Summons from The Ceann

  Summons!

  Attention Fennorin Willowbirth,

  You are summoned to appear on Half-waned Beaver Moon, midday, at the office of the Ceann Willowbirth, Cultural Center. Failure to comply will result in fines up to 100 gold-rounds.

  Courtesy of The House of Tradition

  Fenn stared at the heavy door that stood between him and his Athyr. On the other side, he would see four stone walls, bare except for a few bookshelves. In the center, a great, blocky desk, also of stone, would form an imposing barrier between visitors and the Ceann. He blinked at the door, unwilling to return to the room of his second worst torments.

  “The door slides sideways.”

  Fenn looked up to see an elf near his own age in fine clothes standing in the hall. He beheld Fenn with a distanced, calculating look in his grey eyes that Fenn usually associated with theorists and mathematicians.

  “Yes, I recall,” Fenn said softly. Not wistfully.

  "Then I'd recommend you enter. He doesn't tolerate tardiness. If you doubt me, ask your sister.” The harsh words were delivered in perfect monotone.

  A chill ran down Fenn’s spine. Until she escaped and married, his sister had replaced him in his father's expectations. She'd carried what he'd abandoned. He glanced again at the fellow. His tunic’s left breast was blazened with the Willow of the House of Tradition–the same one of Fenn’s family. This was the Ceann’s Assistant, the very job meant for Kitaryn or himself. This slate-haired, cool-eyed fellow with the measured expression was their replacement.

  Fenn observed the deathly white pallor of the man’s skin and was glad not to be him. He was even more glad Kitaryn wasn’t him, either. No one deserved to be near that monster.

  Fenn pushed aside the door to meet him.

  Memories bombarded him. There, in the corner, he'd spent too much of his childhood copying tomes he couldn't yet understand. Then, later, hidden behind the desk and his father's magnanimous robes, he'd transcribed meetings. Always aside and usually unnoticed, how his father had preferred him.

  He met the Ceann’s lancing gaze. “You called for me?” He didn't approach the desk, choosing to linger by the door.

  “Yes, several times informally. A pity I had to resort to threats. Come. We have something to discuss.” He gestured to the small stool opposite his desk.

  Fenn didn't move.

  The Ceann sighed. “First, you don't bow to your Ceann, and then you don't obey. Nevermind, you will.” He set down a book.

  Fenn eyed it from a distance. “What is that?”

  “You'll want to see for yourself.”

  Slowly, he approached, his mind swirling with moments he'd rather forget: reeds across his fingers, sketchpads ripped to shreds, books thrown at him across the room. None of it compared to the sickness that rose in his throat at the sight of the title on the desk, written in Allspeech: Fennorin's Guide to Elven History, 20th Anniversary Edition.

  The room spun.

  “Well?” The Ceann asked.

  “You looked into my career,” he rasped.

  In a long silence, the Ceann pressed his fingers together. “I'm waiting on your justification,” the monster said at last.

  Fenn took a shaky breath. He wasn’t in prison yet. “I assume you've read it?”

  “I had some of it translated. I didn't need to finish to find heresy.”

  Fenn nodded once. How much does he know?

  “No whining? No whimpering and pleading that this needs to be learned?”

  Fenn shook his head.

  “And I was so looking forward to silencing you with this.” He placed another book on the table. This one was “The Modern Theory of Faerie Magic.” He'd coauthored it with Tudious Spacklebotton maybe fifty years prior.

  “I did not need to translate more than the title for this.”

  Fenn sat on the stool and closed his eyes, slumping. “I suppose the fact that I'm not in prison means you want something from me?”

  “I can't arrest you for something you did in another country, unfortunately, but I can use this as grounds to search your cabin.”

  Again, Fenn nodded once. He recalled the laws too well. “Have you?” he asked. If his cabin was being searched, it was already over. And when he'd finally found the Door, too. He was so close to exploring the fae.

  “No. You are useless to me in prison.”

  Fenn swallowed and waited: either for himself to throw up, or for his father to make demands he couldn't adhere to. As soon as he left this building, he'd be gone. Maybe in another fifty years, he could camp in the woods and study the Door in secret.

  “Galendria Silverstem means to offer a matronage. I want you to take it.”

  He jolted. “What?!”

  “I do not doubt you are of the mind to turn her away. You must be here to collect whatever knowledge you can of our Old Magic and then leave again. I want you to accept the matronage and have at least one child. And when you do go, I want you to leave that child to me.”

  “No!” There was so much wrong with that demand that Fenn didn't know where to begin. The tortured life that the child would be doomed to live rose in his mind first. Then there was his lack of desire. And of course there was Gale’s part. She’d want the child. Love the child. She’d never give her up. “Leave Gale’s future out of this!”

  “That means the Fyr-Ceann is truly oblivious to your intentions? I would keep it that way. Both so she doesn't have you arrested, and so she is not made a co-conspirator. Because I will drag her through your mud.”

  “No! Please! Not Gale. She doesn't deserve this!” The whimpering finally began. It always ended in whimpering.

  “No one else is going to approach you. And no one else would serve me as well. But you sound like you prefer to be imprisoned.”

  Fenn gnawed his tongue. No one else would serve me as well. Of course. Gale was a Silverstem. If Olfieros Willowbirth had control of Ceann Silverstem’s grandchild, he’d have control over the man himself. Sick. Evil. Ba****d. Something of a snarl mangled Fenn's expression. “I’d rather rot in prison than entrust any child to your care! You are the last person I would ever–! You’re a sick, mean, two-faced sn–”

  “Or you can leave of your own accord,” his Athyr continued.

  That sounded like a good idea.

  “Or, your final option is that you could work for me.”

  “Why?” Fenn growled.

  “So I learn what you do, and anything you do has to be approved by me. That way, I can prevent any crisis you may incidentally incite. It is what you wanted as a child. ”

  There was no chance his father would let him open the Door.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  “Why do you want a child? Or is it enough just to puppet around the Silverstems?” The Ceann of Trade was his father’s most constant opposition.

  The Ceann of Tradition folded his fingers. He was calm, cold. He’d been unmoved by any of Fenn’s pleas or questions. “He would be a Willowbirth child, too,” he said. “I lack a proper heir.”

  “Is your personal assistant not good enough? He has to be better than me,” Fenn snapped.

  “He is excellent. Controlled, even-tempered, and quite malleable. There are simply some things only a Willowbirth can do.”

  Fenn glowered at his father. Maybe it was about the sigil. Maybe it was about magic. He'd parse that out later.

  Then it dawned on him: a matronage took time. He'd be in the fae before he'd ever have to fulfill it. The only problem was that he didn’t want to hurt Gale. But maybe… if he could buy time… “It’s too late. I already turned Gale away. But perhaps if I put some effort into suiting another–”

  “Oh? She asked so soon? Lovely. Then you’ll tell her you changed your mind. She’s a stubborn girl. I’m sure she’ll–”

  “No!”

  “No? I don’t think you understand your situation.” He smiled. The d**n ba****d smiled.

  “Then enlighten me. Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like I’ll be packing my trunk.”

  “You’ve shown me that you care about her. So, if you try to leave, I’ll uncover your studies and plant evidence that she knew about them. And if you don’t revoke your refusal on your own, I’ll simply force you to with magic.”

  Fiery prickles rushed over Fenn's body, making spots swim in his vision. Force you to with magic. He could remember the steely grip of his father’s bewitchments, bending his mind to the other man’s will. Gaps in memory. Forced actions. He gripped the desk to steady himself.

  “You can’t possibly get away with that,” he wheezed.

  “You leave a paper trail. I do not. In a battle of testimony, I will win.”

  He was right, as always. Tears sprung to Fenn’s eyes. His breath fell too rapid and too shallow at once. “Please,” he tried one last time. “Please leave her out of this.”

  Then the Ceann raised a hand. Light flashed in his eyes.

  No! Fenn leaped from his stool and tried to run. He got no further than two steps when his father began to speak. “You will approach Fyr-Ceann Galendria Silverstem before the Great Moon rises tonight and tell her you have changed your mind and wish to patron for her. You will not run away before or after nor tell her I threatened you, and you won’t behave contrary to your words.”

  The magic locked into his mind, and with a disorienting snap, his own will conformed. Yes, he needed to find Gale. He had important news for her. He squirmed inside. This was wrong. But the news. He’d changed his mind.

  “That will be all,” the Ceann said. “You’re dismissed.”

  “I hate you,” Fenn managed before he finished his route to the exit.

  —

  Fenn sat with his journal open on the rock in their clearing–the one where they'd spent their youthful afternoons at practice or play, in comfortable company. The page was blank. Gale hadn’t appeared here, yet, and the sun was setting. Don’t come, a part of him said. But I need her to come so I can tell her, the other part answered.

  He squirmed on the rock. He was running out of time. He stood and pivoted in the direction of her father’s house. His legs moved slowly for some reason. Was that dread in his belly?

  But he needed to tell her. His feet moved faster and faster down a trail worn directly to her house, boots kicking up dead leaves. She visited this place frequently, their old haunt. She remembered him more fondly than he deserved.

  Don’t do this. Do it. Stop! Hurry! Why was he in conflict like this? Something was wrong. His father had threatened him, and demanded this of him. But he wanted to do this.

  “Fenn?” He’d run perhaps halfway to her house. She was before him on the trail, peering through bare trees around a bend in the path.

  His breath puffed in the cold air. “I was looking for you,” he said, approaching at a slower pace. He glanced at the sky. The sun was down and dusk settled over the mountain.

  Her head cocked, tilting up as he drew closer. “You were? What for?”

  On the other side of the mountain, the Great Moon would be climbing toward the horizon over the neighboring ridge. He had too–”I changed my mind,” he blurted. “I–”

  He choked on his words. Why? He had to tell her before–

  “About?” she asked.

  “I wish to patron for you.” The words jumped out before he could stop them. He gasped.

  “You–?’ A smile tugged at her broad cheeks, slowly spreading. “You do?”

  He didn’t answer. He wanted to run, oh how he wanted to run. No I don’t. He nodded once.

  “Aw! I knew you’d change your mind!” She crashed into him in a hug, and he caught her with trembling hands. She held him, crushing his torso into her face, her fists tight in his cloak. “I just knew it!”

  He grasped her. This was wrong. He didn’t know why, but it was. Because he was going to leave. Because he didn’t want this. But don’t I?

  “But what made you finally decide?” she asked, peering up at him.

  He stared at the golden joy freckling her eyes and thought he would puke. “I spoke to my father today.”

  “Your father?” Bless her for the concern in her voice.

  “He-he-he–” threatened me. Forced me. Coerced me. Ordered me. The words couldn’t come out.

  She loosened her grip to inspect him. “Are you alright?”

  He tried to shake his head, but he couldn’t do that either. Bile built in his throat. But… shouldn’t he be happy if he wanted to do this? If he changed his mind?

  “What happened?”

  A tremor ran through him. He couldn’t tell her. He wanted to tell her about the confrontation. He didn’t want to. Or he couldn’t want to. “I changed my mind,” came out again.

  She held him fast, beginning to stroke his back under his cloak in a way that set him prickling with alarm. “It’s alright. I’ll always be here for you, Fenn. You don’t have to let him get to you.”

  Fenn gagged on tears that couldn’t form. Don’t behave contrary to your words. He should be firm in his conviction. He wished to patron for her. That was good.

  Then why did he still feel like puking?

  She continued her stroking, nuzzling against his chest. “You don’t have to tell me what he said, but I hope you do, eventually.”

  Eventually. He would tell her eventually, when it wouldn’t be a danger to her. He sighed and put his arms around her. He could fix this another time, when the meeting wasn’t so fresh, and his mind wasn’t so contrary. He didn’t feel right.

  He let the cold wind wipe the sweat from his brow and just breathed. Something in the air smelled like honeysuckles, and it was strangely familiar, almost soothing. Her?

  She withdrew slowly, lingering. “You seem to be feeling better.”

  “Somewhat,” he agreed. He felt raw inside. Something was still wrong.

  “Then, is it alright if I go home and tell my Atti?” she eyed him with concern, but she was struggling to hold in a smile.

  “Yes,” he agreed. Don’t tell him.

  “Then, goodnight!” she launched to her toes and pecked his cheek before scampering off down the trail. A frosty wind rattled the leaves as he watched her disappear, positively skipping with delight. It was sweet. It soured his stomach.

  As soon as she was out of sight, he turned tail and walked home. For some reason, he felt unwilling to run. He wanted to puke. He needed to. He couldn’t.

  The walk to his cabin was a long one. Clouds streaked over the stars. Then, in spurts and flurries, snow began to fall, the first of the season. His stomach churned all the way down the path, his mind spinning with contrary thoughts. He cared about Gale. He couldn’t abandon her after agreeing to patron. But he’d agreed while intending to abandon her. Why? Then, suddenly, he fell to the frozen dirt and wretched. He cursed the spell that had forced him to act.

  Spell!

  Of course it had been a spell. He felt insane for not knowing it in the moment. But that was the way: he could never remember it was a spell until after. That meant he was freed. He could run back and tell her–

  But he couldn’t. The threats. The slander campaign. The Ceann would ruin her life. He’d smear her name across Fenn’s illegal studies and send her off to the roots of the mountain. The sunny Gale did not belong in shadow–especially not for crimes she didn’t commit.

  Tears escaped at last down his face. A groan rose in him. It grew into a growl. He picked himself up and fled inside. He found his mattress and buried his face into the pillow and wailed. He screamed his anger and pain into it until his voice was raw. The one person in the world he couldn’t bear to disappoint, and he’d trapped himself to hurt her.

  Finally, he collapsed onto the pillows, worn out.

  The best he could do was pretend for a while that the things he’d said were true, and leave her a note again when he left. This time, he’d make sure she got it. There was one thing Fenn’s father was right about: he was really, really good at leaving a paper trail. He’d compile evidence that she wasn’t involved and leave it for the other Ceanns somehow. Every single one of them would testify at her trial.

  He’d make sure she was alright when he left. That her life would remain intact, as it had been before. She would have everything she ever wanted, just not with him.