The Last Orellen - Chapter 7: The Axe

Chapter 7: The Axe

The Axe

Iven Orellen was lifted up from the family’s third circle to the first overnight.

His education came under the direct supervision of the council. His pitiful background in enchantment became his cover story, and to her eternal horror, his former master was ordered to spread rumors that he was gifted in the field.

All of the sudden, luck magic was a desirable quality in one’s offspring. Iven was encouraged to marry as soon as possible—preferably someone within the family, definitely not anyone with the overly dominant spatial magic inclination their line was so famous for.

This presented a problem. Iven had only ever thought of romance as an abstract, unobtainable sort of concept. He’d never seriously considered courting anyone because he knew he would be rebuffed in an instant. After all, for the entirety of his teenage life he’d hovered somewhere between pariah and running joke.

He’d assumed that one day, after he’d made something more serious of himself, he would befriend a girl and see if it turned into something more.

But with an entire council full of elderly sorcerers breathing down his neck and offering him disturbing advice, he couldn’t ignore the matter. He was afraid that if he didn’t do something on his own in a timely fashion, some busybody was going to drag him in front of an altar, introduce him to a total stranger, and tell them to get to work making children with each other.

So, when he was only eighteen he found himself standing outside the house of a young woman he had spoken to a few times in the library. He was holding a basket of braided bread loaves, dried figs, and a bowl of butter he’d churned himself that morning. He felt like an utter fool.

Atra opened the door at his knock, stared down at the traditional courtship offerings and said, “I’m the only one home right now. The others are all at work.”

“I know that.” Iven could feel his whole body heating. He wondered if anyone had ever died of blushing before. “These are for you.”

Atra shared a house with three other women who’d been outsiders before being accepted into the Orellen family. Timing this visit so that she would be the only one home had required a lot of improper spying on Iven’s part.

He held out his basket, hoping that she wouldn’t be overly put off by the fact that he was visibly sweating. “Normally it’s just bread and butter, but you’re from Untar originally. So I added the figs. I heard that was the tradition there. I hope I got it right.”

She didn’t take the basket.

“I’m…extremely flattered, Iven. But I’m too old for you.”

“Aren’t you twenty-two?”

“That’s too old for you.”

Iven couldn’t be deterred just yet. He didn’t have a back-up fiancé in mind, and the only thing more humiliating than carrying a courting basket across the entirety of the Enclave while people stared at you was having to take that same basket back the way you’d come.

“I…I realize we don’t know each other well. But if we get on each other’s nerves too badly we can just call the whole thing off before it goes very far. And I have some good qualities! I enjoy reading. I know you do, too. And I’m very opposed to infidelity so you’ll never be embarrassed of me on that front. And I think the family will make sure I have a good living. I’ll have a properly funded household at least. I’ve been raised to the first circle now.”

“I heard that,” said Atra, not looking at all impressed. “Apparently, you’re great at enchanting.”

Though it scarcely seemed possible, Iven’s blush deepened. Of course she wouldn’t have believed that cover story. She’d seen him studying nothing but luck magic texts whenever they met!

“Also, I like you,” Iven said. “Not because you’re pretty. Though you are! I’m not saying you’re unattractive. I mean–“

“What do you think you like about me then?” Atra crossed her arms over her chest. Her face was unyielding.

Iven was aware that his answer would be ridiculous. But he was also aware that he wasn’t suave enough to pass off a non-ridiculous answer as the truth.

“I…Aunt Teth complained about her back aching one day while we were both in the library studying, and the next day you brought her a seat cushion.”

It wasn’t enough, he knew. It was too small a reason to propose marriage to someone. But though Iven had done many things he probably should have felt guilty for in his young life, he’d never felt quite so sharp a sting of shame as when he’d seen Atra place the cushion in the elderly librarian’s chair.

How much help and support had old Teth given Iven over the years? She was the only one who’d even been willing to entertain the idea of helping him study luck magic. And how many times had he heard her complain about her back at the end of a long day’s work? He’d always been so focused on himself and what he needed. He’d never even offered to help with the shelving.

“I would have brought her a cushion if I’d thought about it. But I never thought about it. I’d…I guess I like you because I hope to be more like you? I want to be the kind of person who pays better attention to what’s around him in the future.”

Atra stared thoughtfully off into the distance while Iven squirmed. “I guess you’d better bring the basket inside,” she said finally. “Your butter’s going to melt out here in the sun.”

#

Atra had been raised as a blood magician by a small southern clan before she’d run away from them to join the Orellen family and pursue general spellcasting instead. It hadn’t weighed much in Iven’s consideration of her, but the council was pleased. Apparently, an affinity for blood magic had to be deliberately fostered in one’s children, so the chances of them producing an heir with Iven’s own talent were increased.

They were married to each other more quickly than either one of them wanted, but they grew together. In time, mutual dedication turned into a very comfortable and certain kind of love. By the time they became Lord and Lady Orellen, they had two children. Both of them were reasonably talented spatialists.

Twelve years later, they had seven.

Their youngest, Rella, was the only one to inherit Iven’s luck magic. She was three years old on the day Hamila’s prophecy was delivered, and she was already under the care of the best Novice tutor in the Enclave.

For some reason, in the wee hours of the morning after Atra had finally taken a sleeping potion and drifted off, it was Rella who Iven thought of.

Perhaps it was because she was the child he saw most often these days. He and Atra had insisted that she be with them at least every other week while she was still so young. And Iven almost always got what he wanted. He was, despite his protests to the contrary, something of a golden goose for the family.

He scried whatever the council asked him to, whenever they asked it of him. And he performed his role as Lord Orellen superbly. He had been given a great deal of power as a consequence, which only made his scrying more effective. It was so much easier to see the right fork in the road when he was the one steering the carriage.

Suddenly, he wanted to see the road ahead of little Rella. He wanted to see it as badly as he had ever wanted anything in his life.

He’d scried his own children before—once or twice each, hoping to set them on the best possible path. There had never been any serious reason for concern. But now…

Careful not to wake Atra, he left their bed and stepped over to the small cot his daughter usually slept in beneath the window. A single strand of her fine, soft hair lay on top of the pillow.

That would be enough.

A few minutes later, Iven stood in the townhouse’s attic. Every time they moved here, it was converted into a decent ritual room for his use. Before they moved away, the evidence would be scrubbed clean.

Only Orellens in the first circle were privy to Iven’s true talent. He was required to be careful about leaving signs of his magic lying around. Surely the other families had begun to suspect them of doing something different than they had in the past. After all, they’d been growing in power, influence, and wealth at an astonishing rate over the past decade. But it should have been a while yet before anyone convinced themselves it was a new type of magic behind their good fortune.

Good fortune, thought Iven, a little bitterly. Perhaps a man isn’t meant to meddle with luck after all.

What use was it to think that way now, though? Iven’s mind was still scattered after hearing the prophecy. A knot of something like the beginnings of panic burned in his chest. But Hamila’s words were an executioner’s axe that had already begun its downward swing.

No one could stop that axe. It would land.

Iven had to make sure that by the time it did, he’d taken as many Orellen necks off the chopping block as he could.

He placed his youngest daughter’s hair carefully in the center of the diagram and began to scry.

The letter from Kler arrived in the Enclave mail office at four o’clock in the morning.

Lord Orellen was demanding that his three-year-old daughter be woken from her bed and sent to him immediately.

It was an odd request, but not so odd that it couldn’t be accommodated given the sender. One of the mages on duty was sent to fetch Rella. The child arrived not long after, carried in the arms of her confused nurse.

“Is something wrong?” the woman asked while the night-gowned girl rubbed sleep from her eyes and yawned. “She’s supposed to be with me this week.”

The men and women who were manning the Enclave’s central portal formation shrugged. The business of Lord Orellen was none of their concern. He had asked for his daughter. He would get his daughter.

There was always a team of ten on duty, even at this hour, and young though she was, Rella was familiar with the method of travel. She sat obediently in the designated area while the portal mages finished their work. Then, she disappeared in a wash of light, and that was that.

An hour and a half later, though, another letter from Kler arrived. Lord Orellen wanted the rest of his children. All of them. At once.

The woman who’d opened the scroll frowned. It really wasn’t like him to make such urgent requests of the portal teams unnecessarily. “Are we sure this is from Lord Orellen and the Kler office?” she asked. “There’s no chance an outside party is somehow influencing our chain of communication?”

This question was disturbing enough that a high mage with greater authority was roused from his bed to verify the spelled seal on the letter and the sanctity of the portal formation. “Everything’s in order,” he said irritably. “Send him his children and a message asking him to explain what in the hells he’s thinking, using us like this at this hour. He’ll exhaust the Kler office. They’re not even a full team.”

He paused. Then he muttered something about golden geese. “On second thought, make the message a polite one. Ask him if he needs a couple of additional support mages for the Kler office. That should be enough of a hint.”

Over the next half hour, the other children were assembled. The oldest was fifteen, the youngest five. They were chattering with each other, all of them more excited than nervous to be called to join their parents on the spur of the moment. They thought it was probably meant as a surprise for them.

The eldest was entrusted with the polite message before they were all sent off.

The rest of the morning passed by uneventfully.

At shift change, the incoming portal team laughed and shook their heads when the outgoing mages told them about the strange double request from Lord Orellen. “What was hethinking?” one man said with a grin. “He didn’t just forget to write down the names of his other six children the first time around, did he?”

At eight o’clock that evening, a portal from Kler opened again, this one large enough for a man to step through. Lord Orellen’s brother Lan appeared, wearing the sort of expression that could wither stone.

“Get me five full mages for a short posting with our team,” he said without preamble. “I’ll be taking them back with me tomorrow. Tell them they won’t be away from home for more than a few weeks.”

Then he left, heading in the direction of Seniors’ Hall.

The portal mages all looked at each other, unease setting in. What was going on with Lord Orellen?

#

A few days later, the Enclave’s healers started knocking on doors all over town. “Pardon the inconvenience,” they said, “but one of our senior healers is conducting a new kind of research on the latest outbreak of the Shredding Plague. We’re collecting hair samples from as many people as we can to help with her study.”

“What? Why?” was a common response.

“You might not know this,” the healers said brightly, “but someone practicing the healing arts at the sorcerer level can learn ever so much from a single strand of hair!”

Well, why not? If one of the family’s prized sorcerers wanted your hair, you gave them your hair. And you were grateful they weren’t asking for anything more dear.

Every hair was carefully cataloged in its own envelope, with a surprisingly large amount of detail about its owner scrawled on the outside. The healers delivered thousands of them to the senior who’d sent them out after them in the first place. They wished her great success in her research, most of them hoping they might be chosen to assist.

The tall, gray-haired woman, whose name was Yora, promised them all she’d tell them about her results when she was ready. “It’s a long and delicate process,” she said. “You must be patient.”

In the privacy of her quarters, she packed the envelopes carefully into her largest medical chest. Atop them, she placed spelled vials full of the highest quality sleeping potions and mental focus elixirs the Orellen family could produce. On top of those, she added a collection of scrolls and books so covered in preservation magic that they gave off a faint glow to her eyes.

Her hands trembled a little as she locked the chest tightly.

“Steady,” Yora murmured to herself. “Your part in this isn’t the hardest one.”

But it wasn’t the easiest either.

When they’d called her to the council room and asked her if she could delay a pregnancy, she had confidently answered that she could. “For a few weeks, even,” she’d said. “If my magic aligns well with the mother’s.”

What if we wanted you to delay one for years?

“I don’t understand. That would be irresponsible even for the best healer.”

What if we needed you to do it?

“I can’t imagine a situation where such a thing would be necessary.”

What if there was one?

Indeed. What if there was one?

Yora would be the first healer to lay hands on Atra. Lady Orellen had only just realized she was pregnant a few days before disaster descended upon them. But everyone involved already knew what Yora would find.

Twins. It had to be.

Simple logic.

Lord Orellen had seven children at present. The prophecy said he would have nine. Hamila was never wrong. But Iven and Atra were sensible young people who wouldn’t produce a ninth child if it meant the destruction of their entire family. So…it was most likely that they had already done it.

Can you delay the pregnancy? Can you delay it for years? Can you do it even if it hurts the mother? Can you do it when failure has so high a price?

Yora didn’t know. But she would try.

“One more thing,” Dowither had said before she left the council room. Exhaustion seemed to have stolen all the man’s usual crotchetiness and replaced it with a sort of depressive practicality. “We’ll need you to come up with an excuse to take hair or fingernail trimmings or something similar from all the family members. Iven needs them for his scrying.”

“Well, that’s easily done at least,” she said. “But does he really intend to scry the whole family?”

“Yes,” the man said simply. “He’ll start right away even though he’s still trying to tie up loose ends in Kler.”

“Shouldn’t you bring them back here sooner rather than later?”

Dowither shook his head. “We’re increasing his staff instead. We can’t suddenly pull him back to the Enclave and keep him in seclusion. It will look suspicious to the other families. We’re going to try to maintain the appearance of normal operations for as long as possible…so that when the time comes for us to move they won’t be looking too closely at us.”

She nodded. “I understand. But realistically, what kind of move can we make?”

Dowither stared down at his own clasped hands.

“We wait for Iven to find it,” said one of the other council members grimly. “He couldn’t be more highly motivated, given the circumstances. If we make enough time for him, he’ll find it, the same as he always does.”

“Find it?”

“The luck. If you pour enough money, time, and trust into that man, he eventually finds the luck. It may be that the gods have left us none, but if they’ve dropped a single crumb of it, he’ll lead us to it.”

“It may be the best we can hope for,” said Dowither, sighing. “Though we’re still trying to come up with something surer. Anyway, keep him on his feet for us, Yora. Do whatever you have to. His brother says he hasn’t slept in days.”