## Part II - Provenance "Very good, Caled! Swing, turn, thrust. And twist." Father praised Caled for his swordmanship while Yitan watched her big brother as he went through the motions of his daily sword practice. Yitan loved watching her brother practice, even though she was supposed to be attending her lessons. She prefered by far hiding in her secret spot on the roof of the great hall and observing the day-to-day things going on, with servants tending the garden or preparing meals, or the master of horse making sure her father's mounts were well-tended to by the stable hands. Nothing beat watching her brother train though. Not even the guards returning from their rounds, bringing news from Yitan's family's lands, and sometimes beyond! Caled took his practice seriously and Yitan was proud so see her brother improve upon his skills each day. Yitan sighed and stared off to the foggy hills beyond the manor's lands. She wished she could be like Caled. She wished father would allow her to train with the sword as well. A raven landing on the roof nearby startled Yitan and she yelped. "Yitan! What are you doing on the roof?" father shouted, "Come down here this instant!" Yitan squirmed, but rushed down the stable's porch, down a drain pipe and through the alley that led to the main courtyard to present herself to her father. Delaying the inevitable would only make things worse. "I am very disappointed in you, girl," father said, "You are to report to master Hinlan for you lessons right now and I shall be certain to ask about your attendance for the coming weeks. I'll send you off to a monastery if you're caught skipping your education again!" Yitan curtsied and rushed off, catching a look of pity from her brother, and a wink that told her all she needed to know in the moment. She would always have a place in her brother's home. No matter what. *On the rich soil of the rolling plains of Hozún lies an estate. The night is clear and in the light of a waning moon the estate's main structure stands, age-old and proud, passed down from generation to generation. Sections were added and reinforcements were made - it was never much behind on the trends in the capital. It belongs to an old family, a proud and powerful family, and the mansion reflects it. The mansion stands and all is silent in the night. Inside one of the sleeping chambers on the uppermost floor of the mansion, a girl, ten years old at most, starts awake. Her nights of late are dream-ridden and anxious, broken up by long stretches of fretting and worry. Tonight seemed different. She slept soundly, until just after midnight. On a quiet inhalation, the girl's eyes open wide and her body convulses, back arching as she lets out a silent scream. The girl's skin ripples, and bulges in places before spikes rip through the girl's skin. The scream is not silent anymore. The girl screams, howls, alone in her room. A guttural screech roars from the young girl's throat, through a mouth filled with glistening fangs, her skin pierced by spikes growing from her back.* And seven years pass. --- "Do you remember mother?" Caled rolled onto his side, bits of dried grass sticking to his shirt. He looked out over the valley, mouth moving slowly as if searching for words. "Fragments. Memories. Her smell, most of all," he said, "And the sound of her voice. I remember her singing to you, when you were just a few weeks old." A distant smile passed over Yitan's face. She had been an infant when mother died, a fever taking her within days. All she had was her brother's memories. "Can you sing to me?" "I do not remember the words, not fully at least." "Oh." Yitan swallowed back a sigh. Sometimes the melancholy would hit, an unexpected guest on an otherwise perfect day. Father had allowed Yitan to ride with Caled on his trip to town. Caled had finished father's business with the tax administrator early and they had taken a detour to a vantage point overlooking the family's estate. There, they had bread and fruit, and a sweet potato pie Caled had bought at the market as a treat. The sun was out and they had been idling the afternoon away, chatting, enjoying the weather. Yitan felt the pressure of tears about to break and pressed her sleeve against her eyes. "I... I sometimes wish the fever would have taken me instead of mother..." Yitan sobbed. Caled sat upright and held her in his arms. "Never think like that. I would not know what to do without you." He pulled Yitan's head to his chest and held her. "I know it's not always easy for you with father, but know that I love you, sister." Caled started to hum a simple tune. A tune that spurred recognition with Yitan, a tune from times long past. And as her brother held her, she knew that she could never tell him how she loved him too. *On the rich soil of the rolling plains of Hozún lies an estate. In the light of a waning moon the estate's main structure stands, age-old and proud, surrounded by lush gardens. A narrow slit of light breaks the dark facade of one of the outbuildings, casting the nearby plants in the warm glow of the fire warming the servant's quarters. A young man, not all of boyhood yet shed, slips out into the night, trained to be inconspicuous and perform his tasks without bothering his masters. He hastes down a path, kicking up the scent of the pine wood chips that cover the path. The young man, Líw, has the last minor duties until his shift ends on his mind. A rustle comes, in the darkness, a ways off in the garden, a growling puncture of the dead of night. Líw keeps his head down and hurries on, making for the mansion through a section of the garden shrouded in low shrubs and statues. The rustle comes again, following Líw, whose eyes scan the darkness, but do not yet see. The rustle becomes a growl, a set of pounding leaps and Líw slumps down to the ground as a beastly form descends upon him from the night. It does not take long for Líw to succumb to his wounds, shrieking as his heart is torn from his chest and is devoured by a hideous fanged creature wearing the face of his master's daughter - Alliv.* And seven years pass. --- "Leave my home. Never return. You have no place here anymore... Sister-in-law." Yitan ran down a corridor, cheeks wet with tears, words whispered to her almost off-handedly after the ceremony echoing in her mind. A lump rose in her throat and she coughed, a wet, choking cough rife with grief. Three summers past, father had died and Yitan had finally felt at home in her home. Caled had been the new lord of the estate and a calmness had settled over the people - and Yitan. Another summer had passed and Yitan had grown even closer to Caled, and had even begun to hope that maybe, just maybe, Caled could one day love her back. Then Caled had returned from a two-month journey to Rinhúm, the capital and seat of the House of Lords, where Caled had pledged his loyalty to the realm as a new lord. When Caled returned, he was accompanied by a woman, Alliv, whom he had met in the capital and fallen head-over-heels in love with. Yitan had mistrusted Yitan's sudden appearance in their lives, this woman with no family, no name to speak of, but Caled would not hear of it and over the next months Caled and Yitan had grown apart. No, thought Yitan, they were wedged apart. And now this. After the wedding ceremony, Alliv had rounded on Yitan, informing her in no uncertain terms that she was no longer welcome in her own home. Yitan had looked over to Caled, who, surrounded by guests, had stared at her for a long moment, then dismissed her with a firm nod of his head. And Yitan had fled. Now, she ran, past her own rooms, into the manor's libary. She did not know why, only that it felt right. She slammed the door shut and stood in the darkness, quivering with heartache. With rage. The library was lit dimly by the light of the moon. Yitan remembered master Hinlan's lessons here. Endless days of reading dry and dusty tomes. For what? She had no place managing an estate. Not anymore. Yitan ran her fingers along the library's polished wood bookshelves, tracing row upon row of boring old book. A beam of moonlight caught a heavy-bound book with brass embellishments at an angle. Yitan stopped and looked at it, "A Treatise on the Herbs and Their Many Uses." Somehow, something made Yitan reach for the book. She pulled it from the shelve, it's cover slick with age. The book slipped and fell flat on the floor. Yitan cursed softly, then looked at the book lying on the ground, opened at a page with an etching of a mountain. A poem was written in the margin of the page: *On the flanks of Mount Húm Many sought in vain And came to their doom By smell they were slain* *On the flanks of Mount Húm Grows a flower bright red Each seven years in bloom And its smell means death* Yitan's teary face cracked with a grimace. So, then, would it be. She tore out the page and inhaled deeply, one last deep breath to remember her childhood home. Then she stood up and walked out into the garden and off into the night. Such is the smell of provenance. Such is the smell of the colour red. Such is the smell of death.