Extra Two

Homecoming

 

 

 

 

Winter afternoons in the Principality of Urskatha were dismal and dreary. Thin light from the distant sun filtered through a canopy of slate-gray clouds, casting the snowscaped earth in gloomy blue shadow, further diminishing the already brief hours of the day.

Darker still were the shadows in Yeresym’s bedchamber. Heavy drapes were drawn against the cold, shutting out that wan bit of daylight, and even the blazing radiance of the cavernous hearth couldn’t reach the room’s high ceiling and expansive corners.

A young girl sat on a stool before the hearth, cradling a dulcimer in her lap, plucking out a selection of mellow, tranquil tunes, occasionally adding her honey-rich alto voice to the strings. She had her instructions: no rousing dances, no songs of war, nothing that soldiers might sing on the march or around their campfires, no love songs. She kept the repertoire to lullabies, formal etudes, and hymns from the temple.

She frequently hazarded a furtive peek at the man on the bed. Sometimes he slept, but more often he lay awake, staring blankly into the dark ceiling, with only the flicker of firelight animating his glassy eyes. Awake or asleep, if she rested her fingers for too long at the end of a piece he would grow restless and sometimes jolt up, shouting out in a frightening fit of alarm. She’d been playing for hours today, but just as she began to fear that she really couldn’t go on, the door creaked open and Meira stepped into the room.

“Go to the kitchen and have something to eat,” she said to the girl.

“No!” Yeresym’s voice, hoarse from disuse, creaked out in desperation. He flung out a pleading hand. “I need it.”

Only the music could drown out the incessant condemnation of the ghosts screaming in his head.

Meira grasped his hand and gave it a comforting squeeze as she placed it back down on his chest.

“Let’s give her a rest. I’m here with you,” she soothed.

The girl slipped quietly out the door and Meira went to the window to pull back the drapes. Gray light fell across the bed, revealing the shadows beneath Yeresym’s eyes and his dry lips tinged blue against skin much paler than usual. She sat on the bed beside him and took his hand again.

“Have you eaten anything today?” she asked.

His lip curled up, but fell again as if he couldn’t hold the expression.

“A little… soup,” he whispered. “Or maybe that was yesterday.”

Meira sighed.

“Lady Zileyna has returned, with Master Amaran.”

His younger sister, Zileyna, who had just taken a high-ranking position among the King’s Alchemists. Master Amaran, Governor of Martial Studies at Azeva Academy of Alchemy, and Yeresym’s personal mentor.

Yeresym turned his face away to stare impassively out the window, watching the snow collecting in the corners of the glazed panes.

“I don’t want to see them,” he muttered. “I know what they want.”

“They want to see you well,” Meira assured. “They brought a healer with them. I think he might be a Chanter.”

Yeresym’s brow twisted.

“Good to know they’re proceeding with caution.” His voice gained strength and deepened into a growl. “I don’t need a Chanter rummaging around in my head. It’s crowded enough in here already.”

Meira smiled, but her eyes glistened with gathering tears.

“Everyone is worried about you,” she said. “They’ll keep the doctors and the Alchemists coming until they see you back on your feet. Can you come down for dinner tonight? Perhaps a chat would be enough for Lady Zileyna and your Master to forego any examination, and your family—”

“My family…” Yeresym groaned. “They only want to see me fit for service, fit to make the family proud. Everyone down there only wants to send me back.”

He drew a shuddering breath and turned his anguished eyes back to Meira.

“I don’t want to go back.”

Meira blinked her tears away and squeezed his hand. “I can’t imagine you want to stay here.”

Yeresym’s lips stretched into a bitter smile. A glittering droplet slid down Meira’s cheek and he raised a hand, brushing the tear away with his thumb.

“You shouldn’t visit me so often,” he murmured. “I know how painful it must be for you.”

“Nonsense,” she said, leaning into his palm. “If you can bear it then so can I.”

Yeresym shook his head, resigned to his own inadequacy.

“I can’t.”

 

 

The dining hall of Urskatha Manor was far too spacious, too open and unsheltered for someone who hadn’t left the dim quiet of his own bedchamber in months. Yeresym hovered near the doorway, peeking through as the sparkling chandeliers and the chattering voices of the company within grated at the edges of his nerves.

It was a small gathering around the dining table, thankfully. Yeresym’s two older sisters had married away, and with guests in the house, neither his reclusive aunt nor the younger children would attend. Zileyna and Master Amaran had kept an empty seat between them for Yeresym, so he shouldn’t have to speak with the unfamiliar Chanter sitting further down. That left only his two eldest brothers, Gendaran and Alandur, to promise any trouble. Alandur’s wife, Melenka, sat between them, looking dreadfully uncomfortable in the place usually reserved for Gendaran’s absent consort.

Former consort, Yeresym reminded himself. Her company he might actually miss, though he could only congratulate her for leaving. She was a kind and gentle woman, thoroughly undeserving of Gendaran’s tiresome spleen.

Behind the table, Meira stood aside with a cluster of serving maids. Carrying a flagon of wine to the table, she caught Yeresym’s eye and flashed him an encouraging smile. He pursed his lips, straightened his back, and nodded to the doorman, who stepped forward and called Yeresym’s name out to the room.

Gendaran, without a glance at Yeresym or a pause in his bantering with Alandur, tossed a napkin over the table onto the floor. As Yeresym stepped through the doorway, a small ensemble of musicians in a far corner took up their instruments and broke into a lively rendition of a traditional parade march called The Hero’s Welcome.

Yeresym’s steps faltered, and he froze in place, his face flushing with the heat of indignation.

Gendaran laughed boisterously. Meira paused in pouring his wine, but he grasped her hand on the flagon’s handle, not allowing her to retreat.

“Welcome, welcome, little brother!” he called out. “I heard how you’ve enjoyed these musicians of late, so I invited them to accompany you tonight!”

The wine overflowed Gendaran’s cup. Melenka drew back in her seat as it spread across the tablecloth toward her. When Alandur jumped up with his napkin to wipe it away, Gendaran finally released Meira’s hand. She turned away with a carefully neutral expression, but Yeresym recognized the twitch of her brow that betrayed her discomfort. Gendaran only merrily waved a hand in the air as if he were conducting the inappropriate music.

Yeresym ground his heel into the floor, preparing to turn on it and leave, but the music screeched to a sudden dissonant halt. Everyone at the table rose to their feet as the doorman announced the arrival of the Princess.

Reigning in his impulse to wheel about and storm away, Yeresym turned around slowly to find his mother, Princess Karalise Urskatha, standing in the doorway and fixing a frigid glare onto the band of musicians. The sparkling tiara nestled in her snowy hair caught the glow of the chandelier, dazzling his light-sensitive eyes before he could bow his head. He took a step forward and very gingerly began to lower his right knee to the floor, but his mother’s attention snapped to him, and her hand shot forth to grasp his elbow.

“No, no,” she said, her voice as biting as her glare. “That isn’t necessary. Conserve your strength.”

He stood, but kept his head lowered, his shoulders flagging. His mother’s full height barely reached to his collarbones, and he always felt compelled to shrink himself in her presence, out of respect. He studied the hand resting on his forearm, its fine bones almost visible through translucent skin, until that delicate hand lifted and firmly pinched his chin.

Yeresym smiled and looked into her eyes. They were the same brilliant green as his own, and still bright and sharp despite the folded lids draping like silk curtains to hide their corners in shadow.

“You’ve lost weight. Make sure to eat a bit more tonight.” Her tone was shrewdly observant, devoid of any frivolous sentiment even as she released his chin to pat his shoulder. “It’s a shame your father is away in the capital. He’d be relieved to see you up and about.”

Yeresym nodded. “Perhaps I’ll have made more progress when he returns.”

The Princess dropped her hand and linked arms with the maid standing at her side.

“You’d best listen to Master Amaran, then,” she instructed. “Come to table and meet Lord Yldratha. Your sister assures me that his talents will speed your recovery.”

As the maid escorted the Princess to her seat, Yeresym followed behind, struggling to keep the disappointment from showing on his face.

 

 

For the first time since his homecoming, Yeresym passed the night without a musician keeping vigil in his room. When the first rays of dawn brightened his frosted window, he forced himself out of bed. Bleary, irritable, but restless, he took fastidious care in washing and dressing. He could not allow Master Amaran to see him lazing in bed in any state of indolence or disorder. By the time the knock sounded at the door, there was not a button left unfastened nor a hair out of place.

Master Amaran was a hulk of a man with the look of a weathered, battle-hardened wolf. His two young companions, Lady Zileyna and Lord Thelan Yldratha, seemed as diminutive, waifish children beside him. As opulently expansive as the manor might be, he still had to duck his head to fit through Yeresym’s bedroom door. His long, white-streaked hair flowed down over his black military uniform, catching in his grizzled beard. He swept it aside to reveal a long, corrugated scar across his cheek, folding into the lines of his age-mapped face.

Meira led the three Alchemists to the small table where Yeresym sat unenthusiastically pushing his breakfast around the plate with a fork. The chair beside him creaked under the weight of Master Amaran’s brawn. Guilt gnawing at his heart, Yeresym didn’t dare to look at the mentor to whom he owed every bit of his proficiency with Alchemy. He kept his head down and continued playing with his food. A long silence stretched between them.

“You didn’t eat much last night either,” Master Amaran said, his voice ponderously deep, but gentle. “Do you plan on starving yourself to death?”

Yeresym gasped. “No… no, Sir. I just… haven’t had much appetite. It’s getting better, though…”

“Hmm…”

Meira poured tea for everyone, but Thelan rose from the table and left to take a chair near the hearth, leaving the cup behind.

Yeresym lifted his gaze to Zileyna, quietly sipping her tea beside Master Amaran. They hadn’t met in a long time, and Yeresym had almost forgotten that she wasn’t a little girl anymore. Buttoned up in a severe black gown, with pale blonde hair and vivid green eyes to match his own, he was reminded of himself in younger years, of the hope he’d held at getting out of this house and into the world of Alchemy. Now he could only hope for things to go better for her than they had for him.

He gave her a terse smile, then finally looked into Master Amaran’s eyes. He could only bear the man’s piercing, icy blue gaze for a moment before looking away again.

“I’m sorry to make you come all this way,” he murmured. “I’m so sorry that…”

Master Amaran gave a gruff hmmph. “What have you got to be sorry for?”

“I’m so grateful for your years of teaching. Now I fear that I’ve wasted your efforts, if I can’t… I know, it’s quite shameful…”

“There’s no shame in what you’ve suffered. War is no walk in the garden. Men older and far more experienced than you have come out the worse for it. But there is help.” Master Amaran cocked his head toward Lord Yldratha.

Yeresym peered warily at the slight figure sitting alone across the room, staring into the fire. He wasn’t entirely versed in all the capabilities of a Chanter, but he knew they had spells that could invade the mind, force people to talk, make people see things, even erase memories. He had to admit that the last was tempting… if he had any right to forget...

“I know you don’t want to rot away here at home,” Master Amaran interrupted his thoughts. “If you can pull yourself together, I have a post for you. It’s not the front lines. We’re sending troops to guard the Avreline River in Brinland, keep Loranar out of the Pass. We don’t expect trouble there, it’s just in case. Pretty cushy position, really, and you’d have a partner — a cavalry unit. I’d like to send Thelan along with you too.”

Yeresym’s mouth soured, and he scowled. “Should a General have a minder?”

“Any General should have support,” Master Amaran answered. “And it’s as much for his sake as yours. His father insists on military service and… well, you can see him. He wouldn’t last a day in the army without someone looking out for him.”

Master Amaran’s words rang true. The kid looked fit to blow over in a light breeze, and it was common knowledge that Chanters often had a tenuous hold on reality, not knowing sky from ground some days.

“Will you at least let him examine your energy?” Master Amaran nudged. “Then we’ll consider treatment slowly.”

“It would set Mother’s mind at ease,” Zileyna suggested.

Yeresym looked at them both. Master Amaran cocked an inquisitive, bushy eyebrow. Zileyna graced him with a warm, benevolent smile. Yeresym blew a frustrated sigh and nodded in begrudging capitulation.

Master Amaran beckoned the Chanter over. Meira brought a fresh cup of tea, but Thelan paused before reaching the table, saying in an airy yet commanding voice, “Send the Empath out. Her energy is disruptive.”

Yeresym’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Miss Kahan,” he uttered brusquely. “Please show some respect to my people, Lord Yldratha.”

Thelan’s eyes shifted abashedly from Yeresym to Meira. “Of course. Apologies, Miss Kahan, but if you would...”

“Meira, you don’t have to go,” Yeresym murmured.

“It’s fine,” she answered. Setting the tea pot within his reach, she returned Thelan’s gaze with a compassionate smile. “I understand.”

Thelan’s jaw ground down. Wide, panic-stricken eyes followed Meira as she left the room, remaining stupefied as Zileyna excused herself to accompany Meira into the hallway.

“Thelan?” Master Amaran prodded.

“Hm…? Yes!” In a perfunctory manner, Thelan pulled a chair over to sit beside Yeresym and grasped his wrist. “This may be a bit uncomfortable, but try to relax. Close your eyes.”

Warmth engulfed Yeresym’s wrist. A gentle, melodic muttering of nonsensical vocalization drifted into his ears. He did begin to relax, but when the warmth turned to a prickling sensation that dug into his skin, his own energy revolted, rearing forth to drive out this invading presence.

The hand retracted, and Thelan gave a judgemental huff. “I can’t help you if you’re not willing.”

Yeresym shook his head. “I’m sorry. I am willing. Try again.”

Thelan’s hand lifted, one pointed finger nearing Yeresym’s forehead. It was physically smacked away by a flare of unbidden energy. Yeresym pursed his lips contritely.

“Thelan?” Master Amaran inquired.

“If he makes me force my way into his mind, he may not have one left at the end of it.” Thelan sneered, heaving a deep, world-weary sigh. “Call for the Empath… Miss Kahan.”

“What do you want with her?” Yeresym demanded, confused and suspicious.

But Master Amaran was already at the door, leading both Meira and Zileyna back inside.

“Miss Kahan, you’ve served Lord Urskatha through his convalescence, yes?” Thelan interrogated. “You can assess the state of his ethereal energy.”

Meira cast Yeresym a querulous glance. He chewed on his bottom lip, then nodded to her. “It’s alright. You can tell them the truth.”

Meira frowned at the Chanter, but turned more friendly eyes to Master Amaran, addressing him instead. “He is recovering steadily. His energy is strongーmuch stronger than when he arrivedーbut there are still moments of volatility, scattering, quick depletion. I would not advise sending him back to the front lines, that would be courting disaster, but—”

She paused, giving Yeresym an apologetic smile. “I do think he’d be much better off with some useful occupation than idling about here.”

Yeresym scowled at her reproachfully.

“What?” she complained. “You said to tell the truth.”

“Sounds like my offer fits the bill,” Master Amaran said. “How about it? You’d have until Winter’s End, and I could stick around to get you trained up.”

Yeresym stared at them blankly, unable to make his mind work properly. He abruptly turned and retreated to a washstand at the furthest end of the room. Even the splash of cold water on his face couldn’t clear his thoughts, though. He really had been idle too long, without need to think of plans or preparations. He’d never been one for such passivity. His entire life until now had been spent struggling for one accomplishment after another. Perhaps it was time to shake off these months of listless inertia, if only...

A dark shadow passed beside him. Zileyna leaned against the wall behind the washstand, offering him a towel.

“I know what gives you pause,” she said quietly. “I saw how Gendaran pestered her last night.”

Yeresym took the towel, nodding into it as he dried his face. “Can I really leave her here alone?”

“What if she could go with you?”

Yeresym dropped the towel and stared at her.

“We’re not only here for you,” Zileyna explained. “We’ve also come to negotiate Urskatha’s contributions to the war effort. The army can always use more talented spies.”

Yeresym looked across the room at Meira, still chatting with master Amaran, presumably about Yeresym’s health. Spying was indeed the most common use of an Empath. Meira’s presence at dinner last night wasn’t truly to serve wine, but to feel out all the diners and report anything of interest back to the Princess.

“I spoke with her outside just now, and she’s willing to go,” Zileyna told him. “It’s not a permanent solution, but the war could be on awhile. It would give you time to consider options.”

Yeresym’s mind snapped into sudden clarity. No, it wasn’t a permanent solution, but it certainly presented some interesting options. With a tiny ember of hope kindling in his heart, he strode across the room and dropped heavily back into his seat.

“I’m in,” he announced. He reached across Thelan to pull his breakfast plate back over and began shoveling the food into his mouth. 

“Tell me about your treatments, Lord Yldaratha,” he said, voice muffled around a bite of cold egg. “I’m ready.”