Disclaimer: Cinderella isn't mine. Yah. One other thing in this chapter that I don't own is the name Andrenyi. This name belongs to Agatha Christie. (And to anyone who has read Murder on the Orient Express, no, the name is nothing symbolic to Andrenyi's character, I just liked the sound of it.) :D
Changes of Plan
The Vaillerian Palace was an enormous fixture in white marble, red sandstone, and peach quartz, three substances the kingdom was renowned for. Had there been any other person in front of it, there would be more of a need to describe its numerous towers and parapets, the magnificence of its gates and outer walls, the grandeur of the opening doors and the exquisiteness of its stained glass windows. But as the eyes that currently beheld it belonged to the crown prince and his best friend, all the beauty of the castle was lost. To Jack, the palace strongly resembled a giant. An undefeatable enemy looming over him, staring him down. To Fletcher's trained eye, all that was visible were the cracks in the marble, burn marks on outer walls, and all sorts of blemishes on the seemingly flawless surface; each of them disturbing reminders of unnecessary battles.
Jack stared up at the building, using every once of energy he had left in order not to whine. "Do I have to?" he asked Fletcher, knowing how pathetically childish he was being.
Fletcher's grin was wry as he turned to the prince. "Must I answer that?" Without waiting for a reply, Fletcher grabbed Jack's elbow roughly and pulled him out from the shadow of the trees and up to the gate. Before Jack could question him as to what the hell he was doing, he remembered the act he had asked Fletcher to put on. So he pretended to struggle against Fletcher's grip as they came into view of Tyson, one of the two impressively muscled and attentive guards stationed at the black hematite gates.
When his eyes set on Fletcher, he seemed slightly startled at first to see him with a prisoner, until he recognized the captive. The large man chuckled dryly.
"You'd better get him inside fast. I doubt his father's too pleased." Tyson said as he signaled to the key bearer behind the gate.
Jack snorted, but Fletcher only smiled brightly. "Thanks for the advice!" he called back to Tyson, now dragging Jack through the open gate with a tight grip that pained the prince's elbow. Jack was starting to wish that he hadn't asked his friend to put on the act.
As they entered the grand palace, for the second time that day, Jack heard the simultaneous, subtle hush of the palace attendants' voices, and saw numerous eyes turn their glances towards him. It was exactly the same as the occurrence in the town square, although fortunately, the courtiers and inhabitants of the palace had much more practice with toning down their gossip to an acceptably subdued level.
In Vaillere there had always been a certain talent needed for aristocratic style gossip. And it wasn't until Jack had mentioned it to both Elle and Celene as a child about it, and had seen their shocked and disgusted faces at the idea, that he had realized how absurd this idea truly was. Perhaps, he thought, you never realize what truly makes sense when you have been brought up to accept it all.
Jack said his good byes to Fletcher quickly and hurried past the onlookers, trying to maintain his temper and not groan loudly in front of all of them, and walked up the marble and quartz staircase across the main hall. Reaching the top, he swept down the long halls, each of them silent save for the hollow echoing of his steps. Finally, he reached his father's study, and was admitted inside by the men at the doors. He heard them slam shut behind him, and looked up from the floor to lock eyes with the man sitting at the desk in the center of the large room. Jack's father, King Acton.
The king only looked up at his son for a second before turning his eyes down and continuing to write. "I didn't expect you to return until tomorrow. Did you get yourself caught again, or come back of your own free will?" His tone was casual, with only a slight breeze of mocking to it. Jack winced obviously, knowing he was safe since his father's eyes weren't on him.
"I was found and delivered back here." Jack said, carefully keeping his tone at level.
The king laughed. It was a harsh, full, and strong sound, memorable and strangely camouflaged all at once. "What was your reason for flight this time, Jack?" he asked, glancing up at his son and dipping his quill into the inkbottle.
Jack inhaled a sharp breath. He could have guessed that his father would ask this question, had he not been blocking all thoughts of anything related to the palace from his head while he had been at Elle's.
After a long pause, Jack responded quietly. "He had a wife and children, father."
The king stopped writing and moved on to read another letter, only glancing up at Jack. "Yes, by some coincidence, most of the men who cross me seem to have families." He stopped reading and was thoughtfully silent for a moment. "Do you suppose it could be that we gain a false sense of our own safety when there are a solid amount of people in our lives who truly care for us? Do we feel power when this is our situation, and become blind to the dangers we have put ourselves in?" There was silence in which the king contemplated this idea and Jack did not answer, being too busy wondering how behaviors like his father's could no longer shock him.
"Hmmm," the king replied after a few moments. His eyes were misted, almost as if his mind was not really there in the same room with his son. "No, this is only true for the common man, for the fool. Yes, only fools would have be so close minded as to create for ourselves an illusion of nonexistent safety such stupidity as to forget reality by focusing on our close-minded illusion of safety. But the wise man...yes, it is the wise man that says nothing, out of fear of losing his loved ones I suppose. The wise man evaluates his surroundings, and comes to the immediate conclusion that he cannot, must not lose, or his family loses with him."
A man like King Acton could openly speak to himself with ease, no matter who else was in the room with him. Many nobles often mocked him behind his back for this, calling him a lunatic. But they were cowards, every one of them, for these treasonous words were spoken only in the comfort of their own homes, and said only to most trusted companions in the dark of night, when every prying eye was shut with sleep and every curious ear was dead to the world. They were frightened of the king. And they had good reason to be.
King Acton was, in no way, a physically imposing man. He did look rather young for a man in his early fifties, with an even tan that matched his son's. He was short, shorter than Jack, with hair that look as if it had originally been a dark, rich auburn color, now unusually peppered with varying shades of gray and black in age. His eyes were a dark, forest green that occasionally matched the color in Jack's ever-changing eyes, and were topped by naturally fine brows. His shoulders were slightly broad, but the rest of his figure was slim and young. The only evidence of his age came in the form of lines beneath his eyes and cutting down across his cheekbones. But his appearance was the reason why most peasants were in the dark about the goings on of palace life. The simple men of the town had never seen the king up close while hearing him speak.
The eloquence of the king's voice and words did more than simply change your opinion about the man himself, but about his appearance too. Once you realized what went on in Acton's head, the green of his eyes seemed striking and diabolic. The wrinkles around them gave the impression of, not age, but of harsh, cruel wisdom. His odd hair color became a sign of the supernatural to the religious eye, and the thinness of his brow, once merely effeminate, began to reflect the thin string of his temper as they changed their shape in expression. Jack had begun to think of his father like this from something that Celene had pointed out when they were children. It had been the first time she had seen his father, and with all the ease of a child, she said to Acton: "You look different when you talk."
Jack remembered avoiding his father's eye after those words had been said.
"Hmmm..." King Acton said absently. "I must write that down sometime," he stood from the chair and began straightening his papers. "But anyhow, Jack, you must prepare your things. Two days from now, we shall be leaving for Autanoer."
Jack was stunned. "Autanoer?" he asked incredulously. "Why?"
"Yes, I know, it's terribly last minute, but the matter is quite serious. Diedrick's messenger was rather reluctant to talk about it, said he had been ordered not to." Acton replied, completely dismissing his son's disbelief. Diedrick was the king of Autanoer. Acton never referred to kings of other countries with the use of their title. No one had ever reprimanded him for it.
"What's happening there that's so important that we have to get involved?" Jack demanded foolishly, less out of curiosity than of indignation.
"The kingdom's funds are vanishing." was the matter-of-fact reply. "Fast. Somewhere during the business transactions among the lords, several hundreds of zoulads are being relocated. Undoubtedly it has been going on for longer than they suspect. Diedrick is nothing short of a fool."
This surprised Jack, but only momentarily. "What is the need for us to get involved?" he argued desperately. "We don't need Autanoer right now, we're not bound to them."
"Perhaps not, and if my curiosity and admiration were not present, then I would agree with you entirely. But I am impressed by the scheme. Whatever system these thieves have set up, it is obviously a clever one. The Autanoeran lords are far sharper than Diedrick, and I cannot see them letting so much money escape their grasp easily. And the whole event reminds me of a mystery tale; so many suspects with motive, and no way of knowing which of them have alibis, since the crime has been occurring gradually..." a smile began to appear on Acton's lips as he thought aloud to himself. He turned to his son. "It is indeed intriguing, is it not, Jack?"
Jack thought his father sounded like a ridiculous narrator pulled straight out of a Westlieren drama, illustrating plotlines in a way that was supposed to draw the audience in. It would have been utterly laughable off of a stage, if King Acton had even appeared to want an audience. But no, the king said it all out of his own honest intrigue, completely oblivious to whoever might have been listening. He only nodded in response to his father's question.
"Right. Then you'll need to pack your things. Germaine should be able to do it. Go along, now." the king said, with a casual nod of his head.
"When are we leaving?" Jack asked even though he knew the answer; but perhaps it would change if he asked one last time.
"Two days from now, as I said before."
"And how long will we be there?" Jack asked, dreading the answer
"One can't be certain, perhaps a couple of weeks. Now hurry along!" was his father's slightly impatient reply.
Jack nodded miserably and walked out of the door, trying to keep his feet from speeding into a run. Not only did he have to convince Elle to marry him, but he now had only two days in which to do it. Or beg her enough so she would at least come to the ball.
In next to no time, Elle had completed her chores and had been about to retire to her room and take a small catnap. She had snatched Jack's gift of silk from the kitchen table, thanking the gods above that Roberta had not noticed the tiny purse lying around. She felt her body release all stress as she let herself collapse on her stiff bed. The mattress was the least luxurious and plush in the entire house, but Elle liked it, preferred it that way. In less than ten minutes, she was in a quiet, steady sleep that could have lasted hours.
And then Lisabeth came in.
She could have kept her steps quiet in respect for Elle's peace, but she didn't. She saw no point; not when she was about to wake her stepsister anyway.
"Elle," she said in her natural voice, which was louder than a whisper and low for her age. Lisabeth shook her stepsister with a slight roughness. Immediately, Elle jerked awake, her eyes sharp and ready after a moment of haziness. She finally focused in on her stepsister.
"What do you want, Lis?" Elle asked with a little irritability.
Lisabeth just kept looking at her, with no expression change. "I need you to help me."
Elle's eyebrows raised and her eyes narrowed. "With what?" she asked cautiously.
Lisabeth beckoned her with a large hand. "Come with me," she said hurriedly. In a moment she was out the door. Almost bewildered now, Elle followed.
At thirteen years of age, Lisabeth was the youngest of the Glasswen-Inlets. Unlike Angela, who was not at all attractive to women, but alluring to certain kinds of men, Lisabeth's face was neither ugly nor beautiful, but simply containing a plainness that, in some ways, was almost pretty when one actually bothered to stop and truly look at her. She short of stature and with young, plump body that had not yet had time to develop the traditionally beautiful hourglass shape. Her skin had that same yellowish tint that Angela's did, but combined with Lisabeth's soft tan, the skin color appeared almost golden. Her smooth hair was the same yellow brown as her skin, which could sound attractive in theory, but gave her an incredibly beige and single colored look. Her forehead was low and straight, seeming to protrude with heavy dark brows over deep-set brown eyes. Her nose was a tiny, button slope that topped the thin lips of every Inlet woman. Her entire face was squared with the same strong bone structure as her mother's. Lisabeth's was a face that could either seem immeasurably complex or dull, depending on the beholding eye. She gave off no aura of superiority or great innocence, but a unique neutralness that invited without meaning to. Elle cared deeply about her stepsister, and tried as hard as she could to keep her in the dark about Angela's and Celene's agendas. She failed. Miserably.
Lisabeth lead Elle to her own room, which was a good deal more extravagant than Elle's. A blend of beautiful mahogany wood, gold silks and cerulean walls, Lis could easily feel like a princess whenever she pleased. But she never seemed to notice the luxury of material things; she was most likely the only woman residing in the house who didn't.
Elle cast glances around the room, trying to wait patiently. "What did you want to show me?" she asked, quietly, so as not to allow her voice to pass through the thin walls.
Lisabeth walked past her bed and over to her wardrobe. She swung the doors open and pulled out a basket, gingerly handing it to her stepsister. Elle glanced inside it caution. She could see nothing at first, but white linen cloth, but nearly dropped the basket in shock when she glimpsed a tiny brown head poking out through the blankets.
Elle's eyes widened as she jerked her head up at her stepsister. "Lisabeth, what is this?"
"It's a baby," she replied, no sarcasm, no stupidity. Simple matter of fact.
Elle shook her head incredulously. "I know that, but who is he? Whose is he?" Not Angela's, she prayed silently to herself as she glanced down at the sleeping child again.
Lis shrugged. "He's Regina's. She didn't want him. She said his father was her Itoromen servant. That's why he's so dark." Lisabeth shook her head as she continued, almost lowering her voice more. "She's ashamed of him."
Elle looked down at the boy cradled in the basket, and took deep breaths as she truly looked at him for the first time. She hadn't seen too many Itorois in her life; it was kingdom much farther away from Vaillere. But now, as she beheld the tiny boy, she saw that he way beautiful. The soft, infant skin covering his tiny bones was a smooth, glossy brown. The texture of the skin seemed to be a bit different than that of a fair-skinned child, but the difference was difficult to describe. Thick black curls provided protection for the baby's head, and Elle could not resist running her hand through them, loving how fuzzy they felt against her fingers. But even doing this, she felt as if she were violating him. This was a child who had basically been dropped off on a sidewalk by his mother. Surely someone so new and so innocent would never allow a stranger to touch them in any way, not so soon after being betrayed.
Elle, your being ridiculous, she thought to herself. This is a child, and infant, a baby. It-he can't understand what has been done to him, how he would have suffered if he could understand. Maybe if he lives to know of his history, then perhaps he will carry the burden of that knowledge and pain for the rest of his life. Pain that he can't even remember feeling...how could that bitch of a woman do that?
"How could that bitch of a woman do that?" she whispered.
Lisabeth walked closer to her and ran a plump hand over the baby's face, as if she were a blind woman trying to picture him with her fingers. Once again she shook her head. "I don't know." she said, no pain in her eyes, just inflections in her voice. "He's so beautiful."
Elle nodded with a tiny smile as she watched his chest rise and fall with breath. That he was.
It was then that it hit her. She snapped up her head to stare at Lisabeth with absolute incredulity. "Lis, what were you thinking? We can't keep him in the house! Your mother will find him, and the gods only know what she will do with him! How long have you been keeping him here?"
"A week and a half." Lisabeth answered, unfazed. "I've been feeding him crumbs of the good bread, and I stole the nursing bottle that mother would use to feed me. I've been filling it with warm milk. He's very quiet, and he takes it all just fine. He goes to sleep every day for a few hours around the time we left today, and when he wakes, all you have to do is whistle to him to calm him. Sometimes I even play with him, with my Dachrinemas bells, he like those an awful lot."
Elle could not stop herself from inwardly wondering at her stepsister. Without question or fear, she had accepted this responsibility as if it were meant to be her own. Only thirteen years of age, and she had learned how to take care of an infant with a maturity that rivaled Elle's. Perhaps she even felt a tinge of jealousy at it.
She kept all this emotion out of her face. "That's all well, Lis, but he still can't stay here. Bread can't sustain an infant for long, and I doubt there is anything else in this house that is fit for an infant's mouth."
Lisabeth nodded, and Elle could have sworn that she caught the tiniest bit of grudging in it. "I know." she said, her voice very quiet. "But I didn't want to let him go." Such simple words, but coming from a girl genuine as Lisabeth, they meant so much. Elle did not know what to say. All she could think of doing was hand the boy back to her stepsister, who took him with gentle arms, running her hands through his hair with none of Elle's hesitation.
"I didn't go into this with nothing." Lis continued, ripping her eyes away from the beautiful boy. "I thought that you might take her...to Andrenyi."
Elle raised her eyebrows, then took a deep sigh. She supposed should have seen that coming.
Andrenyi was Elle's godmother, and rumored to be the only third age sorceress left in Vaillere. But no one knew how old Andrenyi was. She was rarely even seen by the Vaillerian public. When she chose to make her presence known, it was either at the funerals for the tomb blessings (and to collect the organs removed prior to the burial) or at the slums searching for the orphaned children wandering the streets. It was common knowledge in the slums of Vaillere that if ever you were alone, a parentless child, you would be found, if you stayed on the streets for only a short amount of time, by Mother Andrenyi, who would keep you safe.
Sorcerers and sorceresses were dwindling in numbers, and many of them like Andrenyi had taken it upon themselves to train what they called "the next generation". But she was different from the others (at least the ones that Elle had heard about from Jack) in the sense that she would offer the children a choice. Andrenyi did not force them to study sorcery in exchange for food and shelter. She became their guardian and mother, and loved each one of them. Elle loved her godmother too. It had been Andrenyi who raised her orphan father, and then named her as Elle's godmother. If it hadn't been for the fact that Andrenyi and Celene weren't that fond of each other (among other reasons), Elle probably would have gone to live with her godmother when her parents died.
"Andrenyi would love him." Elle began slowly. "But she's not even in the Trion right now. She left for Cyrus two weeks ago."
Lisabeth's eyes widened. "When will she be back?"
"Not for another two weeks. She still writes to me."
Lis shook her head. "Elle, she wouldn't leave the towers alone would she?" there was hope in her voice. Real hope. Hope that Elle had never allowed herself to truly have.
Slowly she shook her head. "No." Elle responded, thinking back to Andrenyi's last letter. "No, I think she mentioned leaving it to the care of one of her eldest. I can't recall the name."
"Do you still have the letter?"
"I burn them after I read them."
"Please, just take him. I don't know the way, and I wouldn't let him leave my arms." As soon as the words left her lips, Elle knew they were true. The longer Lis held onto the boy, the longer she wanted to hold onto him. As if reading her stepsister's thoughts, she held him out to Elle, slowly but steadily. "I know he can't stay here."
Elle took the basket, looking down at the sleeping infant. Lisabeth was honest in every way. There was never anything held back or added on. Elle knew her too well to deny her pain. She loved her too much to deny her any wish. She nodded. "I will take him tonight."
Lisabeth's eyes were bright as she jumped to wrap her arms around Elle's shoulders, causing the basket to dig into her stomach. "Thank you, Elle, oh thank you!"
Elle smiled with a bit of strain over her stepsister's shoulder. She had no idea who would be watching over Andrenyi's towers, and Andrenyi was the only sorceress/sorcerer that she gave any damn about. She wasn't fond of the rest of them; she had no patience for magic. The way Elle saw it all; people should be left to deal with their problems with sweat, blood, and tears. Not with charms and fairy dust.
Lisabeth released her from the embrace. Looking down once again at the child, Elle ran her fingers through his hair, trying not to hesitate this time. "Did Regina give him a name?"
Lisabeth's eyes were fixed on the boy as she shook her head. "No," she said quietly. "I did."
Elle felt a gentle smirk tug at her mouth. "What's his name?"
"Corydon. It's an Itoromen name, Fletcher said he had an Itoromen friend with that name killed by the Autanoeran soldiers."
Elle didn't listen past the name. "Corydon," she whispered. The boy turned over in his sleep with a shallow whimper. Lis looked like her heart would break as Elle glance back up at her.
"Lis, someday, when Roberta and Angela are out, I'll show you the way to the towers. You should be able to watch your son grow up."
A glittering tear began to slide its way down Lisabeth's cheek.
I am the slowest updater in the history of this website. I'm sorry for taking about half a year! Please don't hurl anything at me!
I'm not sure I like the way this chapter ended, it's a bit sappy. Any thoughts on that? I should be updating a bit faster from now on, because I've finally figured out where I want this story to go.
About the whole sorcerer thing, I forgot to mention that there is a teensy-weensy bit of fantasy in this story, but it won't be dominant in any way. I'm just like Elle in the sense that, although I love to read about fantasy, I suck at writing it. I have no patience for it.
I really want to know what you guys think of this chapter, and especially what you think of Lis and Acton. Especially Acton. I had alot of problems writing him, and I'm still not sure he came out the way I had wanted him to. His relationship with Jack was tough too. It's clear in my head, but I'm not sure I'm describing it right. Lis was easier, but I felt like all of my sentence flow was gone in her section, and I might have lost a little bit of Elle in that section too. Grrr, writing is tough. Life sucks. Yah.
Okay, I'm done with my rant now. Thanks for all who reviewed, and J, dearie, I will see you on Monday. Groan. School. Yep, life sucks alright.
Hehe. Coxcomb out.