place, but what are you doing here, at the Erstati? Are we interrupting imperial business?”

Sashaime suddenly became very serious, all personal thoughts clearly put aside. “Not at all, my friend. You haven’t heard?” Khalton needed not answer. His expression said nothing but continued cluelessness. Sashaime continued, “Our Lord Sió has fallen ill these past days, and has been unable to tend to Erstati business. As second in rank and stature to the Erstati, I have come to take care of matters until he is well enough.”

“I am sorry. I had not heard. Extend our wishes to Erstati Vittori for his recovery.” Khalton didn’t really know what else he could say in this situation.

“Domeni.” The attendant that had led them into the sitting room stepped in, bowing his head. Sashaime came back from her thoughts and turned her head to acknowledge the butler. “Miss Erianne has finished her daily studies. She awaits your instructions.”

Had Azrael’s stomach had any stability remaining in it, it vanished at the mention of the girl’s name. If he had been able to feel what Khalton was going through a few minutes earlier, he would be experiencing a mild sense of déjà vu. Erianne? It hadn’t occurred to Azrael that she might be here, despite Khalton mentioning her mother the day before, and the fact that her mother now sat before him.

“Khalton,” Sashaime ventured, “is it alright with you if I send Azrael here up to keep Erianne company while the two of us talk and discuss what brought you here?”

Khalton’s eyes glimmered. She didn’t know the nature of her daughter’s relationship with his son. Always a schemer at heart, Khalton’s response was predictable.

“Of course, Sashaime. Azrael could always stand to make new friends.” If Khalton’s smile were to spread any wider, it would’ve permanently cracked his face. “Don’t you agree, Azrael?” Azrael’s discomfort shot right through the roof, and for a moment, he thought he most definitely would be sick. Despite this, the boy tried to put on his most agreeable expression. “Y-yes.”, he managed to mumble.

“Well then,” Sashaime looked very pleased. “Teo, escort this young gentleman to Erianne’s chambers. I’m sure she’ll be happy to entertain him.” Azrael doubted that as soon as he heard it. Still, he followed the servant out of the room. As he was exiting he heard “So, Khalton, how is Aendwynne?” followed by a loud gulp from his father. Azrael didn’t like thinking about his mother, though he didn’t remember her. But he thought, at least he would be no more uncomfortable in the following moments than his father.

The butler led him up the long staircase, Azrael dawdling behind, as he tried to examine as many portraits and paintings as he could without losing sight of the man. At the top of the stairs, they passed through the large double doors. As the attendant brought them closed behind him, Azrael looked around. They were in the intersection of a hallway. It ran to his left and right, several doors set in the walls in each direction, before each turned back towards the rear of the manor. Another led straight back from where they were now standing. This center hallway had doors scattered on either side of it, unlike the side passages which had doors only on the side closest to the rear of the house. It was down this passage that the butler led him, and the first portrait Azrael stopped to inspect shared the unmistakable features of the bust downstairs in the sitting room. It was Sió Vittori, all right, though he was definitely older when this portrait was done than he was at the time the bust was made. His face was more worn, with a little sag in the cheeks and a bit less hair on top of his head, but it was undoubtedly the same man. Azrael wondered if he would ever have a portrait of himself hanging in his home.

The butler cleared his throat rather loudly. When he turned, Azrael saw that the attendant had stopped at a door almost at the end of the central hallway, where it split left and right and most likely joined the other two he had observed. The butler was giving him a rather impatient look, and Azrael jogged down the hall in response. He knew the impatience couldn’t be held against the man. After all, he had been surrounded by all this for years, no doubt. What was new and grand and wondrous to a boy was no doubt business as usual to a butler who worked in this house, seeing these things daily. As he came up to the door, however, his train of thought came back to the person that was waiting for him on the other side of it. The wrenching in his gut came back as well. Again, he thought he may be sick. Then the door opened, and he hesitated. The butler, used to demurring to the nobles he served, took this opportunity to enjoy himself a bit. Giving a nice hard shove to Azrael’s back, the servant closed the door behind him as Azrael stumbled through it.

The room had a piano in it. That was the first thing Azrael noticed. Upon closer inspection, it also had what appeared to be thousands of dolls. Dresses hung neatly in a closet. Lace curtains surrounded a four post bed large enough to accommodate half a dozen children. Azrael spotted Erianne, sitting in a chair and brushing the hair of yet another doll.

“H-hello.” The discomfort of his situation was all too clear in Azrael’s voice. This visit was definitely not something that fell in the definition of comfortable.

“Oh, good! It’s you! I haven’t much space in this room, though. If we were only home instead of in Sió’s children’s guestroom…” It would seem that she knew she had the advantage here. She was her confident self again. Apparently, whispering in ears and blushing was reserved for times when she was with her friends. The entire attitude she held the day before - the shy, giggling Erianne - had disappeared. And this Erianne was clearly delighted at this opportunity, tossing the doll into the chair and making a beeline for Azrael.

* * *

“She…left.” Khalton’s response came slowly, and after a long moment of silence. Sashaime had begun to wonder if he ever would answer, then, upon hearing his response, wondered if it was a bad idea to have asked the question in the first place.

“Oh, dear. I’m sorry, Khalton. If you’d rather not talk about it…”

“No, it’s fine, Sashaime.” With a look at her face, he added, “Really.”

She felt awful. She hadn’t seen him in years, and wouldn’t have even thought it could be so. And she had just thrown the question out there so matter-of-factly, like she was asking him about the weather or how the hunting had been.

“Well, I suppose the next question would probably be ‘What happened?’” He had managed to regain some of his composure, but was still somewhat shaken. He shook his head absently.

“You know, I’ve asked myself that question many times. I thought everything was going well. Azrael had just been born the year before. It seemed that I took more pleasure in our baby boy then she did, though she never minded caring for him, and was pleasant enough for a mother. The hunting was great then, the days at market were equally prosperous; everything was going so well.”

Sashaime was somewhat surprised, but relieved that their friendship, and his trust toward her, apparently hadn’t diminished in the years since they’d last spoke. He stopped for a moment before continuing. This, he knew, would be the hardest part.

“Then, after only one day’s hunt, I left to Taleni, my cart loaded with three whole deer. I was ecstatic; can you imagine the luck! I made quite a bit of money, and set out for home. Upon arriving, I found Yerbon sitting on my doorstep, holding Azrael in his arms.” His voice was choked. Sashaime took his hand and offered a sympathetic smile. He continued.

* * *

All in all, Azrael’s being tossed into the lion’s den had not gone as badly as he had imagined it would. Somewhat uncomfortable, yes; she had chased him around the rather large room for a good while. Then she actually caught him, and he thought he was in for some real misery; however, it was mild compared to what he had in his mind. She managed to pin him down, because even though he would never actually hit a girl, she had no qualms about hitting boys. Once she was sitting on him, it was pretty easy for her; either do what she wanted, or stay in this position, with her doing everything possible to make Azrael uncomfortable. He relented quickly.

They spent some time at an activity Azrael didn’t fully understand the point of. They sat at a table with silverware and empty cups that she would pretend to ‘freshen up’ from time to time by lifting an empty teapot to the mug, pretending to pour tea from it, which he was then expected to pretend to drink. He’d had to eat a couple of muffins that didn’t exist, as well. Then, she went to the closet, pulling out a square oak board. Finally! This was something he could actually enjoy! Chess was a game for both boys and girls, and one he had gotten quite good at, for Adri had a love for it as well. Sometimes, when the old man was in a good mood, he would take his board out and play with Azrael. Because of that, Azrael had learned the rules; also, because Adri constantly coached him on strategy, he had become quite good at the game. He enjoyed it so much at the old man’s cottage mainly because sitting still and shutting up didn’t have nearly the entertainment value, but he thought many times that he would enjoy this game regardless of the alternative.

“Do you know how to play chess?” Erianne had a smile on her face as she came to the table.

“Actually, I do.” He watched her smile disappear. Then, some curiosity appeared on her face.

“Really? Well…”, she measured him, obviously trying to discern if there was any confidence there. “Are you any good?” This was too perfect. Azrael had found a way he could possibly beat her, but he knew that acting as if he was bad at it would not be getting him anywhere here. Erianne was smart, and she would see any feigned incompetence as a ruse, and would cancel the game for fear of being beat. Confidence, on the other hand…she would enjoy the opportunity to destroy that.

“I’m the best! I beat my dad all the time! Once, in only eight moves!” He waited to see if it worked. She paused for a moment, then responded with “Oh, well, I’m not that good, myself. But, I think I’m probably better than you!” The game was on.

“I think you probably know that white always moves first.” That patronizing tone in her voice kind of bothered him. “But, since the game was my idea, I’ll let you choose. White or black, Azrael?”

He took only a second. His choice was a result of continuing to play off of his confidence earlier and the fact that, for some reason, it had always been his preferred side. Maybe he just liked the color.

“Black, Erianne. Your move to open.”

* * *

Khalton told everything he knew to Sashaime. He hadn’t many friends in these past ten years, and so he still considered her as one of his closest. After he explained that Aendwynne had left him, and told her about everything he knew of that day, they both remained silent for a moment. Surprisingly, he was the one who broke it.

“It’s strange. How luck can turn so quickly. I was having one of the best days I had ever known, and it all fell to pieces”; a pause, and then “Strange how that can happen so quickly, as well.”

“Oh, my friend. I can’t imagine what that would be like.” She looked as though she was on the verge of tears. She put her arms around him and hugged him.

“It’s quite alright, Sashaime.” He had regained his composure. “It was so long ago. Sometimes it’s as if it all never happened. Used to be, I thought that made me hard, heartless even. But, I’ve realized these past years that it’s simply…human. Our memories fade, and the longer it’s been, the more intangible they seem.”

“Of course, that isn’t always the case, is it?” Sashaime questioned, almost happily. She remembered days when she carried no title, the young, latter teenage days of her life, after her instruction in etiquette, propriety, and the general education that was expected of a young noble were over. The last few years of her life before adulthood were hers to do with as she chose; she roamed free, her father a wise old Domeni, and herself just a young Dai with not a care in the world. She had more freedom to do what she wished, for she hadn’t the responsibilities of her present title. And while her current status mostly dictated how she spent her days, it was her pride and joy as well as her responsibility. She wouldn’t dream of being anything other than head of the house of Chotieré. However, if she hadn’t had those young, carefree days full of recklessness and all the other virtues of youth, she would have never met this man sitting before her now.

“No, you’re right. Some of our memories remain as vivid as the day they were made. Odd, how that works.” He himself was recalling those younger days when he met her in the fields near her home, back when he was first learning the intricacies of his profession. He remembered her entering the room earlier and it seeming like only yesterday he had last seen her.

His reason for being here returned to the front of his mind suddenly, cutting off the pleasant daydream he had started to have. “Well, um…it seems I have been here longer than I expected. I don’t mean to keep you from more pressing matters, Sashaime.”

“It’s quite alright, Khalton. I enjoy talking with you. And it has been so long.” She quietly cleared her throat. Did she come near to blushing?, Khalton wondered. She resumed quickly, “That had made me curious as well. What exactly would cause you to pursue an audience with Her Grace?”

Khalton, remembering again why he came here, had a reply ready. “Well, there is a man, who yesterday bought some venison from me.” For some reason, he paused there, remembering Arimon and their conversations.

“Go on.” Sashaime said.

After he had told his story, about how Arimon had been taken by the palace guards, and being sure to include that the parcel they had pulled from his pocket had already been paid for (the fact that it was overpaid, he left out), Sashaime was silent for a moment, weighing the merits of what he said. After a few short moments, she spoke.
“I agree.” Her tone had changed, and she was without doubt strictly the Erstati. She was judging this; it was business, and had no room for personal relationship. “It seems if what you have told me is correct, that this man was indeed taken in misunderstanding.” Khalton had thought that his petition would most likely be denied. His tense expression relaxed somewhat, but not totally. He knew the gist of what would be said next.

“I grant your humble request, and commend you for the courage to stand up for a stranger’s freedom.” This was formal speech, used for such occasions, and made it clear to Khalton that this was business.

“Come to castle Taleni on the morrow. After you have arrived, at her earliest convenience, the Domennati will hear your story.” Her tone changed to that of friendship once more, and she added “But, you should know that Her Grace will summon the guards that were responsible for his arrest, and will take into account all things that the guard removed from his person, and what they observed from his activity through the day, as well as their accounts of what happened.”

“I understand, Sashaime. I only want justice.” His face fell. It was known amongst almost everyone in the territory that the palace guards were most susceptible to corruption.

Sashaime saw his unrest. She calmed his nerves somewhat when she added “I think he is innocent, as well, Khalton, and will make sure to pass my belief on to the Domennati on the morrow. Now, let us get your son back where he belongs.”

* * *

The game was going well for Azrael. Erianne had begun strongly, and had forced a few early mistakes, but he had recovered nicely, if not without a few losses. She suffered a few soon afterwards, and resorted to pulling both rooks out of their corners, tucking the king safely away from any action. Azrael persisted in his attack, making sure to cover each piece with another, wisely, it would seem, for Erianne was making judicious use of her queen. The strategy was strange, placing so much of it in one spot, but it worked well enough. There was one flaw. So much of her holding her side of the board depended on that one piece. Azrael resolved to make sure that her queen capturing a piece would result in its capture in turn. It was that one effort that kept the queen largely useless.

“I know exactly what you’re trying to do.” Erianne was glowering at him. She added in a malicious-sounding sort of singsong “And it isn’t going to work!”

If Azrael had learned anything from his games with Adri, it was to never talk about anything close to strategy with the person you were currently trying to out-strategize.

“This is a very nice chess set, Erianne.” Flattery, however, could be a good thing.

“Oh! Well…thank you, Azrael.” She had clearly expected him to come back at her. The complement was definitely not something she foresaw.

Azrael looked around the room slowly. “But everything in this room is nice.” She looked doubly surprised at this, and maybe a little offended. “I’m sorry, it’s just…” He came very near to blushing as he lowered his head. “It’s just that I have but a few nice things. I can’t imagine all these being in my room.”

Erianne’s expression softened. It was compassionate, but with a hint of something else there. She was silent for a moment.

“You know, Azrael, it’s not as easy as it looks.” She sounded almost sad.

“Hunh? What do you mean?”

Erianne raised her arms, motioning around the room at everything it held. “All this, here; this is just what you see. There’s a lot more to being noble than this.” She was now the one with her head lowered. “It’s not all fun and nice toys. A lot of people expect much from me. It gets to be a lot for a kid.” At that, she stopped speaking, moving her knight into position against his rook.

Azrael said nothing to keep conversation going. They were both quite silent after that. They played their game, neither one even thinking about speaking. Quite some time passed this way. She threatened his rook, he captured a bishop. It was, in some ways, a dance of intricacies, as chess always is when both players are skilled. Azrael was the more studied in its subtleties, however, and after some time had passed, his advantage was clear. He had basically pinned her queen against a wall, and the king was not going to be safe much longer behind that rook and knight. In just a few moves, he would have the game and some bragging rights for Adri.

A knock at the door. Loud. Forceful. “Enter!” Erianne answered almost immediately. The young butler, Teo, who had escorted Azrael to the room, stepped in. “Your pardon, Dai. Your mother has finished her business with the hunter. She requests the young master be returned to his father, lest you object.”

Azrael’s heart railed against this. Please, please object! I almost have you, and I don’t think you know it yet! And though Erianne might not have known how close he was to winning, she must have known that her position against Azrael’s was not the favorite to win.

“No objection, Teo. I enjoyed our game, Azrael, but your father must be anxious to return home.” Her smile echoed her feelings. He hadn’t beaten her, even if it was only because the game was interrupted. He had nothing over on her, and that was all she really wanted.

Azrael walked dejected to the door. Curse her for that, he thought. But before he could exit the room, she spoke again.

“We’ll have to play again sometime, Azrael.”

He knew how unlikely that was, but he would not appear beaten here.

“Count on it, Erianne!” He smiled at her, and Teo closed the door.