A Dreadful Thing

11: BRAEMERE

ELEVEN: BRAEMERE

Orla

Orla's first day at Bilarthus Academy was one of the longest in her life.

She took for granted how simple things could be at her normal school. While she hadn't always remembered or comprehended the information taught to her, she'd understood the context, or hadn't been so far out of her depth that she might as well be listening to gibberish. It was a different story at Bilarthus.

Orla didn't understand anything. Her literature class had been a lengthy discussion on the metaphors lost in translation between Umbrack and English, and while everyone else had been flipping through their textbooks, Orla had been stunned by the existence of dark elves. Vera tried to explain that they were simply a subsection of the Seraphium, "Descended from Setahl, and they live in the Underdale," but that only left her with more questions. What was the Underdale? What in the world was Setahl?

She'd only just recovered from Languages and Literature when she staggered into World History and Social Ethics, which wasn't about world history so much as Seraphium history, and Master Arcturus jumped right in with nary a look at Orla, her Mediterranean accent thick and unrelenting as strange names and places rolled off her tongue.

"The lesson today was about a pivotal war for the Luminarum, or the High Elves, the descendants of Terrahl, between High King Arc Thalion and Seneschal Silas Gon, that happened in 871 and didn't end until Terrahl ruled them both unworthy of kingship," Vera outlined for her at lunch, where Orla sat at the same table she had that morning, feeling sweaty and dazed. "It's important to remember because of the impact the outcome had on the 880 economic crash in the Western Empire—."

"What's with all their names being so similar?" Orla complained. "The—Seraph people. There's Terrahl, and Bilgarhl, and Inasahl—."

"Bilarhl and Inasiahl," Vera corrected, her mouth tipped into a small smile. "But there's different sobriquets—."

"Different what?"

"Ah, nicknames? Things they were known to be called in short? Terrahl is Terras, Bilarhl is Bil, Inasiahl is Inas—like that. Or some people like to go by their titles. Calarhl, for instance, is the Night Sovereign, and Terrahl—or Terras—is called the Earth Warden. Their full names are derived from their language, Itheann—."

Orla dropped her head onto the table next to her bowl of macaroni.

Thornhaven snorted and had enough decency to set down his ham sandwich as he spoke. "You should get her that book they give kids to teach them about the Seventy-Year War. I don't remember what it's called, but it has nursery rhymes and sh—stuff. Right, Alex?"

Anderson blinked his eyes open for long enough to nod, mumbling, "My little sister has it."

Orla stared at the woodgrain in front of her eyes and despaired. A child. That was what they saw her as, wasn't it? She wasn't a Seraphium. She couldn't be. She knew nothing, and surely something about all this would be innate—instinctual in her bones. Mr. Byrne had never mentioned a word about Seraphs or elves or bizarre, ancient languages; he was Mr. Byrne, and that meant being a stodgy, bitter, boring bastard.

Maybe this had been his plan all along. Maybe it didn't matter if Orla found out about her bloodline; what use was being a Seraphium if she couldn't understand anything about it?

She felt Morty's hand on her shoulder. She knew it to be his by the size and the strange, radiating heat that came from his touch. "Patience," he reassured, joined by a brief burst of images. A boy, maybe six years of age, with tousled black hair. Pale hands with skinny fingers extended toward him, holding a leather-bound book. Golden flowers decorated the front—.