Melchior, his voice low and hesitant, approached Lord Ametheous. "My Lord," he began, a hint of worry in his tone, "shouldn't we tell Master Rhysand about the Prince's gift—the jewellery?" He watched Ametheous carefully secure the exquisite pieces within an antique box, its intricate carvings gleaming faintly in the dim light. The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken concerns.
Lord Ametheous, his expression thoughtful, carefully placed the lid on the box. "Is that truly necessary, Melchior?" he responded, his voice calm but laced with a subtle weariness. "You know Rhysand's dislike of gifts, especially from those with whom he has… strained relations. In fact, I'm quite puzzled about how best to manage the young man's… eccentricities." He paused, his gaze drifting to the dry, almost lifeless stream bed nearby. The scene was a stark contrast to the beauty of the jewellery he held.
Melchior and Peregrine exchanged a quick, worried glance; their shared concern was evident in the subtle tightening of their lips. The weight of the situation pressed down on them, a silent acknowledgment of the potential consequences of their actions.
"Under no circumstances," Ametheous declared, his voice firm yet laced with a melancholic undertone, "are you to divulge the location of this jewellery to Rhysand. It holds no significance for him, you see. These pieces possess a singular, mystical quality, and their custodianship could not be entrusted to more deserving hands than our own. Therefore, discretion dictates that they remain concealed." He spoke with quiet authority, his words leaving no room for argument. The decision, though seemingly arbitrary, held a deeper, unspoken significance.
With practiced ease, he carefully buried the box beneath the dry soil of the desiccated stream bed, his movements precise and deliberate. The act itself felt symbolic, a burying not only of the jewellery but also of a potential conflict.
"But My Lord," Melchior ventured, his voice laced with anxiety, his words betraying his apprehension, "what if Master Rhysand inadvertently overhears our conversation? Both Peregrine and I would undoubtedly face dire consequences, myself particularly, given my position as his most trusted confidant. The prospect of harboring a secret from him fills me with considerable unease." His worry was genuine, stemming from a deep understanding of Rhysand's unpredictable nature and his own precarious position within the castle's hierarchy.
Ametheous offered a reassuring, if somewhat enigmatic, smile. "Have no fear, Melchior. A certain… protective enchantment shields us from his perception. Moreover, this secluded location is a considerable distance from V'largoth," he explained, his words hinting at a magical protection and the strategic importance of the hiding place. He spoke with an air of quiet confidence that, despite its vagueness, managed to soothe Melchior's anxieties.
Having completed his task, he gestured for his companions to retreat from the stream bed. Then, with an air of profound solemnity, he began a whispered incantation, his voice low and resonant, each syllable precise and carefully enunciated. "Avani'shara, Xylos'thara, Felu'nya Ka'dra, Vashta Nerada." He repeated the arcane words three times, his right hand raised in a gesture both elegant and potent. The words, though unintelligible to Melchior and Peregrine, held a power that was immediately evident.
To their astonishment, a gentle flow of water began to well up from the parched soil, restoring the stream bed to its former glory. The transformation was instantaneous and dramatic, a testament to the power of Ametheous's magic. The dry, lifeless stream bed was reborn, its revitalization a silent counterpoint to the hidden secret buried beneath its surface.
"My Lord," Peregrine exclaimed, his voice filled with awestruck wonder, his words betraying his surprise, "I confess, I was entirely unaware of your proficiency in spellcasting… I had always assumed your talents were confined to the realm of architecture, the creation of edifices, weaponry, and such related pursuits. I never imagined that spellcasting formed a part of your considerable repertoire." Peregrine's surprise highlighted the unexpected nature of Ametheous's actions.
Ametheous chuckled, a low, resonant sound that belied the gravity of the moment. "You possess a remarkable capacity for understatement, Peregrine. Such skills are not typically acquired within the confines of architectural studies. In truth, my knowledge of spellcasting is somewhat… limited. Perhaps seven or ten spells, at most. I received instruction from my si—or rather, from a certain individual… a friend, a Goddess, in fact, the only Goddess I know who commands such formidable power." Ametheous's explanation, though seemingly casual, hinted at a deeper, more complex relationship with the unnamed Goddess.
Melchior's eyes widened in disbelief. "Good heavens! Who might this Goddess be? I should be most eager to seek her tutelage! A jest, of course," he added hastily, his attempt at levity cut short by a sharp rap on the head from Ametheous.
"Ow!" Melchior cried out, rubbing the affected area. "You incorrigible imp, Melchior! Do you truly believe access to such knowledge is readily granted? One must be deemed worthy, indeed, exceptionally so, to merit her instruction. She is, to put it mildly, rather formidable. " he paused, "even I, a kinsman… hmph!" Ametheous muttered, a hint of frustration in his voice. The playful reprimand concealed a deeper truth—the Goddess's power was immense, and her favor was not easily earned.
"My Lord, what was that?" Melchior inquired, his curiosity piqued, his voice betraying his eagerness to learn more. His question, however, remained unanswered as Ametheous vanished without a trace, leaving Melchior and Peregrine to ponder the mysteries they had just witnessed.
"My Lord?! My Lord?! The unfairness of it all! He didn't even afford me the opportunity for a reciprocal blow!" Melchior grumbled, his indignation palpable, his earlier apprehension replaced by a childish frustration.
Peregrine let out a soft, refined chuckle, before gently laying a hand upon Melchior's shoulder. "Come, Sir," he said, his voice soothing, his tone shifting from the gravity of the previous moments to a more casual, comforting one. "Let us return to the castle. I believe we are somewhat tardy for dinner. I understand we are to be served roasted wolf, accompanied by a most intriguing bear's heart broth." The shift in tone was deliberate, a way to ease the tension and return to a sense of normalcy.
Melchior's eyes lit up at the prospect. "Indeed?! Let us make haste! We must return immediately!" he exclaimed, his earlier indignation forgotten, his focus shifting from the mysteries of magic and hidden secrets to the more immediate pleasures of a hearty meal. "And pray tell, has Master Rhysand already partaken of his repast?" he added, a note of concern in his voice, his thoughts returning to the unpredictable nature of his Master.