The moonlight shimmered, painting the tranquil back garden in hues of silver and shadow. Blayden walked alongside Mother Superior Ericannin, a gentle breeze at his back, rustling the leaves of the ancient trees.
The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and distant blossoms.
Each step on the gravel path was soft, almost unheard, adding to the pervasive quietude of the monastery grounds.
“Father Boren asked me to convey his regards,” the Mother Superior stated, her voice calm and knowing, effortlessly seeing through Blayden’s thin veil of a lie.
There was no accusation in her tone, merely an observation, a gentle acknowledgment of his attempt.
Blayden offered no immediate reply, merely adjusting his stride to match hers.
The Mother Superior continued, a subtle smile playing on her lips.
“Has Father become more affectionate, or has Sir Rehart become gentle enough to tell a white lie?”
Blayden sighed, a soft expulsion of air that seemed to carry the weight of old conflicts.
“Have you still not forgiven Father for surrendering to Ekillium?” he countered, the question a familiar echo of a past disagreement.
Her gaze, serene and perceptive, drifted towards a corner of the garden.
“You should ask Father yourself if he has forgiven me for uprooting and moving the Tree of Lies,” she replied, her voice tinged with a quiet dignity that brooked no argument.
There, nestled amidst other foliage, stood a large, imposing tree. Its branches, currently bare against the night sky, stretched out like skeletal fingers, reaching into the profound darkness that seemed to cradle the monastery.
The starkness of its silhouette was striking against the soft glow of the moon.
The Mother Superior, having followed him, now stood beside him, her presence a comforting anchor.
“How is the tree in Quasar Garden doing?” she inquired, her voice a little softer now, as if trying to bridge a gap with a seemingly innocuous question.
It felt as if she harbored a deeper, unspoken thought, her words merely a prelude to something more significant, a gentle probing of his inner world.
Blayden, sensing this unspoken weight, slowly withdrew his hand from where it had idly rested and turned to face the Mother Superior directly, his attention fully upon her.
“The light of falsehood is complete,” he began, his voice taking on a different timbre, one of quiet reverence.
“It is more splendid and radiant than any other tree in the world.”
A benevolent smile, warm and genuine, slowly spread across the Mother Superior’s wrinkled lips, tracing lines of wisdom and kindness.
Her eyes, however, seemed to hold a hint of something more profound, a fleeting glimpse into memories long past.
“Why do you smile?”
Blayden asked, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes, accustomed to her often stoic demeanor.
“The words ‘splendid’ and ‘radiant,'” she repeated, her smile widening slightly.
“Coming from Sir Rehart’s lips, it feels like a dream.”
There was a delicate wistfulness in her voice, a gentle reminder of a time when such words flowed more freely from him.
A dull pain, a familiar ache of regret and lost innocence, resonated deep within Blayden’s chest.
He remembered those times, distant now, yet vividly etched in the fabric of his memory.
“You used to read me poetry often when I was a child,” he murmured, the words a quiet acknowledgment of a cherished past.
Onella Ericannin, a figure of profound influence in his early life, had once been a nun at Clavil Cathedral.
More than that, she had been an esteemed instructor at the Royal Academy.
It was from her that Blayden had received his foundational education in literature and philosophy during his formative years as the Prince of Chiabec.
She had shaped his mind, nurturing a love for beauty and intellect that now felt so incongruous with his current path.
“Because when you grow up and meet the woman you love, you must dedicate a poem to her beauty,” she explained, her voice carrying the gentle weight of past lessons, a subtle hint of the romantic ideals she had once instilled in him.
He had indeed grown up, his youth long behind him, but it seemed that such a tender, poetic moment, dedicating verses to a beloved woman, would never happen.
The harsh realities of his life had long since eclipsed such delicate aspirations.
“I have no talent for reciting poetry,” he admitted, the words flat, devoid of the emotion he once held for verse.
“It’s not poetry just because it rhymes,” she countered, her wisdom unwavering.
“A noble heart is poetry in itself.”
It’s been a long time since that heart of mine was noble, Blayden thought, the unspoken words a bitter confession to himself.
A sour, almost metallic taste, indicative of deep-seated regret, filled his mouth.
In his childhood, a lifetime ago, he hadn’t harbored dreams of becoming a warrior, of wielding a sword in brutal conflict.
He had been a child who preferred quill pens to steel blades, who found solace in caring for birds rather than hunting them for sport.
He never imagined he would grow up to be a soldier, perpetually engaged in the grim work of slaughter and destruction, his hands stained by violence.
“You used to compose poems and hum songs quite well when you were with Eleanor,” the Mother Superior continued, her words a soft prod into a long-closed chapter of his life, a name that still held a fragile resonance.
“Why do you speak of times long past?”
Blayden asked, his voice betraying a hint of weariness, a desire to leave the ghosts of his past undisturbed.
“One day, you will find someone as beautiful as Eleanor,” she said, her voice filled with a quiet certainty that both comforted and unsettled him.
Mother Superior Ericannin looked at him with eyes that seemed to hold the answers to all the world’s most profound questions, eyes that saw beyond the surface to the very core of his being.
It was a melancholic blessing, this pronouncement, as it felt like a dream that might never be fulfilled, a distant hope that pain had made him wary of embracing.
“Are you happy, Mother Superior?” he asked, a genuine question born of their shared moment of introspection, a rare vulnerability in his guarded demeanor.
“I am grateful every day,” she replied, her gaze sweeping over the moonlit garden, her contentment palpable.
“Because I tend to the truth.”
“It seems you tend to more than just trees,” Blayden observed, a subtle shift in his tone, a hint of his ingrained suspicion resurfacing.
He subtly gestured with his eyes towards a path that wound away from the tree, disappearing into the deepest shadows beyond.
The secluded path, shrouded in an almost impenetrable darkness, led directly into the heart of the forest.
The forest itself, which by day would be a vibrant tapestry of green, now loomed like a black, monolithic monster, silent and imposing in the night.
“The honey served at supper was excellent. Do you collect it yourself?” he asked, shifting the subject, his inquiry seemingly innocuous, yet holding a hidden purpose.
“We keep red-eyed bees beyond the cemetery in the forest,” she replied, her voice even, revealing no hint of understanding his underlying intent.
“I heard you supply it to the Shapiro Market’s shop,” he pressed, feigning casual interest, but his words were a carefully placed bait.
“You mean Luminar? Yes, a young clerk named Hakan regularly visits to collect the beeswax.”
Blayden’s mind immediately conjured the image of the candle he had seen in Tigrinus’s bedchamber, a vivid mental snapshot.
It was that very candle that had glowed with an unusual intensity, imbued with the potent magic of the red-eyed bees.
In retrospect, the entire convoluted origin of his current arduous journey, all the trials and tribulations he had endured, could be traced back to that single, seemingly innocuous candle.
If it hadn’t been for the red-eyed bees, whose potent venom had been clandestinely mixed into the beeswax, Tigrinus would never have collapsed, his life hanging precariously in the balance.
And if the king hadn’t been gravely ill, on the precipice of death, he and the Kinolf unit, his loyal company, would never have been dispatched on this perilous mission, never would they have departed for the ominous Shadow Lands.
The chain of events, set in motion by that seemingly small detail, now seemed to stretch endlessly before him, a relentless path.
“The candle made from that beeswax went to Clavil Palace…”
Blayden began, his voice trailing off as a distinct sound, the soft crunch of footsteps on grass directly behind him, cut his words short.
“Mother Superior.”
A voice, low and resonant, called out to Mother Superior Ericannin from the encompassing darkness beyond the well-lit path.
“Ah, Shulaun,” she responded, her tone one of mild recognition and acceptance.
A burly, middle-aged man emerged from the shadows, his hands clasped respectfully in front of him.
His short hair, touched by the ethereal moonlight, was streaked with significant gray, a testament to years lived.
“It’s done,” he stated simply, his voice calm and assured.
Despite his humble attire, the man’s speech carried an undeniable dignity, a quiet authority that hinted at a past of greater standing.
Blayden, ever observant, subtly scanned his physique.
He noticed a large, jagged scar on his neck, starkly visible just above the collar of his tunic, a silent testament to battles fought and wounds sustained.
“Already? I thought it would take another three or four days,” the Mother Superior exclaimed, a note of genuine admiration in her tone, betraying a rare moment of surprise.
The man, however, showed no sign of smugness or pride at the Mother Superior’s praising words.
He didn’t offer any conventional words of humility or self-deprecation; instead, he simply bowed politely, his demeanor respectful and direct, and then requested, “Would you like to inspect it?”
“Perfect timing. I can delight our esteemed guest’s eyes,” she said, her enthusiasm infectious.
The Mother Superior turned to Blayden, and a small, surprisingly warm hand rested gently on his arm, a gesture of affection he hadn’t experienced in years.
The Mother Superior, patting him affectionately like a child, her eyes sparkling with an almost childlike glee, said, “Let’s go. I will show you something beautiful.”
Mother Superior Ericannin, with a gentle but firm tug, led Blayden away from the moonlit garden and towards the scriptorium.
The space beneath the gently arched stone ceiling of the scriptorium was remarkably quiet, the silence a soothing balm to the external world’s cacophony.
Simple, unadorned desks and sturdy wooden chairs were neatly arranged, their surfaces polished smooth by years of use.
Everywhere, candles flickered, their warm, soft light casting dancing shadows on the walls, illuminating the space with a gentle, ambient glow.
The air was thick with the scent of aged parchment, beeswax, and a faint, lingering aroma of ink.
Passing by the neatly empty desks, each patiently awaiting its next scribe, the Mother Superior’s steps led them deeper into the monastery’s quiet heart, towards the library connected directly to the scriptorium.
It was a space designed for contemplation and study, a sanctuary for knowledge.
Hidden within the labyrinthine maze of towering bookshelves, stretching from floor to ceiling and filled with countless ancient tomes, was a discreetly placed spiral wooden staircase, almost camouflaged by its surroundings.
As they ascended the winding stairs, the scent of ink and paint grew stronger, growing more pronounced with each step.
At the top, a vast, expansive space, unlike any ordinary room, revealed itself, resembling nothing so much as a dedicated artist’s studio.
Blayden stepped inside, taking in the rich aroma, a blend of various pigments and the distinct metallic tang of ink.
In a corner, bathed in the soft glow filtering through a large window, stood a magnificent mahogany table.
Upon its polished surface, a formidable book lay wide open, its pages splayed.
The leather-bound book was massive, large and thick enough to fill an adult’s entire embrace, its weight suggesting centuries of accumulated knowledge.
Its pages were filled with vibrantly colored miniature illustrations, each one exquisitely detailed, bursting with life.
Looking at the seemingly living, almost wriggling illustrations, each one teeming with intricate details and a fantastical quality, the Mother Superior began to explain, her voice hushed with reverence.
“It’s a book of prophecies. It contains the words left by sages over the past thousand years.”
Blayden nodded, his gaze fixed on the open book, his interest piqued by the ancient artwork.
He carefully examined the current illustration before him.
An apple tree was clearly visible, its branches heavy with plump, ripe apples, situated within a garden that seemed to be perpetually blooming with a riot of colorful flowers.
Underneath the generous canopy of the tree, stood a man and a woman, their figures rendered with delicate artistry, their expressions serene yet burdened by a subtle, underlying melancholy.
The scene, while beautiful, held an undeniable air of enigmatic significance, a premonition perhaps, of joys and sorrows yet to unfold.
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