The question comes out of nowhere, and Apollo doesn’t realize he asked before he did. He also realizes he probably shouldn’t have asked in the first place.
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The sun had already begun the last tumbles of its dip toward the horizon. Gasping rays of sunlight framed the distant mountain in a crown of pinkened light. Clayent’s ambient roar was a faint thrum in the distance, and the mist of the glittering water could be seen if the man within the carriage had offered even a fleeting glance. It was reminiscent of another eve he had travelled along this road. Only then it had been winter, he had been on foot rather than in a carriage, and the dark of night had already set upon him.
That particular walk to the senescent home of his mother’s forebears had been nearly four years past. Yet, his current trek felt all too familiar. Whispers of the Mantle rumbled within the halls of Divinity and beyond. The Ministry had been suspended by royal decree, and all that had served within were under the harshest scrutiny. A sort of perusal that the Dylane knew all too keenly.
Such matters had filled his thoughts in the preceding weeks, and had in the end inspired his decision to return to his home. A word he had never felt would be assigned to him in the years of his youth. Home was an anchor to be avoided when there was a world of wonder to explore. In his soul there would always be a piece of the wanderer, but the duties of his former occupation had done much to forge a new life, a new path for him in the darkening passage of time.
The gates the carriage passed did not lead to that home, or at least not the home where he felt most alive. Aspenvale, the last vestige of the Vellinox and home of the last bearer of that august name. It was a large, well appointed manse that had been painstakingly cared for in the last thirty or so years that it had been under the aegis of his mother. For this was her home, her sanctuary. It was true that, in part, he had grown up here but his true home lay within the city. It was fashioned of white-washed stone rather than the regal, yet verdant trappings of a country noble’s estate.
Noah stepped from the carriage with an easy grace. The door of the main entrance had already been opened, and the familiar figure of Mr. Baines caught his eye. Baines never failed to impress Noah in one way or another. When it came to receiving guests it was as if the old butler could see through the eyes of the stone owls that sat atop the posts of the gate wrought of iron and stone.
Perfunctory greetings and musings of respect were shared between the Lady’s butler and her son. If he had been anyone other than family or other close relation the butler would have directed him to the ground floor’s parlor or sitting room. Given that he did not meet this exception he was directed to the Lady’s solar. A wing of the home dedicated solely to its mistress. It had been that way even before the death of his father. In Winghaven they had shared a chamber, but in Aspenvale the rules were different. Traditions upheld by her always intimated one duality or another.
The crackling flames of a recently lit fire danced within the hearth of Allyria’s sitting room. Two tea cups lay abandoned, one on an end table near a chaise, and the other on the table in front of a set of finely crafted chairs. Noah heard two voices, feminine in their cast, trailing from the opened doors of the solar’s balcony. As he stepped closer he found that both were familiar to him, and a small smile graced his lips when he came to the opened doors.
Rebekah, eldest of the Dylane daughters, and his junior by only a year had turned at the sound of approaching footsteps. A warm smile met his as she stood up to greet him properly. Like so many of his siblings she had taken the coloring of their father. Her hair was a deep, rich blonde and her eyes were of a darker, more precipitous green hue.
“Your niece will be delighted,” she said in her usual, honeyed tones. Rebekah had the aura of a kindly woman about her. He was not sure if she had always borne that quality or if it had somehow been bestowed upon her with the cowl of widowhood.
“As shall I,” he responded, quietly with a tone of affection shared between two siblings that had seldom shared any strife. “I trust all has gone well in my absence?”
“Did you expect otherwise?” There was a soft jibe in her reply, but it was not serious. At least not in any real way. Rebekah offered a glance to their mother before adding, “The bank and your dear niece thrives, but certainly we shall speak of such things later. I’d better see to it that Esther and I get changed for dinner.”
The Lady of Aspenvale did not rise upon her son’s arrival, and nor had she offered any words of greeting as her daughter had done. Instead she had remained in the same posture she had done upon his approach with her eyes cast to the falls. The mother’s mind far from the mundane exchange of pleasantries that went on before her. Whatever discussion she and Rebekah had partaken in had been finished for some time.
Noah blinked slowly and looked towards her. Though his thirtieth name day had come and gone some months before he still felt a child in her presence. Again he pondered if she always projected such precipitous gravity. It was something he often wondered at ever since he was a boy. As such he hesitated, but only for a moment. He had already begun to step forward when the Lady curled her hand in a gesture that beckoned approach.
The lord walked around the chair Rebekah had occupied, and lowered himself into it gingerly. Allyria canted her head toward him then, the expression upon her face as much a veil as it ever was. The two were much alike in that way as they were in so many others. Noah, more so than any of his siblings, reflected his mother’s features. Both had hair as black as onyx, and eyes of silvered green. It struck him that she still donned the colors of mourning, and was coming to realize she might continue to for the rest of her natural life. Just as when he had last seen her he questioned if such symbolism was meant for his father alone.
“You wear your hair like your father’s.” It was a simple observation, and spoken in a carefully crafted tone that did not quite disguise the surprise within it. Noah usually kept his hair short, and well groomed. Even when he was in the field scouring some ruin or other. This last time, however, he had not shorn his hair and it had now grown to crest his shoulder. The sheen belonged to his mother, but the way it lay was reminiscent of Rhade. At having mentioned him Allyria brought long fingers to stroke the large emerald that ever adorned her neck. A gift his father had once commissioned for her in what seemed a lifetime ago.
Noah tucked a strand of hair behind his ear as he straightened his posture within the chair. A silence fell between them. The observation was not one that begged reply. He knew this, and so took the moment to contemplate why he had come. To simply see his mother was never reason enough to disturb her, and to him, it had ever been thus. For as long as he could remember there had always been an air of imminent importance about whatever it was she might have been doing. To disrupt any delicacy within that grand game was not something he relished, or at least this is what he reflected whenever he willed himself away.
When the Lady of Aspenvale finally looked away he allowed his eyes to wander towards the horizon. There was much to be said of the chord struck between them. Questions that begged to be asked and in their turn answered. So many queries that had built between a mother and her eldest son. Only once did they come perilously close to the most poignant in his mind. It had been a year after her departure from Kryta’s borders on his return journey to take his father’s seat within the family, and his mother’s role within the Ministry. On that rare occasion she had even prompted him, allowed him a gateway to whatever she might provide.
In that moment he had resisted, and since came to terms that his chance to know where the truest of loyalties may lie was beyond him. He did not need such knowledge to do what needed to be done. Despite this he could not help but wonder now as he sat next to her in the place he mused was her only true source of respite. If one such as she ever required such a thing. He did, of course, no matter the image he had projected during his time in public life. There it was, then, the reason he had come. The Ministry, and those within whom had wrought treachery, terror within both Kingdom and its Reach.
“Caudecus always was a fool.” The words were spoken beneath a thin veneer of contempt, even disgust. Another observation, but only this time as if she had been able to pluck a strand of thought from his mind. As she spoke her gaze of silvered green turned in the direction of the city that was ever upon her son’s mind. “He never valued genuine subtlety, or the art of what it is to have a plan within a plan. It was ever thus. A man whom proffers no palpable respect for blood -- his own or otherwise -- nor tradition, relinquishes hope for true ascendance.”
The Lady’s son blinked slowly and looked toward his mother. A thoughtful, reflective expression played upon his features. Noah was a man of great intellect, and had more than once been able to catch meaning within words released to wind. So much was said there, and yet with so little employed. “It is the reason I’ve come. Murder in the gardens. Whispers of attempted assassination, and even usurpation. A body of great importance suspended, and those within placed under strictest scrutiny.”
Those silver-green eyes turned to meet his as the Lord’s mother canted her head to regard him inquisitively. The shadow of an abyss, precipitous and vast, glittered within those eyes. Something so familiar but furthermore unknowable to him. A mystique he could never quite divine. Very much like his mother herself. “You are Lord Dylane,” she began, her voice and tone an echo of a role she fulfilled in the past. “You are my son.” Not our son, no, but hers. It was a rare confirmation, but one that offered little solace. “I would expect no less of you. Yet tread carefully as you walk into that mire. There is danger, but such is always the price of power.”
Noah was struck by her words. The lord had long since abandoned the notion that he could confide his fears, his doubts to her. Once in a time when the Dylane children had numbered only five he might have done, but that was a time beyond memory. How had she seen the susurration of fear that lurked within the depths of his mind? A fear he had always known, and ever sought to overcome. There was only one to whom he confided such notions, and though a Lady it was she was not named Dylane.
I do not fear for myself, he thought, stubbornly. It pained him to note how much the child he sounded in the protestation. Of course he was afraid. He had been Minister of Rurikton and Vice Legate Minister besides. The city’s future had been at his fingertips. He had allowed counsel and the very fear he denounced drive him from the vocation where he had most felt alive. Even more he had been a Dylane to hold such prestige, and articles of office. One that followed in the shadow of his mother’s controversial reign.
“Order can rise from chaos, Noah,” she said, her eyes transfixed upon him. The use of his name brought him from his reverie. Its employment provided him with a soft pang that he did not quite understand. Surely she had often addressed him by the name that she herself had given him. Even still it had been so long since he had heard its utterance in that voice, in that cadence. “What order that may be rests entirely upon those with the vision and will to craft it. Danger may lick the heels of our past, but you know more than anyone there is more than one answer to a question. One that could have harmonized much discord has ever lay within your reach, and even once fell beyond it. That inhibitor no longer provides disruption. If only you had the resolve to see it.”
The lord’s brows knitted together, and a look of perplexity played upon his features. “I do not take in your meaning.”
“I imagine you inspected the winter wheat of Roanwilde before arriving here,” she said. Her tone was veiled, then, but a small shadow of a smile tugged at the corners of her lips. While gently stroking the emerald at her throat she turned her eyes back towards the falls she had admired before he walked across the threshold.
Noah blinked several times as he took in her meaning. Perplexity gave way in favor of the pensive. His cheeks threatened to turn a deep shade of red, but he resisted. It would have been a lie if he said he had never considered such possibility. Despite his protestations to the contrary he knew the merits of such establishment. The ghost of Emerys entered his thoughts then as he considered her subtle teasing on the issue his mother now spoke of as brazenly as she was able. He and his Willow had a friendship forged and tempered in the fire. A bond that was strong, and even at times, tested. As much as he might want to dismiss the notion out of hand he could not. It did, indeed, deserve due thought.
After several more moments of silence, reflection, and all that lay in between he gave voice to only one question. “What will you do, Mother?”
Allyria Dylane, the Lady of Aspenvale, drew herself up in the chair with her eyes still cast towards the falls and whatever it was that lay beyond them. The answer came in a tone that was lilted with both pride, and the undercurrent of authority that power by presumption allowed. “I shall do as I and the Vellinox have ever done . . . I shall endure.”
For the final time that evening Allyria’s response caught him as he sought to divine the meaning within the meaning of her spoken word. Noah Dylane, her son, knew much of the family’s history. Their sigil was that of a white owl in flight with a serpent writhing in its talons. In that moment his mother did not make him think of a bird of prey that was of a ken with the proud raptor of the Dylane. No, his mind wandered to that of a serpent, but even then not the one the Vellinox owl had captured within its claws. Allyria Vellinox Dylane embodied the visage of another serpent. One that is cunning, calculative, and perhaps most of all . . . patient. The combination of which was dangerous, and deadly to all within its gaze. A serpent who had the will to play the long, delicate game worthy of her contrivance.
“I give very little credence to the idea that our destinies are written for us. We make our own way forward. Our lives are contrived by mortal hands and minds.” @noahdylane
I fear I must begin this letter with a note of apology. You were so kind to send word upon hearing news of my resignation, and so swift was my parting that I never found the moment with which reply. This is unbecoming conduct for one of my upbringing, and the necessities of a day an ill excuse for such rudeness. It is not only a matter of station, however, as I dare say we had become rather fast friends. A word, I assure you, that I have never been wont to assign lightly. If my ill behavior has damaged such relations, then I shall bear responsibility for their mending.
My affairs have sometimes brought me to the city, and countryside. Never long enough, I’m afraid, to make arrangements to host or pay call. Circumstances, as you are undoubtedly aware, have shifted dramatically of late. In light of this I have decided it is time that I once more anchor myself within Kryta, and tend to matters that I have left far too long upon the vine. I will withhold my opinions on the state of our kingdom until we can speak properly. It is almost needless to note that since I heard of such things Lord Savik’s visage has conjured within my mind more than once.
You were ever one to keep a careful eye on the pulse of the city, and I was always quite taken with how poignant your observations could be. In light of this, though I daresay I do not deserve it, I wondered if you might honor me by visiting Winghaven as you did in the old days? There is much to discuss, assuredly, but even more I do so miss your wit and candor.
I once more find myself wondering how I ought to begin this particular piece of correspondence. The times shift as readily as the winds, and yet a chord of silence strikes betwixt us as if a new epoch has already begun. This is to be expected, of course, for two such as we. Our paths at present differ, but in their turbulence I believe we can effortlessly find an accord. It is as two birds soaring upon the edge of a gale. Though they look from different vantages the horizon is the same, and this one I fear is fraught with danger.
A storm brewed is easily weathered when one is amongst their flock. It matters not if they bear themselves as proud raptor or penitent songbird. I have been long from my asylum, and longer still from resting upon the laurels of the aspen pines. A circumstance that I would see soon rectified. The matriarch has sought respite in calculations abroad, but my path must ever differ.
It would be a great honor if I might once more pay call. Until then you shall remain among my most treasured.
I want to think again of dangerous and noble things. I want to be light and frolicsome. I want to be improbable and beautiful and afraid of nothing as though I had wings.
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