[ COMPLETED AND ON THE WATTYS 2017 SHORTLIST - Excerpt Only] In an era where the drums of war echo over the Northern plains, when the arrival of the next Copper Moon brings about whispers of a shadowy threat, Nell Yngram is only concerned with strug...
His sister pressed close to him, clinging to his elbow. How vulnerable she seemed so suddenly, though she was by far the elder. For once, too, she called him by that name—the very name bestowed upon him by Lothier Moreigh himself, the Baron of Samarna. The name of a grandfather, far down the line, and Eldrin should be honored to be named after him.
"What troubles you, Odalia?"
"They told us we were going to a feast."
"This is a feast."
"Unlike any we've known," she replied, reverting back to the speech of their people. He could sense her quiet distress, the growing heaviness in her heart, all from the very moment they set foot upon Rastland Adleigh's villa.
Such distress was uncharacteristic of Odalia, yet Eldrin knew why. Glancing about, he could see what great extents Lord Rastland had gone to re-create the majesty of a vernal glade. Slender trees sprouted from giant marble pots, their branches hung with hollythorns and magnolias. The scent from these blooms mingled with the various perfumes worn by the attendees. Eldan-born and Mortal, all of them in costumed apparel. Even so, there lingered an atmosphere of artificiality, one bordering upon obscene to those who knew better.
"Hither they glance, and nowhere else," she said. "Would that I may soon vanish away into a vapor of mist, that they should turn away."
Here we were, expecting not to stand out. Eldrin watched a glimmer of Aethyr-light fall across Odalia's greenish tresses, eliciting an awestruck gasp from a passing guest. All while spying his own reflection within a crystal mirror. He saw how well those decadent robes of emerald-green silk suited his willowy frame. This impressed him, far more than he would care to admit.
"Come now, Odalia," he cooed, setting her upon a seat upholstered with peach silk. "This is no place for you to practise your tricks."
"Odalia. How loathsome that name sounds whence spoken in our tongue, I have come to realize."
"Best for us all to get used to it at this point in time," he said, switching back to Caradrin Highspeak—the common tongue for all citizens of the Empire, of which they now all belonged to. "Remember what truths Lara keeps beating us over our heads? No longer are you Velaera, the Brightstar's daughter, nor am I Daelen. Those names have little use here, except to garner the occasional jeer." At this, Odalia turned the other cheek, prying her eyes away. Eldrin tapped a finger underneath her chin, and brought her gaze back to him. "Believe me...it's a difficult thing to accept, but we must. If our clan is to endure this brave new world."
The sadness in Odalia's eyes only seemed to deepen. A stark contrast to her disposition earlier that day, singing a merry tune as the maids bathed her in rose-scented water, unable contain her excitement.
"Please, do seek me Elliard Moreigh," she begged him. "Tell him I intend to return to Ashenlight at once if that's possible."
"Await me here," he sighed. "I shall go and see if I can find him."
He departed from her side, diving into the sea of people milling about, his ears filling up with their colorful chatter.
Yet it isn't all too terrible, is it? A voice in his head seemed to whisper.
And perhaps he was inclined to agree. For now a delightful chaos began to reign in his heart as he wandered about, drinking in the sights and colors surrounding him, all his senses at once overwhelmed.
He caught sight of Elliard Moreigh in the far distance, half hidden within an alcove, and in the company of a pair of lace-clad women.
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