The Blind Valiant

GOOD DEVILS TENANTED.

 In his haste, Kyrillos got lost on the way to his room and instead found himself in the atrium.

 The scents of rosewater and lavender drifted from the entrance and started to mingle with other flowers and plants as he continued inside the glass domed circular room.

 The rich dark smell of earth and the stronger, soapy scent of noon-blooming flowers- moonflowers, purple cereus, night phlox. And some he didn’t recognize, like a plant bearing a crescent-shaped pink blossom whose petals were medallioned with crimson pollen.

Through the thirteen feet long glass wall window, Kyrillos could see the march of Marrąk, the merchants and locals like a multitude of ants on either side of the bridge.

“Quite the exit. I didn’t take you as that dramatic.” He didn’t have to turn around to know who it was. His steps were light and assured even with the clicks of boots.

“Ten years is long enough to learn a few things.” He replied, his fingers picking at rose petals from their crawling stalks at the windowsills.

Melek came to stand at his left, staring out to the city in the same wistful manner. But his had a possessive coldness that swallowed his pale eyes.

 “You’d think with your antics all those years ago, that you’d be dimmed in their eyes. They still see you as the second coming of Lavinia.”

 Kyrillos didn’t find any trace of bitterness in his voice, just annoyance. “I think you’re mistaking me for Sharur. By the by, time cannot dim the sun, Melek.”

His young uncle grinned, a quick sideways grin, as if he couldn’t help it, before saying. “But it does set.”

 Kyrillos sighed and turned to Melek, just like the years had shaped Sharur from a carefree idolized boy to a man of purpose, Melek Mortimer had abandoned his childishness.

The pallor of his waist-length hair braided in five plaits, gave his abalone skin some color, drew eyes to the rosy flush along his high cheekbones, the devilish cut of his jawline.

 Slightly slenderer when compared Kyrillos’ build and nearly matching each other’s height. But it was obvious looking at Manfri, Severa, and their children, were related with just looking at their jade green eyes; Melek looked more of a specter made flesh.

Kyrillos, as well as everyone else in the Mortimer household, had heard of why he looked so.

In the earlier days after his birth, when his mother had died and it seemed baby Melek would soon follow. He had wailed and screamed into the night, none of the nursemaids could get to him settle or sleep.

 It had been Severa, tired of her noisy newborn brother, who silenced him by dribbling the sugar-sweet nectar of noxfyr, the ghost flowers that bloomed only under crescent moonlight on old sanctified grounds like the Reliquary.

 A life-changing mistake, because it drained all the color from Melek; his hair, skin and eyes even his blood was deficient of any pigment. Because of this, he was nicknamed Phantom.

“Melek, I came here to be free of all of you. Say what you want so I can go back to plotting my escape.”

“I don’t think you’ll leave, Kyrillos.” The grin was gone and the superior tone he was used to, returned.

He arched a brow. “Really? Did you somehow learn foresight sorcery while I was away?”

 Melek shrugged as he drew closer. “I don’t know what your father was talking about the problem you’re having in Arsinor. But I know you wouldn’t give up the chance to prove that you’re better than everyone. Isn’t that what you’ve been training so hard to prove?”

Kyrillos smiled back, too tight that he feared his bones would break out from the stretch. “It might have been, a long time ago. Not anymore, you can have your castle on the hill, Uncle Phantom. Marrąk always was in poor taste.”

 Who am I lying to? I’ve always loved this city. But it always reminded me of something... missing.

Melek grinned so ghastly that it sent a chill down Kyrillos’ spine. “Whatever you decide, just stay out of my way.” And he departed.

Kyrillos stayed in the atrium gardens for an hour more before he left and went snooping about the Reliquary. He could take a few tours, reminiscing about his years here.

 Maybe it was the intrigue of being back here or the fact that he needed more time to consider if he should leave. But exploring settled a calm over him.

That was till he nearly barged into his father as he left the Paint Hall where all the oil paintings of past Madrigals of the Mortimer family were reverently hung.

“Easy there, boy.” The Madrigal Lord steadied him with a firm grip on his forearm.

“Always in a rush, aren’t you still?” His father had a wan smile.

Kyrillos brushed his father's hand off. “I was only looking around, it’s been years since I was here. You already made some renovations.”

Lord Manfri shrugged lightly, his hardened gaze never leaving his son’s face. “Someone had to make it more fortress than a pleasure abode.”

“Looks like you’d be needing a fortress if things go badly with the Kinship.”

“Not if we all do our part as I command it.” Yet Manfri sighed not out of eagerness which confused him. It was common knowledge within the Echelon of Manfri Mortimer’s formidability as a Noirish lord.

No other Mortimer had attained his prodigious skill in the Lemegeton arts, not in a long time.

So why did he sound so hesitant and unsure? Why does he wish to pass over the title?

“Not if you decide to help. I know there are reasons why you should misjudge me...”

“No you don’t.” Kyrillos berated an interruption. “If you wanted to have a civil father-son conversation, you could’ve easily reached out before now, not when you need someone to clean up your mess. But you didn’t.”

“I’m a Madrigal reigning over the largest fiefdom in Evvoia. I’m too busy ruling territories and breaking rebellions to babysit you.”

“If I was vindictive enough, I’d just take all you have the old fashioned way. Turn all of this into a well deserved crypt.” Kyrillos waved around him.

 His father only smirked. “It would only prove how much you and I are the same, son. No matter my mistakes in the past with you, I intend to make it up to you. By giving you a chance to immortalize your name in the Echelon.”

Kyrillos wore an incredulous look on his face as he answered the man before him. “Then you really don’t know me.”

This time he saw the infuriated and pensive face of the Madrigal Lord, not the man who had sometimes cuddled his abrasiveness. “The time for that is gone. You’re a man now; not a simpering child. And men respect the wishes of their families.”