When the call went out , the sun had just begun its final descent for the evening, dipping partway under the horizon and splashing bands of red, orange and then finally violet across the sky. It had been a warm day, though not uncomfortably so, the first untouched by a series of careless thunderstorms that had darkened The Isle for days. To their chagrin, the charges who had largely been trapped indoors for days had been instructed that morning to remain close to The Compound that had become their home. There had been no lessons today, nothing formal, at least.
Arietta had secluded herself away in the library, taking over an entire table with a score of books. Anyone passing through wouldnāt even draw her attention as she flipped through pages, referencing and cross-referencing several tomes at once. She was making notes in a mixture of Greek and Hebrew, the characters so small that they were barely legible, and still sheād managed to fill three pages by midafternoon.
Simon was not his eminently approachable self. Heād apparently traded out his usual easy jocularity for surliness to rival Matthewās, and spent most of the day hiding out in the small office where he held his confidential sessions. The Balaren Guardian was as solemn as ever, and shortly after dinner (which none of the Guardians had been present for), he enlisted Fleet and any charges willing to assist him in transporting quite a bit of firewood from the stores to the center of the courtyard, where he proceeded to build what looked to be the beginnings of a massive bonfire, neatly stacking the wood like Lincoln Logs until the resulting cube-like structure was nearly as tall as he was. He was characteristically laconic, only speaking to explain the need for proper draft if the fire was to burn all night, and other such survivalist tidbits.
Only Michaela was unaccounted for. Normally, she popped up periodically throughout the day, but sheād presumably consigned herself to the former officerās quarters that the Guardians used for their more-and-more frequent, at least of late, meetings.
It had been a strange year by The Isleās standards, though precious few of the current charges would understand that completely. In the past month alone, more than a half-dozen young men and women who had Awakened to their Bloodline had appeared. Most of them would have at least an idea of the fact that a half-dozen was a large number of charges for The Compound. All told, they numbered more than a score now, a fact which the Evincal would likely feel resonant with portent.
The instant that work on the tower of wood was complete, Fleet whipped his head about to regard Matthew with wide eyes.
āIs it time?!ā he asked, his excitement even more vibrant than his usual insane baseline. Matthew merely nodded, and anyone in the immediate vicinity would be buffeted by a blast of breeze as the Wind-Born Navarene seemingly vanished. Most would be by now aware of his ability to
become wind, rather than merely affect or create it, and in the form of a zephyr, Fleet raced throughout the grounds to give the call.
āMeeting in the courtyard!ā He manifested physically for only just long enough to deliver his message before zipping off to find another young man or woman to inform. He scoured The Compound and the area surrounding it, stirring up leaves and dust in his wake as he flitted about, appearing before groups who had come together to talk, in dorm rooms, in the common area, even in the library and everywhere in between.
āMeeting in the courtyard! Meeting in the courtyard! Meeting in the courtyard!ā He didnāt stop until every last soul on the island was aware of the convocation that would soon take place.
By the time the charges had begun filtering into the courtyard, the Guardians had all assembled save for Michaela. Arietta, looking as weary as ever, was seated in the lotus position with her eyes closed, not far from the pyre that Matthew had constructed. Fleet reappeared, frowning when he realized that heād somehow lost his favored white fedora in his rapid fit of transformation and exclamation. Matthew was leaning to the left of The Compoundās main entrance, his arms crossed over his chest and his features blank. Simon had emerged from his office, and was currently pacing back and forth in front of the officerās quarters, his agitation more than evident in the form of some low-toned self-muttering.
It was only after each and every one of the young men and women had gathered about the courtyard that Michaela emerged from the officersā quarters. A simple white cotton dress draped her form, and her bright smile was a beacon of reassurance. She maintained it even when Simon bee-lined for her, and stopped to engage in a terse conversation with him. Their words would go unheard, but there was no mistaking that the exchange was anything but pleasant, if only for the fact that the air around them began to show ripples, reflecting the Omarain Guardianās agitation in visual form. It was concluded quickly enough. Simonās expression was even bleaker as he stalked off to lean beside Matthew, who was carefully avoiding making eye contact with the Mori.
Michaela drew a single breath, and in that span regained her composure utterly. The distortions surrounding her ironed themselves out, replaced by a warm aura of soft white light. As she walked directly toward the pyre, illusory flowers, poppies in white and crĆØme and egg-shell sprung up in her wake, creating a path behind her. The trail of flowers followed her, then pooled out around her when she came to a stop, as if she had simply come to stand in the center of a thick patch of them.
āEveryone, gather āround please.ā She was too dignified to shout, but her voice carried remarkably, reaching every ear and tugging at every mind. It was little more than a simple request, but it was difficult to deny. Arietta tried to catch her eye, and when she did, Michaela shook her head succinctly. The Evincal Guardian just nodded a tired nod and closed her eyes, remaining completely still upon the ground.
āThis wonāt take very long at all,ā she explained, panning her gaze to draw in each of them, address each of them.
āI know youāre all probably wondering why youāre here, in this courtyard, but more than that, why youāre here. On The Isle. With everyone finally settled in, itās high time that you learn the purpose of this place, one of the worldās last bastions of magic, and your purpose in this place.ā She was a perfect admixture of solemnity and wisdom as she began her speech, but she dazzled them with a vibrant grin.
āI also have a surprise for all of you, but that will have to wait till after the end of the story.āThe faerie prince was uncharacteristically alone when the messenger arrived.
Aaron did not normally seek out solitude. Generally, he fled it. He was seldom in his room, save to sleep, change his clothes, and shower, but when he was simply
there, he tended to leave his door open, a standing invitation to all the courtiers who had reason to petition him (there had never been an actual petition, of course, but he eagerly awaited the day that the first of many came). Tonight, though, the door stood closed and even locked. His endeavor was a private one, and distractions were the mortal foes of such work- foes that the faerie prince had no defense against save for seclusion.
Heād been at it since just after dinner, though not to great success. The idea, like most of his, had sprung fully formed but elusive from his mind, and he was having difficulty getting his mental hands upon it now that it was free. He already had pen and paper, used for sending missives to his family, which was all he truly needed for the task at hand: to begin to commit to ink on paper the story of the faerie prince.
His story.
It was proving a challenge that might ironically be termed
princely. Words came easily to him, when speaking, but catching them with the nib of a pen and then sticking them fast to paper was proving an entirely different matter. Thus far, heād managed after three attempts to arrive at a working title (the appropriate but not particularly inspired
Tales of The Faerie Prince), and nothing else worth keeping. Heād tried speaking aloud, saying words and then writing them down afterwards in effort hopes of fooling the fickle Muses into helping him. They were apparently cannier than heād suspected. Heād tried making lists with bullet points to organize his thoughts, but his thoughts were not made for such a static, rigid template. From the small graveyard of balled up sheets that were now scattered about the floor around and beneath his desk, an observer might have thought him in the midst of penning a novel full, but fortunately, there were no observers to bear witness to the fitful process.
At least, there werenāt until Fleet arrived. His gusty entrance sent the crumpled pages skittering, and Aaron had to lunge, using his forearm to trap the almost-empty expanse of white paper that heād been staring at intently for the past ten minutes while thinking instead of what Graham might be up to, or if Renn was busy with Erin, or if Milo would like the title heād come up with, orā¦ well, of anything but the task at hand, really, in order to keep it from flying away from him. Startled and embarrassed (though heād never admit the latter), he wheeled around in his seat (literally, it had wheels) to face the intruder.
āMeeting in the courtyard!ā He heard the call before he saw the speaker.
His wroth fled when he noted it was Fleet. The Navarene Guardian never failed to bring a bright grin to Aaronās full lips. Lifting a hand to brush down a bit of fitfulness that his spun-gold hair seemed to have engaged in thanks to the miniature localized windstorm that was Fleet, he relaxed in his seat and regarded the man.
āHow now, spirit? Whither wander you?ā His voice rang out like music, the first part of an exchange that he never failed to encourage. The words had come to mind immediately when heād first met Fleet, and like most of the words that came into his mind, they had exited soon thereafter through his mouth. Fleet had been confused, but after a few encounters, had begun to respond, creating something of an inside joke between the two that the elemental didnāt quite comprehend but enjoyed nevertheless.
āSorry Aaron, very busy. Something about a girdle! Gotta go!ā With that he was gone, and this time, a somewhat dejected Aaron was unable to stop the first page of his great work from sailing from his desk to under his bed.
A meeting, in the courtyard? Only in the messengerās absence did he process the message. Such an event wasnāt unprecedented, but neither then was it ordinary. Aaronās affinity for all things out of ordinary abolished his frustrations with the Muses from his mind. He hopped to his feet, arching his back in feline fashion to stretch. He glimpsed himself in the glass (heād read a story that had referred to mirrors as
glasses, which had initially confused him, but now heād adopted the terminology into his increasingly archaic vocabulary) to ascertain that he was ready for a public appearance.
He was already wearing his favorite shirt, one that heād found in the cache of spare clothing (a simple white linen peasantās shirt with billowing sleeves and a plunging neckline that showed off a great deal of his pale chest), along with a pair of breeches (really, they were simple dark khakis, but he rolled the legs up to his mid-calves and
insisted they were breeches). He waxed and waned on wearing shoes and decided that heād prefer his feet bare. The sound of them slapping the concrete floor of the hallway that led out of the dorm area in a rapid rhythm would announce the faerie princeās timely departure. It wasnāt quite a run, or a skip, or a dance, but something that sat fixed squarely between the three, as playful, impatient, and amusing to watch as Aaron himself.
He was among the last to arrive, which only meant that he didnāt have time to sort out who he meant to stand with around the bonfire. His violet eyes flitted about, evaluating the prospects, and he started towards Renn, eager to see if the Earth-Born might know what was going on.
āEveryone, gather āround, please.āMichaelaās voice drew his attention to her immediately, in a way that her mastery of illusion never could. The boy was as susceptible to Glamour as anyone, maybe even moreso, and a smile scrawled itself across his features as he simply stopped moving, standing in place to listen. His eyes lit up and did a rather remarkable saucer impression at the revelation that followed her introduction:
a story AND a surprise. There were few things that Aaron enjoyed more than either, and he was hard-pressed to decide which he preferred (never mind that he had no idea what the surprise was). Fortunately, he neednāt decide at all; he was getting both!
With story-time looming, he assumed his favorite position for tale-telling; he lowered himself with aplomb into an āIndianā style of sitting, his legs folded up above and beneath one another, and then balanced his elbows on his knees and his chin in his palms, leaning forward in a show of eagerness for what was to come.