Ages of Liholynn

Book One: Kálinnán

Prologue

It is said that nothing is ever as it seems. In most of the continent of Lha’an this is true. The very soil was shaped by deception, corruption, and lies. Several thousand years before the name “Kálinnán” was whispered in the bloody heat of an infirmary by a queen half-crazed by blood-loss and grief, the continent was whole, one nation, united under one king. There was peace, until, during the rule of King Lhazochan, a pair of twin boys was born to the king and queen. Immediately after their birth, a red string was tied around the elder’s wrist to distinguish him as the rightful heir to the throne. However, one day, the string slipped from the child’s wrist. From that moment on, it seemed that a feud between the two was inevitable. The king could not choose between his two sons, each the other’s perfect equal. After the king’s death, each young man gathered his supporters. In the end, one brother took the south, the other, the north. Much later, an aging nurse on her deathbed confessed to cutting the string from the child’s hand. She had thought it easy to tell which child was the elder. As for why she did not tell the king which child was his heir, she did not say. She died before the question could be asked. There are many other such stories in Lha’an’s history; lives twisted by fate and destroyed by chance. But in the middle of this land plagued by turmoil there was one refuge, one safe haven given by Maithrae, queen of the gods, to her people: Sunym, a small city in the middle of an impenetrable forest, untouched by war, unscathed by impurity. Of course, it did not remain so. The outside touched Sunym; the result was Kálinnán, and for better or for worse, not only Sunym, but the entire world was changed.

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Arien was a prince of Hyll, a kingdom in the south-western coastal region. He was Syryni, an immortal man born to mortal parents. His mother sent him to Sunym on royal business some seven years before Kálinnán was born. There, he met his cousin, Aelshyve for the first time. After his initial visit, Arien returned more and more often, citing a love for the isolation and simplicity of the city.

In the fifth month of the 367th year of that Aeso, or era, he returned, seven months after his last visit. This time it was to see his Aelshyve’s child’s birth. A forest guard guided him as usual to the city. There, he found his cousin in labour, two full months earlier than expected.

Though the child was small, the birth was long and hard. Arien sat at his cousin’s bedside along with her first-born son, a ten year old boy called Medraen. Arien had expected the boy to leave when he saw the first drop of blood or heard his mother’s first cry, but the child endured the red scene before him unflinchingly.

The queen was on her back, her feet in a pair of stirrups to aid her in her pushing. Arien held her hand as a long contraction rolled through her body. He withdrew his hand, cracking his knuckles as King Syrno entered.

“Might I have a word?” he whispered into Arien’s ear, not waiting for a response before stepping outside. Arien followed, giving Aelshyve’s hand one final squeeze before leaving her to the midwives. Once outside, Arien cocked a questioning eyebrow at the king.

“I have just spoken with one of the midwives,” said Syrno, his voice quavering in an uncharacteristic show of emotion. “The child is…very small…and he is emerging feet first. He will not live. He may be dead already.”

Arien embraced Syrno, shattering all traces of formality. Too devastated to resist, Syrno sobbed into the prince’s shoulder.

Trying desperately to collect himself, the king choked, “I need you to help me, Arien. I do not want Aelshyve to see our son dead. He is very nearly delivered. I will take Medraen to his bed. When the child comes, keep him from her. Bring him to the river. I will wait there.”

Arien nodded as they re-entered the infirmary. Syrno spoke with Aelshyve for a moment before leading a protesting Medraen out of the building in the direction of the palace. Arien clasped the queen’s hand once more, smiling encouragingly at her. She returned the gesture weakly. It was only minutes before the last push, when the boy was first pulled and then cut from his mother’s womb. Pale, unmoving, and blue-lipped, he was unmistakably dead. A midwife examined him before handing him over to Arien, who cleaned the boy in a basin, ignoring Aelshyve’s cries of “How is he? Let me see him! Let me see my beautiful son!” The entire room fell silent; no one had the heart to tell this woman that her son was dead.

Arien left quickly, but even out in the cool night air he could still smell the blood, and when the queen was told what had happened, he could hear her shrill cries. A tear slid down his own cheek as he walked, cradling the tiny corpse to his chest. He took a closer look at the nameless boy. Though a deathly pallor had ravaged his delicate skin, it was still dark like a southerner’s, as was the tuft of hair on his head. His features were strong and fell at sharp angles. He was too small, too thin. There were black rings around his huge, closed eyes. Curious, Arien pulled back one of the lids. The eye beneath it was pure, milky white. Arien recoiled. Whatever malaise had consumed the child’s body had also made him blind. He wondered if the child had fought it, or if he had even known of its presence.

“Why is my son dead?”

Arien looked over his shoulder. King Syrno approached him, taking the boy and continuing his questioning without waiting for an answer, “Why could he not have lived? What have I done to so offend the gods? My wife is healthy…Why was he born so soon?”

“My lord,” Arien began awkwardly, “The boy was so weak, so frail…and he was blind. It is better for him to go on to Paradise. His life would have been painful here.”

“I know what it was! A demon within my wife’s womb! A demon that wishes ill on the royal family; that detests our piety!”

“Such superstition! Your child died by no fault of yours, nor the gods’, nor any demon’s. Your child is dead because he was sickly and because your wife’s labour came too soon.”

Syrno stood silent a long moment before sighing, “He would have made such a fine prince.”

Arien drew breath to speak, but he was interrupted.

Hello, my lords…

The voice seemed to come from nowhere. The men looked around for the source of the voice, but found nothing.

Is that the prince?

“Who are you?” Syrno shouted.

He is so very beautiful…and so powerful…like his father.

“Flattery will not help you if you mean ill to us!” The king called out.

A laugh like breaking glass answered.

Not you, fool!

“Show yourself!” Arien demanded.

Very well…

A figure stepped from the shadows of the trees. It was a woman, clad in shades of black and deep blue. Her lips did not move as she spoke, eyeing the child in Syrno’s arms.

Now you see me. What is achieved? My work is very nearly done.

“Who are you?”

I am the one who has been with the child these seven months.

“Are you the demon? Have you killed my son?”

No demon, I! And I have killed no son of yours. But the mortal boy from your dear wife’s womb is dead. He was of high blood and very powerful. My own plans could not be carried out while that boy survived. And now, my work must be finished. I must obliterate that child, that the fruit of my efforts may thrive. But look how mortal tongue makes Gods speak overlong. Give me the child.

“No!” Syrno roared, clasping the infant’s body to his breast. “I must give my son to the river!”

He is not your son.

Again the king boomed. “Lies!”

The woman smiled patiently, teasingly.

If he is truly your son, then your bond of blood alone will tie you to him. I will not be able to take him. But if I can take him…

Syrno held the child tighter still.

The woman gestured, and suddenly Syrno held nothing; the babe was at her breast. She placed a hand above the child’s heart, closing her eyes. Syrno rushed at her, but a wave of her hand sent him flying backwards onto the dewy ground. Arien ran to help the king. The woman, meanwhile, continued her probing of the child’s chest. Suddenly a piercing scream shredded the air, a wail of excruciating pain. Arien looked to the woman in time to see the child’s eyes fly open, still blind. She grinned widely as he struggled against her. Within seconds, he fell limp and silent.

It is done.

Arien collapsed to his knees, sobbing. Syrno stood close by, his eyes blank and wet. The woman’s smile grew as she stroked the child’s face, but fell immediately as the child’s hand shot up to grab her wrist. It was not an infantile groping; it was a deliberate, accurate motion that might have been difficult for many adults, let alone a baby. She jerked her hand away, revealing this prince’s open eyes, filled with fire. Her voice trembling, she spoke.

“He will not die! His blood is higher than any living man’s. In him is the very essence of the Angels and the Gods!”

With these, her only spoken words, she vanished, leaving the child on the grass under the light of the full moon. Syrno approached him, lifting him experimentally before cradling him. The king’s touch was awkward, and his face was contorted with suspicion.

“He is not mine,” the king uttered pitifully, his tone hurt.

Arien struggled to form a coherent sentence. “That…spirit…She could have been lying. There is simply no proof that-”

“He is not mine. He does not look like me. He…he looks like…” Syrno made eye contact with Arien.

Arien threw his hands up in frustration, “Superstition! Trusting the word of spirits! How backwards is this place, Syrno? Your child looks like your wife’s father, my uncle. To even suggest-” Arien’s anger suddenly tapered. He shook his head and continued quietly, “You would do well, my lord, to forget what you saw here tonight. I do not pretend to understand what that spirit wanted, but I know this: to take a spirit at its word is folly. I will say no more. As it is, your son is alive, and your wife thinks otherwise. Let us go and relieve her grief before it overtakes her.”

Arien chanced to glimpse the child on the way back to the infirmary, though Syrno held him tightly to his chest. The boy looked much stronger, somehow. He was still small, but no longer so frail. Whether the cause was life or something more sinister, the child had changed. Arien struggled to recall the woman’s words, to untangle some riddle in the convoluted exchange, but his memory failed him. She had not spoken after all, only thought.

When the two men re-entered the infirmary, it was nearly empty. Aelshyve lay alone on the bed, sobbing pathetically. No midwife or physician was at her side.

“I told you all,” she exclaimed, “Leave me be!”

“My lady! The prince is alive!” Arien said, rushing to her bedside.

“What?” she opened her eyes, and struggled to sit, reaching for the child struggling in her husband’s arms. She held the unnamed boy, arms encircling him fearfully in both relief and disbelief, “Ah, ry syloc, ye ero kali nan (1)!” She whispered to the boy as she nursed him, “Syrno, raise the word that your son, Kálinnán Syranan, is born!”

(1) “Oh, my child, you are born with good fortune!”