The Prodigals' Return

[Hekatos]

The Prodigals' Return

14th of Searing, 124th Year of the Age of Steel

True to his word, the king's nightshade had sought out Laurevere Val'Istra and his one-time neighbor soon after he returned from the court of his mother and uncle. Then, of course, it was a matter of discussing the king's schedule with the seneschal, and it was expected that Val'Istra and Len'Myren would adapt to the royal timetable. While Ailuin made time every day for Rhydian, and made room for him in his bed, this was not that sort of a meeting.

They were, of course, made to wait. Light refreshments were offered, but no hint of when the king might receive them. Laurevere stood looking out the open casement his impossible jawline twitching occasionally. Sivan had availed himself to the tea once he smelled it, recalling the various blends he had mastered and those he had invented while working for Master Jacun. Somehow, over the period of his apprenticeship and into the time he spent contracting to him, he had failed to realize that the man was, in fact, a blue dragon.

He wasn't the most observant when it came to people. Certainly, in Sol'Valen, he seemed to have regressed. Just now, Laurevere's attention was elsewhere, but in the past two weeks, he had spent a deal of time staring at his neighbor, wondering what was wrong with him. Sivan was a product of his environments, and he had never felt comfortable here. It was for Torin's benefit that he came, and he didn't know why Laurevere was spending so much time with him as opposed to with his own family.

No, he wasn't the most observant of elves, not unless it came to his creations.

A page ran—or, rather, walked quickly with a purpose to find Prince Rhydian. The king wanted him to bring the men to him in his office.

[Rhydian ValKor]

Rhydian was still in the midst of his morning forms when the guests arrived at the palace. He had a more accurate itinerary and greater prerequisite knowledge of the estimable host of this audience, so he permitted himself the luxury of maintaining his morning regimen including a wash and a light meal, which he was finishing up just as the page appeared with instructions. He dabbed at his lips with a serviette, and inclined his head in acknowledgement, before rising to make his way to the sitting room where Sivan and Laurevere had lingered.

"Greetings, Lord Val'Istra... Master Sivan, and welcome. I am come to conduct you into the royal presence. I trust you have been briefed by the chamberlain's staff as to the expected etiquette?" His eyes were upon Sivan, not Laurevere, as he made this enquiry, but he was already walking past them.

"Prithee follow." He said, as he made his way down the corridor. He was not walking apace, as the page had been, but gracefully and with purpose. The excitement he bore at heading into the presence of his king was well concealed by the mask of formality to which he defaulted- Particularly in these hallowed halls when any but His Majesty were present to observe him. Upon reaching the great archway leading into the presence chamber, he briefly regarded the royal honour guard flanking the passage. Finding their posture and uniforms satisfactory per the standards of Aerion, he turned back to the guests and checked on them, as well, with a different sort of scrutiny.

"Very good, then." He said, before pivoting back round and nodding to the guards. The doors opened before them and Rhydian strode inside. It was not his to announce the arrivals, so he stepped to his mark, executed a nuanced, formal bow that related a far more detailed message than mere obeisance, and waited to be addressed.

[Sivan]

The fine porcelain was set aside immediately upon the prince's arrival. Laurevere turned, and Sivan rose, bowing. The nobler elf bowed too, albeit not with the same alacrity, and not as low. Sivan had learned a thing or two from him prior to this engagement, but then a Len'Hytori called to attend the king upon returning to the kingdom was always going to have a case of nerves.

"Your Serene Highness," they said together. Sivan's bow lasted longer, as well, but he nodded in response to Val'Kor's inquiry, and then they were off, trailing behind him.

The king's seneschal announced them when they entered. It was certainly less formal, less grand than it might have been, but Ailuin Sol'Eilran had the gravity of a planet about him even in simple robes and at a desk.

"His Serene Highness, Prince Rhydian Val'Kor." Only because there were others present, most likely; Rhydian moved in and out of the royal presence at will anymore. The king's gaze lingered upon him as though caressing him, and he smiled a private little smile.

"Lord Laurevere Val'Istra." He bowed correctly, titles missing as he was but the son of the Lord Val'Istra.

"Master Sivan Len'Myren." Sivan took a knee, his gaze upon the front of the king's desk.

"Your Royal Majesty."

After a moment with the weight of his endarting gaze upon them, "Rise," he said with a languid wave of his hand. To his seneschal, "You may go." The elf nodded, collected his notes, and departed. "Welcome back to the homeland, fellow travelers." His smile was indulgent.

Sivan did not point out that it was merely his fatherland, his motherland being Dalquia. The last thing he wanted to do was point out the differences between him and the Hytori; they usually did so well enough on their own. He was startled when, without any apparent prompting, the room changed. It did not perturb Rhydian, of course, for whom the palace was old hats. Hytori magic was often so old, so subtle, that even a master sembler such as Sivan would be troubled to follow its ebbs and flows.

And flow the room did. The desk flowed away and other furniture flowed in, unformed at first, but forming into seats for prince and lord, while Ailuin's seat carried him forward, growing into what might be called a throne, at least compared to the lesser seats. A low table formed in the middle of the seats, a great dragonshard glowing like an ember at its center. For now, it merely glowed pleasantly.

There was an embroidered zabuton on the floor for Sivan.

"Please, sit." This was more generous in word and tone.

Laurevere sat in the seat that was lower, deftly offering the prince the more honorable seat. Sivan knelt without complaint, the winking bits of mirror on the pillow disappearing under him.

[Rhydian ValKor]

Rhydian began to move, even as the room did, easily anticipating the arrayment Ailuin manipulated into existence and claiming his seat just as the alterations stilled into its final form. There, at Ailuin's right hand, the stoic statue of an elf revealed a tiny crack in the armour of formaily behind which he typically remained, as his gaze darted sidelong to Ailuin and his lip curled slightly at one side. Unabashed adoration flashed across his countenance, before he turned it back toward the guests and it flattened into its more familiar state.

In truth, Rhydian was quite curious about this audience. Although he'd instigated it, in a way, he wasn't entirely sure what the nature of Ailuin's interest was in the pair. He'd been sent to meet with Laurevere during his time in Kalzasi, so there was obviously royal interest in the man, and his accounting of Sivan had likely stirred some intrigue in the monarch, but as to what, exactly, he sought to achieve from this meeting? On that point, Rhydian was wholly in the dark.

His gaze lingered upon Sivan's pretty face and, for a moment, he reflected upon the first time he'd met the king. He'd been far younger, but the awe of that moment was branded into his brain. This was that moment for Sivan. Part of him envied that first, peerless high, but most of him was pleased to witness this blessing bestowed thanks, in part, to Rhydian himself.

With everyone seated, Rhydian tilted his face slightly toward his liege and love, awaiting further discourse though he had, for the moment, nothing to add himself. He folded his hands in his lap beneath the table, and sat with straight posture in comfortable silence.

[Sivan]

The lesser elves took their seats with murmured thanks. Ailuin shared a private smile with his favorite; for all that the others there present could witness it if they looked up, it took merely a glance from the king to pull his favorite into a private moment, it seemed.

Ailuin looked quite at home in his large chair, half sprawling as if they were at a symposium and chatting amiably over amphorae of wine. It was quiet, however. Neither Laurevere nor Sivan seemed bold enough to break the royal silence. Ailuin sighed, not exasperated with them, exactly, for they could not intuit the level of formality their unfamiliar sovereign required in any given moment and, wisely, erred on the side of caution.

"Rhydian brought your concerns about Karnor to me, Val'Istra," he began. "I have shared them among the Court of Princes. I will not ask after how long you intend to remain in the homeland, but I ask that you not leave without warning. We will likely have follow-up questions, and we would rather not have to go quite so far to ask them."

"Of course, Sire," Laurevere said immediately.

"And Master Len'Myren," he said, shifting his dreaming gaze upon Sivan, "I understand you had a fortuitous meeting with my daughter, and that you and your associate from Kalzasi are working in your old master's workshop."

"Yes, Sire," he replied quietly.

Ailuin nodded.

"I would like to ask as delicately as possible about the Maker's remains."

"I brought his ashes back to Tavárinoikos, sire. It didn't seem correct to leave them abroad, even though he enjoyed travel. And I wasn't his only apprentice. Merely his last one."

"Your actions were correct, I think," Ailuin agreed. "Well, Salmakis will be pleased."

Sivan wasn't certain that required a response, so he remained silent, nodding his understanding.

"I hope Rhydian didn't give you too many bruises when you sparred..."

[Rhydian ValKor]

At the sound of his name, Rhydian's head cocked slightly toward Ailuin, though his eyes were upon Laurevere. He inclined his head in affirmation that he had taken the man's concerns with all due gravity to the Crown. It was odd to him that they might need to trouble themselves offsetting the intrigues of Southron serpents hitherto hibernating, but these were queer times.

As the king's attention drifted to Sivan, Rhydian canted an eyebrow at the news that he had met the princess. This had not been known to him, but it was not altogether surprising. Having nothing to say on the matter of the depositing of illustrious cremains along proper forms, his gaze wandered over Sivan thoughtfully. Only rising to meet his eyes again when Ailuin invoked his name and referenced their friendly bout.

"Master Sivan is a perfectly capable swordsman, Majesty, though I promised not to conscript him outside the direst of circumstances." His delivery was so dry it might have sounded more a threat than the jest it was meant to be, but Rhydian was not known for his comedy. He was nicknamed for a poisonous bloom, and it was perhaps no coincidence that he tended to be such a wallflower. Sivan was privileged, now, so have seen him exhibit more energy than he tended to display socially in that very sparring match. He was like a different person when blades danced... or not a person at all, but a relentless weapon of which the sword was only an extension.

"Perhaps you will show me how the weeks have improved your bladework whilst you tarry in Sol'Valen." Rhydian suggested.

[Sivan]

"The bruising was mild and didactic, Sire," Sivan replied, even managing the ghost of a smile. While Rhydian unnerved him, most people did; the class differences just made it possible that he would misread the inscrutable elf and do or say something wrong, which didn't help the already socially awkward sorcerer.

Laurevere's own smile was mild, but proud. He had been, after all, Sivan's instructor and primary sparring partner.

"If I would not bore you, I would be a fool to turn down the opportunity to improve my skills, sir."

Laurevere nodded to that as well, approving.

"Though Len'Hytori here," the elf Val'Istra interjected, "I had tried to persuade him to walk the Kalzasern streets armed, to grow accustomed to the weight of his blades at his hip, but alas. No respect for rank, this one."

Sivan flushed and looked down, though it was clearly a jest.

"I only wish to be a Maker as my Master was before me," he protested quietly, eyes on his hands folded in his lap. "I would guard Sol'Valen with my magic should the homeland require it of me. I think I will always have greater skill there. I would not have focused so on protecting myself had it not been for—"

"Ah, Sivan, I apologize," Laurevere cut in quickly. "I should not strike down, especially in front of your sovereign. I apologize to you too, Sire. That was unseemly of me."

Ailuin waved off the apologies.

"What the homeland requires of us might always be a mystery until it reveals itself, Master Sivan. My father thought he would die in the struggle against the Clockwork Empire; instead, he gave his life to create the Mortal Thorns and save us from a pestilence that spat in the face of Raella's grace. Hm. Perhaps we should see how well he fares today..." Without even the flicker of an eyelid, the room began to flow again. His throne and Laurevere's seat pulled back toward the walls, Rhydian's slowly descended and disappeared, but not so fast as to make him fall. As soon as Sivan stood up, his zabuton disappeared as well.

There was a moment where his mouth dropped open, but he quickly and firmly shut it. He would not defy the Phoenix King in his own palace.

"We did not bring arms into the Royal Presence, Sire..." Laurevere began. But the door opened, and a steward brought Laurevere his sheathed blades. Each was curved, the shorter one less so than the other. Laurevere didn't sigh, but instead, rose and walked over to carefully hand his blades to Sivan. "Blades of the Val'Istra warriors. Bear them with honor."

Blue eyes wide, Sivan accepted them as if they were masterwork artefacts from Tavárinoikos, half-bowing over them as their hands touched for a moment.

"With your permission, Sire?" Laurevere asked, knowing the laws and the formalities. Ailuin nodded, curious as a cat. Laurevere took blades by the sheaths, and nodded to Sivan, who pulled them free with a steel song. Then the instructor retreated and Sivan turned to the royals.

He bowed low to the king, and not quite so low to the prince. Then, he fell into a neutral stance, one from which he might launch into any of the choreographed forms or respond to any offensive taken against him, at least in theory.

Rhydian, and Rhydian only, heard his sovereign's voice in his mind: Jeopardy, my Strýchnos, always works. Push him hard.

[Rhydian ValKor]

Sivan's response seemed satisfactory to Rhydian, if one was to judge from the minute shifts in his stony expression.

"I am rarely bored with blade in hand. Whether sparring or warring, there is a directness to letting swords play orators that I enjoy more than most verbal discourse." His eyes danced to Laurevere as he spoke. Once more Val'Istra noted his urging for Sivan to be better prepared against physical threats. It brought to mind his similar suggestion in Kalzasi, as well as the question posed then about the Sparrowhawks.

"Ah yes. Sivan's time in Kalzasi has not been altogether uneventful, Majesty. He seems to have been targeted by a mercenary company known as the Sparrowhawks, which led Lord Val'Istra to train him and encourage greater caution. Have there been further developments pertaining to that particular mystery?" He inquired mildly.

But soon, Laurevere was apologising and the guests had a brief humility contest, which the king summarily dismissed by accelerating the other competition that had been suggested. He found his feet quickly, and began to shed the flowy accents to his practical princely garb. Despite her efforts, Akantha had not yet stirred a passion for fashion in Rhydian, who preferred to be practically dressed and ready for action at any moment. As was the tenor of Ailuin's manipulation here, and even Laurevere's urging, one never knew what any moment promised.

Still, he was not armed as such, until his own blades were delivered. The sheaths of his twin katanas were presented, and he drew them in harmonious tandem, crossing them low before him as he inspected their sheen. Satisfied, he turned to bow to his sovereign.

"We begin at your pleasure, Majesty."

He bent his knees and lowered his head, but only Ailuin was like to perceive his assumption of this stance as a nod of acknowledgement to the instruction relayed into his mind. He took the meaning. Rhydian would be an instrument in Ailuin's test. And he would give His Majesty much to mind from in his impending assessment.

[Sivan]

"No, sir," Sivan admitted. "The Sky Guard closed the case and after a while, their extra patrols in the neighborhood ceased. There hasn't been a second attempt, though I daresay I am better equipped to protect myself now than I was then. Thanks to Lord Laurevere, and certain shifts in my magical studies." He smiled faintly. Laurevere seemed less pleased. It was frowned upon to mention the king's krupteia openly, but he certainly believed Hytori justice outstripped that of Karnor, demigod of justice or no.

In due course, Laurevere's katana and wakizashi were held just so by his student. He nodded approvingly, though nobody was looking at him just then. Sivan was good; he just hadn't been raised to it from the time he was weaned from the teat as Rhydian surely had been, even as Laurevere himself had been.

His silent command acknowledged, Ailuin merely said, "Begin."

Sivan knew that Rhydian was the better swordsman; it was entirely possible he was better than Laurevere, who remained better than him. At least with Laurevere, he had sparred enough to intuit how he was most likely to flow from one form to another, respond to this strike or that feint. Rhydian was more of an unknown quantity. A part of him wanted to wait and react, lest by acting first, he play into the prince's hand. For weeks after his spar with Rhydian, Laurevere had worked him through various scenarios, various games of steely chess he might have played. He might still be the lesser swordsman, but he had spent some time studying the bout. Laurevere, at least, had memorized it, but then he was a warrior much more than he was a merchant.

Sivan didn't know why he wasn't in a military post, but now was not the time to ponder.

Were this a true battle, he would have used magic to give him an edge. In a duel, even an informal one, that was inappropriate unless allowed by discussion beforehand.

Sivan led just as he had the first time he fought Rhydian, hoping the prince would respond the same, in which case, he would be better prepared to counter.

Meanwhile, Ailuin and Laurevere observed. The one abstained from outright sembling Sivan; the other hadn't the Rune, which was unusual for a Val'Hytori. But there was quite a bit about this pair that Ailuin found unusual.

[Rhydian ValKor]

During their first duel, Rhydian had been tacitly didactic. He knew Sivan to be a student, far fresher to bladework than himself and, though he offered no lectures, he thought it sound to instruct through demonstration. As such, he’d executed the entire bout in a very particular style. Where he would typically employ a mélange of moves plucked from the various styles in his combative repertoire, on that occasion he’d been strictly observing the first technique in which he, himself, had been educated.

Red Dragon Style was so named for the homage it paid to the eponymous dragonflight. In honour of the dragons of destiny, the technique attempted to make victory a forgone conclusion by focusing on timing. It was an excellent method for one of Rhydian’s slight build, as it relied more upon velocity more than might and anticipation rather than outright aggression. The burst of fire were reserved and only employed at the most opportune of moments.

Rarely was the strict Red Dragon combatant the first to strike, as the technique encouraged observation, preparation and the reserving of energies until the most opportune of moments presented themselves to turn a possible victory into an inexorable product of fate omniscient.

But that was last time, when they’d had an audience of one elven lord and a complement of spirits with varying degrees of investment. On this occasion they stood before the Crown and he’d been given explicit instruction to put Sivan through his paces.

Rather than waiting for Sivan’s first strike, as he had last time, Rhydian was lunging forward with one blade raised to block, as his offhand katana whooshed by Sivan’s lower calf just shy of slicing through a bit of fabric, as he whipped around on the other side of Sivan in a defensive crouch— Off hand low, main hand high. Gold Gryphon Style into Red Dragon in under a second.