The Mirror Man

2. Summoning

He was to bathe in the belly of the Earth that morning. Should his blood be soiled, his luck would fall, bastards would litter from his seed, cruelty would exert him.
His father cut him after hus bleeders. The seventh slit they named it, to be drawn by closest kin, though he'd rather his mother had done it, she was closest to him. The blood was spilled by sharpened steel forged from Argroneon mountain mines. He was used to the sting, and despite flinching, did not wince. They bathed his small open cuts in ash oil water, then cleansed them with salt from the Burning Sea, stone ground and mashed together with a cocktail of cloves, seeds and dried crushed leaves. The salt made his eyes sqint and his cheeks tighten.
In the foreground of the ceremony stood his mother Myeda and his sisters, all adorned in their clothes used only for the summoning rituals of their kin. Behind them stood his father's confidents, members of his council, a half dozen brother Lords, and surrounding them were a spaced out litter of his fathers man guards.

Sulebreth himself was garbled in a very light green hooded robe that swallowed him, a mesh of woven silk in ringlets and bulbs against a velveteen lining of his wrists and collar sported his material. Other lining patterns across his V shaped navel consisted of a thin line of threaded gold, holding a trail of tiny golden coins interwoven with tiny crushed jems of the deepest ruby. The same almost black gems were enamelled onto his grown, V shaped nails, over the black and gold marble painted design of them. Woven metal rings entangled over most if his fingers also mostly boasting the same tiny rubies. His long black hair had been heavily oiled and bathed in ash sap, scented and part braided back over his scalp, held by a net of golden iron wire decorated with solid iron gold ash leaves.
'Never, ever swallow the ash oil.' His father had warned him, too many times.
The area of his chest that was unveiled to open air was also glazed in the oil, and the veins of an ash tree branches and roots were tattooed in black and gold paint across it. He half expected an ash tree flower sprig to come bursting from his nipples. Even so, his father looked pleases, his bride, wherever she was in her section of the ceremony, would likely be pleased, but his mother, who he glanced at from time to time without making it obvious, looked concerned and stared irritably at the ground. His father was deliberately ignoring this, he realized.
He was annointed by the Throll priest with flower dew and ash oil smoke, forged from the small bonfire in his name, conjured and burning from ash tree bark. The smoke was very sweet, and he wondered what the bark would taste like. His father had told him since birth of the power of the trees nutrients, almost as strong as acrinimusk, toxic and remedying in one.
'Heaven and hell exist in this tree.' Lord Sidion said time again while they dwelled beneath the entwining, tangle of branches.
The smoke from the fire stayed with him as he walked alone into the dwellings, feeling the sweet pain of his cuts, forged closed by molten tree sap.
He vaguely followed the smoke, grateful for his welcomed loneliness, aware of the blind priests eyes upon him somewhere.
Thrills were the most ancient tenples known, extremely rare, and all ruins. Yet all had deep wells reaching into the rich belly of the earth, and all derived from mixed faiths when first originated. The Embello faith was strict, unique, but exploring of cultural diversity.
He day dreamed of the girls face from the waters, hoping he'd see it again here, at his true summoning, but knew he would not.
He did however, become distracted by the noise of the small, soft running stream beside him as he walked, listening to the annoying sounds of a fish thrusting it's tail two and from the surface. He knelt down and fingered the water with his varnished, bejewelled nails. The little blue scaled fish swam angrily between and against the rings of his fingers.
Again, he thought of the girl, her silvery pearl cloud of hair, her pool blue eyes, her beauty was more vivid with his hand in the stream.
A small, copper coloured Eagle swooped down, faster than an arrow, clutching the fish sharp between its beak, and flew off into the trees.
He barely saw the angry wag of its hind fin as it dissappeared.
He kept walking, uninterested by much else, mellowed and sleepy from the sweet smelling smoke. The brittle, orange leaves crunched beneath his bare feet, the wind whistled softly past his ears and heavily through the branches, and the stream poured and swam and licked against the bank stones, creating the song of the woods.
A few small steps later he heared a sweep of wind, feeling a clutch at his shoulder. The air by his ear became thick as he felt the Eagle pinch its peak against his neck. The same Eagle, he thought, oddly. He hoped the meal he'd made of his friend had been filling.

He explored the dwellings for some hour or so with the eagle never hovering far from him, not feeling any need to retreat back any time soon. He did not see his pending bride, although he did once or twice suspect the crunching sound of a footstep or two, and began to wonder if his father had followed him.

The paranoia eventually became forgotten, as he did feel watched by many eyes most of the time. Here, the eyes were only that of wildlife.

There was no way around the widening river, and he desired to pass it, to go forth up the mountain. He could feel the back trail of his robe becoming heavier as it trenched through the cool water. He removed his boots and socks, abandoning them by the rocks.
On he went, and the sun dwindled in the sky a moment as it submerged from behind a cloud, streaming a flourish of warmth through the icy air and onto his face.
He closed his eyes, carrying on upward, and upward still, past slippery cracked rocks, past thick tree roots, through overgrown meadow grass, untill at last his legs began to ache, his feet were sore, and soaked in wet soil. His eyes opened, and at the top of the fell, he saw a glimmer of Purewater City through the faint blanket of silvery fog, sparkling in the sun.
Then he saw his father's eyes, following his every move. Lord Sidions hair also shone, he noticed, like the fog below, it was now changing from black to silver. Yet, he was so at peace he did not feel fearful among the presence of his father. It crossed his mind that he wished him dead, or replaced by a more obedient son. Had following his heart made him so unworthy?
Duty and honour were always upheld, but the desire to tread his own path was strong and ever stirring. The only way it would happen was if he were to become Lord himself. Not through greed, but freedom, and to break from under his father's reluctant wing.
His father's face was forever angered, severe, awaiting consequences, awaiting his sons downfall.
Now, Sidion was no mellowed. His back looked even more crooked away from the prestige of the palace, his clothes hung from him, the lines of his chin and eyes were highlighted in the open light of day. Pity coursed through Sulebreth, and guilt for noticing it. This seemed to anger the Lord, and in that moment, Sulebreth came to an awful realisation.
His father was jealous of his son, that combined with anger at having no spare son.

'Is it glory that you wish for son?'
Sidions words were as soft as a whisper carried effortlessly through the air, yet they lay heavily upon Sulebreth.
The wind hissed, straggling his hair across his eyes and between his lips.
He didn't answer.

Lord Sidion turned to face the city, but the wind roared against his face, hurtling his silver hair back into the air like a rush of wild river water.

'All Thrackentales are fated for sacrifice. Our Embello Gods curse us as they cleanse, with their magics of water and fire blended with our bloods. The purity of our blood is costing, the purity of our souls is worth dying for, to enter us into the abyss, and among the warmth and live of our deity.'

'My Lord Father, I will consort with the blind Goddess.' Sulebreth found his hand reaching out to Sidion, an embrace that was not recieved, and possibly not noticed, he couldn't tell.

'I would not advise you consort with the Gods. They are fickle about who they choose to bless, and who to blame.'

Sulebreth wanted to ask, but found himself unwilling. Another of fathers japes, a cruel suggestion to lead him into an unsettling argument. His mother had always defended him against his father's cruelty with words, but she grew quieter now, and the boy was beginning to see why. Not long a morning past, Myreda had half woken from her lone bed with the aid of her only son, only to mistaken him for her Lord husband, and followingly fret over the whereabouts of her father in law. After a moment of stirring in the wake of her night mares she saw it was in fact Sulebreth.

The sunlight ahead of the city was shielded by a thick roll of cloud, casting a gaunt shadow over the towers, buildings, rivers, and plains. Distant grumbles of thunder followed a sharp flash that illuminated the sky in pure white, and Sulebreth jumped.
The thin tree that had crooked and bent and screeched in its twisting by his Lord Father had twisted so hard against the lighting that it Snapped off its roots and flew at the unguarded Lord.
His father's head jointed sideways in a crunch as a thick branch whacked the Lord hard against the crown of his skull. He flung down to his knees and hurtled down the side of the hill, crashing and tumbling against the bare rocks below untill he fell face first into a plain. The first noise following thar Sulebreth heard was the piercing hawk of the eagle sitting on a branch of that fallen tree.
His son screamed for the guards, tearing downwards.