Perceptions
1578 Words
Perceptions~
Sethlyan Callan
Dundarien, Aleron
That night, Dundarien pulsed with the beautiful noise of Aurel revelry. Clans of the Hawk held on to their heritage. Aleron was one place where the Aurel heart had not dimmed with time.
Joren the Conqueror came and went. Life moved on in the mountains. The clans moved on with it, and kept on moving… and building, guarding, growing, and loving. They moved on as they plowed and planted, hunted and herded. Life moved to its own music here, a song in rhythm with the rugged mountains they called home.
Seth couldn’t help but feel his spirits rise. Aleron dancing had a boot-stomping recklessness and flirty wink to it that the circumspect waltzes of the South lacked. Theirs was just plain, good frolicking.
Isobel anticipated every step as he spun her around the dance floor. She was a part of him, maybe the best part of him. She’d made him stronger than he would’ve demanded of himself. Sometimes he thought she deserved more than he had to give. But they’d made a good life together.
He held her hand as they left the dancing.
“You’re the prettiest woman here.”
“You think I am,” she smiled. “That’s what matters,” she said.
“Sit with me a while. We’ll watch our boys work up the courage to ask the girls to dance.”
“We won’t wait long,” she said. “They all have a bit of their father’s swagger.”
Seth navigated through the crowded hall and back to the dais. He sat on the top step and patted the spot beside him.
“Here, I saved you the best seat in the hall.”
She settled in close and pointed. “The Terrors are out there trying a reel.”
“Good. Means they aren’t up to mischief.” Rory and Ava never stayed out of mischief for long, though. Seth nodded toward the musicians. “Cade’s playing geddar. When did he pick that up?”
“When Ranald opined that the geddar was harder to master than the fiddle.”
“The boy can’t pass up a challenge, can he?”
A couple at the edge of the dancing caught his attention. Seara Gruder was a creature of the night, still a beautiful woman when she powdered her face and brushed color on her cheeks. Aengus stuck by her side like the devoted husband. Seth knew better. He kept her close because he didn’t trust her out of his sight.
“I don’t see Nathalyan,” said Isobel.
“He was prowling around with Duncan earlier. There’s Rosalee with Gaven.” The hosts of Dundarien were laughing, surrounded by familiar faces. “The Gregors must be telling tales again.”
“She hates these things, you know.”
“Ah, she manages well enough.”
Rosalee Buchanan was at ease around family, but the shy girl from Monaughty had never embraced the boisterous throngs of Clan Aleron quite so wholeheartedly as her sister.
“Well, look at that,” he said. “She’s letting Bishop Gregor take her to the dance floor.”
“Rosey?”
Isobel leaned against him for a better angle. A wall of garnet and gold brocade suddenly obscured their view.
“Lord Sethlyan,” it said. “Lady Isobel. May I join you?”
Seth and Isobel looked up together.
“A guest of Adan’s. Be nice,” she warned.
Seth nodded to the portly man with an oddly trimmed beard. Fitted velvet breeches under his brocade tailcoat marked him as a visitor from the Surdisi South. The man lowered his bulk to the step below theirs and reached back his hand.
“Mervyn Griffith. From Da’Rhynn.”
“Adan invited a Da’Rhynn to the conclave.” Seth was at a loss as to how to title the man.
“His wife is a Dumfrie. A cousin, a few generations removed.”
“Welcome to Aleron, Manser Griffith.”
“Please, call me Mervyn,” he said, waving aside formality. “Adan said I should introduce myself. Saw you sitting here and thought I’d amble over,” the man chatted on. “I’m new to Aleron. Still figuring out how things work up here.”
“Chief Tavish speaks for Aleron,” said Seth, pointedly using Adan’s title.
“Chief Tavish. His Grace, the Rhi’Aleron.” Mervyn grimaced and tapped his forehead. “Sorry. Meant no disrespect. If there’s a wrong way to say something, I’ll find it.”
“Give him a chance, dear. Adan apparently found something of worth in him.”
“You are new to Aleron, Manser Griffith,” Seth repeated.
“Mervyn. And yes, my lord,” said Mervyn. “Catharina, my wife, was a Dumfrie before she married me, so she remembers the conclaves from when she was a girl. I’m the fish out of water. You see, we met in Jorendon. She’s an actress with the Falkender Company. A playwright. Perhaps you’ve heard of her?”
“We seldom make it to Jorendon,” said Isobel.
“Ah, yes. Few of you do. No great loss on your part, I assure you.” Mervyn pushed himself up and waved his arms above his head. “Just calling the wife over to meet you.”
“Grand. Another of them.”
“Have you relocated to Aleron, Manser Griffith?” said Isobel.
“Mervyn,” he said. “Not yet, no. Catharina is the last of the Dumfrie line. Castle Foley has been empty since the last steward died. I wrote Adan and asked him to consider her claim to the estate.”
“Chief Tavish,” said Seth, and his tone was not a gentle reminder. “What does a playwright in Jorendon want with an empty estate in Aleron?”
Mervyn’s smile faded. “I had a thriving business in Jorendon. I supported my wife and children well. Then the Prophet decided my fireworks and stage illusions were evils wrought by the Great Serpent himself.”
Seth waited, unmoved.
“Catharina joined the theater to put food on our table.”
“Doesn’t look like he’s missed many meals.”
“Hear him out, dear.”
“I’m not a proud man, but managing the Foley estate will let me contribute to our family’s support again.”
A bosomy woman with fiery red hair made her way up the steps, her bright blue gown cut lower than most ladies would dare. Her face was flushed from dancing, and a riot of damp curls framed pleasant blue eyes and dimpled smile. She bent to kiss her husband’s cheek and then dropped in a dramatic curtsy.
“Our Lord and Lady Callan of Glenayre,” she greeted them with a grand sweep of her arm. “I see you’ve met my beloved.”
“We’ve had the honor, Madam Griffith,” he said.
“Catharina, if you please, my lord.” She swept her hand over her forehead, brushing back rebellious wisps a bit too red to be authentic. “No one knows how to enjoy a dance quite as thoroughly as the Hawks. I’d forgotten the delight of a tunic swishing above a handsome pair of knees.” Her eyes twinkled. “Lady Isobel, how do the women of Aleron manage not to gawk?”
A blush colored Isobel’s cheeks, but her lips fought a smile.
“It can be difficult. All the uphill walking our men do here in the mountains does tend to shape their…” She gave a wistful sigh. “One learns to bear the distraction.”
“Issy! You didn’t just say that.”
“What? I like your knees.”
Seth’s brow arched in amusement.
“Let me make them go away. Just a gentle nudge. We’ll go upstairs, and I’ll distract you properly.”
“No mindriding Adan’s guests.” She gave him a kiss and a promise. “Behave now, and you may distract me later.”
At some point, they noticed Mervyn was still talking.
“—take the name Dumfrie-Griffith. He means to propose it during the conclave.”
“Ah, yes.” Seth focused again. “With Castle Foley vacant, the quota of lordships is down by one.”
“I hope we can count on your support,” said Mervyn.
Seth doubted the flamboyant couple from Jorendon could adjust to life in Rhynn. Holding on to the Aurel ways under the scrutiny of the Prophet’s minions and the harassment of the Red Watch was hard enough, much less trying to fit in anew. Taxes and trade restrictions were pinching even the grandest estates. The Griffiths might find it difficult to eke out a living from the small Foley holding.
“I’ll listen,” he said. “Chief Tavish’s opinion carries a great deal of influence with us all.”
“He said as much of you.” Catharina gave him an appraising look. “Let’s bypass the intermission and cut straight to the finale. My early plays were the rave of Jorendon. I kept within the bounds of popular sentiment, skirted the edge of propriety, and made a name for myself. When one of my Aurel characters wasn’t the predictable villain, some powerful people took note. When my hero from the North drove back the fanatical, torch-wielding hordes, they began to fear me.”
“You need to leave Jorendon,” said Isobel.
“It would be best. If my words have a chance at altering perceptions, I want to be heard. But not until my family is farther from the Prophet’s fiery fingers.”
“Your words are fueling dangerous sentiments,” said Seth.
“Vigorously denied, but fundamentally true.”
“Catharina is eloquent in expressing her opinions,” said Mervyn.
“My work has a purpose,” she said. “Wit is a sword. Comedy is a wolf hidden amidst the sheep. A few clever words can crumble even the hardest held prejudices.”
“I don’t know that I share your belief in the power of mere words,” said Seth.
“People believe anything if you whisper it.” She drew closer. “Rhad am Rhynni.”
Seth leaned back. He spoke the same words to himself every morning and every night. Free Rhynn. The cause lived on, its banner the memory of those betrayed at b****y Bend, and the resistance grew from year to year. Someday a free Rhynn would be the rose of revenge he laid on his brother’s grave.
“Adan found something of substance in them. He wouldn’t have sent them to find us if he didn’t.”
“Adan is inviting a bright orange powder keg with a short fuse into our midst.”
“I appreciate your sentiment. And your intentions,” he said. “But hoisting the flag of rebellion is premature. I suggest you graze in pastures you know.”
Mervyn’s joviality vanished.
“My blood is as Aurel as yours, Callan. Da’Rhynns are tired of being the whipping boy. The bile of oppression you taste now? We’ve swallowed it for centuries. You need us for your rebellion. We live amongst them. We blend in. We’re in their People’s House. We’re in the Royal Army. We’re in their churches. Their Beacon is a Griffith.”
Mervyn breathed heavily, like a man who’d run a long race and had the end in sight. He clenched and unclenched his fists as his breathing steadied.
“When the Gaurennes ran, we Da’Rhynns stayed and fought. We bore the brunt of Joren’s invasion, and we survived. We are Aurels, too,” the man said fiercely. “Rhad am Rhynni.”
Chapter 12
- Writer
