Dear Cousin

Author's note - there are some suggestive themes. Also mentions of war and death.

Candlelight, bare and dying, fought futilely to hold back nightfall. Ayva Brynne preferred the night, even long before becoming the city of Baylorn’s spymaster. As a young girl, when her parents were asleep and her older brother Yvan was telling nighttime stories to Erren, she would sneak out of their countryside manor, Maline Hall. For one, the starlit sky was far prettier, as magical as it was luminous, than any sunny day could shine. Sunny days were spent indoors with reading and weaving lessons. Nights, clandestinely outside the manor walls and prying eyes of her parents, were home to not only the stars but the stories of the mercenary guards who patrolled her manor.

They spoke of dragons. Bede the Blue, the wise dragon who established Baylorn’s independence long ago. Kuroche the Black, the foul drake who sank Waykeel into fetid swampfire. Some of them had seen the mighty beasts themselves. Stories of giants, chimeras, perytons, even sea monsters lit the night brighter than any drab candle.

Stories accompanied the stars. In the stars were the saints and saintes, the source of all magic. Heden the Brave. Ivlis the Mystik. Glavora the Redeeming. Dark saints inhabited the stars too, though that was kept quiet. She would not learn their lore, or their methods, until much later.

Now, at twenty three, she was the most powerful young woman in Baylorn. Her cousin, Domaric Reyine, had secured a new and independent era of the city after years of inner turmoil. Squabbling nobles had been exchanged for a brave, wise prince who spoke impeccably of the new order. It was only Domaric’s late older brother, Alavric, who gave his life to establish Domaric’s new, safe rule over the city.

She had finished meetings and field reports with her hunters and spies earlier that night at the Infatuation - a distillery she inherited and ran from her family. Her network was busy enforcing Domaric’s new city policies and rooting out traitors. They were loyal, and worked steadfast not just for Domaric’s Baylorn but Ayva’s genius as well. Long before there was her prince cousin, there was Ayva and her claim to be the right leader of House Brynne. She could read people, their words, through that their hopes and fears, faster and deeper than any man who claimed a shred of wit. Her own wit, strewn in her words and looks and pauses, split closer into men than a cutpurse’s dagger.

“The population transfer is well underway, my lady,” said one of her spies, Artim, earlier. Her spies were known as her foxhunters. In days past, House Brynne managed a monopoly on hunting in the prince’s protected wodes. In the new order, foxes became traitors; those either unwilling, or incapable, of fulfilling Baylorn’s new destiny.

“They are taking well to Waykeel’s climate,” he continued, “and rebuilding of the city is going well. Though…I have my doubts on Olen…”

“How so?” she asked, “Tell me more?”

“My lady, he’s silent. By no means incapable, but he has this way of staring into you. Like your soul is some stalked prey.”

“Aye, he has that,” she assuaged him. Artim was right - Olen was a quiet force and front wherever he went. He was the same as lover. He never spoke but for his actions, from the pulse grip of his callused fingers to the soft tender touch when she needed him. She had needed him, and his services were more than satisfactory. Though she hadn’t needed him now, there certainly may be a time when she may need him again. Just as his touch, his push and pull and release of her stress was a respite from the webweaving, he needed her as well. He was useful. Pity he can’t get along with others at times.

“But Olen is loyal,” she continued, “he’s been with my family for quite some time. Have no fear. His silence isn’t suspect, rather his own soul.”

“Aye, my lady…” though Artim’s words linger with doubt. He was wrong to doubt Olen, but Ayva wasn’t one to prostrate and teach how he was wrong besides the simple stating of fact. Again, her words and pauses were her weapons. If Artim continued to let fear and doubt plague his work, he will simply be less useful and less relevant to her. If he wanted to be more, he would know what to do, sooner or later.

Ayva walked up the lonely torchlit stairs. She was to report the progress on Waykeel’s resettlement. It was one of Domaric’s many orders on re-establishing Baylorn’s new golden age. She wasn’t one for the gilded, garish nostalgia, but the hard policy intrigued her. She was finally someone at the top table, with whispered lips to the man in charge.

The stairs led to two guards. She knew them well, and a simple smirk and nod led them to open the door. Past them and the door was her dear cousin, Domaric. Prince Domaric, as the people of Baylorn knew them. The sovereign, the savior from the anarchy.

He looked up to meet her. He was thin and tall with straight, long jet hair that went past his shoulders. He wore black and grey commander’s armor, as if he was in the king’s tents beside battle. Before meeting her look, he ruminated over a map of Baylorn and the surrounding coasts and cities.

He had not always been so regal, so serious. Everything had changed when Alavric had sacrificed his life to save the city. His brother’s death changed him, hardened and perhaps crystallized him. His power gleamed as well as his duty.

“Lady Ayva,” he said, “Bring me today’s reports. What of Waykeel?”

“Yes, my prince. Resettlement is going excellent. The refugees are getting along with the cityfolk. Many are glad - ecstatic even, that the city is finally being dredged up from past ruin.”

“Of course. It is what they deserve. Waykeel is an extension of Baylorn. Free men and women deserve land. Now that Kuroche is with us, providence looks fortuitous on Waykeel’s future.”

Prince Domaric had done the impossible - taming the black dragon Kuroche. The same one who destroyed Waykeel years ago gave it a second, free-breathing chance. But Kuroche was still the same: cruel, cantankerous, and outright evil. Only he now share his wrath and villainy with Baylorn’s enemies. 

Though he truthfully serves Domaric, not the people of Baylorn. If the prince were to abandon Waykeel, say it was full of traitors, Kuroche would sear it without second thought.

“He serves Baylorn now,” said Domaric with a smile, “the Stars and Saints look over our city.”

“Yes, my prince. Our city and the land. Tell me…what news of Maline Hall?”

“What news is there? Besides my order?”

He had stifled her prod. Her old family manor had been retaken from the enemy forces, but not returned to her properly. Domaric’s men, not hers, lined its walls and fences. It was a thorn stinging her pride.

“Well…yes. It is the ancestral hall of House Brynne-

“I am very well aware,” he cut her off, “as is also the case we are at war. The manor serves as an important post supplying the front. As I told you not long ago, when we make our advances, you can manage the manor again.”

“Manage is a disservice,” he words acrid, soon spitting judgement, “You do not manage Baylorn. It is your right and duty. It is your obligation as much as your honor, no?”

“Correct.”

“Is what we hold dear to us only simply managed?”

“Manage your roles and responsibilities, Lady Spymaster. I do not pay your salary for wordplay.”

This vexed her. Pride, pierced and bleeding, heated her blood and eyes. She stomped one step towards Domaric, who was unmoving and unamused. 

You…were not like this, she mused again. You were a boy once. Popular, but affable. Malleable. Then you were sick and immobile. Anything could bend you, or so the hushed stories say. And then your brother gives his life, and you are some monolith?

“As your spymaster, and a fellow noble, know your keys to power,” she said. She must be direct now. On the inside, she harped on memory of who he once was. “It is through mine and others’ networks that we keep Baylorn’s streets safe. Don’t flick away the hands that serve you, lest a sovereign starves.”

“But they serve me,” he said, “what else do they know? Can they do?”

“Withdraw, Prince Domaric.”

“Whereto? Maline Hall?”

Nay. House Brynne is far more ancient. We know the wodes, the grass and the beasts. Olen and my men are as much hunters of the land as they are my eyes and ears.

She saw he would not yield. Like the wind between the trees, the branches, one must flow and be flexible to get where they’re going too. Domaric would once flow, waver and bob too. He was once a damned boy sailor. How much can you change so quick?

“Prince Domaric…” her words then softer, “my family has pride. I have pride. What is Baylorn without the cooperation of the great houses? House Reyine, House Brynne…us and many others make the greater whole of our land.”

“Aye, and what price has House Brynne paid for that right as of recent? Many traditional houses have come and gone with the times.”

She was the last of her family. Her parents were passed and gone. Her younger brother Erren had chosen to side with the enemy, and had paid the ultimate price for such. And Yvan….the same, peat-laden grave as Old Waykeel. Kuroche, your hound, killed him long ago. He appealed with reason and kindness to the dragon. A lovely, now lost fool to do as such. Something the old Domaric would have tried, perhaps.

“I forsake Erren to side with you!” she roared, “now I am the last of my family!”

“You chose that long before my brother’s death. Don’t lie about who you are, what you like.”

She caught her breath. I know to politic. I know to weave, to survive. But I am rooted in this land as much as you claim to be some iron wall protecting it. 

“Your own roots, Prince Domaric…what truths do they dig with? What lies do they buffer away?”

“No such lies. Only the truth. Like what Alavric valued,” he replied stiltedly.

“Your roots. Your family. House Reyine. Your brother, Alavric. His death changed you.”

“Has your own family not done the same?”

She would not let her topple, to meander on about her. Some hidden truth lay behind him, and he grew taller and colder the more she pushed. 

“Yvan did not make me more like him. Neither did Erren.”

“We all grieve in our own ways.”

This is mimicry, she wanted to say. “Alavric was a soldier. He dealt in swords, in regiments, in death. You…were a sailor. A…boy.”

“Now I am a man. Death hardens you!” the prince finally pushed back, his voice rising and eyes wide.

He was finally open, and she now could pierce into him deeper. “You are not hardened! You were molded! Changed! Like clay!”

They leered into each other. She grit her teeth and he looked down onto her. His fist grappled with erupting rage held back by her ringed fingers. 

“Alavric…you had similar eyes to him. Green, but shadowded. His…were hued a shade darker…”

She noticed his eyes more. Though it was true they shared the same eye color, Domaric’s were always lighter. Like dredged seaweed, foamed and sunned by the ocean’s surface. This was no longer the case.

“What do you mean? My eyes are my eyes!”

No…not quite. His eyes were indeed darker. They were like Alavric’s. Like the shadowed wode outside Baylorn. They were the dark secrets the forest held at night. What buried pasts and life the roots grew over. 

Before he had passed, she knew Alavric well. His dark secrets were a shield while he fought and soldiered. Whatever they were, soiled over and ossified, moved him to fight. It was his downfall. 

But had he really fallen down? Her eyes slanted, then biting her bottom lip.

Or is he here, before me?

“Your eyes…no…” Ayva muttered.

“My eyes…”

“Could it be…Alavric? What dark magic-”

“Let them be a mirror, dear cousin,” his temper had cooled. He was like winter’s early fall, with cold and mysterious death frosted over his words.

“A mirror?”

“What you did to get here, to be spymaster. Your history. Your deeds. What magic did your words, promises, and even lies bring you here?”

“I am no mystik, but this…”

“Neither am I. But the mystik, the magic, what you call it, lies where you believe it lies. You know this better than anyone. It’s why I trust you to be mine, and Baylorn’s, spymaster.”

“No, Alavric, not only your eyes, but your soul…it has…”

“You wouldn’t,” he challenged her, “lest, again, you be a hypocrite. Let my eyes be a mirror if you wish to hold onto your pride. Your name, roots, aspirations.”

He was right. She was still Ayva. Her dreams were dark and smothered past men and competition, even her younger brother. Though she was awake now, soon the dreams would return. They always did.

“Maline Hall,” he said. “Like I said, patience. It shall soon be yours, one day.”

She barely held herself back from gasping. His words, them being tainted with pause and poison, were indeed a mirror. She leaned over on the prince’s table. Any of her own words vanished with the mirror. Nothing could spark from within. The night howled past the stone window. Candles still flickered, dull and bare.

Domaric, or so he claimed, sighed at her silence.

“Dear cousin,” he said exasperated, “this meeting is adjourned. Thank you for your service.”