The Immortal Chronicles | | b o o k 2

7. everfalling

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IMMORTAL CHRONICLES : BOOK ONE : cirian wiltshire

. . .

Res'rustica was one of the most wealthy countries in the current lands; rich with gems and coal in the mountains, and vibrant with life. It was the heart of inventors and knowledge seekers, but there was a reason Eastvale was so commonly known as the scholars of the nine countries. The highly esteemed academies were found there, which was where Cirian's father sent him for schooling. A young sorcerer couldn't be expected to learn on his own, anyhow. Power like that was meant to be honed, and with time it would grow. And it did grow.

Cirian supposed his father wasn't quite ready to entertain the thought of a sorcerer being in the family—Res'rusticans weren't entirely opposed to the idea of sorcerers, but they were still deemed dangerous. Many of them were sent to Eastvale and stayed there, or risked slumming into less favorable outcomes, because many times they were feared and therefore valued in the art of thievery and deception. Gangs, if you will. The Brunmere Isles were thick with them, the gangs led by a head of sorcerers; the slums of Haran were lined with them as well, which was why Cirian's father had stationed him farther north in Eastvale, away from the "bad influences".

Sometimes Cirian had to agree with Itium customs—sorcerers were dangerous, and it was no wonder they banned them, especially considering a sorcerer trained in the art of combat was a force to be reckoned with. In some aspects, Cirian could be considered as much.

But Cirian never felt like a danger, especially when he sat alongside is wife in the carriage, and could only smile with ease at the thought of his life, and how perfectly in order it was. Well, almost.

He couldn't ignore the tug at his chest whenever he thought about the reason for his father's insistence. He rarely ever demanded Cirian leave his post in Anjour—only on distinct occasions was Cirian ever expected to leave. Weddings, ceremonies, Coming of Age celebrations. Those were the few reasons why Cirian ever left Anjour.

"You are stressed," Renée commented. She sat with her back against the corner of the seat cushion and the carriage wall. Perhaps as far as she could sit from Cirian on the same booth, but it was, debatably, the most comfortable position. She always claimed it was.

He sighed—he was sighing a lot more often than usual lately. He turned his eyes down to his book and said, "I am not."

She scoffed and turned away, her eyes now focused on the passage of trees beyond the window. "I have known you long enough to know when you are lying."

"So what if I am?" he said, voice pitching just a tad. "It's nothing you need to concern yourself with."

He swore she was mocking him, and shut his book to gave her his full attention, just to humor her. Renée was fully aware that he was watching her with a sour look on his face, and she struggled to keep a straight face when she turned to him next, eyebrows raised and lips pursed.

His eyes glimpsed down to the golden gloves on her hands, and along the slender fingers of hers as they wrapped around the pommel of a standard sword commonly assigned to the Res'rustican soldiers. It was encased in a slim black sheath, engraved with golden wisps that seemed to dissolve into the folds of her traveling skirts. It was a present of his, along with the sword—he'd given them to her on two separate occasions.

"Fine," she resolved, "if you aren't going to tell me, then at least tell me what it is you are reading."

He set his lips shut and lifted the binding of the book towards his eyes. "A Brief Biography of King Baldwin II of Damunt." Upon the peculiar look his wife gave him, he gave her a dull look and explained, "You know how my father adores Damunian history."