RE: Monarch-Chapter 268: Kholis XIII

Not more than twenty paces from the home's front door, Maya grabbed my arm excitedly. "Lord below, look!"

My jaw dropped. A spellbinding array of saturated blues, scarlets, oranges, and violets radiated a kaleidoscope of color, trailing gusts carrying long strands of vibrant petals. Verdant greenery spread across fertile land, winding and wild, and I could have sworn the grass itself shimmered with an otherworldly vitality.

Children laughed, chasing and competing among themselves as they scrambled along winding paths, pushing each other into the same piles of leaves and flower petals they were gathering from. Their delighted shrieks echoed through the air as they tumbled together in the colorful debris.

Taking solace in a place where no one knew you presented a certain unrestricted freedom I never tired of. Whitefall was a big place, but word of my ventures had spread, thus I was considerably less anonymous than in my previous life. On the rare occasions Maya and I took leave together outside the castle grounds, we had to be especially careful not to draw suspicion—for both political reasons and others. Non-humans were a more common sight within the city walls, but they rarely accompanied humans, and less common pairings would often incite jeers and ridicule.

It was a relief to find the anonymity I thought extinct alive and well in Kholis. It was also a relief to realize we no longer needed to worry about how close we stood together.

There was still a risk of spies, of course. That unfortunate reality would never truly fade, even in my later years when the crown was no longer mine to wear.

"What's all this for?" Maya asked, eyes trailing from the small bags the children gathered from to other individuals further out—several men and women, primarily human and Elven, though there were a few dwarves among them—aiding with the collection.

"Something to do with the festival Lucius has been hinting at, perhaps?" There was a sudden surge of mana, and I twisted where I stood, trying to follow the feeling to its source. An elven man in long robes with angular features and a light beard stood on a nearby slope. His gray eyes paused on us, then seemed to lose focus as the staff he held emanated green light.

Deciding I'd just go ahead and sate both our curiosities, I approached him, staying a few steps back. "Excuse me, friend. What are you casting?"

"If you're truly a friend, there's no need for excuses." The mage's eyes twinkled.

It was a far cry from the reserved response I'd expected, and it caught me flat-footed. "Uh—well, yes, I suppose that's true."

"First timers?"

I shrugged noncommittally, looking back at Maya. "In part. We visited once before, but it's been ages." I looked around again, squinting, doing my best to compare the memories I held to the current state of things and struggling to do so.

"Indeed, my young friend." The Elven magician seemed to squint behind me for a moment before his cautious eyes slid back into place. "With the frost close at hand, we perform a ritual to ensure the natural fixtures have an easier return come spring."

"How does it work?" Maya asked, arms clasped behind her back, stepping closer to the elf in barely disguised wonder.

And for good reason. Elves of all varieties tended to be somewhat uncommon. It was rarer still to find them openly practicing in the manner of their traditions. The staff was a signature of intrinsic Elven magic. According to the stories, the wood was often crafted from rare materials that were almost impossible to source, even in the age of legends. The core, naturally, required rare intact components from practically any mythical creature, freshly killed and encased in amber before its magic ran dormant.

"We entreat the spirits for aid, calming the simple flame of life that dwells within the flora. Once serenity is attained, we use a mix of air, water, and life magic to gently pluck the many sprouts and flowers that, while beautiful, require energy better suited toward weathering the coming winter."

"Spirits," I repeated, doing my best not to sound skeptical. It wasn't that I didn't believe him exactly—both the staff and ongoing spell gave off enough mana to indicate that the man was doing something beyond simple elemental weaving. The ancient, potent aspect of traditional Elven magic was well known and documented by the infernals. I just had trouble imagining spirits of the dead feeling particularly inclined to help the living.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

According to legend, spirits who remained on the mortal plane were entirely fixated on rectifying their circumstances and entering the cycle of rebirth, their own fading senses and awareness creating something of a time limit.

The Elven mage misread my reticence, one side of his mouth quirking with amusement. "Is it so difficult to fathom?"

"I suppose I'm just having difficulty imagining a—supposedly mercurial and disoriented—spirit stopping by to help sculpt the scenery."

He barked a laugh. "Well, it's certainly true that some spirits are more inclined to render aid than others. It's also important to remember that not all spirits were once alive."

Embarrassing as it was, that was entirely new to me. "They aren't?"

"The majority are remnants of souls left behind by animals and people. Those that retain their senses do vary in willingness. Some wander with little interest in interacting with the living. Others fall prey to the overwhelming loneliness that plagues such a solitary existence and, on average, are less accommodating." Again, he peered behind me, and I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. "Others still are watchers—those who become enthralled with an individual and cling to them, observing their every movement. Most will pick up a watcher or two in their time, though others may unknowingly ferry far more."

"That sounds… concerning." I suppressed the reflex to turn and look behind me.

"It's generally nothing to worry about." The Elven mage waved me off, dismissing the notion and turning his attention back to his work. "The spirits of the dead cling to those they loved in life most frequently, and though this can be distressing for the surviving, they mean no harm. But attaining a procession, as we refer to it, is not always so straightforward. Sometimes it requires no connection to the individual at all. If a great number of spirits were displaced and left alone for long periods, they will all rather reasonably gravitate toward the first living being to cross their path." He cocked his head. "Are your travels limited to populated areas, or do you often find yourself on roads less traveled?"

I coughed into my sleeve, stifling a laugh. "Seldom stay in one place, I'm afraid. The destination varies a great deal."

"Then that is answer enough." He smiled thinly, seeming eager to move on. "To answer your earlier question, we rarely seek power from mortal spirits. They need it arguably more, are generally transitory outside of specific situations, and will fade with time. Spirits that reside in objects are much more predictable and static—more invested in their surroundings. Over a thousand years, a boulder overlooking the top of a hill, weathering the ravages of wind and time, may develop a spirit. Same as a tree untouched within a glade."

"Ah, I've been wondering this whole time what's in it for them." Maya chimed in. "If they are tied to the same place, it makes sense that they would want to improve it and make sure it continued to support whatever they require to subsist." She paused, brow furrowing. "Though I have no idea what a thousand-year-old rock actually needs."

The mage laughed. "Rock spirits are often the easiest to please. It's not always the case, but I've sated dozens by simply meditating in their presence, providing company. In this case," he gestured broadly, "the tree, grass, and earth spirits recognize our intentions. They aid us in the gentle culling of unnecessary growth that siphons vitality at a critical time and lend their assistance in doing so smoothly and quickly. Ah, Kholis." He gave Maya an appreciative nod. "Not many infernals give our way of life a second thought. You're both visiting together?"

After we confirmed that was the case, he smiled warmly. "Then you must take part. The Quieting is a favorite amongst lovers in the city because of the beauty of the ceremony. Many believe it brings good luck."

Maya flushed violet, her studied manner forgotten as she sputtered. "We're just visiting together. Not as lovers. More uh—we're actually acquaintances of the Duke. Both of us. That's the connection—"

"It sounds lovely," I cut in smoothly, placing a supportive hand on the small of Maya's back. She jolted, then stilled, the slightest hint of an embarrassed scowl around her mouth. "What would partaking require?"

The Elven mage pointed a lithe finger toward the small bands of children chasing after fallen greenery. "Enough trimmings to fill a small basket. Whatever you find shed on the ground should suffice. Some take the arrangement seriously, seeking a balance between the colors and tying them to the elements, but that is largely an aesthetic choice. At third bell, we will gather at the river near the mill and set what was gathered to purpose."

In truth, I was grateful more than anything for the prospect of something structured to pad out our relatively slack schedule. There was a lot of nervous energy, and the opportunity to focus on something we were both curious about—the culture of Kholis, which appeared to have sprung up in a staggeringly short time—presented a much-needed reprieve.

"Well?" I turned to her and raised an eyebrow. "Up for putting together a bouquet?"

"How could we not?" Maya finally managed.