THE LIGHT OF A'LEST

CHAPTER 7

"When the Chief of the Rim committed his wife's essence stone to the Sarna Tarn, His Ascendency smiled, and as the emerald waters of the imperial pond of souls rippled, all the known world trembled."

     Chief Grantook sat alone in his dimly lit bedchamber. Around him, masterfully painted portraits lined every wall. He had stacked as many as he could up against furniture, angling them just so, ensuring each one was easily viewable from his bed. Hundreds more lay carefully stacked on the floor. The same woman's likeness was on everyone. The servants had exchanged nervous glances when he had ordered them removed from the walls of the estate and placed outside his bedchamber, bowing low before shuffling off to the task and leaving him to writhe alone in silence. He waited until the wee hours of the night before reverently carrying each one into his room. He would never have slept otherwise.

     Tracing a callous finger across the thin lines of his wife's cheek, he admired the skilled hands of the artist and tried to recall the time and place. As his mind returned to the past, he remembered that Emma hated this one. He remembered his wife's lofty voice as it echoed over the din of the inner chamber and rose to compete with the shrill screams of their son as he struggled for freedom in the arms of one of the nursemaids.

     "Makes me look like my mother. I won't have it!" she screamed as she shooed the artist away, blew back an errant strand of mahogany hair, and began wrenching at the seams of the ill-fitting garment. Grantook and the artist shared a nervous smile and a utilitarian shrug before he turned and followed her into the next room. The memory faded. Still softly tracing the delicate outline of his wife's face, he began to sob. She may have hated the dress, but it was his favorite. As tears streamed down his face, he whispered into the dark, "I won't fail you, M."

A gentle tapping sounded at the door. "Chief?" "Aye," he responded.

"It's Alaric."

"Come in," he replied.

     As the long mane of chestnut hair poked around the halfway open door, his Master of Arms's face came into view. His eyes darted around the room, and Grantook could tell the sight before him unnerved the man. Dismissing this observation, Grantook raised his hand and gestured for him to enter. "Chief, we have a problem." So, it begins. The Master of Arms paused as if uncertain. "Chief, your son, he, um, he has been injured. Most gravely in fact, but I am told he will live." The look on Grantook's face slid from one of confusion to bewilderment. He placed the picture of his wife on the bed softly before standing and following Lord Alaric outside. Lord Alaric stopped him with a firm hand to the shoulder.

     Grantook turned to his longtime friend and met his eyes. "Take me to him, man. How was he hurt?" Lord Alaric paused once more and failed to release his grip.

     "Chief, I am afraid it must wait. Please, follow me."

     Grantook entered the throne room and made for the raised dais but stopped short and peered out the high, arched windows of his balcony and into the city below. He couldn't help but notice the eerie silence. The unusual heaviness to the air.

     "There has been another incident that takes priority this night, Chief." Alaric extended a hesitant hand and gestured for him to sit as the two heavy wooden doors at the other side of the chamber creaked open and in strode three men. Two wore cloaks of Tian green. The third wore His Ascendency's blue. 

     As the Master's wriggled beneath their cloaks, their Medallions of Rit swung. Subtle signs that betrayed their owners' moods but ones Grantook, having sat on his throne for nearly four decades, had long since trained himself to look for. As he settled into his plush throne, he couldn't help clutching the arm tight as he stared at the man in blue. Imperial! Even thinking the word made dark thoughts gather like storm clouds behind his eyes.