Chapter 8: Progress and Setbacks Journal of Kalen Avanir
TE 6050, Orhan 5, day 53
Aboard the Caravel ‘Naristral’
We returned to our cabin to find a plate of fruit, cheese and bread, and a small note advising us to ‘ring the bell’ if we desired anything to ‘make our trip more comfortable.’ It was only then that I spied the bell-pull in the wall near the door. This was indeed not unlike a floating guesthouse! I have sketched out a plan of the ship on a separate sheet in the journal. (As I understand it, our other passengers are merchants from Haalkitaine and Artha, and a wealthy young couple from Sel-kai.)
I was pleased to also realize that the motion of the ship, while noticeable, was not unpleasant. It would appear that the greatest discomfort on this trip would be boredom! Jad, after eating his fill of our breakfast, has already stretched out on his bunk and gone to sleep.
And now, to follow up on my last entry, I should explain that after my mother made that sign, she immediately apologized, saying that it was a reflex reaction from long ago when her home on Urulan had been attacked by evil Sorcerers and servants of the Unlife, the event which sent her sister — Jad’s mother — into a deep enchanted sleep. This is the story of that attack as she recounted it to me.
Our mothers are from Urulan, the large island to the east of Jaiman once populated by many Elves, including a large population of Erlini. In fact long ago it was one of the legendary ‘Six Kingdoms’ of Jaiman, it’s symbol being the Unicorn.
But by TE 5000 or so, all of inland Urulan was deserted, ravaged by evil forces, natural disasters, and war with Rhakhaan. A few small groups survived in sheltered coastal areas and on the isolated islands. Our mothers, the twins Irisa and Irina, were born in 5970 to the Loar Lady Tilpiria, on the isle of Veriadar, off the southeast coast of Urulan. There was a minor scandal regarding her pregnancy because Tilpiria was unmarried and had named no father. This was unusual but not unheard-of among the older (and wealthier) Iylar cultures of Urulan in earlier times, but the more rustic and domestically conservative Erlini found the idea of an unmarried mother somehow immoral. Tilpiria did marry an Erlin man, Fenhadar, a few years later, though they had no children together.
Their lives on Veriadar were peaceful for many years, if marked by constant vigilance: raiders were still fairly common. One of their leaders during that time was a handsome Linær Elf named Osaran, who had arrived only a few years earlier, a refugee from the mainland who had considerable knowledge of the magical arts. He and Irina grew close, and he taught her much of the Essence. He made an offer of marriage, but she declined and would give no reason. Fenhadar was displeased that Irina would refuse such a prominent and respected man; Tilpiria only said that her daughter’s decision was her own. Osaran accepted the rejection gracefully and did not pursue her further.
Irina married Naran, an Erlin man in 5997, and they lived happily though childless until 6001. Then one day — during a rare double eclipse when Charón partially obscured the sun and Orhan — the Messengers came.
Vicious men, clad in dark blue-green cloaks and riding huge birds like airborne steeds, they swooped down out of the skies. They attacked the village unprovoked, setting fire to the Elves’ homes with flaming arrows shot from crossbows, all the while voicing a strange ululating cry. Then the main ground force arrived, having made landfall in secret and lying hidden until the Elves were in disarray, fighting the fires. Led by a great warrior-mage in a blue steel helm, the attackers slaughtered almost everyone, shouting as they slew “We are the Messengers of Al-athuul! The Iron Wind shall take your souls!”
My mother had been up in the hills gathering herbs with a few other women when she saw the smoke rising from the village. They rushed back, to find the attackers all gone, but the damage done. Their homes were destroyed and most of the inhabitants killed. A few women were alive, sobbing, their clothes torn. The Messengers had ravaged them. Irisa looked frantically for her sister, and found her at last. Naran was by her side: dead, his throat cut. At first she feared that Irina was slain as well, but in fact she was physically unharmed though in a deep, apparently enchanted, coma. She did not seem to breathe, yet her body was warm and her spirit remained within. Everyone else was accounted for that grim day — except the mage Osaran.
They buried their fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters, and soon afterward decided to abandon their island. They took ship west, settling with the Sulini on the mainland in Tanara. My mother subsequently transported her still-catatonic sister to Haalkitaine, hoping to get her superior medical attention. But the best physicians and Healers were at a loss. They did determine that Irina was in a magical sleep, her body suspended in time. Low on funds by now, my mother was forced to work; using her skills as scribe and linguist, she taught writing and language, becoming a tutor to children of the noble families of Rhakhaan. She met my father the Duke in this way in 6025; he was a young widower, and needed a tutor for my older half-brother Marek. In time they grew close and married, and I was born in 6028, the eleventh day of Fall. All the while Irina was changeless, neither dead nor alive. She did not breathe or require nourishment. Not knowing what else to do, they placed her in a glass casket in the temple of Eissa on the castle grounds at Leathes. Every day my mother went and prayed to Eissa to release Irina from this death sleep.
Then, on New Year’s Day of 6031, Irisa was on her way to the temple with her maids when it happened: the sky grew dark and the birds stopped singing: the new moon Orhan eclipsed the sun. They hurried to the temple — to find the casket open and empty. Nearby, seated on a bench and staring at a mosaic, was Irina. She was awake, but was as if in a dream.
Irina was afterwards able to walk and eat (when fed), but showed no conscious awareness of the world around her. However, she did soon begin to show the signs of pregnancy. Four months after her awakening, she gave birth to Jad. My mother was relieved when she saw my cousin, fearing he would be some hideous offspring of one of the evil Messengers. However, he did not look entirely Loar either. His golden blond hair and almost delicate features suggested the blood of the Fair Elves, the Linaeri.
Now, looking over at Jad on his bunk, asleep as I write this, his face angelic and peaceful, it is difficult to imagine that he could have been the result of an act of hate and violence.
After so much writing, Kalen was feeling restless. Rather than wake his cousin, he decided to venture out on deck alone and have a look around. Smiling to himself over Ruuth the herbalist’s admonition about catching a chill, he pulled his knee-length grey cloak out of the wardrobe where Jad had stowed it and slipped out, closing the door silently behind him.
Once on deck Kalen was glad for the cloak: a steady wind was blowing from the northwest. He walked to amidships and looked about. Aside from the steersman and two men up in the rigging, he was alone topside. The Navigator was nowhere to be seen, and Kalen wondered if they were sailing under natural wind power or if Tar-esiir was manipulating the weather. The sails appeared to be set to a slight tack, so he suspected the former. Though he would like to have asked a crewman, he felt uncomfortable talking to anyone but the First Mate. He also privately wondered what the ship’s crew thought about sailing under the direction of a Navigator. While it just about guaranteed a safe journey, it also would seem to take away much of the need for a skilled crew.
By the angle of the sun as it peeked intermittently from behind the mostly cloud-covered sky, it was past midday. To the north off the starboard side Kalen could just make out the rocky cliffs of Lathornia. They were still within the embrace of the Rhakhaan Empire, but only for another day. Then it was west and south, across the treacherous straits to Emer.
There was something soothing about standing up here, feeling the cool wind, watching the grey waters slide away past the ship’s hull. The air had a faint salty smell, refreshing rather than unpleasant. And the only sounds — aside from the constant rush of the water — were calls of gulls wheeling overhead and the infrequent shouts of the crewman back and forth to each other as they clambered about in the rigging. The sailors spoke a dialect of Shay and had an accent that Kalen had trouble making out sometimes, but most of what they said seemed to be good-natured banter rather than steering directions. And confirming both his suspicions, one commented that they were doing ‘real sailing’ for the moment, rather than just pointing the ship and going.
“Mind if I join you?”
Kalen’s head snapped around, and he found himself meeting the riveting azure gaze of none other than the Viscount Ridgeston.
Randae Terisonen was vexed.
He sat in the office of his secluded villa in southern Tanara, drumming his fingers on the polished Dírwood desktop. Outside the deep-set windows it was still dark; dawn had not yet come to the high vale where he made his home. A few candles (now burning low) and a crystal lamp on the desk were the only light.
Randae had spent the last hour looking for a particular notebook, with no luck. Then as if on a sudden inspiration, he leapt up and sprang to one of the bookcases covering the office walls. With a cry of triumph he yanked out a worn, leather-bound volume.
It was a small victory, finding his notes from a visit to the library at Sardiskandor, but Randae was happy with any triumph these days. It had been a difficult year; he would not be sad to see 6050 come to a close.
He had believed that the Dúranaki of Tanara and the newly returned Cloudlords would become allies. And thanks to Randae, the cave dwellers agreed to stop enslaving the Myri people as part of the bargain in return for protection from the Cloudlords. That was a good thing. What the Loremaster hadn’t counted on was a resurgence in Y’kin aggression -- and the severity of the Cloudlord retaliation.
The knights, astride their winged steeds, had used their magical fire-staves to burn the Y’kin town of Achren to the ground. This was troubling in its own right, but Achren had stood a mere forty miles away from his house, over a ridge in the foothills of the Grey Mountains. The destruction of their town had sent the Y’kin fleeing into the hills, and though they tended to keep to the warmer lowlands, it was only a matter of time before they stumbled on Randae’s secluded home. This spring he might be forced to evacuate, at least temporarily.
All of Tanara seemed to be in a state of unrest. The Myri were unaccustomed to their new freedom, the Sulini were caught between the Y’kin and the Cloudlord/Dúranaki forces, and now there were tales of ‘wild Elves’ arriving from Urulan to aid the Sulini. Randae made a mental note to have Channi look into those rumors.
Randae knew that High Loremaster T’vaar Dekdarion was unhappy with him for letting outside concerns distract him while allowing his own area of responsibility get out of hand. Channi was relatively inexperienced, and she was in over her head without active support. But the Rhakhaan situation had become much more dangerous in the last few years. While the current Emperor was perhaps not ideal, he was far superior to the pretender Frelik. For one thing Frelik would replace the United Orhan Church with the religion of his backers: the Church of Zanar. Its origins in Emer from the chaotic period after the fall of the old Emerian Empire; it was a dark and oppressive faith, which the Loremasters would find very difficult to work within. But it was doubtful that Frelik – even with a military victory – would ascend the throne of Rhakhaan without further bloodshed. The nobles who supported the current Emperor Jerrin would resist, and the Empire would fragment. This in turn would leave it vulnerable to forces in the north and west.
Which brought Randae to the situation with Kier Ianis and the kingdom of Helyssa. Did he have the Sea-drake crown? If he did, Randae was almost certain that he had not yet put it on, or the Loremaster would have felt the change in the Essænce. And what of the shadowy Priest of Yaarth who had declared himself regent of Helyssa?
But foremost in Randae’s mind (and the reason he wanted his notes from the Sardiskandor library) was the Soulsword legend. He was certain that all of Kulthea was in peril from Ondoval, an evil lord from the First Era who wished to destroy the Eyes, the ancient artifacts that tempered the Flows of Essænce. He suspected that the Loremaster High Council shared his concern but was unwilling to take action for fear of being targeted by that same evil lord. But Randae was certain that inaction meant destruction. While the conflicts in Tanara were unfortunate, they were a minor concern compared to the threat of Ondoval.
Randae was flipping impatiently through his notes when his faithful servant Janas knocked. “Yes?”
“Your colleague Ren Thraysk is here, sir.”
Randae blinked. “Really? I wasn’t expecting him. Well, send him in please. And bring a fresh pot of tea if you don’t mind.”
“Very good, sir,” Janas bowed and departed.
A moment later Ren strode in. “Sorry to drop in unannounced, I know how you hate that, but I thought you should know, since you’ve shown an interest in them before…”
“Yes?” Randae’s eyebrows furrowed as he indicated a chair for his visitor.
“As you know, things are bad in Rhakhaan. Several of the northern nobles’ territories are threatened, and they are sending their heirs away to safety. The Duke of Prevan has sent his son Kalen along with his nephew – his name escapes me – to Emer. Originally they were going to Haalkitaine, but apparently there was a change of plans. My information has them in Lethys now, with intent to sail south to Artha or Sel-kai.”
Randae slouched back in his chair. “Interesting.”
“And something else. The Duke of Lathornia’s son may be on the same ship, along with that ‘tutor’ we’ve talked about before.” Ren settled into worn leather chair across from the desk, long legs stretched out in front of him.
“Yes… Lukas is Lathornia’s son; Yandar Vit is the tutor. This could be an excellent opportunity to observe Vit more closely. It’s difficult to get our people into those estates, but a more urban environment like Sel-kai is much better.”
“You really suspect that Vit ties with the Iron Wind?”
“I do. His history is shadowed, and while I have nothing conclusive, there are hints of dark contacts. As a tutor to a future high-ranking noble he is in a perfect situation to wield behind-the-scenes influence, the usual mode of operation for the Priesthood serving the Iron Wind. I have similar concerns about this Priest of Yaarth who has declared himself regent of Helyssa; though such flagrancy is out of character for the Priests Arnak. I assume there has been no progress in finding the prince of Helyssa?”
“No; he is either deep in hiding, imprisoned by the Priest, or dead.”
“Let us hope at least that it isn’t the last. Though he is young, having him on the throne might bring some stability to the southeast. My heart tells me that the priest regent is up to no good.”
“Karstia of Mynars is near Norek, and I believe Drey Laachek is monitoring the villages north of Cynar. Both are competent Loremasters. If the Prince is alive, they will find him.”
“Karstia can certainly take care of herself. Drey is less experienced, though a capable Mentalist.” Randae agreed with a nod.
Janas returned with tea, which Ren gratefully accepted. Stirring in a generous amount of honey, he glanced around the cluttered office. “And what have you been up to, still chasing the Soulsword legends?”
“Yes.” Randae sighed heavily. “There’s just so much to go through, though most of it is oft-retold tales with little basis in fact. Based on what you’ve just told me though, I believe it may be time for me to pursue other issues. And staying here any longer is dangerous. I think I’ll relocate to Sel-kai for awhile.”
“You know that Luronen Moje probably isn’t going to appreciate you moving into his territory?” Ren speculated with a smirk.
“I’m not ‘moving in;’ I’m just visiting.” Randae fussed with some papers.
“You could come to Haalkitaine with me; I could use the help with those arrogant nobles.”
Randae grinned evilly. “I’m confident that you can keep them under rein.” Then as he was shifting some papers around, a scrap slipped out. The Loremaster’s expression clouded as he read it. “Hmm, I don’t remember writing this.”
“What is it?”
“It’s just a scribbled note, a list. It says:
Priest of Yaarth
Yandar Vit
Osaran al Delphys
“Then question marks, like they have some relation. Especially odd since we were just talking about that Priest and Vit, and my suspicions of them having ties to the Iron Wind.”
“Osaran is the Archprelate of Purll Kirn, second most powerful cleric in the Orhan Church in Rhakhaan.”
Randae pursed his lips. “I know who he is! The question is: what was I thinking when I wrote this? I have no recollection of it.”
“Maybe you should ease up on the Namarian merlot!” Ren said with a little laugh.
“Very funny.” Randae set the paper aside. “Well, I suppose I should start packing. Now that I think about it, I’m looking forward to a change of scenery.”
“I hope you’ll let me know where you are staying in case I need to contact you?”
“I’d prefer to lie low for awhile, but if it’s an emergency you can reach me through Hiiri at Trevor’s Tankard.
“Ahh. Have you heard from T’revor lately?”
“No, though I don’t doubt that he is up to some mischief.”
“No doubt. Well, I’ll leave you to your preparations then.” Ren set his tea aside and stood.
“Thank you for the information, Ren, I appreciate it.” Randae stood as well. “By the way, have you heard from our Journeyman Loremaster?”
“It’s been about three weeks since my last report from Saen Alister, but that’s not surprising considering the situation up north.”
“True, true.” Randae agreed absent-mindedly, frowning as he once again stared at the scrap of paper he had scribbled on.
Ren smiled crookedly to himself then Teleported away.
In a farmer’s stable a few miles outside the town of Chayren in Helyssa, Drey Laachek crouched in a horse stall, wrinkling his nose at the stench. He was short, even for a Shay man, which was helpful in that he did not attract attention. Other than that, Drey couldn’t think of any advantages to his diminutive size. He ran his fingers through his mop of sandy hair, finding a few pieces of straw in there as well. Trapped like a rat, the Loremaster admonished himself. He paused a moment and cast a Presence spell. Three… no four of them moving to surround the stable. And no doubt there are two more not far away.
Silently the Loremaster ran down his options. It was getting to be a short list. If he hadn’t cast those spells earlier in the evening, he’d have enough power to make himself invisible and cast a decent Leaving spell, but without rest he could do neither. Even if he could make himself invisible, he had a feeling those damn Messengers of Gorath could sense him somehow. It would be dawn soon, but even then these cruel servants of the Iron Wind would only be deterred, not powerless.
Drey look around, hoping for an inspiration. None of the old working horses in this stable could possibly outrun the huge steeds of the Messengers. The stable itself was a rickety old structure that looked like a strong wind would blow it down.
He checked the fastenings on his bracers and loaded his double crossbow. Not that he had a chance against six Messengers. He was a Mentalist, not a warrior. But he had to get his information back to the Loremaster Council somehow: Prince Kier Ianis was alive! It had taken considerable effort to convince Kier’s loyal guards that he was a friend, and to and arrange a meeting. But Drey had seen the prince with his own eyes and now carried a Mind Typing of him.
A crash that shook the stable made Drey (and the horses) jump. Instead of opening the doors, the Messengers had simply broken them down. Realizing that the flimsy stall divider would prove little protection, the Loremaster decided that it was now or never. He rolled from behind the barrier and came up on one knee facing the two Messengers standing on the threshold. Drey cast Projected Light, catching them in the eyes and making them step back and raise their arms over their faces. They had helms shaped like nautilus shells, and their scaly armor shimmered like mother-of-pearl in the light beam. The Loremaster got off one shot before they could recover, catching the nearest one in the throat: he went down with a satisfying gurgling sound.
Drey fired as the second Messenger closed, but his shot was deflected by the scale armor.
“Give up and we won’t kill you, Loremaster!” The Messenger snarled, swinging down with a gauntleted fist that bristled with spikes.
“I wish I could believe you.” Drey grunted, parrying the blow with his bracer. Numbing pain shot up his arm. He managed to tumble past the hulking warrior to the broken doorway. Another Messenger came around the corner of the stable armed with a mace. The Loremaster Leapt fifteen feet up onto the stable roof, scrambling across the wood shingles. Not an escape, but it bought him time to reload his crossbow.
The he heard the birdcalls. He’d forgotten about those thrice-cursed black seagulls the Messengers used as scouts! He spotted them to the west; they were still some distance away, but would be there soon. Drey shuddered. He had no desire to have his eyes pecked out. After reloading, he used Presence again. Only three now; the one he shot must be dead. But what of the other two? Messengers always traveled in groups of six.
He heard them calling to each other in some harsh tongue that sounded like Sykan but he couldn’t make it out for sure. Moving as quietly as possible, Drey maneuvered to just above where one Messenger stood. Using the last of his power he employed Landing and came down lightly on his feet behind the man. *Thunk* The Messenger went down like a sack of potatoes, a crossbow bolt in his heart. Drey peered around the corner of the stable. Another messenger was walking slowly away from him. Perhaps luck was on his side! Drey fired. The bolt caught the man in the shoulder, the force of it sending him crashing against the wall.
Finish him, then one left… Drey started to reload his crossbow again… then…
He couldn’t move! His body tingled as if numb, and he was completely paralyzed.
“You fought bravely, little Loremaster, but it was in vain.” A soft, almost musical voice spoke from behind Drey. He couldn’t even move his eyes to look up as the figure walked around to stand facing him; all he could see was grey-booted feet and the bottoms of calf-length blue-green breeches. “You will of course be punished for killing two of my Messengers, but that will come later.”
Drey realized with a sinking feeling that the being facing him was an Elf (by the voice) and almost certainly a Priest Arnak. He had probably cloaked himself from Drey’s detection with an Unpresence spell, which meant that he too was of a Mentalist discipline. Drey heard heavy footsteps behind him: the two remaining Messengers.
“Idiots!” The Elf’s voice turned harsh. “You almost let this runt defeat you! If I hadn’t been here he might have escaped.”
“He had magic, master.” One of the messengers protested.
“You call that ‘magic’?! First Level Mentalist tricks! I’ll show you what a real Mentalist can do!”
Drey felt the paralysis fade. But before he could take any action, his crossbow was yanked from his hands by an invisible force and hurled a dozen yards away. He looked up to see a slender, black haired elf in grey-green clothes and a grey cloak. The Elf’s eyes glowed with a sickening yellow fire, and he grinned triumphantly down at the Loremaster.
“Perhaps we won’t wait for the punishment.” The Elf leered and stepped towards Drey. He held out his hand, fingers extended forward claw-like. The Priest Arnak had long sharp fingernails painted dark red. Yellow light crackled between the Arnak Priest’s fingertips. “Taste the power of the Iron Wind, Loremaster!” Lightning arced from the Elf’s hand towards Drey.
Pain! Every nerve was on fire! Drey fell to the ground, helpless as his muscles spasmed uncontrollably. He was enveloped in the lighting that delivered jolt after jolt of agonizing energy. The Messengers laughed as he screamed in agony.
Then everything went dark.
“I hope you don’t mind me joining you.” Lukas’ smile faltered – though didn’t vanish entirely.
“No, not at all; you just startled me.” Kalen looked away.
“My apologies; I didn’t mean to. Yandar kicked me out of our cabin so he could do his chanting, so I thought I’d come out here and watch the shore go by.” Lukas leaned on the railing and peered out over the water towards the rocky coastline to the north.
Then it dawned on Kalen. “This is your duchy all along here: Lathornia.”
“My father’s duchy.” Lukas corrected, his tone touched with scorn.
“It will all be yours some day.”
“I prefer not to think about that. I don’t want the… responsibility.” Lukas frowned.
“I must agree with you on that count. I don’t look forward to inheriting my father’s Duchy either. The administration headaches, the politics…”
“Depending on how things turn out with Frelik, that may be moot.”
Kalen ventured a glance at the Viscount, But Lukas continued to stare north, his jaw set. “Surely you don’t think that the Pretender can win?”
“You know better than I, Kalen. I hope you don’t mind if I call you that; titles are so cold and formal.” The corner of Lukas’ mouth turned up for a moment.
“No, I don’t mind. And I suppose I never gave serious thought to the possibility that he could win, even with his allies striking inside my father’s lands. I assumed it was all just temporary, that eventually he would be captured and things would return to normal.”
“One thing is true for certain: everything is temporary. I hear Sel-kai is an interesting city. Much larger than Haalkitaine or even Lethys. Many… diversions.”
“So I have heard also.” Kalen wondered at the sudden change of subject.
“I miss… I miss Haalkitaine already. I know most people think it is dark and depressing, but I love it. It is more my home than my father’s house.”
The two youths chatted a while longer about less weighty topics, then Lukas excused himself, saying that he would be expected back for lessons.
Kalen lingered a while longer on deck before returning to the cabin to find Jad sitting in his bunk reading.
“There you are.” The squire smiled up at his cousin.
“Just getting some air. Have a good nap?”
“Yes indeed. The bunk is surprisingly comfortable.”
Kalen busied himself with arranging things on the desk. After his conversation with Lukas, he was curious to know what Jad had heard about the Viscount. He felt a little embarrassed for being so curious about Lukas’ personal life, but he couldn’t help himself. Not only had he not heard about the Viscount’s preferences – if that is what they could be called -- before today, but also it was the sort of topic that had almost never even come up between him and Jad.
Sex was just not discussed in polite conversation in Rhakhaan, though of course women whispered and giggled in boudoirs and men made crude jokes while outside away from the women. But even rarely mentioned in these venues was the idea that some men had a sexual attraction towards other men, and some women were of the same inclination. This did not mean that such attractions did not exist, however; it just meant that Rhakhaan was one of those societies that found it distasteful, or immoral, or even illegal. Much like the old Emerian empire of long ago, which had revered a valiant warrior-prince as a hero until it became known that his secret lover was another man -- one of his commanders. Prince Terenis ended up having to abdicate as heir, and he eventually was pressured to leave the capital and live in virtual exile on Komaren with his partner.
Finally he could resist no longer. “Lukas was on deck as well; we had a pleasant conversation. So… how did you hear about him supposedly being… the way he is?” Kalen asked tentatively.
“Oh didn’t I tell you?” Jad closed his book, laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back. “I’d heard it from a few of the merchants who trade in Haalkitaine and have dealings with other noble houses. You know how servants can talk. Apparently Lukas spends a fair amount of time in the city. And this is the best part: they say his ‘friend’ is Prince Toren!”
Toren Malvion! Lukas and the Emperor’s son! The scandal! Kalen didn’t know what to say.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to shock you. I hope you don’t think less of him because of it; he seems like a nice person.” Jad said, misunderstanding Kalen’s silence.
“No, it’s not that at all. I think that whom he… chooses… is his own business. Actually I don’t understand why some people are revolted by the sherikani. They’re just like everybody else, really. Not that I’ve known any, that I’m aware of, at least.”
What Kalen left unsaid was that in his heart he was unsure of his own feelings. Over the last few years he was coming to realize (with a growing dread) that he might be one of those very sherikani, and that it had very little to do with preference or choice. When other young men would whisper amongst themselves and point out a pretty girl, he felt nothing more than an abstract appreciation. But when a handsome young man was near, he found himself admiring the youth, how he moved, how his muscles flexed. Then Kalen would find himself becoming flustered and uncomfortable. For a long time he managed to avoid thinking about it too much. But the feelings only grew more intense. He had those feelings when near Lukas earlier. And sometimes he even had them when he looked at Jad.
His father would be horrified. His mother would probably be more accepting; most Elven cultures were. But what would Jad think? Would he be disgusted? Kalen was terrified of being rejected by his cousin. Jad’s reaction to Lukas was encouraging, but still, Kalen didn’t feel like he dared to tell Jad about his uncertainty. And maybe it was a passing thing, he told himself. He’d never acted on his urges, never really had the opportunity. But now, if he understood Jad’s implication earlier, Ridgeston might be interested in him. It gave Kalen a strange feeling. But then he remembered how Lukas had smiled at Jad…
At any rate, Jad seemed to relax a bit after Kalen’s comment. “Well you never know, since people like Ridgeston -- assuming he really is a sherikan – have to keep it a secret. His father the Duke would probably disinherit him, even if he is his only son!”
“I guess it wouldn’t matter much since Lukas wouldn’t be providing him any heirs.” Kalen frowned, thinking how his situation paralleled the Viscount’s.
“I’d be flattered if he was paying that much attention to me.” Jad said with a conspiratorial wink. “Lukas is very handsome.”
“Stop it!’ Kalen felt his face redden. “And anyway, it seemed to me that he was giving you the more-than-friendly smile!”
It was Jad’s turn to look surprised. He blinked a couple of times as if that possibility had not occurred to him.
Smiling to himself, Kalen turned back to his journal.
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