Post by Eurydice on May 26, 2007 23:39:24 GMT -5
((Three months after Trilarese))
She’d learned to identify and draw on the natural energies around her, and then to draw on her own energy. Maura knew that she was going at a painfully slow pace, but Bryant was patient.
He was anything but patient, however, in the sword work. In that department, he was relentless, endlessly demanding. She would almost call him frightening—regardless of the fact that they’d mostly just been doing stands and patterns side by side, never actually crossing blades until a few weeks ago—but she could stand up to it. In mental exercise, she was usually adequate, but it took consistent effort. In physical exercise, the work was a pleasure to do. Besides, she knew that swordplay meant more to him than magic, and so she doubled her natural efforts.
Some nights, though, even after the endless mental and physical work-out of sword practice, Maura couldn’t sleep. The window beside her bed was ever-changing, never displaying the same view twice, and on those sleepless nights, Maura would stare out the window and wonder. She’d wonder how Cloche and Lagoon were; she’d wonder what Alshalys was doing; she’d wonder where Lorelai and Vanir were; and she’d wonder if Frod ever thought about her, if he even bothered to remember her now.
But the past two weeks, something else had been there in that silence before she fell asleep, intruding on her silence: her father’s footsteps.
Maura didn’t know what had brought it on, but something had changed in him recently. He’d recently from a trip somewhere—he never told her where he went, when he went somewhere—and since, he’d been cold, untouchable. He’d give her lessons still, but he never seemed to hear her questions or watch quite as closely as he should have done. Every night, his footsteps would echo in the halls of the keep.
And Maura had decided to follow tonight.
She was dressed in the darkest of the clothes she’d been given, feet bare, her head pressed to the door, straining against the stillness of the night. She was fairly sure that she had, in the past few months, gained a level of control over her usually graceless body, and she stood patiently, lightly tensed at the door, listening to the footsteps approach and then fade. She waited still longer—It’s almost like a game, she thought, heart racing. How far ahead can you get, Father, before I can’t follow you any more?
Finally, when she felt fairly sure that he was far enough ahead that she would not be seen, she slipped through the door and carefully stepped after him, keeping to the shadows and peering ahead in the dim light.
From various offhand comments that Bryant had made, Maura gathered that the keep where they lived was a dreamworld mirror image of the home in which he had grown up. However, as they wended through the halls of the castle, the patterns of the wall seemed to shift wherever Bryant stood; he paused several times—once in a rough-hewn cavern, in front of an inlaid design of a silver dragon, once in a throne room, flying the same colors as the Mordrellyn keep, but with the crest of a silver bird instead of the wolf.
Finally, when he had almost made a complete circuit of the castle, Bryant stopped at one of the doors in the first hallway that Maura had been shown; several doors down was her room.
The door in front of which he was standing looked no different from any of the other doors in this area of the keep, silver and unmarked. He stood there, very still, the gloved fingers of one hand brushing the handle. He did not move to open the door, nor did he move away to walk past the door.
From the shadows, Maura peered out, wondering at all of this, trying to breathe slowly, evenly, and quietly, and above all, to keep very still. She knew nothing about the room; he’d never mentioned it to her, and she’d never had a reason to look into it. The air itself was charged with tension as Bryant stood there, unmoving, one hand on the handle.
Finally, after an eternity, he took an abrupt step back from the door and slammed his fist into it.
Maura’s stifled gasp of surprise and the whisper of skin against skin as her hand leapt up to clap over her mouth echoed in the stony silence. Bryant turned, his eyes twin silver gleams, flashing at her like cold flames in the dark night hallway.
“You should be sleeping, Maura.”
Unhesitatingly, she stepped out into the middle of the hallway, making no show of being caught, and meeting his eyes, looked for some trace of warmth beyond recognition. As had been typical, these last few weeks, she found none.
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry.”
Before, he’d told her, smiling, that he didn’t need to be addressed with anything so formal as ‘sir,’ but lately, he’d shown no indication of caring what she called him, or, indeed, if she spoke to him at all.
She felt his eyes watching her back until she was closed up in her room again.
She’d learned to identify and draw on the natural energies around her, and then to draw on her own energy. Maura knew that she was going at a painfully slow pace, but Bryant was patient.
He was anything but patient, however, in the sword work. In that department, he was relentless, endlessly demanding. She would almost call him frightening—regardless of the fact that they’d mostly just been doing stands and patterns side by side, never actually crossing blades until a few weeks ago—but she could stand up to it. In mental exercise, she was usually adequate, but it took consistent effort. In physical exercise, the work was a pleasure to do. Besides, she knew that swordplay meant more to him than magic, and so she doubled her natural efforts.
Some nights, though, even after the endless mental and physical work-out of sword practice, Maura couldn’t sleep. The window beside her bed was ever-changing, never displaying the same view twice, and on those sleepless nights, Maura would stare out the window and wonder. She’d wonder how Cloche and Lagoon were; she’d wonder what Alshalys was doing; she’d wonder where Lorelai and Vanir were; and she’d wonder if Frod ever thought about her, if he even bothered to remember her now.
But the past two weeks, something else had been there in that silence before she fell asleep, intruding on her silence: her father’s footsteps.
Maura didn’t know what had brought it on, but something had changed in him recently. He’d recently from a trip somewhere—he never told her where he went, when he went somewhere—and since, he’d been cold, untouchable. He’d give her lessons still, but he never seemed to hear her questions or watch quite as closely as he should have done. Every night, his footsteps would echo in the halls of the keep.
And Maura had decided to follow tonight.
She was dressed in the darkest of the clothes she’d been given, feet bare, her head pressed to the door, straining against the stillness of the night. She was fairly sure that she had, in the past few months, gained a level of control over her usually graceless body, and she stood patiently, lightly tensed at the door, listening to the footsteps approach and then fade. She waited still longer—It’s almost like a game, she thought, heart racing. How far ahead can you get, Father, before I can’t follow you any more?
Finally, when she felt fairly sure that he was far enough ahead that she would not be seen, she slipped through the door and carefully stepped after him, keeping to the shadows and peering ahead in the dim light.
From various offhand comments that Bryant had made, Maura gathered that the keep where they lived was a dreamworld mirror image of the home in which he had grown up. However, as they wended through the halls of the castle, the patterns of the wall seemed to shift wherever Bryant stood; he paused several times—once in a rough-hewn cavern, in front of an inlaid design of a silver dragon, once in a throne room, flying the same colors as the Mordrellyn keep, but with the crest of a silver bird instead of the wolf.
Finally, when he had almost made a complete circuit of the castle, Bryant stopped at one of the doors in the first hallway that Maura had been shown; several doors down was her room.
The door in front of which he was standing looked no different from any of the other doors in this area of the keep, silver and unmarked. He stood there, very still, the gloved fingers of one hand brushing the handle. He did not move to open the door, nor did he move away to walk past the door.
From the shadows, Maura peered out, wondering at all of this, trying to breathe slowly, evenly, and quietly, and above all, to keep very still. She knew nothing about the room; he’d never mentioned it to her, and she’d never had a reason to look into it. The air itself was charged with tension as Bryant stood there, unmoving, one hand on the handle.
Finally, after an eternity, he took an abrupt step back from the door and slammed his fist into it.
Maura’s stifled gasp of surprise and the whisper of skin against skin as her hand leapt up to clap over her mouth echoed in the stony silence. Bryant turned, his eyes twin silver gleams, flashing at her like cold flames in the dark night hallway.
“You should be sleeping, Maura.”
Unhesitatingly, she stepped out into the middle of the hallway, making no show of being caught, and meeting his eyes, looked for some trace of warmth beyond recognition. As had been typical, these last few weeks, she found none.
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry.”
Before, he’d told her, smiling, that he didn’t need to be addressed with anything so formal as ‘sir,’ but lately, he’d shown no indication of caring what she called him, or, indeed, if she spoke to him at all.
She felt his eyes watching her back until she was closed up in her room again.