Carol Jane
05-29-2008, 05:05 PM
ISOBETH’S ROCK
© C. Kinion Martin
CHAPTER 1 - DISCOVERY
“Trevol Remar's grave?” The king's incredulous voice reverberated loudly in the previously empty throne room; empty, that is, until an insistent Page rudely roused the king from his chamber with news that an envoy awaited with an urgent message, and whom he now faced.
A certain ring to the king's intense response brought the envoy's head up sharply from his bent, respectful position.
The king gravely eyed the messenger. “Do you know how many times in the past twenty-six years I have received this news, and at a more convenient hour than this?”
The king paused long enough to run an impatient hand through sleep-mussed, light-brown hair.
Hesitantly the messenger stepped forward, kneeled, and remained there while he spoke. “I am a faithful servant of Melton Remar, king of Boline, presently at your service, your Majesty. I mean no disrespect. I am well aware of the many rumors over the years. However, this time it is no rumor. What I have uttered is true. Not a fortnight ago Trevol Remar's grave was found. Two hundred men were sent, but…”
“Two hundred were? What do you mean, were?” The king's eyebrows more than slightly raised, his mind no longer dulled by waves of sleepiness. A Shiver caused him to slightly tremble. He pulled his thick, brocaded night robe tighter about his waist, retying the sash.
The envoy's face grew ruddy beneath the king's scrutiny and his demanding interruption. “A company of two hundred soldiers were sent,” the envoy repeated, “from the palace in Lanota to cross the Tooklan border…”
“…to investigate a rumor,” King Terah Holan dryly finished.
“Yes, your Majesty, to investigate another rumor.”
“Does not your king ever tire of needlessly losing men?”
The envoy slowly rose from his kneeling position, inwardly fighting down anger that threatened to choke him if he didn't appease it. He inhaled deeply, followed by a loud exhale. His voice steadied as he safely replied in a controlled monotone.
“Sire, I am trail weary. I've traveled for many days through heavy winds and rain. My king sent me with this news as soon as a soldier from the two hundred returned from Tooklan.” He stepped forward to hand the king a tube, which contained a sealed scroll with written details of the discovery.
The King of Selah received the tube and nodded in acknowledgment. His expression took on a sad, faraway look. “As young men, Trevol Remar and I were close friends. I have held the hope for twenty-six years that somehow he would be found to be alive. Unreasonable as that sounds, a small voice inside me always told me that if Trevol were alive, he would not be in hiding. He would be on the throne of your Boline as its king. Instead, his brother, Melton, rules…”
King Holan sighed heavily, closely eying the exhausted envoy. “Forgive me for rambling on. You need rest. My personal squire will see you to your room where he will provide for your comfort for however long you stay.”
The envoy bowed low. “I thank you for your hospitality.”
Sleep became impossible in the hours after the Bolinian messenger departed. A weary King Holan finally arose from his rumpled bed. He reached for the thick-braided, golden cord that hung nearby. A servant soon appeared. “Fetch to me Balimore at once.”
The servant hastily bowed and was gone.
King Holan turned as his oldest son entered the spacious chamber.
“Yes, Father? You wish to see me?” Undaunted by this early morning summons, Balimore dipped his head slightly, a hint of curiosity upon his dimpled face.
“An envoy from Boline arrived the first hour of this day. As our commander of Selah's Border Legion, I should have sent for you, but the message was urgent and there was no time.” Terah looked intently at his tall son, but Balimore remained silent while he waited for his father to finish.
“The burial mound of Trevol Remar has been found.”
Balimore blinked in disbelief, then noted the king's seriousness. A smile of comprehension spread slowly across his features. “But, Sire, this is good news, is it not? To explain more clearly, he has been considered dead a great many years, and his whereabouts long sought.”
“Aside from my waning hopes of him being found alive, it is not so much now that he has been found as to where.” He shook his head.
Balimore sobered instantly, the hair raised at the nape of his neck. “Where, Sire?”
“In the land of the Tooklans!”
“Could it mean…?” Stunned, Balimore's voice faded.
“It could mean many things. Tooklan will predictably refuse to give up his remains to be buried in his own land. The possibility is war, and Boline would pull all the southern lands into it.” Terah eyed his eldest. “What are your thoughts on this, my son?”
“I have not the wisdom nor experience that you have, Sire. We cannot see afar off, but perhaps good things will come of this. Unanswered questions – the stories, the legends - might be answered at last about the mystery of Trevol Remar. Rumors have always abounded, and is it that much of a surprise his grave is on Tooklan soil?
“I do not believe King Melton has the power to suck all surrounding realms into war with Tooklan unless they are ripe for it in the first place.”
King Holan gazed blankly at the flickering flame of his table lamp, his lips grimly pressed together. “I hope you are right, son, for I cannot see what possible good can come of war with Tooklan.”
“Has war officially been declared by the royal council of Boline?”
“Not yet, but that is a formality long abandoned. Their expected military advances will inevitably lead all the realms into war. It is entirely out of our hands, however.
“We know Tooklans thrive on warring, and why not? They always win!”
“There have surely been defeats for them, too, Sire.”
“If so, recorded history knows nothing of those defeats. That usually happens to any who brashly tangle with them. Look at the losses of Gamaar, Shăzal, and especially Lynara.”
“But should those southern kingdoms be referred to as conquests, Sire?”
“What do you mean? Of course, they were!”
“I beg to differ with you, Sire. They were not conquered as in the usual course of war. They simply lost single battles of their own, foolish making. They remain independent realms, just as before. Does it not strike you as peculiar that the battles fought have always been within the Tooklan border, and that we are conditioned to believe Tooklan has already won a war with the southlands before it actually occurs?”
CHAPTER 2 – DREAMER’S BALL
The Dreamer's Ball was quinquennial. Through all generations the ball had grown in importance since royalty and common folk alike looked forward to the affair with eager anticipation each fifth year. No one, not even Chalome's best historians, could say when the tradition began, nor for what purpose other than extraordinary enjoyment. One of those nonsensical events that hadn't merited honorable mention in the long history of Selah, its subsistence relied on word of mouth, passed from generation to generation.
The castle of Selah came alive in gala preparation for the long-awaited event. Elaborate finger foods, to be served and consumed, consisted of all types of breads, meats, and cheeses, prepared weeks ahead. Frozen, containers filled the spacious shelves within the huge ice room. Pastries and desserts of all types took their place in frozen storage along with the finger foods. Last minute preparations included countless bowls piled high with all manner of fruit. Extra scullery maids and servants alike labored together in this enormous endeavor.
Normal protocol took a back seat during this time, for much of the Holan family's attention focused upon the arrival and entertainment of royalty from other realms, and rightly so.
However, the largest portion of the ball's importance belonged to the lower classes. Every five years their stance in life could be forgotten - if only just for one night - for it was a Dreamer's Ball.
CHAPTER 3 - QUESTIONS
“Oh, Mamahn, the gown is so lovely! But will it fall to pieces? It has been hanging there since…since…”
Naanel, smiled. She shook her head. “Obet, my daughter, let me worry about that. Would I let you wear it if I had the tiniest doubt about its wearability?”
Obet returned her mother's smile while she gazed at herself in the mirror, holding before her the loveliest of gowns. “No, Mamahn, you would not, and I usually trust your judgment, but…”
“Then why doubt? It is sturdy and soft fibered; made of the finest silk found - spun from the giant silk worms of Rafaam, and woven with the greatest of care and ability. There is none like it, child.”
These last words were spoken with such low-voiced solemnity that Obet stopped primping long enough to look upon the serious face of her mother.
“Mamahn, come to think of it, there are things I would like to know. For instance…where is Rafaam, and how did you acquire a gown this lovely and plush? And, you said giant silk worms?”
“It was given me long, long ago when I was a young woman - made specially for me.”
Smiling at Obet's incredulous look, Naanel's eyes reflected memories of yesteryears and faraway places.
Obet sighed, “In that case, someone must have been very rich. A gown of this quality is costly.”
Naanel regarded Obet seriously for a moment. At times she was tempted to tell her daughter everything. After all, Obet was more than old enough to bear the responsibility of knowing her mother’s well-kept secret.
Obet's low groans brought Naanel's thoughts to the present. “Mamahn - my hair! It is impossible! How will I…?”
“Obet, you worry far too much.”
Naanel knew why her only child expressed concern. Five years ago found Obet ill the night of the Dreamer's Ball. As a result, she grieved about that lost opportunity for months afterward. At the time, Obet was eighteen, the youngest age allowed attendance to the Dreamer’s Ball. At twenty-three, Obet seemed younger in many ways due to being sheltered within the confines of the castle all her life.
Naanel reached to pull the vanity seat away from the mirror.
“Come, daughter, and sit. I will wrap your hair now, for we have other tasks to accomplish on this fine day.”
Obet laid the gown gently upon her bed. She carefully tugged at the hem of the long, full skirt to straighten out wrinkles, then crossed the room to sit before her mother. “Do you know how to put all this hair up in an elaborate way, Mamahn?”
Obet placed her hands beneath her long hair at the nape of her neck. She deftly pushed its dark, shiny length into an uneven pile atop her head only to let it fall back down to await her mother's direction.
“Daughter, your hair will flow loosely about your shoulders this night, just as your father preferred mine. The raven black hair you have is from his people and mine…”
“But royalty wears hair up, Mamahn,” Obet weakly offered.
“Only the royalty of this realm, my dear. What do you know of the customs of royalty in other lands?”
Gently but firmly put in place, Obet realized anew her mother was not of this realm, and better educated than she who had been limited to the borders of Selah, the walls of the castle, and the servant quarters all her life. This remained an unsolved mystery for Obet, having never asked so many questions of her mother before this hour.
“You know I am not as well-traveled as you, Mamahn.” In fact, Obet had scarcely traveled beyond the city of Chalome. Dismayed for the moment, she would soon insist on knowing more. Obet's long lashes briefly lay against her ivory complexion as her eyes closed in genuine humility.
Naanel felt a twinge of inner grief at the predicament of her precious daughter. It was her fault Obet remained ignorant about her heritage. Yet certain knowledge would bring serious responsibility. No matter, Naanel promised herself, the time has arrived that she must be told, though not tonight. Tomorrow.
She sighed as she picked up Obet's long, black tresses. She used rolled cloth pieces and loosely but firmly wrapped the ends in a gentle down and under curl all the way around. She tapered the back to a rounded tip. “There. You will still be able to tie the hair covering on for today.”
“Oh, Mamahn, I look forward to tonight, yet I am afraid. Everyone will be anything they wish for one whole evening. It is so unreal.” She sighed ecstatically. “I will actually be a princess for one evening, Mamahn. What's more, I have determined to think like one!” Obet laughed with anticipated pleasure.
Naanel's heart wrenched once again, glad Obet did not know, or this night would not have been possible. Tonight Obet would be a graceful swan - a precious gem - shining forth in splendor. Hadn't she subtly tried to hide her daughter's natural beauty from prying eyes through the years? Hadn't she succeeded, mostly? Hadn't she schooled Obet in the best of manners from tot to adult in so natural a way that Obet, in her innocence, did not suspect, in fact seemed never to notice the unrefined behavior of other servants by comparison?
In truth, Obet was not oblivious to differences. She simply kept her keen observances to herself. Her cheerful mind did not long dwell on troublesome thoughts. Though servants in the bustling castle, she and her mother managed to separate their private lives quite nicely from that of their occupation of servitude.
Naanel hugged Obet, and turned to occupy herself with last-minute details of her own appearance. She hummed a beautiful, haunting melody, unconscious of the dark brown eyes that followed her about the room.
Obet experienced renewed amazement and wonder each time she heard her mother hum the uplifting tune. Happily, Obet pulled her eyes from her mother. She slipped into her clean, blue work dress and white apron, and quickly tied a white cloth over and around her hair. Naanel exited the room first. Obet locked the door behind them. She sighed heavily as they passed through the long hall to their work place.
This day would be far too long for her youthful patience.
© C. Kinion Martin
CHAPTER 1 - DISCOVERY
“Trevol Remar's grave?” The king's incredulous voice reverberated loudly in the previously empty throne room; empty, that is, until an insistent Page rudely roused the king from his chamber with news that an envoy awaited with an urgent message, and whom he now faced.
A certain ring to the king's intense response brought the envoy's head up sharply from his bent, respectful position.
The king gravely eyed the messenger. “Do you know how many times in the past twenty-six years I have received this news, and at a more convenient hour than this?”
The king paused long enough to run an impatient hand through sleep-mussed, light-brown hair.
Hesitantly the messenger stepped forward, kneeled, and remained there while he spoke. “I am a faithful servant of Melton Remar, king of Boline, presently at your service, your Majesty. I mean no disrespect. I am well aware of the many rumors over the years. However, this time it is no rumor. What I have uttered is true. Not a fortnight ago Trevol Remar's grave was found. Two hundred men were sent, but…”
“Two hundred were? What do you mean, were?” The king's eyebrows more than slightly raised, his mind no longer dulled by waves of sleepiness. A Shiver caused him to slightly tremble. He pulled his thick, brocaded night robe tighter about his waist, retying the sash.
The envoy's face grew ruddy beneath the king's scrutiny and his demanding interruption. “A company of two hundred soldiers were sent,” the envoy repeated, “from the palace in Lanota to cross the Tooklan border…”
“…to investigate a rumor,” King Terah Holan dryly finished.
“Yes, your Majesty, to investigate another rumor.”
“Does not your king ever tire of needlessly losing men?”
The envoy slowly rose from his kneeling position, inwardly fighting down anger that threatened to choke him if he didn't appease it. He inhaled deeply, followed by a loud exhale. His voice steadied as he safely replied in a controlled monotone.
“Sire, I am trail weary. I've traveled for many days through heavy winds and rain. My king sent me with this news as soon as a soldier from the two hundred returned from Tooklan.” He stepped forward to hand the king a tube, which contained a sealed scroll with written details of the discovery.
The King of Selah received the tube and nodded in acknowledgment. His expression took on a sad, faraway look. “As young men, Trevol Remar and I were close friends. I have held the hope for twenty-six years that somehow he would be found to be alive. Unreasonable as that sounds, a small voice inside me always told me that if Trevol were alive, he would not be in hiding. He would be on the throne of your Boline as its king. Instead, his brother, Melton, rules…”
King Holan sighed heavily, closely eying the exhausted envoy. “Forgive me for rambling on. You need rest. My personal squire will see you to your room where he will provide for your comfort for however long you stay.”
The envoy bowed low. “I thank you for your hospitality.”
Sleep became impossible in the hours after the Bolinian messenger departed. A weary King Holan finally arose from his rumpled bed. He reached for the thick-braided, golden cord that hung nearby. A servant soon appeared. “Fetch to me Balimore at once.”
The servant hastily bowed and was gone.
King Holan turned as his oldest son entered the spacious chamber.
“Yes, Father? You wish to see me?” Undaunted by this early morning summons, Balimore dipped his head slightly, a hint of curiosity upon his dimpled face.
“An envoy from Boline arrived the first hour of this day. As our commander of Selah's Border Legion, I should have sent for you, but the message was urgent and there was no time.” Terah looked intently at his tall son, but Balimore remained silent while he waited for his father to finish.
“The burial mound of Trevol Remar has been found.”
Balimore blinked in disbelief, then noted the king's seriousness. A smile of comprehension spread slowly across his features. “But, Sire, this is good news, is it not? To explain more clearly, he has been considered dead a great many years, and his whereabouts long sought.”
“Aside from my waning hopes of him being found alive, it is not so much now that he has been found as to where.” He shook his head.
Balimore sobered instantly, the hair raised at the nape of his neck. “Where, Sire?”
“In the land of the Tooklans!”
“Could it mean…?” Stunned, Balimore's voice faded.
“It could mean many things. Tooklan will predictably refuse to give up his remains to be buried in his own land. The possibility is war, and Boline would pull all the southern lands into it.” Terah eyed his eldest. “What are your thoughts on this, my son?”
“I have not the wisdom nor experience that you have, Sire. We cannot see afar off, but perhaps good things will come of this. Unanswered questions – the stories, the legends - might be answered at last about the mystery of Trevol Remar. Rumors have always abounded, and is it that much of a surprise his grave is on Tooklan soil?
“I do not believe King Melton has the power to suck all surrounding realms into war with Tooklan unless they are ripe for it in the first place.”
King Holan gazed blankly at the flickering flame of his table lamp, his lips grimly pressed together. “I hope you are right, son, for I cannot see what possible good can come of war with Tooklan.”
“Has war officially been declared by the royal council of Boline?”
“Not yet, but that is a formality long abandoned. Their expected military advances will inevitably lead all the realms into war. It is entirely out of our hands, however.
“We know Tooklans thrive on warring, and why not? They always win!”
“There have surely been defeats for them, too, Sire.”
“If so, recorded history knows nothing of those defeats. That usually happens to any who brashly tangle with them. Look at the losses of Gamaar, Shăzal, and especially Lynara.”
“But should those southern kingdoms be referred to as conquests, Sire?”
“What do you mean? Of course, they were!”
“I beg to differ with you, Sire. They were not conquered as in the usual course of war. They simply lost single battles of their own, foolish making. They remain independent realms, just as before. Does it not strike you as peculiar that the battles fought have always been within the Tooklan border, and that we are conditioned to believe Tooklan has already won a war with the southlands before it actually occurs?”
CHAPTER 2 – DREAMER’S BALL
The Dreamer's Ball was quinquennial. Through all generations the ball had grown in importance since royalty and common folk alike looked forward to the affair with eager anticipation each fifth year. No one, not even Chalome's best historians, could say when the tradition began, nor for what purpose other than extraordinary enjoyment. One of those nonsensical events that hadn't merited honorable mention in the long history of Selah, its subsistence relied on word of mouth, passed from generation to generation.
The castle of Selah came alive in gala preparation for the long-awaited event. Elaborate finger foods, to be served and consumed, consisted of all types of breads, meats, and cheeses, prepared weeks ahead. Frozen, containers filled the spacious shelves within the huge ice room. Pastries and desserts of all types took their place in frozen storage along with the finger foods. Last minute preparations included countless bowls piled high with all manner of fruit. Extra scullery maids and servants alike labored together in this enormous endeavor.
Normal protocol took a back seat during this time, for much of the Holan family's attention focused upon the arrival and entertainment of royalty from other realms, and rightly so.
However, the largest portion of the ball's importance belonged to the lower classes. Every five years their stance in life could be forgotten - if only just for one night - for it was a Dreamer's Ball.
CHAPTER 3 - QUESTIONS
“Oh, Mamahn, the gown is so lovely! But will it fall to pieces? It has been hanging there since…since…”
Naanel, smiled. She shook her head. “Obet, my daughter, let me worry about that. Would I let you wear it if I had the tiniest doubt about its wearability?”
Obet returned her mother's smile while she gazed at herself in the mirror, holding before her the loveliest of gowns. “No, Mamahn, you would not, and I usually trust your judgment, but…”
“Then why doubt? It is sturdy and soft fibered; made of the finest silk found - spun from the giant silk worms of Rafaam, and woven with the greatest of care and ability. There is none like it, child.”
These last words were spoken with such low-voiced solemnity that Obet stopped primping long enough to look upon the serious face of her mother.
“Mamahn, come to think of it, there are things I would like to know. For instance…where is Rafaam, and how did you acquire a gown this lovely and plush? And, you said giant silk worms?”
“It was given me long, long ago when I was a young woman - made specially for me.”
Smiling at Obet's incredulous look, Naanel's eyes reflected memories of yesteryears and faraway places.
Obet sighed, “In that case, someone must have been very rich. A gown of this quality is costly.”
Naanel regarded Obet seriously for a moment. At times she was tempted to tell her daughter everything. After all, Obet was more than old enough to bear the responsibility of knowing her mother’s well-kept secret.
Obet's low groans brought Naanel's thoughts to the present. “Mamahn - my hair! It is impossible! How will I…?”
“Obet, you worry far too much.”
Naanel knew why her only child expressed concern. Five years ago found Obet ill the night of the Dreamer's Ball. As a result, she grieved about that lost opportunity for months afterward. At the time, Obet was eighteen, the youngest age allowed attendance to the Dreamer’s Ball. At twenty-three, Obet seemed younger in many ways due to being sheltered within the confines of the castle all her life.
Naanel reached to pull the vanity seat away from the mirror.
“Come, daughter, and sit. I will wrap your hair now, for we have other tasks to accomplish on this fine day.”
Obet laid the gown gently upon her bed. She carefully tugged at the hem of the long, full skirt to straighten out wrinkles, then crossed the room to sit before her mother. “Do you know how to put all this hair up in an elaborate way, Mamahn?”
Obet placed her hands beneath her long hair at the nape of her neck. She deftly pushed its dark, shiny length into an uneven pile atop her head only to let it fall back down to await her mother's direction.
“Daughter, your hair will flow loosely about your shoulders this night, just as your father preferred mine. The raven black hair you have is from his people and mine…”
“But royalty wears hair up, Mamahn,” Obet weakly offered.
“Only the royalty of this realm, my dear. What do you know of the customs of royalty in other lands?”
Gently but firmly put in place, Obet realized anew her mother was not of this realm, and better educated than she who had been limited to the borders of Selah, the walls of the castle, and the servant quarters all her life. This remained an unsolved mystery for Obet, having never asked so many questions of her mother before this hour.
“You know I am not as well-traveled as you, Mamahn.” In fact, Obet had scarcely traveled beyond the city of Chalome. Dismayed for the moment, she would soon insist on knowing more. Obet's long lashes briefly lay against her ivory complexion as her eyes closed in genuine humility.
Naanel felt a twinge of inner grief at the predicament of her precious daughter. It was her fault Obet remained ignorant about her heritage. Yet certain knowledge would bring serious responsibility. No matter, Naanel promised herself, the time has arrived that she must be told, though not tonight. Tomorrow.
She sighed as she picked up Obet's long, black tresses. She used rolled cloth pieces and loosely but firmly wrapped the ends in a gentle down and under curl all the way around. She tapered the back to a rounded tip. “There. You will still be able to tie the hair covering on for today.”
“Oh, Mamahn, I look forward to tonight, yet I am afraid. Everyone will be anything they wish for one whole evening. It is so unreal.” She sighed ecstatically. “I will actually be a princess for one evening, Mamahn. What's more, I have determined to think like one!” Obet laughed with anticipated pleasure.
Naanel's heart wrenched once again, glad Obet did not know, or this night would not have been possible. Tonight Obet would be a graceful swan - a precious gem - shining forth in splendor. Hadn't she subtly tried to hide her daughter's natural beauty from prying eyes through the years? Hadn't she succeeded, mostly? Hadn't she schooled Obet in the best of manners from tot to adult in so natural a way that Obet, in her innocence, did not suspect, in fact seemed never to notice the unrefined behavior of other servants by comparison?
In truth, Obet was not oblivious to differences. She simply kept her keen observances to herself. Her cheerful mind did not long dwell on troublesome thoughts. Though servants in the bustling castle, she and her mother managed to separate their private lives quite nicely from that of their occupation of servitude.
Naanel hugged Obet, and turned to occupy herself with last-minute details of her own appearance. She hummed a beautiful, haunting melody, unconscious of the dark brown eyes that followed her about the room.
Obet experienced renewed amazement and wonder each time she heard her mother hum the uplifting tune. Happily, Obet pulled her eyes from her mother. She slipped into her clean, blue work dress and white apron, and quickly tied a white cloth over and around her hair. Naanel exited the room first. Obet locked the door behind them. She sighed heavily as they passed through the long hall to their work place.
This day would be far too long for her youthful patience.