Luminous book one, p.23
Luminous: Book One, page 23
He’d thought it wouldn’t take much encouragement for her to step forth and save her dwindling kind. Unfortunately, the possibility of herself being something magical, extraordinary, legendary and beautiful, the May Queen, light of the sky, something other than a blight, a burden, outcast and freak, had been hammered out of her head over seventeen years as the only Greeneye in Crosset.
Worthless, useless, stupid, not pretty, not wanted, dung. Names like bolts of Lattis piercing every morsel of her, that she’d left there to serve as scales of metal.
He chided her for being too trusting. The one exception to the rule was her. Like a sieve she bled faith, too riddled with wounds to hold some for herself.
Eavesdroppers
Arinel nipped away from her post in Muldor’s lab and slipped into the scullery. Zier’s rebellion left her reeling, but her mind was made long before Gretella swept in for a morning briefing with Head Cook Apollon, just as she’d anticipated.
The Baron had ordered Coris to tend to Meya until she fully recovered. Someone must bring up their breakfast to remind them to stay in their room and procreate. That would be Arinel.
Arinel strode to the station nearest to the two, signaling with a tilt of her head for the Crosset maid there to hurry off and take her old post.
“Lord Coris will be tending to Lady Arinel this morning. Please prepare their meals separately and have it brought straight to their chambers. For the lady, the healer recommends light, easy to digest food, and cold herbal tea to reduce the pain and swelling.”
Head Cook Apollon nodded, his fatty chin wiggling.
“Very well, madam.” A ghost of a smile on his thin lips, he raised an eyebrow. “Would your lady prefer rosehip or ginger?”
Even under the dingy light, Arinel swore Gretella blushed. She stood frozen but for her blinking eyes, then thawed to her haughty old self.
“Which would go best with her main dish?” Her voice was oddly hearty. Apollon tilted his head, his eyes never leaving Gretella.
“Lord Coris has his herb gruel recipe prescribed by the healer. I’m thinking perhaps the lady could have the same for breakfast. It’s healthy, and it goes marvelously with ginger tea.” He clapped his hands loudly together to illustrate his point. “And I’ll send up dessert with the rosehip for mid-morning tea. Works wonders for reluctant newlyweds.”
Apollon beckoned Gretella to lean in, whispering behind fingers riddled with cuts and grazes. Arinel strained her ears to catch the gossip.
“Between you and me. Me and my rosehip brew, we share credit for the night the Baron begot Lord Coris. Worked for the sire, why not the scion, eh!”
Apollon chuckled deviously, eyes twinkling with glee. Gretella looked pained.
“I appreciate your humor, Sir Apollon, but would it be for the best if they conceived a babe?”
Apollon shook his head, his empty grin now weighed with sorrow.
“’Tisn’t just humor, my good woman,” he whispered, the spark in his brown eyes dimming. “We all know Coris is against having an heir, but duty aside, hope might do more good for poor lad than he realizes.”
“Hope?” Gretella mouthed. Apollon sighed, weary.
“Tenorus always said food and herbs can only do so much for the body, if the heart already believes it’s dead. So the Baron pushed for the marriage, to show Coris he hasn’t surrendered.”
Apollon heaved a deep sigh. He apparently adored Coris, likely having bonded over their pet projects introducing new cuisine to Hadrian.
Gretella caught Arinel staring up from where she was crouched, washing a cartload of cabbages in a tub. She raised a careworn eyebrow, awaiting her command.
Arinel understood her dilemma, but she’d chosen. Secrets and lies were bound to be discovered. Silfum candles would fail if it were Freda’s will. It would complicate matters if Meya fell pregnant. If Zier couldn’t find it in him to do right by his family, Arinel must end this herself.
Arinel nodded. Gretella bit her trembling lips, tortured by the thought of her lady sacrificing hard-won freedom for duty, again.
“I’ll leave it to the lady to decide, then.” She blew a soft sigh, then turned to Arinel, “Meya, you’re in charge of the lady’s breakfast.”
Arinel stood and bowed, her wrinkled and peeling hands clasped at her front. After one last sigh, Gretella turned and left the kitchen.
* * *
“Must we watch dear old cousin copulating? Again?”
Simon Amplevale groaned as he dragged his feet up the spiral staircase. The young woman at the front of the pack spun around, brown ponytail swinging wide as her sly smile, deep blue eyes sparkling with glee.
“Your cousin’s a slippery fox, Simon. We must seize all opportunities to ascertain,” chirped Lady Fione Cristoria. Gazing dreamily into the distance, she clasped her hands as if in prayer. “I thought you’d be pouncing at the chance to make sure Coris Hadrian never hears the end of how majestic his manhood is.”
Heloise choked on her breath, her face darkening to the same shade as her Hadrian Red dress. At the rear, Christopher rolled his eyes. Simon huffed in frustration as they stepped onto the landing.
“It’s him, Fione!” he protested, hands strangling air as if he imagined Coris’s neck between them. “I can’t live my life having Coris Hadrian and copulating in one thought. How am I supposed to look at myself in the mirror when I’ve got his smug little face plastered on my skull?”
Fione threw her head back with laughter, reveling in her lack of sympathy.
“And why am I even needed?” grumbled Heloise, sullen as Simon. Christopher mustered a smile.
“Lord Crosset demands more witnesses for the consummation,” he explained as he drew level with her. “Meriton is Hadrian’s overlord. Amplevale is an ally. Cristoria is a vassal and former enemy. Westrell is neutral. If our testimonies correlate, then it’s likely the truth.”
Heloise nodded vigorously, her annoyance fading. Christopher beamed her a warm smile and allowed her to overtake him, falling behind to Simon’s side.
“He’s struggling, Simon,” he whispered, solemn now. “I’m sure he’d rather his parents hear from you, and vice versa.”
Simon closed his eyes with a sigh. Only he, Christopher, the Baron and Baroness knew the truth of how the newlyweds spent their First Night. Coris had collapsed halfway through pleasuring his wife, but of course, the Baron couldn’t let it be known his heir was weak and dying, so Hadrian was abuzz with rumors of Coris’s prowess and potency.
Simon’s heart pained for his cousin, but not enough to drown the ancient pain he was born with. He shrugged and dislodged it from his mind.
“Of course, it’s my duty to become him reincarnate.”
“That’s not what I meant!” Christopher protested wearily, but they had reached Coris’s door. Heloise stood wringing her hands nearby. Fione had flattened her ear against the wood, her giddy excitement soon replaced by confusion.
“What’s wrong?” whispered Christopher. Fione frowned deeper as she pressed her ear closer to the door.
“They’re talking. Meya? Who’s Meya? And Agnes? Baron Graye? What is he up to?”
Heloise drained pale as parchment. Christopher turned to Simon, eyebrows just as tied. Simon ushered his friend to the door, pointing blindly as he pelted down the hallway.
“Keep your ear glued to that door, I’ll find Zier!”
* * *
Head Cook Apollon assembled the newlyweds’ tray himself. Arinel fetched him a heavy clay bowl, into which he slopped ladlefuls of thick, sluggishly simmering oat gruel. He topped it with chopped squash, halves of boiled egg and shredded cheese, sprinkled on pepper, chopped parsley and chives, and added a final drizzle of salt.
While Arinel filled a small jug with honey and dug the pit out of lemon slices, Apollon plied a tea sieve with chopped ginger, lowered it gently into a pot filled to the brim with boiling water, then flipped the sand-clock.
He set the tray atop a wheeled cart for Arinel and Haselle. They trundled it across the bailey to a delivery shaft at the foot of the keep’s spiral staircase, where Arinel left Haselle. When she climbed to the third floor, the tray was waiting, hoisted by Haselle working the pulley.
Arinel fetched a low table from the cupboard. Hands trembling under the weight and pressure, she slid the tray from the shaft onto the table. After a deep breath, she gritted her teeth and lifted the table as she straightened. Wooden curlicues carved on the edge scored welts into her flabby, waterlogged fingers. Slowly, she spun towards Coris’s door, then found herself face-to-face with Simon Amplevale, approaching at full speed.
“SIMON, HALT!” Lady Fione screamed from Coris’s door. Lady Heloise clutched the chest of her dress.
“AAAARGH!” Simon yelled, arms flailing over his head, hoping air resistance would slow him.
“EEEEK!” Arinel shrieked, gripping the table so tight her fingers went numb. Simon screeched to a halt half a foot away from Arinel. Coris’s door fell back. Christopher, who was standing with an arm propped against it, staring horrified at Simon, tumbled into the emerging Meya, who swore at the top of her lungs,
“CHIONE’S FLOPPY LEFT—EEK!”
Firm hands slammed into Meya from behind, pitching her to her feet and sending poor Christopher rolling out to the hallway.
Coris poked his head around the doorframe. Sharp gray eyes traveled from the cursing Meya to the groaning Christopher, the grinning Fione, the fidgeting Heloise, then settled on Simon and Arinel, frozen at the end of the hallway.
The air cooled. Coris narrowed his eyes at Simon, then Christopher who was picking himself up.
“What in the three lands are you doing at my door?”
* * *
“We’re here on your father’s orders, Coris! You can’t punish us!”
Simon objected to unfair treatment from his cousin. A pile of linen paper lay unsullied before him on the letter-writing table, beside a freshly whetted charcoal pencil, for Coris considered his Hadrian Rose ink and hawk-feather quill collection wasted on disciplining unruly squires.
“Alas, in the Baron’s absence, his whim is law,” spited Christopher wearily. Wincing at the dull pain from his ears clamped by clothespins, he forced his jittery fingers to be staid as he scribbled his lines.
Thou shalt not eavesdrop on thine lord and lady.
Fione scrunched her face as if experiencing intestinal blockage. She willed her ears to wiggle (a feat she was immensely proud of), but they did not budge.
“I can no longer feel my ears! Will they fall off?” she wailed in terror.
“Will you all stop talking? I keep writing down what you’re saying!”
Lady Heloise crumpled a ruined paper, chucked it on the floor, snatched a fresh one from her pile then started at the top. Fione smirked then chanted under her breath, too low for Coris to catch but loud enough for Meya’s keen ears and the nearby Heloise to comprehend in full.
“Corien Hadrian is a dong-head, and a fine ding-dong has he. His lady swears by Chione, ’tis straight as a coconut tree.”
“Fione!” Heloise slammed her fists on the table, her bracelet colliding with the wood with a dull clang. White fangs bared, emerald eyes flaring, she glowered at Fione. Meya almost spurted out her sip of ginger tea. Huffing at her paper (which now read, “Thou shalt not eavesdrop on thine lord’s dong.”), Heloise abandoned hope and whined at Coris,
“How long must we keep these on?” She pointed at the clothespins.
“Until Meya finishes reading her letter,” Coris replied, arms folded and face blank. His four friends glared at Meya, sitting behind Coris’s desk, Arinel hovering beside her, then rounded on him as one.
“You’re a tyrant, you are!” Heloise cried.
“Devind the Demented reincarnate!” Fione drawled.
“Why must our fates depend on her literacy?” Simon pointed at Meya.
“Coris, you should set an attainable goal,” quipped Christopher.
Coris shrugged, unruffled.
“Antagonizing me will not hasten the learning process,” he said coolly, then narrowed his eyes. “I’m channeling your combined common senses. Let Meya read her letter in peace.”
“Yea. Chuck the heat on the Greeneye. ’Tisn’t like we have a surplus,” Meya muttered darkly behind Jezia’s letter, eyes glowering over the edge at her erstwhile husband.
Coris pretended not to have heard. Straightening his crimson cloak over his nightclothes, he strode towards the door.
“Now, excuse me while I hunt down my treacherous little brother.”
The door had barely swung shut behind Coris when a sharp voice pierced the late morning silence.
“Where do you think you’re going, my lad?”
Coris resisted the instinct to jump. Composing himself, he decided on a course of action in what little time it took to turn and face his assailant.
“Nowhere, Mother. What brings you all the way up here? Aren’t you supposed to be sending off the guests? Seeing as you and Father imprisoned Arinel and I and set your attendants to spy on us copulating?”
Sylvia raised her eyebrows at her elder son’s seemingly innocent silver eyes and vacant expression. She clenched her fists, enunciating coolly,
“Corien Alexis Hadrian, you may be deservedly frustrated, but I’m your mother, and you will not answer a mother’s worry with such diatribe.”
Coris stiffened at the glimpse of pain in those eyes like moonbeam he’d inherited. Bowing, he sighed in surrender.
“Apologies, Mother.” Sylvia calmed. Coris mustered his courage again. “I have a serious matter to discuss with Zier. Have you seen him?”
Sylvia blinked, suddenly sheepish. She toyed with a lock of hair that had escaped her pinned braid, her eyes darting restlessly.
“That answers your first question.” Coris frowned, alarmed. “He’s with your father in the study. And your father is why I’m here.”
Oh, Freda, no. Zier, what have you done? Please no.
“He’s with Father?” rasped Coris. Sylvia nodded, her fingers tearing the golden knots on her Hadrian Red bodice.
“He wants to talk to you. About this latest heist. Now.”
Sabotage
Baron Hadrian was blessed with two sons. Corien the prodigious heir, and Zieren the bumbling spare.
True, Zier was the superior (of two) when it came to swordplay, riding, archery and the like, but as any knight or yeoman serving his father would achieve the same and more, they weren’t boast-worthy credentials.
Coris excused his physical shortcomings and obnoxiousness by excelling in the arts—strategy, negotiation, leadership, philosophy.
Linguistics was his forte, however. He’d always had a way with runes, words and languages. Be it weaving scathing similes to describe intellectual inferiors (namely Zier), delivering an opening speech to a banquet, penning a heartrending eulogy for a fallen knight, impressing a Tyldornian emissary with a snippet of their tongue, or most recently, negotiating hostages with a dangerous Nostran mercenary. Feats Zier could never picture himself in.
However, what Zier and most who knew him didn’t appreciate was that Zier could be as cunning and eloquent as Coris, when certain things disturbed him enough for him to put his mind and mouth to solving.
For instance, preventing his overly righteous beloved from marrying his brother.
* * *
Coris led Mother into the room and held the door. She swept past them to join Father behind the oaken desk at the heart of the study.
Coris glanced at Zier, who shivered. Cold fury boiled beneath his serene, benign silver.
He was too late, Zier realized. No, he’d miscalculated. He reached Father first, because Arinel chose to hurry to Coris.
Then again, truth belongs to he who speaks first. Coris gave Zier those words, that night in the crypt where he stumbled upon Zier having just swallowed The Axel. He then admitted to Father he tried to steal The Axel. His wisdom proved true. Six years had passed, and Coris still held truth fast in his clammy hands.
The same went now. Since Zier had spoken to Father first, Coris would know better than to challenge his version of the latest heist. The truth was of his design. Coris must work with what he left on the table.
Silence fell as sire and heir locked eyes, then the heir sighed.
“About the heist two nights ago, Father, I’d been meaning to report to you once the guests have left.” Coris cut to the chase as if he’d been with them from the start. His smile was gentle, and his eyes twinkled.
“I’d rather discuss our most dangerous secret while our every move isn’t under foreign ears and eyes, but now it seems as if I had planned to fool you for as long as I dared.”
“And thanks to your brother, only you and Freda will ever know for which you had intended.” Father cocked his head at Zier, who blushed, then sighed heavily, frowning. “Nevertheless, you know you must alert me at once when the matter concerns The Axel. Yet, you kept it secret. I assume you feared for Arinel, or yourself.”
Zier’s breath caught in his chest. It was as if Father had read their memories. Coris smiled sardonically.
“Justifiably so, considering what happened to the last man who coveted The Axel.”
“I would never harm you. I was hoping to protect you!” Father sprung to his feet. Coris still smiled.
“Alas, only you and Freda will ever know for which you had intended.” Mother caught Father as he faltered, glowering at her smug son.
“You truly didn’t wish I’d died, Father? My uses are few in life, bound to The Axel. What am I compared to our greatest treasure? You alone know. All I have is a guess. My guesses tend to be correct.”
Zier gaped at the pale figure beside him, just as unnerved as he was guilty. Coris was trying to derail the conversation, deflect suspicion from Zier by offending Father, painting himself a monster as he usually did. Yet, he was emotionless, mechanical, and so nonchalant was his smile, Zier couldn’t imagine it being an act or a spite. It was too perfect.
