Grelias, it is said, came originally from such a line of nobility, one of the many offshoots of the greater vines, so that in truth its only distinction was honorific. It was the Kings’ line, sublime Monteyn, that had held in it a higher distinction than nobility, a seed of deity.
But the line of Monteyn was extinct.
Monteyn had died out almost four hundred years ago, with the last King bearing its name and being of its blood, lying—it is claimed—in the semi-death and non-life of Stasis, the body mysteriously preserved in a glass casket. To this day, visitors to Tronaelend-Lis approach the Mausoleum to view a wax-like face from a great distance, in the silver monochrome splendor of marble, mother-of-pearl, and grayness of gold. The face could as likely belong to a porcelain doll.
Thus lies Alliran Monteyn, dead at the age of twenty-seven, upon coming into his full power. And his body, hermetically sealed, has not decayed for three hundred and eighty years.
But that was ancient history. Beis and Vaeste, and others like them, ruled by the Regent Grelias, now headed a radiant decadent Court in Tronaelend-Lis, city of thousands, the capital of the West Lands.
And the West Lands themselves, great wooded expanses, lay for a thousand leagues in all four directions, with mountain ranges piercing heaven in the north, with the faraway southern sea down to which poured all the rivers, and on both sides, east and west, other lands, and forests all throughout. The world was one great forest in those days, it seemed. And the deserts of sun-drenched silver, fabled and unbelievable, were said to be far, far west, or maybe east, beyond human thought.
* * *
Postulate Four: Rainbow is Unexpected Wonder.
* * *
T he Family Olvan had claimed as its color silver , or the “standard of the world.” Imogenn Olvan thought this choice was highly appropriate. Bland, stoic, ordinary, her Family was the standard indeed. For it had produced such insipid offspring as herself.
Imogenn was the first daughter of Reanne Olvan and Barand of the Artisans Guild, a man not of noble blood. Reanne, in her youth, had been one of those capricious social coquettes who—because of their beauty—reigned Dirvan for seasons on end. She flirted, played the game of glances, and in one such encounter conceived a child from a man half her rank. Such an outrage it was to her proper kinfolk that to atone for it, as all good manners dictated, Reanne must honorably bring up the child herself.
And that she did. From a wild thing, Reanne very suddenly converted into a proper matron. If possible, she was even better at it than at her previous role. From her motherly endeavors, the pale, small, quietly unattractive girl-child received fine schooling, and random expressions of half-love.
Since the first, Imogenn had been nearly voiceless. She had been immediately accepted into the solemn ranks of the Great Family, by all the stern aunts, uncles, cousins, and various other adults, who would gaze upon her small wispy figure with serious eyes. And she felt overwhelmed, drowning in that non-judgmental yet harsh sea of “family.” For, she knew, even back when she was four summers old, that somehow, despite their acceptance, she would never completely be one of them.
Her father, on the other hand, was radiant joy in her imagination. Those few occasions that she was allowed to see him, her life gained bright flashes of experience, like the gray sun breaking through cloud-mass. And always, she kept that experience in the most private center of herself, for she used it to measure the flow of personal time that otherwise would be as dreary and pointless as everything else in her existence.
Barand was a master sculptor. When he came by, for yearly visits allowed by law, he would sweep her away into a shimmering sea of things, for he would take her with him to the Artisans Quarter.
Holding tightly the strong callused hand of the tall black-bearded man with
But the line of Monteyn was extinct.
Monteyn had died out almost four hundred years ago, with the last King bearing its name and being of its blood, lying—it is claimed—in the semi-death and non-life of Stasis, the body mysteriously preserved in a glass casket. To this day, visitors to Tronaelend-Lis approach the Mausoleum to view a wax-like face from a great distance, in the silver monochrome splendor of marble, mother-of-pearl, and grayness of gold. The face could as likely belong to a porcelain doll.
Thus lies Alliran Monteyn, dead at the age of twenty-seven, upon coming into his full power. And his body, hermetically sealed, has not decayed for three hundred and eighty years.
But that was ancient history. Beis and Vaeste, and others like them, ruled by the Regent Grelias, now headed a radiant decadent Court in Tronaelend-Lis, city of thousands, the capital of the West Lands.
And the West Lands themselves, great wooded expanses, lay for a thousand leagues in all four directions, with mountain ranges piercing heaven in the north, with the faraway southern sea down to which poured all the rivers, and on both sides, east and west, other lands, and forests all throughout. The world was one great forest in those days, it seemed. And the deserts of sun-drenched silver, fabled and unbelievable, were said to be far, far west, or maybe east, beyond human thought.
* * *
Postulate Four: Rainbow is Unexpected Wonder.
* * *
T he Family Olvan had claimed as its color silver , or the “standard of the world.” Imogenn Olvan thought this choice was highly appropriate. Bland, stoic, ordinary, her Family was the standard indeed. For it had produced such insipid offspring as herself.
Imogenn was the first daughter of Reanne Olvan and Barand of the Artisans Guild, a man not of noble blood. Reanne, in her youth, had been one of those capricious social coquettes who—because of their beauty—reigned Dirvan for seasons on end. She flirted, played the game of glances, and in one such encounter conceived a child from a man half her rank. Such an outrage it was to her proper kinfolk that to atone for it, as all good manners dictated, Reanne must honorably bring up the child herself.
And that she did. From a wild thing, Reanne very suddenly converted into a proper matron. If possible, she was even better at it than at her previous role. From her motherly endeavors, the pale, small, quietly unattractive girl-child received fine schooling, and random expressions of half-love.
Since the first, Imogenn had been nearly voiceless. She had been immediately accepted into the solemn ranks of the Great Family, by all the stern aunts, uncles, cousins, and various other adults, who would gaze upon her small wispy figure with serious eyes. And she felt overwhelmed, drowning in that non-judgmental yet harsh sea of “family.” For, she knew, even back when she was four summers old, that somehow, despite their acceptance, she would never completely be one of them.
Her father, on the other hand, was radiant joy in her imagination. Those few occasions that she was allowed to see him, her life gained bright flashes of experience, like the gray sun breaking through cloud-mass. And always, she kept that experience in the most private center of herself, for she used it to measure the flow of personal time that otherwise would be as dreary and pointless as everything else in her existence.
Barand was a master sculptor. When he came by, for yearly visits allowed by law, he would sweep her away into a shimmering sea of things, for he would take her with him to the Artisans Quarter.
Holding tightly the strong callused hand of the tall black-bearded man with
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