Callie's Heroes

PART III - THE KERR

Thorn was led quickly down an echoing hallway, past at least six rooms and then just as quickly up a flight of wide stairs. The steward was focused and you could feel … something … roiling off of him. Anger wasn’t the right word. Annoyance, maybe? Definitely something in that family of auras. Thorn wasn’t sure if this fast walk was simply going to a place quickly, an intimidation tactic, or something else, but they were moving with purpose. Around them, the ostentatious surroundings blurred by, radiating a strong sense of both history as well as wealth and power.

Thorn didn’t fully understand Cillisine politics, beyond what Ravina had taught him, but knew Kerr Aishan Sylbane was a powerful figure in the inner circle of the country’s royalty. More than just a powerful figure, but an actual force. Despite being nowhere in line for the throne, she was the Queen’s first-cousin once-removed after all, she had fully inserted herself as a direct advisor. On top of that, Sylbane had a reputation for being both quick to anger and happy to carry a grudge. Add to that personality the simple fact that she despised Ravina, and by proxy, Nevikk, Thorn felt an ominous presence ahead of them as they walked towards a closed pair of doors at the end of a hallway.

“What is the protocol,” Thorn asked the steward just as they reached the door. “I am only knowledgeable of Imorian customs. Do I bow or kneel? How should I address her? I do not wish to offend.” The truth was, he knew that answer. Again, Ravina had instructed him on proper protocols for addressing the nobility of Cillisant. It was her suggestion to ask, however, if only to appear naive of the customs, and then appear that much more polite when he got them right.

The steward stopped, sizing the Ratkin up. “This is an informal meeting that is not on the schedule. Address her simply as Kerr or Kerr Sylbane. Be precise in your request, her time is quite valuable. No need to bow in this case, but an Imorian acknowledgment is wise.”

“Thank you. Will her son be in attendance?”

The steward scoffed. “No! There is absolutely no need for him to be here, and he’s probably out and about sleeping something off anyway. The Kerr can make whatever decisions are needed.”

That was good. More than good, in fact. The Kerr’s son, Aymon, was a well-known hothead, prone to fits of rage at times. It was certainly in-part a side effect of having Ohler’s, but still could get quite bad at times. Not having to deal with him in the room would make it much more likely that the conversation might go well. It would be all the better if Thorn didn’t even have to meet him. After how he’d treated Ravina, it might be hard to resist a good, solid punch to his pretty little face.

The double doors opened into a large study, and Thorn was gestured in. Shelves of books lined either side of the room, while dozens more books were stacked in various piles sitting on the floor or tables. Thorn resisted an immediate urge to roll his eyes. Nobody needed this many books, and the Kerr certainly didn’t read them all, so this was obviously for show. At the far end of the room was a solid-looking desk, with ornately-carved decoration on the corners, designed to be imposing and formal. There were no chairs in the room, save the quality one behind the desk. Visitors to this room did not get to sit.

She walked in, moving with a flowing pace as quick as the steward had set. Kerr Sylbane was tall, with the expected Cillisine dark skin and cloud-white hair. It was difficult to guess her age, but Ravina had suggested she was well over eighty, possibly even ninety, even though she didn’t look a day over forty. Thorn knew she was a Wizard by class, certainly with a worm, and she wore that haughty wizardness like a cloak around herself, seeming aloof and disinterested. She was wearing a simple, relaxed outfit, somewhat belying her nobility, and a gold necklace with a single green emerald in it. Thorn immediately assumed it was magic, likely enchanted with some form of a shielding effect, just in case.

“If I may, Kerr Sylbane,” the steward began as she took a seat at the desk, “I wish to introduce Major Tandis Thorn, of the Imorian Army.” He held himself with a perfect, crisp bearing.

The Kerr ignored the introduction for a good fifteen seconds, shuffling a stack of papers around and projecting general annoyance. Finally, she looked up. “Major Tandis,” she said simply in acknowledgement.

Inwardly, Thorn growled. Tandis had been his grandmother’s name. Young kids can be cruel, and hence why he chose to go by his surname. Now probably wasn’t the right time to make that correction, though. He took two steps forward, noting that the steward had moved to the side and was very carefully watching his every move, obviously ready to take action if needed. “It is a pleasure to meet with you, Kerr Sylbane,” Thorn said properly, touching his right fist to his chest while he bowed his head slightly. “You honor me with time away from your other duties.”

“Hmmm,” Sylbane said, considering Thorn’s greeting. Finally she sighed and went back to shuffling her papers as she spoke. “Well met, Major. How may I help you? Your letter implied an issue with my son, and seemed to contain a very subtle threat.” Then, quite coldly, she shifted her glare to Thorn and added, “I do not take kindly to threats. Speak quickly.”

There had been no threat, implied or otherwise, but as expected, the Kerr immediately seized and twisted the conversation, trying to put Thorn on the defensive. He chose not to take the bait. “I have come to speak of Ravina, and her son, Nevikk.”

Kerr Sylbane immediately stopped in mid-shuffle. She looked up at the steward, who had stiffened, and then back to Thorn. “I do not know of whom you speak,” she said flatly, returning to her task.

He’d expected this. Ravina had said Sylbane essentially refused to publicly acknowledge their existence. Still it was disappointing. “I speak of your grandson, Kerr Sylbane, and his mother.”

Another pause and another hard stare. Finally, she said, “What of them? Have you come to blackmail me?” Sylbane apparently was one to go straight to the point. “There is little to be gained by that.”

“I’ve come to make a request regarding Nevikk,” Thorn said, trying to keep his tone steady after that implied accusation.

“Explain.”

“It is my intention to marry Ravina. We will be leaving Imor, residing on a small estate I have to the east.” It wasn’t so much an estate, as it was farm and forest land without a lot of people nearby, with a nice home on it. Still, it was somewhat … estateish.

Sylbane looked aback. “Really? Ravina? She’s cursed with Ohler’s. You are aware of this, correct?”

“I am. It is well-managed.” Thorn said carefully, trying not to snap at the Kerr’s obvious prejudice.

“I know full well it can never be ‘well-managed’,” the Elf scoffed, “especially in someone so young. It can be poorly-managed, yes, by partially deadening a person’s mind, but certainly not ‘well’. Most are unable to stay with the regimen, anyway.”

“Nonetheless, she has found … an equilibrium … and is quite committed to the treatments.” He then looked quizzically at Kerr Sylbane, putting a couple pieces together from the way she worded her last statements. “You have Ohler’s as well, like your son?”

The Fugue largely affected Elves and Humans, although rarely Beastkin and some Fae, mostly the Fairy. The hereditary illness was passed down from parents to children, and if both parents had the malady, the likelihood of their offspring also having it was about seventy-five percent. Ohler’s manifested about the same time that one’s class is revealed, with mild symptoms at first, growing increasingly worse over the first few cycles. For most everyone, the effects would start to fade when the person reached about one-hundred years old, although Beastkin and Humans never lived to see such relief.

There’s no cure for the sickness, only a regimen of specific medications taken at specific points during the moon’s eight-month cycle. Even then, the treatment only served to reduce the extremes of the effects, not eliminate them. Those on the medication regimen despised it, because they’d find themselves feeling emotionally numb inside. The promised happiness was always just out of reach, while the terrifying darkness was barely held at bay. Yet, one could not stop the medications once started. If one did for too long, it would take months to fully take hold again. Most with Ohler’s managed to stay vigilant to the treatments and live fairly normal lives. Far too many stopped the regimen, though, finding themselves so lost in the fog that the harsh symptoms ultimately seemed the better choice. Those with untreated or mistreated Ohler’s often found the intense mood swings made them ultimately unable to sustain relationships or even friendships, or in extreme cases even function in society, and rates of suicide by those afflicted were quite high.

There had been a solid silence in the room following Thorn’s pointed question, punctuated only by an intense glare from Sylbane accompanying the tapping of her knuckle on the desk. Even the steward, who had so far shown little emotion of any kind on his face, looked horrified at the Major's impertinence.

“What do you want,” Kerr Sylbane finally said slowly, her voice dripping with a growling bitterness as she ultimately ignored the question. “Speak quickly!” Thorn had made a mistake, a big one, by merely implying that the Kerr had the malady, even though from the livid look in her eyes he was now certain that she did. The likelihood of his successful petition just dropped significantly, if only to spite him, and he had been a fool for unthinkingly asking the question.