Authors: Heather Lyons
Tags: #Romance, #Fantasy, #New Adult & College, #Paranormal, #Science Fiction & Fantasy, #Magical Realism, #Paranormal & Urban, #Romantic
A Matter of Heart
by
Heather Lyons
* * * *
Barnes & Noble Edition
* * * *
A
Matter of Heart
Copyright
© 2013 by Heather Lyons
Cerulean
Books
First Edition
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands,
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To
my three boys,
who
are still way too young to read such a book—
this
one’s for you.
Mama
loves you.
But . . . I’m only eighteen.
You expect me to do
that
at eighteen?
This is what I want to say,
or rather shout out-loud, but I’m pretty sure that excuse would go over as well
as somebody tossing a bag of kittens over a waterfall. Plus, I’m pretty new at
this whole Council thing and don’t even know if I’m allowed to agree or
disagree when it comes to matters such as these. I’ve been to all of four
meetings so far, but until today, they were sedate enough that I’d fallen
asleep in one.
Ok, two.
I know I ought to be more
involved, considering people acted like I was the second coming in the midst of
her grand debut into Magical society, but it’s a lot to take in, being
responsible for quintillions of beings on six different planes of existence.
I’d even go as far to say it’s totally overwhelming. I suppose, back when I
used to imagine what it’d be like when I was a seated member, I expected
serious debates. Strong convictions. Moral righteousness yet fair decisions.
And those things are present during meetings, but when the topics are whether
or not a river ought to be diverted or dried up or a forest fire needs to be started
to encourage new tree growth, the shine of being in charge of the universe
wears off pretty quickly.
In the last month, I haven’t
been asked to do anything further than introduce myself and give a short
speech, written by my Intellectual father to replace the one I’d agonized over
for three whole days. Since then, I’ve sat in a surprisingly comfortable chair
and listened for hours to Council members of varying tiers and crafts drone on
about matters affecting their various planes of existence. I vote when asked,
but as it’s done electronically, even that doesn’t require my voice.
These meetings only
exacerbate my feelings of inadequacy about joining the Council so early. Once
eighteen, most Magicals spend two years at the University of Annar taking tailored
classes suited to honing their crafts and then another two years as an
apprentice under a seasoned mentor before going to work, let alone joining the
Council. But I hadn’t been afforded that luxury. I was told that, five days
after I graduated high school, I was to report to my first official meeting in
Karnach, the gorgeous and imposing rotunda which houses not only the assembly
rooms but all Council member offices as well. I would be allowed a single class
per semester, totaling four over two years if my schedule permitted, but there
would be no internship.
Which is unfair and, the
more I think about it, fairly irresponsible of the rest of the Council,
considering I’m one of their big guns—a Creator, one of only two currently in
existence.
Speaking of . . . nearby,
Kleeshawnall Rushfire lets loose a round of his typical snorting/coughing
sounds which act as nails on a chalkboard for those of us seated nearby.
Afterwards, he pulls out a crusty handkerchief to wipe a gob of far-too chunky
phlegm from his chin. I try not to cringe, but man, is it hard.
After shoving said
handkerchief back into his shirt pocket, the ancient Faerie barks out, ignoring
the heated debate I really ought to be paying closer attention to, especially
as it concerns me, “What does it take to get something other than sludge in my
coffee cup?”
The Elf next to me, a
Storyteller named Etienne Miscanthus, attempts to smother his burgeoning
laughter. He’s been pretty nice to me so far, which has been comforting as my
seat is nowhere near anyone I know. As for myself, I worry that my face shows
the perverse fascination I have towards Rushfire.
“Jackals! All of them,” the
Creator who once might’ve been my mentor comments loudly. Spittle decorates his
wiry beard and moustache. Then his rheumy eyes swivel towards me. “You’ll see,
missy.” He thrusts a cup adorned with a bright yellow happy face, a bullet hole
bleeding out on top, in my direction and shakes it until coffee splatters down
his shirt. “Give ’em an inch, they’ll take a mile. Ask me to do them favors, do
they, and give me this . . . this . . .” He pulls the cup back so he can peer
within. “Shit, is what it is!” He slams it back down on his table. “I repeat,
what does it take to get a decent cup of coffee around here?”
Etienne bursts into
full-fledged laughter. In front of us, an extremely good looking Goblin only a
couple years older than me turns and stares, equally horrified and amused.
Rushfire sneers at them, snarls “whippersnappers,” which only serves to incite
another round of laughter, then promptly falls asleep.
Behavior like this
highlights why I’m the one who’ll be tasked with overseeing an atoll’s
destruction on the Goblin plane rather than Rushfire. He’s old, nearly senile,
and extraordinarily nasty. So, I get why my name’s being thrown around.
But it doesn’t make it any
easier to accept.
“This is ridiculous,” a
familiar voice argues. I search the crowded assembly until I find Astrid Lotus,
the Council’s lead Seer. She is standing, hands planted on her desk. Somehow,
even though she’s not moving, the dozens of metal bangles she always wears
clack together loud enough to rise above the arguing. “We shouldn’t even be
thinking about sending out an eighteen-year-old to do such a feat before she
has a few years under her belt!”
“The atoll no longer serves
its area any purpose,” a sour looking Dwarf named Endolff Strikertree counters.
He’s standing on his chair; all he needs is a toga and his Marc Antony act will
be complete. “What’s your objection, Lotus?”
The bracelets jingle as Astrid
rights herself. I’m struck by her Elvin beauty, like I was when I met her last
year after my parents forced me to visit in an effort to get me back on
whatever track they thought I needed to be on. “No other Council members are
ever asked to do complex tasks within their first few years. And yet, we
suddenly break tradition and expect Chloe to do so simply because she’s a
Creator?”
Another voice rises above
the mix. “She’ll do it if told so.” This one I know all too well. It’s the same
voice I’ve heard all my life, reminding me how I better live up to my
responsibilities or I’ll embarrass the family for, I don’t know, centuries or
something. I find my father, still seated, open books spread across his desk.
He pushes his glasses up his nose without even sparing me a glance.
“Noel, whether or not that
is the case,” Astrid says, “I’m shocked that, as an Intellectual, you’re
ignoring how this goes against our bylaws and traditions.”
He glares at her. I dig that
she glares right back.
“I absolutely agree that
this atoll needs to be dealt with; there’s no doubt about that. But it must be
Rushfire, not Chloe.” Her eyes meet mine. They’re soft and sympathetic, which
surprises me despite her gentleness at our last meeting. “At least, not yet.”
At the mention of his name,
Kleeshawnall Rushfire releases a deafening rip of a snore. The Goblin in front
of me—I think his name is Mac?—erupts in laughter once more, as does the
Storyteller. In fact, they’re both laughing so hard they’re practically crying.
Several other people nearby are also cracking up, but the rest of the Council
seems to be merely exasperated over Rushfire’s apparent lack of interest in the
matter.
