Chapter 3 - The Delphaline
She couldn’t believe she had forgotten him. They had been inseparable during the three years he stayed with her and her grandparents at the inn. She remembered the words of Grandma Naelli: Those two are always together. You can never find one without the other. She should have at least recognized him by his eyes. He had the same eyes. Of course, everything else had changed quite a bit. Time had done its job.
“Last time you saw me was about nine years ago,” he said. “So you were pretty young.” He paused, still massaging his shoulder. “Well, we both were.”
She suddenly felt a pang of guilt for hurting him. “I’m sorry, Jeremiah, I didn’t mean to kick you so hard. It’s just that … I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but things around Branbury aren’t exactly normal at the moment.”
“Really?!” he said wryly. “What gave you that impression?”
She smiled at him and suddenly felt a wave of soothing relief inside her, partly because she wasn’t alone anymore, but mostly because it was him. He was so tall and handsome now and she could immediately feel the familiarity between them. It was amazing. Nine years had passed and yet it was almost like yesterday they had been together on the banks of the Créonar with Kirna and Tycho, in their swimsuits, eating the tomato and cheese sandwiches that Grandma Naelli had tucked into her lunch basket.
“I’m so glad you’re here! You are a sight for sore eyes. You have no idea. I have so much to tell you.”
He read the expression on her face. “Here,” he said softly, placing his arm around her shoulders. “It’s cold. Let’s go make a fire and relax a bit. We can talk about it over some food and you can tell me what you’re doing here.” She let him hold her as he grabbed the lantern and they walked out of the room. “I just returned last night from a hunting trip in the mountains, so I’ve got some small game in the ice box that we can throw into a stew.”
“Ice box?” she inquired with sudden curiosity as the image of the strange contraption she had seen in the kitchen formed in her mind. She looked up at him and then, without warning, found herself falling to the floor only to be halted halfway down thanks to his huge arms. She was lucky he had grown into such a strapping young man. As he pulled her to her feet, she glanced back at what had caused her to stumble and saw the fallen book sprawled out across the floor, its pages bent underneath its weight. She drew back slightly to collect it.
“The Delphaline,” she said, reading the title and brushing dust off the front cover. Brown and bound in tough leather, but extremely old with inscriptions and symbols etched across the front and back, the book held the appearance of a time-worn relic. “This looks interesting.”
“Oh yeah,” he said affectionately, holding the lantern closer to the cover. “My mother used to read me stories from this book when I was little. It must have been on the top shelf all this time. I thought we’d lost it.”
“It looks like a collectible. It’s a storybook?” Chalice asked as they made their way toward the hearth.
“Yeah, from what I remember.” He looked toward the front door that was still wide open. “Are those your saddlebags outside? I noticed them on my way in,” he asked as he placed the lantern in the middle of the kitchen table.
Chalice nodded and sat down near the light to examine the book. The sun had set and it was full dark. Jeremiah stepped out and returned with the bags, placing them on the kitchen table.
“Brrr, it’s cold! I’ll light a fire first,” he said, reaching for the flint, steel, and oil on the mantle. “Okay, Chalice, so what is your visit here all about? Did you come all this way by yourself?!”
Setting the book in front of her, she began recounting in lengthy detail the story of her life during the past few months — about the attack on Canton, Papa’s instructions, the Chinuk and other events along the trail to Branbury. After lighting the hearth, which began to give off a slow and steady heat that melted the chill, Jeremiah walked back into the kitchen and flipped a switch on the wall. A small lantern hanging from the ceiling began to glow and flooded the house with soft light. Chalice gaped at it as Jeremiah threw himself into dinner preparations, cleaning and cutting. Recovering from her stupor, she continued to recite her tale to which he listened closely. As she spoke, she could see that he was deliberating intently over something.
At this point, the kitchen was becoming very warm, so Chalice pulled off her cloak and laid it back on the chair. “… and so finally I end up here, at your house, hoping to find someone and you come in and scare me half to death and … what is it? You’ve got that look.” It was a look that she knew well despite the years that had passed. It told her he was thinking deeply about something.
“It’s just strange, that’s all. Before I left on my hunting trip, everything was fine. I’d only been gone a week and when I returned, everyone was gone without a trace, like you said. The animals needed to be tended badly, so after I did that, I decided to take Banner over the hills to the farms in the periphery. They were in the same condition — abandoned. So I just let the animals loose. I didn’t know what else to do.”
A lock of his dark hair fell into his eyes as he chopped vegetables on the wooden cutting board. She examined his face as he spoke. Tanned and chiseled in perfect form, the muscles in his cheek flexed as he worked. It was strange for her to see such a large person in the kitchen. The fact that he knew how to cook amazed her. Most of the young men in her village didn’t even go near the kitchen unless it was time to eat.
“The strange thing is,” he went on, “I saw no one pass through the mountain when I was hunting, which makes me think they left by boat … but what boats? We don’t have any here that are big enough to carry off an entire village.” He looked up at her, his brows furrowed into a serious expression. “In any case, you put my story and your story together and there has to be a connection. I just want to know what my father had to give you. He never mentioned anything about it.”
She moved back a little from his penetrating stare. She remembered that look. Those dark, intelligent eyes always burrowed into her when he was in deep thought. Jeremiah was the strong, silent type, and a thinker. He was always one to analyze everything before coming to a conclusion. Hoping he didn’t notice her moment of weakness, she bent down pretending to scratch her ankle. She thought she played it off pretty well.
“Uh, yeah, I’d like to know that, too,” she quipped. “I think the King’s men are looking for something and whatever it is, that may have something to do with it. I knew Papa was sending me to do something important. Smart, actually, because who would suspect a young woman from a small village. Anyhow, speaking of boats, have you been out to the dock recently?”
“No, why?”
She told him about what she had seen on the pier while filling her water skin and he nodded. “That has to be it then,” he said. “Which means that, more than likely, they were captured rather than escaped. I don’t think anyone is coming back anytime soon, though.” He suddenly looked very troubled as he wiped perspiration from his brow with his forearm.
“Are you alright?” she asked.
“Just worried. Dar’Maalda isn’t one to show too much mercy.”
“I know how you feel.” She could feel his pain. Tears had blurred her eyes as she explained to him about the last time she had seen Papa and what he had said to her. She was doing well on her journey, keeping it out of her mind, but now the reality came crashing down on her with a terrible force. Growing up, they were not allowed to speak about the King, but the impression Chalice had of him was that he wasn’t someone you wanted to cross. “Is there anything I can do to help you in the kitchen?”
“No thanks,” he replied with a subtle shake of his head. “I’ll be done here in a minute. Just relax, Chalice. You’ve had it tougher than I have. Read that book if you want. It might help you get your mind off things. Supper should be ready soon.??
? He scooped up a pile of chopped carrots he had just finished and dropped them into a large bowl. “As soon as I get everything into the cauldron, I’ll sit down with you and take a look at that Chinukan notebook you found to see if I can decipher something from it.” He looked up and when he saw the incredulous look on her face, he said with a smile: “My father taught me how to read Chinukan.”
“Oh … right. How does he know? The Chinuka have been secluded since the Second War of the Realm.”
Reaching into the “humming” cupboard that Chalice had noticed before, he removed two pitchers of what looked like fresh cream and water. Chalice noted that the inside of the tall cupboard was not wooden but metallic, like the wash bins to the left of it.
“My father knows a lot about a lot,” he said as he poured the contents of the pitchers into the large bowl on the workbench and stirred it. “He and my mother are part of some kind of secret society and they seem to know things that others don’t. I don’t know how and I’m not really supposed to talk about it, but he said I will be able to learn when I come of age. I mean, when I turn twenty-one next month.”
“Weird! Is that how you have so many of these strange instruments in your house? Did he build them?”
“Yep,” he said with a proud smile. “My father and my mother. They both did.”
“Hmm … I thought maybe your father had Terravailian ability or something.” She watched him as he moved to one of the cupboards and pulled out two jars of herbs.
“No, unfortunately my parents aren’t blessed with the gifts of the Terravail,” he said, sprinkling the herbs into the contents of the bowl.
“You are different. Not many of the Naeon would see that as a bad thing. Your family doesn’t share the same prejudice as the rest, I see.”
“No, we don’t. And neither does yours, if I remember correctly.”
“That’s right. We don’t either.” She paused, watching him stir the ingredients in the bowl. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Shoot.”
“How is it that you know how to cook?”
He arched an eyebrow. “That’s a bit of a non-sequitur, isn’t it, Chalice?”
“No … well yeah, but it’s just that, in Canton, young men usually don’t do the cooking. Is it different here?”
“No, it’s the same,” he replied with a crooked smile. “I just learned because I go hunting so often in the mountains. I’ve had to learn how to make my own meals out there in the sticks. It was something my mother encouraged even when I was home. So, I’ve cooked many meals in my life.”
“Well, that’s great ’cause I have no idea how to cook. It’s nice to know one of us does,” she said happily.
He grinned and poured the contents of the bowl into the large, black iron cauldron. “You’re so funny, Chalice.”
Lowering her head, she flipped open the front cover of the book in front of her. It was the title page that displayed the title in large calligraphy. Just below it was written a small segment of prose, in both the language of old, and right next to that, the translation in the language of the New Millennium. It read:
Every child has a story
Every child is given a way
And the freedom to choose
The path their life will take
Interesting, she thought as she flipped the page to the table of contents. The pages were old and browning along the edges and they crackled when she turned them. Immediately she recognized the title of the first entry: Taisse D’Avie.
“The Cup of Life,” she said brightly. “I know this story. Papa told it to me.” Silently, she read the other titles that followed down the list: Dar’Bruuqua ae Iel Naezzi, Paelianna Iel Aelia D’Avaria, Guiere Priema Del Naeo’Gaea.
“Oh yeah, I remember that one, too. That was one of my favorites,” Jeremiah replied as he placed the pot over the fire.
“Do you believe in the legend?” she asked him.
He frowned. “Well, I think it’s a good story. I kind of think people are easily excitable and like to believe in these sorts of things — legends and the like. It gives them something to do.” He took a seat at the table and leaned over to peek at the page. “Oh yeah, and Paelianna. That’s another favorite. It’s about a queen who dies to save her people. It’s a great story. A bit sad, though.” He glanced around the table. “Okay … let’s see about this Chinukan book. Can I?” he asked, gesturing toward her bags.
She looked up. “Oh, yeah, sure.” She hadn’t really been paying attention to his last remark as she turned the pages and examined the first story. It read a few pages long, and like the poem before it, was written in both languages. At the end, on the bottom of the third page, was the name, Mireille Shantile Del’Portali, with a small inscription set to the right of it. The small mark was an olive branch, which she remembered symbolized the moral of the story: forgiveness. Papa had taught her that.
Papa, where are you now? she wondered. The image of him formed in her mind. She listened to the crackling fire sizzle and pop and smelled the rich herbal scent of thyme and rosemary that drifted from the stew on the hearth. She pictured Papa in his rocking chair from her view on the lambskin rug, watching him light his pipe. She could remember the sweet smell of tobacco and the aromas of Grandma Naelli’s kitchen. She felt the warmth of the flames as they lit up his face. He puffed rings of smoke and began the tale …
“Iel Taisse D’Avie. It means the cup of life. It can also be translated as the cup of power. Avie means power or life or life force in Angaulic. This story, true or not, is a powerful one and is also one from which we can take great instruction. It is a story about a little girl who lived ages ago, before the races of the New Millennium existed. It was a time during the Ice Age, when people still dwelt underground. The little girl was named Mireille Shantile Del’Portali, but everyone called her Shantile. She was eight years of age and her baby brother four. She was a young but wise soul who loved her brother. She loved her parents as well, but she found them to be selfish, superficial, and obsessed with material wealth. Of course, her family was not rich by any means and the only item of value they owned was a golden goblet that was an heirloom passed down on her mother’s side of the family. It was her mother’s prized possession, very valuable and beautiful. It was unique in its shape and adorned with engravings of olive branches along the edge. Her mother kept it locked in an antique cabinet in the sitting room where all could view it.”
He puffed a ring of smoke and continued: “So it happened one day that her little brother fell very ill. As time passed and it seemed he would not recover, she pleaded with her mother to sell the goblet so that they could afford to take him to the Healer for treatment. Her mother refused. Believing he would improve on his own, she could not relinquish the only valuable possession they owned. She was wrong and the little boy died. Shantile was so heartbroken and bitter that one night she crept from her room, stole the key to the cabinet, and hid the cup in a place where no one would find it. When her mother realized the cup was missing, she believed that someone had stolen it and started a great search throughout the city. Friends and family joined in, but it was never found. Eventually they tired of it and gave up. Shantile’s mother was so distraught over losing both the goblet and her son within the same week, that she locked herself in her bedchambers for a month. When she finally came out of her room, she was a different person. During her time in seclusion, she came to realize what was so obvious to Shantile. What her mother learned was that her family was the most important gift in her life. Shantile found it in herself to forgive her mother, but never confessed that she had hidden the cup, and over time, eventually forgot where it was.”
He paused to puff his pipe again. “Now, there are those who think that the story is just a fable and there are those who believe that it is a true story about a little girl who actually existed. Needless to say, there have been many who have gone looking for the cu
p, but have searched in vain, which is why most do not believe in it as a true story. However, for those who do believe, the legend says that the cup is still out there, somewhere, overflowing with the water of avie, or the water of life, and whoever drinks from it will find eternal life, or in some versions of the story, will be healed from sickness or even death. There is a catch though. He or she who drinks from the cup must be pure of heart for the water to work its magic. Another interesting note about the legend is that it also says that Shantile and the cup would be reunited. And this makes no sense as the story ends with her living happily ever after, never finding the cup again, a direct contradiction. So it’s up to each individual to believe what he or she will. You can accept the results of years of fruitless research or you can believe in a legend that doesn’t make any sense.”
“What do you believe Papa? Have you ever gone looking for it?” Chalice asked.
“To be honest, I haven’t given it much thought and I’ve never gone looking for it. I am not a Searcher. The truth of it doesn’t matter to me and I certainly don’t care about escaping death. Death will eventually come to all of us in due time. What matters to me is the message. Did you understand the lesson of the story?”
“Um, I think so. What was it again?”
He chuckled and said: “Riches and an eternal life don’t bring you true happiness. It’s the time you share with those around you while you have it, improving their lives and helping others. That’s what brings you joy. Many people don’t understand this truth in life and so spend it foolishly searching for precisely those things that make them miserable. It can be tragic, in fact. Just remember that, beautiful Chalice.”
And she did. And she never forgot what he taught her that night. She had to roll her eyes, though. He always called her beautiful Chalice. She wished he wouldn’t, especially in front of her friends. It was embarrassing.
“CHAINBRIDGE!” Jeremiah exclaimed.
Chalice snapped out of her reverie and raised her head. “Um, huh? What’s that?” she said stupidly.
“That’s where they went. That’s where the King’s men took them. Chainbridge.”
“Isn’t that the huge stone fortress in Culmanoq with the great …”
“Chain bridge. Yep, that’s the one.”
“How do you know that’s where they went? Is it in the notebook?”
He nodded, glancing back down at the book. “Yeah, basically, if I’m reading it correctly. Apparently the Chinuk you met in the forest witnessed the whole event from the treetops. Here, look at this sequence of letters.” He directed her to it with his forefinger. “This means bridge, or arch, and this one, to the right of it, means chain, or metal string. Chinukan adjectives mostly go to the right of the object being described.” He looked at her, his expression serious. “We were right, though. They took the villagers by ship and not just one, but several. He describes the King’s men as wearing chain mail and black cloaks. That would be the Draaquans, if I am guessing correctly. He also mentions the Red Flame of Maalda, marking both the flags on the ships and the leader’s breastplate. I think I know who that is, too. I hope I’m wrong, but if I’m not, then these men are under direct orders from the King himself and that’s not good.” Jeremiah paused in thought and then continued: “Although, he writes that from what he saw, no one was harmed, which is a relief. You know, this little creature is amazing. It’s incredible that he understood what the men were saying.”
“How do you know it’s a He?”
Jeremiah flipped to the front page of the notebook and gestured toward what was written. “This says, Property of Master Bunejab Bea. I’m translating the name according to the sounds of the letters. Of course, it’s still not pronouncing it correctly, though. We could never actually say it correctly, but we can get close.” Chalice raised an eyebrow. “Okay, let me explain. Do you know why people can’t speak Chinukan?”
“No, why?”
“Because the Chinuka have an extra class of speech sound that we can’t articulate. It’s called the resonant. The other two are vowels and consonants, like we have …” he continued to explain but all Chalice could hear was the distant chatter of his voice as she tuned the words out. He hasn’t changed, she thought. After all this time, he hasn’t changed. She smiled inwardly as she listened. “The resonant is actually very fascinating to study. We don’t have the voluntary muscular capacity to speak with it ourselves, but we can understand. It’s kind of like how horses can understand the meaning of something you are telling them, but can’t recreate the sound you make with their mouths. All they can do is neigh, which would be similar to the vowel sounds we make. You see?”
“Uh … horses can understand words?” she asked wryly.
“No. I mean they can understand your meaning when you are speaking to them by the tone in your voice.”
“Uh … yeah … right. Whatever you say, Jeremiah. I’ll take your word for it. Fascinating stuff,” she said sarcastically.
He grinned. Glancing back down again at the notebook, he said: “I think the Chinuka are really the most intelligent creatures in Naeo’Gaea, but even given that, it’s still amazing that he could understand the men. The Chinuka have been cut off from us for so long. How could any of them know our language?”
“Well, you know their language.”
He gave a slight nod of his head. “Yeah, I suppose you’ve got a point there. In any case, if you look back to the previous pages,” he said as he flipped back to the front of the notebook, “he describes people and events in the village. Apparently, he sits in the trees and observes what goes on in the town, marking the pages with the time and date. He has even recorded some of my hunting excursions in here. It’s almost as if he is studying the village. That is really strange behavior for a Chinuk. A little creepy, actually.”
“Well, I knew he was nutty when I met him.”
Jeremiah laughed. “Yes, certainly, but he did us a favor, though, didn’t he? Now we know what happened. And I also think I know why there were no tracks left behind.” He flipped to the page where the writing stopped, or in her view, where the scribbles and scrawls stopped. Compared to the other pages, the last page was filled with completely illegible handwriting, at least to her. “Here he describes an unnatural wind sweeping through the whole village and shaking the trees violently. I think that’s why.”
“But wind can’t erase tracks completely.”
“It can if it’s created for that purpose.” She looked a question at him and he said: “The King’s men are Terravailian.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s right. But why would they care to cover their tracks? That doesn’t make sense.”
“I’m not sure. In any case, if my parents are on that boat, I want to go find them. If the people of my village are being taken to Chainbridge, it’s likely the people of Canton are there as well. Chainbridge is huge, big enough to house fifty villages like ours.”
“But if your parents and the others are on those ships, and my grandparents are in Chainbridge, along with all of the other Cantonese, then that probably means that the King has already gotten what he wanted.”
“Maybe, but we don’t really know what he’s after, do we?”
“Well, yeah, you’re right. I agree that we can’t just stay here. When do you want to leave?”
“As soon as we can. First light tomorrow if possible.”
The reality of what they were considering suddenly struck her. “But it’s just the two of us, Jeremiah! How are we going to make any difference?”
“I have no idea, but there’s got to be a way. In any case, I’m not going to let my family be subject to the King’s cruelty and I don’t really want to stick around here in case the King’s men come back. Maybe there is a way to sneak in and out of that place.” He paused and turned his head toward the fire. “You know, I think the stew is ready. Let’s eat and we can talk about it.”
“Alright,” Chalice conceded. She knew when he could be persuaded and when he couldn’t. She set the table and Jeremiah served the stew with a silver ladle. As they sat down to eat, she pulled the bread from her bag and said: “Those are nice utensils. Where did you get them?” Splitting the bread, she turned to Jeremiah and proffered a portion.
“They were a wedding gift to my parents from Master Aubrey, our village silversmith. My father and he were childhood buddies, kind of like me, Aemis and Tobias. They’re his sons.” Somberly, he dipped his bread into the stew and furrowed his brows. “I wonder what they are doing right now,” he mused.
They continued to discuss their plans as they finished the meal. They would make preparations before retiring to bed and leave first light the next day. The plan was set and she hoped it would work.
The stew was delicious. Chalice, surprised by her ravenous hunger, went back for a second helping, which she usually never did, even when she was famished. Afterward, she gave him a warm thank you and made sure to let him know what an excellent chef he was.
He smiled. “Thanks, Chalice. I usually don’t get that from my family, especially my brothers. They like to poke fun instead.”
“Well, that’s what brothers are for!” she teased and he frowned. “Seriously though, you are lucky to have them, you know.”
He quirked a wry eyebrow, but he knew why she had said it. Regardless of his siblings’ banter, he would never want to trade places with her. He wondered about her family. Her grandparents had been strict about keeping silent on the matter. It was the only time he’d really ever witnessed Sebastian Pandretti be stern about anything. It was strange. It was almost as if her family had disappeared off the face of Naeo’Gaea. At times, he felt very sorry for her.
“I’ll clean up and pack our things. If you’re tired, just rest,” he said when he noticed her yawn and stretch.
“Okay, twist my arm.” She smiled and rose from the table to stoke the fire. “I think it needs more wood.” She disappeared out the front door and returned with a couple of solid blocks of split oaden. After placing them on the fiery heap, she snuggled into the rocking chair next to the hearth with her woolen blanket and the Delphaline. She slid off her soft, dark lambskin boots that matched her cloak and placed them to the side on the homemade rug. Then, she began to read.
As she skimmed the pages, reading passages from the entries randomly, she noted that each was structured similarly. Although some of the stories were written in rhythmic, cryptic prose and others were verbose tales, chronicled with clarity and detail, each story was related in both languages and always finished with a name and a symbol at the bottom of the page. She wondered who had authored the book.
“Who wrote these stories? Do you know, Jeremiah? Was it a series of different authors or just one?”
“Of the Delphaline? Just one. I don’t know who it was though,” Jeremiah’s voice resounded from the kitchen.
“That would make sense since the stories all seem to have the same layout. Although, there’s nothing on the cover or in the introductory pages that gives any information on it.”
“Well, maybe there’s something in the back of the book. Did you check?”
“Checking …” she said in a singsong voice as she turned to the last page and gaped. She made a feeble attempt at a gasp, but was unable to make a sound. She was struck by what she saw. She couldn’t move. Moments passed. She still couldn’t speak. She could barely breathe.
“Well … anything there?” she heard him ask, his voice seeming to echo in the far distance. “Chalice?” She immediately heard quickened footsteps from the kitchen. Then, Jeremiah burst into the room and registered the expression on her face. “You alright?”
“I don’t know,” she said quietly. She couldn’t believe her eyes. At the bottom of the page was, like all of the other entries in the book, a symbol and a name to the left of it. Above it was a short passage of lines and at the top, the title. As he moved toward the firelight, she showed him the page.
“Ray-chale-ya.”
“It’s pronounced Rye-kale-ya. You don’t know Angaulic, Jeremiah?” she asked.
“A little, but not much. I never really had time to learn it.”
She motioned to the symbol at the bottom of the page. He squinted. “Isn’t that your birthmark, Chalice?” he asked. And it was. It was the mark of her birth and her pendant. Then, he read the name, pronouncing it awkwardly. “Chalicia Maefeline Raie’Chaelia D’Ielieria.” With an inquiring look, he asked: “What does that mean?”
Staring down at the page in front of her with an expression of astonished incredulity, she spoke slowly. “It means,” she said as she glanced up and continued, the firelight dancing in her eyes, “Beautiful Chalice, True Princess of Ielieria.”