The Sorcerers of Infinity/12

twelfth chapter
Feather Fireworks

Suddenly, years did not seem to matter. There was time, and there was movement. Time slowed down to a near halt, and the only apparent movement became Garril’s and Tarja’s. They were one again.

“By the Gods,” Tarja wept joyously. “How I’ve missed you, Garril.”

“I’ve missed you too, Aunt Tarja.” Garril started to choke on his own tears and hiccups, barely able to breathe. After two years of living with an empty void in his heart… That void was gone now—deep under the darkest ocean.

A stray feather fluttered down in between them, making them both unwarily giggle for no real reason. Then a man in the crowd stood up, and ran toward the stage.

“Artturi,” Tarja whispered, embracing him as well. Garril was rather surprised.

“Wasn’t that amazing, ladies and gentlemen?” the announcer suddenly cut in rather rudely. “There you have it folks! One of the most amazing performances in Van Mara to date!”

The entire crowd started applauding. Their clapping was incredibly loud; it was even starting to shake the rafters. Accompanied by their whistling and adoring cries, the ceiling began to shake out some extra feathers that were caught in the beams. Tarja giggled at those too, as they fell down. It was odd; Garril had never seen her giggle so many times in a row.

“You’ve grown, dear,” she said simply. Her voice was drawn, but her eyes spoke volumes. Garril smiled at her, and then cast a confused glance at the man beside her. He was rather tall and looked to be Elvin—Tulla Elvin to be precise. He had shaggy blond hair and a scraggly beard.

“Is he Garril?” he asked Tarja.

“Yes,” she replied, beginning to regain her usual immovable tone. She turned to Garril. “Garril, this is my brother, Artturi. He’s your uncle.”

“H-hello,” Garril said to him shakily, moving to take his outstretched hand.

“And now,” the announcer interrupted rudely once again. “For our next act!…”

Tarja frowned at the woman, and then motioned for them to get off of the stage. The three of them exited backstage, and walked toward the seats that Garril and his friends had. It was directly under the Baron’s balcony room, but Baron Rodune Vanmara decided not to use it. He sat alongside Rhylor and his nephew Jarot.

“My lady,” the baron said immediately, bowing, as Garril brought his aunt and uncle nearer to the seats. “Thy voice is most splendorous, o dearest heaven-sent mistress.”

“Thank you,” Tarja replied simply, almost shortly.

The semblance of blond hair about her face bobbed in the light. It even hid the pearly porcelain mask which concealed her badly burned second face. Tarja looked at Solnel, flickers of remembering coming into her visible left eye. “You,” she said speculatively; “you’re Solnel, right?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Solnel replied, inclining his head politely. “The one and the same,” he added, flashing her a sly smile. Tarja smiled a thin smile back.

“Of course it’s you,” she noted. She turned to Ardray and Vankesa, walking over to them so that she looked like an impervious pillar over them. Even Vankesa seemed to shirk back visibly from her. Tarja looked at Vankesa first.

“Szetel frebenszl,” she said to him.

“Szetel meden,” he replied, practically choking on his own words.

Garril noticed that his aunt had that effect on people. Tarja nodded, seemingly to herself, and then took a seat. When she leaned forward, however, she quite heavily fainted on the spot.

“Tarja?” Artturi cried aloud. “Tarja, wake up!”

He shook his sister’s arm, trying desperately to keep her awake. The Baron put his arm in front of the near-wild man.

“My good man,” he said. “Thy dearest sister requires sleep. Come, help me carry her into the chambers.”

Despondently, he lifted the woman by the arms and carried her on her back out the door—Garril’s group followed closely behind him; and King Dacak’s legions eying them carefully.