THE KING'S DAUGHTER - Chapter Eleven (The Revelation)
Sorja habitually awoke with the dawning of the day, for the sun’s first rays of light were an energizing tonic to the Pixxi maiden. She stood in front of her east-facing window and looked out into the surrounding forest as the sun bathed her hands and face with its illumination. The morning light shone through her ankle-length tunic, and with a slight wave of her right hand over an earthenware pitcher that contained well water, the Pixxi mumbled a blessing. Sorja poured a draught of the water into the silver chalice, then stared deeply into the shallow depths. As she drained the chalice, she felt the liquid’s coolness flow through her, awakening every last bit of her being.
It was the quiet moments in the dawn that reminded her of the ones she left behind in Misthaven, of the life she gave up. She missed her parents and siblings for one, even though she did not grow up with them. They were more like cousins, than immediate family. As firstborn, she was fostered out to a Master healer at the tender age of five. The law stated that all firstborns were to be fostered out, and that secondborns were the ones to inherit hereditary titles and lands. The firstborns were always granted a month off from the fostering for their natal day, where they were shipped back to their parents. That was so the children did not forget their proud roots. No matter how poor the family, there was always a Master willing to foster a firstborn child. Her firstborn would be fostered out, as she was. Her firstborn would grow up with their Master being the parent, the teacher of morals, the one giving comfort of body and soul. Parents were not needed, nor siblings. They existed only as a reminder that those who gave life were owed respect, for without them, the child-apprentice would not exist. When her child will be fostered out, Sorja knew she would miss a very large part of her firstborns’ life. But as decreed by law, and being a firstborn herself, she knew the responsibility.
She sighed.
Sorja missed the Waterwood groves that grew near her family's estate near the town of Luntrai. The trees had a complex scent; tangy lemon and mellow lavender, heady water lilies and crisp cedar. The winds that swept off the coast and through the Pixxish forests would carry the scent inland many miles, letting those who had never seen the fabled tree, smell its Magickal aroma.
Most of all, Sorja missed Niall. His name would become a litany in the middle of the night as she wallowed in loneliness and fantasy. Aibell would not have the luxury that she did, marrying for love. Sorja pitied Aibell a bit because she would most likely never experience the type of love that she herself had with Niall. Sorja also pitied herself, knowing that such a strong love also brought strong pain.
When the melancholy of her duty and subsequent separation from Niall would almost take hold, she would push him far into the depths of her mind so she could function. She understood Manann's pain from being separated from his queen all too well. She had simply learned to hide it better.
Changing into her usual indigo blue gown denoting her status as high clergy, she buckled a green leather belt around her waist. The green belt was symbolic as her secondary status as healer. She reached into a large carved chest at the foot of her bed, and pulled out a small quilted bag that contained the Pixxi Sphere. A heavy sigh escaped Sorja's lips as she tied the small padded pouch to her belt. The weight of the sphere was intense at times; carrying the weight of many thoughts, all channeled through the delicate looking orb. It was sometimes difficult to be the bearer of such thoughts, for they came in rapid succession, each vying for attention in the orb. Pleading was common, and it sometimes strained Sorja, for the cries of anguish came from all around, and there was naught she could do about it except walk on, trying to ignore them while she wielded the orb for its intended use. No matter how proficient she became with her Pixxi Sphere, the thoughts and talking always were in the back of her mind.
Sorja was to meet Turlough in the stables, according to the young page in forest green and gold livery, sent to inform her. There was no mention of her herb chest, so it could not be for a healing. Her other talents were needed, it would appear. Sorja heaved a sigh. Undoubtedly, Aibell would be waiting to finish the Alhiocm; however Sorja’s duties did not involve keeping the Princess amused.
Walking through the arched tree-root gateway leading from the Great Hall to the stables, Sorja smiled as she surveyed the scene. There was a gray mare with a tiny black foal frolicking in the nearest pasture. The sky was the pale purple-blue of morning, birds trilled their songs in the ancient oaken forest that surrounded the castle, and the smell of the grasses and herbs was positively delightful.
Turlough stood at the door of the stable, clad in his red leather and chain mail tunic with black hose tucked into worn boots, waiting for the Pixxi maiden to approach. There were two horses saddled, the reins held by a stable lad who stood behind Turlough.
“Good morrow, my lady”, Turlough called out in greeting. He had always been an admirer of the Pixxi wench. She was high nobility, yet she reached out to the common man with her easy smile and gentle ways. Aye, she was an asset to Maicair Caylus, every bit of an asset as Aibell in her nature, although Sorja was more mature. The Princess most definitely had some growing up to do, but the promise of the fine woman was there, a glimmer in her jewel-like eyes that belied the mischievous smile she habitually wore.
Turlough sighed. It was the Princess’ future that he was striving to protect. What plan did Viscount Eisloh’n have locked away in the core of his mind? What sort of tomfoolery was he contemplating? Turlough did not care for games of cat-and-mouse, and had every intention of ending it before it started. He needed an edge, and the Murlynican Priestess of the Pixxish was the tool he would wield in cutting down the young and obviously ambitious Viscount.
“A fine morning, is it not, Captain Turlough?” Sorja smiled. She had always liked the Captain of the guard. He was a bluff, honest sort of man, which was a rarity at court, for fawning and flattery were the standard. He had cheery silver-blue eyes and usually a smile, for there was not much around Kellanach to threaten the Royal Family.
“It is indeed, my lady. However, if the Fates are on our side, you may yet enjoy the afternoon. To begin with though, we must conduct an investigation. I trust you brought your Sphere?”
“I learned that I could go no where with out it, Captain. There is always a need for a Murlynican, it seems.” She smiled wryly as she spoke. “I fear for the world when the Pixxish High Priestesshood becomes extinct. There will always be a want for a sympathetic ear that tells no lies.”
Together, they mounted their steeds and rode off. Curious as to their destination, Sorja asked, “Where are we headed to?”
“Heighlien Village, lass. ‘Tis feared that Eisloh’n is still too near the castle for the King’s comfort.”
“Aye, he is.”
Turlough stopped his chestnut gelding and stared hard at the healer. “How do you know this?” Surely the Pixxish maiden was not apart of the Viscount’s scheme…? Sensing where his train of thought was leading him, Sorja reassured him while spurring her steed forward causing Turlough to follow lest he couldn’t hear her.
“I received a message to gather my herb chest and with all-do haste hurry to The Crowing Cock in Heighlien Village. So yesterday afternoon I rode this way, and when I arrived at the inn, the Innkeeper was distraught, for Eisloh’n was creating quite a commotion.” She turned and smiled at the captain. “I must say, although I do not care for violence, you did a wonderful job on his nose. He is lucky you did not break it. His face was almost black from all the bruising. I doubt that the salve I gave him has made much of a difference yet, but it looked like you threw a brick at his head and did not miss. If I may brighten your day, I must admit to a wonderous naughty thing I did.” Sorja giggled like a little girl with obvious mirth that brought an infectious smile to Turlough’s lips. “I convinced the Viscount to stuff his nose with horse dung.”
"You did what?" Turlough guffawed, startling his mount into sidestepping.
"I convinced the fool that piping hot horse manure has healing properties. ’The vapors will remove the sting.’ Hah! I cannot believe he believed me. Turlough, if I asked you nicely to shove a bit of a horse apple in your nose, would you?” She playfully batted her eyelashes.
"Nay, lady. I know better than that. How did you convince the cad?" Turlough's broad face was split ear-to-ear in a grin as he imagined the Viscount being a moron.
Sorja's laugh sounded like tinkling bells. "I preyed upon his ego and vanity-- his two most apparent weaknesses. Oh, thank you dear Turlough, for giving me a wonderful excuse to knock the Elf down a notch or three."
“Truth to tell, lady, I had been waitin’ six months for that punch, and I feel much better for it. For six long moon spans, I have watched him twist half the court around his jeweled fingers, spreading lies yet covering his cursed tracks so that the King could not scent him out. I feared that Manann would press Aibell into marriage with the Elfling, for they do not suit at all. Oh, together they are beautiful to look upon, but the Princess will need a stronger man as a mate. I will be accompanying Aibell to Feenoriah, for I shall press Manann to send her there posthaste. There are none who have taken her fancy hereabouts that I am aware of, so let her betrothed take care of her Elvish problem. What are your thoughts?” Turlough could trust the Pixxi to not mention this conversation to anyone, for she was wise and knew what the consequences could be.
“Frankly, I could not stand another moment with him. He has frightful thoughts sometimes, and a most unpleasant energy comes off of him. He is like a rabid wolf, I fear. I have spoken to Aibell about the Elf, for she was not aware of the ditties being tossed around the younger of the courtiers. I told her of rumors flying about of her ‘prowess’ in bed that were started by that Elf slug. I heard the one ditty whispered about the Viscount aspiring to Kinghood.”
“He would not dare aspire that high, for Manann is still young enough to sire more children, even though it has been fifteen years since the Princess was born. What is little ditty they sing?”
Sorja smiled, thinking that whoever created the little song would be wise not to claim it as his own. In a sing-song voice she sang,
“She calls him to her all the time
To eat off her plate which tastes divine
They whisper and smile and the King just nods
For the Elf would be King when Manann sleeps with the gods!”
Turlough’s look darkened and he silently asserted that it would never come to that. There was no way that the Elf would inherit the Fey kingdom. Hopefully, Urlian has already carted his belongings further south, closer to Ruhullald and his father’s puny mountain. Turlough remained quiet for a time, pondering possible future events the Viscount may have in store.
Sorja let the captain come to terms with the song. She knew it would anger him, for he loved the King not just as his ruler, but as family. She knew that the King and his cousin had been raised like brothers, and that any affront that happened to the Royal Family was an affront to him personally.
Sorja spoke again. “It should set your mind at rest that Aibell thought nothing of the Elf but as a simple flirtation. She seems quite interested in the Feenorian prince, which is a blessing. I hope she can be happy with him, for right now, she seems enthralled in his exotic beauty.” Sorja sighed. “The Elf is a fool, albeit not a stupid one. He knows that it would be wise not to invite the wrath of the King, and with that in mind, perhaps he is already on his way South. If he is not, then you will get a chance to spy your handiwork, although it will not be nearly as swollen as it was yesterday.”
Turlough smirked in appreciation, but said nothing. Obviously Sorja knew nothing of the man executed in the forest, or she would have mentioned something. Deciding that withholding the information was the wisest choice, the Fey soldier rode further south, with mounting trepidation.
The sky had turned cloudy; cooling the day somewhat, but there looked to be the promise of rain. Each kept to their own thoughts, listening only to the clomp-clomp of the horses hooves and the trill of the song birds that sang from their leafy balconies.
“’E left this very mornin’ sir. ‘E hired me eldest boy, Meruvik, to drive ‘is cart south for ‘im, ‘e did.” The Innkeeper plopped two tankards of berry ale on the rough knife scarred table in front of her two interviewers. “’E left in a hurry, though. Paid for two months plus some extras, and the next day, gone ‘e was. Said ta keep the coins, nevertheless. Thanked me cook most kindly for ‘er breakfast, asked me if I could ‘ave me sons pack ‘is cart with ‘is belongin’s, and then took off with ‘is valet for a while. ‘Is valet came and rode off with me eldest boy in the cart. I ‘aven’t seen either of them since.”
“Are you sure that it was the valet who returned, and not the Viscount?” Turlough inquired. “Oh, aye. ‘Is valet reeked of stale onions, ‘e did. Besides, why would a fine wee lordling wear dirty clothes when ‘e ‘as so many more clean and elegant ones, I’d like to know? T’was his valet alright. I do not know why ‘e called for the ‘healer-‘e looked fine enough ta me.”
Turlough turned to Sorja with an incredulous look on his face. She wore the same expression. They both remembered the devastation of the Elf’s face. Surely the horse dung did not help? Turlough whispered, “Is there a way for you to make sure she is correct, my lady?”
“Of course,” Sorja murmured back, fingering the small pouch attached to her belt. “However,she must be willing.” There was nothing worse that trying to probe the mind of someone who did not want that type of intrusion. They would labor against what she was working for, and tire her with their exertions. It would become a battle of wills, and though Sorja would win by sheer determination, the drain on her energy sometimes was not worth the trouble.
“Good woman, will you humor this old rogue and allow this maiden to use her little charm to clarify any questions I may have? It will not hurt a bit.” Turlough turned his silvered blue eyes to the plump Innkeeper, who began to simper at the handsome captain and the attention he was lavishing on her.
“Aye, aye, anything fer ye, Captain. Anything.” She winked at him, and smiled even more so when he winked back. It looked as if he would be getting a free night at The Crowing Cock sometime soon.
Sorja had fished the sphere out of her pouch and held it cradled in her hands. She felt it come alive, awakening to her need. Her unusual yellow eyes brightened more, as if there was a candle placed behind them. Speaking unnaturally slow, Sorja asked the Innkeeper, “Think of the Viscount this morning, and of his valet. Just relive this morning over in your mind. Do not try to amend anything, just relax and try to answer any of the questions the Captain asks. He is correct that it will not hurt you, however I do need to make contact with you.” Sorja touched her silken hand to the Innkeeper’s rough one.
The Innkeeper visibly relaxed at the feel of the Murlynican’s fingers. Imagery started to pierce Sorja’s mind, and she spoke aloud what she was seeing. On the other hand, the Innkeeper was totally oblivious to it all, wrapped up in her own mind. Filtering out all the extraneous thoughts, Sorja tried focusing on just the Viscount and his valet. Finding the thought that she had been searching for, she took in every nuance that the image gave her.
It was not the Viscount, that was for certain. Perhaps his lackey, or an unknown person randomly selected from who knows where-but whoever it was, it was not the Duke of Eisloh’n’s son dressed in the rich garb.
Sorja asked the sleepy woman, “Did you see the Viscount Eisloh’n when the rooms were paid for?”
“Nay. It was a footman from Kellanach, and ‘e paid with silver.”
Turlough wondered, “When did you see the Viscount Eisloh’n?”
“ ‘E came in later that afternoon, with a manservant. ‘E kept ‘is cloak on, until ‘he got to ‘is rooms.” The Innkeeper mumbled to the Captain.
Sorja turned to Turlough and whispered, "Something is afoot here, I can feel it. If Eisloh'n was still here, I would question him myself. Perhaps he knew that his time here was short and fled to Ruhullald, back to his father's duchy. But this woman can tell us no more. I would make my report to the King, if that is alright with you."
Turlough nodded, for even though he was not in possession of all the facts, Manann needed to be warned what was going on-- Turlough had heard the rumors of the Viscount's temper, and with those parting words he tossed at the King before getting his nose smashed, well, things were not looking too good. Better to be safe than sorry.
"Yes milady Sorja, let us return and notify the King. This would be a most opportune time to push Aibell's case with Denilus too. Let the Feenorian princeling worry about his bride-to-be."
Thank you for reading! If you’d like more of the story, help yourself to the rest of the posted chapters:
Prologue | One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Nine | Ten