A new footman, a young man with slicked back brown hair and long limbs he still needed to grow into, helped Buorlan take off his outer coat. Buorlan looked around the grand entrance hall of Comadean house.
The familiar jumble of paintings covering every inch of the walls were unchanged since his childhood. Probably the same configuration long before he was born. He looked towards the drawing room doors and pictured his mothers portrait hanging above the fireplace on the other side.
"Sir Buorlan," Mr Demas said as he rose from a deep bow. "His Lordship is waiting for you in the gentleman's parlor."
Buorlan started walking towards the first floor corridor. "Lead the way."
The butler quickened his steps to catch up with him.
They walked through the grand halls with only their footsteps for company. Buorlan recounted the many hours he spent here as a child. The days he and Lark spent running through the halls to escape their governess, and the nights he spent hiding under his pillow trying to block out the sounds of his mother crying. He forced away the memories as they arrived at the parlor.
Mr Demas knocked before holding the door open for Buorlan.
"That will be all, Demas." Buorlan said.
Buorlan entered the room. Four armchairs were in the centre of the room with a card table in the centre. Buorlan took the final unoccupied chair.
Lark Castellac lounged, with one leg over the other, on a burgundy armchair, with a cigarillo between his fingers. He tapped the end of the cigarillo on the edge of an ornate glass ashtray, with a lynx lounging across the edge. Smoke and the faint scent of vanilla filled the room. He wore a forest green silk robe over his day suit.
"And what gives you the right to order around my staff?" Lark asked. He took a long drag of his cigarillo and wisps of sweet smoke escaped his lips.
Dame Luel sat next to Lark in a matching armchair. She perched, stiff as a board, on the edge with her grey hair pinned back in a tight bun. Her cascading charcoal dress with long puffed sleeves was a few decades out of fashion but suited the older woman.
"Come now, cousin, it will be mine once you are gone." Burlan answered with a mischievous smile.
"I am not near Ibaris yet and considering your lack of a wife and my lack of an heir, it is far more likely some third cousin twice removed will inherit once we are both gone."
Buorlan and Lark shared a bitter laugh.
The room was cosy with a large rug and a small fire burning in the hearth. The smell of cigarillo smoke was long baked into the furniture. Portraits of male members of the Castellac family hung on the walls, with one spot missing a painting, the wall a deeper colour to the rest of the room. Two long curtains covered one wall supposedly for 'warmth'. Buorlan embraced the comfort of the room, letting his worries float off his shoulders, knowing full well that Moreal was sitting behind the curtain painting her illusion.
A young man sat in the last armchair. Everything about him was familiar and comforting. The way he tilted his head and lounged into the cushions. Buorlan gravitated towards him.
Marcs wore a Castellac mask that cut his face in half diagonally. His singular eye was a bright violet. He had short brown hair and light features. A square face with a sharp jawline and pointed chin. A slight smile graced his lips as he looked at Buorlan.
Buorlan turned to Marcs and placed his hand on Marcs' shoulder wanting to be closer to him. He pulled back remembering where he was and reached for a glass of whisky on the table. He could feel his cousin's silent judgment. Lark would never agree with his way of life but he never verbalized his disgust.
"Now that everyone has arrived we can start the meeting." Lark said with a bitter inflection.
"We want your support." Marcs began. "Ealrian was once a proud nation that boasted…"
Lord Castellac raised his hand, cutting him off.
"I understand you are both here to persuade me to part with my coin and give my word to your cause. But as family," he looked over to Buorlan, "I would prefer you got straight to the point."
Bourlan took a sip of his drink and thought carefully. Lark was ruthless and impatient, especially in matters involving money.
"We wish to restore magic back to the Ealrian people." Buorlan said.
Lark let out a plume of smoke as he laughed. "Oh, if only it was that simple."
"It could be." Marcs added.
"No. Do you truly understand what you are proposing?" Lark asked, his voice took on a hard edge devoid of his previous humour. "The King would never agree with Illrune Volus and Silnan in his ear. Which makes your proposal treason!
"Not to mention half the commoners are illiterate."
Dame Luel continued with a calm tone. "Even if you convince the nobles. The people of Ealrian still fear any utterance of the Phy-Tue. Many still remember the carnage the White Enfir unleashed. People were incinerated across the river from the burning palace. Stone that withstood centuries of weather and attacks melted like snow. Father's before and after, I still remember the smell of burning flesh that clung to the city streets for decades after."
Buorlan leaned forward and spoke in a low tone. "The Enfir bloodline ended with the White Enfir. We have no intention of ruling with fear as they did. Ealrian has existed before and after the rise of the dragons. The Phy-Tue should be available for all. Not just the nobles. The White Enfir made that evident when she killed the entire court and their knowledge died with them.
"Most who were old enough to remember the white flames are greatly outnumbered by new generations. If the knowledge was backed by the crown, people would come forward to learn."
Silence fell as everyone considered his words.
Dame Luel slowly nodded her head. "If restoring magic to Ealrian is the goal, then how exactly do you propose to go about it? As you stated previously, most knowledge of the Phy-Tue went up in smoke a century ago."
Buorlan looked at Marcs, who gave a slight nod.
"The gods have bestowed a prophecy, claiming knowledge and power will be granted to those who seek it." Buorlan started. Lord Castellac opened his mouth to intervene. "Please allow me to finish before you ask questions. Everything will be made clear."
Lark closed his mouth around his cigarillo and took a deep drag.
"A half pantheon before the Ehenor festival a palace spy reported that the prophet Cythri had received a vision. The prophet refused to explain the prophecy until he had deciphered it himself. The King grew impatient. He had the prophet arrested during the festival and brought to the palace to recount the gods' vision to the inner court. I was privy to this meeting. The vision was in fact a poem.
Where North meets East, cradled deep
No Fae will flow
Knowledge that grants power sleeps.
"North meets east is the fork in the Cassien river. No fae will flow refers to the fae power Ae that flows through the earth but not water. The knowledge is hidden at the bottom of the Cassien river."
"If we assume what you say is true. How do you know it refers to Athon as the prime location?" Luel asked.
"Cythri is the prophet of sight. All his previous prophecies have been in the form of visions. It only makes sense to give him this message if it pertains to his current location. Otherwise the prophet of words, Delia, who is currently in Eldir, would have received it. His majesty's men are currently searching upstream, in Eldir to find him as we speak. Which will give us enough time to retrieve it from the Cassien river."
"Retrieve!" Lark snorted. "You do not yet have the knowledge in your possession? You don't even know what this knowledge is! And you come here asking for help!" Lark stood and began pacing the width of the room. He took a deep drag and exhaled a plume of smoke before continuing in a lower tone. "You come to my house talking of treason and do not possess the evidence necessary to complete it.
I have a mind to hand you over to the palace myself."
Buorlan stood and locked eyes with his cousin.
"Lark, I know it sounds crazy but the King is a puppet for anyone to pull in their direction. The court is full of spiders weaving webs of lies. The people who suffer most are common folk." Buorlan took his seat again, leaning forward on the edge.
Dame Luel interjected. "Very convincing but shallow considering you had innocent men and women hung to save the crown's reputation after the prophet's arrest."
"Yes." Buorlan nodded, allowing the weight of her words to sink in and help his next argument. "If we had a stronger king who cherished his citizens like his own children then I never would have had to sacrifice others to protect my own neck."
"And who do you envision this fantastical king will be?" Lark asked as he leaned against the back of his chair.
"Allow me to reintroduce myself, Marcs Chalieu, it is a pleasure."
Stunned silence filled every inch of the room. Lark's eyes went wide as he reassessed the man before him. Luel gasped and covered her face with her hands.
"Chalieu." Lark whispered under his breath, shaking his head. A disbelieving chuckle escaped his throat. "I see. Either the White Enfir failed or you are descended from a collateral line who never sat on the throne."
"My great great grandfather was Dane Chalieu, King of Ealrian." Marcs Chalieu proudly pronounced.
"You will use the Chalieu name to gain support from the nobility and overthrow the King." Lark said. He looked between the two men before him and settled his gaze on Buorlan. "I am aware of your skills. But how do you plan to convince others?"
Marcs chuckled. "Well between my charming wit and Buorlan's chiselled body I think we will be alright." He cracked a wide smile. Lark shook his head to hide his lips lifting. "The Chalieu flame has been a well guarded secret that will add credence to our claim."
Marcs lifted his hand and flourished his fingers. Orange and yellow flames erupted around his hand. The flames danced; tendrils swept through the air in snaking ribbons, extending outwards before circling back.
Someone gasped.
The flames sputter out.
None of them had made a sound. They all turn towards the curtain covering the wall.
Marcs sprung from his seat and threw back the curtain. Two women sat cradled together in a small alcove. Moreal held a young girl behind her back trying to hide her. Marcs dragged both of them out and threw them across the floor.
"Care to explain?" Marcs asked in a low accusatory tone, his gaze directed between Lark and Dame Luel.
Buorlan nodded to Moreal, who was on her knees looking up at him with a slight tremor running through her body, "She is the Wyrish of Comadean house." He turned to the young girl trembling as she tried to crawl closer to Moreal, "I have no idea who this is?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.
His gaze fell on Dame Luel, silently waiting for an explanation.
"Anelle is training to be Moreal's replacement."
"Is she loyal?" Buorlan asked.
"It seems so." Luel replied.
"Well there is a way to fix that." Marcs said.
Marcs grabbed a fist full of the girl's hair, pulling her head back and exposing her neck. He pulled out a small curved blade from his boot and lifted it towards her cheek. Anelle whimpered. The blade was small but sharp.
"Not the face." Dame Luel said.
He lowered the blade towards her collarbones and opened a shallow gash across her chest. Anelle gasped as the blade sliced through her skin. Her breaths were sharp and shallow as fear danced a merry jig across her face. Marcs released her. She dropped and scrambled away towards Moreal with one hand trying to stop the bleeding.
Marcs squatted down, making eye contact with Anelle as he cleaned the blade with his pocket square.
"The wound itself will not kill you but there is a very slow acting poison that is now working its way into your body. Your silence will grant you small amounts of the antidote. Understood?"
Grasping onto Moreal, huddled on the ground Anelle nodded vigorously.