[center] Date: 74th of Zieliah, Year 698 Location: Lochbridge Port[/center] Alysara, daughter of Lord Regent Shamgar of House Paragon, stood frowning at the silvered mirror. The dye in the dress was said to come from a tuberous vegetable. Which when simmered produced a deep and pure scarlet. “It's the color of blood,” She said. “This is what everyone in Prostějov is going mad for?” The seamstress flanking her in the reflection looked pale and drab, almost lifeless. Seated to the left on a settee, Arlohius of House Oloro cleared his throat in a manner all too familiar to Alysara, and she turned, brows lifting, and said. “And what shall we argue about this morning, then? The cut of the dress? The style of the court? Or is it my hair that now dismays you? As it happens, I like it short. The shorter the better. Why should you complain about it, anyway? It's not as though you've let your hair go long as a horse tail just to fit in with the day's fashion. Oh, I don't know why I invited you in at all.” Mild surprise played with his even features for the briefest of moments, and then he offered up a lopsided shrug. “I was just thinking, it's more vermilion then scarlet, isn't it. Or is it our eyes that are changing?” “Idiotic superstitions. Vermilion...well.” “Eldfolk wives call it the “Born of the Hearth”, don't they?” “That's because they boil the root, fool.” “Oh, I would think the name more descriptive than that.” “Would you now? Haven't you somewhere to be, Arlohius? Some horses to train? Some sword to whet?” "You invite me only to then send me away?” The young man rose smoothly. “If I were a sensitive soul I might be offended. As it is, I know this game- we have played it all our lives, haven't we?” “Game? What game?” He had been making for the door, but now he paused and glanced back, and there was something sad in his faint smile. “I hope you'll excuse me, I have a horse to whet and a sword to train. Although, I should add, you look lovely in that dress, Alysara.“ Even as she drew a breath, mind racing for something that made sense- that might even darw him snapping back on his leash – he slipped out and was gone. One of the seamstresses sighed, and Alysara rounded on her. “Enough of that, Ephalla! He is a hostage in this house and is to be accorded the highest respect!” “Sorry, mistress,” Ephalla whispered, ducking. “Bit he spoke true- you look lovely!” Alysara returned her attention to the blurred image of herself in the mirror. “But,” she murmured, “Do you think [i]he'll[/i] like it?” ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Arlohius paused for a moment in the corridor outside Alysara's door, near enough to hear the last exchange between her and her handmaid. The sad half-smile on his face remained, only fading as he set out towards the main hall. He was nineteen turns old, the last eleven of those spent here in the House of Carixus Rientrius Paragon as a hostage. He was old enough to understand the value of the tradition. For all that the word 'hostage' carried an implicit pejorative, caged in notions of imprisonment and the absence of personal freedom, the practice was more of an exchange than anything else. It was further bound by rules and proscriptions ensuring the rights of the hostage. The sanctity of their person was immutable, precocious as a founding law. Accordingly, Arlohius, born of House Oloro, felt as much an Paragon as Carixus, Ealstain or, indeed, Shamgar's daughter. And this was...unfortunate. His childhood friend was a girl no longer but a woman. And gone were his childish thoughts, and his dreams of pretending she was in truth his own sister- although he now recognized the confusions swirling through such dreams. For a boy, the role of sister, wife and mother could- if one was careless- be so easily blended together into a heady brew of anguished longing. He'd not known what he'd wanted of her, but he had soon how their friendship had changed, and in that change a wall had grown between them, impassable, forbidding, and patrolled by stern prosperity. There had been moments of awkwardness, when ether Alysara or he stumbled to close to one another, only to be drawn up freshly chiseled stone, the touch of which yielded embarrassment and shame. The struggled now to find their places, shifting about in a search to discover the proper distances between them. Or perhaps the struggle was his alone. He could not be sure, and in that he saw the proof of how things had changed. Once, running at her side, he had known her well. Now, he wondered if he knew her at all. In her room, only a short time ago, he'd spoken of the games now played between them. Not like the games of old, for these were not, strictly speaking, shared. Instead, these new ones held to personal, private rules, solitary in their gauging, and nothing was won but an abeyance of unease. And yet she had professed ignorance. No, ignorance was the wrong word. The word was [i]innocence[/i]. Should he believe her? In truth, Arlohius felt lost. Alysara had outgrown him in every way, and at times he felt like a puppy at her heels, eager for play, but that sort of playing was behind her now. She thought him a fool. She mocked him at every turn, and a dozen times each day he silently vowed that he was done with it, all of it, only to once more find himself answering her summons- which seemed to be uttered ever more imperiously- and finding himself, yet again, the arrow-butt to her barbs. It was clear to him, at last, that there were other meanings to the word 'hostage,' ones not codified into the laws of tradition, and they bound him in chains, heavy and cruelly biting, and he spent his days, and nights, in tormented stricture. But this was his twentieth turn of life. He was only a month away from being released, sent back to his own blood, where he would sit discomfited at the family table, trapped in his own strangeness in the midst of family that had grown around the wound of his prolonged absence. All of this- Alysara and her pious father, Alysara and her proud uncle, Alysara and her brilliant though now exiled brother, Alysara and the man who would soon be her husband- all of it would be past, a thing of his history day by day losing force, its power over him and his life. And so, too sharply felt for irony, Arlohius now longed for his freedom. Striding into the Great Hall, he was brought up short to seeing Lord Carixus standing near the hearth. The old man's eyes were on the massive slab of stone laid into the tiled floor, marking the threshold of the hearth and bearing ancient words carved into the granite. The Common language struggled with notions of filial duty- or so Ealstain's old friend , a court poet named Gallan, was fond of saying- as if hinting at some fundamental flaw in spirit, and so, as was often the case, the words were Ancient Tilrinic- the tongue of the Arcane order. So many of the Orders gifts to the people of Elyden seemed to fill the dusty niches and gaps left gaping by flaws in the Common tongues character, and not one of those gifts was without symbolic meaning. As a hostage, Arlohius was forbidden from learning those arcane words, given so long ago to the bloodline of the Paragons. It was odd, he now reflected as he bowed before Carixus, this prohibition against learning the mason's script. Carixus could well have been reading his mind, for he nodded with a creeping smile on his visage as he said. “Gallan claims he can read the language of the Skien, the arcane words of Order, granting him the blasphemous privilege of knowing the sacred words of near every great temple in Aglil. I admit,” He added, his fat, muilti chinned face twisting slightly. “I find the notion displeasing.” “Yet, the poet asserts that such knowledge is for him alone, Lord.” “Ha, poets, young Arlohius, cannot be trusted.” The hostage considered that statement, and found he had no reasonable reply. “Lord, I request permission to saddle a horse and ride on this day. It was my thought to seek sign of eckalla in the western hills.” “Eckalla? None have been seen in entire cycles, Arlohius. I fear your search will be wasted.” “The ride will do me good, Lord, none the less,” Carixus nodded, and seemed he well understood the swirl of hidden emotions lying beneath Arlohius's bland words. The former High admiral, often called the “Laughing Falcon,” was a man who seemed capable of easily reading others. It was a talent that had helped him greatly in his years of politicking within and without the Great Court of Skyhaven. “This year,” he said, “I must give up a niece who has been almost a daughter to me. And,” He glanced at Arlohius, “A most beloved hostage,” “And I, in turn, feel as if I am about to be cast out from the only family I truly belong to. Lord, doors are closing behind us.” “But not, I trust, for ever sealed?” “Indeed not,” Arlohius replied, although in his mind he saw a massive lock grinding tight. Some doors, once shut, were proof against every desire. Carixus's gaze faltered slightly and he turned away. “Even standing still, the wold moves on around us. I well remember when you first arrived, scrawny and wild-eyed – the cold Abyss knows you Oloro are a feral lot – and there you were, wild as a cat, yet barely tall enough to saddle a horse. At least it seems we fed you well,” He laughed, both hands on his large belly, and it seemed his entire body moved with the motion. Arlohius smiled. “Lord, the Oloro are said to be slow to grow-” “Slow in many things, Arlohius. Slow to assume the trappings of civil comportment, in which I admit find considerable charm. You have held to that despite our efforts, and so remain refreshing to our eyes. Yes,” he continued, “Slow in many things. Slow in judgement, slow to anger...” Carixus slowly swung around and fixed Arlohius with a searching regard. “Are you angry yet, Arlohius Oloro?” The question shocked him, almost made him step back. “Lord? I- I have no cause to be angry. I am saddened to leave this house, but there will be rejoicing this year. Your daughter is about to wed. House Benedikt has always been a loyal and trusted ally of Paragon and Aglil.” “Indeed.” He studied Arlohius for a moment longer, then as if yielding some argument, he broke his gaze and faced the hearthstone, gesturing. “And she will kneel as witness before Kammeth and Valarien within the house her betrothed even now builds for her.” “Edvard Benedikt is a fine man,” Arlohius said, as evenly as he could manage. “Honourable, pious, and loyal. This binding of marriage is a sure one, Lord, by every measure.” “Does she love him though?” Such questions left him reeling. “Lord? I am certain that she does.” Carixus grunted, and then sighed. “You see her truly, don't you- the turns together, the friendship you have both held for each other. She loves him, then? I am pleased. Yes, most pleased to hear you say that.” Arlohius would leave here, soon, and when he did, he knew that he would not look back, not once. Nor, for all that he loved this old man, would he ever return. In his chest, he felt nothing but cold, a scattering of dead cinders, the grating promise of choking ashes should he draw breath. She would have a hearthstone. She- and her new husband- would have words that only they would know; the first words of the private language that must ever exist between husband and wife. Kammethein gifts were not simple, were never simple. “Lord, may I ride this day?” “Of course, Arlohius. Seek out the eckalla, and should you find one, bring it down and we shall feast well. As in the old days when the beasts were plentiful, yes?” The prospect of a feast always did seem to brighten Lord Carixus's mood. “I shall do my best, Lord.” Bowing Arlohius strode from the Great Hall. He was looking forward to this expedition, away from this place, out into the hinterlands, the hills Aglil was famous for. He would take his hunting spear but, in truth, he did not expect to sight such a noble creature as an eckalla. In the other times when he had ridden the west hills near Skyhaven, all he had ever found was bones, from past hunts, past scenes of butchering. The eckalla were gone, the last one slain cycles ago not long after the everwinter came to an end. And beneath him while he rode, if he so chose, Arlohius could listen to the thunder of his horse's hoofs, and imagine such report as slamming of another door. They seemed to go on without end, didn’t they? [i]”The eckalla are gone. The hills are lifeless. And winter is coming”[/i]