The Brush Tiger of Derven Ch. 28-29

She nods slowly, "We need to talk afterwards."

"I know," he says, "I have much to tell you, as I am sure you have much to tell me. But all of that will have to wait until later tonight, Queen Namora."

Mora draws in a deep breath and lets it out; wiping the last of her tears from her face, she dons a blank expression, securely hidden behind her royal mask. Glancing to Jackson, she nods. The men open the doors to the castle before four of them pick up the casket and carry it carefully down the stairs. Slowly, Mora follows.

The entire town below is filled with men, women and children dressed in blue, a sea of people come to see their King off. The sight of it causes Mora to draw in a sharp breath; she waits by the doors for Laren, while watching her father be set down at the base of the stairs on top of a wooden alter.

Laren's usually quiet voice projects easily over the crowd from above them, "People of Derven—we have gathered here, to say farewell to our beloved King Nathanial. None of us were expecting to do this so soon and I know that we all share in the pain of loss. Let us recall the kindness, the selflessness, the graciousness in which he served our country. He was a benevolent King and we could have not hoped for anyone more worthy. He was tested many times and proved to be a steadfast man and I think we can all agree that he always did what was best for Derven, even if, in the end, it cost him his life.

I am thankful that I had the privilege of calling him a friend and that he shared with me the experience of raising his daughter. I know he touched many of your lives in a very personal way—he was always the first to offer help no matter the need. Tonight he will be reunited with his love, his wife, our beloved Queen Jemisha, in the great forest beyond. If you wish to offer him farewell for his journey, you are welcome to do so."

Laren bows his head in a moment of silence, before offering his arm to Mora; she takes it and they descend, stopping when they reach the third from the bottom step behind the alter. The position offers them a view of the entire square, as well as Nathanial's body and the line that forms of Dervens who wish to say goodbye.

Some speak soft words, others none at all; several shed tears, both men and women alike. Young children come with their parents to see their old King off, the youth placing small clusters of flowers inside his casket as is customary. Mora and Laren stand in silence for hours as the line dwindles down to the last few remaining. When all those in blue have passed, the only people left in the entire square are the soldiers who have already said their peace waiting to take the casket to the tombs and one man dressed in all black.

Rick stands before the coffin, looking down at the dead King. His voice is soft, the agony in it present, "I wish we could have met under different circumstances."

Mora knows the words are meant for her and it tears at her heart, but tucked within the safety of her stoic affect, she doesn't show a hint of a response. Rick turns and leaves, the square now empty.

Her and Laren follow the four soldiers as they carry the casket back into the castle. The procession makes the long walk through the winding halls towards the back of the castle, coming to the dusty wooden stairs that lead down into the royal tombs. Torches blaze brightly in the cool, dry stone part of the castle. Walking almost the entire length of it, past the boxes containing her line of ancestors and to the rulers of even further back, they finally arrive at an empty opening in the stone walls. The soldiers carefully place the lid onto the casket, the perfectly carved wood sealing air tight, before they lift it and slide it into his final resting place. With a bow, they leave.

Laren stands slightly behind Mora, his voice quiet, "I will wait for you in the royal ante chamber, Queen Namora."

She barely nods her acknowledgement, hearing his footsteps disappear, her eyes still locked on her father's casket. Tentatively reaching her hand out, she traces the blue inlay on the side, the curves that form his name, the dates of his life and death. "Goodbye, father," her voice is a whisper.

As her eyes fall on the shelf below, a sigh escapes her lips seeing her mother's name inlaid in red against the black wooden coffin. Her fingers trace the letters, the name so foreign on her lips as she says them, "Jemisha." Drawing in a breath, she turns to leave when something catches her eye—the carving on the side of her mother's coffin. It is one she has seen many times before, when her and her father would wander down to the tomb on her mother's birthday; now, however, the carving holds meaning. Her hand trembles when she reaches out, fingers touching the cold dark wood, running over the impression of a tree. Below the tree rests several brush tigers, laying down. When her fingers trace the arch encompassing the tree, a chill creeps up her spine as she is reminded of the tapestry she saw hanging over Rick's fireplace—the one depicting a tree that lives in the total darkness of a cave, that grows with the sacrifice of humans.

...

Laren sits on the soft sofa in the antechamber, a large platter of food resting on a cushion. He looks up at Mora when she enters, "Since we missed dinner, I thought we could share."

She walks swiftly over, sitting on the other side of the platter, "Who designs the caskets?"

His hand halts on the way to his mouth, forkful of roast hovering in the air, shocked by the question, "The occupant of the casket. Once the ascension to the throne is made, the designs are usually sketched within the first few weeks of the new reign. I should have been here to tell you this, but it didn't seem like a pressing matter—I hope you aren't planning on doing something that would result in you needing one so soon, Queen Namora."

"So no one other than the occupant knows the meanings of the design?"

"No," he says, "though I believe your father told me once that the pattern reminded him of seeing the moon through the canopy of the forest."

"And my mother?"

The roast makes it to his mouth and Laren chews carefully before responding, "She never explicitly said anything about it but I assumed it was reminiscent of her time as Head Huntress and living in the woods of Sceadu."

Slumping slightly, she spears a cooked carrot and chews on it, "Did she ever tell you anything about her life before?"

He shakes his head, "I know nothing more about her previous life than you. If she did tell anyone, it would have been your father."

Sighing she picks up a sliced of buttered bread and bites down on it; Laren's posture deflates a little, "Oh, Namora." His voice is soft and pained, "What happened?"

She does not wish to talk about it with anyone, least of all her mentor, but the words come out none the less, "He tried to attack Irving. He is quick to anger, stubborn, impulsive and violent. He would never be worthy of Derven."

The sound of Laren's tongue clicking against his teeth draws her gaze; he frowns, chastising her, "It isn't his fault he wasn't raised as you were. I am disappointed that you would give up on him so easily—the stubborn, Derven woman that I know would never rest until she set him right. You believe you can teach Irving to be a King in a week—why would you think that Varickan couldn't learn to do the same?"

She snorts a huff, "I'm not even entirely sure I can trust him—or anyone for that matter. Sheynne wants the Alumenian throne and if Rick had his way, he'd do nothing to stop her."

"Trust has to be earned, Namora. That can hardly be accomplished if you won't give him the time of day."

Silently, she finishes the slice of bread. Laren is right—she would never forgive herself if she just walked away from her chance at true love. It is possible that Rick could be brought to see reason but she is doubtful that she will have the time to deal with him unless he can come to terms with her grooming Irving. "What have you discovered of Alumenia?"

He points to a silver clad box near the wall, further in the antechamber, "I have discovered that when you have the entirety of your guard underneath your immortal spell, you have no reason for hiding things."

Mora's shock overcomes all of her previous thoughts; rising, she walks over to the box where she crouches down, hesitantly tracing her fingers over the cool metal, "Did Kenneth see you take this?"

"Not a chance," Laren replies, "he was much too busy trying to sift through the trade and financial records. I am pretty sure Geofen plans on staking a claim in Alumenia as well—I wouldn't be surprised if they attempt to split it with Sceadu. They clearly view us as a threat and that would give them control over all of the metal."

Surprised to see not even a lock on the box, Mora pushes it open. Inside, she discovers two ingots of a shiny nickel looking metal and a small golden colored fabric pouch, "There were only four immortals total?" She asks while drawing out the pouch.

"It appears that way—your father believed that Irron killed all of the others, so either he did or there are more of them out there," Laren has risen and now stands beside Mora. "I have no idea what those are, it didn't make any sense to me."

Opening the pouch, she pours the contents into her hand, just as confused as Laren when she stares down at what appears to be several nuts; about the size of eggs, they are intricately carved out of an almost white looking metal. "Irron didn't like trees," she states.

"Frankly, nothing that man did makes any sense. He left that country in shambles; if Irving does take it over he will have quite a bit of work to put forth. Do you believe him to be up to the task?"

Placing the nuts back into the bag, she drops them into the box with a clink before rising, "It is hard to say. He is a quick study and I find him to be quite amiable. Clearly, he got his personality from his mother."

"Let us be thankful for that," he replies, motioning her back to the couch to sit down. He waits until she begins eating again before walking to the large wooden box on the desk, "Your father had me secure the contents of the desk into this box before he passed. There are a few that I was surprised to have never set eyes on before." He lifts up the box and brings it over, setting it on the ground.

"The book?" She queries, eating a large chunk of meat.

"Yes," he replies, pulling it out and looking at it. His hand traces the cover before he opens it up, "I recognized your mother's handwriting, though I don' t know what language it is in. If I had to fathom a guess, I'd believe it to be some ancient tongue of Sceadu. I was thinking that perhaps you could ask Prince Varickan—" he pauses, before frowning, "Or maybe there is someone else. It isn't pressing, though—the book has been locked away for almost thirty years now. I suppose it is just my curiosity at finding what secrets it holds." Setting the book back down into the box, he pulls out a smaller object; it is about the length of his fore arm and only a few inches thick. He hands it to her.

Mora takes the object, surprised to feel that it is wood but unlike any known to her. Though it is black, the coloration of it is so incredibly dark and matte, that it almost appears to suck in the surrounding light. It isn't heavy and she gets the suspicion that it is hollow, yet there are no seams in it and no open sides. When she turns it over, she discovers an engraving; it is almost impossible to see because of the dark coloration of the wood, but it is a tree. The branches and roots of the tree extend outward, weaving into a large circle that encompasses it. She looks up at Laren, "What kind of wood is this?"

He shakes his head, completely beside himself, "I have no idea. I thought I knew all of the trees in this country and the others, yet I have never seen one like this."

She frowns, her fingers tracing the engraving. Mora wishes that her father was here, that her mother was still alive—or at the very least, that they didn't leave behind so many unanswered questions. Deciding that it can wait until she has the luxury to focus on it, she places the piece of wood and the book back into the box, latching the lid shut, "A mystery for another time. Right now, let us focus on things that are more pressing—what do I teach Irving? How do I teach Irving?" Leaning back, she finishes the rest of the roasted vegetables from the plate.

Laren sighs, "Teach him how to rule Derven."

"What?" She says, surprised.

"It makes the most sense—clearly, the way that Irron ran his country he was little more than a tyrant. It seems like the best course of action would be to groom Irving in a way that we would groom someone to become your King; the compassion, patience, steadfastness, determination, kindness and loyalty—these are all things that Alumenia needs right now. Seeing as how you cannot take over the country yourself, you should teach him to be like you. I brought with me a copy of the current Alumenian laws—granted, he will want to change most of them in the future but it will give him something to be versed on when he arrives."

Nodding slowly, she rises, "Yes, that does make sense. Come, walk with me."

Laren obliges, following her out of the room. Catching Jackson outside the door, he directs him to place the metal box into the royal vaults before they wander the castle.

Mora leads him towards the front, ascending the stair case just to the side of the doors that leads beyond the balcony and to the roof. Together, they stand in silence for a while, looking out over the black night and seeing the bright orange orbs of funeral pyres dotting the landscape.

"Does Prince Varickan sense your intentions with Irving?" Laren asks, softly.

"Yes," she replies.

"Will he send word to his mother?"

She sighs, "Honestly—I am not sure. If he does, then I will know for certain that he is incapable of becoming a Derven King."

Laren stands in silence for a moment, "I saw one of Queen Sheynne's Wardens here this afternoon—the large burly man with a scar on his face. I am afraid that he might let word slip; while they will know eventually, I don't like the idea of giving them the time to plot."

"Warden Eric won't tell her a thing," she says quietly. When Laren glances at her, she continues, "I already spoke with him. He informed me of Sheynne's desire of him to spy on me, but flat out told me that he would not. Apparently a lot of Sceaduians are displeased with her rule and are already gearing to support Rick. At least, they were when they thought he and I were to be wed."

"You still might be," Laren offers.

"Only time will tell what kind of hunter he truly is," she whispers.

Their conversation continues well into the night, until the orange pyres have faded from sight. Laren advises her on a course of action for teaching, "Use the morning to discuss Derven policy and leave him the evening to read through the Alumenia laws on his own."

"What of the afternoon?" She asks when they finally begin to leave the roof.

Laren rubs his head awkwardly, "I was thinking, that perhaps, you would fight with him."

"Fight with him," she is clearly surprised, "like you would with me? I thought you already trained him?"

"Aye, I did, but it has been over five years since I saw him last. I don't feel comfortable sending him out of this country without more training."

"You suspect Sheynne would try something?" She wonders.

"I wouldn't put it past that woman," he affirms once they are wandering the halls, "But I also worry about any in Alumenia who would retaliate against him."

She thinks on it, before surprise hits her face, "Jones? Irron's Advisor—was he among the dead?"

"No," Laren says softly, stopping just outside of the royal suite. He glances around, nodding to the guard who has come to stand outside of her door. When they walk inside, he continues, "Nor is he anywhere in Alumenia that we can discern."

Her brow crinkles, "Why would he run? If he were under the influence of Irron's blood, we would have worked with him—are you saying that he helped that man of his own volition?"

"Until we find him, we will not know," Laren says, "but just to be on the safe side, Irving should be prepared to fight. I taught you better than I taught all of the other trainers—next to me, you are the most qualified."

She frowns but nods, "It's a little untoward but I agree with you."

"Good," he says, "You can use my office. Once you figure out which weapons he seems to favor, let the royal blacksmith know and he can measure him for a proper fitting."

"You wouldn't rather I use the guards' training grounds? It is quite a bit more open and the targets have more range."

"It is too public. I am not sure what our kinsmen would think about watching their Queen teach a layman to fight," he bows, "I will see you for breakfast tomorrow before I head back to Alumenia."

"Good night, Laren," she offers a nod, watching him retreat.

Sleep comes easy to her soon after.