CHAPTER II :
The Alvanea Incident

Part 1.

"They are not trained to connect the paradigms; but believe what they are told.  But when circles the diamond and gazes into every facet, they will see that they are the same," --Isendriel Avreyan, from the Dialogues of Elrys Telestani


Autumn, two years after the liberation of Destriel
Cardalia


Andron leaned against the far outer railing of an immense patio with fountains, baths and golden sculptures of Zeus and Poseidon.  Blue marble pathways carved through the palatial balconies to the edge, overlooking the magnificent white marble columned city of Cardalia Poseidia, the capital city of the vast Madrocean Empire.  He observed the sea of activity below him with his ears, the floral array of the Imperial Courtyards with his smell, and the gentle cool northwesterly wind tinged with the  salt of the great Atlan Sai with his sense of feel.  In the distance, a Cirethian gwyulni airship betrayed its presence with its dull hyper-rhythmic whirring.  He remembered the visual majesty of  this city, but his eyes were gone--lost to the Great Independence War three years past.

He knew that the ship was not Cirethian either; as his empire had aquired much of the Cirethian Imperium's holdings seized by his forces after he was crowned Emperor.  He remembered that the Madrocean airships were white, but he had never seen one--he lost his sight before they were made.  He wondered at one thing; and in his mind a hope--the one question that plagued his thoughts whenever he thought of the many devices that Madrocea had inherited when it had asserted her independence from the yoke of the Cirethian Imperium.

Careful footsteps scuffed against the marble walkway behind him.  Andron recognized the footsteps as belonging to a trusted advisor of his--a sage of great renown named Osordo.

"Your Magnificence," Osordo addressed as he approached.

"Speak," Andron replied, turning to face the elder sage.

"We have sculpted you a new set of eyes," Osordo said.  "Our physicians and healers are ready to give them to you."

"Then we will begin the surgery at once," Andron requested.

* * *

The finely polished blade of Nadali Murana Tuvitor impaled the oak behind Daecrynn's head.  Quickly, he extended his sword-bearing arm.  As he spun around, he tripped Nadali.  She fell into the grass, rolling backward down the hillside toward a standing stone.  She ended her roll at the foot of the standing stone, and picked herself back up.  Daecrynn stood triumphantly, grinning at the top of the hill where a copse of silvery barked oak trees grew.

"Okay, so there is a first time for everything," Nadali spat as she dusted off the bits of grass from her trousers.

Daecrynn shrugged smugly, almost smirking with his eyes.  Her black cape was mottled with bright green blades of grass still stuck to her.

"I let you win," Nadali claimed as she approached Daecrynn.  "It's good for your morale."

"Right," Daecrynn said incredulously.  "And how exactly would that boost my morale if you told me that you let me win?"

She gripped the handle of Xendros, embedded in the oak.  "You were getting cocky."  She pulled tightly.

"Need some help with that, d'nani?" Daecrynn asked playfully as he crossed his arms.

"No damn it--I can get this--just fine!" Nadali stammered as she pulled the sword from the trunk, and fell backwards as it was loosed.  Daecrynn sidestepped, catching her in his arms.

"Morale, heh," Daecrynn chuckled.  "Like I need any more of that!"

"How's this for a morale boost?" Nadali returned, pulling Daecrynn into a deep kiss.

"Okay, so a little more morale won't hurt," Daecrynn quipped between kisses.

"You should have known that I would have never lunged for that," Nadali insisted after a kiss.  "I let you win."

"I was winning fairly, and you gave up," Daecrynn bragged.  "You wanted to say you let me win, but the facts are--"

"Hush," Nadali commanded with a sharp whisper.  Looking away, she smiled playfully.  "You are learning fast, I admit.  You might have beaten me perhaps, I admit."

In the distance, the rumbling of hooves against the ivory-white marble stone of the Nali bridge grew nearer.  The bridge arched over a narrow ravine, as the Nali river flowed beneath.  Across the river and the bridge, the stone city of Andriel, covered in ivy could be spied.  The capital was built atop an oblong hill, with the Nali Road ramping up from the bridge to the front gate.  Beyond the hill where Andriel stood, the river met the ocean.  High-flying banners of many colors and patterns were mounted atop the spires of brightly colored stone towers at the far end of the city.

A horseman approached from the highway.  Across his breast he wore a violet sash with a symbol of a knot intermeshed with a square embroidered in with silver thread.  He wore a deep blue cape, indicative of his own noble blood.  Fastening the cape was a octogram-shaped silver brooch.  With his left hand, he presented a scroll.  “A message for the Kestiel.”


At the base of the hill, Daecrynn and Nadali worked the wrinkles and broken blades of grass out of their respective garments.

“So I am getting better,” Daecrynn asserted, looking back toward Nadali.  “But I doubt I’ll ever be able to beat you every time.”

“Or even most of the time,” Nadali quipped as she tucked her shirt beneath her belt.

“That a challenge, d’nani?”  Daecrynn asked.

“Perhaps,” Nadali replied as she dove for Daecrynn’s ankles, tripping him.  She quickly stood up, slid Xendros from its scabbard, and grinned playfully.

The galloping sound of horseshoes against marble had ceased for some time, as the horseman had stopped.

“Company,” Daecrynn said as he regained his footing.  He quickly tilted his head in the direction of the horseman.

“Forgive the interruption, my liege,” the horseman requested as he dismounted.  He retrieved a deep red crystalline scroll case from his saddle bag.  He walked toward Daecrynn, saluted with his right hand raised, the thumb, and index fingers joined with the middle, ring and pinky fingers pointing upward.  With his left hand, he presented the scroll.  “A message for the Kestiel.”

Daecrynn accepted the scroll case, and saluted the messenger in return.  “Thank you Lord Elthian; you are dismissed.”

The messenger turned, walked back to the road, and mounted his cream furred horse.  Daecrynn opened the case’s blue jewel lid, and retrieved the scroll.  He scanned over the message, and turned to Nadali as Elthian’s horse trotted back to the palace.

“The King of Tanathiel wishes to gather us and the Jea Daldani regarding a possible diplomatic crisis in Madrocea,” Daecrynn explained.  “The whole royal circle is being summoned.”

Nadali responded, her eyebrows lifting in curiosity.  “The Madroceans?  They’ve been quiet since Destriel.  I wonder what’s going on.”

“Aye,” Daecrynn nodded, narrowing his eyes in thought, as he stepped onto the road and began for Andriel.

* * *

Andron laid back on a platform cushioned with linen covers.  Around him, he could hear the sound of a surgeon adjusting his tools and preparing for the operation.  His skin was cold, exposed to the drafts of the operating room.  The surgeon approached him, and placed a plastic mask onto his face.  It stuck to the cold sweat on his skin.  A short jolt of a vacuum sealed the mask to his face.

“Now your Magnificence, you will sleep.  The next time you open your eyes, you shall see.”

By the time the surgeon had completed his sentence, he had already drifted a vast distance from the consciousness of Andron, having inhaled the strong anesthetic gas delivered through the mask.

* * *


On occasion, garbled thoughts echoed from a distant place.  An explosion of bright light erupted from incomprehensible nowheres and undefined no-whens.  A sea of places, vastly laid out across a chaotic maelstrom that flew about from places that seemed far away from the something…that stood at the center.

‘They all fly across the skies,’ the something said, observing the many points, the many places that drifted across the indecipherable color and chaos.

The something…was he.  Him.  Himself.  Andron.

He looked into one of the many nowheres, and saw someplace.

The someplace was in motion, flying over a place familiar to Andron.

‘It flies over Namakiera,’ Andron observed as he gazed through what seemed to be a window amidst this flurry of indescribable color.  He turned away from this flying window to someplace floating amidst a sea of no-place.  His attention shifted to the no-place.  Having found a context to place one of these uncountable numbers of flying windows, he desired to understand the no-place.  He turned to it, and gazed into the flurry of color.  A wave of dull pain struck him, sending his rudimentary consciousness back into oblivion.

* * *   

           
Down Asutel’s Walk, the central street of the city of Andriel, the yellowing willow leaves fluttered in the chilly winds, dancing between the crevices betwixt the stones along the street.  The sky was a deep, yet pale blue, as the yellow sun Telea climbed over the eastern mountains.

Stepping out of a freshly constructed tavern in the new Andriel City—a city that had been heavily renovated over the last year, was a man in plain black trousers, boots, and shirt adorned in a deep violet sash.  In his hands was a package wrapped in leaves fastened with a thin iron chain.  He held his head high; a patriot who had fought in the last war now in the employ of the Kestiel as a messenger for the restored Tarligean.  He looked up to the southeast.  The sun pierced his vision harshly in contrast to the gentle hues of the towers of the Grand Palace of Andriel.  In his eyes, it was like his grandfather had told him.  Silvery cast stones built at almost curved angles along each side of the palace, climbing into the sky, with blossoming ivy crawling up the edges, the the octogram Ki’ronyx of chiseled stone above the viewing deck of the Kestiel’s private chambers.  Glinting in the sunlight, brass flagpoles climbed yet higher, holding the colors of the banner of the united Tarligean.

He stepped off the porch of the Winterstar Tavern where he had stayed the night, and raced off, as he had just enough time to reach the throne room to deliver this item to the Kestiel—a message from the dwarven King of Tarngor.

Tayanda was a woman born in Andriel, but like the Kestiel had lived in hiding during the Seven Year Slumber.  She rocked her first child, a newborn in her hands as the messenger departed.  Having her last customer depart for the morning, she had some time to herself, so she just sat on the steps of the Winterstar.

The city was built of stone, from the streets to the stone of the buildings of up to three stories in height.  The homes and shops were arranged in a haphazard manner with many narrow alleyways between them, covered in flowering ivy.  The stone was damp, being in proximity to Tola’nei beach, the shores of the Nali Bay.  Large nets draping the sides of many buildings were covered in the ivy, climbing high over all streets but Asutel’s Walk.

The green, white, teal and gold colors of the Ki’ronyx flew over every official building, and over many unofficial buildings, shops, and homes.  In the air was the scent of burned timber, as stone wood stoves had kept those living indoors warm in the chill of the autumn morning.

The messenger ran through the narrow, winding streets of Andriel to the plaza where the white marble fountain with the statue bearing Thetali’s likeness bubbled.  As he ran alone the wall that separated the main city from the Kestiel’s Courtyard, he paid no mind to the thin layer of frost that had accumulated over the night along the cobblestones, melting to icy dew.

Suddenly, he slipped on a cobblestone, losing the package in his arm and falling face-first into the cobblestone floor.  After dizzily gathering his thoughts, he heard a voice from above him.

“Let me help you up,” the stranger said, offering a hand in a moonsilver chain gauntlet.

The messenger grasped his hand, and bowed his head as he campe up onto his own two feet.  Distracted, he had not glanced at the face of his helper.

“Pardon me, milord,” he apologized as he leaned over to gather his package for the Kestiel.

Momentarily, he noticed the approaching companion of this stranger, an elven woman of soft, yet athletic build, dark curled hair, and pale crystalline blue eyes.  He turned toward the open gate and ran.

Shortly after, he passed through the Chamber of Crystals at the core of the Palace.  A high dome ceiling towered above him, leading to an array of interlocking crystals at the roof that gathered light, focusing the rays into the chamber, luminescent and prismatic.  His eyes momentarily stopped at a large organ built with white quartz keys, rose quartz secondary keys, and tall blue crystal pipes that climbed as high as the walls of the chamber.  His heart raced with excitement, as he had never been inside the Palace.

The stranger and his companion followed the messenger.  They followed through a long hallway with silver lined marble floors and etched marble columns and archways.  Between each of the eight archways stood statues of great Taergeni heroes, artists, sages, and leaders.  The messenger entered the throne room and stopped abruptly, addressing the empty room.

“I have come with news for the Kestiel, and a gift from Grando, the Lord of Tarngor,” he declared, as he unraveled a scroll.

He paused momentarily, blushing sheepishly as he had come to the realization that nobody was in the room, and the throne was empty.

“News for me,” the stranger said from behind as he approached casually.  “Grando?  Do tell.”

The messenger turned around to see the stranger, a young elf just entering the century of his prime with regally chiseled features and deep violet-blue eyes.  He glanced again to Nadali, recognizing the diamond encrusted silver tiara of the Cinatiel across her forehead.

“Milord, milady!” the messenger shouted as he dropped to a knee.

“No need to bow, your dedication to your duty is more than satisfactory to me,” Daecrynn said calmly.

“Of course, milord,” the messenger said quietly as he stood up and handed the package to Daecrynn.

A silver pendant was wrapped in broad brown leaves of tobacco.  The eight-pointed Ki’ronyx; seal of Tarligean was weaved into the crossing knot and square sigil of Tu’fayator.  With it were vials of fine musk fragrance, and seven finely cut gems.  The messenger read from from the scroll.

“Friends in the Great Northern Spires of the fine City of Andriel!  Congratulations on restoring your mighty Empire!  We dwarves of Tarngor look forward to the swift restoration of our ancient trade agreements!  Please send Winds and Ales!  Taku beans for our deep miners would also be appreciated!  Hail Tuvitor, Emperor of the Mighty Elves!

Signed,
His Majesty,
Grando son of Voren, King of Tarngor”

Daecrynn pushed a stray lock of hair out of his eyes as he threw his head back, breaking into laughter.

“Emperor of the Mighty Elves?” he gasped.  “This is good stuff.  Did Kalrys put you up to this?”

“It is no joke, sire.  This is the genuine notarized message from the King of Tarngor,” the messenger responded.

In the distance, footsteps echoed in the hall from outside the throne room.

Daecrynn smiled as he looked at the message again momentarily.

“Very well.  Looks to be a busy day in council.  Feel free to stay for taku-bean tea.  Tell Lady Chesreya you’re a guest of honor with the Kestiel’s approval.  South wing of the palace.  Now I need to find out why they so rudely interrupted my sparring sessions.”

The messenger bowed to the Kestiel, and turned away, leaving the throne room.