Abbernathy and Magick's End

(4) - A Rat in Their Midst -

Darkmoore Palace, Aelurus

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ABBY PACED the corridor beside the castle's gardens, the crescent moon of Lucy's parentage depositing pools of golden moonlight at her feet. 

Aside from the plotting – the back-stabbing, the assassination attempts and successes, coordinated coups, and barely-thwarted genocide of the Cloudians – Aelurus was a beautiful place.

No matter how many times she visited, it never failed to stop her in her tracks; the moon enveloped the sky, radiating warmth into an otherwise dark place; the water trickling down the fountains glowed a soft blue, having been mined deep where the last of Aelurus's magick remained; the Ni' elle ah trees found in every jungle of Aelurus and decorating most of the castle grounds, didn't just cast shadows, they were shadows molded into familiar shapes – spindly, twisting branches, full, fluttering flowers, and spiky, six-pointed leaves that made the fluffiest canopies Abby had ever seen. If ever there existed a tree-version of Crum's hair, the Ni' elle ah's canopies were it.

But Abby hadn't the time, nor the mind, to give Aelurus its praise, no matter how well-deserved. Instead of looking out into the gardens, she kept her gaze on the floor, her arms crossed over her as she paced. A mixture of fear, doubt and worry, settled in her chest, the concoction of terrible emotions, hers alone to bear.

Crum leaned against a pillar, not the same one he had cowered behind when they'd first met Axion, but it was similar – a large, dark block of obsidian, gouged as though several pairs of claws had been run down its length.

Considering where they were, and that while Aelurians might have hated the comparison between themselves and Exulian cats, the parallels were hard to ignore so maybe, just maybe, this pillar, and the hundreds more like it bearing the brunt of Darkmoore, had been a scratching post.

When Sebbi had ruled, that very well could have been a possibility; there was a noticeable absence of drapes and dusty antiques perched on windowsills and pedestals begging to be knocked over, so scratching up a pillar in frustration or annoyance seemed plausible.

She could see it. Sebbi, stalking the same corridor late at night, annoyed from a day filled with meetings and Reven lectures. He'd make sure he was alone, the castle staff long retired, Reven hunched over a book, or scribbling furiously at another lesson plan to grate Sebbi's ears with. After ensuring no one could witness what he was about to do, Sebbi would silently mosey up to the pillar, claws extended, and, with a satisfying scrape, drag them down the stone. He'd do that again and again, until he'd felt better. And all the while he'd be grinning, his tail swishing in pleasure. Come morning, when the castle staff stumbled upon his ruined column, and word reached his ears, Abby knew that smile of his would have broadened.

He had always liked being destructive, but he had loved witnessing people's reactions to his destruction. He'd made it a point to perch on the rafters in the large hall of the Tells's Estate, watching with cool, gold eyes Reynhold complaining about the tattered drapes.

And when Mrs. Seiver stormed into her father's office, a mauled clump of seedlings grasped in her hand, their roots wriggling like tiny white worms, Sebbi would be on one of the veranda chairs, basking more in his triumph than that day's sun.

He had been like her – mischievous, and restless. Had she known how to approach him then and close the distance between them, they could have had so much fun together– sneaking around late at night, getting fat in the larder, digging up the turnips in Mrs. Seiver's garden – because no one, animal or human, enjoyed the wretched vegetable. They could have hung out in the grove and spent hours watching the ships dock and disembark from the port.