Terry Simpson - Etchings of Power

“Thank you, Mother, Da.” Relief washed through Ancel like a cool breeze. The dirty looks he’d begun to receive from fathers and brothers of the many women he bedded had begun to weigh on him. He knew it was only his parents’ status that prevented them from doing more than mutter veiled threats.

“Now, enough of that talk,” Stefan said, still smiling. “The reason your mother did all this is because you won’t be here for your nineteenth naming day.” He poured three glasses of kinai wine and passed them around. “This is to your nineteenth, son. You’re a man in every sense of the word now. You should be enjoying this time in your life.” Stefan raised his glass. “Here’s to you, son. We’re both proud of you.”

Ancel beamed and took a long drink. Warmth flooded his body.

“Oh,” his mother exclaimed, putting her glass down. “I have a gift for you.” She fidgeted in the folds of her dress for a moment before she produced something golden. Ancel attempted to see, but she kept it hidden as she stood and crossed to him. “Wear this always,” she said, her voice almost a whisper as she positioned herself behind him. “Promise me.”

A thin chain dropped around Ancel’s neck to rest on his chest. From it hung a pendant. He took it in his hand. An exact likeness of his mother’s face, intricately wrought in silversteel down to the shining gray blue gems for her eyes, stared back at him. Ancel gawked, but the only words he could find were, “I promise.” Tears welled up in his eyes.

“Thank you for being a wonderful son,” his mother said before she squeezed his shoulder and returned to her seat.

Still dumbfounded, the small talk that followed about his day at school and the preparations for the trip washed over Ancel. Several times, he touched the charm before he glanced at his mother. She graced him with a serene smile every time.

“Oh, I forgot to mention,” Stefan said. “You will be taking Charra with you.”

Ancel’s eyes widened. In the past, his father had banned Charra from leaving the Whitewater Falls area. Now he wants me to bring him to Randane ?

“Don’t ask why,” his father said before Ancel could utter a word, “Take him. Oh, and should you wish to partake in some of the entertainment Randane has to offer, please remember we Dorns have a family name to maintain. In fact, I would suggest you take a peek at The Dancing Lady. I doubt anyone would recognize you there.” His father shrugged at Mother’s stern look before they both resumed eating.

Thoughts swirled through Ancel’s mind. His father’s sword, Charra’s recent behavior, his mother’s gift, strange beasts in the Greenleaf Forest and the mountain clans’ feud were foremost. This was compounded by the upcoming meeting with the Dosteri, his trip to Randane, and his father’s command to take the daggerpaw. Calestis’ words in Discipline class came back to him.

When several separate events occur at an opportune or inopportune time, people call it coincidence. Coincidence, my students, is nothing more than the birth child of intricate planning.

Ancel lost himself in his ponderings hardly tasting the food.

Evening had come by the time they sat at Eldanhill’s southern outskirts. The day had raced by in a whirlwind of preparations, and Ancel and his friends were allowed to skip their studies as they gathered the necessary supplies. Danvir spent most of his time at the tailor making sure he obtained quite a few outfits for their planned revelry. Both he and Mirza attempted to convince Ancel to take clothes other than the black he favored recently. He’d settled on a sky blue coat, a matching shirt, a tan cloak, and tan pants. All his other clothes were either dark gray or black.

Ancel’s horse whickered in response to Charra’s impatient coos and pawing at the ground. Charra stared off behind him, but Ancel’s attention remained on Eldanhill as he played with the charm around his neck. Far north, beyond the town, the last vestiges of sunlight swathed the Kelvore Mountains in purple and orange hues. Ancel hadn’t found the time to say goodbye to any of his other friends, but the worst part was that not having the chance didn’t bother him. Doubts crept into him about how much he would miss his home. Charra cooed once more.

“Gods, I’m glad they let us ride these beauties this time,” Danvir said, patting his white mare. The horse’s coat shone with the waning evening sunlight.

Ancel smirked. “I’d much rather if we were on dartans.”

“I’m sure you would,” Danvir replied. “But there’s nothing more beautiful than a well-groomed horse. Why else would they be the status symbol for nobles all across Granadia? Seriously, if you want to tout your beloved dartans so much, then move to Ostania. I’m sure the savages over there would encourage your love for those massive beasts.”

“I don’t see why you insist on saying Ostanians are savages. Not when some of our own folk were descended from them,” Mirza said. “Who knows, maybe you are too.”

Danvir’s mouth upturned with loathing and his large ears reddened. “I doubt that very much. At least those of Ostanian heritage here don’t eat horseflesh or feed horses to dartans like their ancestors.” With each word, his face matched his ears, becoming as red as his jacket. Since he’d lost a few of his stock to a raid from one of the mountain tribes, he often became enraged when discussing his beloved animals. “If they did, I’d move to a more civilized town or even Randane itself.”

Ancel shook his head. “You really need to calm down. I never said I didn’t like horses. None of us did. And I’m not one of the Seifer or Nema, nor am I Ostanian. But for all a horse’s grace and beauty, dartans are faster, offer a smoother ride, and when fed well, they can gallop for hours and hours nonstop.”

“Because they’re fat on fucking horses,” Danvir snapped, teeth showing.

“Come on, stop it,” Mirza interrupted before Ancel flashed a response. “And that’s not fair, Dan. None of our own has ever done that. Especially not Ancel. You know the Dorns keep some of the best horses in Eldanhill. Burning shades, man, he gave you a few ponies from his best stock just months ago.”

Danvir’s face softened, as much as a rugged cliff miner’s face could. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Ancel. You know I get beside myself when we talk about horses.” He rubbed his mare’s neck.

Ancel waved him off. “That’s an understatement if I ever heard one. You go berserk. Anyway, you’ll need to change your attitude when you become a Dagodin.”

“I know,” Danvir said, crestfallen. “Then I’ll be surrounded by the beasts.” Muttering under his breath, he shook his head, his face twisting into a disgusted mask.

Still annoyed, Ancel kicked the stirrups of his bay and walked to where he could get a better look at Eldanhill. His hand itched to reach inside to his pocket and remove Irmina’s letter. Resisting the urge, he pictured her and the smell of her flowery perfume. The letter’s words came unbidden.

My dearest Ancel,

There’s no easy way for me to put this, but there is another.

Whatever you felt for me cannot be. Being with you would only become a distraction, so I’m forced to cut you free. The time has come for me to move on. You must forget about me and live your life. My duty may not see me back in Eldanhill for years to come if at all. By then, who knows where my heart, or yours, will be.

Life and love are brutal teachers. Learn, adjust, and survive. Or die. Those are your choices. I choose life.

One day, after you complete your studies and pass the trials, your time will come. Then, you’ll understand.