The book, The Oldest Night, revealed nothing she didn't already know. Outside some events of the Old Epochs, the Four Kings—era of the Darkening, it turned out lacking in any information regarding her situation.
Ivory held back a sigh, the metal braided into her hair rasping against itself. Announcing her with every step, as it should... She was a High Daughter, after all.
Glancing at the many attendants shifting through the corridor, their faces lit by the blue, torsos washed by the white lamps, she thought on how dreamy they looked. Like statues cast by a dreamShaper.
Now, why would you think that? Her right hand caressed her hair, bringing it over her eyes. White. Silky. Whiter than the mist and reminiscent of the old sun. It was a sign. Her mark as a Bright Crown. Yet...
Her steps padded tunefully along with her escorts: a guardsman Excubitor to the right and a handmaiden to the other. They had come to her in the library with news of her mother's summons. Starling. But why did they have to accompany her? Such companionship cringed.
A Highness should always know those that surround her, her mother would say.
But. Why did Mother call for me? she thought idly, her mind ever engrossed in the means rather than the why. Her mother could have used an Eiya, so why didn't she?
Her mind, one conditioned in the analytical aspects of things could not resist this. Pondering, wondering. Why had Mother called for her? There was the Eiya, and Mother was an intelligent being, not a person to forget such an obvious choice…
Strange.
Ivory baffled at the possible reasons. They seemed deliberate, but unknowably so.
Annoying.
Eiya was a better tool to use than people. Ivory thought, but in turn, realized the possibility of interference. The Eiya could carry knowledge over distances, but it could also be terribly overtaken. Its knowledge appropriated through many means.
Why, was that what mother defended against? Ivory thought so, but couldn't be entirely sure.
So what exactly did she want to ask me? She frowned at a foreboding possibility. Suddenly anxious, she rubbed her right palm over the dorsal other. Mother wouldn't call to discuss that again, right? She chilled. It's not like I have anything truly substantial to present. Studies and lore still don't shed any light on my situation.
She sighed secretly.
These types of moments make me wish for the rot, Her smile pressed bitterly. When facing Mother, worthless is far worse than facing the putrid flesh.
The ground clung beneath her feet, as though gravity itself conspired against her. Each step was an act of defiance — a push against some unseen will. Her limbs trembled beneath the weight of it, her stomach knotted tight and hard within her. A heaviness pressed down upon her shoulders, cold and relentless.
An illusion, she told herself. A trick of the mind. Nothing more.
Yet the weight deepened with every step forward, an invisible pressure curling tighter around her chest. The air seemed thicker. The ground heavier. The heaviness wasn't real, couldn't be real — but it lingered all the same. A slow, grinding force. The dull gravity of her own inadequacy, threatening to drag her down, to crush her into the earth.
Or Mother would.
Ivory heaved a forced breath. The whispers followed swiftly. Eyes drew to her. Messages they carried, words of the Clan's heir being tired at an early night, would make a spread through the clan.
She grimaced. What a weight, she thought tiredly. Now Mother would have something more to discuss.
"Ah, Princess!" a familiar voice chimed from behind. Ivory turned, surprised by the warm casualness. There, standing, a man—tall, muscular, like men from the Odium Clan. However, he did not possess the bright red hair known in their bloodline.
He was more of a mixed blood—half Valor, half Odium.
"Master Geld!" Ivory said excitedly, her hand relaxing over the book. It almost dropped. Quickly, she regained her grip while simultaneously resisting the urge to walk to him.
She was female; it was his duty to approach her.
Geld stepped forward, his black-red hair streaked with white glinting beneath the pale light. He moved with an easy grace, flanked on both sides by guardsmen Excubitors. A pale white orb, the size of a man's head, floated inches from his temple — silent, watchful. A chronicler without judgment.
Eiya!
Why didn't he contact me?
Ivory stiffened, her gaze shifting toward her side. No floating orb. Ah. She had left it in her room. Then the realization.
Her body tensed, breath hitching. What if Mother had contacted me while I was without it?
Her thoughts tangled into sharp, discordant notes. Then, a breath — measured — calmed the dissonance. Mother Samara had requested her presence. Why waste time calling again?
A slow breath left her lips. Next time, I won't make such mistakes. It was both an assurance and a scolding.
Geld reached her and bowed with practiced precision. "How are you, Princess?"
"I am well," Ivory said, offering a careful smile.
He regarded it for a moment, then sighed. "I once heard a tale from a bard," he said. "A smile a day keeps the rot away."
Ivory frowned. "And this relates?"
He smiled. "It does when you, Princess, still refuse to smile."
She hesitated, "That can't be correct."
"It is." Geld's gaze drifted toward the guard at his left. The Excubitor's helm was glass and queer— a reflective face of mirrored silence. The guard didn't stir as his hand slipped into the satchel hanging from his shoulder.
He produced a mirror — round, edged with intricate glyphs and patterns. Ivory's eyes narrowed to the sight of the odd presentation.
The symbols… They resembled the glyphs used during the time of the Four Kings. A relic from the Old Epochs, perhaps. Her thoughts pressed forward, restrained. She would not ask — not yet.
Geld held up the mirror with a curious smile. "See?"
Ivory's gaze flowed toward the surface. The dull glass caught the light, fracturing it into soft, refracted threads. A pale reflection like calming water took form.
A young woman stared back. Pale skin. Silken white hair cascading down in quiet waves. A face unmarked by age, but also untouched by warmth. No vibrancy in the eyes. No softness in the curve of the lips. A hollow mask.
Ivory almost recoiled — almost. Her breath sharpened. Wrong. Slowly, carefully, she shaped her lips into a smile.
I should pay more attention to that.
Following the contours in the glass, she adjusted the curve of her mouth, shifted the tension in her brow. The reflection answered with a regulated approximation of warmth.
"Good?" A wide smile now rested on her face.
Geld's head tilted. "An imitation would never rival the original," he said. "Instead, I hope to help retrieve the truth from where it lies dormant."
"Retrieval implies it has been lost," Ivory said. "And even if it was, I have not known you to study the branch of the human psyche."
Her gaze shifted down the corridor. The froststones shimmered faintly along the walls, whispering warnings through the silence. I should get to Mother before my lateness grows deeper.
Geld chuckled. "Once in a while, a man should make changes," he said. "But as for what is lost… I think it truly has been — for a long time."
His fingers snapped. A sharp sound that cut through the stillness.
A figure emerged from behind him, so seamlessly that Ivory almost missed the moment of transition from shadow to flesh. Hidden — expertly. Almost like a caster. A veilCounsel maybe.
The man wore white. A cloak, unhooded, draped down from his shoulders in flowing, pristine inner padded sheets. His black hair was full, though thin white streaks curled through it like the tails of a serpent, sliding down past his forehead.
An Aspirant? Ivory's eyes were confined, yet her expression remained carefully neutral.
Geld sighed. "And there comes the blankness."
Ivory held his gaze, steady, unmoved by his words. She turned toward the Aspirant. "Who?"
The fair-skinned man smiled—warm, unassuming. He bowed elegantly. "Aspirant Kabal of the Abstention Chapter."
"An eunuch?" Ivory's gaze flicked toward Geld.
The broad man scoffed. "No worries in that regard." A faint smile lingered beneath the words.
Ivory remained still, thoughts clicking into alignment. Of course, this was inevitable. Rumors had stirred—titbits of her inability to cast. Someone was always trying to verify them.
Her guardsman—even he — had been a quiet instrument, planted by her father to shield her from scrutiny and from those who might take drastic measures to confirm the truth.
It made sense, then, for her former master to weave himself into this pattern. She had hoped otherwise. But as it turns out, everyone wanted to be the highness.
This Aspirant was no ordinary agent. Not a mere reader or preacher, not one of the dutiful flock. An informant, most likely. Or worse — a false Aspirant, masquerading beneath the church's veil. That would be a crime — one even the Theocracy would not overlook.