Chapter 11 #2
At a nod from Astrophel, the Watchers hang back, allowing the Xylians to come to the fore.
Astride the sylvanmares sit two men of about middle-age, one bearded, the other clean-shaven, and two women.
One of the women is elderly, the other several sunrings older than me, but still youthful.
All four are eerily familiar – similar in the way people from the same realm share characteristics and colouring, variations on the Reliquary portrait of Lyndon Vervale brought to life.
I search the hills behind them, but there’s no sign of the Riverian delegates.
‘Why send peasants to the council meeting?’ Astrophel whispers through clenched teeth. ‘They’re dressed in sacks – man and woman alike.’
It’s true. All four Xylian delegates are shivering, wearing thin cloaks and loose tunics made from homespun fibres.
From the chatter of their teeth, and the scantiness of their clothing, the rumours must be true – the climates differ from realm to realm, each a microcosm, thanks to the four Aether cores.
The delegates’ vestments do indeed resemble sackcloth, but they’re patterned with scrolling floral designs, and I’ve never seen such skilful printmaking.
The carvings on the ropes of wooden beads, which adorn their necks, wrists and ankles, are similarly fine.
Judging from this alone, the Forestfolk are far from the savages I’ve been led to expect.
‘They’re armed. Be on your guard.’ Astrophel tightens his grip on his blade. I can make out the tips of longbows and quivers full of arrows rising behind their backs.
The elder woman positions herself a few paces ahead of the rest of her party.
Her sylvanmare is larger than the others, its horn longer.
The woman cocks her head to one side, revealing the tip of her ear, which is oddly furled, like a withered leaf.
The stance reminds me of an inquisitive bird, a resemblance reinforced by the intensity of her vivid green eyes.
She stares first at me, and then at Astrophel.
We must appear as strange to them as they to us.
She slides off the sylvanmare’s back in one fluid motion, with surprising agility for someone of her age. The others follow her lead. They’re shorter and stockier than the portrait gave me to expect. The older woman strides forwards to meet us.
‘Who’s in charge, then? Your welcoming committee would only tell us the Queen is indisposed, and the King remains at her side. Wouldn’t provide any details as to why we’ve been summoned.’
I exhale. Her voice is deep, the accent broad as the Xylian forest valleys I’ve traced in forbidden maps, warmed by their tropical heat, but she’s using the Mystic Tongue.
I wasn’t sure if the Outrealmers would have reverted to their own languages in the wake of the Partition Treaties, whether we’d even be able to communicate.
She stands on no ceremony, but I can’t tell if she intends to bait us, or whether she’s always so direct.
Astrophel rolls his shoulders and places his hands behind his back. ‘His Radiance appointed me his proxy. I’m Lord Astrophel Vesparion. Soon to be Crown Prince.’
Astrophel’s words rankle like shards of ice beneath my skin. By rights, I should be acting as my father’s proxy. I try to keep my face neutral but the old woman winks at me as she extends a wizened hand towards Astrophel.
‘Carmentis Vervale.’
Stars! I’m standing before one of Lyndon Vervale’s descendants.
I scan her wrists, legs, any body parts not covered by her cloak, searching for evidence of a marking.
Brands weren’t always passed down bloodlines, but more often than not, they were hereditary.
I’m the last Starborn Seer, but maybe – maybe – other Branded survive in the enemy realms.
Astrophel’s arms remain clasped behind his back. After an awkward pause, once it’s clear he’s not going to accept her hand, Carmentis yanks her own back, as if scorched.
Sister’s sake. He’s doing this on purpose. Where’s that silver tongue when I need it?
I flash Carmentis a smile, which I hope looks contrite. ‘My thanks for heeding the call of the Flarestone. I’m Leilani Stellarion, heir to the Crystal Throne.’
‘And Starborn if I’m not mistaken.’ Her peridot gaze slides from my eyes to my hair. Instinctively, I reach for my caul, tucking several rogue strands back in place. There’s no reproach in her eyes, nor disgust, just engrossed fascination.
‘Xylia has no Boughborn left,’ she says as the other delegates edge forwards to stand alongside her.
My heart wrenches.
‘We also have no rulers,’ she continues.
‘I’m only an Elder, the last of my generation, keeper of our sacred wildcrafting-lore, nominated to speak on behalf of my people at this council meeting.
’ She places her arm around the waist of the younger Xylian woman, who wears a small wicker basket slung across her body.
‘This is Tansy Eldergrove, my apprentice. I’ve been instructing her in the healing arts since she was a child. ’
Tansy’s skin, like her companions’, is arborescent – sallow green and swirled with a faint circular pattern, like tree-rings.
Dark brown curls kiss her shoulders. Her chin is pointed, her high cheekbones are starred with freckles but otherwise unblemished.
Lichen dapples her temples instead. Her eyes are a deep shade of emerald.
I try not to stare, but I’ve only ever known the willow of my own kind.
I’ve never encountered a body like hers before.
The generous swell of hips and breasts, evident even beneath the loose tunic she wears.
Carmentis releases Tansy’s waist and gestures to the bearded man, standing beside her protégée, their fingers interlaced, and the clean-shaven man lurking a few steps behind them. ‘Tansy’s heartmate, Glade, and Wylder Underwood – wardens of our sacred forests.’
The two men dip their heads.
Astrophel wrinkles his nose and steps away from them. ‘I trust you’re all untainted?’
‘We would hardly have travelled otherwise,’ Carmentis replies with a wry smile. She points to the Watchers. ‘Your friends over there conducted thorough checks on us, and the Riverian delegates, before they let us cross the Barrier.’
Riverians? Before I can search the hills again, points of light stipple my vision, along with images of rippling water. I brace against the wooziness that follows this flash of brandmagic, and blink away the spots.
On the pool at our side, bubbles rise to the surface like fine ropes of pearl.
Moments later, the barbed tails and rippling halo-fins of two fathomgliders emerge from the water, black as the Sickening-stained sands of the Southern archipelago are now purported to be.
Jets of air escape their blowholes with a loud hiss.
Astrophel’s hands tighten around his sword, and one of the Xylians lets out a low whistle.
The venomous rays are harnessed and tow a vessel resembling an immense scalloped shell behind them.
Five individuals with bluish skin and hair are seated within it. Two men and three women.
As the craft draws level with us, one of the women dives into the pool to anchor it and unshackle the fathomgliders, while the remainder of the Riverian contingent alight onto the bank with practised ease.
When the last of them finally emerges from the water, hoisting herself onto the grassy verge, she now has a shimmering tail.
Turquoise scales glisten as she reclines by the water’s edge.
The glint brightens to a gleam, flares to a glow.
The tail forks down the middle, transforming back into legs.
It’s one thing reading about a pearlsprite’s ability to survive on land in human form. Witnessing the change is something else.
‘What sorcery is this?’ Astrophel mutters. The hand gripping his sword is shaking now.
Cerulean eyes, feline in tilt and intensity, stare out from the sprite’s heart-shaped face.
Like a cat’s, they’re also slit-pupilled.
She has a sharp turned-up nose, strongly bowed lips, and gauzed fan-gills either side of her face, rapidly retracting to reveal the shells of her ears.
She’s clad in a pleated sheath of the same sea-green, diaphanous material all the Riverian delegates wear.
It clings to the lithe curves of her body, revealing more than it conceals.
A vial of liquid the murky colour of used bathwater dangles from a chain of pearls over her heart.
The sprite’s hair, hanging in loose braids to her waist, starts to change colour, rippling, shifting like the surface of the pool she’s just emerged from.
Turquoise darkening to onyx. The bestiary mentioned that the hue of a pearlsprite’s tail and hair fluctuates according to mood – much like mortal auras.
How must it feel to have one’s emotions so exposed?
Legible, not only to the Starborn, but to anyone who cares to observe the patterns?
And what emotion does black correspond to?
Hopefully something favourable – though the sprite’s drawn lips and narrowed, darting gaze suggest otherwise.
So too does the sea-spear brandished between taloned fingers frilled with webbing.
It’s angled at shoulder-height, ready to be launched.
All five Riverian delegates are similarly armed and sporting armoured neck coverings, made not from metal but what looks like cuttlebone, carved to resemble scales.
At the point where these guards meet collarbone, I glimpse the iridescent flash of real scales.
I reach inside my reticule, fingers closing around the razored edge of the throwing star I’m carrying for protection. The Xylians finger their bows.