This isn't the final chapter, but it's starting to get conclusory. I hope Soren's first narration isn't too awkward.
Also it's snowing like hell here in Pittsburgh and I almost killed myself trying to get up the hill to law school. I feel a certain sympathy with a certain cranky, cold tactician.
Edit: I went through the forthcoming Chapter Nine and corrected all the Almehdas to Almedhas, then I forgot to go back and fix them in this chapter. Thanks to a review ) they're correct now. (Whatever, I hate her anyway.)
~~ Chapter Eight: Mother and Son ~~
As Soren passed over the threshold of the hall, he could feel Pelleas' mild blue eyes on his back, watching him step into the vast, deathly silent space. Frustrated and sick to death of his own ignorance, Soren cursed under his breath, striding away quickly across the echoing marble floor.
Kurthnaga had told him to speak with Pelleas, saying that the young former king could give Soren the information he sought. But Pelleas had told him nothing. Oh, Soren had certainly learned things. Izuka had chosen the wrong orphan (or rather, had chosen an orphan at random) to stand as prince, and Pelleas wasn't the Lady Almedha's true son. Soren wasn't sure if Pelleas was even Branded. Yet Pelleas had not so much as mentioned his own place in the Daein royalty, much less the possibility that he and Soren were alike in that most crucial way.
What the hell does Pelleas have to do with me? Soren thought furiously. There was something Kurthnaga hadn't told him, something the dragons wanted to avoid directly divulging. Soren had been bewildered to see hesitance—perhaps guilt?—in even Nasir's eyes. And now Pelleas wouldn't say anything, either; the Daein statesman had beat about the bush with queries on Crimea, then had sent him forth with the vague, "Speak to the Lady Almedha."
It was, Soren thought angrily, like a continent-wide passing of the buck. First Gallia, then Serenes, then the dragons, and even now Pelleas. He only hoped that Almedha would have some kind of answer for him. If she chased him to another corner of Tellius, he would probably just crawl out in the snow and hope no one found him.
The room at the end of the hall was softly lit; twilight was fading, leaving only the lamps. Soren stepped up to the half-open door, knocking lightly. "Hello?" he called, wondering why his irritation had given him such courage. "I apologize for the intrusion, Lady Almedha. Statesman Pelleas said I should speak with you."
The figure sitting on the terrace rose; staring at the stars for a moment, the former queen of Daein turned. The last time Soren had seen her—just after the war, in Ike's company—Almedha had been wearing a veil. It was pulled back now.
Shock hit him in the stomach like a fist. The small mark on her temple; the flowing, forest-green hair; the serene, delicately featured face; he was just amazed that he hadn't realized sooner. "You're—" The words he had been about to say suddenly failed him, and he simply stared at Kurthnaga's sister, the ex-princess of Goldoa.
To be perfectly honest, he found it surprising that he was able to talk at all. The journey from Goldoa had been immeasurably long, as well as silent. Soren had been unable to bear the thought of yet another grudging companion on what would be a miserable journey to Daein, and had fled Castle Goldoa with hardly another word to the dragons, uneasy with their opacity and certain that they did not want him there.
He stuck to the major highways, but traveling unaccompanied on foot, he hadn't even bothered to keep track of what day (or what month) it was. He'd slept under bushes near the roadside, had spent a few nights in the forests wrapped in his cloak. Accustomed to spending as little time as possible with others, and generally cold no matter where he slept, Soren was little more uncomfortable or lonely than he had been at Greil's Retreat.
When he'd run out of money—which, money being the fickle thing it was, he did almost immediately—he'd begged. The shame of it had faded quickly, his silent old habits coming back as if he'd never met Ike, or those people in the Crimean church.
The difference now was that most Tellians, bursting with the repletion of a bountiful fall harvest, were both gracious and generous. It had kept him from starving as he entered the bitter winter mountains near the border of Daein, and several nights he'd even been given a blanket and bedroll near someone's hearth.
Soren had halted only once, at the border on the Riven Bridge. At first he didn't know why he couldn't move on; then he realized this was where he had killed General Petrine. Her last words burned in his ears, the strangely patriotic arrogance and anger turned so cold. "Your Majesty... forgive me, please... oh, I don't want to die... I'm so scared..."
As the flame of her violet eyes, fixed on him pleadingly, had slowly faded, he had for the first time questioned his own wisdom in killing an enemy.
He had walked up to the fort's entrance, to the spot where she had fallen all those years ago, writhing in pain from the effect of Soren's Elfire spell. Only one other Branded besides Petrine had openly revealed his secret to Soren; Stefan was somewhere in Begnion, rounding up others of their "kind." The thought repulsed Soren, especially as grief for a fallen enemy general froze his heart. Petrine's self-reliant arrogance had been vastly more attractive than the thought of rejected, lonely half-breeds sobbing on one another's shoulders somewhere out in the desert.
Where had she come from, and how had she risen so high in the Daein ranks? Her brand had hardly been subtle, a bright green tattoo against the cream skin of her breast: Ashnard must have known. Soren, sleeping in the forest nearby that night, wondered and wondered. Perhaps Ashnard had merely included her amongst his retinue of strong fighters, and she had proved herself worthy of command—just like Zelgius. Perhaps he had thought her a spirit charmer, in the same manner as Soren's teacher.
But he wanted to ask Petrine himself, to gain insight on that natural confidence she had radiated. The fact that Soren had been the one to bring her down with his own tome gnawed frustratingly at his conscience. There must have been a way to convince her, to recruit her into the Crimean army.
More than anything, he simply craved comfort; it didn't matter whether it was from his own parents—wherever they were, if he ever found them—or from someone who knew what it was like to be one of the Branded, and had accordingly adjusted. That aching hunger kept him at the Riven Bridge for another two days; finally, quite literally starving and in dire need of physical nourishment, he had at last moved into Daein.
The people of that country were as kind as the Crimeans had been, so heartbreakingly generous that Soren found himself bereft of words to thank them. Wordlessly, he had sought a healstaff and used it to aid the poor, generally illiterate families of the outlying cities—the beggars of the streets looked no less tattered than did he, in his ragged and stained robe. But the families seemed to be grateful for his learning, and asked no questions.
The middle plains of Daein, mostly uninhabited, had been a trial of strength: he was surprised to find that he even had such fortitude. During his last journey through Daein, when he had been stumbling with exhaustion and cold, Soren had only to look up and see Ike, and a fire would light itself within him. Sure, he was the lead tactician for an entire army, too: but that just meant sitting as close as possible to Ike at the campfire that night, so they could unfold the map onto their laps, brushing away snowflakes that obscured its images as they pondered which way to go next.
This time, at night the snow would half-bury him in the crannies and hillocks he sought out in the countryside; during the day he walked from before dawn until long after the sun had set, collapsing in such shelter as he could find only when he couldn't take another step. Those four days had been the longest of his life: it was impossible to avoid the heart-rending memories of Ike, since there was nothing else to think about except the vast white coldness.
But at last, the turrets and spires of Nevassa had shown themselves over the far hills. Quickening his pace, Soren found its peasants just as joyful and welcoming as the rest. Micaiah had led the country through yet another year of great prosperity, and even as winter closed its icy claws around the capital city, the Daein people began celebrating the solstice with great parties running with rivers of ale and platters of meat, the houses draped in garlands of silver and red berries.
Soren had felt a compulsive and uneasy urge to avoid being drawn into the revelry of the inns and bars: he spoke to almost no one once he entered the city's gate. In fact, until he spoke directly to Pelleas, no more than a word or two at a time had passed Soren's lips for more than a month.
Now the questions he wanted to ask, easily spoken to the awkward, shy ex-king, had fled him: the words crowded to the back of his mind, huddled like fearful sheep evading a wolf. Soren bit his lip, trying to summon them back.
Almedha's only reaction had been to stop breathing, to become as placidly still as a mill pond, crimson eyes fixed on him. She said nothing, one slim hand slowly clenching on the fabric of her gown. The sick, annoyed feeling in Soren's stomach was turning to heavy dread: some realization was growing in the back of his mind. Soren concentrated on the woman before him, refusing to let the thought coalesce.
Finally managing to collect himself and gather the words once more—it had been simple instinct, ever since he had become the de facto tactician for the Greil Mercenaries, to forcibly appear as cool as possible in front of strangers—Soren took a deep breath, forcing the words to arrange themselves to his bidding. "I hope... I hope you have a moment, Lady Almedha."
He was about to ask whether or not she remembered him: but then the sarcastic voice in the back of his head shrewdly demanded how he would introduce himself if she did not. Former staff officer from the Greil Mercenaries? Erstwhile tactician for the Crimean Liberation Army? Or perhaps, Hello, your brother told me to come here. What isn't Pelleas telling me? Absurdly, he thought of Aimee: he had managed to sweet-talk her on numerous occasions. Where had those graceful sentences come from? Where had the eloquence he'd used speaking to Ranulf in Serenes fled?
So he merely queried, "I have a question to which Statesman Pelleas did not possess an answer. With your permission...?"
She said nothing, still standing in the middle of the carpet as if petrified. Either she had nothing to tell him, or something else was wrong. Her eyes—those of a stranger, yet eerily familiar—searched his face, her own features stiff with awkward pain.
Finally the sickness got the better of him: Soren clenched his teeth and bowed. "I apologize. You are obviously occupied. I shall leave you, Lady Almedha."
He turned, preparing to flee, but only moved one step before her voice arrested him. "Please stay... oh, please, don't go!" Almedha suddenly said, words finally bursting from her, surprising him into immobility. Her high, quaveringly childlike voice was familiar, too: yet he could not have said why. "I don't know what has brought you here, but... there's something you must know! Something no one else can tell, not even my dear Pelleas!" She began to cry, covering her face.
Soren stared at the dowager queen of Daein, his emotions flickering between chill fear and a wary curiosity. What could she have meant by that? She clearly remembered who he was... the thought he had been forcing down began to grow again, quite against his will.
There was a silence that seemed to last forever, interrupted only by her quiet sobbing. At last Almedha spoke, her words muffled only marginally by the hands held over her face; she looked up, barely able to meet his gaze. "My… my son..."
The words wrenched something in his stomach; Soren closed his eyes. But nothing happened, no sudden burst of emotion at his suspicion growing to knowledge: he simply felt cold. He could barely convince himself that she wasn't, in fact, bewailing something unrelated, such as the loss of her surrogate son Pelleas. He finally understood why Kurthnaga had sent him to Daein.
She was saying that Soren was her son.
It seemed unimaginable that someone so dignified and grave as a former queen could plead; but Almedha did, actually wringing her hands. "Oh, please, speak to me!" she burst out. "I… I know you must blame me… But I did not know! I was deceived!"
Soren just stared at her: this woman had once been a princess of Goldoa, this pleading, almost pathetic figure before him? It was no wonder she had proved so pliant in the hands of the Mad King, had been, as she said, deceived by him.
That was what finally broke the layer of ice that had heretofore glazed the truth: Soren felt his hands shaking.
That was his father. His father.
"I..." he gasped, the shock of it drawing out that single syllable: he actually staggered back a step with the realization. This woman was his mother; Ashnard had been her husband. The Mad King had kidnapped her and forced her to have a child to lure in her brother, Ena's fiancé, and had warped Rajaion into a common wyvern. His very birth, his foul Branded blood, had caused her to lose her own birthright and abilities.
The King of Daein had done all that: the man Ike had killed at the Daein Keep. Soren had been there, tome and healstaff in hand. His head spun. How could he not have known before this?
He dimly saw that Almedha had stepped forward, her hands parted, tears drawing lines on her face. A terrible image drew itself across his mind: a graceful, beautiful noble, hands extended toward a ragged, filthy, exhausted beggar who shrank in fear from her. No! he thought in horror, and before he knew it the word burst from his lips. "No—no!"
Almedha jerked back, as if he had struck her; he bowed his head in agony, knowing she thought he rejected her advances. There were no tears. His stomach was merely knotted and his mind wracked with the dizzying shock. It was worse than killing Petrine; it was as bad as when Ike had left; for a brief moment he almost wished to be dead.
Finally, he raised up his gaze once more, as his knees gave way and he fell to the floor. The sardonic little tactician's voice in the back of his head spoke up again, reminding him that he hadn't eaten anything substantial for almost three days: but that wasn't why he felt faint. He looked up, his vision glazed. Her own crimson eyes were flowing with tears, in a Madonna's face full of love, grief, and long unlooked-for hope. He didn't have any clue what to say, but a word found itself.
"M-mother..." he said helplessly.
Then she was bent down; her arms were around him, her veil fluttering against his cheek and her comforting voice so close; Soren bent his head to her breast and wept.