《True World Fantasia》


 0 – Rinne

    0 ¨C Rinne


    An echo, an echo! A terrible echo!


    A resounding thrum through the spheres!


    So a curse it is to be so long lived!


    The great mouth of the Ogre opens as a gate!


    Crush and Crunch in it so!


    And I ask¡­


    Who molded the winds?


    When all was one,


    when became it motion?


    All swept in its great Wheel.


    [_____] rises in boil.


    Birth all, was given shape.


    As from Its mud¡­


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    It was birthed as well.


    The Lotus burns!


    The [_____] felled.


    The [_____] to [____] are barred


    in its dancing steps!


    ¡ªUnattributed fragment. Anonymous Author.


    *


    Uncovered in Balbh¨¡k Archeological site. This anonymous fragment of a Jhrabipta, or ¡°death poem¡± ¡ªa strange, esoteric eulogy for the self¡ª was most likely written by one of the revered temple masters of the Lasham ziggurat close to his passing. Dated around the 8th century BTE.


    Jhrabipta were seldom written and so even more rarely preserved. The ritual passing of revered masters, or D¨­zen, included the solitary pondering of the soon-to-be deceased and the composition and writing of the poem; then promptly burned after entombment.


    This particular fragment somehow evaded its ritual destruction. It is even more surprising how it went on to survive, protected from the elements by the collapsing of the ziggurat, crushed by layers of sand, for nearly eleven centuries. Now uncovered by the latest excavation of the Royal East-Mariannic archeological company.


    Sadly, it is all but a fragment, and the mystical, poetic ideograms used in the manuscript, coupled with the eccentric nature of the Temple Bogp?n language, used only by those initiated into clerical life, provides a challenge for contemporary philologists and linguists to decipher. Thus, the reader will note several blank terms occupying the space of ideograms yet to be translated; terms which may also have no parallel in modern continental tongues.


    However tragic it may be, this haunting piece of history does consign to us, the still-living, a beautiful message of defiance in the face of time and death.


    Excerpt - Roderin De Lamartine for Williamsburg Press Archeologist.

 1 – Arrival

    Roderin had been awoken by a terrible dream. Living flames surrounded the world in a blood-red cocoon. Strange figures danced to the droning chant of angels. The earth twisted and cracked, and melded into the sky, where some, thing, now forgotten, awaited, open, divine and demonic, as a thousand beasts climbed to its glowing maw. He still heard the bells, the chimes, the singing, turning all into the whistle of dull tinnitus.


    The ship swayed, gently now, as they approached shore. It had been a near three years since he returned to the continent. The Mariannic sea, the thundering cobalt blue gem, tapered its wrath at its edges, as if welcoming returning pilgrims. The waves offered a familiar comfort. A traveler he was, certainly so, however, he missed home, and even near constant expeditions, diggings and so on ¡ªexcavations and scouting-work¡ª, as life affirming as they were, grew tiring after endless months.


    He remembered, now focusing on the disappearing dream ¡ªa common occurrence¡ª how the strange visions had started after a certain discovery¡­ a momentous excavation of the Lasham ziggurat. The unearthing of a certain poem, which, upon discovery, was presented to the crown. However, a small detail was omitted, one, he was sure, woul¡ª


    "Lamartine!"


    A shout from deck blasted his thoughts away.


    ''Well, all these years wondering¡­ Perhaps I should lay it to rest. It is not as important as I make it seem, I''m sure.''


    He shook his head, as if to make the doubt disappear.


    "Coming!"


    *


    Captain Mont-Veroux stood against the deck, and the unending blue. The sea climbed up to heaven, an immense cape of azure. In his hands he cradled a white Pigeon, and between his fingers held a small roll of parchment, held by twine.


    "Quite the clear w''ther, ay? We''re almost to port." He said to Lamartine, still looking ahead.


    "Hmm? Yes. I could tell by the waves."


    "This ''ere message arrived for ye" Finaly turning, he handed him the roll, allowing the pigeon to fly off.


    "What''s so urgent¡­? By pigeon and just before we arrive¡­ How¡­?"


    Opening the message a smile marred his face.


    "What''s with yer smile?"


    "Nothing much. A close friend has invited me to visit him."


    He held the message up.


    "It''s the address. He''s staying at some villa."


    "Hmm." The captain responded with an uninterested hum.


    Far ahead, the shape of land could be seen, peeking over the horizon, tinged a pale blue haze.


    *


    A forest of hawthorns and sycamores hid an extravagant summer villa, with great gardens and fountains, plain fields and ponds; a picture-perfect painting of aristocratic leisure.


    Once at its gates, Lamartine was received by a pair of giant-like guards, muskets at their shoulders, sabers at their waists. Towering over him, dressed in unmistakable white-red-gold uniforms and black bicorns, the sentries were certainly an imposing sight¡­ however, Roderin seemed as if comfortably walking right into his own home. Taking the address-paper from his hands, and directing him to a beautiful annex, he was made to wait in a sizeable study. He marveled amidst the oil paintings of verdant landscapes and renowned rulers, coupled with display cases filled with skulls, trinkets, strange foreign artifacts and the busts of long-gone aristocrats. Running his finger through bookshelves chock-full with invaluable tomes, he was surprised to find books in every known continental language. As he eyed one in Verdanaise, a journal recount of some author''s travels, the door behind him creaked open.


    Roderin feigned surprise and stiffened up. While putting down the book he half bowed.


    "Your majesty."


    The other man scoffed.


    "Don''t start, Roderin. I have enough of that¡­"


    Both men looked at each other, stern expressions glinting for half a second, though soon laughter filled the study. As the pair hugged and sat down the mid-day sun filled the room with a pleasant glow.


    Indeed, Roderin De Lamartine''s close friend, one could say his closest one, was none other than Alphonse L¨¦on M¨¡vors von der W?lfli-Loggia, regally known as Alphonse XVI, current King of Romanse or, alternatively, as every other before him, the King of Love and Dominion.


    "I planned on visiting you tomorrow, however¡­ that pigeon certainly surprised me. Are you not busy with your kingly duties, that you would summon this vagrant, your humble servant?"


    Alphonse once again scoffed and rolled his eyes.


    "I was bored to death¡­ I got wind you were arriving and sent the bird. You''ll be the second excuse I''ll use to give unto my council and ministers those¡­ kingly duties."


    He laughed, sprawled out on the chair, pulling, from a blood red coat speckled in gold tassels and buttons, a cigarillo, which he lit. Close eyed and holding his brow, the king puffed out smoke, as if releasing from his body some crushing fatigue.


    Thinking, Roderin looked at him.


    "The second excuse?"


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    His question seemed to awaken Alphonse.


    "Hmm? Yes¡­ Marennise is pregnant"


    "I see¡­"


    "So, the pregnancy of the third queen consort, and the approaching birth of a new prince has bought me nine months of¡­ offloading this burning kingdom¡­ for now it is the ministers'' problem."


    "You talk as if strife is not commonplace during every reign. It''ll soon pass."


    "It was not so during my Great-grandfather''s reign¡­"


    "Well¡­"


    "Enough¡­" He exhaled "I won''t waste my rest talking about this. How was the sea?"


    "Ha! As terrible as always."


    "Is that so¡­"


    Some light returned to the kings'' eyes, like an ageing man remembering the days of his youth. However, this ageing man was yet a young thirty-two years of age.


    Roderin knew what Alphonse saw in his minds'' eye. The once adolescent royal, known then as the Lily King, for his feminine beauty and dainty form, surprised both his subjects, and the continents'' aristocracy; engaged in his western and southern colonial campaigns, the youth showed a frenzied, warring nature, near cruel and sadistic, leading troops and drafting war plans, betraying the era; for this was a duty which, now, kings left for their generals, ministers and armies; much less did they directly engage the enemy! The loss of a royal at the front lines was no longer seen as show of honor, virility and chivalry, but an atavistic dogma, barbaric and primitive, common of tribesmen. So, not only did the youth make his generals and handlers spit blood in worry and rage, but shock the entire continent, so much so, some called him the "Red-Caped", as he was seen in a notorious oil painting, over a defeated host of southern barbarians, showered in blood. Of course, this also gained him whispers of cold bloodedness, bloodthirstiness, and many other blood-soaked epithets. Even so, it was undoubtedly thanks to his expeditions that the Kingdom of Romanse, known for its stillness, reluctant to move ¡ªshaken by the death of The Hellian, and two subsequent monarchs in quick succession¡ª became a colonial giant, and, once again, like in his Great-grandfathers reign, a feared power.


    Now, the near middle-aged king, hardened by time and war, no longer showed any delicate, flower-like beauty, but a refined sharpness, like a spring ready to, at any moment, release a latent, blood-tinged strength. However, Roderin knew, the king grew disillusioned, now with no place to wantonly wage war, his kingdom beset with bickering winds of reform brutal wars would not solve, and a wanting for, once again, experiencing the glorious colonial campaigns. In fact, it was during these expeditions that he met Roderin, a then budding archeologist, who, led on by fate, would become his closest friend. He surely envied the explorers'' freedom, who could cross the Mariannic at any time, by whim. And, by asking about the sea, he imagined himself, once again, crossing its tempestuous expanse.


    Their friendship was by no means a secret, but a matter of the King''s private life. Although some knew, Alphonse presented a desolate and cold persona to his subjects, lending fire to the myth of the "Red-Caped" King.


    "And how is Marennise?"


    "The woman will not be still¡­ She should rest now that she''s with child, but, as you know¡­" He sighed, then flashed a small, content smile "I fear for the maids if the child is half as difficult as her."


    Both men laughed.


    Romansean royalty was known for taking in multiple wives. Even so, Alphonse made it very clear: he held no affection for his first two consorts, who were, if anything, political moves made by the King, plays to secure something or other, most likely benefits. But, his youngest and latest wife, Princess of Verdanaie, Marenisse Roderika Austaufangr-C¨¦line, married to him as a youth of 16, was the only woman he had ever loved. Haughty, rebellious, and uncaring for etiquette, behaved like a war hungry conscript, a man, or so the papers and detractors said, birthing even more rumors about the cold and distant king, which he, of course, paid no heed to.


    "In fact, she wanted, "fresh air", and complained constantly about the palace, using her pregnancy as an excuse¡­ so, I had us moved here. I''ve never used this villa; I think¡­ was it made in my fathers'' youth? I had little more than some books moved here, to this study."


    ''Marenisse complained, surely, because she finds palace, and court life, tiring, mind rending¡­ She cares for Alphonses'' worsening mood, however. It would not surprise me if she threw a fit for his sake, if anything.'' Roderin mused.


    When talking about the woman, the Blood-Caped Kings'' eyes softened, almost gleamed. It seemed like the only thing he found as dear to himself as war.


    ''And now, this child, unlike the other princes and princesses, he''s sure to favor it. If it''s born a boy¡­'' The archeologist sighed internally. ''Terrible drama¡­ A succession crisis perhaps?'' He half-jokingly feared for the future of the kingdom.


    Alphonse seemed to remember something, as his eyes widened.


    "Roderin, I know, I told you to lay off the talk of politics and power and such¡­ I have something to ask of you."


    This was new; surprising to him. In the twenty years or so of friendship, his King ¡ªalthough that fact was a near null in their relation¡ª had asked not one thing of him in this tone. His pale blue, misty eyes, which would not be out of place in the visage of a saint, or a muse, instead of a cold-blooded warrior King, seemed to shine, and his blond hair, as if weaved out of crystalline gold, was given glow by the midday sun. He took on a serious, though soft tone, towards his old friend, and spoke.


    "Become an advisor. I''ll retire that fat imbecile Bass¨¢th and make you Chief ambassador and diplomat, minister for outer, and trans-Mariannic relations; even colonial overseer if you wish."


    Roderin was stunned for a second.


    "Alphonse" The man sighed "I have no idea how this got into your head¡­ I''d be an even worse incompetent than Bass¨¢th ¡ªI''m an adventurer, a traveler, yes¡ª but not a politician. Even more, I''m barely nobility, I''d have not the legitimacy necessary. This move would cost you¡­"


    The king laughed, as if told an amusing anecdote.


    "You pester me, every time we meet, to talk politics and statecraft, and now that I give you the chance to do so, endlessly, and act upon it if you please, you refuse with such a shoddy excuse? I''m the king, Roderin, I can do as I please! or else I would not have sunk this country into two of its most bloody wars just for pleasure." Alphonse asserted, as he puffed his tobacco.


    "If any caf¨¦ habitu¨¦, who talked endlessly, as you say, about the wrongs and rights of your reign, could become advisor, or worse so, minister¡­ One thing is to say, another to do; and I only say so much because I worry about you." Lamartine held his head in his hand. He then continued, with a groan "Or better yet, let the editor at The Radical or even that insect, Mahret? Mahrat? who writes columns upon columns about you in L''Ami du people become minister." Ending his rant Roderin let out a boisterous laugh. "Ha¡­!"


    "It is no laughing matter. This kingdom is going up in flames, even if you close your eyes and cover your ears, and think that doing so will make you impervious to fire¡­ I have Marenisse, and soon she''ll have our child. However, if I must brave this storm with only them, and you are happy-as-can-be dancing waist deep in some sand, dusting skeletons, I''ll go mad." The king firmed his brows. "Stay here, and help me. Please."


    Roderin believed Alphonse to be exaggerating; thinking about some disastrous future that was never to come; perhaps his nerves were getting to him, as he had passed years now without killing something vaguely human shaped. Still, even if this was the case, and Alphonse merely grew paranoid, nothing more, he would still worry about him, about the kingdom, as well ¡ªeven though he was by no means a fervent loyalist¡ª ''Once again''. he thought, ''his worsening humor is no good herald¡­ and well, maybe¡­''


    Seeing his friends'' pleading he could do nothing but sigh a:


    "Allow me, at least, to think it over. It has not been yet a couple hours since I left a ship."


    "Very well."


    They then spent some breaths in silence, as Alphonse watched his cigarillo smolder and dissipate, shaking the last ashes off his fingers and into a golden case.


    "Ah¡­ well, I need some fresh air. Let''s walk the gardens?" The king asked with a smile.


    Roderin couldn''t but laugh again.

 2 – Birth

    As a bachelor, and with his parent''s death in his youth, Roderin had little more to do in the capital than meet colleagues and friends. With the excuse of planning his next expedition, or reveling them with tales of the latest, they lazed around in the city''s caf¨¦s, where intelligentsia and miserable, ailing poets ¡ªand literati ¡ª gathered alike; as flies towards the decadence of the city''s Asphodeli street. A beautiful avenue gardened with the most grandiose new-imperial styles, clasicalia, gold boned halls, theaters, tributaries flanked by flowering blossoms to the largest and most prestigious academies and universities in the continent; arches and fountains with immense pagan sculptures, grand domed plazas once painted by the greatest masters of the Era Solar. Depicting myth, wars and death, and creation and love, in the most transcendent medium imaginable. The divine cathedral of the Hellian, of the Ethereal, among other names; with the Ieunn gardens behind it; then, after their length, The Palace¡­ And, of course, cafes, innumerable cafes, filled to their necks with the most interesting characters of the times; in short, the Zeitgeist.


    Seeing this lavish glory, and the buzzing of the city''s blood, Roderin imagined not how Alphonse feared so assuredly about the kingdom''s future. Sure, the intelligentsia criticized him as a heavy handed, blood-thirsty troglodyte, the papers picked apart the bones of his reign, while they fought wordly battles with his loyalists and the more royalist academics, as well as sections of the beu monde; however, such was the case in any reign, of course, except his Great-grandfather''s, but such an era was without equal and not really a point of logical comparison. There were also those who called for reform ¡ªas were there in any other era¡ª who, recently, had gained strength and voice. Even then, it was, taken in its whole, a peaceful era of prosperity, built on the back of Alphonse''s mad wars ¡ªwhich close to none dared to call as such now¡ª that, no one could deny.


    A few months had passed since his arrival, and, except spending a few days in the King''s villa, he had not seen him again; in part, of course, because of his offer. A headache, truly. Roderin dreaded such a position; he was a free soul! To be shackled to such a dreary post... He sighed, even a flicker of anger towards his old friend forming in his heart, as he knew of his nature, and yet asked, pleaded to him, making him, to an extent, chose between his friend and his nature¡­ Yet, he understood, his friend''s fears were, even if resembling the imaginations of a mad paranoid, a thing the king truly weighed and deduced; Though he played the part of the cold warmonger, Roderin knew, Alphonse was a tactician at heart, a schemer, no slouch as a monarch; and, if such a strategist feared a future¡­ he would at least have to consider it.


    A growing headache did not help his mood, improving ever so slightly from his constant visits to caf¨¦ Roumbid¨®n. Slight tinnitus plagued him, and the visions, dreams, nightmares¡­ whatever they may be, increased in duration, intensity and frequency. He thought again of that little detail he had hidden¡­ a fragment ¡ªthe size of a book''s cover¡ª of a thangka, hand painted in a most beautiful, divine style by a Bogp?n revered master. The fragment, still vibrant in color, depicted some sort of syncretic deity, both Yama and Yam¨¡ntaka, sitting atop a blue lotus, myriad-armed, with coiling flames, skulls, gold, suffering masks and copper serpents draped over its being, its skin as fair as snow, its hair out of platinum, a pair of horns; its eyes¡­ like two star-wounded sapphires¡­


    At first, his desire to keep the painting, he mused, was merely because of a growing liking to it, however, he could just as simply have bought it, kept it and placed a bounty order, well, anything, really¡­ This did not explain his obsession with hiding it, keeping it unseen by other eyes, or the fact that it seemed to whisp¡ª


    "So, Roderin, did you hear?"


    "Hmm, yes?"


    A friend, Mikael Komasi, asked him, stifling his previous thought.


    Komasi looked besides himself at another man, who sat cross-legged and smiling.


    "Frederik here was telling me they found old professor Zielinski dead, a couple of days ago."


    "Good riddance I say!" The man called Frederik declared, to Mikael''s glare.


    "It is in bad taste to speak ill of the dead." A third man, seated to Roderin''s right, responded with a sigh, looking over the edge of the newspaper he, until then, aloofly read, while sipping from a cup.


    "I''m not speaking ill of him, Anton, I''m celebrating his death; its different¡­" He said, shrugging with a slight laugh.


    Gustav Zielinski, a professor all the men at the table had ¡ªdespite their varying ages¡ª shared, was both revered and detested, for a number of reasons¡­ justified? Perhaps.


    "Hmmm." Roderin hummed, once again, as if thinking.


    "You look troubled, Roderin¡­ did Zielinski''s death shake you so¡­?" Frederik asked sarcastically, knowing none of them would really mourn the old professor.


    "No, no¡­ I''ve come across an¡­ employment opportunity, let''s say. It is quite the post, and taking it would greatly help a friend. However, not only do I fear it to be above me, too taxing really, it would bar me from freely traveling for quite a while."


    "You''d die soon after, is what you''re saying¡­"


    The men laughed.


    Mikael looked thoughtfully at Lamartine.


    "Well, if it''s not an immediate decision, sit on it a while, perhaps you''ll get a reason to accept or deny it, who knows?"


    "Follow your nature, I''m sure you already know whether to take it or not¡­" Anton stated, once again taking his eyes away from the paper.


    "Take it, I say. It''d be funny to see the vagrant Roderin finally anchored like a true gentleman¡­Maybe marry, have some kids¡­ The illustrious house De Lamartine needs an heir for God''s sake!" Frederik said with feigned outrage.


    The archeologist sighed with a smile.


    "Who knows¡­ we''ll see."


    Caf¨¦ Roumbid¨®n was buzzing at this hour, the sound of animated chatter drowning his tinnitus in comfortable white noise. The men talked until the afternoon.


    *


    The days passed, and during one visit, Roderin found himself, at teatime, conversing with Marenisse. Alphonse had to leave them for a moment, even with his kingly duties offloaded, much to his chagrin; asking his friend to entertain the young woman. Well, in reality he was the only one drinking, a supple and delicate silver needle tea, while Marenisse tried to convince the maids and servants, quite unsuccessfully, to allow her a ride on her favorite horse; a beautiful, invaluable pale breed, typical of the steppe ¡ªa gift from Alphonse. The now visibly pregnant, rosy-skinned woman was coddled, day by day, by maids and nurses. Even if she was the third consort, and the child the youngest prince, tradition and the immensely noble blood of both parents, including the king''s insistence, led to the current arrangements. Finaly defeated, the woman sat on one of the prairie-chairs, besides Roderin, and lamented with a tsk.


    "Can you believe it Lamartine? My mother hunted, side by side, with my brothers and father while pregnant! With! Me! On horseback of course¡­ By the Gods I''m pregnant, not crippled!"


    "Your Maje¡ª"


    The woman glared at him. He chuckled.


    "Marenisse, I know it must be quite bothersome, however¡­ It will just be a couple of months, endure it, for the child, and to calm Alphonse''s nerves."


    She sighed. And, suddenly changing temper, smiled, as if forgetting the previous ten minutes.


    "Rather, Roderin, tell me of your latest expedition. I''m curious."


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    He knew this was a topic he could use to calm the woman, not dissimilar to how men once tamed wild, hungry wolves with meat.


    "Hmm, hmm¡­ Where to start¡­"


    He thought for a second.


    "You see, this expedition started as a joint project between the department of history and archeology of Vanus University and myself. I had proposed a travel after catching wind, via an informant, of a possible resting place, a mausoleum, for an ancient Shophet. So, after some letters, verification, scouting¡­"


    The woman looked bored.


    "Yes, yes¡­ this and that, but tell me about the actual travels." She sighed, exasperated.


    "Well, it was, actually, almost exactly 3 years ago that I left¡­ Sailing towards the east is easier ¡ª not easy though¡ª than towards the New Continent, or, worse, southwards¡­ However, I was able to catch a beautiful sight of the black-pitch."


    "Ohhhh, you did?" Marenisse smiled, surprised.


    "Yes, it''s rather rare, even for someone like me. This would be¡­ the third time I''ve seen it? Its¡­ grandiose¡­ Like if a knife had cut out a piece of the sea."


    "Gods¡­ Is it as terrifying as they say? Do the voices of dead sailors rise from its depths?" The woman said, while waving her hands, feigning fear, laughing.


    Roderin smiled back.


    "Hmmm, well, if you know what you''re doing it is not that terrible, as for the voices of sailors long dead¡­ you see¡­"


    The archeologist, about to continue his tale, was stifled, as both him and the young queen consort noticed a pair of armed, white-red-gold guards, trotting toward them, with strained expressions on their brows.


    "Your Majesty, Baronet De Lamartine, we must escort you inside." The rightmost of the guards said.


    "Huh?" The woman puffed out, with a puzzled expression.


    "What''s the matter?" Roderin questioned.


    "Please, we will inform you once inside. However, you mu¡ª"


    The sound of a musket firing resounded throughout the villa.


    "Wha¡ª"


    Marenisse''s question was snuffed out by Roderin. He took her by the arm and ran, though not so roughly, on account of her pregnancy, behind the guards.


    Several screams and a couple more shots flowered, producing trembling noise, as they entered the villas'' main building.


    "Gods, what''s happening?!"


    "Your Majesty, a group of crazed men somehow found the villa. They''re intent on breaking in, though unarmed and raving, there is quite a number of them." One of the guards spoke.


    The other, with a frown assured.


    "Please await here while the others deal with the men¡­ Once all is clear we will contact his Majesty Alphonse."


    Screams and a few more shots rang out, even inside, they could faintly hear:


    "Kill it! Before it''s too late! The End, The End! Go!"


    Tension grew as the sounds, usually found only in war, invaded the villa, annihilating its once comfortable, languid air.


    However, soon, all lay silent.


    Minutes later, a group of guards entered the room with satisfied faces. Their leader, a tall, graying man of solemn looks spoke.


    "Your majesty, they have been dealt with." He bowed. "We have even captured what we assume is their leader ¡ªif madmen like these have such a thing¡ª we will contact his Majesty Alphonse now."


    Marenisse spoke calmly, only a few words.


    "Very well."


    The trotting of booted soldiers hummed through the building.


    *


    When Alphonse got wind of the "attack" on the villa he was less than pleased. Roderin, remembered, as he looked at the pacing king now in front of him. The "Blood-Caped" stopped any interrogator or torturer from working on the captive, a well-dressed young man of roughly twenty-five. Lamartine did not catch sight of the youth, however, from the whispers of maids and soldiers, he had heard that, when the man''s corpse was pulled out of the dungeon ¡ªwhat they thought was the body, at least¡ª it resembled more a pulsing mass of red flesh than a human body, falling apart, like the tender meat of a roast. Roderin, accustomed to Alphonse''s antics, had little reaction.


    "I know that this is worrying¡­ but, Alphonse, making yourself a mess of nerves will serve no purpose."


    Roderin ran through the same questions and responses he had given Alphonse every time this topic came up, playing along, hoping to order his friend''s mind and help ease his worries.


    "I''m not anxious, I''m furious. I still cannot make sense of which imbecile would dare do such an idiotic thing¡­"


    "You questioned the man yourself, so¡ª"


    "He said nothing, nothing of worth at least. A complete madman. "Kill it! End it! Before it''s too late! The light!" And so on and so forth¡­ He kept screaming this, nothing less nothing more."


    "And from his identity?"


    "Nothing much. An unknown painter living in some run-down slum down the south side. And the others? All artists, poets, scrip writers, actors¡­ Did I offend the mad artists now? Hah!" Alphonse laughed an exclamation filled with frustration.


    "If you can gleam nothing from them then there''s no point in bothering, just keep your eyes open and calmly assess the rest¡­ You know thi¡ª"


    "Yes, yes¡­"


    "Also, this mood is not healthy for Marenisse, her due date is a month past, any day now¡ª"


    "I know¡­ Haaa¡­" He exhaled. "I''ve doubled the guards stationed around her." The child''s late birth also frayed his nerves.


    "And the name for the coming prince or princess?"


    Alphonse smiled, understanding his friend''s desire to take his mind off what bothered him. And, although he was partially right, Roderin did want to better his mood, the archeologist could also not bother with a foul humored King, as he had been since the attack months ago. The dreams kept getting worse and worse, more vivid, more brilliant, more terrifying, ¡ªespecially last night. It was dizzying merely trying to remember¡ª even in waking, he saw phantoms of light behind his eyelids, plagued still with that dull tinnitus and a throbbing headache that did not abate. For some reason, the evident and obvious choice of going to a doctor, or even a mentalist, did not occur to him, as if blotted out from his perception by something. He was also quite good at hiding the pain, showing himself as perfectly healthy to others. The painting, the thangka, increased its thrumming, the sound of sonorous glass slicing the air, the drums, behind them, that whisper¡­


    Alphonse lit a cigarillo, exhaling, again, to calm himself.


    "Hmm, I still do not know¡­ Marenisse has no idea either¡­ And yet it''s to be born any moment now¡­"


    Roderin made a gesture, asking for a pull of the tobacco. The king, slightly surprised, handed him the lit smoke.


    "It''s rare to see you smoke¡­ very rare."


    "It has been quite stressful for me as well, the past couple of months."


    His friend laughed.


    "Yes, visiting those caf¨¦s daily must be a momentous responsibility, I understand."


    Lamartine smiled back. Pulling then a drag from the cigarillo, enjoying the aromatic taste.


    As he exhaled, he couldn''t help but mutter.


    "This tobacco, it smells like¡­ candied tomatoes¡­ confit tomatoes?"


    "Hmm."


    A knock on the door made their heads turn.


    "Enter."


    A servant girl entered, bowing and quickly stammering.


    "Your Majesty, M''lord¡­ Her Majesty''s water has broken, and it seems the child will not take long to be born."


    Bot men''s eyes'' widened.


    "Lead the way."


    As they walked hurriedly along the halls of the annex, they saw as nurses and servants helped the strangely calm Marenisse. She was led into a spacious room and the door closed. When Alphonse went to enter an old woman blocked him, although she made way when a nurse hurried inside.


    "I''m sorry your Majesty, I can''t let you in, old custom, you already know. Just like with the other little princes and princesses" The plump accoucheuse said with a smile.


    "Ha! You dare order your king?"


    Taking the gentle tone a grandmother would use, she answered.


    "Tis not an order Your majesty, just the way such things are¡­ I said the same thing to your father, years ago, when I helped deliver you¡­" Ending with a melancholy laugh.


    Alphonse looked at her tensely, then, laid his back on the wall, opposite to the room where his child would be born. The midwife bowed then entered.


    Both The king and Roderin stood in silence with heavy minds, when, suddenly, the air stilled. Their hair stood on end.


    The city, unbeknownst to all, except a sapient few, was cut by a silence no longer than a breath.


    The clear, shinning blue air that covered the continent turned vitreous, and shimmered, divine, now iridescent, spread out, until it met the world''s pitch-black ends.


    Raining, as golden strands from the empyrean heights, the translucent, shining air mixed with golden light, settling as sediment over the sky, filled with droning chants.


    From the rivers of the underworld, where the pooling and flowing of milky-white opal water rang out like lyres and harps, a pale cobalt blue mist, hewn by silver, rose from the depths, carrying the sounds of Elysium.


    A few, blessed, cursed, whose eyes glowed with grand-sight beyond other men, looked up, and met the bloom of an opening heaven, the great maw of a dancing, divine beast. Soon, all went blissfully, forever-blind.


    And those who died across the world in that stolen stillness, their souls did not scurry into their path, but rather, left their bodies like a perfumed breath, crossing walls and rivers into light.


    Somewhere, the blue lotus flowered, once again.


    A creaking rang out, so immense it went unheard.


    Roderin''s headache turned blindingly intense, as if a crackling magnesium light burned behind his eyes. Outwardly, however, he showed no reaction.


    Just a moment after its closing, the door opened, and a meek nurse gave way to the two puzzled men. Surrounded by the mid wife, and a cohort of maids, a woman with sprawling copper hair, like strands of fire, cradled her child.


    The accoucheuse spoke.


    "A painless, expulsive birth, the quickest I''ve seen¡­" She then sighed. "However¡­"


    The mother handed a bundle to a servant girl, who brought it to the nervous father.


    Roderin, by his side, caught sight of the infant. His headache rose until it seemed to spill outside his skull, burning his skin and melting his eyes.


    Pale alabaster skin and platinum tufts of hair, its misty eyes, colored already ¡ªrare for a newborn¡ª shone, unusually pale, like two drops of aquarelle¡­ like star-wounded sapphires, light blue and green-flecked, on a silent babe, who cried not a tear, but looked at the world with a curious glare.


    A loud thud startled all those present. Lamartine had fainted, hitting the ground with the deep growl of a drum. A strand of thick blood seeping from his head.

 3 – Name

    The chains rattled. His feet ached. Surely, he had popped a blister or two by now, though, through his numbing skin he could not really tell.


    Since his arrival at port the song insisted on bubbling in his brain; even now, in between simmering thoughts the melody reappeared, like waves pulled into being in a still lake. The clinking of the chains turned into chimes, the steps into percussion, the horns¡ª the deep-voiced screams of the slavers, and the rest? Resounding from the matter of his memory.


    The aching, again, getting worse¡­ he could manage.


    It hadn¡¯t really been an overly ambitious, or dangerous idea, not stupid, he assured himself. But now, what good would that make? Really unlucky, he was, really¡­


    A slaver, with bronze colored skin, draped in colorful robes ¡ªlike one of those endolasitian birds he had seen illustrated in the latest Williamsburg taxonomical¡ª pushed at his back, throwing some words into the air, punctuated by a laugh. Perhaps he had slowed down, or maybe the man was just admiring his luck by petting the merchandise.


    He had survived the raid by, in some way not even he understood, making it clear to the men that he was nobility ¡ªeducated slaves, you see, were very, very, valuable¡ª a near lie; a baronetage, a hereditary nobiliary honor, was the lowest aristocratic title one could hold, given to his grandfather by the Hellian for his advancements in mathematics.


    They¡¯d test him in some house of wisdom, and if, in their minds, he had lied ¡ªwhich meant not being educated up to standard¡ª death would be a likely outcome. Or, if they so pleased, he¡¯d be sold off as cheap labor, who knew? But, if he ¡°showed as learned¡±, which would undoubtedly happen, then it was being sold to some alchemist, or doctor, or even a noble as tutor to his children. Then, he¡¯d have to be castrated ¡ªno virile men near a noble¡¯s wives¡ª ouch¡­ at least the song helped take his mind off the thought. Thank God he had visited the conservatory before leaving.


    ¡®It was a piece by Sch?nleber. How heavenly¡­¡¯


    As he remembered the music, and his aching legs grew numb, the laurisilva forest ¡ªwith its heavy fog¡ª they¡¯d been walking in, for hours now, seemed to end.


    The leaves parted and a divine valley appeared before them. A mix of its steep hills opening onto a half-coppered ground, and ¡ªcompletely unique in the world¡ª growing chromatic mountains surrounding it, steeped at its peeks in snow. An absurd sight of glowing life in the rather arid near-south.


    ¡®Silver-wreath valley¡­¡¯


    The grandiose sight took his breath, although the slavers seemed to be not impressed, walking through the place being a common occurrence to them.


    The same colorful man was about to push him, again, this time surely to make him move, however¡­ All those present stopped for a moment, a drop of apprehension growing in them. Ahead, not so distant, though not so near, a strange figure walked towards the group, its long, blond, blood-matted hair ousting it as a foreigner to the southern continent. A golden, rose hue shone from its skin, though dirtied and scabbed with earth. Covered with a simple brown linen cloak, black boots seen under it. The group of slavers, after a short exchange in their language, sent two speared bodyguards towards the figure. At worst, it would be a violent, scaped slave, as no romansean soldier could be this far behind enemy lines, at best, a docile addition to their already valuable merchandise. By the figure¡¯s look it seemed to be tired, wobbling as it walked, and female at that. If once washed, the woman revealed a beautiful form, then, certainly, they¡¯d be able to bathe in gold one they sold the apparition. Beautiful continental concubines were worth their weight in gems and treasure, paid for by the shophet himself, a symbol of conquest and victory towards the continental invaders, a small victory, though, in a war he was sorely losing; of course, it also served as pleasure, which the ruler, it was rumored, loved to indulge in, to a fault.


    As the slavers imagined themselves dressed in tunics of pure gold, shining with inlaid gems, a most peculiar thing seemed to happen ahead. Both spearmen appeared to fall to the ground, their figures, if only for a second, had their heads fly off, spinning away, separated from their bodies by some sharp wind, followed by gleaming trails of red.


    They soon left their stupor, understanding. The figure was armed and violent.


    How had it been able to kill both spearmen? So quickly, without a fight? They had employed a small detachment from one the best nomad mercenary bands on the ?uritine.


    The previously forgotten apprehension appeared, once again, growing stronger. The colorful birdman made some gestures, spoke, his tone grave, and the rest of the spear men fell into formation, slowly approaching the figure, to meet it halfway.


    The spearmen, yawping loudly as they approached, finally stopped, the figure was in range, seemingly stilled, it looked ahead, unmoving. The men thrust their spears.


    He had to clear his eyes, unbelieving of what had happened. The figure disappeared, jumping atop the nearest spearman, balancing for a breath on the weapon, and, just as swiftly, pushed down the lightly armored man, a drowned gurgling moan escaping his lips as his throat was pierced by a saber, materialized out of thin air, now held in the figure¡¯s left hand.


    The spear wall was turned to disarray, as the mercenaries had to turn ¡ªencumbered by surprise and their outstretched spears¡ª to meet the saber wielding glint of blood-tinged gold in their midst.


    Coiling like a serpent, the figure ducked underneath a spear meant for its head, stretching its arm almost instantly, piercing through the man¡¯s heart.


    As if feeling the parting air ¡ªthe incoming spear cut to reach his back¡ª it tilted its torso. The weapon, not even tangling one of its flowing hairs, or grazing its linen cloak, was stopped after a swivel ¡ªnearing the pike¡¯s wooden body to the closing grasp of his right hand¡ª as, from one instant to the next, the spearmen had his head split in two. The figure¡¯s body contorted, its arms outstretched, holding the now ownerless spear, and a saber specked in sheared skull, blood-drowned hair dangling off its end. Another man was pierced in the belly by a thrown flash of iron, another, intending to thrust his spear into the figure¡¯s chest, had his eyes poked out by the swift fingers of a pale hand, decapitated, then, with ease. All mercenaries fell, one by one, torn to ribbons of flesh by the glimmer of gold-red light.


    The chained man saw it all, as if enchanted, the Sch?nleber concerto resounding, immense, in his mind, as the battle ensued, the strings, rising, every time the blade had met flesh.


    He had to, once again, rub his eyes, seeing the face of the figure, now in front of him and the stupefied, fear-stricken, paralyzed form of the slave traders. A glowing smile of human, tough, strangely beastly teeth, on a beautifully androgynous face, clear even through the dirt-marred rose skin. Two misty pale-blue eyes looking at the group as if already dead.


    However, he had to steady himself when he heard its voice.


    ¡°Hmm, only got two with the wobbling act¡­¡±


    A male¡¯s voice. A boy of no more than 16 years of age.


    ¡°Huh? A continental?¡± He looked surprised at the captive, who stood chained and silent.


    The slavers, finally waking, scram and ran, though, promptly butchered, did not get far. The colorful birdman, closest to him, was gutted from belly to neck like a pig. His colorful robes darkening, staining red. Then, the boy, flicking the blood off his saber, asked.


    ¡°You were captured¡­? You don¡¯t look like a soldier¡­¡± Sheathing the blade he held his chin in his left hand.


    ¡°Uhhh, A¡ª¡± He did not really know what to say. ¡°I¡¯m an archeologist, our dig sit¡ª¡±


    ¡°Oh? You understood me¡­ A romansean? Or just a good grasp on the language?¡±


    ¡°Yes, I¡¯m romanse¡ª¡±


    ¡°Wait, you got raided but not killed?¡±


    ¡°No, you see, I¡¯m a noble, well, a baronet, really. Somehow, I go¡ª¡±


    ¡°I see¡­¡±


    A moment of silence covered them.


    He raised his hands and a foot, asking somewhat meekly.


    ¡°Could you, uh, free these?¡±


    ¡°Uh, oh, yes!¡±


    The boy searched for the keys, finding them steeped in blood, held in the robes of the birdman.


    ¡°Well, there you go.¡± The chains fell with a *clank*, both on his feet and arms.


    ¡°Thank you.¡± He looked aside, rubbing his sore wrists. After, he held out his hand. ¡°Roderin¡­ My name. I believe I should say something else, but¡­ thank you.¡± He smiled, looking at the youth¡¯s misty eyes.


    The boy shook it, with his own, slightly blood-stained hand.


    If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    ¡°Alphonse.¡± He said, and smiled back, like a blood and dirt covered angel.


    *


    For the first time in years he did not dream of the vision of hell, or heaven. Nor did he lay entranced by some beastly vista, or a form that, even though seen, escaped his senses. Though the tinnitus lingered, the sound of bells and drums and flutes did not visit him again, and the clarity of mind that the missing headache afforded him allowed his frayed psyche, now healing, to realize a strange detail: The sounds which so often appeared in that scape were something he recognized: a gamelan, a grouping of instruments, native to the islands of Naridvipa, often used in celebrations aimed at the highest spheres, or in gilded dances to deities; and, even, as replacements for weapons and armor in war; so it was said that the natives of the islands had once for a custom to go into war near-naked ¡ªor in light dresses of a translucent milky-white weave¡ª only adorned in gold and gems and pearls, showered in flower petals, carrying instruments instead of blades.


    He had only once heard it played, outside of dreams, and in a rather mediocre manner, via an exposition of oddities from the far east. Even his travels did not reach so far that he would waste half a life pursuing the sun¡¯s rise.


    Why did he suddenly think of this, instead of the glaring sickness that had, he was sure, almost killed him? Or the strange visage of Alphonse¡¯s child? Or where he was¡­.


    As he looked at the unfamiliar ceiling. He focused and understood.


    ¡®It¡¯s the villa, a room in the villa. When I fainted was I rushed to the nearest room?¡¯


    The dull throbbing on his forehead, almost indistinct, was new.


    ¡®A wound from hitting my head when I fell¡­ hard enough to draw blood.¡¯ He touched the bandage. ¡®As for Alphonse¡¯s child¡­. how strange¡­ albinism? for it to be precisely as the painting¡­ No, what am I saying, ha!¡¯


    It seemed something still obstructed his thoughts.


    ¡®Comparing that child to the creature in the thangka¡­¡¯


    ¡®It is not some mangling deformity, and Alphonse will treat the child all the same. As for Marenisse¡­ I know the verdanaiese have a cruel history with those birthed¡­ sickly or strange, though I doubt she¡¯d spurn her child over such a thing.¡¯


    ¡®Even stranger was that gaze. Almost intelligent, curious¡­ quite disturbing¡­ no crying as well¡­¡±


    Roderin held his brow with cupped hands, shaking off the last drops of heaviness. Waking fully now, he took in the morning sun as it warmed the room, feeling its heat on his skin.


    ¡®The sun rises all the same¡­¡¯


    The air seemed to glow, without warning as well. His dull tinnitus ¡ªso accustomed he was to its buzzing it blended into air¡ª stopped, for a moment so small he doubted whether it even ceased, or if he merely imagined it so.


    *Peel*


    He grew conscious of what had been heard during its atomic absence.


    *Peek*


    From the silence¡¯s far shore something peeked, its sight, turned sound, turned mist, form, and electricity, pregnant with meaning and information.


    He dared not move, even if the short bridge between him and it had dissolved already.


    Clinging to the tinnitus, reassuring his self, seeking to calm his heart, like a child, teeming with fear, holding onto his mother¡¯s skirts.


    All that was left after translation, after the haze had dressed itself in language, was a simple thing: a name.


    ¡®Haaa¡­¡¯ Exhaling, relived as a hare passed by a wolf. Eyes unfocused as his heart calmed.


    The king¡¯s physician, who he believed must have been, at this time, busy with the newborn prince, had, at some point, appeared in the room.


    ¡°Baronet de Lamartine¡­¡±


    ¡°Just Roderin, or whatever else you might prefer, doctor, but no needless formality, if you may.¡± He waved away the title with a hand¡¯s gesture.


    ¡°Very well, Mr. De Lamartine, how are you? I notice you disoriented still?¡±


    ¡°Im, ok¡­ Not much, no, just after-waking haze.¡±


    ¡°In that case, how did you wake?¡±


    ¡°As well as any day, really¡­ better than most, in fact. Just some pain from, this.¡± He pointed to the bandage on his forehead.


    ¡°Any trouble seeing, focusing your sight? dizziness? vertigo? glaring lapses in memory?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Then, any idea what might have caused this fainting?¡±


    ¡°Hmm, perhaps a light diet? I don¡¯t eat much when back in the continent. Coupled with stress, and, ahhh, strong emotions from seeing the youngest prince born?¡± He smiled.


    The physician, with a clear expression of incredulity on his gray brows, retorted.


    ¡°Then switch to a hearty diet, spend some more time in leisure and avoid instances where¡­ your fervent royalism would cause an upsurge in, intense, emotion.¡± Spoken all in deadpan, with a just, barely, noticeable edge of sarcasm.


    Roderin stifled a laugh.


    The Doctor sighed.


    ¡°His Majesty asked me to inform you that he will come visit soon. He recommended you rest some, telling me your days have been, in fact, very stressful¡­ something about continuous, lengthy, intense conversations over cups of coff¡ª¡±


    ¡°Ah, yes, yes, you see, it¡¯s part of my, uhhh, work¡­ yes, work, at Vanus university, and the Royal East-Mariannic, veeery important conversations. Like I said, I live quite the stressful life.¡± Roderin lied without a hint of shame.


    The Doctor¡¯s expression did not waver.


    ¡°Be it as it may please follow my advice¡­ Having that been all, I¡¯ll excuse myself. I¡¯d recommend you rest a while.¡±


    The man turned to leave; he was, however, stopped after a few steps, a question reaching his ears.


    ¡°The child¡­ how is it?¡±


    Turning around he spoke.


    ¡°I assure you the young prince is healthy as can be, nursed already and happily by the side of his parents.¡±


    ¡°So it was a boy, aaah¡­¡± He chuckled.


    ¡°As for his condition, it is nothing life threatening. Albinism, at least the form present in the young prince ¡ªa mild form at that¡ª merely requires some simple precautions, not much more. In fact, I¡¯m aware of some natives of Boreas-Riphei with¡­ similar dispositions to the prince, even one or two verdanaiese; so perhaps it is merely some, unseen, exotic blood inherited from her Majesty, though I admit it a stretch.¡±


    ¡°Yes, the Celin¨¦ are not exactly known for their pale hair. And such fair skin¡­¡± He stated. A small laugh scaping his lips as he remembered Marenisse. The burning, copper-red hair ¡ªtypical of the Austaufangr-C¨¦line¡ª matching the woman¡¯s temperament.


    The doctor nodded.


    ¡°Well, I¡¯ll excuse myself. Take care Mr. De Lamartine, I¡¯ll have a maid bring you breakfast.¡±


    The door closed silently.


    *


    As Roderin ate his breakfast in bed; a steaming cup of coffee, with crepes dusted in sugar and a couple honey-drizzled plums, he wondered.


    ¡®I doubt a doctor would have instructed the maids to hand me a breakfast like this, ha¡­¡± He chuckled internally. ¡®Alphonse must have told them¡­¡± His friend was aware, of course, of his fondness for coffee and obvious sweet tooth.


    Biting down on a plum, the honey making him smile, his first thoughts were about its glorious, slightly acidic sweetness, nothing short of delicious. He chewed and passed it down with a sip of the dark brew.


    Quickly, the food was gone, the cup empty. As he planned on walking the gardens to help the food settle, the silent door opened once again.


    ¡°Roderin¡­ enjoyed yourself I see.¡±


    ¡°Of course, if the king is so gracious as to give this humble subject of his such a meal¡­ well, I cannot refuse but to savor it, enjoy it, even.¡±


    ¡°Ha!¡± The king exclaimed, as he fell onto a chair, cross armed. ¡°Pinel, the sadist, asked the maid to deliver you muesli. Even I have trouble eating that¡­ horse gruel¡­¡± He declared, shaking his head.


    Lamartine smiled.


    ¡°A character, that doctor, truly.¡±


    A moment of seriousness enveloped them.


    ¡°The child ¡ªI assume you already asked Pinel?¡ª Is well, don¡¯t worry. Although do not believe I¡¯ll forget you fainted at the first sight of my newborn son¡­¡±


    Roderin choked as he laughed.


    ¡°It was, ah¡­ surprise, I swear, and the fatigue of the last months, and a headache¡­ Truly, I swear!¡± He assured, lifting his hands.


    Both men smiled.


    ¡°Well, whatever may it be. It is not something of note. He¡¯ll merely have to avoid sunlight if too intense, and, perhaps, wear glasses¡­.¡± The king paused for a second, his expression gaining an edge of seriousness. ¡°He could have been born a six-armed ogre, he is still my son is he not? And a prince as well, Ha! Who would dare whisper about him? Even then, what are words worth?¡±


    ¡°And Marenisee?¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s enamored with the babe... Though I must admit, I found it strange; shouldn¡¯t a child cry when born? He seemed oddly calm.¡±


    ¡°The W?lfli-Loggia are known for their, unusual, tempers. Think nothing of it.¡±


    The king let out a grin.


    ¡°Yes, you¡¯re right¡­¡±


    Roderin spoke, cutting off the slightly burdensome topic.


    ¡°I had a dream.¡±


    ¡°Oh, a dream?¡±


    ¡°Yes, it was of that time, at the Suritine.¡±


    ¡°Hmmm, yes. Hah¡­ How fun.¡± Nostalgia clear in his eyes.


    ¡®Fun he says.¡¯ The archeologist hid a choke. ¡°Well, after waking, I had a¡­ let¡¯s call it, flash of inspiration¡­ Have you decided on a name for the child?¡±


    ¡°A name? No¡­ neither has Marenisse. It seems she¡¯s as terrible with names as me.¡± He was right. All the other princes and princesses were named by their respective mothers, or by those honored to give them names.


    ¡°Do you have a pencil on you?¡±


    ¡°A pencil¡­ No, though I¡¯m sure¡­¡± The king looked around, until he found an old pencil, hidden in some drawer, with its tip barely usable.


    He handed it to his friend.


    In an unused napkin, with some difficulty, he wrote a name. Folding it, he gave it to Alphonse.


    ¡°Fylassein Fatae¡­ huh¡­¡± He twirled the napkin in between his knuckles, pensive. ¡°Well, I accept.¡±


    ¡°Never seen you so solemn.¡± Roderin said, clearly joking.


    Alphonse smirked.


    ¡°I¡¯ll go ask Marenisse, we still need her approval¡­ and, I¡¯ll have to prepare the cathedral, and this and that, haaaa¡­ how bothersome.¡±


    ¡°Also, I¡¯ll stay, become an advisor and what not¡­ However, at least make sure I get plenty free time; If I must chain myself to some post, I¡¯ll die¡­¡±


    Alphonse merely kept his smile.


    ¡°I suspected as much, after all this unexpected sentimentalism.¡±


    ¡°Hah!¡±


    Lamartine decided, instead of touring the gardens, to rest some more in bed. While the king left, still plunged in thought, the napkin held tightly in his hand, never once having looked at its insides.


    *


    The Blood-Caped walked. lost in memories, thinking deeply, feeling even more intensely.


    ¡®A Fylassein¡­¡¯


    Though family friends and close companions giving one¡¯s children names was a common thing, and name giving ceremonies abounded in the Continent, none compared to the solemnity and weight of the romansean Fylassein Fatae ¡ªor Custodianship of the Fates¡ª especially when pertaining to royalty.


    Even if there were those who were rather fickle with the custom ¡ªAnd Alphonse himself was guilty of it; mostly due to indifference towards all but one of his children, and a rather liberal use of it as a bargaining chip for political gain¡ª The king still held a high regard for the tradition, given some conditions were fulfilled.


    He himself had been named by the ceremony after all.


    Giving one¡¯s child an auspicious name was usual, as was simply giving a name one liked or thought sonorous. However, in Romanse, a name had in it the weight of a person¡¯s fate ¡ªwell, that had been the cultural consensus, declining over time. Now, only old families entrenched in tradition weighed names so fanatically, while others merely ¡ªbriefly¡ª considered a name and gave it nonchalantly.


    As if twined by the hands of inevitability, it was not so much name-giving, as name-finding. The name was believed sewn into being by a force otherworldly, and merely found, fitting the form of a person like a tailor-made glove, brought before the child by a custodian. The custodian, then, must be a person held in utmost trust by a parent, as were they the vehicle through which a child¡¯s destiny was set into motion, and, alongside the father and mother, educated, guarded, and guided the infant.


    The thought took Alphonse into a whirlwind of remembrance: The fear in his cousins¡¯, brothers¡¯, and sisters¡¯ eyes when they looked at him. The whispers of ¡®monster¡¯ or ¡®beast¡¯. The indifference and boredom; all silenced by a heavy, kind palm, on his head; and a glowing voice, chorus-like, comforting.


    The gleaming iridescence, strangely warm, smelling of apricots and gold. The steady pitter-patter of gentle summer rain. All with its vague human outline, melting out.


    His great-grandfather, The Hellian, Hyperion Alexandre IX.


    The man who had given him his name.

 4 – Custodian

    ¡°Wouldn¡¯t a musket just kill you?¡± His cousin asked, cloud-gazing, on his back, twirling an apple blossom in between his fingers.


    ¡°Then just become faster than the musket?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re so un-childlike, yet sometimes you say such stupid things.¡±


    ¡°What would you know? After all, great-granfather said: ¡°a weapon is only as strong as the man who wields it!¡±¡± The youth retorted, feigning a deep tone of voice when quoting his great-grandfather. ¡°So, if I become stronger than all men it won¡¯t matter what they wield, musket or sword.¡±


    ¡°First, stop attributing random platitudes you found to Alexandre¡­ And, even if true, which I doubt ¡ªgood luck becoming the strongest man in the world¡ª wouldn¡¯t it be smarter to pick your fights carefully? Say, be stronger than all the men you choose to fight?¡±


    ¡°I guess¡­ but that¡¯s no fun.¡±


    ¡°Fun? Ha¡­ What¡¯s the point? Which king fights in the field nowadays anyway?¡± He said, his speech fizzling out, lazily murmuring his last words.


    He was fond of his cousin. He was one of the few who, since that incident, did not look at him with a slight, though unconcealable, glare of fear or disdain. However, that didn¡¯t mean he wasn''t annoying at times.


    ¡°Who! Cares!¡± He intoned, emphasizing every word as he swung a practice sword, imagining it as real in his mind.


    ¡°Haaa¡­¡± The lazy cloud gazer sighed.


    ¡®King¡­ how annoying. As if being king will stop me¡­ I¡¯d die of boredom. Great-grandfather will probably never die, or something¡­ and grandfather and father would have to die as well before I become king, so¡­ I¡¯ll just become a mercenary. Hmmm, or would a wandering swordsman be better?¡±


    He considered his prospects as he swung.


    A nervous maid approached them, avoiding his gaze, slightly trembling, asking if they desired anything. The laying youth said nothing, while he, being interrupted mid swing, and seeing the maid¡¯s fearful countenance, growled annoyed.


    ¡°No. Leave.¡± Accompanying the words with a scowl.


    The frightened woman walked away, quickly.


    He scoffed, going back to his swings.


    ¡°You know, barking at the servants like a rabid dog every time they ask you something won¡¯t help your reputation.¡±


    ¡°As if I care¡­¡± He did care. ¡°And I didn¡¯t bark at her, I just¡­ I don¡¯t know? What does she expect by interrupting me¡­¡±


    His cousin just rolled his eyes.


    He kept swinging.


    Steps were heard coming towards them.


    He was about to turn around, and with an even darker glare, order the servant to leave, to stop bothering him.


    However, mid-turn, a familiar voice, strangely euphonic ¡ªsounding of summer rain¡ª and with a slight, pleasing, almost indistinct accent, surprised him. Even his cousin¡¯s eyes widened.


    The air seemed to condense.


    ¡°Henri.¡±


    The youth, dazed until then, answered.


    ¡°Alexandre.¡±


    The unexpected visitor then turned.


    ¡°Alphonse, my apologies for interrupting your leisure; I will steal only a moment of your time.¡± He said, looking at the half-turned boy.


    ¡°Great-grandfather!¡± A smiling Alphonse ran ¡ªwooden sword left behind him¡ª, and hugged the man dressed in a gold and persimmon-colored cape, flowing and thin, as if melting ¡ªmystical, although strangely austere for a king¡ª over a white waistcoat, embroidered in pearls and gold thread, with a pale jabot and poet¡¯s shirt jutting out from underneath. His legs and feet were covered by the robe-like-cape, spilled onto the ground and trailing behind, as a comet¡¯s trail.


    A foreign spectator would be surprised, for the man called ¡°Great-grandfather¡± by the youth looked to be no older than twenty-five. His hair, without a single grey strand, was a flaming mane of cinnabar strings ¡ªbraided, here and there, with hanging ornaments of gold and padparadscha sapphires¡ª which flowed down to his waist. His eyes, void of senility, brilliant drops of honey-amber, emanating some unknown intelligence. August, noble in looks, although strangely ethereal, possessed by some strange fragility.


    It could be attributed to illusion, but a faint shimmering glow seemed to envelop the man.


    ¡°I thought you were traveling.¡±


    ¡°I just arrived, and, sadly, will have to leave again quite soon; It seems I will miss your birthday.¡±


    The youth showed only a slight hint of sadness, almost invisible.


    ¡°However, I won¡¯t miss the gift-giving.¡±


    The boy¡¯s eyes shone.


    Leaving his cousin, vowing to return later, he followed the king out of the flowered courtyard. Wherever they went, be it servant, official or noble, men and women bowed and turned their eyes with reverence towards the king, though not for long; perhaps looking for an instant too much would turn a sin or singe their sight. Alphonse felt at ease, as if disappearing, made clear as glass by his great-grandfather¡¯s steps.


    Crossing over a cerulean pond, walking among blooming fruit trees, trough the wide corridors of the palace, ¡ªtheir immense windows opening to a pleasant morning sun¡ª they arrived at a spacious inner chamber, where the servant¡¯s humming, to-and-fro, did not reach. Atop a marbled table, lit by candlelight, a dark-wood case rested, engraved with the family sigil; two iron hinges on its side, and an open lock on the other.


    ¡°Here¡­ open it.¡± Alexandre said as he smiled.


    The excited child could not keep his hands still as he, carefully, opened the case.


    Inside, in a jet-black leather scabbard, its body adorned with, all, silver engraved rings, locket and chape, a wood-grip saber, with two blood red tassels fastened to it, was made clear, even through the shadow of candlelight. Its argent flat pommel and handguard christened it, like a crown.


    Alphonse held the saber, still in its scabbard, with both hands, as if handling a crumbling treasure. Approaching the fire, to more clearly see the sword, he marveled at the fine detailing of the wondrous silverwork. The black leather seemed alive under the lowlight, its inky depths swirling amidst the shadows.


    Then, with a flash of movement, he unsheathed the blade, its brilliant shade of silvery steel gleamed with an ever-slight blue haze, like mountains under the midday sun, seen from afar.


    On its ricasso, in an angular script, initials were carved: A.L.M


    ¡°Great-grandfather, I¡­¡±


    Returning to silence, he swung x¡¯s, feeling the saber¡¯s weight, as if part of his own arm, slice through the air. Then, too fast for the eye to see, the blade sang as it cut ¡ªclean¡ª through a candle¡¯s wax, the fire in its tip snuffing out as it fell, hitting the ground.


    ¡°I hope it is to your liking.¡±


    ¡°Of Course! But, my father¡­¡± He stared longingly at the blade, jutting out from his outstretched arm.


    ¡°Those like us, Alphonse, cannot be persuaded, cannot change. We¡¯re colors unto ourselves. Being as we are, one might try¡­ futile, really¡­ the more magnificent the man the more violent the fervor with which he¡¯ll fall into his own ends, his fates; beauty, terrors and all. Shouldn¡¯t I, as your custodian, he who, strung up as a puppet, fulfilled fate¡¯s scheme by giving you your name, see to it that you become as you are in a most beautiful, brilliant way? It would be a sin to stifle it all away.¡±


    Alphonse vaguely understood what his great-grandfather wished to say. He, however, remained silent, pensive as he stared at the blade.


    ¡°Your father will pose no issue; I have talked to him. Irrespective of it, stay out of too much trouble, I will hear no end of it if you do.¡±


    ¡°Great-grandfather, thank you¡­¡± Alphonse finally tore his eyes away from the saber, thanking Alexandre, with a smile.


    The fires flickered as they danced, projecting from their swaying bodies small glimmering lights, staining the unsheathed saber with phantoms of ghostly red.


    *


    It was september of 289, and the city of Hygeia was abuzz. The King¡¯s Palace had announced the birth of a new prince, to be given name via Fylassein Fatae in the Cathedral to the Hyperion Hellian. Opposed to the rather dreary beginnings of autumn, the Asphodeli was lively, bursting full, as citizens took the new prince¡¯s birth as a perfect excuse for animated conversation, festivities and sightseeing; in reality, not much changed from the usual. When other citizens of the continent stereotyped romanseans as decadent caf¨¦-goers, pretentious socialites and miserable bohemians, they were not altogether wrong. The reign of the late Hyperion Alexandre IX had brought with it an almost century long flourishing of the arts and sciences, unseen since the Era Solar, embedding in romansean, or at least hygeian, ¡ªas some said, you weren¡¯t romansean if not from Hygeia¡ª culture an adoration for conversation and intellectualism, and all the flaws that accompanied such things.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    The festivities were moderate. Merriment too loud would interrupt the pleasant air of the gardens, and the free flow of voices in cafes, tea houses, and academies. The birth of what was little more than a minor prince ¡ªfar down the line of succession¡ª even if a good excuse, did not warrant boisterous frenzied dancing and revelry from a people plagued by growing disinterest in their royals, and a general apathy, even disdain ¡ª especially, rabid, disdain from certain radical corners of, both, public opinion and academia¡ª for the almost eternal monarchy.


    However, one place was experiencing an extremely unordinary influx of subjects, particularly because the site was year-round off-limits. Closed to all but certain visitors, functionaries, ministers, and, of course, the crown. The Cathedral to the Hyperion Hellian was the heart, or the brain, one could say, of Royal Affairs, where ministers, advisors and the king would convene to lead the kingdom; not that the public knew if this fact, of course. Once an immense, loving gift, from architect and sculptor Anastasia Werner ¡ªwhich, in its time, caused unending rumors¡ª to Alexandre IX, it extends itself as a symbolic figure of spires, bell-houses, sculpted figures, pillars and glass, like a prodigious, curled up body of art. The Werners owned the land beside the Asphodeli where the cathedral is now built, ending up in Anastasia¡¯s hands. After recruiting help from friend and painter Maximillian Vers, who ceaselessly adorned its insides with murals and details, and spending a fortune, the structure was finished and opened during the Elysian-Hygeian Exhibition, where it was promptly given in gift to Alexandre IX.


    In its immense hall, behind a raised quire where the ministers lay sitting, under the adorned cupula of the apse, pierced by sunlight, a grand mural-over-glass, a style classic to the Era Solar, depicted the Hyperion Hellian in his robe of molten gold, a cut up sea of bronze colored detailing floating in the veil, with unending tones of brilliance. In his flaming hair, crowned by golden laurels, padparadscha sapphires hung, the king¡¯s favorite gemstone, his amber eyes half-closed in a serene, kindly sight. In his hands he held a blossom of paled lilies and an open book. Behind his back, a mosaic of spindling naked bodies, fires and structures entwined one with the other, coursing a river of forms: the world, in short, as if the king were walking ahead of history itself.


    In the transept, rows of distinguished personages, nobles, and relevant academics sat waiting, just in front of all others swarming the cathedral¡¯s nave, spilling onto the aisles. It was almost without space to walk.


    Whatever the case, the opportunity to see the insides of the Cathedral, interact with known, illustrious characters of the era, and participate in a solemn event, coupled, of course, with people¡¯s tendency to group up when presented the opportunity, produced quite an audience for the ceremony. All covered in light chattering as a thousand conversations rang, discussing anything and everything.


    In the quire two figures lay speaking, sat on their adorned chairs with cushions of red velvet.


    One, old and dignified, with combed hair and a pince-nez over his steady brown eyes asked the other.


    ¡°Did you know the Austaufangr girl had given birth already?¡±


    ¡°No, no¡­ I heard she was still in the villa, it seemed strange¡­ it had been ten months already without news, I even suspected Alphonse had lied about the pregnancy and was squeezing out as many days as he could¡­.¡± The other figure answered, youthful and fresh, with abundant chestnut hair, fashionably parted. Dark-blue eyes darting around the cathedral.


    ¡°Hah!¡± The older man half-laughed.


    ¡°It surprises me how you managed to make him come to a meeting¡­¡±


    ¡°It was a matter of importance, of course¡­ You might think Alphonse to be a, reluctant, king¡­ I¡¯ve come to learn he¡¯s not reluctant about being king ¡ªat least not so much anymore¡ª but rather, reluctant to attend Royal Affairs¡­¡±


    The younger figure smiled.


    ¡°I suppose you¡¯re right¡­We¡¯re rather early, aren¡¯t we?¡±


    ¡°No, it is them who are late. It¡¯s been this way for every Fylassein Fatae he¡¯s held¡­ You would not believe the amount of these things I have had to attend throughout the years.¡±


    ¡°Not a fan I take it?¡±


    ¡°Ha! Fate, poppycock¡­ It is good thing that, after the Hellian¡¯s reign, such nonsense has slowly faded, left by the wayside. But look! The irony! they built him a cathedral¡­ A king of reason, Haaa¡­¡± The man shook his head, a lamenting expression forcing his eyes closed.


    ¡°Well, a Hyperion¡­¡±


    ¡°No need to start, I understand it so¡­ very clear. But, back then, there were those sensible ones, I counted myself among them, that followed Him for his sensibilities, not some¡­¡±


    As he searched for the expression, one hefty enough to make clear his displeasure, a, large, man arrived behind the quire, entering the cathedral trough some unseen entrance.


    Though he was, quite clearly, beyond a healthy weight, it was not enough to make him seem grotesque, merely, jovial, gregarious, He walked with a steady step as he made his way to a chair, sitting then and greeting the others present.


    ¡°Gentlemen.¡±


    ¡°Minister Bass¨¢th.¡±


    The older man then, woken from his thought, rose his sight and returned the greeting.


    ¡°Bass¨¢th.¡±


    ¡°Quite the audience, eh? I wonder who he¡¯s trying to rope into some scheme, or win over with this thing¡­¡±


    The young man smiled, his eyes closing as he spoke.


    ¡°Minister Bass¨¢th, though the king is known for his machinations, perhaps this is simply a joyous occasion? His Majesty will entrust a dear friend with custodianship over the young prince, isn¡¯t it merry?¡±


    ¡°Hah! Yes, yes¡­ I like dreaming too, Minister Hulme. I¡¯d only wish his Majesty would be more considerate; these ceremonies take quite the effort to put together.¡±


    The older man spoke, adjusting his glasses.


    ¡°Well, it is his child with the Austaufangr princess. No doubt he is fond of her. I¡¯m sure the sentiment extends to the prince. He won¡¯t leave him with some worthless political peon as a custodian.¡±


    ¡°Hoh? I thought you cared not for fate, or some such, Alistair. What¡¯s it matter if the child is given some pawn as custodian? He¡¯d have no say in the prince¡¯s rearing. And as for fulfilling his fate? Hah! Did you turn senile, finally?¡± The plump minister asked, his tone tinged with light sarcasm.


    ¡°Not yet, to your displeasure¡­ Clear my memory, who was his Majesty¡¯s name-giver?¡±


    ¡°Bah! So what?¡±


    ¡°I mean to say that the king is aware of how benign an influence a good custodian can be.¡±


    ¡°Anyhow, discussing this is rather pointless. We¡¯ll just wait and see for ourselves, perhaps Minister Hulme¡¯s dreaming bore fruit.¡± Bass¨¢th stated with a wave of his hands.


    ¡°I hope so.¡± The young man answered.


    Over the following minutes other ministers arrived, until, at last, the chairs were full. As they discussed this or that amongst themselves, a sharp bell rang, silencing the cathedral.


    The sun seemed especially beautiful, made pale by budding autumn.


    Another time, the bell rang. It went on to sing, ringing in rhythm, weaving amongst a suddenly appearing chorus; chimes accompanied it. Then, all grew silent, except the chorus, otherworldly in its harmony, mirroring a pure-blue sky.


    An augur name-singer: a graying, short man, in a patterned pale blue robe ¡ªmired in hanging silver adornments shaped as feathers and birds¡ª of kind disposition and calming voice, stepped onto the apse, behind an altar speckled with paled lilies, myriad objets de vertu, and crowned the chorus, the sound carried by the cathedral acoustics to all corners.


    Once, these augurs had been more notable, more common, but, with time, had decayed. Their role was to solemnize the Fylassein Fatae. It was a position handed from master to disciple, where one was initiated into a series of Mysteries. Mythically, they had started as a group of blessed, able to understand the voice of birds, to make sense of their singing, finding in their songs the true name of all things.


    The chorus ended, and the augur continued for a moment until he, too, stopped.


    And from an unseen place, right-most to the cathedral, a regal couple appeared, walking towards the augur.


    The man had shinning golden hair, slicked back. His body covered in a trailing blood-red cape, wolf¡¯s fur at its collar. Underneath, a tasseled martial coat, white and gold, with pantaloons of the same color tucked into military black high boots. He looked ahead with misty blue eyes, locked in a severe expression. A wreath of white gold laurel, a dew of ruby gems, crowned his head. A scepter was held in his left hand, gilded and carved with scenes of history, jewels jutting out from his form, while his right hand rested on the handle of a sheathed saber, its scabbard black and silver.


    Besides him, a woman held a babe in her arms, his small form covered in white silk and eiderdown. She, in opposition to the man, wore quite the austere dress: what looked to be a long, loose, milk-white nightgown adorned with iron, like an ancient, deconstructed armor. Her brilliant copper-red hair loose, a weaved silver-steel circlet surrounding it, with a single, small, pale jewel on its front, adorning her forehead. Grey eyes in a lighter, though still solemn expression, aimed forward.


    All three arrived at the altar. Where the name-singer received the babe.


    Whispering, Bass¨¢th spoke to Alistair and Hulme.


    ¡°Now, let¡¯s see, who¡¯ll be the custodian¡­¡±


    On the other side of the apse, coming, again, from some unseen entrance, an unassuming man walked towards the altar. He had short brown hair, sharing the same shade as his steady, though slightly nervous eyes. Dressed in a simple black wool long coat over a light-brown vest, with a pair of cotton pants in matching color, a white dress shirt peeked from his collar. He walked with feigned nonchalance. On his feet, simple black leather shoes, echoing as he stepped.


    ¡®Alphonse had told me he would ready the cathedral, but, I though, at least for my sake, he¡¯d limit the audience to the ministers and some nobles¡­ where did this amount of people come from?¡± Roderin thought, as he made his way to the altar.


    Waiting in one of the cathedral¡¯s many private ¡ªor otherwise secret¡ª rooms, the archeologist had a vantage point from where to see the growingly full nave, praying, fruitlessly, as to make the torrent of spectators end.


    Now, he walked. Though nervous, he found it was not as bothersome as he¡¯d imagined.


    ¡®Getting a look at Alphonse and Marenisse, they do look quite regal, insultingly so¡­¡¯ Lamartine had rejected the kings offer to be dressed in something out of the royal wardrobe, thinking he¡¯d look ridiculous, preferring to wear his usual clothes.


    Meanwhile, Bass¨¢th asked, whispering, vexed.


    ¡°Huh? Do either of you know who he is?¡±


    The young Hulme starched his head, puzzled.


    ¡°No¡­ Perhaps some academic¡­?¡±


    They shared in the uncertainty of almost all the then present.


    Alistair, seeing them, answered.


    ¡°He¡¯s Roderin de Lamartine, a Baronet¡­¡± The old minister lightly laughed.


    Bass¨¢th showed surprise


    ¡°Hmm, so it truly wasn¡¯t a scheme¡­? I don¡¯t see what he would gain from this¡­¡±


    Hulme felt the need to add, slightly sardonic in his tone.


    ¡°Hm¡­ my dreams have turned to reality, it seems.¡±


    Alistair half-chuckled, caring to not make much noise.


    Bass¨¢th could only mutter indistinctly.


    Roderin, finally arriving in front of the altar and stopping before the name-singer, heard as Alphonse spoke.


    ¡°I, Alphonse L¨¦on M¨¡vors von der W?lfli-Loggia, King of Love and Dominion, father to thee, unnamed, consort blood-bound to Marenisse Roderika Austaufangr-C¨¦line, Daughter-soul of Eternal Love, thy mother, thus intone, in our voice. By hand of fate, Roderin de Lamartine hath¨¦ given thee a gift, found for thee thy name.¡±


    The name-singer then asked.


    ¡°And what name hath¨¦ he found? Thou must sing.¡±


    Alphonse then unveiled from a pocket in his coat a folded napkin. And, as he unfolded it, ready to reveal the name, he looked at his son in the augur¡¯s arms.


    ¡°Thou art named, by grace, He¨­s Pallas-Maria Pha?tos von der W?lfli-Loggia, child of this union.¡±


    The augur spoke, as the child in his arms looked around the cathedral with an ever-curious glance.


    ¡°Thou dost affirm, is this thy custodia¡¯s name?¡±


    Roderin repeated the line he had memorized for the occasion.


    ¡°I, Roderin de Lamartine, Baronet by Hellian¡¯s grace, declare this to be mine custodia¡¯s name, by grace, by hand of fate. Hear, child? This to be thine, appeareth so in mine dream. And so shall I be thine custodian.¡±


    ¡°Thou hast said the truth, thou art our child¡¯s custodian; this to be thine.¡± Alphonse echoed.


    ¡°So shall it be, this to be thine, He¨­s Pallas-Maria Pha?tos von der W?lfli-Loggia. Thou art borne into this fate, by thine hands.¡±


    All those present couldn¡¯t help but watch, focused on the ceremony, the grandiose cathedral, or the unknown figure of the youngest prince¡¯s custodian. However, as if an apparition reserved only for the new-born prince¡¯s eyes, no one else could see ¡ªnot even the augur who had been blessed by the birds¡¯ chants¡ª an immense swan, the size of a man, coiled around the child ¡ªwho eyed it with bright eyes, playing with its feathers, and smiling, cooing curiously at how beautifully they fluttered in his palms.


    Except¡­


    The swan phantasm was invisible, ¡ªhidden in some transparent pocket of light¡ª for all but another one, who, like the child, saw it flutter and coil. Before the altar, long bearded and haired, ¡ªboth snow-white¡ª in swirling, living, layered robes, colored as the tempestuous sea during a northern night, an ancient man with a sagely visage went unseen, somehow ignored or invisible. Heavy, ashen eyebrows giving him the countenance of constant close eyed remembrance, as he watched the prince, the swan, thinking, thinking¡­

 5 – Seen/Scene Pt. I

    Light.


    The colors blended, came together then stood apart, shone and flowered, turned liquid and burst, gained shape, lines, form, took on movement and lost tone.


    It was sight. His first sense.


    But how could he put it into words? There were no such things, not the embryonic form nor primitive prototype of thought yet in him, as if all light and color lightly stirred the surface of his body then reflected off.


    All form, which was merely color and light, spiraled before him in incomprehensible oscillation, dancing. As such, wasn¡¯t he the light, the colors themselves? without innerness, his second sense ¡ªtouch¡ª made of him an empty body. The inner lining of the world¡¯s epidermis, and all organs the shuddering masses of sunlight and pulsing form; unlike other beings, his sight pointed inwards, and outside there was none, nothing at all.


    No distinction from within or without.


    His sense extended, as the ray of beaming light descended over his open eyes, and so slightly singed them. He was as wide as light, and as long as the ray; the center of his being settled over the furthest point of sense and sight, the horizon on which all that swirled inside-out of him turned to a beam of concentratedness.


    There! There he was! From the deepest point of his corneas to were all blurred into one.


    But how could he know? He had no words.


    All this amounted to the limited, strange shuffling of ¡°something¡± that blended the ray of concentrated points into the plane of everything else nearest. For some reason he still lay anchored, this shuffling was a jutting out, a mass that pulled inwards in something close to movement, or at least so he perceived it, he had no word for it, nor knew he of time.


    Then, a strangeness¡­ nor touch nor sight, nor color nor form, nor jutting out nor concentration nor plane nor line. It wafted out from all, all himself which was all the world; the upper reaches of himself had none of this dimension, perhaps crushed into some other himselfness at the point where all turned ¡°point¡±. But the nearest ¡°it¡± had it. Some made the movement extend behind, others made all contract into the dimension, fuzzing his inner-outerness, yet he had no word for it, no words at all. It was the third sense, smell. Once again, he marveled at the expansion of all into an invisible depth. There, where things had a phantom of pleasantness, strangeness or wretchedness that trickled deep into somewhere else, he ¡°pondered¡±: outside of himself. But there was no innerness, so how could there be exclusive outerness? Where all there was inner-outerness, which meant nothing at all.


    He began to suspect of another dimension outside of himself. How? Or perhaps surrounding his all, or something he seemed immersed in. Invisible, without sensation and behind the phantom of scent; almost as if giving him, all, a bubbling, an orderedness, a shedding into something¡­ no words, again. And before this constant became a solid thing, he was assaulted with a him so outer it rattled the all-world that was One; a faint non visual shimmering that things possessed on all the exposed sections of their shape, so short range it could only be felt ¡ªand twined effortlessly with all but seeing¡ª in a space behind his own sight ¡ªtaste¡ª, so inner he began to doubt; was he all he could see, enveloped in nothingness?


    He could doubt, but without words it was all a jutting out, a rattling, the infant steps to unraveling the cocoon.


    Suddenly, he was violently plucked from the allness of his own being; he no longer doubted. Sharp, dull, tenuous vibration, all things creaking under the sun, as invisible knives to the inner outerness. Now there was only surface to himself, and an all-else, separated, feeling and dreading how he was imprisoned in a sea of everything other than his own, only perceivable when it wandered into his senses; the terrible realization of hearing: the last sense.


    It all came together, no longer atomized under his self, but united against him, bearing on his form so as to keep him shaped such a way. What had happened to the world which was all himself? He desired to cut it, find a space without space: the beast composed of all senses that threatened to snuff him out. And from a true insideness, behind the space behind his sight, where taste lingered, a jutting out rang.


    ¡°Waa¡­ aa¡­ bu¡­ ah¡­¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s wrong He¨­s?¡± Marenisse asked the cooing babe.


    ¡°Buh¡­ wa¡­ hu¡­ buh¡­¡±


    There it was, his own ringing out. There were depths to his own being farther than taste, and even the gurgling of sound, behind even it, and, surprisingly, behind the nestled cavern where sight emanated from, a small light, dislodged from somewhere behind, behind, inside, before¡­ took root.


    The gentle singsong, a shape of shining copper, rose tinted snow and dew jeweled lead. Rustling of warm white coiled fluttering, sinking into him when he rested on its breast. Sun-marred foil shavings of condensed light, misty blue brume, yet so solid; these three amalgams of sense carried his being in turns, emanating a shaped creaking, so that it was no longer itself, but subtle, comforting, clear, or, in the case of the white coil, some other thing, beyond even sound, where in it its silence a ¡°hum¡± arrived at the shining light-seed, planted behind his eyes.


    He saw other forms of congealed light and color. Most common, though not ever-present as the three before, was a simple auburn shape, temperate, colored almost invisibly with tension.


    Their humming, their subtle song settled behind his eyes, gorging photons into his spine, rising, rising; being shot out of his nascent nerves as solar flares, stardust accelerated into emptiness: scoring its surface with wounds of silver color, like lightning frozen an instant too soon; made blemishes, blots of transparent refulgence adhered to the back of his closed eyes.


    There in that warping emptiness, void of all empirical characteristics, the sound ordered itself into chambers, gave itself form where before only the rippling reflection of all things seen inhabited. They fell into place, interweaved with the abyss inside, circling it, making it their mask: a new plane of humming, perhaps the last? He began to cobble the chambers together, until he heard the singsong chime shoot from under his taste and backwards from his corneas.


    Language.


    It multiplied violently, into thousands of possible chamberings, ready to gain volume in sound.


    Yet, though birthed, language was still primitive, incipient, embryonic, he was still a babe; with not enough matter in his body so as to clearly expel his soul.


    Yes, something impeded such a brilliant display¡­ perhaps only a single utterance would suffice? Enough for language to take shape.


    ¡°Ma¡­ mama¡­¡±


    Marenisse was left wide eyed.


    Alphonse, sitting next to her, was stunned.


    The child¡¯s misty blue irises, speckled with flakes of pale green, fixed themselves expectantly on the woman as he lightly swung his arms. Seemingly wanting to reach out to her, he lightly grabbed a tuft of sunlit copper-red hair.


    ¡°Mam¡­ mama¡­¡±


    His mother, leaving her stupor, gave a hearty laugh, smiling wide.


    ¡°Yes He¨­s, I¡¯m your mama¡­¡±


    ¡°A word at what, six months¡­? It is not so strange¡­¡± The king, still deep in his thoughts, muttered.


    ¡°And this is your papa¡­ Papa¡± She brought the child closer to the sitting man, whose eyes focused on something, bubbling in his mind.


    ¡°P-Pa¡­ Papa¡­¡±


    Alphonse returned his sight to the child, and both him and Marenisse went silent in surprise.


    He picked up the child, silk trailing onto the edge of the bed.


    As the babe reached out to touch his father, the man looked at him straight in the eye, marveled, by not only its words, but by the newborn¡¯s clear, recognizing gaze, made all the more brilliant by the streaming sunlight.


    ¡°It¡¯s me, He¨­s, I¡¯m your father. Hello, it is nice to meet you.¡±


    ¡°Fa¡­ Fada¡­¡±


    Once again, the child¡¯s words amazed them, the surprise did not abate. The king felt particularly strange. Comparing the young prince to the other princes and princesses, a strange ambivalence took him: dazed pride and an ever-slight drop of worry. His own childhood seemed even clearer, reflected in the newborn babe¡¯s eyes. However, with him present, and indifferent to his child¡¯s strangeness¡­ Alphonse sighed, a slight smile curving his lips.


    Marenisse laughed.


    ¡°Ha! Why do you talk to him like that? Besides, he already knew you¡­¡± The woman received the child in her arms. ¡°Isn¡¯t your father silly?¡±


    ¡°Illy¡­ Fada¡­¡±


    ¡°Yes, he¡¯s silly. Haha!¡± A brilliant ocher-red deluge of shinning hair enveloped the babe as his mother kissed its cheek. ¡°Aren¡¯t you cute, He¨­s?¡±


    ¡°Eos¡­ Eos¡­¡±


    And so, they continued in this manner, back and forth, the king and third queen consort still as marveled, but growing accustomed to the child¡¯s constant speech.


    Then, the babe extended his stubby hands, as if pointing above, reaching for something unseen by both parents.


    ¡°What is it He¨­s?¡± The woman asked out loud.


    ¡°Hmm¡­¡± Alphonse simply hummed, holding his chin as he watched.


    It went unseen for both, however, the immense swan, coiled as a phantom around the child, ruffled its feathers and nestled its head on the babe¡¯s hands. It would seem comical to whoever could see the strange creature; how it gently smothered a child no bigger than its head, acting like a needy cat.


    ¡°Wah¡­ Buh¡­¡±


    The prince cooed as he embraced the swan, its feathers tickling him, making him laugh. To the parents the newborn seemed to lightly swing his hands, giggling at something only he understood.


    *


    Alphonse had managed to burden the council with his responsibilities in Royal Affairs. Using various excuses; mostly a sudden, strange, and recurring nebulous event that required his presence outside of the cathedral, vaguely related to the youngest prince and Marenisse¡¯s delicate state after birth ¡ªan unrepentant lie.


    He grew more and more interested in his child; to the point where kingly duties, already a bothersome and drab affair, turned even drearier. The prince¡¯s strange rate of learning, his oddly intelligent gaze, how the babe seemed to randomly become enamored and swing his arms by cause of something¡­ a thing he could not seem to puzzle out. It caused in him the emotions of a father; feelings absent when dealing with all his other children.


    Already a year old, He¨­s toured the villa¡¯s gardens in Alphonse arms, as Marenisse walked beside them.


    This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    ¡°Papa, what is that?¡± A light, childish voice asked as a stubby arm pointed towards a flower.


    ¡°That¡¯s a chrysanthemum He¨­s. Do you like it?¡±


    ¡°Yes¡­¡± with a sudden movement, the child pointed to another. ¡°And that?¡±


    ¡°Those are anemones.¡±


    ¡°Ane¡­ ame¡­ amemonies¡­ anemonies.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s right He¨­s, aren¡¯t you the cutest!¡± Marenisse exclaimed with a smile as she hugged the prince, taking him from his father¡¯s arms.


    ¡°Mama who is that?¡±


    ¡°Hmm¡­¡± The young mother looked ahead, seeing nothing where the child pointed his hand. ¡°Where, He¨­s?¡±


    ¡°There¡­¡± He insisted.


    ¡°Maybe he saw a guard through the shrubs?¡± Alphonse asked.


    ¡°No, papa, there¡­¡± The child reiterated.


    His parents could not see how, before them, a slight distance down the garden road, two men stood, looking inquisitively.


    One, old, sagely and snow-bearded, in tempestuous blue robes, muttered to the other.


    ¡°How disturbing, he can already see us.¡±


    ¡°Yes¡­¡± The other, middle aged, dressed as any other in the capital, answered.


    Although not much was of note, two things did seem out of place on the man. For one, the common dress-coat gentlemen used in Hygeia was strangely loose on his frail body. The other¡­ his left eye was a pearly pure-white.


    ¡°K¨¥l¨¡j¨­ [Hide]¡± The older man intoned.


    He coughed once, a sputtering of blood brightly coloring his lips. His nose bled and his eyes reddened from pressure.


    The family became dazed for an instant, as the last moments they occupied turned to vapor and dreams. They recovered, and kept walking, forgetting what it was the child had asked. He¨­s himself was slightly confused, still. He could not properly recall what he had seen; the memory of the sight or the question, both concealed in some abyss. Then, even his confusion vanished, flickering away.


    ¡°Hoh¡­ I do not believe it¡­ You, coughing blood after an incantation?¡± The half-blind man asked, smoldering concern in his voice.


    ¡°Both the father and the child have true names¡­ and I overextended the sphere¡­¡± The bearded sage stated. Cleaning the blood off his nose and lips with a handkerchief the other mage had handed him. ¡°And that¡­ it offered some defense, attempting to dissolve the command.¡± He pointed to a man-sized swan, floating, coiled around the prince.


    The bird eyed the two men with apprehension, expressive, for an animal.


    ¡°A soul-bounded familiar¡­?¡± The thin man asked, not expecting an answer. ¡°Strange¡­ But how? If soul-bounded it must be symbolic¡­¡±


    ¡°Who knows what the beast is? Hasty assumptions are meaningless.¡± The sage added, handing back the bloodied handkerchief.


    ¡°Will you not use an incantation on the swan?¡±


    ¡°No. I doubt I could affect it¡­¡±


    ¡°Ha¡­ all the more vexing.¡± The half-blind mage then questioned; an eyebrow raised. ¡°It is also strange for you, ever the hermit, to be surveilling prospects¡­¡±


    ¡°A¡­ favor? I was a faerian, as you know, and, although no vow was made, I did consign myself to a rather inconsequential¡­¡± He stopped at lack for a word. ¡°Well, I really know not what to call it.¡±


    ¡°So¡­?¡±


    ¡°If the boy wishes I¡¯ll teach him.¡±


    ¡°As student, apprentice, or¡­?¡±


    Even concealed by the sage¡¯s ever-present expression of remembrance, as if meditating, an undecipherable emotion projected forward from his snow-covered eyes.


    ¡°Death¡¯ll not claim me, yet¡­ Interest, it is interest, most likely, I am doing as I please, really. The ¡°favor¡± is naught but an excuse, carefully prepared beforehand.¡±


    ¡°You lie, you¡¯d do it regardless, excuse or not, ha!¡±


    They watched as the family disappeared, gradually, into flower shrubs and fruit trees; made a mosaic of verdant greens and light, brushed with the color of autumn flowers.


    ¡°Hm. Call it a pastime, perhaps?¡±


    ¡°You would call the taking on of an apprentice with clear Geist a pastime?¡±


    ¡°Why not?¡±


    ¡°And what of the Comitatus? When the issue of you taking on an apprentice inevitably reaches us, have no doubt, it¡¯ll be opposed.¡±


    ¡°Since when did the Comitatus regulate the taking and teaching of apprentices?¡± The old sage asked, slight disdain creeping into his otherwise grey tone.


    ¡°Don¡¯t act the fool, we don¡¯t¡­ You know it is merely an¡­isolated case, because of you.¡±


    ¡°Hm! And I brought you sightseeing because I wanted to catch up, you think?¡±


    The middle-aged man ran his hands through his face, exasperation evident.


    ¡°So¡­ You want to convince me? convince them? No¡­ make a case?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll teach him, even opposed by the Comitatus. However, there will be retaliation. Since killing me is absurd, they¡¯ll take it out on the prince; it would not surprise me if, due to inexplicable circumstance, he disappears or tragically dies in some unfortunate accident.¡±


    ¡°We would not infringe on your bottom line so brazenly, but yes¡­ we would seek redress; the prince would be¡­ well, I dislike the word sabotaged; there would be obstruction¡­ some measures put in place.¡± He declared. Then, after clearing the corners of his eyes, continued. ¡°Some would do it out of spite, honestly. Others out of genuine concern, like me¡­ Frankly, seeing the kid, I can think of many, many others under who¡¯s tutelage he¡¯d be better off. No offense to your competence, of course. You understand my worries, right?¡±


    ¡°Yes, but I care not for them.¡±


    ¡°¡­Is this how you aim to persuade me?¡± The half-blind gentleman showed clear disbelief.


    ¡°No amount of pleading, nor rhetorical¡­ flourish, would convince the apes you call peers to not hinder my would-be-apprentice. So, you were, hmm¡­ partially correct. Let it be transactional, I¡¯ll even subject myself to a vow.¡± His eyes turned to the half-blind mage, sharpening as he spoke. ¡°I am in possession of a desidere. which would be transferred into the custody of the Comitatus ¡ªas a donation¡ª if it were to end any needless hostility toward me, and my apprentice, by extension.¡±


    Immediate curiosity sprang on the other man¡¯s face, even a hint of fright, all simmering in slight suspicion.


    ¡°Really...? And you know of its function?¡±


    The sage did not respond. The corners of his mouth, dressed in snow white hair, rose, ever so slightly.


    ¡°That is certainly much better than any argument¡­ well, it is, in a way, an argument¡­¡± The man muttered.


    ¡°Your role would be to present the proposal, pitch it to the eleven simians. Help lodge it in their minds. Act the mediator.¡±


    ¡°I could do that¡­ Nevertheless, we would not receive it blindly, and a vow to confirm the legitimacy of whatever function you claim it has will not be enough. What dimwit trusts a galdr with vows?¡±


    ¡°Hah! Twist your brains however much you like¡­¡±


    ¡°Also¡­ your willingness to sacrifice a desidere for this child will raise questions. No mere flight of fancy, is it?¡± His eyes narrowed as he looked at the old mage, aiming to pierce their edge through the sage¡¯s indifferent mask.


    ¡°It is also to get your lot off my back¡­ a kind grandpa like meself being accosted by these miscreants? Tsk, tsk¡­¡± The clicking was carried further by a shake of his head. The tone was pure disappointment, weary, like a lament, though feigned.


    ¡°Stop it with the pitiful act¡­ I can¡¯t convene the peers just to make myself some jester, dancing before them with some vague proposal¡­ What¡ª¡±


    The old man produced a small, leather-bound notebook from his swirling sleeves.


    ¡°Here, my notes on the thing, just give them back, yes?¡±


    The half-blind mage took it, placing it under his coat.


    ¡°Hm¡­ And what if the boy refuses?¡±


    ¡°Then you get nothing, Heh.¡± A clear mocking laugh flowed from his lips. ¡°No deal."


    ¡°Yes, yes¡­ well, anything else? If not, let¡¯s go, my knees ache from standing.¡±


    ¡°Youngsters these days¡­


    Rebh¨¡ [Leap]


    Totr¨¥d [Towards there].¡±


    Both men disappeared with the last syllable¡¯s ring.


    *


    Roderin lamented.


    ¡®Is it still too late to back out?¡¯ He wondered, his mind racing, as he walked through the Asphodeli. Envisioning endless scenarios; the reactions of the ministers as he appeared to take Bass¨¢th¡¯s post, Bassath, himself, wide eyed¡­ Or perhaps filled with ire, screaming, or pleading¡­ no, that did not seem to be his temperament, of course, if was not as if he knew the man.


    Once again, Alphonse led him by the nose, asking for him to arrive at Royal Affairs, asking for his trust; it was supposedly important to replace the minister in such a theatrical, humiliating way.


    Roderin advised him, as always, to maintain caution. A move like this would anger the nobility, by way of replacing one of their assets, one of their two representatives in Royal Affairs. Ousting him with someone who would not push their interests, a baronet, someone close to the king, as he had himself displayed in front of half the city¡ª a slight exaggeration.


    Though no longer militarily relevant, nobility still held economic influence, a top the legitimacy of blood and history. Against a merchant class of increasing strength, rallying support in academia, public opinion and a discontent plebeian class, strong ties with the blue-bloods would be of paramount importance.


    In fact, the more he thought about it, the more anxious and exasperated he became; what was Alphonse thinking? What was he himself thinking, agreeing to such an absurd suggestion? ¡®Become minister, Bah!¡¯ Had he been mad at that moment, drugged, perhaps?


    If not for the immense trust Roderin held in Alphonse he would have left the Kingdom, perhaps take refuge in Maritima? They had grand institutions for archeology, and of course, it was somewhere where this mad king and his kingdom¡¯s fall would have no effect on him¡­ It was merely the nerves making him rave about in his own head, surely. There was a plan at place, he knew Alphonse enough to trust that it was so. If lucky he would have to do next to nothing; stand and watch, survive the awkwardness and then sit¡­


    Suddenly ejected from his bubbling mind Roderin turned to see a theater house, empty at this time of day since no play was abound inside ¡ªa stark contrast to the bustling street. Stepping by its side into an alley and knocking on a maintenance door, carefully, in the rhythm Alphonse had shown him, produced a man¡¯s voice, gravely and low, disinterested, which asked.


    ¡°Hmm? Sorry, were closed at the moment, did you not see the front doors?¡±


    ¡°I am an actor; I¡¯ve come for the play.¡±


    ¡°And what do you play?¡±


    ¡°The friar.¡±


    ¡°And how do you aim to reach the stage?¡±


    ¡°By coursing under the city¡¯s alabaster¡±


    The door opened with a *clanck* and some creaking.


    ¡®Hopefully I won¡¯t have to do this every time there¡¯s a meeting.¡¯


    Inside, a dusty backstage, with low lighting, enveloped him. The man, an oil lantern in hand, appeared to be middle-aged, and looked as if he had been living in the dark his whole life.


    ¡°Follow me.¡± He muttered in a rusty tone.


    Halfway up some stairs ¡ªwhere they led, he did not know¡ª the man knocked on the wall to his right, and a panel of wood was pushed back, slightly, as if falling apart. He placed his hands on it, flat, casting aside his lantern for a moment, and pulled back, slowly revealing a hallway.


    He had to half-crawl to get inside, and then, once the panel was again in place, walk for some minutes, in silence and low light, which he spent overthinking while dusting his clothes. Then, from a point onwards, the walls turned to brilliant white stone, gleaming under the lamplight, the corridor growing wider.


    Reaching the end a stone door greeted them, opened with some difficulty by the man, who then talked.


    ¡°Please¡­¡± He lowly gurgled, bowing towards the door.


    ¡°Thank you¡­¡±


    Behind it was a room, one of the secret rooms he had seen in the Cathedral. Once closed, the door behind him seemed indistinguishable from the rest of the cold, shiny stone. Leaving the place, he found himself in some corridor, sunlight streaming through the immense windows, ahead, what looked to be a servant, no, an attendant? a man dressed formally, trotted towards him.


    ¡°Minister de Lamartine, welcome, I hope the walk here wasn¡¯t too uncomfortable.¡±


    ¡°No¡­ It was ok¡­¡±


    ¡°My name is Samuel Musnier, I shall be your attendant for matters related to Royal Affairs.¡±


    ¡°A pleasure¡­ I hope we can work well together.¡± He answered back, cordially.


    ¡°Certainly. If you could follow me.¡±


    Past the altar, the mosaics and the murals, the immense ceiling and adornments, the figures carved into the cathedral¡¯s insides ¡ªlike men of stone clawing, freeing their bodies from the walls¡ª, Alexandre IX¡¯s grand depiction, the vestry and some doors, a double wide entrance of carved marble, gold detailing and aged bronze, received them. Above its glorious, though time-marred jaws, something was carved in alabaster, now unreadable. The angular script barely visible, its edges blended into the stone, its form, almost, lost to time. He could not make out the language.


    The use of angular script made it, most likely, continental in origin¡­ however, considering the sorry state of the inscription he started to doubt whether it even was angular script. It should not be too old, or at least he presumed it so¡­ after all, bronze could green with just a decade or so. The part where he stood could have been older than the unveiling at the Elysian-Hygeian Exhibition, older than the cathedral¡­ even then¡­ he could not remember if the Werners¡¯ had built anything on their hygeian lands before Anastasia¡¯s efforts. Perhaps gardens¡­? Then had this been a sort of gazebo or small hall? He could check in the Vanus¡¯s registry, its archives¡­ Even stranger, why was the engraving in alabaster and not in marble? Like what the rest of the structure was built out of. If it was part of the design of the cathedral then it had not been built so long ago that the engraving would fade, in fact, could engraving in alabaster even fade? Only erosion ¡ªprolonged and unprotected exposure to the elements¡ª would do such a thing, no? Was he to believe that this structure had passed enough time in such conditions before it was even incorporated into the Cathedral¡äs project? It also bothered him how, before, he had acquired, during a certain expedition, pieces of alabaster, statuettes, exposed to the elements, of, at least, three centuries in age, which did not present any comparable amount of erosion, just a small shearing of their forms. So, how long of a time must have passed for the inscription to erase¡­? Ruins and structures of such age once built in Hygeia had already been catalogued and studied, this would be a new discovery¡­ Although, considering the nature of the place in question, open study would be¡­ difficult.


    Then, it occurred to him¡­ could someone have simply ¡°polished¡± the alabaster, seeking to erase the inscription¡­? That was a much, much, simpler answer¡­ But so boring, wasn¡¯t it? What would be the point of doing that? Polishing off whatever had been written here.


    ¡®Aaah¡­¡± Roderin could only sigh internally.


    Trying to divine what it was that had been carved above the doors ¡ªand for how long it had been standing in this place¡ª he did not notice how, for some time now, his attendant had stopped in front of the structure, silent, most likely waiting for someone.


    It was Alphonse¡¯s voice what woke him.


    ¡°Minister de Lamartine. What a pleasant coincidence¡­ Arriving at the same time.¡±


    ¡°Huh¡­? Oh, Alphonse¡­¡± He turned to see his friend; then, asked lightly, almost as if directing the question inwards. ¡°Alphonse, do you, by any chance, know what was carved¡­ there?¡± He pointed, still slightly entranced.


    ¡°No¡­¡± The king responded, finding the question strange. Where he would expect a laugh, or response with the aim of easing tension, his friend had asked him about a fading inscription crowning the entrance to Royal Affairs. ¡®An archeologist, of course...¡¯


    ¡°I see¡­¡±


    ¡°Well, ready?¡± The king asked. Speaking without a breath, as to allow no answer, he immediately ordered. ¡°Musnier, open the doors.¡±


    The attendant merely bowed.


    Roderin remembered where he stood, anxiety creeping back into his mind.

 6 - Seen/Scene Pt. II

    The bronze doors were quite good at isolating sound, as he, from outside, had not heard the chattering abound inside the stone room.


    All ministers sat in luxurious seats ¡ªsurrounded by their attendants¡ª, though in front of a large and austere stone table, which appeared to have been carved up and out of the ground itself, as if melded into the plain stone floor. Rough human shapes and unintelligible scenes decorated it. Dossiers, dipping pens, ink, plain paper, among other implements, lay strewn about a top of it, accompanying the minister¡¯s elbows and speculating hands.


    The room ¡ªlarge, but not overbearing so¡ª, was built in the same stone motif, and carved with similarly indistinct scenes and forms. However, as an act of propriety, aesthetics and proper decoration, its simple stone skin had been covered in paintings; portraits of important ministers at one side, kings on the other, among luxurious aromatic wood tables, with trinkets and symbolic objets de vertu, which, surely, held some historic significance to Royal Affairs.


    Surprisingly, the strange room was not lit by lanterns or candles, but by dimmed sunlight, which dripped into the space via some¡­ windows? Rectangular panes of opaque and frosted opal-like glass, which made it impossible to see the scenery outside. He thought for a second, but was unable to figure out how the room was kept ventilated.


    It was, in short, a strange place. An eerie fog covered by the sensibilities of the dying century. And, as they entered, the chattering died down, ceasing the half a second long reprieve he had felt from the dull tinnitus, still accosting him.


    When he looked inside, he noticed, immediately, as among all ministers was one ¡ªsmoke bellowing from a pipe rested between his lips¡ª, who sat alone, with no attendant by his side. A pensive look creasing his brows, and rosy skin coloring his round face. Recognition immediately flashed in his mind; this was Otto Alle Bass¨¢th. However, his wasn¡¯t the only face he recognized ¡ªAlphonse had partially briefed him on some of the ministers. Not all, however, as he insisted on Roderin learning in exposure to Royal Affairs, and not by word of mouth. The old First Minister, Alistair Lanthym, was the second most recognizable of faces around the table. Because of his near lifelong tenure as first minister, serving under four kings ¡ªonly two, really¡ª and being known for his competency, craftiness and loyalty to the kingdom, the name was commonplace among discussions of the crown¡¯s politics, its innerworkings and the like. Known to be respected by most quarters of public opinion and hated the least out of the king¡¯s circle by radicals, Roderin discerned the man after Bass¨¢th. Although he had not known of his appearance ¡ªperhaps he had seen him in some public event as a child?¡ª his eyeing of the ministers during the Fylassein Fatae made the man¡¯s features somewhat clear, compounded with the fact he was the only grey headed minister among Affairs, his nervous eyes had darted to him after Bass¨¢th. There was also a youthful visage, which made itself shine among the sedate middle-aged ministers and the veteran Alistair, a recent addition, ushered in only a couple of years ago: Aur¨¨le Andre Hulme, Minister of Finance, a graduate of Vanus, as was he himself.


    ¡®From the department of Mathematics, was he? Or Mercantile Sciences and Chrematistics¡­?¡¯ He had thought when conversing with Alphonse; and, was sure, he swore, had seen Hulme in Vanus¡¯ corridors years ago; a tad clearer than the foggy memory of one of Alistair¡¯s ¡ªperhaps fictitious¡ª public appearances. As for the others¡­


    A balding man with a disinterested glare, dressed as if adorning himself for the king¡¯s court were an unbearable punishment. Black hair ¡ªand oddity this far north in the continent¡ª was his most distinctive feature.


    Another, trimmed impeccably in all aspects, and dressed in evidently expensive couture ¡ªalthough not gaudy, but in extremely good taste¡ª grazed the first years of forty with dignity. Auburn locks and emerald green eyes perfectly adorned his handsome face.


    Opposite to him sat a stern and bearded officer ¡ªif the uniform were to be believed. Mindlessly occupying his hands with a pen as he fixated on the chamber¡¯s ceiling; perhaps enamored by some ornate pattern?


    And, finally, a wide-eyed and intellectual type, looked at his king appearing, suddenly, with a newcomer in tow, attempting to puzzle out in his mind what the surprise entailed.


    Roderin could only unfreeze his steps as he crossed the room¡¯s threshold. Sight lightly grazing all those present. He stood behind Alphonse as his friend strode in ¡ªclear hauteur in his walk¡ª, calmly addressing the ministers.


    ¡°Gentlement.¡±


    A chorus of Your Majesty¡¯s reached the King as Affairs stood respectfully.


    A strand of confusion was made clear on Bass¨¢th¡¯s brow as he greeted Alphonse, and recognized his attendant, Musnier, trailing obediently behind¡­ the academic? What was his name¡­ Rodric? Robin? Roland¡­? An utterly stupefied expression must have registered on his face as he¡­


    The dots connected and everything was made clear¡­ The Fylassein Fatae, the unknown, random Baronet walking by ¡°His Majesty¡¯s¡± side, Musnier arriving late¡­


    Had it been obvious to all those present? The realization¡­ His face went chromatic, blinking and flashing between a wave of differing emotions, condensed in a palette of expressions, flowering in the span of a breath.


    He attempted to center himself, cease the evident outpouring of disbelief and irritation. How dare they plot against him in this manner?


    His countenance had shifted into something else¡­ similar to smoldering anger and resignation, so as to not dig a deeper pit. And, as he fell into this muted outrage, Alphonse¡¯s voice addressed him.


    ¡°Huh? Viscount Bassath¡­¡±


    ¡°Yes, your Majesty?¡± He responded, managing to make the words heard between grinding teeth.


    ¡°Why are¡­You must have¡­ not received the decree¡­? Hah¡­¡± Alphonse showed great regret, shaking his head as he held his brows. ¡°First Minister Lanthym, did you inform Viscount Bass¨¢th¡¯s household?¡±


    ¡°Yes, your Majesty. Although I did not carry out the enrollment or registry in person, the decree was made evident to the Bass¨¢th Household, of that I am certain.¡± The old minister assured, adjusting his pince-nez. ¡°I did not wish to breach propriety and question the Viscount on his appearance for today¡¯s convening of Affairs¡­ His behavior was most vexing¡­ arriving at the cathedral¡­ I now see¡­¡±


    ¡®Did not desire to breach propriety? Bullshit! This old fuck was in on it¡­ He just so happened to know this nameless Baronet? Hah! And what about the cathedral servants, and the rats and doorkeepers? Not one could be deigned to inform me or block my path?¡¯ The now snuffed pipe creaked in his clenched hand, as ash scattered onto his palm, although the pain did not register.


    ¡°Oh dear¡­ How regrettable.¡± The King tapped an outstretched thumb on his forehead, as if to emphasize the cumbersome nature of his thoughts.


    ¡°I ask for your pardon, gentlemen, I was not aware of my¡­ deposition¡­ as it were¡­¡±


    The ministers warmly muttered this or the other, halfheartedly attempting to alleviate some of the tension. The attendants remained silent.


    One, the handsome green-eye took a tone most curious, a mix of empathy and assurance, almost undetectably hollow.


    ¡°Worry not, Viscount Bass¨¢th. As unfortunate as it is¡­ mixups of this nature do happen. It is not something of importance.¡± The beau ended his spiel with a slight smile.


    Bass¨¢th adjusted his collar and walked forward, as if the mans¡¯s words and the minister¡¯s reassurance were smoke, vapor which flowed right through him and disappeared, as if he were not really there. The initial moment-long outrage had settled, now, with indifference as his shield, he simmered his emotions. Although his political career was most likely over, the Bass¨¢th household would manage, he knew¡ª


    ¡°Ah, yes! Viscount Bass¨¢th, it would be most improper to ask you to return unaccompanied. Allow attendant Musnier to follow behind¡­¡± Alphonse suggested, although under the present circumstances it was more than anything a heavily masked order.


    ¡°If his Majesty recommends so¡­¡±


    ¡®Does he intend to humiliate me further? Parade me around with Musnier? As to say ¡°Look! A dog by the leash that was once his own?¡¯¡±


    Bass¨¢th¡¯s teeth clenched imperceptibly, even if his molars could burst from the pressure.


    Musnier bowed, opting for silence, tailing Bass¨¢th as they left the chamber.


    As the attendant posed himself to close the doors, Alphonse opted to remind the former minister.


    ¡°Viscount, remember to carefully read the decree once back at your state.¡±


    The last thing Bass¨¢th saw was the King¡¯s radiant smile, as all was obscured behind the bronze doors.


    Then, inside, as he clapped to take back the chamber¡äs attention, Alphonse emboldened his tone, now jovial.


    ¡°Well then, gentlemen¡­¡±


    *


    ¡°Was such petty display necessary? I believed it would be uncomfortable, yes¡­ but so¡­ juvenile a top of it?¡±


    ¡°Ha!¡± Alphonse laughed, lips unfurling from a cigarillo sent to rest in his finger¡¯s grasp. ¡°Juvenile, definitively. It was, however, very much necessary.¡±


    ¡°Really? I¡¯ve already lectured you on the ¡°act¡¯s¡± shortsightedness. I will not behave as if I were your father and numb you with another sermon.¡± Roderin sat on a smooth ivory-like stone, sighing as he rested, draping his coat even tighter around his body, wishing to escape from the encroaching autumn winds. ¡°I trust you, so I will say no more. I¡¯ve no desire to ache over it.¡±


    It was Alphonse idea, to converse after convening Royal Affairs, and to do so in one of the cathedral¡¯s secluded gardens; coves of greenery and stone, as courtyards hidden from the main Asphodeli.


    ¡°Although¡­ why must we talk outside. This wind is horrid.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re just accustomed to the heat of other continents¡­¡± Alphonse absentmindedly retorted. ¡°Nevermind that, first, speak a little on¡­ your thoughts, what was Affairs like? In your eyes.¡±


    ¡°That first stunt was rather pathetic, and nerve wracking. All else was quite appropriate for the Kingdom¡¯s heart, none of the airs of a boarding school¡¯s student corps¡­ Perhaps because the magnanimous king allowed his ministers free reign¡­?¡± Roderin added with a smile.


    ¡°Are you accusing me of besmirching the seriousness of Royal Affairs? Acting as some callow idiot?¡± Alphonse asked with a smile of his own. ¡°Why do you suppose I acted as I did? As juvenile and incomprehensible as it was¡­¡± The king allowed himself a final drag of the tobacco, after flicking its dying ashes onto the garden.


    ¡°Incomprehensible? No¡­You were unhappy with Bass¨¢th as minister¡­ unnerved about the Kingdoms future, and wanted my presence in Affairs¡­? You said so yourself.¡± Roderin questioned. ¡°And figured, in some manner foreign to me, that ousting the viscount as you did was the way in which to proceed.¡± Roderin enunciated, slight gestures from his hands marking the words.


    ¡°Let this be a lesson¡­ I was not mindless in acting as I did, nor in communicating near nothingness to you, nor in my behavior months prior to this little act.¡±


    ¡°I spare you a lecture and now you¡¯ll sermon me?¡±


    ¡°Hah!¡± Alphonse shook his head. ¡°Think of it as education¡­ You types like that, learning, no?¡±


    Roderin merely laughed.


    ¡°You took my words as they were, partly because we are close, and you trust me. Having a good idea of my temperament and, seeing this recklessness ¡ªwhich so comfortably adjusted to the idea of me you have in mind¡ª, you though to search no further, merely pester me for answers half in jest.¡±


    Lamartine straightened lightly, noting Alphonse¡¯s tone, tinged in seriousness.


    ¡°If you are so vain in matters relating to your closest friend, how wrong could you be when¡­ musing about the motivations of others? total strangers or cunning politicians¡­ even the impulsions of a simpleton would evade you.¡±


    ¡°Vain? Do you really believe this tirade is necessary?¡± Roderin asked, genuinely vexed by his friend¡äs change in demeanor.


    ¡°It is, because I¡¯m trying to impart a lesson. Please, don¡¯t think me overbearing.¡± Alphonse gesticulated with a swing of his hands. ¡°First, what friend, and what king, would I be if I threw a na?ve and hapless, green minister into the jaws of the kingdom¡äs aristocracy, forget the continent¡¯s¡­¡±


    ¡°Then¡­?¡±


    ¡°I wished to install you onto Affairs since we came back from the Suritine. It was not because you are some mastermind silver tongue, but because of trust. Not that you are some incompetent either¡­¡± The king ran his fingers through his hair. ¡°You are no idiot Roderin, just because you have, had, no reason to seriously deliberate about whatever happens in the heads of others does not mean you cannot become apt at it.¡±


    ¡°Well¡­¡±


    ¡°Now, let¡¯s cut to it. Why do you really think I acted in the manner I did?¡±


    ¡°I¡­ I don¡¯t know¡­¡± Lamartine accepted his friend¡¯s explanation, attempting to figure out the riddle. ¡°I don¡¯t have enough information.¡±


    Alphonse smiled.


    ¡°You know next to nothing. You had only vague promises and a knowledge of king Alphonse XVI¡¯s personality outside of his role as king.¡± As his lecturer tilted forward, he asked. ¡°And what about the others? Bass¨¢th, Alistair¡­¡±


    ¡°The¡­ papers? I had never met them in person. They are notable figures for the kingdom but, other than that¡­¡± A small glimmer of realization shone in Roderin¡¯s eyes.


    ¡°Yes, yes. You are a complete outsider, to all mechanics and motivations running about in Affairs, you barely knew of the minister¡¯s faces, much less how they truly are. And, is this not the common position of the diplomat? You are my friend and yet were a complete outsider to my behavior and reasons in this trivial plot, completely disengaged with the delicate web of this Kingdom¡¯s politics ¡ªbeside that which gets blabbered about behind a cup of coffee and a copy of that day¡¯s paper.¡± The king smiled as if bringing together the ends of a beautiful story. ¡°And yet, did you not agonize about this and that? ¡°Alphonse, what would the Aristocrats think? their asset kicked off Affairs in such an idiotic way. What about the merchants? the noble¡¯s political power¡­?¡± this and that and blah blah blah.¡± Alphonse laughed, causing Roderin to tense a smile.


    ¡°Oi¡­¡±


    ¡°Sorry, sorry.¡± His friend stifled his laughs. ¡°You advised me for so long, and I appreciate the sentiment, on something you had no idea about.¡±


    Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    The archeologist took on a serious face.


    ¡°Okay, okay.¡±


    ¡°Think of this as a bit of vengeance, for all those times you insisted on talking politics.¡± Alphonse waved his hand. ¡°Well, the crucial, the key, is this¡­ Bass¨¢th was embezzling funds and involving himself in, underhanded deals, so as to improve the station of his household.¡±


    Lamartine¡¯s eyes widened in surprise.


    ¡°So¡­¡±


    ¡°See? a completely different outlook now that you have information. Although my way of handling it may still seem childish and improper.¡± The king pulled out another cigarillo from his coat, lighting it as he spoke. ¡°The information came to me via an¡­ incumbent investigation, from an expedited and secretive sovereign chamber, in direct collaboration with the chancellor and Hi¨¦ron. That is the story, at least¡­. In truth, it was mentioned to me by the chancellor himself, as he asked me to collaborate in deposing Bass¨¢th.¡± Alphonse took advantage of this silence to inhale another lungful of smoke.


    ¡°Is that¡­?¡± The image of the handsome, green eyed minister ¡ªCamille Charles d¡¯Ruissaumbe, as he now knew¡ª flashed in his mind. Particularly the imperceptibly goading tone his voice took when ¡°comforting¡± Bass¨¢th. ¡°I was completely wrong then¡­¡±


    ¡°That you were¡­¡± The king smiled as he ashed the cigarillo, returning to his lesson. ¡°As you know, the Nobility has two assets in Affairs, well, had¡­ Bass¨¢th and¡­¡± He pointed to his friend with the smouldering tobacco.


    ¡°d¡¯Ruissaumbe¡­ But... yes, that is the case¡­ However, even if corrupt why would Camille play Bass¨¢th, getting him booted off the council? Embezzler or not he is still of benefit to his camp¡­ Unless¡­¡± Roderin became instantly aware, as he pronounced those last words, of what would motivate d¡¯Ruissaumbe, as representative of the nobility, to plot with Alphonse to remove Bass¨¢th.


    ¡°Yes, unless his dealings had started to encroach on the nobility, and, acting as a¡­ wild agent, he stopped being their mindless pawn.¡± Another puff of smoke punctuated his words. ¡°Now, you must ask¡­¡±


    ¡°You had not, yet, punished, or¡­ persecuted Bass¨¢th for embezzling, so, if d¡¯Ruissaumbe told you that he had, in interest, the deposition of the Viscount, wouldn¡¯t you just use this to pull him to your camp? Informing him that the noblesse had abandoned him?¡±


    ¡°Now, go back to thinking as you did for a moment... If I gained a loyalist in Bass¨¢th.¡± Alphonse could not hold in his laugh at the prospect. ¡°The balance in Affairs would be¡­ destroyed.¡± He paused. ¡°The noblesse¡¯s intent was not simply to eject Bass¨¢th off the council, but to maintain the status quo. As you may know, or not, I hold two seats firmly in my grasp, the Hi¨¦ron and the army, both occupied by loyalists.¡±


    The gloomy black-haired man, dully dressed: Raoul de La Rosa ¡ªand the stern officer, Adalwin Hessiah et Visurgis, now filled the space in his mind, beside Bass¨¢th and d¡¯Ruissaumbe, firmly seated in Alphonse¡¯s corner. This revelation had borne in him another question, which he kept close as the king¡¯s lecture continued.


    ¡°Ignoring the fact that Bass¨¢th had demonstrated to hold no strong allegiances, and that he had irritated, insulted, even, both camps with his corruption, I could have persuaded him, however, then the noblesse would have truly lost an asset. Their hold on Affairs would weaken, and I could reign free, except¡­¡±


    Roderin interjected.


    ¡°The kingdom is not Affairs.¡±


    ¡°Correct. Don¡¯t grow blindsided, focusing too much on petty things like Affairs.¡± Another cloud of aromatic smoke blew into the autumn wind. ¡°The noblesse can make my life hell outside of the council, they¡¯re no mere figureheads. It is better for both ¡ªthem and I¡ª if we remain at a balance of impasses. If both camps are adequately represented. We are no enemies, either way, for us to so boldly antagonize each other¡­ The unimpeded Maximalism of my great-grandfather¡¯s reign, the access of newer families into nobility, the¡­ rearing of Neue Noblesse, loyal only to the king, into positions of power¡­ It has made them uneasy, greatly uneasy, led them to plot over trivial matters, as these¡­ However, the crown and the nobility are allies, now and always.¡± The king grew silent, contemplation drowning his eyes.


    Another strange inconsistency arose in him, a quandary, which added onto the previous enigma, led him to ask, taking the sudden silence as an opportunity.


    ¡°You say Affairs is in balance, but is there not another loyalist occupying a seat? Lanthym. He¡¯s known for being¡­¡± Roderin interrupted himself. ¡°Well, he¡¯s known, in the papers, in public opinion, for being a grand loyalist, a royalist. How is the situation, really? And how would the noblesse allow you to seat an ally of your own, one so close to you as myself, in Bass¨¢th¡¯s seat if they simply desire a return to a stalemate¡­ To¡­ play with a pawn? As you said.¡±


    ¡°Good, that is what you should ask yourself¡­¡± Once again, a cigarillo met its end, turned to ashes, poured off onto the garden¡¯s greenery. ¡°Lanthym has been in Affairs the longest out of anyone, and in his time has had the ability to build up a certain image. A servant of the kingdom, not of the king¡­ see? From the perspective of the masses, Lanthym is exemplary, and a royalist¡­ he has, however, played the part of the kingdom¡¯s servant, opposing both the noblesse and the reb-blooded, juvenile, warmongering king ¡ªwhen necessary¡ª, behind the doors of Royal Affairs. He has cultivated this superior, grandeur of political virtue, making him a neutral player¡­ which is why, inexplicably so to the ignorant eyes of public opinion, the nobility tolerates a majority loyalist Affairs¡­ When I plotted with d¡¯Ruissaumbe ¡ªwell, to call it a plot¡­ we really just agreed to depose Bass¨¢th¡­ When I conversed with d¡¯Ruissaumbe, the matter of Bass¨¢th¡äs successor was a priority; which is why we decided to consult the ever-neutral Lanthym, who proposed you as a candidate¡­¡±


    Roderin made his surprise clear, disbelief bloomed in his lips.


    ¡°What¡­?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve given you enough hints, unravel the rest. First, answer this: why didn¡¯t we actually summon Bass¨¢th to a tribunal?¡±


    The archeologist creased his brows, thinking profusely, for a moment.


    ¡°It would injure the noblesse¡¯s interests¡­ It would make them look corrupt. And¡­ I assume, a judicial process against a nobleman, even if one as middle-of-the-road as Bass¨¢th, is a complicated matter¡­ one you would rather avoid.¡±


    ¡°Almost. Tsk, tsk.¡± The king adjusted his coat and leaned back. ¡°It would leave no room for reconciliation. The Bass¨¢th household would resent, with nothing to lose atop of it, both the noblesse and the crown. An excluded, jaded, vengeful, affluent element, ready to betray the regime¡­Viscounts only, yes, however¡­¡± The king shrugged. ¡°it also makes Affairs, and the crown, look¡­ bad.¡±


    Turning his eyes to Roderin, he assented.


    ¡°Continue¡­¡± He pointed his hand, outstretched, toward his friend.


    ¡°God¡­ Why did Lanthym recommend me¡­?¡± He held his chin as he thought. Realization suddenly marked his gaze. ¡°Wait¡­ You said that he played the part of the mediator¡­ right?¡±


    Alphonse smiled.


    ¡°Yes¡­¡±


    ¡°Is he just pretending to be a servant of the kingdom? While being loyal to you¡­ But how would I pass off as a neutral actor¡­? Why wouldn¡¯t the noblesse just install one of their own¡­? Why ask Lanthym? Ahhhh! How bothersome¡­¡± Roderin exclaimed, half growling, holding his head.


    ¡°This will be your station from now on¡­ It is at least not boring, no? Hah!¡± The king laughed.


    ¡°Yes, yes, laugh¡­¡± The new minister rubbed his head, annoyed.


    ¡°Well? Want a hint?¡±


    ¡°Very well.¡± He sighed.


    ¡°d¡¯Ruissaumbe is an oddity, a strange man. Being a duke, his political influence is unlike Bass¨¢th¡¯s ¡ªa mere viscount, from a declining household¡ª for all his faults the man knows how to look good¡­¡±


    Roderin¡¯s eyebrow raised.


    ¡°Huh?¡±


    ¡°In a political sense.¡± Alphonse laughed. ¡°He¡¯s measured, temperate ¡ªat least in matters of state¡ª, and has a genuine desire in representing the noblesse¡¯s interests. In short, he¡¯s the perfect player for the nobility in Affairs. But he isn¡¯t a pawn, he needs no handler, so¡­¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s exceptional, is what I gather? I suppose the noblesse would find it difficult to replicate a similar¡­ uh, player? as d¡¯Ruissaumbe.¡±


    ¡°Correct, but, missing just a smidge¡­ Just like Lanthym, d¡¯Ruissaumbe has built a certain prestige: an ideal player in Affairs, flawlessly representing the noblesse. Although self-interested, he does not allow his, temperament to obstruct the nobility¡¯s benefits¡­ Why? Who knows, perhaps he understands the worth of such a niche, whereas other nobles like Bass¨¢th¡­¡±


    ¡°They don¡¯t trust each other to be as ¡°selfless¡± as d¡¯Ruissaumbe¡­ They fear whoever is chosen, or elected, will end up as Bass¨¢th¡­ corrupt and infringing on their power, yes?¡±


    ¡°Yes! Correct.¡± Alphonse half-jumped in his seat. ¡°Then, why where you, ¡°recommended¡± by Lanthym?¡±


    ¡°Wait, but, how did d¡¯Ruissaumbe even end up in Affairs then?¡±


    ¡°Scheming, although he ¡°shed¡± the image of a schemer as soon as he started magnanimously representing the noblesse.¡± The king waved his hand. ¡°Never mind that, come on¡­¡±


    ¡°I suppose¡­ they can¡ät choose among themselves, since they¡¯ll either be biased, or corrupt, pushing for individual gains instead of general benefits¡­ You choosing is absurd, so, they ask a neutral party¡­ Lanthym, who, even if acting the part of the measured, virtuous mediator, is loyal to you¡­¡±


    ¡°The royal family¡­ not me, specifically. Important detail. He understood, I gander, early on in his career, that acting as detached from the king¡¯s interest would be best for the crown, allowing royal interest to dominate Affairs in a¡­ surreptitious way, even if, superficially, it appears to be balanced between noblesse and crown.¡±


    ¡°Okay¡­ so you used Lanthym to propose me as minister¡­¡± Roderin scratched his head. ¡°I still don¡¯t understand how they believed me to not be¡­ corruptible, as Bass¨¢th, or how they even agreed for a close friend of yours to inherit the post¡­ How would I represent them?¡± The minister muttered. ¡°Absurd¡­¡±


    The king patted his coat. One hand in, he searched for something that wasn¡¯t there.


    ¡°I¡¯m out¡­¡± He absentmindedly sighed, then returned his sight to Roderin. ¡°Ah, yes¡­ Well ask yourself, who really knows? Did the ministers know you before the Fylassein?¡±


    ¡°Ah¡­ I¡¯m out of the continent most of times, and not really entrenched in politics. But, after the Surinite, and all else¡­ and constantly visiting you¡­ Am I really that unknown?¡± Roderin scratched the back of his head, laughing slightly.


    ¡°Airing the king¡¯s life to the plebe is in bad taste¡­ And the noblesse, the court? Ha! Really think, which nobles have seen you? have interacted with you? ¡ªoutside of today, of course¡­ Marenisse? Me?¡±


    ¡°My, uh¡­ Parents? My grandfather?¡±


    Alphonse laughed.


    ¡°Hah! There, you see? And as far as visiting me¡­ Do you think your king so incompetent that he would allow himself, or his visitors, surveilled? Especially when I have the Hi¨¦ron under me? Remember, also, you have visited me, always, in private spaces¡­ Although your friendship with me is no secret, and my, trusted household knows of you, I would not be so unstrategic as to subject you to the martyrdom that is being the king¡¯s friend publicly¡­ nor to reveal my cards too soon, or ever. Also, I am, simply, a private person.¡± The king smiled. ¡°As for the Suritine business¡­ it is a¡­ secret, what really happened¡­ is privy, only confided to trusted officers¡­ So, your involvement has been prettied up, a tad, and skewed so as to obfuscate your closeness to me.¡±


    ¡°You mean¡­ this has to do with how I got accepted by the noblesse?¡±


    ¡°Why gives you such an idea?¡±


    ¡°You said, ¡°prettied up¡±¡­ for whom? Who would need to see some pretty, fictitious past of mine?¡±


    ¡°Ahhh, there¡­ see, it is not so hard.¡± Alphonse adjusted in his seat, then stood to straighten himself, and stretch. ¡°Those small words, the details, glimmers of truth¡­ hold onto them and derive from there¡­ Well, it will not be as easy as now, as I¡¯m actively trying to get you to notice¡­ But, yes.¡± Sitting down, once again, the king continued. ¡°First, to be a minister you need, beyond any scheme or political power, competence¡­ to be competent, you, are, ah¡­ umh¡­ almost there¡­ I would not call it a lack of competence, rather, a lack of interest, necessity¡­ You have, even, experience¡­ you learn quickly as well¡­¡±


    ¡°So you turned the Suritine ordeal into my credentials¡­?¡±


    ¡°That and your work at Vanus, and the East-Mariannic¡­ You are prolific, at least in academics and so on¡­ Unknown in politics, however.¡±


    ¡°And that means, what? That I¡¯m in over my head, and so easily used as a pawn, but, competent enough to be useful?¡± Roderin felt slightly irritated, not because of some meaningless sense of pride, but rather because of the vortex he, unknowingly, found himself in, in great part because of his friend.


    ¡°You are, in their eyes, a sacrifice of sorts¡­ Nominally nobility, however, completely powerless. Apt for the position, and yet, easily handled¡­ Easily brought into the fold ¡ªas well¡ª, generally uninterested and, just recently, politically initiated.¡±


    ¡°And they believe, so readily, that I would do as they wish, and agreed? Why? Because of the words of an old politician?¡± Roderin asked, genuinely lost as to the noblesse¡¯s intentions.


    ¡°Once again, you act as an outsider. Perhaps you felt it, during the council, perhaps you did not¡­ Lanthym may be playing the mediator, even so, he is, still, the oldest, most veteran minister. With time he has built airs of competence, experience, foresightedness... If his recommendation were a plot ¡ªwhich it is¡ª, they, the noblesse, believe that it would not incur in heavy losses for their interests or benefits, and would maintain the delicate balance in Affairs¡­ As I said, we may squabble about petty minutia, as this, however, all in the council are allies¡­ that has become a truth, ever evident, as time eats away at this kingdom¡­¡± The King once again leaned back, closing over his coat. ¡°So, when this same minister Lanthym recommends ¡ªno, declares¡ª, a minor baronet, involved in the world of academics but otherwise uninterested in politics, and competent enough for the post, tested in the Suritine ordeal, for the position, the noblesse will go accord, betting it is in their best interests¡­¡±


    ¡°Still, why would I act as the noblesse orders me, and not as the King, who inducted me into the council, commands?¡±


    ¡°Gods¡­ I know the perception of nobles is¡­ not that of high-principled and Illustr imperials, but, do you truly believe they¡¯ll force you? Even a beast strikes out against a brutal master¡­ You will not be forced, rather, coaxed, persuaded, tempted, charmed into their camp, and it would happen so because, according to what was arranged with d¡¯Ruissaumbe during our little talk, I would not intervene, ceding control over this new piece to the noblesse¡­ It would not occur to you that you are being made to dance to another¡¯s tune, and think it is merely your own principles leading you to represent the social class your new relations, your new friends, and you yourself belong to; much in the same manner one champions their own family¡­ In fact, such an act might eventually turn to reality, as, certainly, Roderin de Lamartine would be greatly benefited, both in status and wealth, to associate with them¡­¡± Alphonse then fell silent so as to widely grin. ¡°That is¡­ if you were not an agent of mine.¡±


    ¡°An agent? Ha!¡± Roderin laughed back, then sighed. ¡°Yes, yes, what impressive planning¡­ it is still a grand headache nonetheless¡­¡±


    ¡°Not boring, not boring¡­¡±


    Both men looked at each other, and chuckled, the tenuous tension dissipating.


    The new minister then grew curious.


    ¡°Wait, then, wouldn¡¯t the Fylassein Fatae contradict your agreement with d¡¯Ruissaumbe? I know it was my suggestion, but¡­¡±


    ¡°No, Ha! In fact, it helped. It was an unexpected¡­ boon? Well¡­ It would not fit my temperament if I did not, at least, try to stake a minim of influence over the new minister.¡±


    ¡°Allowing me to name your child¡­? I would not call that a minim¡­¡±


    Cross armed, the king waved his hand.


    ¡°Suspicious¡­ it would be suspicious if I did nothing, merely sat back and allowed the noblesse free reign, even if that was what we agreed.¡± Alphonse smile widened. ¡°Men are fickle, schemers like d¡¯Ruissaumbe know this¡­ Having named my child ¡ªif you were completely unrelated to me¡ª, would be a grand, immense, spectacular honor; you would become a royalist¡­¡±


    ¡°It still is.¡± Roderin coughed.


    ¡°Nonetheless, immersed in the world of the aristocracy for the first time, with no political knowledge to speak of, and presented some idyllic idea of Affairs by both the crown, the nobles... Roderin de Lamartine would be promptly blinded from intrigue between the king and the noblesse, thinking the latter as subjects as loyal as he is; even if, before entering Affairs, he was suspicious, or critical of the nobility¡­ From there on, with honeyed words and charm, the new minister would be no more than an unwitting pawn, especially if the king deigns not intervene¡­ See it thus: The ¡°royalist¡± Lamartine would be no obstacle for the noblesse¡¯s goals¡­ would he even see himself as a piece to play against the crown in such a balancing act?¡±


    ¡°I see¡­¡± Another heavy sigh marked Roderin¡¯s words.


    ¡°In fact, wouldn¡¯t me hosting that Fylassein be more proof that you and I are not connected¡­? It is common for me, I am told, to rope in unwitting peons with such an ¡°honor¡±¡­ Well, be it what it may¡­¡± The king shivered slightly, and after sustaining a brief silence, spoke. ¡°It has gotten rather chilly hasn¡¯t it.¡±


    ¡°Yes¡­¡± The archeologist turned his sight to the dying sun, hanging in the last quarter of its arc. The breeze, now almost frigid, forced his coat closed. ¡°It was an interesting lesson¡­ You¡¯d be quite the lecturer at Vanus¡­¡±


    ¡°Hah!¡±


    ¡°What would you call it¡­? scheming and court politics? Sounds like quite the cathedra.¡±


    ¡°Hmm¡­ I¡¯d call it acting, or theater¡­¡± The king said while smiling, closing his coat as well.


    ¡°How burdensome¡­¡± Roderin muttered as he stood.


    ¡°Well let¡¯s leave then, shall we?¡±


    ¡°Yes¡­¡±


    As both men walked away from the garden, enveloped by the grand cathedral¡¯s marble, the king asked.


    ¡°Answer me one last thing¡­¡±


    ¡°Hm.¡± He nodded his head.


    ¡°What do you gleam from Bass¨¢th?¡±


    ¡°Huh¡­ Bass¨¢th?¡± He was once again surprised. ¡°Well, he¡¯s a corrupt noble¡­ I would think him an incompetent, since that¡¯s what you had called him¡­ Now, however¡­ I do not really know.¡±


    ¡°Hah¡­ I ask because he¡¯ll work under you, for now¡­ As in, he¡¯ll be assigned a lesser post in the colonial office, or¡­ maybe, the ministry?¡±


    ¡°What? You¡¯re giving a corrupt¡­ what did you call him¡­ a wild agent, another post?¡±


    Once inside, the cold diffused, trapped behind the cathedral walls, as they walked through the vespertine halls.


    ¡°It is a matter of reconciliation¡­¡± The king rubbed his hands together, wishing the cold away. ¡°I am glad you maintain a healthy uncertainty about him¡­ Otherwise this lecture would have been meaningless¡­¡±


    ¡°I suppose¡­¡±


    ¡°No man is two dimensional¡­ so superficial as to be made or unmade in a single adjective¡­ Even if I did call him¡­ what was it? a fat incompetent?¡±


    ¡°Those are two adjectives¡­¡±


    The king snorted.


    ¡°Wouldn¡¯t the noblesse¡­?¡± Roderin wondered.


    The king waved.


    ¡°What can they do¡­? Now that he is out of Affairs, and knows the noblesse abandoned him¡­ If I give him an out, what can they do?


    Their steps echoed in the immense halls.


    ¡°Hey, you never did tell me why you¡­ humiliated him?¡± Roderin wondered what word could correctly apply to his friend¡¯s behavior.


    Alphonse laughed.


    ¡°If the king is willing to make a minister the victim of such a¡­ juvenile stunt, it means the noble has lost all good graces. Worse even if the noblesse allows the crown to humiliate one of their representatives¡­ It was so as to ruin Bass¨¢th, politically. Petty enough to anger him, but not result in an unsolvable grudge¡­ In fact, knowing Bass¨¢th I would say he was angered, not because of how I mocked him, but rather, because of the effects the little play will have on his reputation¡­¡± Then he chortled. ¡°Also, it was fun¡­ Bass¨¢th did deserve to be the buffoon for a bit¡­¡±


    The new minister sighed. Then, a question glimmered in his eyes.


    ¡°Ah¡­ Where are we going exactly? It¡¯s the first time I¡¯ve gotten here through a tunnel¡­¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s an entrance for a way that leads to the villa. Spend the night there¡­ my invitation.¡±


    ¡°Very well¡­¡± Then, Lamartine stopped. ¡°Wait, then¡­ could I have simply come here with you, through the villa?¡±


    The king smiled.


    ¡°Yes, but, I wanted you to suffer through a bit of suspense¡­¡±


    Alphonse started laughing, finding Roderin¡¯s incredulous face most humorous.


    ¡°Unbelievable¡­¡±


    The new minister resumed his walk after a mutter.


    The men¡¯s voices and steps echoed out, drowning and disappearing, as they vanished deeper and deeper into the cathedral.

 7 – Veil

    A lovely hum.


    That¡¯s what Hygeia sounded like at these hours.


    The closing dusk did not interrupt the chattering, the conversations¡­ The caf¨¦s glowed warm, housing the bubbling talk-of-the-times, and voices both miserable and sublime.


    Be it high up the Asphodeli, or tucked away in some wretched corner of the south-side, many found time ¡ªfrom where, who knew? ¡ªto waste away their days, to prattle them out on whatever took their fancy.


    The tea houses followed much the same pattern ¡ªA recently growing phenomena, aided greatly by king Alphonse XVI¡¯s colonial expansions; the price of tea leaves had lowered to an accessible standard; though many were still skeptical, thinking them some sort of loegrian cultural import, or labeling them as overtly-feminine; a truth, at least partial, as it were women who attended and occupied most of tea houses.


    Irrespective, tea flowed with growing vigor, mixing its airs among the streets, swirling with the aroma of roasted coffee as pair.


    Theaters clamored, as plays opened, and others rolled well under way. Beautiful actors swiveled on the stage, kissed or drew blood upon each other. Some playwrights prayed, as to have their scripts blessed, beloved by demanding critics and praised by the public, others found themselves oddly calm¡­ and the ones already dead, surely trembled with ire at seeing their works brutalized, or smiled contentedly, somewhere, at ease with their art¡¯s immortality.


    The gardens and fountains were swarmed with lovers and their sightseeing, hand in hand, ready to be eternalized by the capital¡¯s painters. However, in some frigid slum, cut up and eroded by the autumn winds, frail sickly children huddled up, lulled to black sleep by a drunk¡¯s cries as he struck his wife, cheap liqueur held firmly in hand. Past the corner a blind beggar held out his hands, boils on his soot-tinted feet, the greatest irony of all: those who passed by were as miserable as him; beggars were not allowed on the Asphodeli, after all.


    A dusty flat was left empty, open to the winds and ransacked, as its former occupant, a starving painter, had one day dreamed of the end of the world. Possessed by some future light, the man had gone out in pilgrimage, as others go out to lunch, to take the life of this earth¡¯s end. Another one, besides it, was also unoccupied, the door locked ¡ªpointlessly¡ª, as it¡¯s tenant, saving up for who knows how long, today visited the Od¨¦on, to see, in a mid-way seat, one of Atanasio Alcides Amandus Landaverde Buend¨ªa y Cienfuegos de la Rosa¡¯s ¡ªOr simply Alcides de la Rosa¡¯s¡ª plays, a great Illumin¨¦; once part of the Hellian¡¯s close circle, and made nobility by grace in recompense for his art, now buried¡­ Today, this nameless tenant journeyed to the theater, wishing, in his mind, for de la Rosa¡¯s genius to bless him.


    Across the street the glow of a rundown caf¨¦ lit up the otherwise darkened way, where pedestrians passed ¡ªtheir clothes hugged tight to their bodies¡ª, hurried, as if scared. Inside, a strangely merry uproar ¡ªthe air filled with joy¡ª: men gathered round a table, when one ¡ªa smile fueled with melancholy adorning his face, and breath smelling of wormwood¡ª stepped atop it, then addressed the caf¨¦.


    ¡°Comrades, friends, friends¡­ listen! Here, the new canto of my verses¡­ No editor deigns read them¡­ much less put them to print!¡±


    ¡°So what!¡± One echoed.


    ¡°Let us hear!¡± another one pleaded with a smile.


    ¡°Oh, the idler Garcin¡­ show us!¡± A third one commented in jest.


    ¡°My friends, well, then¡­ These verses come to me after a letter¡­ my father up north has demanded of me to return, to sell rags...¡±


    ¡°Well, will you go?¡± A new man asked him.


    All those present laughed.


    ¡°Ha! Hahaha!¡± Gracin then entered the chorus of laughs, holding his belly as his eyes teared up.


    Crossing city blocks as one crosses the stones scattered on the road, another caf¨¦ made itself clear. Its quiet nature was less homely, although the warmth remained. And seated along a corner table ¡ªcups of steaming coffee in front to ward off the cold¡ª a group of friends conversed. One, looking out a window into the chilly street, focused an ear firmly onto the conversation the other two carried along.


    ¡°Roderin has been oddly absent lately¡­¡± Mikael commented, wondering for the cause of his friend¡¯s sudden busyness. ¡°Perhaps he¡¯ll leave the continent soon¡­?


    ¡±Maybe he took on that job he talked about¡­¡± Frederik answered back, yawning after. Then, took a swig of his coffee.


    ¡°You think¡­? Wasn¡¯t that¡­ a year ago, was it?¡±


    ¡°He could have said yes then¡­ and is only starting now.¡± Anton interjected, eyes still on the window, and the street behind it.


    ¡°I wonder what it is¡­¡± The still yawning man held a slightly trembling cup in his hand.


    ¡°A lecturer position at Vanus¡­¡± Mikael seriously speculated¡­ however, soon, a small smile crept onto his lips.


    The two other men laughed.


    ¡°God that¡¯s comical¡­¡± Frederik managed to state between chuckles.


    On a particular heavy snort his hand slipped, spilling a trickle of boiling coffee on his hand, dribbling, then, onto the table.


    ¡°Fuck¡­¡±


    A couple streets down, snaking its way through the alleys flowing out of the Asphodeli, an unmarked carriage scuttled about. Clearly luxurious, though indeterminate and evidently made for the covert, it clapped along the stone lanes, its driver carefully taking a discrete path towards the red-blooded streets¡­ the Quartier Fi¨¦vreux, la Rue Rouge, the Rue sans nez... or whichever other name one may prefer. Inside, emerald eyes looked out, impatient.


    The city flowed in this manner, unceasing, as if possessed by the spirit of all who had once walked its skin, and yet¡­ superimposed onto this miracle of human Geist, this great collage of eras and stone, of layers of civilization made detritus and compacted into earth¡­ another city inhabited its blind parallel. Invisible doors hinged on mundane, solid walls of brick, made of light and leading to miraculous apothecaries and alchemist¡¯s dens; floor subdividing into themselves, to allow the passing of scholar-astrologers, with telescopes in hand, to witness the stars from some vantage and in this manner foretell, enchant and invoke. Colleges full, like beehives, of apprentices, students, magi¡­ researching all the forms of the fantastic and wondrous; grand plazas with arched vaults like skulls, where crowds convened to listen those who dared; some stood on podiums, others atop stones, and others more presented and defended esoteric theses, discussing back and forth with the crowds¡­ and further down, as the flow of the impeccably dressed ¡ªsome levitating, others flying¡ª led, more stores were abound; among shapeshifting marble, stone and brick, with ornate architecture coming alive, grafted with the passing of the eras, as their styles flowered along the street¡¯s body: the maximalist, immense and glorious form of the Hellian¡¯s reign, the irregular and ostentatious shapes of the era solar, the austere stone carvings and cyclopean slabs of the days before the era of discovery, the academic, intellectual and tastefully wood accented architecture of the current wave¡­ marked by signs of endless variety, and services unthinkable, wondrous, and insane, as some conversed¡­ others window shopped and many more entered and left, haggling or buying outright¡­ bronze instruments for indeterminate purposes, miraculous liquids, and metals, mundane to the simple eye, but marvelous to the mage¡­ cinnabar, sulfur, blood treated iron, sun-like amber with flames spilling out if its cracks, herbs and budding flowers of strange form and iridescent colors¡­ all was sold here. And further, further down, a simple looking man, with a strange, thin frame and a blind eye walked into an imposing castle, a building transported from some chivalrous past¡­ the half-blind man was respectfully bowed to and greeted by those who saw him: clerks, officials, visitors, servitors, students, delegates¡­ as he blinked further and further into the structure, short distances where he would appear and reappear, much like other men trot when late to some meeting. His hand kept in his coat. ensuring something would not fall from its inner lining, as he finally reached the castle¡¯s tallest spire, devoid of any others, and entered a sublime room. Its form was of rich, deep, mahogany wood, and pale gray stone¡­ banners and candles eternally burning lined its walls, and chandeliers lit by wax hung from its beams atop. Grand windows of paneled mosaic like glass opened as well, obscured by the dusk. And, at its center, twelve tall chairs of some, strange, near black wood curved along a round table. All were occupied, except for one, where the half-blind man sat. And as he made contact with its bare shape, the fires flickered, and a deep voice rang.


    ¡°To convene this meeting and arrive late¡­¡±


    The thin man rebuked.


    ¡°I am a rather depended upon individual, sometimes unexpected situations call for me¡­¡±


    What looked to be a youth, hair like wheat, with bored light brown eyes posed on the recent arrival, seated in a central position, talked, his cheek rested on his hand¡¯s palm.


    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    ¡°Now we commence a new meeting¡­ State the relevant¡­ and so on¡­¡± A bold accent colored his words.


    The man pulled a small leather-bound notebook out of his coat, placing it in front of himself¡­ the only thing that adorned the round table.


    ¡°Recently, I was called upon by the old galdr¡­¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s scourge¡­?¡± A woman¡¯s voice cut into his sentence.


    ¡°Yes¡­¡± He answered.


    ¡°Is he finally leaving¡­?¡± Some other voice, vaguely male, asked, only slightly interested.


    ¡°I would not think him to respect traditions over dominion¡­ If anything, did he call upon you to mock us or something of the sort?¡± A new echo made its way into the exclamations, steady and unimpressed.


    ¡°No, no¡­ listen¡­ he desired to talk about an important matter. The man seems to have taken interest in a prospect¡­ most likely a future apprentice.¡± He shook his hand as if to cut the noise.


    The room became silent, then boiled in sound.


    ¡°Is this some declaration of war?¡±


    ¡°An apprentice¡­ is he mad?¡±


    ¡°What? And he said this?¡±


    ¡°So it was an insult¡­ hah¡­¡±


    ¡°The idiot. Why not keep it a secret?¡±


    ¡°Silence.¡± The ¡°youth¡± ordered, his voice mystically enhanced. Sitting up straight, then, holding his brows in clear annoyance, he spoke once more. ¡°I assume this has something to do with this¡­ manuscript? you have with you¡­ or was it just some pleasant walk you had with the faerian?¡± He pointed at the notebook.


    ¡°Yes¡­ you see, although the animosity you all hold towards the man is understandable, I do believe a close relationship with notable, powerful magi, in one¡¯s holdings is of utmost importance. Thus, as you know, I¡¯ve kept a¡­ communicative partnership with him across the years¡­¡±


    ¡°Hah!¡±


    Another voice snorted.


    A head drooped onto the table, confused.


    ¡°And because of this, I believe to have averted a possible confrontation between the Comitatus and the galdr, and even netted us benefits¡­ in a manner that promises further gain across the future¡­¡±


    ¡°Are you not being tricked?¡± Someone asked.


    ¡°First, hear¡­ then we can deliberate.¡± He cleared his throat. ¡°In recompense for ending any ¡°needless hostility¡± toward him, or his apprentice, as he put it, he would give us ownership of a desidere¡­¡±


    Once again, a silence drowned the room. This one, however, turned the air heavy, and made clear a bubbling tension now settling on the peers.


    Even the ¡°youth¡¯s¡± eyes widened, ever so slightly, lighting for an instant his dispassionate expression.


    ¡°This madman owning a desidere all this long¡­ how has the city not gone up in flames?¡± Someone lamented, a hand over his eyes.


    ¡°Really? A desidere¡­ what is its purpose.¡± A more inquisitive voice asked.


    ¡°Never mind that! Is it not some igneous mechanism? I am sure, we will take into the vaults for it to suddenly combust¡­ kill one of us as well, surely¡­¡± A rather paranoid assertion clamored.


    Someone, still holding their wits, interjected.


    ¡°Hmm¡­ if this is true, then have we not misjudged the galdr? Holding a desidere for this long¡­¡±


    The half-blind mage found an opportunity to continue.


    ¡°I agree, this was partly what I realized during the conversation¡­ Also, a desidere in payment for one more galdr in Hygeia and some influence¡­ Is it not a worthy trade? Who knows, we may even be able to draw this apprentice of his into service for the city. Nevertheless, I do believe it correct to keep caution¡­¡± He picked up the notebook, waving it in one hand. ¡°I have read over his notes on the artifact, and it is actively useful and fulfills a worthy purpose.¡±


    The notebook flew as if carried by the wind onto the hands of the peer to his left.


    Someone did warn, as they waited their turn for the manuscript.


    ¡°They are, surely, only the notes he wishes us to see¡­ If we do acquire it further study would have to be conducted¡­ That considered, this shows quite the serious disposition for this¡­ trade, taking the first step¡­¡±


    A valid concern jumped into the fray.


    ¡°I do not wish to act the paranoiac, yet, does this not smell of beguilement? Who knows what he would teach to this apprentice, atop, what he would do¡­ In fact, who is the apprentice? Is he notable?¡±


    ¡°Well, he is¡­ although in the secular. It is the newest prince of Romanse.¡±


    ¡°The babe?¡± The same concerned voice asked.


    All the peers had their thoughts, going this or that way, ready to presume the worst or reevaluating the past, suddenly muddled by this revelation.


    ¡°So was it a joke all along¡­?¡± The youth asked.


    ¡°No, you see¡­ This is another matter on which I wished to ask for your opinions¡­ The child is a year old, yet, was able to see both me, and the galdr¡­¡±


    Eyes widened, and more than one sigh was heard.


    ¡°And seems to have a vinculum with a soul-bound symbolic familiar¡­ a man-sized swan¡­ since his birth, most likely.¡±


    One rubbed his face in exasperation.


    An increment of sighs, uneasy tapping and rapid thinking, echoed about in the chamber.


    ¡°You jest?¡±


    ¡°No¡­¡± The half-blind mage assured.


    ¡°Should we just kill him¡­?¡± A voice tiredly proposed.


    Some looked at the mage, and his suggestion, as idiotic. Not because of steady morals, but rather because of the ensuing conflict if such an act were put through.


    ¡°He was clever¡­ now we risk confrontation if we move to secure the child¡­¡±


    ¡°Quite distressing.¡±


    ¡°A mage born of that family¡­ Ha¡­¡±


    A steady voice interrupted the confusion, having just read the manuscript.


    ¡°If these are the functions and mechanisms of the desidere, I believe the compromise to be favorable¡­ Besides, he is an old galdr. I am sure he did not explicitly tell you he wishes for an heir¡­ even so, I suspect it to be the case¡­¡± The voice turned its eyes towards the thin mage.


    Once again, he had an opportunity.


    ¡°I theorized so during this walk¡­ It almost seems like assurance, this deal¡­ perhaps he wished his apprentice, or heir, inducted into the general culture of the era, thus, into Hygeia. Which is why I suggest this will benefit us years past¡­¡±


    ¡°Is this what you truly believe?¡± The pair of discerning light-brown eyes burned a hole onto his countenance.


    ¡°Yes.¡± He told no lie.


    ¡°Should we not move to, at least, contest his stake as the child¡¯s master? A vinculum like this is as rare as can be.¡± A concerned tone wondered.


    ¡°Hah! And wrangle some Geist-drunk brat for thirty odd years?¡± A heavy male voice mocked.


    ¡°Do not forget the temperament that these¡­ m¨­nstrum usually bear. Which college will you stuff him into? to wreak havoc¡­ ¡±


    ¡°I disagree¡­ you are all worn¡­ fatigued from bearing too many an apprentice¡­ I see a future inheritor of the peerage here. We should contest, if not¡­ move so as to secure his allegiance in a future.¡±


    ¡°Which is why I have stressed a closer relation with the galdr, if he holds no hostility towards us, he will rear an apprentice neutrally. Or¡­ we could simply approach the child and persuade him. It would not break any vow we make¡­¡± The half-blind calmly insisted.


    ¡°So you¡¯ve given up on contesting?¡±


    ¡°I believe it to be for the best if he is left with the galdr¡­ Still, I can think of many who would be better teachers to the child than him¡­ especially in a more, contemporary setting.¡±


    ¡°I say let it be. Those born with weight in familiars and attendants are usually insane. A pair of madmen, they suit each other.¡± A random jab aimed at someone not there.


    The ¡°youth¡± raised his hand, quieting the hall.


    ¡°Finish reading the manuscript, then vote¡­ I know now what I will choose. If you decide to honor some deal, I will prepare the according chains, a vow will not suffice¡­ if not, then coordinate to prepare a form of suppression, involve me if the need arise.¡±


    ¡°You seem indifferent to this¡­ the child could augur a resurgence of the galdr¡¯s magic.¡± Someone questioned.


    ¡°No, not this far south of the Riphei. All that this augurs for me is a headache.¡± He once again rested on his palm.


    ¡°I believe no one has mentioned the incumbent¡­ a galdr passing magics on to an apprentice will call the Healdan into Hygeia. I do not wish to see ourselves encumbered by their presence.¡±


    ¡°Are they not busy in the new world? They won¡¯t come¡­¡± A wave of the hand seemed to dismiss the issue.


    ¡°Was the old galdr not a problem they left us with¡­? They may come¡­ to settle old accounts.¡±


    ¡°I will intercede... vote as if they do not exist.¡± The ¡°youth¡± spoke, slowly, to make his words take on crushing weight.


    ¡°Will you vote without seeing the desidere¡¯s operation?¡± The half-blind asked the ¡°youth¡±.


    ¡°It is unnecessary¡­¡± He answered, his eyes closed.


    The leather-bound journal made its cycle across ten of the twelve peers, before arriving back at the thin mage¡¯s hands.


    ¡°You were right, it is¡­ it makes one wonder what else could be gleaned from its study¡­¡±


    ¡°What college should be given custody of research over it¡­?¡±


    ¡°Hmm¡­ I nomin¡ª¡±


    ¡°You all talk as if forgetting what is to be permitted in exchange for the desidere¡­ I¡¯ve read the notes yet still feel unmoved¡­ Although interesting, you must admit, to consider it worthy payment for the host of problems to arise from this galdr¡­ free to take on an heir, and for us to limit our options against him¡­ It is not enough.¡± A skeptic intervened.


    ¡°Yes, I agree. Have you all forgotten to haggle?¡± Someone echoed.


    ¡°He is not a man to haggle¡­ I could come with the proposal¡­ Although I find it counterproductive¡­ Straining relations, and worsening possible future benefits¡­ No¡­ The desidere is beyond payment enough. I would like to disagree, however¡­¡± The half-blind mage countered, ending with a sigh.


    ¡°To squeeze out more when given a desidere? Please, curb your greed¡­ perhaps the stars smile and he leaves with his apprentice, then the problem becomes someone else¡¯s.¡±


    ¡°Do not kid yourself. He would not leave after gaining such benefits in Hygeia.¡±


    ¡°I do consider it relevant that the apprentice is a prince, as no one has commented further¡­ it means strong ties to Romanse, mirrored in strong ties to Hygeia; If he can be interred into one of the colleges, and then onto the Comitatus, a wealth of knowledge only privy to galdr becomes our own¡­ this I find even more appetizing than his apparent Geist in servitors, especially if the old scourge is treating him as an heir¡­ once dead he will not steer the child¡¯s life.¡± A rather scholarly voice made sure to remind.


    ¡°We are being hasty, to conclude this conundrum in a single session¡­¡± A more reasonable voice warned.


    ¡°It is really not complicated¡­ either we accept, or we do not¡­ I say take the risk.¡± Some indifference marked this tone.


    ¡°If he is to give up the remnants, then the gains from this heir will be greater than the loss of the desidere, consider, all of you, this.¡±


    ¡°Well, yes. That this gain will be harmful to the Comitatus, to Hygeia in general¡­¡±


    ¡°Oh? You¡¯ve changed tune on this madman so suddenly¡­ researcher''s greed appears to have taken hold of this hall.¡± Someone mocked.


    ¡°Hah, so what? You have read the notes¡­¡±


    ¡°Like a dog, you act¡­ being so easily led by petty recompense¡­¡±


    ¡°Petty?!¡± A chair scraped back as someone rose, more afflicted at the dismissal of the desidere¡¯s worth than their comparison to a measly dog.


    ¡°Silence.¡± The ¡°youth¡± stilled the hall, still resting, his eyes unopened. ¡°Vote. None of you are imbeciles, weigh the scales, consider all and choose. What results from this meeting, what it may¡­ trust in yourselves and in this city. Are you all so puny as to be thrown into disarray by a single mage?¡±


    The fires flickered; the banners moved as if rustled by breeze.


    ¡°Then¡­ which seats desire to carry out this trade?¡± He asked.


    Six raised their hands.


    ¡°And those opposed?¡±


    Five rose then.


    ¡°I cast my vote in favor of the trade¡­ Now, we would hold further discourse and salvaments¡­ They are, sadly, futile in this case¡­ it is, fundamentally, quite a simple matter¡­¡± He opened his eyes and sat straight. ¡°Prepare all that is relevant within the phase¡­¡± A yawn escaped his lips. ¡°This meeting ends. Be blessed¡­¡±


    All rose, mingled, caught up, laughed, some left, others discussed still, loitered about, wielding this or that argument to its logical end.


    The moon hung as a silver tear in the sky, cloaking both cities in its pearly veil.

 8 – Outing

    ¡°Minister.¡±


    ¡°Yes?¡±


    He walked the halls of the ministry, a pillared building seated beautifully along the left bank of the river Caedes, a street down from the Jardin Deludere ¡ªcolored in persimmon by autumn¡¯s sycamores¡ª, not straying far from the artery that was the Asphodeli.


    Although a minister need not walk to meet his subordinates, Roderin wished to introduce himself ¡ªnot to all the clerks and workers at the ministry, but rather to his delegates. The transfer of power from Bass¨¢th was abrupt, at best, and Alphonse had done only enough to ensure it did not cause a collapse of the kingdom¡¯s foreign policy.


    He had noted, now, that this ministry would run as a clockwork body, without much interference from a ruler, yet, still, he was needed; should these fine clockwork nerves be struck by the need for a head, he would have to be there, present.


    With Samuel in tow, he headed to the colonial office, housed in the ministry¡¯s left wing, to see a commissioner general tasked with overseeing the emergent border disputes in la Ceinture d¡¯Or. En route he was intercepted by a curator, from registries and archives, having asked for this or that document.


    ¡°Here are¡­ the latest records for former minister Bass¨¢th¡¯s enforcement of his Majesty¡¯s decrees¡­ and this is for Ceinture d¡¯Or¡­ I was also told you requested for the last transcripts of negotiations at Hegard-Treverid¡­ here they are.¡±


    ¡°Thank you¡­¡± He nodded with a smile.


    The clerk bowed and returned.


    As he walked, he thought of visiting Bass¨¢th after. As Alphonse had told him, Bass¨¢th was given a respectable position in the ministry, specifically, as a diplomat for matters in Verdanaise; quite a simple post, really, seeing the close, allied relationship Romanse had with the kingdom, particularly for someone with Bass¨¢th¡¯s experience. It truly was an olive branch¡­ it also relegated the man to a near ceremonial position, crippling the ambitious viscount¡¯s political mobility¡­ Even in giving him an out, Alphonse did not let go of his hold over the former minister, rendering him completely dependent on the king¡¯s camp.


    He, personally, wanted to clear the air, even if it seemed an impossible wish. A strained relationship with one of his delegates would be rather unpleasant.


    He asked Musnier.


    ¡°Samuel.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Minister de Lamartine?¡±


    The young attendant was impeccable in matters of formality, keeping, always, proper manners. This was, of course, straining for Roderin, who found being addressed with such deference unnecessary. However, he could not find a reason to ask for Musnier to stop.


    ¡°Shouldn¡¯t a¡­ rite or, inauguration of sorts be necessary for taking a position in Affairs?¡±


    ¡°Yes. It is tradition for rites to take place in the Cathedral to the Hellian, the Palace, the relevant ministry¡­ or any other solemn estate. The king would be present, as would Affairs, an assembly of notables, and noble guests¡­ I cannot presume to know why the king has decided to dispense of this rite in your case, Minister de Lamartine.¡±


    ¡°However, if you had to speculate as to why his Majesty did so¡­?¡±


    ¡°Forgive my trespass¡­ but I would presume it has to do with his Majesty Alphonse¡¯s indifference towards formalities, coupled with a reticent approach in matters of internal affairs.¡±


    ¡®Maybe he has also taken pity on me, and decided to not force me into another ¡°grand ceremony¡±¡¯ He held back a laugh.


    ¡°And would this not cause any issues for my legitimacy, as a member of Affairs?¡±


    ¡°It is not likely. The kingdom knows of his Majesty¡¯s temperament and would not find such an action as¡­ strange, or damming. It is also apparent, at least to public opinion, that a minister does not come to hold his position without being instated by the king.¡±


    ¡°I see¡­¡± He looked through the documents he had asked for.


    Perhaps, as Musnier said, it was all Alphonse¡¯s indifference, and not a ploy to make him earn his legitimacy in some sort of trial by fire.


    ¡°How long, do you believe, until the change in ministers becomes common talk.¡±


    ¡°I would say¡­ a few days at most. It is a matter privy to only few, most in Affairs¡­ however, this rarely slows the publicizing of rumors, especially those his Majesty does not forbid from becoming the noblesse¡¯s gossip.¡±


    ¡°Hm¡­¡± He wondered what would change when it all became common chatter, echoing about in the paper¡¯s ink and in coffee houses.


    Ahead, he saw what looked to be a clerk¡­ no, an attendant, or a servant? Walking towards them, as if dissolving into the leaden sun, streaming pale into the ministry¡¯s halls.


    ¡°Samuel is this¡­?¡±


    ¡°He looks to be a servant of the d¡¯Ruissaumbe household¡­¡±


    Roderin was surprised.


    ¡°You must have good eyesight¡­ I can¡¯t see much past the sunlight¡­¡±


    ¡°Minister d¡¯Ruissaumbe¡¯s servants are always beautifully dressed and are¡­ quite distinctive.¡±


    He stopped his step. Musnier stood just behind him.


    The sound of walking rang, lightly ornamented by the singing of eiders, mergansers, and scaups; the occasional sharp song, from an unknown bird, lost from the forests, wandered into the city¡¯s walls. The almost indistinct flow of the Caedes sang too, as if lulling all who lived by its side into sleep.


    He remembered that day in the Suritine, his dream¡­ tinnitus hidden behind the river¡¯s song¡­


    The man, now clear, was a youth, of impeccable looks and disposition, dressed in all, waistcoat, coat and pantaloons of pale, lead and earth tones, accented with brilliant notes of apricot and dark gold, to match the autumn. The sigil of the d¡¯Ruissaumbe¡¯s household hung, embroidered in silver thread onto a band of peach silk, over the waist of his trousers. It was strange¡­ rare for a noble to allow his servants to wear his sigil¡­ In all, the youth reminded Roderin of a yellowed ginkgo tree, with the play of silvers and golds over his clothes¡­ a tree he had seen, never in travels ¡ªsince its origins where in the east most lands of the world¡ª but, strangely enough, in the private gardens cultivated by affluent botanists, whom he knew from his dealings with the East-Mariannic, and some from his activities at Vanus.


    Samuel tilted forward, slightly, and whispered.


    ¡°I misspoke. It is not a servant, but a noble retainer¡­ a close aide to Minister d¡¯Ruissaumbe.¡±


    The retainer stopped before the minister and attendant.


    ¡°Minister de Lamartine, forgive me for interrupting your duties. I was sent to invite you to a meal with Minister d¡¯Ruissaumbe, if, of course, you have the time.¡±


    As if he would, could, reject this invitation. He lamented. There were things he wished to be done with today, however, it was about time the noblesse began persuading him. And, of course, the ministry could, partially, run on its own. It would be quite unfortunate if in his first days as minister some calamity occurred while he was out to lunch¡­ it would soon be mid-day, anyway.


    ¡°Yes, certainly. Is he here, in the ministry?¡±


    ¡°He is outside the riverside gates, in a carriage, waiting. If you would allow me, I¡¯ll guide you.¡± The youth showed as much propriety as Musnier, gracefully conveying deference and respect with all gestures.


    Roderin nodded.


    ¡°Samuel, ah¡­ please just leave these on my desk.¡± He handed Musnier the documents. ¡°If anything¡­ try and get ahold of me. I¡¯ll be back after lunch.¡± He really did not know why he had said that¡­ how was Musnier supposed to ¡°get ahold of him¡±? Once again, he swallowed a laugh.


    ¡°Certainly, Minister de Lamartine.¡± Samuel said nothing much, sparing him the question.


    The attendant bowed and left.


    He followed behind the gingko youth.


    *


    The stone channels of the Caedes were all wearied, made beautiful, as if gaining patina, balustrades composing its railing in ancient style.  And the river, protected from being sullied by the Hellian¡¯s policies, was an earth-clear, although not perfectly crystalline. Dames and gentlemen walked about, here to there. Carriages parked by the facades of establishments, and some horses trotting, led by leashes, or with the gendarmerie mounted on their backs.


    He heard the crackling of autumn leaves under his feet, as he followed the retainer.


    The air was cold, cool, almost refreshing if not for its frigidness. The sun lent a drop of warmth.


    This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    He arrived at an ample, luxurious carriage ¡ªtwo beautiful silver maned horses tied to its front¡ª, marked proudly with the sigils of the d¡¯Ruissaumbe household. The carriage driver, dressed in a similar motif to the attendant ¡ªwithout the embroidered sigil, however¡ª, rested at its front. One would think him a regular, affluent gentleman, so different was his countenance to the usual, unkempt appearance of carriage drivers in the capital.


    The youth lowered the carriage steps, signaled with an outstretched arm and bowed.


    ¡°Please, Minister de Lamartine.¡±


    Roderin, settling his nerves, climbed them, up to his meeting with the minister. The attendant, once Roderin had gotten on, rose the steps and made his way towards the front, to sit beside the driver.


    Inside, it was pleasantly warm and aromatic, smelling of apricots, slightly; rich wood and, incense¡­? As well as some spiced spirit, perhaps?


    The handsome green-eyed minister sat, his legs crossed over, as he looked out a window into the river. A lock of auburn hair dangled off his head, not tucked behind his ear, a band of silver adorning it. Just as in Affairs, the man was dressed perfectly, couture clearly luxurious, although measured and tasteful. He wore his overcoat still, even sitting on the colored cushions of the carriage¡¯s inside.


    The minister turned to look at him. An amiable smile drawn on his lips.


    ¡°Minister de Lamartine. A pleasure. Please, sit.¡± He gestured with his gloved hands towards the seat in front.


    Roderin sat, adjusting himself.


    They shook hands.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry to have bothered you with an invitation¡­ It must be hectic, right now, in the ministry¡­¡±


    ¡°No, it¡¯s surprisingly calm¡­ I¡¯m only marginally needed. It was a surprise.¡±


    ¡°Oh¡­ a good sign... I hope my retainer did not interrupt you in the midst of something of importance?¡±


    ¡°I was merely walking to meet a commissioner general, to introduce myself¡­¡± He did not know why, suddenly, the thought ran up to his lips¡­ however, he commented on the retainer¡¯s appearance, almost muttering after a brief pause. ¡°The young man, your retainer, he reminded me of a ginkgo tree¡­¡± realizing what he had said, Roderin hurried to add. ¡°Apologies, its nothing¡­ I just found him quite well dressed.¡± He gave some polite excuse to justify his rather strange comment. He was not in front of his friends, in the Roumbid¨®n, where one could sputter out any thought that took his fancy.


    Yet, the minister had not a polite expression of understanding, or of slight confusion, but of mild interest, even surprise, as his eyebrows rose lightly.


    ¡°Really? That is an interesting observation, Minister de Lamartine¡­¡± He stated, amused. ¡°I was particularly inspired by the sight of the ginkgo in Monsieur Carri¨¨re¡¯s garden. So, I worked with tailor Sal¨¢ ¡ªI had to ask his Majesty and disburse a small fortune¡­¡± He sighed. ¡°To design and make proper autumn uniforms and couture for my household¡­ It was worth it, however¡­ Sal¨¢¡¯s work is gorgeous. Of course, I also trust my own designs to be tasteful.¡±


    Roderin was surprised. He assumed Sal¨¢ or whoever was a royal tailor? The first name, however, sparked his interest. He did not notice the carriage start to roll.


    ¡°Carri¨¨re? As in professor Carri¨¨re.¡±


    ¡°Yes. I assume you are familiar with him?¡±


    ¡°I saw him first at a lecture, when I attended Vanus. It was something on presumably extinct flora featured in historical reliefs¡­ or mosaics, or something of the sort. However I came to know him through my work in the East-Mariannic¡­ In fact, perhaps we saw the same ginkgo¡­ I was not aware you were acquainted with him.¡± Roderin showed genuine surprise. D¡¯Ruissaumbe was not someone whom he would think to keep company with the likes of Carri¨¨re. He remembered Alphonse¡¯s words.


    The green-eyed minister smiled.


    ¡°Botany and Horticulture are some of my interests¡­ It has led me to sponsor Carri¨¨re¡¯s activities, as well as some of his proposed imports. He has invited me to several of his expositions¡­ Still, it is regrettable, I would involve myself more with Carri¨¨re¡¯s circles if I were not constantly¡­ imprisoned with my duties in Affairs and the chancellery. It was, in fact, part of the reason I wished to invite you out to lunch¡­ This is, one could say... official business, yet, I¡¯m not in the company of the noblesse, and so a topic like this, for example, has¡­ free reign.¡±


    ¡°Hmm¡­ I see. I would have presumed something like botany extends into the nobility¡¯s interests¡­¡±


    D¡¯Ruissaumbe gestured as he spoke.


    ¡°The nobility¡­ well, you are nobility are you not? There is a difference between, the noblesse¡­ the culture, one would say, the¡­ courts of blue blood¡­ and nobility, especially Neue Noblesse as you, Minister de Lamartine¡­ whose interests are more aligned with the times. I am not one with any predilection for hunting and dueling¡­ and so, often, I feel out of place in the circles I must attend.¡±


    The conversation was shaping itself into a form he did not expect, not at all like Alphonse had warned him. Wasn¡¯t he supposed to be adulated, led into thinking himself as of the same ilk as the noblesse?


    ¡°I malign them unnecessarily.¡± d¡¯Ruissaumbe smiled. ¡°They are not brutes with only killing for a sport. Ha! Beauty is beloved in most places¡­ high courts are a bastion, especially in our sensitive Romanse¡­¡±


    Roderin knew not what to say. A simple simile was what he opted to state.


    ¡°Well¡­ as far as the ginkgo, I thought it was quite beautiful¡­ it¡¯s autumn yellowing reminded me of Kerria flowers, perhaps you have seen them?¡±


    ¡°Oh, yes¡­ I bought seeds from a batch brought in by Carri¨¨re. When in season I sometimes use them alongside gifts¡­ their color is auspicious, bright and warm¡­ So brightly vernal.¡±


    A sudden memory flashed into Roderin¡¯s mind. Something he had nearly forgotten.


    ¡°Minister d¡¯Ruisssaumbe, have you, in the past, at any time, been patron to a collection of artifacts¡­ from any of the East-Mariannic¡¯s excavations.¡±


    ¡°Hm¡­ yes¡­¡± The minister¡¯s eyebrows rose. ¡°Oh¡­ are you thinking of one in particular?¡± He loosely questioned.


    ¡°Yes¡­ it was a collection of artifacts excavated from a r¨¡?j¨¡¡¯s tomb. The site was along the Citr¨¢ valley. Perhaps some, nine years ago? I remember quite clearly, it was an auction¡­ the Mus¨¦e Werner, who we had worked with, wished to retain only a certain part of the exhibition. As for the rest, we wanted to hand directly to the crown, however, perhaps because of the lingering war efforts, the ministry of finance vetoed the transaction, maybe Affairs did not see a reason to expend funds in such a way¡­? It was decided we would hold an auction to private collectors¡­ A particular anonymous collector spent a fortune to buy every piece, and when we consulted with him through an intermediary, he simply asked that it all be put alongside the rest of the artifacts in the Werner¡­ The funds arrived alongside Kerria flowers¡­¡±


    D¡¯Ruissaumbe laughed lightly, euphonically, sounding of spring amidst the frigid autumn.


    ¡°You caught me¡­¡± he flashed a brilliant smile. ¡°I did not know you were at the head of that particular exhibition. I thought it all too beautiful to rest scattered amongst private collections¡­ The artifacts are still in the Werner, yes?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°One piece in particular¡­ it was a red lotus, made of garnet, ruby and red gold, with silver and amber for its stamens, and a padparadscha for its receptacle¡­ When I saw it at the Werner I was smitten.¡± The minister¡¯s eyes lay unfocused, peering above the moment into something else. ¡°An overabundance of jewels turns most things garish¡­ This lotus however¡­ as if the craftsman¡¯s blood had hardened, turned in some fever into the red jewels¡­ and its center molded out of frozen sunlight.¡± His sight focused once again. ¡°My apologies¡­ It was a beautiful exhibition. The spending was worth it¡­ the Werner will make sure to preserve it, better than most, if all, collectors can.¡±


    Roderin, slightly shaken by d¡¯Ruissaumbe¡¯s appreciation for the artifact, reciprocated.


    ¡°Yes, I remember it. It was a beautiful piece¡­ Back then I wished to thank you, I also felt reluctant to see the exhibition separated¡­ however, you were anonymous.¡±


    ¡°Do not worry¡­ It is in bad taste to be to so open about one¡¯s activities.¡± He waved his hand.


    ¡®Was it common among nobles to be so private?¡¯ Roderin questioned, being reminded of Alphonse by d¡¯Ruissaumbe¡¯s words.


    He looked outside, at the passing stone street, drowned in the color of the passersby.


    ¡°I did not ask¡­ Where are we going?¡±


    ¡°To a rather private corner of Rue Bleue. Away from the chattering¡±


    Called so for its preponderant noble presence¡­ and the cobalt blue mosaics that decorated its Way. Half of its body rested atop the river Caedes, and onto an islet in its middle, known for housing a bevy of black swans, imported during the Hellian¡¯s reign as a symbolic gesture of cooperation with Loegria Maritima. It was not a place Roderin frequented. He had been there perhaps once or twice for sightseeing, feeling out of place all the while.


    ¡°The Rue Bleue¡­¡±


    However hidden, d¡¯Ruissaumbe managed to feel the reluctance in Lamartine¡¯s tone.


    ¡°It is an exhausting place¡­ for me, that is, and I blend into it perfectly¡­ You are not fond of it, I can tell. A pity, it has such a beautiful view of the Caedes¡­ I saw it, once, as a child, before it became what it is today¡­¡± Once again, a pearled smile reassured Roderin. ¡°Do not worry, like I said, it is a quiet cove. I frequent it precisely because of its quietude.¡±


    ¡°I trust your taste Minister d¡¯Ruissaumbe.¡± Roderin assured.


    ¡°Call me Camille¡­ I¡¯ll call you Roderin, if you find it agreeable... I find keeping formality, even in private, spoils the pleasure of conversation.¡±


    ¡°Yes, certainly. I agree.¡± Lamartine exhaled, as if resting. ¡°Constant titling, or however one may call it¡­ I¡¯m not accustomed to it.¡±


    D¡¯Ruissaumbe seemed to remember something.


    ¡°Oh, I was reminded¡­ If you do not mind me asking, how did you come up with the prince¡¯s name? Did you really dream it? I had heard of you, and the name solidified the image I held of you in my mind¡­¡±


    ¡°You knew of me before the Fylassein?¡± He had to play the oblivious newcomer.


    ¡°Yes, of course¡­ I¡¯m sure His Majesty told you, you were recommended for the post of minister by Lanthym.¡±


    Roderin almost choked.


    ¡°Ah, yes, yes¡­ he did.¡± Looking to change the topic, he held onto the first thing that came into his mind. ¡°You had an impression of me?¡±


    ¡°That of a well read, well traveled academic¡­ with, even, the makings of a poet.¡± Camille smiled.


    ¡°No, well, I prefer to be modest¡­ as for the makings of a poet¡­ Well, it is not something I am versed in, it is just an interest in archeology and ancient culture leads one to the same alleys as poets¡­ I don¡¯t think myself to have the sufficient sensibilities for poetry.¡± He calmed his breaths. ¡°The origin of the name¡­ In part I would say I dreamt it¡­ I could also say it was¡­ placed into my mind¡­ pardon the mystical language.¡±


    ¡°As if you had been possessed by a muse?¡± d¡¯Ruissaumbe seriously considered this possibility, his hand holding his chin in thought.


    ¡°Well, who knows¡­¡±


    The carriage suddenly stopped, abruptly, cutting the conversation¡¯s thread.


    ¡°We seem to have stopped¡­¡± The green-eyed minister stated, intrigued.


    Although the sounds of the street, and the carriage¡¯s body muffled their echo, something¡­ strange, as the sound of bedlam, gathered, reaching them, now that they focused on the silence. Roderin felt as if the air were charged with something, moving, swiveling, spinning, condensing¡­ lightly emanating¡­ the scent of copper?


    ¡®Perhaps the air was enraged¡­?¡¯ A meaningless comment flickering into his mind. He feared, however, where it had come from¡­ why had he, specifically, thought of that¡­ d¡¯Ruissaumbe looked to feel nothing.


    The attendant¡¯s voice resounded, directed at them from outside the carriage.


    ¡°Your grace, minister de Lamartine. Concerning commotion is blocking the road further down¡­ should we consider rerouting or returning, to avoid the uproar.¡±


    ¡°By your tone and language, I would presume it to be dangerous.¡± Camille questioned.


    ¡°It is concerning¡­ pardon my superstitiousness, it simply feels unnatural¡­ although animated gatherings are not out of the ordinary, this is no such thing¡­ even this conversation alerts my nerves, we should return as soon as possible.¡±


    D¡¯Ruissaumbe thought for half a second and sighed.


    ¡°To have an outing ruined in this manner¡­ You will have to forgive me Roderin, I trust my retainer¡¯s instincts. I¡¯ll make it up to you, we can meet again soon, and I¡¯ll show you the cove I talked about; this was, official business after all.¡± His tone turned harsh, almost disappointed. ¡°Return¡­ if it is truly something worth fear we will be safe near the Asphodeli, near the ministry and the chancellery.¡±


    Roderin, lost for words at the situation, wondered how the retainer was aware of something they had not yet heard, only becoming aware of it when the sound of their voices had ceased. Perhaps the youth felt the same as he did¡­?


    He sank in though as the carriage turned. They turned back, the air clearing as they left where they had, before, stopped. The crystalline, pure air he now sensed made the strangeness, the oddity, the wrongness¡­? he felt before stand out far more¡­ a slight shudder ran across his body.


    Camille looked out the window, unimpressed.

 9 - Magic

    ¡°Mama, why is your hair red?¡± Heos asked.


    He walked around the hall, wide eyed at the gold, scarlet and white, the ornaments, the paintings, the beauty held within the villa¡¯s main building.


    Marenisse smiled.


    ¡°Because it is made of fire.¡± She answered back, feigning seriousness in her tone.


    ¡°Really?¡± The child seemed starstruck. ¡°But fire is hot, why is your hair not warm mama?¡± He seemed rather perplexed.


    ¡°Magic, Heos.¡± On whim, she exclaimed.


    ¡°Magic¡­ what is magic?¡± He let go of his mother¡¯s hand, and ran forwards around the hall, interested by the passing of a servant.


    The maid lightly bowed at the young prince, smiling, and went on her way.


    ¡°What is magic mama?¡±


    ¡°Hm¡­ well¡­¡± Marenisse couldn¡¯t really think of a way to explain what magic was. ¡°You could say¡­ magic is the impossible.¡±


    Was that really the answer? After all, if done with magic, did the impossible not turn into a most brilliant possibility? It was precisely because magic was not real that its realm was the impossible.


    ¡°What is the impossible mama?¡± Heos turned, looking directly at his mother. His eyes gleaming expectantly, two pale lakes of blue and soft-jade green brume. His platinum hair, possessed of the lightest pastel gold, clung in small locks to his head.


    ¡°My, aren¡¯t you a curious boy? Perhaps a tutor could help¡­¡± The queen wondered. ¡°Mama does not know how to explain all these things to you.¡± Marenisse sighed, a little guilty, as she picked up the prince. She was not lacking in education, no real noble was¡­ however, how would one even explain things like these to a child? even one as¡­ miraculously brilliant as Heos¡­ ¡°Well, you know how birds fly, yes?¡±


    He nodded.


    ¡°And people, like me, like you, like your father¡­ we don¡¯t fly, we can¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°Why can we not, mama?¡± He seemed genuinely mystified.


    ¡°Human beings don¡¯t have wings¡­ so we say that it is impossible for men to fly, because it cannot happen¡­ however, if someone could fly¡­ a person, could fly, even without wings, even while being a human, we could call it magic.¡± She smiled, still unhappy with the example, but hoped Heos would, at least, superficially understand.


    The prince fell into thought.


    ¡°Mama, your hair¡­ Is it fire, really?¡± His tone sounded uncertain.


    She laughed, smothering Heos in a hug. Then, with a playful tone of faked sadness, asked.


    ¡°Of course, do you doubt your mama?¡± Accompanying the words with a pout.


    ¡°No¡­¡± He went silent for a moment. ¡°But, mama¡­ if magic¡­ if we¡­ if your hair is fire¡­¡± The child began to ponder, as the things he had heard took root in his mind. His bright eyes shone, intense, bubbling with curiosity. ¡°So, mama, can you fly? Is only your hair fire¡­ is papa¡¯s hair fire?¡±


    ¡°No, Heos, I can¡¯t fly¡­ And your father¡¯s hair is not fire, it is gold, just like yours.¡± She twirled the child¡¯s hair.


    Heos, intrigued, grabbed his own hair, then his mother¡¯s¡­ staring intensely, as if his sight would divine the secrets locked behind the bright locks.


    ¡°But my hair is not the same as papa¡­¡± He looked then, into Marenisse¡¯s kindly gray eyes. ¡°Mama, what is gold?¡±


    The woman started laughing. She kissed the child on the forehead.


    ¡°A very beautiful thing, the color of the sun¡­ But do not go stare at the sun, okay? You¡¯ll hurt your eyes.¡± The child nodded, attentive to her request. ¡°Promise?¡±


    ¡°Promise.¡± He trusted his mother.


    She took off a ring, a simple band of radiant gold that circled one of her fingers, rather awkwardly, as she still held Heos. Then she showed it to the child.


    ¡°This is gold. Look, isn¡¯t it pretty?¡±


    The prince¡¯s small hands grabbed the gold ring, bringing it up to his eyes, entranced by the metal.


    ¡°Yes, it¡¯s pretty¡­¡± The golden shine of the band took hold of him. Then, raising his sight, he pointed towards the ceiling, towards the gold-plated decorations which lined the villa¡¯s tall vaults. ¡°Mama, is that gold?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡± She walked around with Heos held. The child would point things in shining yellows and golds, and asked, for each one, if they were the aurum metal.


    The gold tassels on the grand red curtains. The gold of decoration¡­ the gold frame of a painting depicting his grandfather, Alphonse¡¯s late father. The gold eyes of the Hellian, burning in a large portrait hung in the hall.


    ¡°Mama, who is that? he has fire hair, like you¡­ his eyes are gold, mama are his eyes gold?¡± He pointed surprised.


    ¡°That is your great-great-grandfather, Heos, King Alexandre IX.¡±


    ¡°Grea¡­ Gre¡­ Great-great¡­ grandfather?¡±


    ¡°Your papa must have a papa right?¡±


    Heos thought for a second.


    ¡°Yes, mama¡­ where is papa¡¯s papa?¡±


    ¡°He is no longer here, he is traveling¡­ in the land of fey.¡± He lightly cradled the child, as she spoke, a comforting smile on her lips.


    ¡°He is not here¡­ where is that?¡±


    ¡°Far, far in the west¡­ crossing a path of gold and honey over the ocean mist. Across meadows of a hundred kinds of colored flowers where magical horses graze.¡± She lulled the child with the tale.


    The prince listened attentively.


    ¡°Really?¡± Starry eyed, Heos was mystified. His shining gaze bore into his mother¡¯s eyes.


    ¡°Yes, of course¡­.¡±


    ¡°Mama, if papa has a papa¡­ then does he also have a papa?¡±


    ¡°Mhm. Your great-great-grandfather was the father of the father of the father of your papa.¡± She laughed.


    The prince counted on his hands.


    She continued.


    ¡°They are all in the same land¡­ Which is why they are not here.¡±


    He raised his sight back.


    ¡°Can I go mama? To where they are?¡±


    She smiled, adjusting the child in her embrace.


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    ¡°Not yet. One day¡­ your father, me and you, we¡¯ll all ago, and be together there, how does that sound?¡±


    ¡°Yes!¡± The strange land in his mother¡¯s tale, the iridescent beautiful words she had used ¡ªof which the meaning he only knew half, yet somehow understood¡ª the curiosity in meeting his father¡¯s father and the others as well, as going with his mother and father¡­ crossing the sea, a grand thing he had heard described, saw illustrated, and in paintings, yet had not touched nor felt¡­ It must be a place much grander¡­ even prettier than gold, than this house in which he lived, and the garden he walked in his parent¡¯s arms¡­


    He looked back, at the man with hair of fire and eyes of gold, who lived now in the land of fey. Feeling the aurum band in his hand, he remembered the question.


    ¡°Mama, why is his hair fire? like you. Are his eyes gold?¡±


    ¡°Hmm¡­ well, his hair is fire, like your mama¡¯s. But his eyes are amber, not gold.¡±


    ¡°Amber? What is amber?¡±


    She took to silence for an instant, to think of the words to use.


    ¡°Well¡­ you know honey, yes? You like honey.¡±


    ¡°Mhm, Mhm!¡± He nodded, an exaggerated motion to make clear his liking for the sweet.


    ¡°Amber is like that, like honey, but hard, like gold. And it can¡¯t be eaten!¡± She remarked, in a jovial tone, making sure he understood. Taking the gold band from Heos¡¯ hand, she tapped it with her finger, lightly, and put it back on.


    Although Heos had lived in the villa his whole life, this expanse of time was a mere year¡­ the place was of such a size that, he had, of course, not seen its entirety. He was, also, not often left alone, being accompanied by his mother, father, his uncle or the maids and servants across the rooms of his home.


    His mother let him down, so that he may walk. He ran, although never too far from Marenisse.


    His interested gazes at the manor¡¯s extravagance died down, when he turned his focus onto a phantasmal swan, immense, coiled onto itself, as a serpent, or a cat, never far from where he was. The figure craned its ivory-colored neck, its beak the tinge of autumn ¡ªits eyes black, as if dressed in mascara, their black ink flowing onto encircle the ocher of its neb¡ª to reach the child¡¯s hands. As he pet it, its feathers comfortably roused.


    He had asked his parents to know more about birds, partly because of interest, and to know, as well, what this companion of his was, he who had wings, and therefore, had to be a bird. Both his father and mother had sat together with him, paging through illustrated tomes of natural history, depicting flocks and species of birds, some, even foreign to the continent¡­ he found, soon, his friend: a swan¡­ he wanted to know what to call it. He had not known much on how to read, he was learning, it was not difficult, quite easy in fact¡­ but he cared more for play.


    ¡®Are you a magic swan? You can fly¡­ but you are a bird¡­ that¡¯s not magic¡­ Mama and papa can¡¯t see you¡­ is that magic? But swans are¡­¡± He thought on and on as he ruffled the bird¡¯s feathers.


    His mother watched him, seeing the display of, what she assumed, was childlike fantasy¡­ Perhaps he was imagining something¡­? She had asked him before what it was that he was doing, and the prince had answered, always, that he was ¡°petting his friend¡±; a large swan, as she heard. It was common for the young to have imaginary friends. However, Marenisse feared her child was growing lonely with no other children, and only his parents and the servants ¡ªand Roderin, on his frequent visits¡ª, to keep him company. Before, the third queen consort had complained incessantly, so as to be moved to the villa, partially because she thought a rest would do Alphonse good, but also, because she was reluctant to raise her child in the palace¡­ Too¡­ tense of a place. Nonetheless, perhaps it was time to go back? Growing alongside his brothers and sisters was an experience she did not want to deprive Heos of¡­ even if some of his fratres would be less than happy with his presence, or indifferent to their youngest brother, and the other consorts¡­ well, she would see¡­ nothing bad would happen to Heos with her and Alphonse present at the palace.


    She also worried, Heos was rather strange, far from a normal child¡­ A prodigy, she thought. It did not bother her, in fact, she felt proud, and the W?lfli-Loggia were not exactly known for being average, or normal, in any manner. She still worried what this would mean for him, in the future¡­


    Her eyes led her back to the portrait of the Hellian¡­ He was thought of as more God than man, inheriting the throne at an even younger age than Alphonse, a prodigy, as well, a Hyperion¡­ even overwhelming glory was a sort of hell¡­


    What uncertainty¡­


    It was the daydreaming that fogged her senses. Why would she need be alert, as if in a hunt, in the inner hall of the villa¡¯s manor? Heos suddenly perking up, like a startled animal, she realized, was what alerted her.


    Screaming. A battle.


    Like that time, more than a year ago.


    ¡°Heos! Come,¡± She waved at her child, who ran back.


    Musket¡¯s firing, as thunder rippling through the air. Unintelligible voices bloating with furious sound. Impacts¡­ was it cursing¡­ What was happening?


    She held onto Heos, and, immediately, thought of a place to hide. The second floor.


    She did not distrust the royal guard, how could she? But it was her son¡¯s life.


    Taking the prince into her arms and carrying him, she ran towards the grand ladder at the back of the hall.


    Just like the time before, she would wait, and the captain would appear, brief her, and contact Alphonse through the Hi¨¦ron.


    It occurred to her¡­ were there not Hi¨¦ron agents stationed in the villa? Where? Heos would be safer taking refuge with them.


    The colors of the hall turned a blur as she ran, encumbered by the child and her dress, to the stairs.


    Terror.


    Almost frozen, she scuttled back, tripping over the steps and the gown she wore, ensuring however, that Heos ended unharmed.


    ¡°Mama!¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s okay Heos, it¡¯s okay.¡± She half whispered.


    A man, mud caking his legs, and dried leaves and twigs snagged on his unremarkable clothing, appeared atop the stairs, looking down. The light of madness subtly possessed his eyes, as he watched the fallen queen, his gaze centering on the prince. His right hand pulled a knife from under the leaf stormed coat, like a rag of common wool draping over his chest.


    ¡°Kill it, before¡­ before¡­ The light, the end.¡± The insane mutterings of a madman, which he struggled to heave through labored breaths.


    Marenisse rose quickly, holding the flowing stele of her loose gown in a hand, and asking Heos to stand on his own. She took his arm and began to run, only to be surprised with the madman tumbling as a stone down the stairs, rabid, with inhuman speed, barreling towards the prince with the knife raised, as a stinger set to pierce his heart. Ignoring the certainly broken bones, the cuts, the bruises, the pain, the man lunged, helped by the strength and impulse of some second wind, some otherworldly vigor.


    She let go of the child.


    ¡°Run.¡± Commanding Heos.


    And turned to stop the attacker, to tangle the knife with her flesh, to lodge it, tight between her ribs, if need be, so that it could not be used against the prince.


    ¡°Sw¨­pij¨­ [Fall asleep].¡±


    An order, which, when heard, tangled the minds of the queen and the madman. It pierced through their brain stems, their consciousness freezing, so suddenly, in less than the span of a breath, congealing all cognition into the soundless deep of a lightless dream. Their nerves settled, their heart rates stilled, the raging flow of their blood abated, as their bodies fell, as if their souls had been spirited away, into the land of the fey.


    The queen gracefully decelerated, her body landing softly ¡ªone would think cushioned by eiderdown¡ª, beautifully settling, with peaceful expression, on the floor.


    The madman, however, dropped like a log, face-first, with a hearty thud, bruising his body even further.


    And the knife, like held by a phantom, dangled off the air, ignoring the force that wished to hold it down and plunge it into the earth.


    Heos, who, just instants prior, was ready to run, to obey his mother, found himself in the arms of a wizened, ancient looking sage, as he levitated off the floor, his waving, myriad-blue robes swirling, tempestuous.


    The ancient¡¯s beard bunched up, in front of him, so lengthy and snow white it was, it reminded him of swan¡¯s feathers.


    ¡°Possessed imbecile¡­ looking to kill my apprentice, eh?¡± The clearly mocking words did not affect the sage¡¯s expression, who still looked as if pondering some profound mystery, or an ancient tale. ¡°Whose peon are you¡­?¡±


    Heos realized, he was flying¡­ well, the man was flying¡­ He looked strange¡­ why was his hair white? Why was his skin¡­ like that? His hand and fingers looked and felt strange, not at all like his parent¡¯s. His clothes¡¯ colors moved¡­ what? Why was mama asleep¡­? Was she okay?


    ¡°Mama!¡± The boy reached out, looking to free himself from the old mage¡¯s arm.


    ¡°Be calm, child, she¡¯s asleep, nothing more.¡±


    The prince, as if unhearing, kept trying to claw out.


    The sage shook his head.


    ¡°S¨¥knis [Calm].¡± He chanted, and a single drop of blood streamed down his nose, which then disappeared. The prince suddenly stilled; his mind clear.


    Heos once again realized he was flying, the man was flying. He relaxed, falling back into the old mage¡äs hold.


    Like a bird¡­


    ¡°Magic, is this magic?¡± The now amazed child wondered aloud. His question only vaguely directed at the mage.


    The sage had entered some sort of contemplation, one hand on his chin while the other held the child.


    ¡°Hm¡­? Yes.¡± He answered absentmindedly. Then, looked at the man-sized swan, coiled around him and the prince, mostly. ¡°You could do nothing¡­?¡± He asked the animal phantasm, who, again, demonstrating its expressiveness, managed to show, in some strange manner, a countenance of guilt and helplessness.


    ¡®It was good I acted the sentinel¡­ Hm¡­ how do I twist this scene so that it is believable¡­ the woman is Austanfangr, yes¡­ Perhaps¡­¡¯ A budding machination simmered within the old sage¡¯s head.


    The knife, still hinged on empty air, floated towards his free hand, settling comfortably within his grip.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Prince Heos. Please forget for now.¡± He twirled the blade in his hand¡­ so comfortable, he was, one would think it part of his own arm.


    ¡°Forget¡­?¡± The child did not understand the sage¡¯s request.


    ¡°Sw¨­pij¨­ [Fall asleep]


    K¨¥l¨¡j¨­ [Hide]¡±


    A dark blue sky, a starless night¡­ as all fell into an ocean of warmth. Memories dragged to the bottom of a shadow, far beyond the depth of his mind. The hall, dismantled into strings of cobalt tones, into shards of something¡­ something¡­ what was it¡­ the hall¡­ gold¡­ swan¡­ sound¡­ then, what? Figures liquefied, made sweetwater¡­ fey, honey, flowers¡­ great-great-great-gre¡­ ma¡­ huh? Where¡­


    A star of amber flickered, new, in the sky¡­ slowly fading as he sank.

 10 – Madness

    What madness.


    A sight he expected from the colonies¡­ some 15 years ago?


    Not a single royal guard had died¡­ all he saw was a field of shoddily dressed bodies, contorted in their last breaths. No grimacing from death rattles, only rigid expressions of¡­ fanaticism? like holy warriors going to war¡­ waterlogged red, the villa turned a marsh of blood.


    The smell of copper and rust. It moved him not.


    Was he really so useless to the crown? So unfit for his post?


    No, no¡­ this was something else.


    Not a single whisper of rebellion, no association, no conspiracies¡­ these madmen had sprung up from somewhere unseen, like worms after a spring rain.


    Too far in his own head¡­ his shoes were soddened red, half stepping in a puddle of blood.


    This one¡­ middle aged, emaciated. A musket wound had prettied him up. Cracked up, blooming, like a ripe plum splattered on the ground. Missing teeth on the somewhat intact lower jaw. Dirt under the nails¡­ what kind of worker? Or was it dirt from scampering into the villa?


    How to identify this one¡­


    ¡®Hah¡­¡¯ He looked up, the pretty autumn sky, clouds as lead smoke filling up heaven¡­ like the lead musket balls. ¡®Leave it to the others.¡¯ Walking away from the body, his footfall crackled, crushing the dry leaves under, occasionally ceasing when he stepped on stagnant blood.


    A guard, red, gold, white, half saluted, tall as a beanpole ¡ªfresh blue eyes muddied with the frigid blood-mire of guilt¡ª and spoke, an authoritative voice weakened, diluted in the sadness contained within the autumn air.


    ¡°Minister de la Rosa, please follow me.¡±


    ¡°Mhm.¡± He hummed out. Taking off his blood tinted shoes to the momentary confusion of the guard, as he entered the villa¡¯s main building.


    ¡°What has his Majesty said?¡± The minister asked.


    The guard¡¯s gray feelings flared.


    ¡°A top asking for your presence, nothing more.¡±


    ¡®A black mood, yes, yes¡­¡¯ He prepared. He had failed his king a second time on this matter. Alphonse was not one with much a liking for screaming tirades¡­ but, if this is what he was met with, he accepted it. True stupidity¡­ he looked worse than Bass¨¢th now.


    A shiver. Hands in the pockets of his overcoat. Was it suddenly colder?


    ¡°How many would you say there were?¡± He asked the guard.


    ¡°I¡­ I¡­¡± Was it a dream¡­? ¡°a hundred fifty, perhaps?¡± A hundred and fifty unarmed madmen storming the villa. This had to be Hi¨¦ron¡¯s greatest failure.


    A fitting thought as he passed a portrait of his Majesty Alexandre.


    A hand on his face, pulling down.


    Servants were questioned by Hi¨¦ron agents. Was it good that he had sent his agents ahead? Or was it an insult to arrive later than his subordinates?


    A meek looking maid trembled, still hearing the muskets scream, the men combust in rage.


    An old gardener looking fellow sat while talking. Although composed, his hands tightened¡­ righteous indignation perhaps?


    The inside of the manor was in a¡­ suspended state. Two worlds, separated by only the building walls. So picturesque, so beautiful¡­ unmarred by the battle ¡ªmassacre, more like it¡ª, outside.


    The gold, lustrous¡­ the chandeliers, the silk, the ornate rugs¡­ silver accented furniture, carved by some masterful hand. The ceiling, high and florid, the large, draping red curtains¡­


    ¡°What?¡±


    The guard slightly whirled, rapidly straightening again.


    Two others turned.


    ¡°Your Majesty, Minister Lanthym.¡± De la Rosa greeted with a bow, rapidly composing himself.


    Alphonse, seated on the grand stairs, spoke to the guard.


    ¡°Return.¡±


    ¡°Yes, your Majesty.¡± The tall melancholic answered with a deep salute.


    And turned away.


    Lanthym merely stood, eyes curving back, fixed on the body sprawled on the ground, a pool of blood encircling it¡­ like an island on a sunlit sea.


    How had one of the madmen reached the manor hall¡­?


    He braced for whatever his King would utter, yet¡­


    All kept silent.


    Finally, Alphonse spoke, nothing but a confused grimace on his face.


    ¡°Raoul¡­ Is this all not too absurd¡­? or am I going mad?¡±


    Not a hint of anger flushed his tone.


    ¡°Huh?¡± The minister was truly stunned.


    ¡°I feel like in a play¡­¡± He rose, and circled the body while comfortably pacing, a gold feathered griffon flying around strange carrion. ¡°Or a dream¡­¡±


    ¡°Your Majesty, I, the Hi¨¦¡ª¡± His confession ¡ªan admission of guilt¡ª, effect of what he believed to be a rhetorical comment from the monarch¡­ ¡®The Hi¨¦ron is so incompetent I feel as if in a dream.¡¯ or something of the sort, was cut short.


    ¡°Dispense of the formality¡­¡± His mist-eyes rose, ultramarine and saintly¡­ if separated from the king they would turn to priceless jewels. ¡°Do you feel guilt?¡±


    ¡°Yo¡ª¡±


    A rising hand perched on his shoulder.


    ¡°Do not¡­ I detest self-flagellation¡­.¡± He straightened his posture, arched from gazing at the corpse, and ran his fingers back through his hair. From under a red coat, lined tastefully with gold accents, he pulled a cigarillo¡­ lit suddenly, he took it to his lips. A puff of smoke warned the king¡¯s next words. ¡°To hold you at fault for this¡­ It would be¡­ as the emperor lashing his astrologers after the sun chose not to rise for a day¡­¡± He scratched his brows with a free thumb. ¡°In short, it is not only futile¡­ I would be punishing an innocent.¡±


    De la Rosa, however, insisted.


    ¡°Your Majesty, with all do respe¡ª¡± A tired look from the king snuffed out his phrase.


    ¡°I¡¯m sure you know, and I know as well¡­ Lanthym here knows too. These people, these madmen, they came out of nowhere¡­ No organization, no gatherings, no coordination. At first, they were twenty or so¡­ all commonality was artistry and poverty¡­ now, with these hundred and fifty, give or take¡­¡± He ashed the cigarillo into a golden case, looking down, punctuating his words. ¡°I have truly started to believe there is something¡­ some lunacy, something¡­ just out of sight¡­ this¡± He gestured wide, extending his arms. ¡°This, it is wrong.¡± His head shook involuntarily.


    Lanthym scoffed.


    An eyebrow raised, a questioning tone draping his words, he spoke.


    ¡°So what? wish to bring a name-singer? perhaps an alchemist, an astrologer? Worse yet, a hierophant straight from Aam¨¢rtus?¡±


    Alphonse seemed to not notice the remark.


    ¡°Then? Alistair, can you make sense of this¡­?¡±


    ¡°Poverty is not uncommon, and it drives men mad. Especially artists, who are already half lost. Outbreaks of collective¡­ animic imbalance, hallucinations, crazed fervor and so on are not too strange a sight, one must merely look at history¡­¡± Clutching his chin, the old minister hummed. ¡°Certain growths, ill processed, in low quality grain¡­ contaminants in water, exposure to deep-earth vapors, allucinatic herbs¡­ all these, if distributed broadly, in the slum markets where cleanliness and rigor are nary in sight, would lead to symptoms¡­ inflaming the humors of these already rebellious and¡­ unhappy individuals¡­ it is not then, too wrong¡± He emphasized, with a side eye at Alphonse. ¡°to conclude the possible origin of this behavior¡­¡± A hum segued into the tail end of his reflection. ¡°This phenomenon was not localized to some miserable artists unhappy at the crown, this time, or just the attack on this villa¡­ rue des bless¨¦s was in turmoil¡­ rue Vuillard as well¡­ I believe it is logical for us to inspect incoming grain in the slum markets, their waters¡­ structural deficiencies in the south side¡­ consumption of hypnocaustic brewages and herbs... as well as the situation of the multitudes in these two streets¡­¡± A satisfied hum finished his monologue. ¡°No need for hierophants.¡±


    ¡°Contact the gendarmerie after we¡¯re done, Raoul¡­ Have them carry out what Alistair recommended.¡±


    ¡°Yes¡­ However, may I ask, why did you call me, if it is not for a scolding¡­?¡±


    ¡°God¡­ Am I some tyrant?¡±


    ¡°Perhaps.¡±


    Alistair responded in jest.


    The king sat by the corpse, one hand holding his cheek, the other on his cigarillo.


    ¡°This one.¡± He pointed with the lit tobacco. ¡°Used the chaos, somehow¡­ and eluded the guards, climbed up to the second floor, entered through an opened window? Alerted not a single servant, nor the Hi¨¦ron agents you had stationed here, and attacked Marenisse and Heos.¡±


    Raoul shook, vexed.


    ¡°She killed him¡­ with¡­¡± The king leveled his head to the ground, one cheek on the floor, and aimed his hand at the knife, deeply buried into the dead man¡¯s chest. ¡°That.¡±


    De la Rosa copied him.


    He saw, lightly jutting out, a crude wood handle, almost imperceptibly raising the corpse¡¯s stilled chest.


    ¡°That¡­?¡± The minister murmured.


    Alistair slid into the exchange, finding an opportunity.


    ¡°May I ask why the third queen consort, and the young prince, were still in this villa after a crazed attack by madmen?¡± Actual confusion skimmed through the cracks of his tone. ¡°Why was I not told of this first, seemingly otherworldly siege on the royal family at the time of its occurrence?¡±Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.


    Alphonse retorted, disinterested.


    ¡°The Hi¨¦ron had nothing on the first attackers. Even after I interrogated their leader, or their lead¡­ the head madman¡­ I aimed to bait a new attack¡­ and then get information¡­ hear, even a whisper, of organization in the southside, or other back alleys of the city¡­ I suppose we accomplished half the goal¡­¡± The king rose, dusted himself, and threw the extinguished end of his tobacco in the golden case. He looked at Lanthym, dead eyed. ¡°I assure you, minister Lanthym¡­ there will be no vapors, no hypnocaustic herbs¡­ no growths¡­ to explain this.¡±


    Having expected an answer that would quell his doubts, Alistair spoke, incensed.


    ¡°This is profoundly out of character for you Alphonse¡­ You could have left decoys in this villa, and moved her Highness and the prince¡­¡± He waved indignantly. ¡°No, no, why endanger the life of these two people¡­? Whom, I know you hold in highest importance in your heart. Have you gone mad?¡±


    The king rose his gaze, piercing the gilded roofs, the clouds¡­


    ¡°I just knew¡­ somehow, I knew¡­ they would not come if Marenisse and Heos were not here¡­ and, I also knew they would be unscathed¡­¡± He sighed, then chuckled. ¡°Perhaps I have truly gone mad¡­ My apologies Alistair, I will consult with you if the need arises¡­ you are first minister for a reason. I do not know what came over me.¡±


    Lanthym looked at his king, bewildered.


    Raoul¡¯s voice interjected.


    ¡°Her Highness and the prince¡­ are they truly uninjured?¡±


    ¡°Yes¡­ Marenisse is not even shaken¡­ and Heos is sleeping.¡± He turned his back to Lanthym. ¡°How do you suppose he managed to enter the manor?¡±


    De la Rosa rose. Still fixed on the corpse.


    ¡°There have been no rains these last days¡­¡± He paced, aiming to look at the dead man from a different angle. ¡°The leaves stuck to his coat¡­ and¡­¡± He pointed and the loose leaves on the hall¡¯s grand steps. ¡°Those, are not from hawthorns nor sycamores¡­¡± He took one, freeing it from the coat, closely observing it. ¡°This one is from an apple tree¡­ that one, a plum tree.¡± He turned to silence for a moment. ¡°You are still getting the orchards watered, yes? I suppose there lay the mud¡¯s provenance¡­¡± He folded to the side, to see the man¡¯s fingers. ¡°These are rather rugged, wounded? I cannot tell though the blood¡­ and would not know if it¡¯s the cause of work or climbing the manor¡¯s side... If he were an artist, I would expect¡­¡± He stood upright and sighed. ¡°This is pointless¡­ you know all this already?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡± The king deadpanned. ¡°I wished to consult you on how he got past the guards and the servants.¡±


    ¡°Luck? Fervor¡­? He clearly scampered through the orchards and up the walls¡­ how he did that, how no one noticed him¡­ I would not want to accuse the royal guards of incompetence¡­ or worse¡­¡± He slicked back his falling obsidian hair. ¡°Wish to investigate¡­ surveil¡­?¡± He innocently recommended.


    The king pondered.


    ¡°Guard.¡± He intoned, with more heft than his words before.


    A uniformed man, tall as two, and perfectly proportioned, entered the hall, saluting, silent.


    ¡°Call for Visurgis. I need him.¡± Alphonse ordered without looking the man¡¯s way.


    The guard saluted again and left.


    The three men waited in silence, Lanthym, particularly, was still dazed¡­ be it his king¡¯s strange endangerment of two of the only people he loved¡­ The vague, mystical haziness he used to justify his behavior, or his quick, surprisingly immediate ¡ªperhaps feigned?¡ª yielding to critique¡­ It was all truly incomprehensible.


    Alistair tapped his foot, thinking.


    Then, a tall, greyed man, clean shaven and extremely dignified, in a red, gold, white uniform, entered, bowing with reverence. A hint of shame colored his imposing, knightly frame.


    ¡°Your Majesty. You called for me.¡±


    ¡°Adalmund, what do you believe caused this¡­ overt humiliation of the royal guard.¡±


    ¡°My incompetence, your Majesty. I ask you punish me.¡± The commander kneeled, his tone now dripping with shame.


    Alphonse kept silent.


    The two ministers shared a heavy look.


    ¡°Should I punish, not only you, but the entirety of the guard¡­? After all, to allow such an attempt on the prince¡¯s and queen¡¯s life¡­ is it not the sin of all guards?¡±


    ¡°The men of the guard defended this manor valiantly, it is only because of my ineptitude as their commander, as tactician, and as guard, that the prince and queen were put in peril. All punishment should befall me, all penance should be borne by the guard¡¯s commander.¡±


    Another heavy silence covered them. Alphonse bore his eyes at the old guard¡¯s bowing head. His arm outstretched to the side; the king pointed to one of his ministers.


    ¡°Minister de la Rosa, here, ¡ªalthough he wished not to malign the royal guard¡ª believes it would be pertinent to investigate the men, to hold them under Hi¨¦ron scrutiny, for, other than luck, or¡­ the powers of an entity otherworldly¡­¡± He chuckled. Raoul¡¯s eyes widened at this obvious bending of his words. ¡°The only logical reason for this man¡¯s¡± He kicked the corpse, marring his shoe in red. ¡°unimpeded infiltration into the manor hall, would be the existence of a traitor¡­ a rogue agent in the royal guards who aims for the prince¡¯s life, collaborating, or using, these madmen.¡± He sighed. ¡°Tell me, guard commander Adalmund Hessiah et Visurgis¡­ what do you think of this theory.¡±


    Although his face went unseen, from the tensing of his muscles, and the tightening of his fists, the commander¡¯s opinion seemed clear.


    ¡°Your Majesty, such a thing is impossible. Not only are guards selected from the scions of royalist families, but they are also beholden to each other, and the Hi¨¦ron, this is impossible¡­ impossible¡­ You know these men, your Majesty, this is fantasy.¡± His tone, even weakened by guilt, allowed no retort.


    ¡°Hm¡­ So, I must punish you, not only for your failings, but for the guards¡¯ sin¡­ and, if there is a traitor, your negligence and shortsightedness have helped hide him, willingly or not¡­¡± His foot tapped. ¡°¡­commander, hand me your sword.¡±


    Unquestioningly, Adalmund unsheathed his saber, held at his waist, and presented it, flat, with both hands, to his king.


    Alphonse took the saber.


    ¡°I can think of no other punishment, with such sins accrued, than death. If I intend to take your head, here, guard commander Adalmund, would you protest, would you resist?¡± The king¡¯s bland tone, muted, turned his words to cold steel, far sharper than the blade at his hand.


    ¡°No, your Majesty. If it is so, then it shall be. My life is yours, and I see no other medium of absolution for my incompetence.¡±


    The Blood-caped hummed. His left hand rose, the argent saber, unsheathed, hovering over the guard¡¯s neck.


    Alphonse stood, like this, contemplating, for a few breaths.


    ¡°See, Lanthym? I am no tyrant.¡± He smiled.


    The blade returned to his side, then, turning it, aptly, with only a hand, he held its sharp end, pointing the handle at the kneeling man.


    ¡°Such extreme measures will not be necessary¡­ Here, your blade.¡± Adalmund took it, sheeting it once more. ¡°Have the men hold the villa¡¯s perimeter, and keep the detachment I ordered on Marenisse and Heos.¡±


    ¡°Yes, your Majesty.¡±


    ¡°Return.¡±


    The commander rose, bowed, and left the hall, walking proudly, nobly.


    Once he had left, Alphonse spoke once again.


    ¡°Have two agents per guard, surveil and investigate them anyway, including Adalmund.¡± He ordered the air while adjusting his sleeves.


    Unsurprised, Raoul assented.


    ¡°It will be done.¡±


    Lanthym shook his head, his foot starting to tap again.


    *


    ¡°You remember nothing?¡±


    ¡°Nothing after I killed him, I must have fainted¡­ Hit my head...¡± Marenisse wondered, although no wound showed on her brow.


    ¡°And you, Heos? Do you remember?¡±


    The child eyed an illustrated collection on the birds of Romanse. Looking up, distracted by his father¡¯s question, he spoke.


    ¡°Hum¡­ I remember running¡­ then¡­¡± He shook his head, turning back to the book.


    Alphonse, although not surprised at the child¡¯s lapse in memory ¡ªseveral things could explain such forgetfulness¡ª, was mildly worried at the prince¡¯s indifference¡­ He had not seen his mother take the attacker¡¯s life, yet, he had heard the screaming, the powder and fire crack the air apart, his mother¡¯s order to run¡­ he had seen the crazed madman¡­ yet seemed unmoved¡­ He had only a year of age, a strange, prodigious grasp on language did not exempt him from the particularities of infancy, at least, that is what the king supposed¡­ Could this child understand what had happened? consider, in his mind¡¯s palace, his close shear with death, his mother¡¯s life tethering on the edge¡­?


    He decided, until the villa was cleaned, the corpses investigated by the Hi¨¦ron, and all had returned to normalcy, he would keep Heos in the upper reaches of the manor. Space and entertainment were abundant¡­ after, he would move him, with Marenisse, to the palace¡­ something he was rather reluctant to do¡­ However, he understood the importance, Marenisse convinced him, as well; she who had, before, so zealously insisted on moving to the villa.


    ¡°Come Heos.¡± The queen consort picked up the prince, his hands still holding the tome, as she settled him on the large bed, cradled with her. ¡°Heos, mama has a question.¡±


    The prince, an innocent, wondering look clear in his eyes, looked up at his mother.


    ¡°Yes mama?¡±


    ¡°Would you like to leave, Heos? We will move to the palace, where you¡¯ll get to play with and meet your brothers and sisters, we¡¯ll see the city, and you will get to see swans¡­ it will be more fun¡­.¡± She smiled.


    ¡°Really?! Hmm¡­ Ok. But can we come back later? I like this house.¡± His jolly tone made his words all the more infantile.


    ¡°We¡¯ll come back, but it will take some time.¡± Alphonse added.


    ¡°Mhm¡­¡± He returned to the book.


    The queen merely smiled.


    ¡°How did you take the knife from him?¡± The king questioned, curiosity clear.


    ¡°What? You doubt me?¡± She grinned at the king. ¡°Please¡­ Am I some feeble dame? He was crazed, frenzied, and I still took it from him¡­¡± She laughed. ¡°Perhaps I should be the one guarding Visurgis?¡± She raised an eyebrow in thought, smugly asserting. ¡°Hm! If I hadn¡¯t been in this cumbersome dress, perhaps I would have taken his head as well, not just his life!¡±


    Heos stopped reading and asked.


    ¡°Mama, what is ¡°take his head"?"


    Marenisse looked stumped for a moment.


    ¡°To utterly defeat someone.¡± She nodded, a satisfied look on her face.


    ¡°What Is u¡ª ut¡ª utte¡ª utterly.¡± The word finally stammered out.


    ¡°Well¡­¡±


    As the prince and queen went back and forth, Alphonse sank deep in his mind, analyzing all that he knew of this event. The suddenly appearing madmen, the impossible intrusion of the knife wielding lunatic into the manor¡­ most importantly¡­ he would understand if they wished to kill him¡­ but an infant prince? And for a second time¡­ The location of the manor was no secret, yet¡­ why had they come here first, instead of the palace? as if they knew they would find his child here¡­ Why were they all artists? When they identified the bodies, would they all still be mis¨¦rables? What about the other outbursts across the city¡­? Why had he been so sure no harm would befall the prince or queen? It was not just a gut feeling, an instinct¡­ it seemed to be an evident truth, something so obvious there was no point in questioning its veracity¡­ something hung deep in his consciousness¡­


    As he spiraled, a guard¡¯s voice crossed the room¡¯s threshold.


    ¡°Your Majesty, Minister de Lamartine has arrived.¡± He declared.


    ¡°Let him in.¡± His soliloquy dissolved into the back of his mind.


    A slightly disheveled, ordinary looking man entered, his brown eyes nervously scanning the room. After seeing all those present, whole and unharmed, he heaved a sigh of relief.


    ¡°Lamartine!¡± Marenisse exclaimed. ¡°You¡¯re fine, are you? I heard you were caught up in the disorder at rue Vuillard¡­¡±


    Heos smiled.


    ¡°Uncle!¡± He happily blurted out.


    Roderin¡¯s heavy breaths stilled.


    ¡°God¡­ from what I heard you two had been attacked.¡± His tone showed genuine gladness at their being unharmed.


    ¡°Marenisse killed the attacker¡­ fainted after¡­ all is well.¡± Alphonse assured his friend.


    Both men half-hugged.


    Roderin sat in a carved, silver accented chair, deep rose-brown aromatic wood making up its body.


    ¡°Really?¡± He asked, a bit incredulous.


    ¡°Of course! You doubt me too?¡±


    ¡°No, no¡­ it is just surprising¡­ I am fine as well, Minister d¡¯Ruissaumbe had¡­ uh, invited me out to lunch. I was with him, and we rerouted¡­ we returned, as his retainer noticed some commotion ahead.¡±


    ¡°Hm.¡± Alphonse merely hummed.


    ¡°You killed him? And the guards¡­ the Hi¨¦ron?¡± Roderin returned to surprising, although believable news.


    ¡°Gods, I. Killed. Him. Would I let some possessed plebeian attempt to take my son¡¯s life and not¡­ summarily execute him!? Marenisse declared, haughty and prideful.


    ¡°Madness. He got past them, climbed up to the manor¡¯s second story and got in.¡± The king asserted, as for the matter of the secret protectors...


    ¡°I did not hear much from the Hi¨¦ron agent you sent to the ministry¡­ How is the city?¡±


    ¡°All is calm now. The crazed have been taken by the gendarmerie or killed. We will see¡­¡±


    Heos jumped into the conversation.


    ¡°Uncle, we will go to the palace, did you know? How is the palace?¡±


    ¡°The palace¡­? No, I did not know¡­ It is a beautiful place; you will like it.¡±


    The prince, convinced by Lamartine¡¯s brief words, widened his eyes, now filled with expectation for the place where he would be moved into.


    And as all conversed, Alphonse returned to his thoughts. The was something¡­ what was it? The air fluttered¡­ something, something¡­ just outside. He looked out the window, the lead gray sky, cloud filled¡­ The pale gloom, like fingers, raining down, crushing under their weight the fragile form of his reign¡­


    The day was dying down.


    He closed his eyes.


    How tired¡­


    Even steeped in madness, it was all so drab.

 11 – Palace

    Roll roll roll¡­


    Roll¡­ roll¡­ roll.


    Bump bump bump¡­


    ¡°Mama I can¡¯t read!¡±


    ¡°Of course, Heos. It¡¯s hard to read in a carriage.¡± Marenisse pretended to think, a finger at her lips. ¡°How about¡­ you look out the window? The city is interesting, isn¡¯t it? You wanted to see it.¡±


    ¡°Ok¡­¡± He didn¡¯t like reading anyway¡­ he just wanted to look at the drawings of swans and nightingales.


    Peeking his head, his hands on the dark wood, he gazed out the carriage.


    He had been surprised, wasn¡¯t a carriage a toy? Why was this one so big?


    ¡°It is so people can move about faster.¡± His mother had told him.


    Outside¡­ was this the city?


    ¡°Pretty¡­¡±


    It was all so brilliant¡­ the flowers, the white stone¡­ wait¡­


    ¡°Mama, why is that man made of stone?! Why is he not moving?¡± He half screamed, as children do.


    ¡°That¡¯s a sculpture Heos¡­ artists make them out of stone. But they are not people, they are not alive.¡± Marenisse answered, smiling all the while, and ruffling his hair.


    So many people side to side¡­ on the other side of the street as well¡­ Their animated voices, their clamoring, like white noise¡­ so many colors¡­ so many houses¡­ What was that? Piercing into the sky...


    He had also been surprised by the horses¡­


    So many horses followed the carriage¡­


    An escort, an entourage. The royal guard, armed and shining, with Adalmund at the lead, like a fairytale knight¡­ perhaps too old to be one. Banners raised in Alphonse¡¯s colors, in the colors of the Austaufangr-C¨¦line by their side¡­ all trotting, so regal, in chivalrous splendor. The Asphodeli filled, its sides bursting in straight serpents of men and women, spotted in dark tones, for the gentlemen, and lighter pastels for the women.


    Even if they began to disdain their king¡­ even if sudden madness took over streets of the city¡­ wasn¡¯t a royal parade an interesting thing to see? Of course, the present royalists waved, smiled, joyfully bellowed as well. Women showered the passing guards with the fresh petals of wild roses, the Royal flower of Romanse, of the W?lfli-Loggia ¡ªpar excellence¡ª, from terraces and balconies; they hung banners as well, mirroring the procession. The gendarmerie held them all in line.


    Ably hidden among the crowds were those seeking¡­ clues for madmen, potential instigators¡­ ploys¡­ watching; perfectly camouflaged, they cheered or looked silently.


    The world must truly love the royals; the leaden clouds had bowed out of their stage, opening heaven¡¯s skin to its perfect celeste flesh. The sun hung golden, blinding, lightly heating the air, lightly melting all color under its sight, making beauty all the more brilliant.


    In this way did the royal procession advance.


    Alphonse rested in the gold carved carriage, closed eyed.


    Heos looked, almost feverishly, at all the things under the sun which, before, he had never seen.


    So awed was he at the crowds, the rain of petals, the stone, the sculptures, the grand fountains, flowers and yellow leafed elm trees which lined the way¡­ the four, five floored buildings through which the road cut, that he held his breath, and asked not a single question to his mother, who watched him and smiled.


    The swan looked out as well, a curious glint in its eyes, somehow.


    Heos snapped back.


    ¡°Mama I want to go out!¡± He threw himself in her arms. ¡°Can we?¡± His crystalline eyes widening, pleading.


    ¡°Ahh! Aren''t you cute?!¡± She hugged him, kissing his forehead ¡ªa habit now¡ª, half squealing. ¡°But, no, we cannot, Heos.¡± She answered back, resisting the child¡¯s eyes.


    ¡°Why?¡± He asked, truly confused, still prisoned by his mother¡¯s embrace.


    A couple of strong arms picked him up, placing him in a familiar lap.


    ¡°It is dangerous. And royalty should be seldom seen.¡± His father declared, adjusting him on his leg.


    ¡°Wha¡­? Royalty¡­ we¡¯re royalty, papa, yes?¡± The child pointed at himself and his parents.


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Ah¡­ what is seldom papa?¡±


    ¡°Little, rarely.¡±


    Heos scrunched his face, thinking, making an admittedly adorable expression as he processed the words.


    ¡°But why papa?¡± He questioned, once done contemplating.


    ¡°You will understand later on.¡± An indifferent answer blasted apart any opposition.


    Heos pouted¡­ what did this even mean? He could feel time, yes, as if immersed in a world-river, perfectly transparent¡­ however, to understand ¡ªthis moment to the next, as it were¡ª what time was¡­ Perhaps his mind was not yet wide enough to fit within itself the whole of time. Tomorrow¡­ tomorrow¡­ the day after that¡­ like every day had a father and a son, like him¡­ was time a child, was time a family? ¡®Later on¡­¡¯ His father¡¯s words chimed¡­ but he wanted to, now.


    His father was not like his mother. Closed off answers to his unending questions¡­ so sharp and thin, yet with strange dept, were his father¡¯s specialty¡­ unlike his mother¡¯s magical, wide ¡ªlike an open-winged swan¡ª responses, which he unraveled, one after the other, unceasingly.


    He turned back to the window. People like little petals, each of them, or like small grains, like splintered shards of graphite, like the pebbles in a road. He could, partially, hold his eyes on one or two before they left, watching them, scavenging to the last detail before time took them away.


    Futher up, dressed in tasteful color, women¡­ somehow like his mother, but not really¡­ men¡­ but none like his father. And children, small, with¡­ their eyes¡­


    He had seen himself in a mirror, a couple of times, so he would recognize the look his eyes, his face, his hair, his body had¡­ but no child shared something, that something¡­ they reminded him of the horses more like¡­ even the adults sometimes; they looked more like the horses, rather than resemble his parents¡­ some of the servants back at the manor had that, as well.


    In a breath, a gray headed gentleman ¡ªaffluent, although he would not really know¡ª blinked past. Finally, his surprise could not be contained.


    A distant familiarity, like a dream splintering off from its black rest into conscious thought.


    ¡°Mama! What¡­!¡± He tried to look back, kneeling on the comfortable seats, having left his father¡¯s knee for the window. ¡°That!¡± He swiveled back, fast like a spinning top, to his mother. ¡°That man!¡±


    ¡°Yes, yes¡­ calm down Heos, I know you¡¯re excited about something, but no screaming, understood?¡± Airy seriousness, a stern tone, suffused Marenisse¡¯s words.


    ¡°Yes¡­¡± He answered back.


    ¡°Now, what was it that you saw?¡± She switched back to sing-song gentleness.


    Heos whirled, once, to the window, back to his mother after.


    ¡°A man¡­ his hair was gray¡­ he was¡­ his skin¡­¡± He searched for words.


    ¡°Was it¡­ as a withered flower, or a piece of crumpled paper?¡± The queen paced her words


    ¡°Yes!¡± He jumped.


    His mother smiled.


    ¡°He is old.¡±


    ¡°Old¡­¡±


    ¡°You are a child, you know that, yes?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    She picked him up.


    ¡°And papa, uncle Roderin and me, were adults, yes?¡±


    ¡°Hmh.¡± He comfortably wondered.


    ¡°You could say that, after an adult, you get an old person¡­ The older, the closer they are to the fey¡­ across the sea¡­¡±


    Some realization swallowed him.


    ¡°Mama, so if a am old, I can go to the land of fey?¡±


    She laughed.


    ¡°Anyone can go¡­ it is only more¡­ fitting if the old go first.¡± She messed up his hair, again. ¡°It is better to be young, however¡­¡± A smile ribboned her words.


    He went silent.


    His father had told him: in time¡­ later on¡­ so he wanted time to pass¡­ and being ¡°an old¡± made one closer to fey¡­ but his mother told him it was better to be young¡­ Was it not strange? why were they¡­


    ¡°Papa, is it better to be young?¡± He directed an inquisitive gaze to the king, who, so far, listened, close eyed, smiling.


    ¡°It is¡­ there are few miseries greater than old age¡­¡± He added, whispering, not caring if he was heard or not ¡°Than time.¡±


    Thinking carefully ¡ªas carefully as a child could¡ª, Alphonse¡¯s words were swallowed by a million shattered, stuttering thoughts; like the unending pitter-patter of hail, raining violently in his head.


    ¡®Misery¡­ misery¡­ pain?¡¯ Is that what that word meant?


    ¡°Like pain, papa?¡±


    ¡°Far worse than pain. Nothing like pain.¡± Even through the darkened words he held a smile, uncaring.


    Only pain really resembled anything he could think of.


    ¡°Like¡­ when I want to do something, but I cannot?¡± Perhaps that?


    ¡°Yes, similar. As the sensation of falling. Falling through time.¡±


    ¡®Falling¡­¡¯ All he knew of falling was pain, and¡­ yes, there was something, like a pressure in his belly, like a hole bore through him, very, very small, somewhere....


    ¡°Gods, what dreary topics. Come.¡± She picked the child up. ¡°Let¡¯s look out the window. Your papa is terrible with children¡­¡± The last words sharpened, a jab.


    His mind leapt, between the city, the people, the streets, and his father¡­


    The figure piercing through the roofs grew closer.


    The swan looked, interested, at Alphonse.


    Roll roll roll¡­


    *


    ¡°These are the Ieunn gardens¡­ Well, it is really just one large garden.¡±


    ¡°Pretty¡­¡± A maremagnum of color, of wildly growing flowers, of bursting shades spiraling out, violently climbing, bidding for sun.


    ¡°Ifunn, Ifun¡­¡± He attempted to pronounce.


    Unlike the carefully tended gardens of the villa, this was¡­ chaos. Like the rainbow had cracked, splintered and fallen off of heaven, landing its mangled body on earth.


    Many attributed the birth of aestheticism as a movement, of les esth¨¨tes ¡ªonce called d¨¦cadents by critique¡ª to these gardens. The zenith of the Hellian¡¯s love for beauty, of his unbridled obsession for grand monuments of splendor, a most magnificent congealment of his maximalism. Named after a fyrian goddess ¡ªcause of slight rumours¡ª dotted with flowers plundered from all over the world, and famously, wildly growing apple-trees, ever in bloom; however, that flower which most notably speckled the garden was of almost translucent pastels: the wild rose. History revealed: once called dog rose, it was adopted, at some indeterminate time, as the flower of Romanse; and so, its olden, vulgar name faded¡­ not many would call the royal rose a dog, considering, atop, the royal family¡¯s name.


    And so, this fabled garden, like the hypnocaustic dreams of a hedonist, grew unconstrained, its tending, a mystery, held only by royal gardeners.


    ¡°So pretty¡­¡± Even more stunning than the city, than the procession¡­ this¡­ it wormed its way into the curious prince¡¯s mind, settling there, unobstructed, gilded; a memory then on, forever.If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    ¡°Mama¡­ can I go?¡± His eyes not even turning, his voice mild, too much of his conscience fettered by the flowers.


    She looked at Alphonse, who closed eyed, nodded.


    The gardens were ¡ªmost of their extension¡ª closed off, especially today, because of the procession, and their closeness to the palace.


    ¡°Yes.¡± She knocked on the carriage¡¯s wood. ¡°We¡¯ll walk to the palace.¡±


    The clopping, the rolling, gradually stopped. A guard, closest, left his mount to open the carriage door, lower its steps, and hold out his hand.


    Heos left first, ignoring, or not understanding, the guard¡¯s outstretched gesture. Absentmindedly stepping off, jumping, and running to the closest flowering.


    Marenisse was next, who took the man¡¯s hand and gracefully left the carriage, following behind the child.


    Alphonse was last, the guard retracted his hand.


    ¡°Spread out. Ride slowly until we arrive. Do not trample the flowers.¡±


    The tall soldier saluted, then bowed out.


    The carriage kept its pace, leaving without them.


    He watched Heos run around the garden, guided by Marenisse through the marble road, towards the palace.


    ¡®Like a scene in a fairytale¡­¡¯ He thought.


    The queen walked, one hand lowered holding Heos¡¯ own hand, the other, risen, calling Alphonse as she looked back, smiling.


    A thin, string-like spear of sunlight attempting to erode away his glum mood¡­


    He walked ahead, taking Heos up, with both arms, and seating him on his shoulders, much to the prince¡¯s wonder.


    The guard trotted up ahead.


    *


    Only some servants awaited them at the grand arching silver gates of the palace. Alphonse detested stuffy formality, asking the ground under him not be kissed in some meaningless show of reverence.


    Young men carried off their luggage, kept in the carriage, as the guard was organized by Adalmund.


    There was little shade.


    The entering corridor was surrounded on both sides by fountains, large water bodies with fyrian sculptures of marble; the large figures of gods and heroes, frozen in art. Behind them, a six floored building of grey-blue roofs and light, pastel ochre stone, accented with marigold and white, with columns and carvings, balustrades and balconies, doors of bronze, and perfectly transparent windows of crystal, extended its wings at both sides. Green fields with more marble, like surging bones of a buried past. Gazebos and ponds, hedges stylized in ornate styles by careful hands¡­ The building surrounded them as they walked forward, finally arriving at its doors; white and gold, carved with the sun¡­ and, and, and¡­


    The name villa, applied here, more fittingly perhaps; as it looked to be a village unto itself.


    It was all a bit too much, Alphonse thought. Granted, he could sleep on muddy ground¡­


    Heos¡¯ neck hurt, as it locked, looking up, marveled at all his gaze could hold¡­ his eyes watering from the sun¡­ he preferred the garden, however.


    Marenisse was about to pick him up, lead him into some inner garden or to a room, to bring him around the palace, as to show him some of it, then allow him to explore; to satiate his curiosity, when she noticed¡­


    Falling freely onto the floor, flowing blond hair, like thousands of golden strings.


    A short figure stood, hidden, behind a pillar. Barefooted, it peeked out of its hiding place, letting a pair of eyes, swirling sapphires, like two cut out pieces of summer sky, meet with Marenisse¡¯s sight.


    Alphonse turned, as well, to see the figure walk out, meekly.


    Lightly stammering it spoke.


    ¡°L-lord father¡­! Your Majesty!¡± A soft unsure voice.


    It attempted to bow, but tripped on its simple, frilled, long white dress, or perhaps its golden hair? which grew so long it spilled down to its feet.


    Stumbling, the figure straightened, attempting to make a serious, solemn expression.


    ¡°Annika.¡± Alphonse gently addressed her. ¡°Thank you for receiving us.¡±


    ¡°As a filial daughter, i-it¡¯s my duty Lord Father.¡±


    ¡°God¡­¡± He walked to her and, on one knee, lightly tousled her hair. ¡°You can just call me father. There is no need to be so formal.¡±


    He rose, looking at Marenisse and the wide-eyed Heos.


    ¡°Where you curious?¡± The third queen consort asked her.


    ¡°Your Majesty! Y-yes¡­ I wanted to g-greet the prince!¡± Her eyes snaked towards the prince, stealing a look, only to return to the queen.


    Marenisse laughed, inching closer and pinching the princess¡¯ cheeks.


    ¡°You and Heos are certainly siblings¡­ just look at how cute you are!¡± The girl turned slightly red. ¡°Please Annie, call me aunt.¡± She pouted at the girl. ¡°I¡¯ve told you.¡±


    ¡°Y-yesh aunt.¡± Annika lisped, while attempting to free her face from the queen¡¯s barrage.


    Satisfied, she freed her.


    ¡°How about you show Heos around the palace.¡±


    The princess¡¯ eyes glimmered.


    ¡°Really?¡±


    ¡°Yes¡­ well, would you like to Heos?¡±


    The prince nodded. Contemplating something, he spoke.


    ¡°Mama, is this my sister?¡± The child pointed at Annika.


    She, all the while, went slack jawed, then protested the absurdity before her.


    ¡°Aunt Marenisse isn¡¯t the prince a baby?! Why can he speak?!¡±


    Sensing the incoming barrage, the two-front assault the curious children would, surely, unleash, she quickly answered.


    ¡°Heos is a very special child. I hope you don¡¯t mind it and treat him as you would any of your brothers.¡±


    Before they could ask anything else, she led Heos¡¯ hand to Annika¡¯s. Smiling, the queen consort left, following behind Alphonse, a daydream fogging the king¡¯s eyes.


    Once alone with the prince, the young girl lowered herself, bending slightly, so as to be level with his eyes.


    ¡°Hello Heos, I¡¯m your big sister, Annika.¡± She giggled. ¡°Come on, say ¡°big sister¡±.¡±


    ¡°Big sister?¡±


    ¡°Hehe.¡± A satisfied grin grew on her face. ¡°Come, I¡¯ll show you the palace.¡±


    *


    A pillared room, ashen stone and plain, glistening floors. Above, vaults in a reconstructed, classical style. Naked figures cleaved at each other, righteous or pale faces, contorted in tragedy; whatever war these paintings tore from history seemed a black affair.


    Spears cutting through color, and a bleeding sun in vespertine pain.


    It was Heos who raised a look.


    ¡°Woah¡­¡± He pointed. ¡°Big sister, what is that?¡±


    ¡°That is, um¡­ a painting? Was it Wers, Bers¡­?¡± She muttered, attempting to remember some long forgotten lessons in art history¡­ a famous painter had adorned this room¡­ but who?


    ¡°What are they doing?¡±


    ¡°Ah¡­¡± What to say? ¡°They¡¯re¡­ um¡­ playing! they¡¯re playing.¡± She nervously assured.


    ¡°But they look sad.¡±


    ¡°Maybe someone, uh, cheated?¡±


    There was no ¡°cheating¡± in war, was there?


    ¡°No¡­ they are not playing. They are fighting.¡± He lowered his gaze, leveling a piercing gaze at Annika ¡°They¡¯re fighting big sister.¡±


    ¡°Yes¡­ you¡¯re so smart Heos, I hadn¡¯t noticed.¡± She laughed, somewhat regretfully.


    ¡°I wonder why¡­¡± He kept walking.


    *


    ¡°Wha¡­¡± He ran to the center of the grand room. ¡°Big sister! What is this big room!¡±


    The princess, pleased at Heos¡¯ words, answered.


    ¡°This is a ballroom, Heos!¡± She went forward, spinning and twirling, imagining herself in some idyllic future. ¡°Lord Father doesn¡¯t like gatherings, but¡­ all the lords and ladies are supposed to come here to dance¡­¡± She looked at the hanging crystal chandeliers, longingly.


    The gold foiled walls, their bones in black marble, with scenes of lightly dressed bodies lounging in forested vignettes. The high roof, so ornate the eyes seemed to get lost¡­ as grand warriors stood lightly armored, pale skinned ladies sat¡­ the carved reliefs like aurum-peaked mountains separating the scenes.


    Immense mirrors lined one side, while overflowing curtains of heavy rose fabric covered the parallel windows on the other. Only streams of sunlight arrived at the stage. The room was lit by candled warmth.


    The princess grabbed Heos¡¯ arms and pretended to dance, spinning, spinning¡­


    She laughed.


    Dizzy, the prince fell on his backside, smiling.


    *


    A corridor seemed endless. White and blue walls, busts of dead figures, and gilded filings marking the edges of innumerable doors.


    One, opened, led only to more and more doors, until another, closed, barred the sight.


    A window, at the end, allowed in some light.


    Crossing a threshold led to a gallery. Low-long stools line both sides, as warm toned landscapes and scenes, painted, hung round the room.


    One held an ancient building, ivory and stone, where figures, dressed in only¡­ white sheets? conversed by the sea. It looked mid day. A seated man turned his sight away from the conversation, a grimace clear.


    Another looked frigid, the only one, he noticed. A white forest beside a frozen river. Heaven filled with cotton, and a mass of armed soldiers behind a heavily covered commander, pointing forwards¡­ His hair was the only warmth, gold-blond¡­ so radiant it melted snow.


    Heos thought it to be Alphonse.


    ¡°Big sister, is that papa?¡± His face so close to the painting one would think him blind.


    ¡°Hm¡­ no, this is long ago. Maybe it¡¯s some ancestor?¡±


    ¡°Ancestor?¡±


    ¡°Like a¡­ very, very old member of our family.¡±


    ¡°He looks like papa.¡±


    A door creaked.


    A youth entered, dressed in blue, gold and white. Dark auburn hair tied back, as it fell onto his shoulder. Windows into a dark-azure metallic sea¡­ a pair of eyes. His face¡¯s features handsome and kind, almost heroic.


    His expression went clear with slight surprise at the sight of Heos and Annika.


    ¡°Oh, Annika¡­ and¡­¡±


    The princess greeted him.


    ¡°Grand Gelbann Amoineau.¡± She bowed.


    ¡°Please, sister¡­ just call me brother, yes?¡± He asked, lightly pleading.


    ¡°But maintaining proper titles is a duty of nobility." She stated. The seriousness contrasted with her big eyes and rosy cheeks, making her look rather cute.


    ¡°Ah¡­¡± the youth sighed. ¡°And, I presume, Heos¡­¡± He addressed the boy.


    ¡°Hello¡­ who are you?¡± He deadpanned.


    Annika, wide eyed, whispered something to her little brother, attempting to appear nonchalant in front of the Gelbann Amoineau, failing, however. Her anxiousness spurred on the words.


    The young man laughed.


    ¡°I¡¯m your big brother, let¡¯s leave it at that¡­¡± He came closer to the boy, getting on a knee to level their sights. ¡°A pleasure to meet you, Heos¡­ I¡¯ve heard you¡¯re very smart and it looks to be no lie.¡± He smiled. ¡°I hope we can get along as brothers.¡± His expression shone with a drop of blue melancholia. ¡°Family is all one has.¡±


    Heos nodded.


    ¡°Ok¡­¡± The child looked on, blank-eyed.


    The young man rose.


    ¡°Annika, you are touring Heos here around the palace, yes¡­? I¡¯ll leave you two to it.¡±


    ¡°Very well, Gelbann Amoineau.¡± A close eyed bow followed the words.


    The youth left whence he came, heaving another sigh, sparing a soft look to his siblings before closing the white and gold door.


    As soon as they were left alone, once again, Annika turned to the child.


    ¡°Heos, it¡¯s not polite to ask that so bluntly!¡± She reprimanded her brother.


    ¡°Ask what?¡± Obliviousness obvious in his tone.


    ¡°Who someone is! You should ask them their name, be respectful, use more¡­ diplomatic language!¡± A contented smile appeared, signaling Annika¡¯s satisfaction with her answer.


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Huh¡­? Why?¡± Her eyebrows rose as she contemplated. ¡°You see¡­¡±


    *


    ¡°You want to see swans?¡±


    ¡°Yes! Are there swans here? Mama told me I could see swans.¡±


    ¡°Hmm¡­There is a lake with some swans¡­¡±


    Annika covered her brows with her hand. The sun, possessed by summer amidst the autumn, bled over the palace.


    Some orchards, some servants tending. Jumping over stones through an anemic creek. Across hedges as tall as two men, made into the walls of a fortress to protect the marble body of a nymph; as she bathed placidly in a fountain, accompanied by birds. Wild rose bushes which Heos stopped to watch.


    ¡°Why do you want to see swans Heos?¡±


    ¡°I like swans.¡± He stood, an animated tint to his voice as he spoke. ¡°I have a swan friend! Here.¡± He pointed slightly above himself. ¡°Can you see him?¡±


    ¡°Oh! Yes¡­ He¡¯s a handsome swan. Hehe.¡± Smiling, she pretended to pet the air. ¡°Does he have a name?¡±


    Heos, surprised, thought for a moment.


    ¡°Hm¡­ no¡­ he¡¯s just swan.¡±


    ¡°You should think of one for him. Names are important, you know?¡±


    The child nodded, closed eyed, thinking.


    ¡®Hehe¡­ Her majesty was right¡­ cute. He has an imaginary friend.¡¯


    ¡°We¡¯re almost there.¡± She reassured.


    Further down¡­


    A small way amidst sycamores. A roof of gold, earth of ochre. Heos jumped, to hear the leaves crack better. An old marble pergola went above them, overgrown vines snaking through its body.


    Jump, run, jump¡­


    Lost in his mind, the prince wondered.


    ¡®Can she really see swan¡­?


    Awoken, Heos looked around. In his jumping and wandering he had lost Annika.


    ¡°Big sister¡­?¡±


    Only the garden sounds answered.


    Unbothered, he walked ahead. The pleasant fresh air, with the scent of earth, calmed him.


    At the end of the carefully maintained tree line a pond opened, rather large.


    White figures glided gracefully, soundlessly, like phantoms, over its metallic surface.


    ¡°Swans!¡±


    He ran.


    ¡®Finally, swans!¡¯


    Walking had grown rather tiring, after this he would ask Annika to go back¡­


    ¡®Huh¡­? Where¡¯d the sun go?¡¯


    He raised his sight.


    Black.


    Falling towards the ground from the sudden sky-shadow were¡­ trees?


    Large pillars of bronze-green wood. Ancient.


    So dark.


    Ahead, the sinuous bodies of immense roots, curving above the earth, static¡­ further down¡­ black. Darkness. The canopy devoured the sun. How could he still see?


    Light brown earth, dark brown earth, gray-brown earth¡­ grass like leaden hay.


    Where these mushrooms? He went on his knees to check¡­ he had never seen them, except drawn in books¡­


    Heos looked up, again.


    ¡®Where¡­?¡¯


    He rose. The earth mushed under his steps. Tiny white flowers, like cotton, speckled along the way.


    Walking towards the lake¡­


    It had turned from its metallic blue, reflective, into a hole. Like a cut out orifice of nothingness. Spilled ink, liquid still. White, ghostly, gleaming figures floated on it.


    Turning his sight back¡­ black. The same strange forest extended back from where he came.


    ¡®Well¡­ at least I get to see swans¡­ but I¡¯m lost¡­¡¯ One swan glided near the edge. ¡°I wonder if the swans know where this is¡­ Maybe Annika will find me...¡± A half-whisper.


    ¡°We¡¯re in the palace, child.¡±


    Someone spoke.


    ¡°What?¡±


    The nearing swan grew still.


    ¡°Hm?¡± A rather pleasant voice ¡°We¡¯re in the palace, young man¡­ Perhaps if I go closer¡­¡±


    The swan skimmed to the shore.


    ¡°You had asked where you are, yes?¡±


    Silence¡­


    ¡®Uh¡­¡±


    Suddenly, his mind lit up.


    ¡°Magic! You¡¯re a magic swan!¡±


    Swans could not speak, just like humans could not fly. This was, obviously, a magic swan performing an impossible task: Magic!


    ¡°Hum¡­ I am?¡±


    ¡°Of course! You can speak Mr. Swan. Swans can¡¯t do that! So, you¡¯re magic.¡± He smiled, close eyed, and nodded, content. ¡°Mhm, Mhm!¡±


    ¡°Well¡­ I wouldn¡¯t know, really¡­ However, I would believe you are the magic one; from the perspective of the average swan, at least¡­ Ask, child, should humans be able to speak to swans?¡± An inquisitive bent accented his words. ¡°What about that large fellow floating about, around you?¡± The swans¡¯ neck straightened, as if to point with its beak to the phantasm that coiled around Heos. ¡°You appear rather¡­ singular¡­ It is quite the surprise that you can understand me, I tell you¡­¡±


    The boy sat by the lake.


    Not all of the swan¡¯s words made sense but¡­ he understood, sufficiently.


    ¡°Hm¡­¡±


    Another white figure glided closer to the pond¡¯s shore.


    ¡®I¡¯m magic?¡¯


    ¡°What¡¯s wrong dear?¡± A warm, motherly, enveloping voice floated from the water¡¯s surface towards him.


    ¡°Oh, my love¡­ This boy here seems to be lost.¡±


    ¡°Really¡­? Poor thing.¡± The other swan, now besides Heos, sounded genuinely troubled. ¡°What¡¯s the problem, child?¡±


    ¡°I was¡­¡± He turned his head backwards, expecting the sycamore tree line, only to find¡­ darkness. ¡°Walking the garden with my sister and I¡­ got here¡­¡±


    ¡°Are you a prince, dear?¡± The motherly swan asked.


    ¡°A prince¡­? Yes¡­ My papa is the king¡­¡±


    ¡°So, this palace is your home?¡±


    Heos scratched his head.


    ¡°Since today, yes¡­ I think so.¡±


    ¡°But you¡¯re lost?¡±


    ¡°Yes¡­ I was walking¡­ and suddenly I got into this dark forest.¡±


    ¡°Dark forest¡­?¡± The other swan asked, his pleasant voice in clear confusion. He turned, whispering, to the motherly bird. ¡°Perhaps the sun¡­ has had an effect on him? It is rather hot out today for an autumn day¡­¡±


    ¡°You mean, insolation¡­? Poor baby, seeing things¡­¡±


    ¡°He did say he was walking¡­ if, for a long time¡­¡±


    The swans talked among themselves.


    Heos looked at them, perplexed, although oddly calm.


    Swan ¡ªhis friend¡ª, craned its neck so as to be seen by the prince, and pointed his beak towards the way from whence they came.


    ¡®Go back?¡¯


    As if hearing his thoughts, swan insisted with his pale neck, while the others still discussed what to do with the ¡°lost¡± child.


    The prince rose.


    ¡°Oh, dear¡­ you should lay down, sunstroke is dangerous¡­ wash your face with some cool lake water, sit a while¡­¡± The lady swan, worried, insisted.


    ¡°Thank you, Ms. Swan, but I think I¡¯ll go that way.¡± He pointed.


    ¡°Really¡­?¡±


    The pleasant-voiced bird interjected.


    ¡°Lad, if that is what you think¡­ However, let me give you a piece of advice.¡±


    Heos stared.


    ¡°I would recommend you not to tell other humans you can¡­ well, talk to swans¡­ There is a limit to what will be considered mere child¡¯s fancy¡­¡±


    Nodding slowly, Heos hummed affirmatively.


    ¡°Ok¡­ goodbye, Mr. and Ms. Swan.¡±


    ¡°Goodbye dear¡­ please be careful.¡±


    ¡°Goodbye lad.¡±


    To the urging of his friend, he turned back, walking, as his feet dug into the earth.


    Step, step, step¡­


    ¡®Ah?¡¯ His eyes felt sore.


    Light.


    The sun.


    He looked up, then back down quickly,


    ¡®Don¡¯t stare at the sun.¡¯ He had promised his mother.


    Fixing his sight back on the lake, the swan couple remained by the shore. He waved at them.


    No bronze trees¡­ no darkness, no white flowers, no roots, no gray-yellow grass.


    ¡°Heos!¡±


    His sister''s voice.


    Behind her, sycamores.


    His neck hurt; he had been turning around far too much today.


    She ran towards him, worried.


    ¡°Heos! Don¡¯t run away like that! I was worried¡­¡±


    The princess took his hand and got on one knee.


    ¡°Really! Promise you won''t do that? You scared me¡­¡±


    ¡°I promise big sister.¡±


    She smiled, relieved, and kissed his forehead.


    ¡°Hehe¡­ cute.¡± Standing back up, she suggested. ¡°Ok, now, let''s go see the swans.¡±


    ¡°Hm¡­ no, let''s go back big sister¡­ I looked at them already, and I¡¯m tired.¡± He almost allowed that strange conversation with the birds to escape his lips¡­ but held back.


    Although a little surprised, Annika didn''t mind.


    ¡°Yes, we¡¯ve walked around a lot¡­ let''s go back.¡±


    As he walked hand in hand with the princess, Heos watched the swans, his neck craned back. They both remained beside the shore, more white figures gliding beautifully across the lake further down.


    ¡®Pretty¡­¡¯ The prince thought.


    He felt a little hungry, and sleepy too.


    It had been a nice day.

 12 - Day

    ¡®What should I eat¡­?¡¯


    He paced around the house. His fingers riding against the wall.


    A cozy autumn morning.


    Sitting on a simple, dark wood, chocolate leather Berg¨¨re, and already dressed, Roderin pondered, seriously, as to what his breakfast should be.


    ¡®I¡®m not that hungry¡­¡¯


    His feet tapped on the carnelian-red rug. It looked cold out¡­ but there was no reason to light the fireplace¡­ he had to go to the ministry.


    He threw his head back, his hands over his eyes.


    ¡®Hah¡­ What if I tell Alphonse I quit?¡¯


    Freeing a hand ¡ªhis eyes still closed¡ª, he felt around the side-table for something¡­


    A book. Its worn dark-brown cover unmarked.


    ¡®Val¨¦ry Arouet, Th¨¦ologie Naturelle¡­ I was reading this, wasn¡¯t I?¡¯ He looked at the title page, beautifully printed in bold black ink.


    Eyeing its pages, Roderin found some torn parchment he had used for a bookmark.


    ¡®Was I really this far in¡­? I can¡¯t remember¡­¡¯


    ¡®When tracing a line of time to the creation of a doctrine such as Natural Theology [¡­] It is no contemporary phenomena that which prescribes proof of God, and assertion of his nature, to the faculties of reason and the marvelous effects of a mind well applied. One can, with fact, make evident the existence of scholasticks whose most illuminant designs are built upon little more than logical decompositions.


    On his ¡°Contra Fura¡± Hierophant Theodosius Igninus¡­¡¯


    He put the book down.


    ¡®Now I feel like sleeping¡­¡¯ Roderin rubbed his eyes. ¡®Coffee¡­ I¡¯ll have coffee.¡¯


    Rising towards the kitchen, he set some water to boil. The freshly ground beans left behind a pleasant perfume; a Cyssanian variety, quite costly to import¡­ aromatic, delicious.


    Some lukewarm water first, to not burn the powder¡­


    A single sugar cube.


    ¡®Ah¡­ Incredible¡­¡¯ Roderin thought as he took the first sip, smiling. ¡®I need little more for now.¡¯


    He looked out into the street while finishing the cup.


    ¡®The life of a minister is not as busy as I thought¡­ Not mindlessly placid either. Perhaps it is because we¡¯re not at war ¡­¡¯ The archeologist prayed, in his mind, for Alphonse to not wake up, today ¡ªor any day, really¡ª, cripplingly bored, and declare a campaign with pleasure for a purpose¡­


    The cup lay empty.


    ¡®I should take most the day off today¡­ I haven¡¯t visited the Roumbid¨®n lately¡­ I¡¯d like to break the news of my¡­ anointment? to those three before the papers do¡­ The editorials should still be busy with the commotion at the rue Vuillard and rue des blesses.¡¯


    He looked at the coffee shadows¡­ the dark, near black marks left on the porcelain¡¯s bottom.


    ¡®Alphonse moved to the palace, with Heos and Marenisse in tow¡­ I suppose we won¡¯t see each other privately for a while? Hum¡­ No¡­ I¡¯m sure he¡¯ll think of something; he won¡¯t stand the overtly royal ambiance¡­¡¯


    Through the window he could see: the sky back to its leaden coat, dressed in snowy furs, like a northern dame.


    ¡°I wonder when it¡¯ll start to snow¡­¡± A whisper.


    He missed the east¡¯s torrid air.


    *


    ¡°The commissioner recommends you report to His Majesty. He considers the stationing of an augmented garrison along the Leonides, and, especially in Bl?eplet, as prudent. The numbers he demands are absurd, of course¡­ Nonetheless, reading the report, it does look to be a necessary deterrent.¡± Samuel gave his thoughts on the document.


    Roderin eyed it, moving from page to page.


    ¡°Do you believe the Loegrians to truly be overstepping? Or is it just empty posturing?¡±


    ¡°Incidents such as these are not uncommon along the colonial borders¡­ None, yet, have escalated into direct confrontation; His Majesty¡¯s temperament¡­ his colonial policy makes foreign powers pay dearly for such evident instances of disregard at Romanse¡¯s borders¡­ It is still concerning, or rather, it perplexes one¡­ who knows as to what they intend with this play¡­¡±


    ¡°Hm¡­¡±


    ¡®Bothersome.¡¯ He immediately thought after finishing the report. ¡®Is it a distraction¡­ a warning? It would appear, any way you look at it, as if they were preparing to occupy Bl?eplet¡­¡¯


    He sighed.


    ¡°Please have this sent to His Majesty via a Hier¨®n courier¡­¡± He scratched his brow. ¡°These are old news¡­ it had to cross the sea, so, who knows? Perhaps Bl?eplet fell and we¡¯re at war, yet to know¡­¡± A lighthearted chuckle made light of the uncertain situation. ¡°Or the Loegrians just enjoy scares.¡±


    Samuel¡¯s expression remained still.


    Roderin spoke again.


    ¡°Let¡¯s hope the governor holds out if anything goes awry¡­ Please pester the courier for a meeting as soon as possible¡­ with Minister Hessiah et Visurgis as well, if possible.¡± He stopped in his tracks. ¡°I doubt it will be all that useful¡­ His Majesty will act as soon as he hears the news¡­¡± His foot tapped incessantly against the floor. ¡°A headache¡­ It isn¡¯t my choice, either way¡­¡±


    He handed the report to Samuel.


    ¡°Let us go to Bass¨¢th¡­ I¡¯ll clear the air and go take the day.¡±


    ¡°Very well, Minister.¡±


    Once again, their steps echoed. After some silence, the attendant spoke up.


    ¡°Minister de Lamartine¡­ If I may¡­¡±


    ¡°Please, Musnier¡­ don¡¯t you think¡­.¡± He racked his head for an excuse. ¡®Yes!¡¯ He had it. ¡°Addressing me as Minister de Lamartine is rather¡­ costly in, uhm¡­ matters of time?¡±


    ¡°I¡­ do not quite see what you are alluding to, Minister de Lamartine.¡±


    ¡°I mean to say that, due to the amount of times you must refer to me by ¡°Minister de Lamartine¡±, our conversations may end up¡­ bloated; especially if we are discussing matters of importance. It would be more¡­ austere! Yes, austere! If you were to call me simply as¡­ Lamartine, for example?¡±


    Musnier¡¯s expression remained steely.


    ¡°I am sorry, Minister de Lamartine. I¡¯m afraid propriety ¡ªas in, our respective stations¡ª demands correct address.¡±


    Roderin hid a choke.


    ¡°Ah¡­ I see.¡± Clearing his throat he continued. ¡°Well, what was it? What you wanted to say.¡±


    ¡°I aimed to recommend you to¡­ not be overly empathetic with Viscount Bassath; it may be misconstrued as an insult; even if this is not your intention. Explicitly kind, mild mannered approaches are, usually, understood as sardonic attacks on a noble¡¯s competence.¡±


    ¡°Ah¡­ well. I¡¯ll have that in mind.¡±


    ¡®Even kindness is so complicated¡­?¡¯


    *


    ¡°Minister de Lamartine. To what do I owe the pleasure?¡± Bass¨¢th rose from his desk and put down his pipe. Smoldering still, it filled the room with the light scent of expensive tobacco.


    Roderin held his hand out.


    ¡®Has he lost weight¡­?¡¯ Perhaps slightly slimmer, the Viscount looked, still, to be overweight. His gregarious air had dissipated since they had last seen each other.


    ¡°I simply aimed to visit you, Viscount Bass¨¢th.¡±


    Their hands met.


    ¡°Please, sit.¡± The viscount pointed to a simple oak wood chair.


    He went back down, behind his desk.


    Roderin settled down as well.


    ¡°I do not wish to interrupt your duties for long¡­¡±


    ¡®Shit, did that sound like an insult¡­? I¡¯m sure he has not much to do as a diplomat to Verdanaie¡­¡¯ Roderin cursed, as he realized a blunder too late.


    ¡°However, due to the circumstances of my appointment as minister, I feared there would be tension between us. That, I believe, would benefit no camp¡­ it could also lead to problems in the functioning of the ministry¡­¡±


    ¡®Ok, ok¡­ not too bad. Let¡¯s see¡­¡¯


    Bass¨¢th¡¯s eyebrow rose, an expression of¡­ pity? on his face.


    ¡®That expression¡­¡¯ Roderin noticed.


    ¡°Minister de Lamartine, even if I wished to kill you, I doubt I could do much.¡± The viscount led the pipe to his lips. ¡°I really do not understand what you are trying to masquerade this meeting as¡­¡± Puffing out a cloud of smoke, his pity remained.


    Roderin¡¯s expression froze, not knowing what to answer.


    ¡°Whatever could you mean? Viscount Bass¨¢th¡­¡± He managed to muster out, maintaining composure.


    ¡°Hm¡­ I see. You genuinely believe you wish to¡­ ¡°clear the air¡±?¡± His pipe rose, as if accenting his words. ¡°No.¡± He smiled. ¡°You see, in reality, underneath this pretense, you, quite simply, feel second-hand embarrassment at His Majesty¡¯s outburst, and wished to surreptitiously apologize¡­¡± He spoke as if Roderin were made of stone. ¡°A good man¡­ yet, this is the problem with green diplomats¡­ unknowing of even their own motivations, much less the whims of others, they stumble about, blind.¡± He shook his head, as smoke sputtered out of his nose. ¡°Minister de Lamartine, think of this matter thoroughly. Would I really sink my station further for vain pettiness? especially if it meant obstructing His Majesty¡¯s little follower?¡±You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    ¡®What¡­? Does he know me and Alphonse are friends? Or does he say it so because of the Fylassein? Shouldn¡¯t he be under the impression that this is a ploy of the noblesse? Wait, what would he even think of¡­¡¯ Roderin¡¯s thought whizzed from side to side in his head, attempting to calculate what exactly Bass¨¢th knew.


    ¡°That¡¯s it, let those gears turn¡­¡± Another puff, another cloud. ¡°So I was right, you are under Alphonse¡¯s thumb.¡±


    These words, finally, pulled the minister out of his stupor, his eyes focusing.


    ¡°Wha-what do you mean?¡± He looked at the Viscount¡¯s eyes, lost.


    Bass¨¢th simply¡­ burst out in laughter.


    ¡°Hahaha! Oh, God, Alphonse is a real sadist, isn¡¯t he? Hahaha!¡± He held his belly, his pipe on the table, smoldering.


    He tapped the table a couple times, then cleared his eyes of some nascent tears.


    ¡°Minister, I had my doubts¡­ It was obvious that d¡¯Ruissaumbe had a hand, His Majesty as well¡­ but this confirms it. Ha¡­¡± A couple dying chuckles interrupted his words. ¡°I now understand why he placed me in the ministry¡­¡±


    ¡®Shit, shit. I was too much of a fool, what if he te¡ª¡¯


    ¡°Quite the strained face, eh? Worry not, Minister¡­ I intend to keep this information from the noblesse¡­ Out of pettiness; this time it does not cost me anything¡­¡± He looked into the pipe, the tobacco made ashes. ¡°It is also in my best interests¡­ Contact some Hier¨®n handler if you wish, or tell His Majesty directly.¡± His hand waved as if shooing off a dog, uninterested.


    ¡°Viscount Bassath, Ha¡­¡± Roderin ordered his thoughts, a hand on his brows, stifling a headache. ¡°I must apologize¡­¡±


    ¡°Apologize? No, not really. You blundered ¡ªbetter now than later. It has nothing to do with me and it matters not¡­ I¡¯m not an enemy of the crown or alike.¡± He uninterestedly packed tobacco into the now empty pipe. ¡°Allow me to advise you¡­ After a fuck up as this, double down, or, well, brush it past and steel yourself; do not show your belly, especially to an¡­¡± he searched for the word. ¡°opponent. In negotiations, especially, composure is paramount.¡±


    Once again, the smell of tobacco filled the office.


    Roderin scratched his brow.


    ¡°I¡¯ll take the advice to heart, Viscount.¡±


    ¡°Very well. Now, if you¡¯ll excuse me, Minister, I must return to my duties.¡±


    The door opened, then closed, fast after.


    Musnier waited by its side.


    Roderin sighed.


    ¡°Well, as you recommended, I was not overly empathetic.¡±


    ¡°How did it go, then?¡± Musnier questioned.


    ¡°Uh¡­ Ok, it went ok¡­¡± He looked questioningly at his attendant, who, despite the neutral expression, revealed some indeterminate emotion. ¡°You knew¡­¡± He accused, half in jest.


    ¡°Yes.¡± Samuel closed his eyes. ¡°It was a¡­ pedagogical experience. You are all the better for it.¡±


    He remembered Bass¨¢th¡¯s words.


    ¡°You are my attendant, Musnier, do not play tricks behind my back.¡± His voice turning cold.


    ¡°My apologies, Minister de Lamartine, it was terribly improper of me.¡± Samuel¡¯s sight pulled to the ground.


    Roderin maintained a stern face, then sighed, again.


    ¡°Be as it may¡­ I¡¯m leaving for now. Do what I asked of you.¡± He waved at him to go.


    Musnier bowed, then walked away.


    Thinking, his friend, the king, appeared in his mind.


    ¡®No man is two dimensional¡­ so superficial as to be made or unmade in a single adjective¡­¡¯


    The voice resounded as he turned to leave.


    *


    The Roumbid¨®n was sparsely filled. In one of the only occupied tables, three men discussed a copy of that day¡¯s paper. Empty cups in front of the three, as they chattered away.


    ¡°It must be a namesake?!¡±


    ¡°What? Are you an idiot?¡± Anton asked.


    Frederik merely snorted.


    ¡°Relax, I know it''s him.¡± He reclined, his hands holding his head¡¯s back. ¡°I¡¯m just awestruck¡­ the gentleman de Lamartine became a minister¡­ I never took him for someone with much an interest in politics.¡± He sardonically assured.


    ¡°I suppose this was the ¡°employment opportunity¡±.¡± Mikael thought it over.


    ¡°God¡­ but that was over a year ago, no? Are you telling me the nobles wanted to kick Bass¨¢th off of Affairs since that long ago?¡± Frederik wondered.


    ¡°That is what truly makes no sense to me¡­ Isn¡¯t Bass¨¢th a noble crony? How did Roderin even come to replace him? He¡¯s a noble, yes, but¡­¡±


    ¡°Mikael, don¡¯t think too hard about it. Politics are little more than speculation. That is, if one isn¡¯t nobility¡­ even then¡­¡± Anton read over the article, again. It gave little information and was, mostly, theorizing; opinion pieces littered the copy, on this or that possibility, this or that hypothesis as to why Roderin de Lamartine was chosen, and why Otto Alle Bass¨¢th was moved to a diplomat¡¯s post.


    Roderin¡¯s life was examined; the little that was public, of course, as most of his exploits had gone on about outside the continent, and were reported by his own pen, in fragments, scattered across archeological and anthropological journals.


    However¡­ his name, his age, his status as a baronet, his early enrollment and graduation at Vanus University, his employment in the Royal East-Mariannic Company¡¯s archeological wing¡­ These were all the, somewhat superficial, morsels of knowledge the papers had acquired on him.


    Known vultures, the kingdom¡¯s journalists speculated as to the secrecy of this rather niche academic. Some proposed that his backer, or backers ¡ªpowerful noblesse personages, of course¡ª, held his information under watch¡­ to who knows what ends.


    Others hypothesized that, across his travels and activities in, admittedly, one of the grandest colonial arms of the kingdom, he had endeared himself to some aristocrat with interests staked in the eastern and southern colonies. Now, planning to expand then into the new world as well, he had pushed for de Lamartine¡¯s installment into Affairs.


    A known critic of noble privileges alleged: this was a move geared, mainly, at the absorption of Neue Noblesse into the broader interests of the blue-blooded estate. With their ancestral positions threatened by the Hellian¡¯s illustr¨¦s, the old Noblesse aims to shift the political allegiance of baronet families into their own, erasing their virtuous loyalty to the nation, starting by a gesture like this one: posing a minor baronet onto the chair of minister.


    In fact, the Fylassein Fatae ¡ªin which an unknown character and the youngest prince had been protagonists¡ª held some months ago ¡ª a year?¡ª, had come up once again in the papers. Strangely, none of the numerous attendants had recognized the custodian ¡ªor at least no one willing to share with the press¡ª, a figure estranged from the political stage of the kingdom, surely. Some postulated this new Minister to be the mystery man, although with little proof and much inferences, as his visage seemed to vaguely correspond with the figure seen that day, in the Cathedral¡¯s altar.


    As for Bass¨¢th¡¯s deposition, an unending gamma of theories were also born. From corruption to retirement, to strange unseen schemes¡­ the speculation was unending.


    It was all the more impressive, as coverage of the madness that had taken hold of the capital not long ago also littered the papers. The carrion had much rot to eat.


    ¡°This is the reason he has been absent from the Roumbid¨®n¡­ A minister¡¯s life must be hellish, if someone like Roderin is not idling about.¡±


    ¡°Ha! Wise words Mikael.¡± Frederik patted his friends back, clearly humored.


    ¡°Hm¡­ I think not.¡±


    ¡°Huh? Why Anto¡ª¡±


    Frederik, pleased by his own voice, rarely silenced his words. His eyes went wide, and his two friends, confused by this sudden silence, followed the line his sight drew in the air.


    Both were pleasantly surprised.


    ¡°Well well well¡­¡± The chatterbox resumed his words. ¡°If it isn¡¯t His Eminence¡­¡± Frederik rose and gave a mock bow. ¡°My, my¡­ to visit this shoddy establishment¡­ wouldn¡¯t His Highness enjoy the vistas of the Rue Blue far more?¡±


    Other patrons turned, then succinctly returned to their conversations, knowing Frederik for the jester he was.


    ¡°Yes, yes¡­ thank you for the honors, Frederik¡­ although none of those addresses are proper for a minister.¡± Roderin sat, his hand raising to indicate to a waiter his want for a cup.


    ¡°Who cares¡­ you might as well be royalty now. When you marry some pretty aristocrat lady don¡¯t forget us, eh?¡±


    The minister laughed, waving away his friend''s words.


    ¡°Mikael, Anton, hello¡­ How¡¯re your days? I see Frederik is great, as always.¡±


    ¡°Rather surprised, to be honest, just today ¡ªmoments ago in fact¡ª, I got news that a close friend was appointed to Affairs."


    Anton joined in chorus.


    "Funny that, I got the exact same news¡­ via paper no less.¡±


    Lamartine sighed.


    ¡°Okay, yes, sorry¡­ I intended to tell you gentlemen before the papers got the chance, but, circumstances kept me¡­ chained. I prayed the press would be busy with the recent commotion¡­ alas¡­¡±


    ¡°Look, he¡¯s even talking like a politician now¡­ I¡¯m proud, Roderin.¡±


    Mikael¡¯s stare silenced Frederik.


    ¡°This was the opportunity you talked about, yes?¡±


    ¡°Yes, I ended accepting, as you already know.¡±


    ¡°Ohhh¡­ and who¡¯s the friend? The king? Haha!¡± The jester asked.


    ¡®Composure.¡¯


    ¡°No, in a dream, perhaps¡­¡± He smirked ¡°An acquaintance from the East-Mariannic¡­ after a series of events we became¡­ accomplices, let''s say¡­ then, one thing led to another and, well¡­ I wish I could share more, but¡­¡± He raised his hands and shrugged.


    ¡°Understandable.¡± Anton put down the paper. ¡°And, how is it? being a minister?¡±


    ¡°Well, I thought I¡¯d die an early death¡­ however, it is not as excruciating as you imagine, and not as soul-crushing. It is a good challenge¡­ although I do miss the east.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not getting pulled apart in some sort of political struggle, are you?¡± Mikael asked, concerned.


    ¡°Ha! Well, not really¡­ although the whole politics business is there, and bothersome¡­ It''s manageable.¡± A waiter arrived with his coffee, exactly as he liked it; he was a regular, after all. ¡°Thank you.¡±


    He sipped the brew.


    ¡°I missed this¡­ I¡¯m rather lousy at brewing a good cup¡­ Expensive beans make up for it though.¡±


    Frederik snickered.


    ¡°So, how¡¯s the pay?¡±


    Mikael rolled his eyes. Anton sighed.


    ¡°Really good. Although I didn¡¯t need more money¡­¡±


    ¡°The privileges of being born nobility¡­¡± The jester hung his head low, as if aggrieved. Perking up, he asked. ¡°Hey, is it true you¡¯re the prince¡¯s custodian?¡±


    Roderin was mid-sip¡­ He didn¡¯t mind them knowing.


    Eyes widened in jest, he put down the cup and raised both hands.


    ¡°You caught me.¡±


    Frederik¡¯s smile disappeared. The other two also looked shocked.


    ¡°Wait, really?¡± Frederik sounded genuinely at a loss.


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    He laughed thunderously, the other patrons turned again.


    ¡°Hahaha! Oh my¡­ your peasant ancestors must be proud Roderin¡­ Talk about leaping to heaven in a step. Oh, Hahaha!¡± The jester cried from laughter, holding himself.


    Anton shone a small smile, then patted Lamartine on the shoulder.


    ¡°You¡¯ve done quite well for yourself, haven¡¯t you, Roderin?¡±


    ¡°Really, congrats Roderin¡­ you¡¯re quite the charmer, eh?¡± Mikael sounded quite proud of his friend.


    ¡°Gentlemen, thank you¡­ although it wasn¡¯t, really, a result of ability¡­ I more or less stumbled onto the post, and the custodianship¡­¡±


    ¡°Nevermind that¡­ the prince¡¯s name is a tad pretentious, don¡¯t you think¡­? Well, it doesn¡¯t matter, he¡¯s royalty after all¡­ they don¡¯t really feel superior without a good five names before a long-ass family name¡­ titles on top.¡± Frederik joked, having recovered from the episode of mad laughter.


    ¡°Eh, really?¡± Roderin scratched the back of his head, a little embarrassed.


    ¡°Yes¡­¡± His usually silent comrade answered.


    ¡°Anton¡­¡± He looked betrayed, at his friend.


    The table went back into laughter.


    ¡°By the way¡­ I expected you all, if the paper did print the news, to read of it earlier¡­ did you really just find out.¡±


    Frederik interjected, to sate his friend''s curiosity.


    ¡°Well, you see, Anton here was just¡­¡±


    Their voices echoed until the sun set.


    *


    Arriving at his home, Roderin lamented the cold.


    ¡®God, I know it''s autumn, but¡­¡¯


    He rushed in and piled a couple logs at the fireplace, lighting them¡­ lighting the living room lamps as well.


    Sitting in his chocolate-leather Berg¨¨re, he mused, thinking of the day.


    ¡®My throat feels rough from talking so much, from laughing¡­¡¯ Remembering his friends, he smiled.


    ¡®It was some necessary rest¡­¡¯


    He realized something strange.


    ¡®I haven¡¯t eaten all day¡­ Just cups of coffee to keep me standing¡­ Even while those three had lunch¡­¡¯


    The image of that old royal doctor flashed by in his mind.


    Shuddering still, his hand searched for the patterned wool blanket he kept over a divan, put there for when he felt like sleeping in front of the fire.


    Wrapping himself, he nestled into the warmth, closing his eyes and tilting his head back.


    ¡®Perhaps I should read some before bed.¡¯


    Thinking of the book he had picked up this morning, he lost interest¡­ he wasn¡¯t really in a mood to read some Th¨¦ologie Naturelle.


    ¡®I¡¯ll fall asleep if I stay like this¡­¡¯


    Watching the fire¡­ smoldering like Bass¨¢th¡¯s pipe¡­


    He sighed.


    ¡®I was wholly unprepared for that meeting with the Viscount¡­ he was right, I just felt somewhat guilty for his deposition¡­ even if he did deserve it¡­¡¯ The fire danced before his eyes, like a living thing. ¡®Damn Alphonse, throwing me to the sharks¡­¡¯


    Some more logs into the fireplace¡­


    ¡®Now that I have time to think¡­ where should I have gone on expedition? if not for this minister business¡­¡¯


    He almost felt the waves of the Mariannic under his feet¡­ the salted air, the bearing sun¡­ his hands cracked¡­


    He stretched.


    Raising his sight, he imagined his body leaping, from Hygeia to Qatr¨¡nu, from Qatr¨¡nu to Citr¨¢, from Citr¨¢ no Ki-Uru.


    ¡®Perhaps back to Balbh¨¡k¡­¡¯


    Roderin remembered.


    ¡®Oh, yes¡­ I should watch the painting, yes, the painting, the thangka, yes, yes¡­¡¯


    The blanket slid off onto the ground.


    Hidden, in an unused room, there it was, under white silk coverings, there, there¡­


    He sat in front, casting off the white veils, admiring¡­


    ¡®A calyx of blue, cobalt tensed like muscled lit, as flames, a will-o''-wisp made for God to be lain¡­ A thousand faces, obscured in the pale expression of the ogre, old-copper skinned ocean swallowed and crushed, crunched, bled dry into the empty sockets, to adorn the warring grin, a spirit in alabaster form clawing at time to be birth, again, again, again¡­ held in his thousand hands thousand skulls of a thousand lives, jewels inlaid into their porous scalps as fire melted them into iridescence pure. The serpents parade on its skin coiling, uncoiling, bronzed, with insides of perfume, with eyes of red ruby coalesced from a sacrifice¡¯s flesh¡­ falling¡­ falling strings as stars hewn and spun, into platinum, silver and whitened gold so old, so old¡­ mortuary masks, the mask, war made grimace, made skin, frozen, made death, it held its dead by the hairs, holding heads transformed by the divine shearing of its bite¡­ It danced, sitting, half-danced to voiceless chants, to the sweetened crying of the gamelan, and bare-bodied worshipers into pulp, turned, pulp, turned¡­ sap, red, sap¡­ all one¡­ gills like, water, like, melting argentum, the wheel of the lotus root in half, mercury and cinnabar to burn death, to blast apart¡­¡¯


    Eyes, eyes¡­ why did his eyes burn? legs, sore¡­ his neck, it cracked¡­


    ¡°Huh¡­¡±


    Had it gotten warmer?


    He stood, the veil once again covering¡­ what?


    ¡®Oh, it''s morning¡­¡¯


    Pacing around the house. His fingers riding against the wall.


    Going into the living room¡­


    A cozy autumn morning.


    ¡®What should I eat¡­?¡¯


    He thought for a moment¡­


    ¡®Coffee¡­ I¡¯ll have a cup...¡¯


    The day had just begun.


    [End of Arc: Arrival/Birth.]

 13 – Here/There

    ¡°Heoooooos!¡±


    He ran, barefoot.


    ¡°Heos!¡±


    The voice echoed, weaker, growing paler.


    ¡°Heoos! Why are you hiding?!¡±


    ¡®Where¡­? Maybe¡­ here?¡¯


    ¡°What do you think? Here?¡± He whispered to his companion, pointing towards a mystery door. It opened into somewhere¡­ where?


    Even after years, this labyrinthine palace hid corners from him.


    The pale phantom assented, its feathers rousing.


    The door opened, soundlessly¡­. closing, after, just as silently.


    He ran¡­


    Tip, tap¡­


    His feet against the checkered floor¡­ and then, muffled against the eastern carpets, red, gold threaded¡­


    ¡®Soft¡­¡¯


    Going under fluttering curtains like gauze, the bright light from its maw.


    The voice had disappeared, drowned into the palace¡¯s waters, buried behind its walls¡­


    Even more doors¡­ a bust or two¡­


    ¡®Where is this place?¡¯


    It looked to be some sort of¡­ visiting area?


    Comfortable chairs, divans, warmer woods instead of stone¡­ more austere, less gold.


    ¡®Is it because of father?¡¯


    ¡°Do you think this is where he greets guests¡­?¡±


    The swan did not respond.


    He sat in a wide canap¨¦¡­ dark wood with an off-white cr¨¨me color for its upholstering.


    The light had been left behind. This antechamber held darkness better, its curtains heavy, wine deep-red and closed.


    Laying back, he gazed at the roof. Indeterminate decorations carving into it¡­


    ¡°Running away was fun¡­ but now? Am I trapped?¡± Pouting, he wondered.


    ¡®Wait¡­¡¯


    There was something¡­ a murmur he had not heard before.


    ¡®Is there someone near¡­?¡¯


    Now that he focused his sight¡­ apart from scant sunlight, flowing from where he had come, more shone, tenuously, further ahead, in chorus with the muttering.


    ¡®It''s two people.¡¯


    He sat up, walking, silently, towards the light, the murmurs.


    A corridor, opening into light, the view of the gardens¡­ pooling waters, the swan lake¡­


    Looking down from a second story.


    The voices growing, growing¡­


    A door, barely closed.


    He arrived by its side, silent, hearing all. Looking into a warm study, lightly baked in sunlight.


    ¡°What are your thoughts? Is it not a scare¡­ as, what was it? Five years ago¡­?¡±


    ¡°Who knows? Tensions have risen at Nilaleron, Bo?plet, Chaudron¡­ You¡¯ve read the reports. All commissioners are weary. The governors have written extensively; they fear a war¡­ It is strange¡­ The loegrians have not presented demands, declarations¡­ even a shadow of diplomacy¡­ You would know better than me, but, did the Hi¨¦ron not confirm armed shipments coming into Corinia?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve heard interesting reports...¡± Alphonse mumbled, breaking into a smile.


    ¡°As in...?¡± Roderin feared what the king¡¯s joy entailed.


    ¡°As in¡­ It being a cover, most likely.¡±


    ¡°A cover?¡±


    ¡°For growing discontent in the colonies¡­¡±


    ¡°That is¡­ redundant, really. Loegria¡¯s arian colonies are notoriously temperamental¡­¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡± He shook his head, pleased. ¡°I mean armed discontent, however¡­¡±


    The minister¡¯s eyes widened. A thumb to his lips as he pondered, with such intensity one would swear: his thoughts, clashing and coursing, rattled, flowing outward in sound¡­


    ¡°It does not merit this much consideration, Roderin¡­¡±


    ¡°How can yo¡ª¡±


    Alphonse¡¯s hand rose, silencing his friend. Confused, Roderin wished to protest¡­


    He held his words as Alphonse turned, inching slightly toward the study door.


    The king¡¯s eyes cut to a misty pale-blue iris, scales of jade, like water lilies, floating on its surface, looking in, curiously.


    ¡°Heos.¡±


    The dark wood door creaked open.


    ¡°Father, uncle¡­ Why did you stop?¡±


    Roderin sounded troubled, although somehow resigned, as he spoke.


    ¡°Heos, it is bad manners to¡­ listen in on private conversations¡­ especially if they go on behind a closed door, in a private study¡­¡±


    ¡°But the door was open?¡±


    Before his sigh could usher in more of a lecture, Alphonse stepped in.


    ¡°Where you curious?¡±


    ¡°Hm¡­ a little bit¡­ but it was about war or something? That¡¯s kind of boring¡­ I was going to leave anyway.¡±


    Alphonse smiled.


    ¡°Why is that?¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°Why do you think war is boring?¡±


    Heos lifted a finger to his lips, imitating Roderin perhaps?


    ¡°It is people fighting¡­? Is it like fighting, or shouting, but many people?¡± He remembered his brothers bickering. ¡°That sounds annoying, rather¡­ boring.¡± He concluded, deadpan. ¡°Silence is better.¡±


    ¡°Hmh, is that so?¡± The king went forward, leveling an intense stare into the prince¡¯s eyes. ¡°But, what would you know? Have you seen war?¡±


    Roderin balanced a confused look between the father-son pair, both engaging equally in this strange interaction. His head shook.


    A stranger would think the king mad, questioning a six-year-old on warfare, and the prince strange and uncanny, talking in a manner, unseemly, for a child. The minister, knowing the temperament of both, his friend, and his custodia, let the vexing exchange flow past, right through him.


    ¡°Yes¡­ you are right¡­ Then, you must know, father. Is war noisy and like fighting?¡±


    ¡°Noisy? More thunderous than all you have heard. It is the death rattle of seas of men, crying out, together, in pain. As the lowest hell erupting on earth.¡±


    ¡°Then I think I would not like it.¡±


    Both looked at each other, unflinching. Complete serenity in Heos¡¯ eyes¡­ and strange joy in the king¡¯s gaze.


    ¡°Do not be lazy, Heos. Spending a mere thought or two, a word or two, will not suffice to find out your own ends, your fates.¡±


    The prince inclined his head as a spectant owl, questioning his father¡¯s words without a sound.


    ¡°It is not that you know whether you prefer war or not¡­ whether you find interest in it or not. Rather, you care not about finding out. Do not allow mere complacency to stifle away who you are, your nature. It would be a sin to do so.¡± He paced his words, and looked away, behind his son, at the gardens, brilliant, seen from above. ¡°There will be much to dislike once you leave this palace. You will need not deliberate upon it, with words or thoughts. You will simply know. Then, only then, do avoid it, crush it or indulge in it as you please¡­ or discard it away with a wave of your hand.¡±


    The prince¡¯s eyes remained steely. Unmoving as his father returned his gaze to them.


    They closed.


    The child nodded, answering, almost obediently.


    ¡°I will do so father.¡±


    The king, however, simply grinned.


    ¡°Or not. Do as you please.¡±


    Roderin, seeing an opportunity to interject, spoke up, an important event in his mind.


    ¡°Alphonse, will you inform Heos on today¡¯s proceedings?¡±


    ¡°Oh, yes!¡± He clicked his tongue, remembering. ¡°There will be some rather bothersome formalities today. A political game to determine one of your educators. As for the others¡­ I¡¯ve had a hand in choosing them. Your uncle will be one, and has graciously used his connections at Vanus to secure for you¡­ quality magisters.¡±


    ¡°Really uncle?¡±


    Heos had pestered his parents for tutors, for knowledge¡­ though strangely ignored the palace library; a pity, as it put even Vanus¡¯ archives to shame.Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.


    ¡°Yes. I shall be your instructor for History and Continental Theatrum.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, uncle.¡±


    Roderin smiled, sensing a drop of rare normalcy from the prince.


    ¡°It is a pleasure. Seldom does anyone get to teach such a brilliant pupil. Though I do warn you, I will, one way or the other, build in you a taste for literature. Books are paramount in knowledge.¡± He chuckled.


    ¡°I do not dislike books¡­ I simply have no interest in them.¡± He eyed his father.


    The king ignored the prince¡¯s gaze.


    ¡°Father, uncle¡­ what will be decided today, exactly?¡±


    ¡°Either your educator in Philosophy, Theology and Hyperiae, or, in Mysteries.¡±


    Heos flashed a blank look, not really comprehending the words.


    Alphonse just waved it away.


    ¡°Do not stray too far from the main palace. I¡¯ll have a servant call for you when it is time.¡± A light of recognition shone in his eyes. ¡°Yes¡­ How did you end up here¡­? where you just exploring the palace?¡±


    ¡°I was running away from Annika.¡±


    The king laughed.


    ¡°Well, go on then. Your uncle and I must still discuss¡­ and then entertain some guests.¡± Loathing in his tone. He sounded less than pleased at the latter thought.


    ¡°Ok¡­¡±


    The prince turned around, indifferent, walking out of the study. A tenuous creak was silenced by the door¡¯s thud as it shut.


    ¡®I suppose I could search for something¡­¡¯


    Not caring to spend a second more around the corridor, he asked.


    ¡°Do you remember where the library is?¡±


    The swan uncoiled, and as a pale ivory hand, and extended itself in a certain direction.


    The prince stepped.


    Down stairs of reddish ebony¡­ a tea room exposed to the sun. Past a hall lined with swords and busts, and a ceiling gaping into darkness¡­


    ¡®Here?¡¯


    He looked around, lost.


    At some point he had gone up a flight, again.


    Climbing onto a balcony¡­


    Out¡­ water made to glimmer as pale platinum under the sun. Waterfowls cutting its silver surface; birds he did not recognize.


    They had never spoken, always silent, empty of conscience. They merely glided, and ran from him, sometimes.


    ¡®The sun feels nice¡­¡¯


    Servants tending the gardens. Spring, spring¡­ he felt the desire to leap off.


    If just for a moment his feet left the balcony stone¡­ perhaps he would glide, course through the light like Swan¡­


    If his hands were to spill into the empty air, and shape it like clay¡­


    However, as his arms rose to touch the emptiness ahead, draped in gilded light, they fell, finding nothing to hinge their weight upon.


    He had dreamt of flying, recently, of floating, in some arms¡­ almost a memory.


    ¡®It is sad that dreams do not last¡­¡¯


    ¡°Are you magic, Swan?¡±


    The phantasm fluttered, snaked around him in an expressive manner. It almost felt as if it wished to speak, but could not, and felt tanging guilt at the fact.


    He had tried giving the swan a quill, once, to hold in its beak, to write, but it passed through him and fell on the ground.


    He had told him to signal to letters on a page, to construct a phrase, but it seemed unable to¡­ some sadness evident in its strange, swan eyes.


    After its guilt, Swan simply posed itself in front of the prince¡¯s eyes, and assented.


    As if to say ¡®Yes, I am magic, I am.¡¯


    ¡®You are¡­¡¯


    This question was a prevalent motif between the prince and the phantasm.


    ¡®Strange¡­¡¯


    No one else could talk to the swans¡­ or see his companion or even notice the forest by the black, inky lake.


    Which is why he, now, finally curious enough to visit the library, wished to look for something.


    ¡°I¡¯ve asked mother to visit the land of fey¡­ I wanted to see the fairies¡­¡± He walked, muttering, talking to his friend.


    ¡°Do you really think they exist, Swan?¡±


    This time, it did not assent nor deny. It floated about, silent.


    The prince hummed.


    A grand room, florid, gold. A couple of statues set up by its sides, in armor, and spears, and helmets with combs like roosters.


    A pair of open doors, bronze? into a six-floor high library. Its walls covered with imposing shelves, stacked up to the ceilings, filled with so many tomes the eye could not keep count.


    He entered.


    Staircases at both sides, with walkways above, and tables, maps strewn about, globes, detailing the corners of the known world. Armors, heirlooms and paintings of learned scenes and ancient symposiums caught in time by an artist¡¯s skilled hand, decorated the base floor. Large, high windows, which pierced the stories, were half-covered, dressed by ornate drapery in the colors of the Hellian, with thin silver accents, in floral embroidery.


    On the ceiling, scenes of war, godly, bloodless, almost divine; chariots pulled by unknown beasts and ridden by near-naked forms, contorted in beautiful action; and heraldry drawn around its edges, held by armored figures, or pale maidens undressed. Gold, of course, flowing into the scenes, like sunlit vines.


    Dead in its middle¡­ a device of some sort, cast out of brass, symbols equidistant across its circumference. Rings suspended around, needles placed in strange symmetry, unmoving, still.


    No fire, of course¡­ the library was illuminated, perfectly, with only sunlight, somehow.


    Sat by a table, a young man read a tome, engrossed, pulling his dark-auburn locks out of sight.


    Laid back, his legs crossed, he seemed lost in what he read. A pile of aged books resting by his side.


    He stirred, and for a moment, lost concentration, as he looked at Heos entering; the young boy¡¯s head craned back, admiring the library¡­ beauty adorning every corner.


    ¡°Heos.¡±


    The child snapped back to awareness.


    ¡°Brother.¡±


    The first-born prince put the book down, his heroic visage glowing into a smile.


    ¡°It is strange to see you here¡­ who convinced you to visit the library?¡±


    ¡°No one. Father lectured me but¡­ I was curious about something.¡±


    ¡°Really, what is it? Perhaps I can help you. Searching for a single book here is¡­¡± He looked around. ¡°Or were you just interested in the library?¡±


    Heos walked closer to his brother. ¡°I heard doctor Pinel say that sick people see things others don¡¯t¡­ is there a book about that?¡±


    ¡°A book about hallucinations¡­¡± His expression creased as he thought, somewhat unnerved by his brother¡¯s choice of literature. ¡°Are you curious about delirium¡­?¡±


    ¡°About what?¡±


    The prince did not respond immediately.


    ¡°The state in which people see things that are not there¡­ Sick people do not see things others cannot, they simply see things that aren¡¯t there.¡±


    ¡°Hm¡­¡± Heos hummed, deadpan.


    ¡°Are you seeing things, Heos?¡± Children claiming to see things, playing with imagination¡­ it was all common, however¡­ this strange, brilliant brother of his¡­ he could not figure out his thoughts, or his feelings, hidden behind the mist of those inexpressive pale-blue misty eyes, as if they spilled out and devoured him whole. Being blind as to his brother¡¯s moods, the first-born could not but worry, if only slightly, at possible hallucinations¡­ madness¡­ what if?


    ¡°No.¡± The child answered, neither confused nor assured; as if the question were nothing, really.


    ¡°I see¡­ Why are you curious?¡±


    Perhaps he would press his father, tell him to keep eyes on Heos, and have Pinel look him over¡­ It was outstanding, the absolute indifference the king showed for the youngest prince; allowing him to roam around, undisturbed, like an animal¡­ for his other brothers and sisters the king, at least, attempted to put on a mask of care, but for this one¡­ he was completely unconcerned¡­ what else could it be, but indifference?


    ¡°It is interesting.¡±


    ¡°Well¡­ there must be something about it here¡­ we may take a while.¡± He tapped his foot, thinking¡­ medical tomes were usually housed on the third floor. ¡°Come.¡± He smiled.


    Up some stairs, he looked around. So many things to see¡­ it was all rather disorganized. Some curled up parchment rested in a sort-of-honeycomb at the bottom of certain bookshelves.


    ¡°Brother, what is that?¡± He pointed.


    ¡°Old parchments, yet to be transcribed. So, they are kept here.¡±


    ¡°How old?¡±


    ¡°Very old¡­ 800 years old, perhaps? Most of them are in strange cryptograms¡­ as in, they cannot be understood. And, for some reason, they do not decay as normal¡­ they were most probably treated with a, now lost, preserving solution¡­ Quite tragic. They must contain important information, especially if someone once wished, or ensured, they would survive all this time¡­¡± His head shook ¡°Or maybe there is nothing of worth inside¡­ who knows?¡±


    Heos looked up as he walked, almost tripping.


    The brass contraption lodged into the roof, like an immense shield.


    ¡°What is that, brother?¡± He pointed at the artifact.


    ¡°That is the Ether of Man, or the Tellurian Astrolabe, if you wish.¡± He stopped. Looking for a moment at the contraption, then proceeded. ¡°Although an astrolabe is an instrument¡­ one specifically designed for location among the stars, this is¡­ a work of art, or at least that is the intention with which it was built.¡± Dark blue eyes stared, intently, at the apparatus. ¡°Normally, the object one wishes to see, in relation to the stars, must be centered, then read according to the markings, which one must adjust with season and time of day in mind. This one, however, is stilled, and cannot be moved, placed in the zenith of day, at the summer solstice. The object in its midst would be all the knowledge in this library, the man in it, reading¡­ as if to say: there is no other center for things than man. Or something of the sort¡­ I do not comprehend it clearly.¡±


    Although he understood most words, the idea itself, behind the monologue, and the ¡°piece of art¡± remained hazy¡­ he still did not understand what it was¡­ and it seemed his older brother also did not. So, Heos simply assented and kept walking behind. A new question blooming in his mind.


    He touched, for a moment, the cloth of the drapery.


    ¡®Soft.¡¯


    ¡°Brother¡­¡±


    ¡°Yes, Heos?¡± Even pelted by questions, the oldest prince did not sound perturbed, instead¡­ jolly, he seemed to like answering his youngest brother¡¯s unending queries.


    ¡°Do you know what will happen later today?¡± He crouched for a moment, looking under a desk, then rose rapidly, and followed the young man.


    ¡°What do you mean?¡± He thought, as a second went by, and then, remembered something. ¡°Oh, you mean the symposium¡­ to decide your teacher?¡±


    ¡°I think? Father called it a game¡­¡±


    The first-born prince chuckled.


    ¡°Yes, he meant the symposium¡­ what did you want to know?¡±


    ¡°What is it¡­?¡±


    Heos watched as his brother hummed, clearly thinking as to what to say.


    ¡°What do you know of God, Heos?¡±


    ¡°God¡­ isn¡¯t it ¡°gods¡± or¡­¡± He starched his chin, in thought.


    ¡°What is being decided, is from whom, and so in what manner, you will learn about God, or, the gods.¡±


    God, gods¡­ what was it all? He had heard his mother exclaim, ¡°Gods!¡± but, what was it¡­? It had to be something important, a voice, or a murmur, told him to remember¡­ but what? Once again, as if it were a dream, far, far away¡­


    ¡°Why do they have to decide?¡±


    They climbed more stairs. The sound of steps against the marble, slightly echoing along the library. The walls, carved, in sharp arches.


    ¡°This is a¡­ special case, Heos. Marriages between verdanaiese and romansean royalty are not uncommon, and, traditionally, the child learns in the manner of paternal line¡­ this would be, for us the W?lfli-Loggia, from the Hierophants, from the doctrines of Aam¨¢rtus¡­ the verdanaiese, however, learn from Druides or Gothar¡­ Strangely, your grandfather, the High King of Verdanaie, asked for you to learn as they do ¡ªthe Austaufangr-C¨¦line. Your mother agreed and presented the idea to our father¡­ who, not being the most pious, cares little about the matter, and so complied. The Hierophants, of course, are not pleased¡­ and so a symposium was called, to¡­ discuss. Aam¨¢rtus has sent its representative, set to arrive today¡­ As for the verdanaiese¡­ perhaps they¡¯ve sent a Druwid, Gothi or Gythja of status, or petitioned the Foedus Sacrum Mystarum¡­ all we know¡­ or, well, all I know, is that they will arrive today.¡±


    He stopped, having left the stairs for some time. His mouth somewhat dry from the cavalcade of information. Turning to look at Heos, he saw his little brother, still, his eyes closed as he thought, surely attempting to piece together all the information, the strange, unwieldy words.


    ¡®I went on a rant¡­ perhaps I could have explained it clearer¡­¡¯


    Walking up to Heos, he tousled the boy¡¯s hair, aiming to catch his attention.


    ¡°It is rather confusing, even for me¡­ do not worry much about it, it is just politics¡­ which is why father called it a game¡­¡±


    His voice turned softer, as he went on his knee.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be there, in your camp. I shouldn¡¯t remind you to speak up, since I know you¡­ I¡¯m your brother, however¡­¡± He sighed a smile into his lips. ¡°So, I will, anyway¡­¡± His voice turned emphatic. ¡°Do not let them decide in your stead. You are royalty, Heos. Others bow to you, but you to none, be they Hierophants or Priests¡­ do not let them bind your will.¡±


    Heos nodded, his eyes half open and serene. And although he remained silent, the oldest prince liked to think his little brother would thereon hold the words in his heart.


    Rising, he stood, a hand on his chin. ¡°Now¡­ this should be the bookshelf¡­¡±


    The large wooden body extended up, into the roof, much taller than a man.


    ¡°How about¡­ I check the upper shelves, with the ladder, and you the lower ones, Heos?¡±


    The youngest prince watched the rows of tomes, stacking up, higher and higher.


    He muttered.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think so¡­ it is¡­¡± He slowly extended his arm, pointing to a corner on one of the mid-height rows. ¡°There¡­¡±


    ¡°There¡­?¡± His older brother did not understand. ¡°I should search there?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡± To Heos it seemed an obvious thing.


    Although confused, he reached for a tome on the corner his brother had mentioned, pulling out a grey-covered book, not too old, by the look of its pale pages.


    ¡°Let¡¯s see¡­ I don¡¯t think this will be too efficient Heos, we sh¡ª¡± His words cut out as he read the title page.


    ¡®M¨¦thode Scientifique d''Analyse Nosographique, written by Jeron Guillaume Pinel.¡¯


    ¡°Hm¡­ this is¡­?¡± He looked through the chapters, passing the pages rapidly, his eyes moving, focused, left to right. ¡°Pinel¡¯s book¡­ Had you searched for it before¡­?¡±


    ¡°No.¡± The child answered, impassive.


    The older prince balanced his sight, oscillating, measuredly, between the tome and his brother. Disbelieving, he asked.


    ¡°So, then, how did you know¡­?¡± He shut the covers with one hand, a light thud pleasantly echoing out.


    Close eyed; Heos raised a finger to his lips.


    ¡°I just knew¡­?¡±


    The oldest prince stared incredulously.


    ¡®Well, as brilliant as he is, Heos is still a child. I should expect ¡°pranks¡± like this, once or twice.¡¯


    ¡°Very well¡­ then, do you want to look for more tomes?¡± The first born asked, handing the medical text to the youngest prince.


    ¡°No¡­ just this one.¡± He took the book and held it under his arm, ¡°Thank you brother.¡±


    Heos turned and left, impatiently, almost stubbing his bare foot on a table as he passed. His steps, against the solid stairs, became dimmer and dimmer, until he could barely hear him trot. He could, however, see the small figure as it snaked down the steps, and exited the library, crossing the open bronze doors.


    His older brother stood there, watching, silently.


    He sighed.


    ¡®Should I get back to reading¡­?¡¯


    As if tingling his scalp, he felt the ¡°Ether of Man¡± above him, making him raise his sight.


    ¡®Man as center¡­¡¯


    He leaned on the balustrade, thinking.


    ¡®I wonder what God thinks of men¡­¡¯


    The astrolabe sat, unmoving, frozen¡­


    ¡®It is good that man need not explain himself to God¡­¡¯


    He looked down.


    Truly, there was comfort in the thought.


    One could find God anywhere, especially here, in the gentle warmth of the spring light.

 14 - Folly/Delirium

    ¡®Now¡­¡¯


    ¡°Swan¡­ where is the lake?¡±


    Signaling with its beak, the apparition pointed down a hall.


    The sunlight, warming up the cold white stone. The glare of gold and white walls.


    Outside, fruit trees. The pale, burning alabaster of apple blossoms, showering the field in spring snow.


    ¡°Is there a door ahead¡­?¡±


    The swan, close eyed, remained still, neck-to-neck coiled with the prince.


    Heos petted it, enjoying the soft feathers as they parted against his touch.


    ¡®This book should tell me¡­¡¯


    Leaving the feathers, his hand rose, shielding his eyes from the glow.


    ¡°Swan, the game sounds boring¡­ should we just hide and not go¡­?¡±


    This question woke him, and he uncoiled, gliding on empty air, as a trail of white smoke.


    It stopped ahead, blocking the prince¡¯s path.


    It looked Heos, steely, dead in the eyes, transmitting seriousness, somehow.


    ¡°You¡¯ve never acted like this¡­¡± the child, surprised, shone seldom shown emotiveness in his gaze. ¡°Is it really so important?¡±


    Swan remained motionless, black irises lost in the dark mascara of its black feathers, like dark drops attempting to pierce out¡­ yet, still sharp, as cold voids, admonishing the child.


    Heos pouted.


    ¡°I¡¯ll go, then¡­¡± He walked past the phantasm. ¡°But let¡¯s see the swans first.¡±


    The prince lifted the book with both hands, using it to cover his face from the sunlight.


    ¡®If it¡¯s too boring I¡¯ll sneak out¡­¡¯ He kept walking. ¡®There¡¯s no door¡­ where now¡­¡¯


    Taking a left¡­ a pillared hall with painted scenes¡­ he had been here before, often. A war crystallized in its vault.


    ¡®Cold.¡¯ The stone felt frigid beneath his feet.


    He looked above.


    ¡®Is that war?¡¯


    Ahead, another ante chamber, with ostentatious, extravagant detailing. Walls as if carved out of silver and gold. Some artist¡¯s care spilt around every corner, every panel, like a deluge of paint, arranged in perfect forms, had hit the room¡­ Empty, however.


    How often was this place pleased with eyes to watch its beauty¡­?


    Heos, nonetheless, found it somehow drab¡­ too much.


    He preferred the gardens, ever changing, ever colorful¡­ he did not know why.


    ¡®Did they not get tired of rooms like these¡­?¡¯


    ¡°If we turn here¡­ shouldn¡¯t we arrive at the main corridor¡­?¡±


    The slight rustle of Swan told him: Yes.


    A wide corridor. Checkered floor under red carpet, unending¡­ brought from and made in some near-east colony, or perhaps, farther away¡­


    Glimmering candelabra hanging, as portraits of kings lined the walls.


    Stone carved in arches and pillars, and detailing so fine one would ask if needles were used to cut it into the stone.


    Heos looked out from a half-open door, hinged on a corner.


    ¡®Now¡­ going down, we should¡­¡¯


    ¡°Wait¡­ was it towards¡­ there, right?¡±


    He pointed. Swan lifted its head lightly, then assented.


    ¡®Hm?¡¯


    Just when he was to turn, and leave further towards the palace, voices, the echoing of steps in cohort, barreled down the corridor. Braided voices, each one with another, as they conversed in a language¡­ yes, he understood. Who was it? Who interrupted the palace¡¯s pleasant silence. Was it a war? It was thunderous whispering... definitely.


    He stepped in the middle, his feet comfortably held by the carmine carpet.


    Down he saw a group of figures. One, robed in a beautiful, deep, brilliant red; as bleeding red roses plucked and made man. His waist held by a pale aurum rope, twined, opulent; his hands under pure-white gloves, his steps marked by pearly pantofole, embroidered in gold thread. The others, dressed in simple white robes, marked on their edges with patterns in persimmon, detailed with small glints of red, leather sandals tied to their feet, as they obediently followed behind the figure in red, talking, gently.


    Four royal guards followed, in the corners of their small formation, their white-gold-red uniforms gallant, not outshone by the man at the lead.


    ¡®And these¡­?¡¯ Heos wondered, as they grew near.


    *


    Such a thing could not be allowed¡­ a fyrian of the W?lfli lineage? Folly. More than a symposium, this would simply be a declaration. That old high king must have gone mad¡­ to suggest such a thing¡­


    He had offered to go himself.


    Partly because it was his place of birth¡­


    He had grown nostalgic for the roads and vistas of his youth.


    Of course, Romanse was delegated to him. He was the kingdom¡¯s Hierophant; no one else could go¡­ still, it was a¡­ symbolic act.


    Aam¨¢rtus was beautiful, pious, sublime¡­


    Still, he missed the light decadence, the perfumed air of Hygeia ¡ªalthough he dared not say it.


    Wishing to visit the Cathedral¡­


    Few places gathered the Hypsistos in their walls as did this one¡­ He had fought to have the Werner girl declared Antecessora, and Vers as well, with less insistence, yet¡­


    He still believed it to be one of his greatest failings.


    And the mural-over-glass¡­ It was worthy of worship. God had worked through those two¡­


    When he had seen it for the first time¡­ He still remembered.


    Something had compelled him, something. Some heft in the light, in the air, spilling, like molten gold from the figure in the mural.


    His hands clasped together, silently, he had begun to pray¡­ And, as if heard by Him, his Majesty had appeared, sightseeing the cathedral.


    ¡®Admiring this gift.¡¯


    Were his words, when he had asked.


    How long ago¡­?


    The carriage stopping diffused his daydreams.


    An acolyte called.


    ¡°Your Eminence, we have arrived.¡±


    He sounded somewhat unsure, as he did not know whether the Hierophant¡¯s closed eyes meant sleep.


    ¡°I am awake Fr¨¦d¨¦ric.¡±


    ¡°Of course, your Eminence.¡±


    He chuckled.


    ¡°Has the fyrian arrived¡­? What do you think Fr¨¦d¨¦ric?¡±


    ¡°I doubt so, your Eminence¡±


    The Hierophant hummed


    ¡°I wonder who they will send.¡±


    Another acolyte opened the carriage door and readied the steps.


    ¡°Fr¨¦d¨¦ric, did that¡­ what was it¡­ Arvern? That druwid, did he not personally serve the verdanaiese court? Has death taken him?¡±


    ¡°I do not know of whom you speak, your Eminence.¡±


    ¡®Why all the secrecy. They did not tell Alphonse¡­ and if it were Arvern, why the suspense¡­?¡¯


    He left the carriage, helped by the other acolyte.


    A detachment of the royal guard received them. No servants.


    ¡®Austere¡­ I will never understand Alphonse¡¯s militarism¡­ even in manners as this he insists. Is it not more pleasant to be surrounded by servants and the learned? Why drown oneself in soldiers?¡¯


    One of three men, leading the others, bowed.


    They were of such stature; he had to crane his neck to speak eye to eye with the guard.


    ¡°Your Eminence, we are glad to know you have arrived safely.¡±


    His arm outstretched, rigid, towards the open gold-white doors of the palace.


    ¡°Please, allow us to escort you, His Majesty will receive you.¡±


    ¡°Very well¡­ lead.¡± He waved his gloved hand.


    The guard made some signs, directed the Hierophant¡¯s servants, and waited for the other acolytes to fall in. His own guard fell into formation, and set up in front of the palace. Of course, be it directly from Aam¨¢rtus, or anywhere else, no foreign guard would be allowed inside the palace.


    ¡°Has the fyrian arrived?¡±


    The guard answered.


    ¡°Does his Eminence refer to the verdanaiese envoy?¡±


    ¡°Mhm.¡±


    ¡°No, your Eminence, they have yet to arrive, and we have received no further information.¡±


    The Hierophant did not voice much more than a hum.


    ¡®The palace¡­ Alphonse has yet to give it a name.¡¯


    His head shook involuntarily.


    ¡®Even then¡­¡¯


    He could still feel it, the saintly breath. The man who had built this monument, exuberant, empyrean. He lived through these bodies of marble and bronze.... As if the palace itself, after his death, had become the vessel for his holy spirit.


    The sun was quite pleasant. Still, he welcomed the shade as they walked into the main hall.


    ¡°Unchanged¡­¡± A reflexive whisper.


    The acolytes gasped, already dazed by the sights of the structure as they rode to it. Now, inside, they marveled at the beauty, the gold, the grandeur, as a heavenly dwelling in a fairy tale. Once truly inhabited by a Hyperion, his solar existence still illuminating its halls.


    ¡°Beautiful, is it not?¡±


    A chorus of affirmation, and your Emminences, answering him.


    ¡°Do enjoy it. One does not get much freedom of travel as an acolyte¡­ Sights as these are seldom seen.¡± He cleared his eyes¡­ was he tearing up? Why? Did it remind him of the past¡­? ¡°Even if you all were to try and comb this palace for a day, days, you would not find all its corners, all its marvels¡­¡±


    The acolytes watched¡­ all directions, all sights as they could, quietly whispering to each other, discussing this or that.


    ¡°Is that a landscape by Mineirs?¡±


    ¡°How much gold would one need for just this gilding?¡±


    ¡°This is all lotus silk¡­¡±


    Passing by crystal, The Hierophant caught his reflection, for an instant.


    Dignified, aged, solemn¡­ yet, with something¡­ an irreparable blue-grey melancholia hidden deep. Invisible to all but him, the reflection¡¯s owner.


    ¡®¨¦tienne, prayer does not help men¡­ however much it pleases God.¡¯


    That voice, still, those words, they now rang clearer. Was it because of where he stood?


    ¡®How many more years will I last as a Hierophant?¡¯


    He had been blessed with longevity, with health. Nonetheless, he felt it so¡­ soon it would be time.


    It pained him all the more so¡­


    ¡°Guard.¡±Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    ¡°Yes, your eminence?¡±


    ¡°What are your thoughts? On the prince to be educated fyrian. A prince of W?lfli-Loggia?¡±


    The guard¡¯s disciplined expression remained.


    ¡°Such things are of no interest to us, your Eminence. Be it an athalic or fyrian royal, the guard dedicates its lives to the crown. A royal of the W?lfli-Loggia line could very well scorn God father in Empyrean and earn his wrath¡ª our duty shall still be: to let our bodies be pierced if it gains them a single breath more in life.¡±


    ¡°What honour¡­¡±


    ¡°Thank you, your Eminence.¡±


    ¡®Alphonse has them well trained.¡¯ He hid a sigh. ¡®Such loyalties¡­ it is worrying.¡¯


    His eyes returned to the seemingly never-ending corridor-hall, there, he saw¡­


    ¡®Hm¡­¡¯


    A child of six, perhaps? Dressed in a loose white gown, barefoot, its right arm holding a grey tome.


    Pale, platinum hair, with just a light haze of blond blush, down to his shoulders. Skin, as pale as snow. And eyes¡­ mist-blue, flecked in green, a strange coldness seeping from underneath.


    ¡®Prince Heos?¡¯


    He stood still, in the middle of the corridor, watching, looking, unmoving. Even with the group of men walking down, towards him.


    They all turned to silence. Although the guards and the Hierophant kept their step, the acolytes, unsure, dallied.


    The cohort came to a stop before the child.


    The Hierophant matched the prince¡¯s unblinking gaze, who now looked at him, static, curiosity clear amidst that cold blue brume he wore for eyes.


    The lead guard spoke.


    ¡°Your Highness, prince Heos Pallas-Maria Pha?tos von der W?lfli-Loggia. This is his Eminence, Hierophant ¨¦tienne Bellegarde de Montferrand, and his acolytes.¡±


    The prince remained, looking, as if he had not heard the words.


    ¡°Are you here for the game?¡± The child asked, his voice serene.


    ¨¦tienne¡¯s eyes widened for a moment, genuinely surprised.


    ¡®¨¢radal? I had heard he was bright, yet¡­ and the cadence¡­¡¯


    He chose not to use formal address.


    ¡°Prince Heos, I am glad to meet you. If ¡°for the game¡± you refer to the symposium, then yes, that is the reason for my visit.¡±


    Heos tilted his neck, wondering. After some silence, ¨¦tienne decided to speak up once more.


    ¡°It is surprising to see a child of your age speak more than his mother tongue¡­ Why did you choose to use ¨¢radal?¡±


    ¡°I heard voices speaking it down the hall¡­ and wished to try it.¡±


    ¡®Of course.¡¯ The Hierophant thought. It was rather obvious.


    ¡°I see¡­ who taught it to you? or did you learn by means of solitary study?¡±


    ¡°My brother.¡±


    ¡®So, the Gelbann Amoineau then.¡¯ The oldest prince¡¯s appearance, as a child, arrived in his mind¡¯s eye.


    ¡°Did you find it challenging?¡±


    ¡°No¡­ it was tedious, but fun¡­?¡±


    ¡®Perhaps¡­ no. Or¡­?¡¯ Something bubbled about in his mind.


    ¡°Let us use romanse, Prince Heos, it is, for both, our mother tongue.¡±


    ¡°Ok.¡±


    ¡°Guard. Please lead my acolytes to the parlour¡­ or drawing room, or wherever it may be. I wish to have a conversation with the prince, if he would allow¡­ I can find my way, so worry not.¡±


    The entire guard, on the occasion they would watch over Heos, or need to guard him in particular, or simply were to come across him, had been instructed by Alphonse to cater to his whims.


    ¡®Even if it led to his endangerment.¡¯


    These were the king¡¯s words.


    A marvelously contradicting statement, yet, an order they carried out still. Alphonse assured: nothing would happen to him.


    Now, leaving the child alone with the Hierophant would not be a danger of any sort¡­ however, the royal guard did not yet forget that incident, which still, freshly scarred their memories: the Vend¨¦miaire Furieux, as it had come to be called, a great sin on their conscience. Caused by unexplainable madness. Who knew¡­? Perhaps such madness could take anyone¡­


    ¡°Ok¡­¡± The prince answered.


    ¡°Very well, your Highness.¡± The lead guard bowed, and the acolytes followed behind the cohort, muttering, chattering, all the while.


    As soon as their noise had disappeared, ¨¦tienne spoke again.


    ¡°What is it that you are reading, prince Heos?¡± He pointed to the book.


    ¡°Hm? Oh¡­ it is¡­ M¨¦thode Scientifique d''Analyse Nosographique.¡± The child held the tome with both hands, opening it to the title page, reading, euphonically.


    A surprise¡­


    ¡®Ha? What is this choice of literature¡­?¡¯ The hierophant had expected some light narrative, like a fairy tale, or something of the sort. ¡®Perhaps¡­¡¯


    ¡°That is¡­ rather specialized literature. Why your interest in such topics?¡±


    ¡°I wanted to know about sick people who see things others don¡¯t.¡± He mumbled something unheard, and then, spoke clearly, as if remembering something. ¡°Or seeing things that aren¡¯t there¡­¡±


    ¡°Anything which caused it so?¡±


    ¡°I was curious.¡±


    ¡®Hm¡­ Now?¡¯ ¨¦tienne thought.


    ¡°Prince Heos, do you know of the purpose of today¡¯s symposium?¡± His voice suddenly deeper, serious.


    ¡°To decide how I learn about God?¡±


    ¡°Yes, that is it¡­¡± He tidied up his ashen hair, running his hand through it, back. ¡°Tell me, Heos, what do you know of your great-great grandfather, King Alexandre IX, the Hyperion Hellian?¡±


    The prince raised his sight, humming as he thought¡­


    ¡°Do you mean the man with the eyes of amber?¡±


    ¡®Huh?¡¯


    Now, he remembered, suddenly, those eyes. Yes, like amber, as honey¡­ as crystallized, vespertine sunlight, the dying, dark-ocher sun, melting over the horizon¡­ beautiful, saintly, no¡­ Godly. As they looked, tranquil, yet, fragile¡­


    ¡®¨¦tienne.¡¯ A voice, like summer rain.


    This prince¡¯s eyes¡­ why did they remind him of those, that gaze¡­? They were so unlike each other.


    His suspicion rose, somewhat. It was too early to know, yet.


    ¡®If it¡¯s the case, we will know¡­ God knows his own. No matter¡­¡¯


    Shaking off his surprise, he answered.


    ¡°Yes, he had amber eyes, did he not¡­ Well, aside from that, what do you know of him?¡±


    Without thinking, the child answered.


    ¡°That he is in the land of fey, with the fairies, far, far in the west¡­¡±


    ¡®Crossing a path of gold and honey over the ocean mist. Across meadows of a hundred kinds of colored flowers where magical horses graze.¡¯ Heos filled in, in his head.


    The hierophant was stupefied¡­


    ¡®The Hellian¡­ in the¡­ land¡­ of the fey?¡¯


    He swore, someone laughed, a silvery, light laugh¡­


    ¡°What?¡± He asked, unthinking.


    The prince tilted his head, wide-eyed, looking at the Hierophant¡¯s expression.


    Heos looked above, a distracted haze covering his eyes.


    ¡°He¡¯s in the land of the fey¡­ with the fairies¡­¡± Somewhat weakly, he followed the words. ¡°Can I go to the land of the fey? Does it exist¡­?¡± Like a mantra.


    Even if he asked in the words in conversation, the tenuous tone seemed to imply he only voiced these questions emptily, into the air, not expecting an answer.


    ¡®Where to begin¡­? Would this be overstepping¡­¡¯ The Hierophant wondered. ¡®What a scatterbrained child¡­¡¯


    ¡°Prince Heos, who has told you of these fairytales?¡±


    Still distracted by something, the prince turned his sight to the empty air beside him, as if¡­


    ¡°My mother¡­¡±


    ¡®Of course¡­ the Austaufangr wild-woman. Who else¡­?¡¯ Was age dulling his mind¡­? Stumbling like this, in irrelevant questions, when conversing with a child¡­


    ¡°Prince Heos, you see¡­¡± ¡®Huh?¡¯ His words¡­ had he forgotten?


    ¡®Really, what is wrong? How did I forget what I was to say¡­¡¯


    He took a breath¡­


    ¡°As I intended to say, you see Prince Heo¡ª¡±


    His eyes, which he had returned to where the prince stood, found¡­


    Nothing¡­


    ¡°Prince¡­?¡±


    ¡®In a breath¡­?¡¯


    The prince had left.


    ¡®When?¡¯


    A deep sigh¡­ his hand over his face.


    ¡®Age does not come alone.¡¯


    Looking around¡­ he had disappeared.


    ¡°What a troublesome child¡­¡±


    His head shook.


    The Hierophant moved to join his acolytes.


    Perhaps the fyrian would arrive soon.


    *


    ¡°You looked happy¡­ did you laugh?¡±


    Swan, strangely expressive, as always, seemed jovial.


    ¡°Did that man¡­ Hiero- Hi- Hiro-¡­¡± What was the word?


    ¡°You made no sound, but¡­ a laugh? Did you laugh?¡±


    The phantasm glided, as a child that had pulled an infantile prank. A smiling disposition, masqueraded by the graceful air that all his being exuded. Even, a hint of cruelty, of schadenfreude, unabashed delight in the old Hierophant¡¯s surprise and titubation.


    ¡°What was it¡­ when it¡¯s a laugh¡­ but no sound¡­?¡± Heos muttered.


    ¡®Magic¡­?¡¯


    Bored by the seemingly impossible thought, he moved on. Looking at the verdant buzzing of the spring, as it fed the sycamore forest.


    The old marble pergola drowned in jade. Beds of moss, fresh, inviting.


    Even, drops, hidden, of yet to thaw frost, near their death, gave shards of cold to the humid vigor breathing life into all.


    Growth. Flowers, buzzing. The earth had lost its light ochre tint. It became a deep, vernal near black. Pleasant, aromatic¡­ he didn¡¯t mind his feet, now earthen. It felt nice¡­


    The forest ended. And he came to the lake.


    Further down¡­


    Step, step¡­


    The sun disappeared.


    The air grew heavy, charged, dark.


    Lukewarm.


    ¡®Cozy¡­¡¯ Sometimes he enjoyed sleeping next to the lake, in this forest of his own.


    And beneath his feet¡­ that pale hay-like¡­ something¡­


    Small, cotton grass flowers blooming, even under the canopy¡­ like the roof of a mouth that had swallowed the sky.


    And the piercing spires of wood¡­ some, he noticed, far away¡­ a soft, earth color¡­ most, near, like pillars of old, aged, pale-green bronze.


    Maybe, far, far away, nestled in the dark, and rising knots of roots¡­ some speckles of blue, some hints of darker viridian.


    He did not trip against the roots¡­ he was accustomed.


    The lake¡­ more a slab of verglas¡­ no, verglas was not black enough, and spilled ink too deep... A mirror into the void above¡­ the swans nesting, gliding, on its surface.


    Two received them¡­ one carried, on its back, among its curving wings, a group of grey, silent cygnets.


    The other spoke.


    ¡°Lad. It is nice to see you visit.¡± A pleasant, sonorous voice.


    ¡°Hello Mr. swan¡­¡±


    ¡°Oh, dear¡­ welcome¡­¡± A maternal sing-song.


    ¡°Hello Ms. Swan¡­¡±


    He sat, then, laid down, his back against the forest floor, looking up.


    He raised the book and opened it, intending to read, here and there, out loud.


    ¡°Lad, Is that a book?¡±


    ¡°Yes¡­¡±


    ¡°Interesting¡­¡± The swan grew nearer, adjusting his neck so as to see better. ¡°Can¡¯t understand much¡­¡± He, of course, being a swan, could not read romanse.


    ¡°I wanted to look for something¡­¡±


    Comfortable¡­ If he did not care, he would slip into sleep.


    He read, taking in the silence.


    ¡®Hm¡­¡¯


    *


    ¡°One, a man we will call K (No antecedents or history of disorders or derangements) worked as a laborer in the herding community of Sable-plata in the southern province of Manxa, Calabria. One day ¡ªhis wife reported¡ª, he had awoken, complaining of nightmares and a headache. This, thereon, had become a common occurrence, and although it affected not his labors, it did present an increasing, although subtle, deterioration of his mental faculties.


    On a day of harvest, K had seemed to finally be cured of this persistent nightly dolour, yet, his behavior changed, rapidly, across the day¡¯s duration.


    The apparent interference of apparitions that were not present. Consistent paranoid delusions of ¡°hidalgos¡± coming for his honor [¡­] seeking to cross blades with him (note, a clear muddling of self-identity, and an inability to properly recall the past, past new conditions instilled via delirium). Non-recognition of his wife or children (or other members of his community). Enamourment, limerence and erotomania directed at a non-existing damsel; the necessity to rescue this vague figure (of which he could give no account other than its beauty) and the purported recruitment of a humble farmstead as a squire. Visions of giants, fairies, spirits and vistas not grounded in reality (A castle at the sight of a tavern, in example), as points of obsession and fixation in elaborate tales, in which he featured as a pivotal force¡­


    Intercession from local clergy was attempted, to no effect (evidently).


    He was interned at an institution in the province capital of Manxa.


    Later, then, when K had regained some clarity of mind, a series of interviews revealed how, even past a state of manic-delirium, insidious remnants, or ¡°dormant¡± phenomena retained themselves in the patient¡¯s psyche.


    He assured, for one, that a phantom (a malign spirit in some other instances, as his answers shifted among constant incongruences) had ¡°risen¡± from his dreams, and then appeared, suddenly, physically, although unseen by others. This phantom, Kervanti, (or Saav) as he called him, presented counsel and accompanied his labors, while, nonetheless, whispering strange scenes which then, he assured, became ¡°like word of God¡± which he ¡°had no choice¡± but to ¡°see as true¡±. This figure, in myriad forms, although most often described as a ¡°man-shaped-lion¡± dressed in ¡°armor of mirrors¡± and with ¡°a tongue of gold¡±, as well as ¡°an open head which bubbled ink¡± became K¡¯s sole fixation in further interviews; even when conscious of his previous manic states¡­¡±


    ¡°Hm¡­¡± Heos lowered the book, resting it on his chest. A couple of breaths gave way to his words.


    ¡°Mr, Ms. Swan¡­¡±


    ¡®¡­¡¯


    ¡°De- Del- Delirioum¡­ Delirium¡­ I think that is it.¡± He closed the tome, putting it by his side. ¡°That is why I can talk to swans¡­ or see Swan¡­, or see this forest¡­ Crazy¡­¡±


    ¡°Lad, I do not think reading a single book will give you an answer. And, of course, I can attest, I¡¯m real, as is my love here¡­ we are not¡­ what was it¡­ apparitions of your mind, or however the book put it¡­¡±


    ¡°Yes, dear¡­ why believe that book? it is magic¡­ not¡­ dilirum, or¡­¡±


    Was it? But magic was impossible, and this delirium thing was.


    But then¡­ he thought.


    ¡®What do I want it to be¡­?¡¯


    Magic.


    He knew the answer by heart.


    Just as much as he wanted to visit the land of fey, and see the fairies, and cross the sea¡­


    Magic. That is what he wanted it to be¡­ then, that is what it was.


    ¡®Mhm¡­¡¯


    ¡°You are right Ms. Swan, it is magic.¡±


    Just as he chose to haunt the most beautiful parts of this palace¡­ warm, cozy, pleasant¡­ Why not choose it to be magic?


    Suddenly, as if given life by the thought¡­


    What was there¡­ there, beyond the root-knots, and the dark¡­? deeper, deeper in the woods¡­


    Why could he do magic? but others could not¡­


    Why? Why?


    ¡®Could I fly¡­?¡¯


    His hand, grasping the empty, dark air, as if it were to spear past the void heaven, into light¡­


    ¡°Your Highness, prince Heos.¡±


    He was taken out of it¡­


    A guard, standing before him.


    He half-rose, his torso upright, but still sitting down.


    ¡°Hello.¡±


    ¡°Prince Heos, I am to escort you to the symposium.¡±


    ¡®The game¡­¡¯


    ¡°Ok¡­¡±


    The guard watched as the prince rose, his feet and gown covered in black, spring dirt.


    ¡°Could you hold this?¡±


    He handed him the book.


    ¡°Certainly.¡± The guard held it in his hand. ¡°Then, shall we go¡­?


    The prince lightly patted his clothes, halfheartedly, not really caring if he was clean.


    ¡°Wait.¡± Heos turned to the lake. ¡°Mr. Swan, would you like to see the game?¡± His voice directed at a bird not far from shore.


    The guard found the prince¡¯s play endearing¡­ a show of some childishness where there usually was none.


    He was about to speak when¡­


    ¡°Yes¡­ it¡¯s ok¡­ it won¡¯t matter.¡±


    The prince assured the bird, as it¡­ grew closer¡­


    The swan reached shore, gliding towards the child as he¡­ picked it up¡­ held it¡­ the bird, in his arms¡­


    ¡®What?¡¯


    The guard, disciplined as he was, almost spoke out loud¡­ slack jawed, disbelief clear in his eyes¡­


    ¡°Prince¡ª¡±


    ¡°Ok, we can go now¡­¡±


    Another swan, with cygnets on its back, stayed close to shore, watching¡­ He had just noticed.


    The prince walked, as the guard, still baffled, held his sight between the lake and the child.


    ¡°Mr. guard¡­ what do you think of the sun¡­?¡±


    The soldier stirred, composing himself at the prince¡¯s question.


    ¡°The¡­ uh, sun, yes¡­ as in¡­ today?¡± He thought, still shaking off some of the strangeness.


    ¡®Perhaps the swan is trained¡­? God, feeling surprise, this much¡­ at something this silly¡­¡¯


    ¡°Yes, prince Heos, the sun is nice today.¡±


    He looked up, briefly shielding his eyes with his hand.


    The prince just nodded.


    ¡°Mm-hmm.¡±


    And walked off.


    The guard followed, then, overtook the prince, so as to lead him.


    Yes, it was nice¡­


    The swan¡¯s feathers, held by Heos, shone beautifully against the light. As fair as the child¡¯s hands.


    He swore he heard a laugh, silvery¡­


    ¡®No, never mind¡­¡¯

 15 – Symposium

    ¡°Huh? Heos? Whe¡ª¡± The princess¡¯ words fell into smoke, as she caught sight of what her brother held in his arms. ¡°Is that a swan!?¡±


    She ran past the guard and up to Heos, leaving little room between herself and the animal, exclaiming gleefully all the while.


    ¡°What!? How did you get it to let you hold it!?¡± She carefully watched it, changing angle every couple of blinks, marveling at the creature. ¡°Every time I get close to one, they glide away¡­ or get angry.¡± She murmured.


    ¡°He¡¯s my friend¡­¡± Heos answered.


    ¡°Oh, so it¡¯s a he¡­! Aren¡¯t you handsome.¡± Getting even closer, the swan simply watched her, its eyes indecipherable, rousing its feathers. ¡°But that doesn¡¯t answer the question!¡± She pointed at her brother. ¡°How did you get him to be your friend?¡±


    ¡°I talked to him¡­?¡±


    Some mock irritation was made clear in her expression.


    She crouched. The bright white swan was fairly large, almost drowning Heos from this angle.


    ¡°Swans can¡¯t understand words, silly¡­¡±


    Before, surprised by the animal, she hadn¡¯t quite realized how humorous the sight was¡­ a six-year-old child carrying a swan¡­ wait.


    ¡°Hey Heos¡­ isn¡¯t he heavy¡­? I mean, swans are pretty big, this one is pretty big¡­¡±


    The guard turned to look; his muddled thoughts woken by the princess¡¯ comment.


    ¡®Yes¡­ what? How is the prince carrying this swan?!¡¯ His confusion was enlivened once more, where before he had just accepted the fact that the bird was most likely trained¡­ this?


    ¡°No? He¡¯s light.¡± He raised the swan somewhat, and moved it side to side, gently.


    The princess hummed.


    ¡®Well¡­ he is his majesty¡¯s child. None of the other princes inherited his strength. Perhaps the prince did?¡¯


    Once again, his doubts had found a reasonable outlet; a sufficiently mundane explanation for the strange occurrence orbiting the prince.


    Remembering something, he spoke.


    ¡°Your Highness, princess Annika, the prince must attend important proceedings. Perhaps you could continue after this session?¡±


    She pouted, but rose nonetheless.


    ¡°Ok.¡± She thought it over, however. ¡°Could I go¡­?¡±


    The guard, not in a position to order the princess, thought of how to arrange his words.


    ¡°Of course you can, princess Annika. I must advise, either way, that these proceedings will not be an enjoyable ordeal. It may not be my position to declare them so¡­ yet¡­¡± He whispered the next words, as to accent them to the girl¡¯s ears. ¡°They are little more than political bickering¡­¡± Turning back to his normal tone, he continued. ¡°If you were to grow bored with them, it would then seem improper¡­ unbefitting of proper etiquette, to leave amidst their course.¡± Flashing a congenial smile, he finished his spiel. ¡°If what interests you is the prince¡¯s swan, then how about seeing it after the proceedings are done? If time is on our side, they will not take long.¡±


    The princess closed her eyes, a hand holding her chin as she thought.


    ¡°Hm¡­ I suppose you are right.¡± Her eyelids opened, settling their gem-blue irises on the swan. ¡°But only if Heos lets me pet him first¡­ hehe.¡± She chuckled, cheekily, raising her hands in front of the bird, inching closer.


    Heos looked at the bird, then back at his sister, then, back at Mr. Swan.


    ¡°Mr. Swan, would you let her pet you?¡±


    The princess merely uttered a ¡°huh?¡± as she stopped, watching as the prince took in a moment of silence.


    ¡°He said he doesn¡¯t mind.¡±


    Annika smiled, stepping beside the bird. Gently ruffling the swan¡¯s pure white feathers, she cooed, evidently pleased.


    ¡®So soft¡­¡¯ She thought, then, of her brother. ¡®I suppose Heos can not only look cute¡­ he can also act cutely when doing the occasional childish thing¡­ hehe.¡¯ Heos was definitely a cute child ¡ªit did not help he looked quite alike a doll¡­ however, his strange behavior didn¡¯t really add up to her fantasies of having a cute younger brother, lisping and attached to her, calling her elder sister¡­ She had come to terms with it.


    ¡°I¡¯ll let you get to your proceedings¡­¡± Sharpening her tone in jest, she posed her eyes on Heos. ¡°Don¡¯t think I forgot you ran from me while we were playing¡­!¡±


    She turned, and with a ¡°Hmph!¡± walked down a corridor.


    ¡®But we weren¡¯t playing¡­ you were just chasing me.¡¯ The prince thought.


    Grateful, the guard thanked his luck. The princess had not noticed the evident; bringing a swan into the chambers of a formal proceeding was, of course, against etiquette.


    ¡°Then¡­ let us continue, prince Heos.¡±


    The child nodded.


    *


    The chamber was rather wide. Gilded, yet notably less extravagant than the rest of the old, grandiose palace, built in the shape of Alexandre¡¯s whims.


    Acolytes sat at one side. Besides them, separated by a gap, a somewhat smaller group of men. Pale blue robes covering them, as phantoms dressed in slivers of sky, and led by an old figure, sat on the first row of their formation. Hanging bijouterie of glass and silver, shaped like birds, adorning him. His old hands steady, as they played with a paled lily, holding its stem. A pleasant, kindly smile on his face.


    At his side, in white tunic, another old¡­ no, ancient man, sat. Like sculpted from the wrinkled, knotted bark of a millenary tree. Hunched even sitting, his eyes closed by the weight of his brow, and spindly, yet abundant, long white hair ¡ªadorned by the verdant leaves of an oak¡ª, fell onto his shoulders. His wrinkled, rugged palms cradled something, which moved, and from moment to moment, cried out a pleasant song, sharp and spotted, cutting the chamber¡¯s air. A tawny wren, at ease in the ancient man¡¯s clasp. Resting by the side of his seat, a cane, made from a gnarled branch.


    All these, men of faith, looked at odds with the palace, its aristocratic regalia, its golden hue, its marbled body, a contrast to the austerity of their somewhat anachronic appearance.


    Perhaps the only one who, thanks to his vibrancy ¡ªeven in old age¡ª, and bleeding robes, melded into the palace¡¯s skin, was ¨¦tienne, the Hierophant.


    Atop a wide dais, two masterfully carved chairs, with red upholstery in red kaspeir wool, were placed; small side tables by their sides; some parchments and ink and so on¡­ on them. On one, ahead of the group of acolytes, sat the old ¨¦tienne. And, before him, on the opposing camp, lay an unfamiliar man. His red-hair, bleeding, fiery, crystal-like¡­ braided here and there, with rings of silver for finery¡­ his clear green eyes as leaves of emerald. Dressed in a strange, dark-blue robe¡­ royal blue, like the sea on a stormy night. His clean-shaven features were¡­ strange. For all who looked at him would see him as normal, comely even, yet, would find something¡­ something strange and hidden, which eluded words.


    Above even them, a raised platform on the dais held four more chairs. One, central, raised, more a throne than a chair, had in its grasp the king of Romanse: Alphonse XVI. At his left wing, Roderin de Lamartine and¡­ Otto Alle Bass¨¢th, sitting as diplomatic link between Hygeia and Verdanaie. The last chair, unoccupied, at his right.


    ¨¦tienne glared at the red headed youth sat in front of him. Alphonse looked forwards, ahead into nothing, bored. While Roderin seemed somewhat expectant, Bass¨¢th maintained a grey expression.


    The wren sang.


    ¡°Suidrys, why bring that animal in with you?¡±


    ¡°Does its song bother you, ¨¦tienne?¡± The gnarled, ancient man asked, his voice surprisingly spry for his venerable age.


    Opening a hand, the wren jumped on his fingers, singing ever more beautifully, as if to spite the Hierophant.


    ¡°Do you intend to daze the prince with an animal, like some street magician?¡± A despondent chuckled accompanied his sharp words.


    ¡°It was an augury¡­ that which led me to bring him today.¡± He petted the bird¡­ it seemed to nuzzle into his thin, aged fingers. ¡°I have no intent to daze the young prince, that, if anything, is this fellow¡¯s task.¡± His left hand rose, almost creaking, and pointed at the red-headed youth, who smiled.


    ¡°Hm! The prince may be bright, this matter, however, is not vain enough to consign to his whims.¡± Holding his brows he continued. ¡°A child is a child.¡±


    ¡°Oh, yes, yes¡­¡± The ancient voiced, agreeing with ¨¦tienne, the mocking derision in his aged tone clear.


    The Hierophant¡¯s accusatory gaze rested, once again, on the young man.


    ¡°What was your name, druwid?¡±


    ¡°Vaengrimur Vider. Hierophant ¨¦tienne¡­ Bellegarde de Montferrand, was it?¡± His already notable smile flashed, somewhat coldly. ¡°Although you may call me Vaen, Hierophant, as I know boreal names may be bitter on your tongue.¡± He gesticulated, his hands freely moving. ¡°I am not a druwid, Hierophant ¨¦tienne¡­ a Goei, that is my order.¡±


    ¡®The name¡­ like a drunk muttering a curse. Truly a gothi.¡¯ ¨¦tienne thought to himself.


    ¡°Why is it that the Verdanaiese have sent a Gothi¡­? a youth, no less. What has happened to Druwid Arvern?¡±


    ¡°The admirable Arch Druwid Arvern has been ferried into his next life¡­¡± The placid smile did not leave his lips. ¡°As for my being envoy¡­ It is improper to speak of one¡¯s own character¡­¡±


    ¡®So, he will not say. Matters not.¡¯


    The doors creaked open, wide, pushed apart by a royal guard. A grey tome missing from his hands.


    ¡®Finally.¡¯ ¨¦tienne sat upright. ¡°Very well, le¡ª¡±


    All eyes were placed on the prince as he entered, his figure and face blotted out, almost entirely, by the body of a beautiful mute swan, held, impossibly, in the child¡¯s arms. Black spring dirt, on his feet and, less noticeably, marking his white gown.


    ¡°What?¡±Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.


    It was ¨¦tienne who first spoke. Then, a bright laugh washed away the silence proceeding the old Hierophant¡¯s exclamation.


    It was Alphonse, cackling.


    The ancient venerable, silent, had his old, bark-skin upturned into a smile, as the wren jumped around his hand, chirping happily.


    Roderin sighed, his face falling onto his open hands.


    Bass¨¢th and the acolytes watched, confused, not quite understanding that which they saw.


    The augur name-singer and the blue robed men all gleefully whispered, animated by the vista.


    ¡°His Majesty, Prince of Romanse, Heos Pallas-Maria Pha?tos von der W?lfli-Loggia.¡± The guard declared; pride and deference tinting his tone.


    Heos continued forward, walking, tranquil, the swan in his hands. He stepped above the dais, then, above the raised platform, and, finally, sat on the rightmost chair to his father, the king.


    The swan extended its wings, adjusting himself to the prince¡¯s lap, then roused. His black-pearl eyes, like mirrors of obsidian.


    The young Goei never had his smile erased. A mask, stuck by art of magic to his visage.


    It was when seated that the prince noticed a strange phenomenon. The image of the fire-haired Goei flickered, in and out of existence, much as a reflection on a pond, rent apart by disturbed waters.


    The sunlit threads of flame that composed his mane, were superimposed, in flashing blinks, with white, pure, unmarred locks. His rosy skin turned ashen, pale, old; although inexplicably bereft of wrinkles, as the old always had. His verdant eyes, two copper flames, dulled, until they were buried under his sinking eyelids, and snow-white eyebrows.


    Notably, his tunic stayed as it was, swirling independently from the flashing forms of his appearance. A maelstrom of living dark blues, the calamitous northern sea, raging, seeking to stretch its arms into land.


    Heos, used to visions, did not say much at all, and merely observed, interested.


    ¡®Magic.¡¯


    The flickering figure turned its neck, their sights crossing.


    A kind smile. But hidden in its shape a¡­


    ¡®Do you see?¡¯


    ¡®Yes.¡¯ The prince¡¯s cold, devouring eyes responded, enamored by the magic he had declared as real.


    The flashing figure settled on the old sage. Of course, to the eyes of the symposium, the young Goei remained, nodding and smiling to greet the prince.


    ¡°I must ask, is this a ploy?¡± ¨¦tienne wondered out loud. ¡°This, unnecessary, ridiculous, heavy-handed symbolism?¡±


    ¡°I know not of what you speak, Hierophant Montferrand. Do you imply I would ask my child haul an adult swan across this palace, only to justify his fyrian education?¡± Alphonse derisively retorted, ignoring the fact that these theatrics were something he would, most definitely, indulge in. ¡°It is really so incomprehensible that my son may have a pet?¡± His tone turned colder. ¡°You conceive this as a manufactured miracle, mixing in your mind the extraordinary and the mundane, only because you cannot settle for a proper reason, cause of this¡­ event.¡± His hand waved. ¡°There are enough explanations, godly or human, for the sight. Do not burden me with your own doubt.¡±


    ¨¦tienne, undeterred, maintained a scrutinizing glare on Alphonse.


    ¡°Also, Hierophant Montferrand, I care not enough to do something of this sort.¡±


    ¡°Then what do you propose as the cause of this little play?¡± His voice, dripping with accusation.


    ¡°Heos is my child, and great, great-grandson of the Hyperion Hellian. Is it not to be expected that he be extraordinary¡­? as, for example, dominate wild beasts and carry the weight of an adult swan as a child of six?¡± His voice settled down, his eyes now bored with the Hierophant. ¡°I have seen things far stranger¡­ things Aam¨¢rtus has classified as divine works.¡± His face flashed. ¡°You, Goei, what do you think of this?¡±


    ¡°It is a clear augury, Your Majesty. The prince is certainly loved by the gods.¡±


    ¨¦tienne scoffed.


    ¡°Yes? And why is that so?¡±


    ¡°Alphonse, will you truly entertain this folly? As an athalic royal, great-grandson of a Hyperion¡­ must you really?¡± The Hierophant¡¯s tone, accusative, even somewhat pained.


    ¡°Yes, I am all those things. Which is why this folly will not move me¡­ I am curious, merely.¡± He signaled the Goei to continue.


    ¡°I desire not to dissolve this symposium into a regaling of comparative mythology. So as to be brief, I will say little more than a generality, then mention, with some depth that which is relevant to my station, as an ¨®eratruar¡­¡± He cleared his throat. ¡°First, I must mention a more¡­ biological assertion. The swan is a haughty, aggressive bird¡­ perhaps even cruel, as I¡¯ve heard some call it. Yet, it has bent to the prince, as a companion. Being of note, it should be considered¡­¡± His open palm signaling the animal. ¡°In fyrian myth, the swan is many things. A psychopomp, a marvel of love, a symbol of virility, a transformed spirit, sorcerer, or human¡­ a vessel for the soul of a worthy. As for the ¨®eratruar¡­ the Valkyries serve the Asagrim, dressed among mortals in ¨¢lptarhamr¡­ that is, the plumage of swans, taking the shape of swans. This is most relevant to you, Your Highness, after all, are you not a warlike king? To have your son be beloved by the Maidens. Well, it is an augury, is it not?¡±


    Alphonse hummed.


    ¡°Interesting¡­ Although you certainly exaggerate. And this animal is male¡­ curious nonetheless.¡±


    The red-headed ¡°youth¡± maintained a smile.


    ¡°Now, ¨¦tienne, what have you say?¡± One hand propped on his ¡°throne¡¯s¡± armrest, the other one gestured, deferring to the Hierophant.


    ¡°Fyrian theology, mythology¡­ I will comment not on such things. I will, however, remind that fyrian faiths are foreign to Romanse. Even if their variations and doctrines are professed by allies to this kingdom, they are foreign. To allow a prince, no matter how minor, to be raised with foreign belief¡­¡± His head shook, weary. ¡°Romanse is the heartland of Athalicism, bearing numerous Hyperions; the blood of its dynasty tied to Aamart¨²s, closer than any other, more than allies, the Noble City and Romanse are bound, vowed to each other.¡± His tone rose, just enough to add a brilliant weight to his words. ¡°To allow a foreign kingdom to educate a prince, is it not a terrible humiliation? An intrusion into Romanse¡¯s sovereignty¡­¡± His eyes pierced into the king. ¡°Alphonse, here, you and I shared the sights of a true miracle¡­ we have gazed upon true divinity. Forget not the truth. Would you allow your son, the only one you truly love, be taken by delusion and superstition?¡±


    Before the king, whose eyes had widened ¡ªa sight seldom seen, cause of his indifferent, cold disposition¡ª could speak, the ancient, wizened man spoke. The wren still chirped, settled on his hand.


    ¡°¨¦tienne, it hurts me¡­ you call fyrian faiths foreign to Romanse? Am I a mere scarecrow to you?¡± His aged tone managed to impart some sarcasm to his words. ¡°Was it when Aamart¨²s conquered and butchered this land¡¯s fyrians that we became foreign?¡±


    ¡°You speak with such pain Suidrys, yet, as old as you are, you are not ancient enough to have seen such sights, or to have felt an Athalic blade singe your neck.¡± His voice turned remarkably aggressive. ¡°Need I remind the atrocities these ancient druwids of yours committed? the flowing blood, the human sacrifice¡­?¡± His head turned, spurring the ancient man. ¡°And yet, it is not a romansean druwid whom the high king proposed for the prince¡¯s educator, but a verdanaiese gothi. He shall be educated in the boreal faith. What are your words worth then, Suidrys?¡±


    The Goei in question sought to repel the Hierophant¡¯s argument.


    ¡°Hierophant ¨¦tienne¡­ the records of the Aamarteser wars of conquest were written by the conquerors themselves, you would surely see why some would¡­ accuse these sources of untrustworthiness. And, although I do not fault you for being ignorant to the specifics of fyrian theology, the Interpretatio Mystica, does allow for¡­ perennial understanding. I was instructed, either way, to not only educate the prince as an ¨®eratruar, but as a druwid too.¡±


    ¡°And this is supposed to be a statement in your favor? Your slander of Aamarteser sources is terribly ignorant, are the verdanaiese academies truly in decadence, as I hear? you see¡­¡±


    As the men discussed, a parallel world lay bare to the prince, as if all that these holy men saw were but the sun¡¯s reflection, trapped in the mercurial glass of their irises.


    A youthful voice discussed with the Hierophant, yet, to his sight, the voice¡¯s source, the old sage, dressed in his tempestuous, living robe, made not a movement, his lips still.


    Then, a whisper. The sage thrummed something, a word which escaped his ears. Heavy, baritone, incandescent¡­ the air rippled in some strange way. It woke him, dragging from the depths of a night sea, as he remembered¡­ What was it? A dream? Old aged hands holding him as he flew. A dull, painless burning in his mind, which turned vistas into vapor.


    The thought had not yet cobbled itself together, when¡­ a flower. A dog rose, a wild rose, the royal flower of Romanse, bloomed, held by empty air, its petals uncoiling from pure nothingness, shaking slightly as the bud took on its complete, brilliant form.


    It fell, as a severed head, onto Mr. Swan¡¯s white plumage, onto his lap.


    ¡®A wild rose¡­¡¯


    What else could he think?


    Cradling the flower, with calyx and all, rested in his palms, yet missing its stem.


    Then, hundreds burst, coming into being, filling the chamber with the scent of spring. Pleasant, perfumed, earthy¡­


    ¡®Magic.¡¯


    The scene took his breath.


    Voices still discussed, unseeing, unhearing, unfeeling, as if the flowers were not.


    A dozen buds bloomed, held on by the Hierophants skin. He spoke, nonetheless, even as the petals marred his face and tangled his lips.


    ¡°It is impossible to dismiss physicu¡ª¡± He stopped, his tongue tied. ¡°Physucle¡­ Physikle¡­¡± He dragged his hands over his lips, thinking something to be obstructing their movement.


    ¡®Nothing¡­¡¯ He thought.


    The prince eyed as a couple of flowers fell, excised from the Hierophant¡¯s lips by the gesture.


    ¡°Physical¡­¡±


    The words halted once again.


    His lips had begun to bleed.


    ¡°Huh¡­?¡±


    The Goei spoke, concern in his tone.


    ¡°Are you all right, Hierophant ¨¦tienne?¡±


    Even within the perfectly worried tone, Montferrand could not help but suspect, sense some goading, some¡­ sadism? lighting Vaengrimur¡¯s eyes.


    With suspicion, his gaze squinting, he answered.


    ¡°Fr¨¦d¨¦ric¡­¡± His thumb sought to stall the blood. ¡°Yes, Gothi Vaen, I am quite alright.¡±


    The acolyte rose, concerned, and held a white handkerchief to the Hierophant¡äs lips, as it halted the blood¡¯s flow.


    ¨¦tienne took the cloth, signaling his acolyte to sit once more.


    And, as he was to continue his arguments, the wren sung, sharp, bright, cutting apart the air, and flew, unfettered, onto the prince, and sat atop his cupped hands. Singing, singing¡­


    ¡®Pretty¡­¡¯ The prince thought, as he looked at the wren, nesting in the wild rose. It appeared to look at him, all the while, singing, its black-button eyes focused.


    ¡°I can¡¯t understand you¡­¡± The prince lamented. ¡°Can you Mr. Swan?¡± He whispered.


    ¡°Somewhat¡­ It seems fond of you, somehow?¡±


    The little wren nuzzled against his finger.


    ¡°Suidrys¡­¡±


    ¡°¨¦tienne, before I am accused, ponder a while¡­ For all my worship, the gods have not yet blessed me, allowing me to converse with birds¡­ Could I have really ordered this little wren to fly over to the prince?¡±


    The augur name-singer by his side chuckled. The blue robes behind whispering, animated, jovial at the sight of the bird¡¯s flight.


    The Hierophant¡¯s eyes turned morose, accusatory, resigned.


    ¡°Am I ignorant enough to believe that birds cannot be trained?¡¯ He rebutted Suidrys, venom in his tone.


    As he held his head with a hand, his cheek suddenly bled, at two, three spots, like a newly discovered spring, gushing out.


    He held the cloth to his face, confused.


    ¡°Is this some sickness or¡­?¡± The Goei asked. ¡°Did you shave haphazardly this morn, Hierophant ¨¦tienne?¡±


    It seemed the words had not even reached him, for he continued to wipe away the blood, vexed.


    Roderin, until then composed, found the sight bizarre¡­ this was not the nature of normal proceedings¡­ A swan? A wren? The Hierophant bleeding, without apparent cause? Why did such things, when related to the prince, appear so strange, and¡­ incongruent?


    Bass¨¢th, in a similar disposition, did not know what to think, yet kept a composed appearance, undisturbed.


    The acolytes looked worried, of course, at the bleeding Hierophant.


    It was Lamartine who spoke.


    ¡°Hierophant Montferrand, if it is of enough gravity, why not declare an intermission? Suspend the symposium for today, and continue tomorrow?¡±


    ¡°An intermission will not be necessary, Minister de Lamartine.¡± Putting down the handkerchief, he stared, inquisitively, at the ¡°youth¡± in front. Accusing him with little more than his eyes.


    The Goei smiled, unperturbed.


    ¡°Yes, it will not be necessary.¡± The king, animated, straightened in his ¡°throne¡±. ¡°Although this is a symposium, there was never a reason to debate on history, or theology. I believe you two¡­¡± He pointed, languid, at the holy men, sat opposite of one and another. ¡°have¡­ how do some say? Lost the plot¡­?¡±


    ¡°I see¡­ my apologies, Your Majesty, they were most enjoyable topics, Hierophant ¨¦tienne is a good conversationalist.¡± The Goei spoke.


    ¡°Alphonse, this is of utmost importance. You should have history, faith, truth! As your motivators for this decision, not the childish whims which so often possess you.¡± No one else would dare speak to the king in this manner¡­ Alphonse, however, allowed it; mainly because it was ¨¦tienne, and, of course, because he had grown bored of heavy, stuffy, court language.


    ¡°No, no.¡± The king laughed. ¡°A motivator? For me? Again, you are incorrect, ¨¦tienne. He whom you should seek to convince is not me¡­ but, him.¡± His hand, steady, pointed at Heos, whose focus was held, almost solely, on the wren. At the mention of his name, the boy¡¯s head rose, and looked at his father, curious.


    Roderin looked somewhat pained at the king''s words.


    ¡°What?¡± ¨¦tienne, truly, did not understand.


    ¡°Allow me to declare, Hierophant, that, even lacking piety, I, with what my eyes have seen, could nary cut, from my soul, belief. Athalic, yes, I am. You need convince me not¡­ I will allow Heos to choose, nonetheless. This was always my intention.¡±


    A sigh. Exasperated, tired. Tired¡­


    ¡°Alphonse, you fool, why indulge in this idiocy¡­?¡± He did not even place his sight on the king, his brows buried, tired, in his palm. They had begun to bleed. He cared not, however. ¡°Is it because of the Austaufangr girl¡­?¡±


    ¡°You really think so little of me, ¨¦tienne¡­¡± His eyes turned glassy, as his gaze rose. ¡°You really only ever heard what you wished¡­¡±


    Whatever these words meant, they infuriated the Hierophant, who now, irate, but silent, buried an angered look into the king.


    Alphonse spoke, measuredly, respectfully, as if reciting scripture from memory.


    ¡°The more magnificent the man, the more violent the fervor with which he¡¯ll fall into his own ends, his fates; beauty, terrors and all¡­ see to it that you become as you are in a most beautiful, brilliant way¡­ It would be a sin to stifle it all away.¡±


    The Hierophant¡¯s scornful look dissolved, a strand of blood making it to his lips.


    ¡°Well, Heos, from which of these two do you wish to learn?¡± He asked his son, smiling.


    The prince settled the rose, the bird, on the swan¡¯s feathers, then, immediately, void of doubt, he pointed.


    ¡°Him.¡±


    The Goei kept his smile.


    The wren sung its beautiful song.


    ¨¦tienne shook his head, feeling a fool, having sought to change something, he now felt, was predestined¡­


    Was it just Alphonse¡¯s folly, or¡­


    ¡®God¡­¡¯


    Like swimming against the currents of the world.


    He wiped the blood away.


    ¡®Tired¡­¡¯


    Another chirp.


    ¡®Dammed wren.¡¯

 16 – Intermezzo

    Fr¨¦d¨¦ric tilted his head, as ¨¦tienne whispered something to his ear. The other acolytes conversed, unnerved.


    Alphonse sat, discussing in low voice with Roderin. Bass¨¢th looked ahead, bored, something indeterminate crossing the sights in his mind.


    The fyrians formed around their own. Blue robes happily conversing. The young Goei congenially smiled, chuckling, here and there, exchanging pleasantries with the name-singer. The ancient listened in, not too different from a living statue. His chest still. One could not tell if life had left him; his breath extinguished.


    Heos stood, the wren jumping into flight, returning to the hands of the gnarled old man, who received it, inexpressive, his fingers raising slightly as the bird perched on their aged arcs.


    The prince still held Mr. Swan.


    ¡°Lad, I appreciate you carrying me¡­ I can walk, however. Are you not tired?¡±


    ¡°No¡­?¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡± The swan ceased, posing no further opposition. It seemed Heos enjoyed ferrying him around.


    Walking ahead, the prince arrived at the three fyrian figures; as a scene taken from the ancient continent¡¯s past; robed elders of some tribe, discussing the operation of the stars. Or it would be, if not for the extravagant palace, that held them ¡ªa gilded cage¡ª, as exotic animals, pilfered from a hidden garden.


    His voice interrupted their exchange.


    ¡°Hello.¡±


    The three men turned; even the ancient, whose neck creaked, to line with the space the prince shared with the swan.


    ¡°Teach me.¡±


    And although it was clearly understood by tall, the mage, hidden behind his mask, truly knew what the prince asked. Not to learn of God, or the gods, but of magic; that which he had made evident, clear, to his eyes. The wild flowers littering the chamber still.


    How sharp were Heos¡¯ eyes. Their cold blue brume fashioned into blades by desire. The desire to know, coloring his frigid features, the snow-blemished airs of indifference he carried with himself anywhere he stepped.


    The swan, sunny, clear, light, contrasted to the voracious temperament the prince had, suddenly, unveiled¡­ with only three words, he had built this sense.


    Like a painting made flesh.


    To his gaze only the sage appeared to exist.


    ¡°Prince Heos, although you may be curious¡­ interested, to learn, your lessons will not start just yet. And, even if they were, I must attend to other duties before I install myself, here, in Hygeia, to serve as your tutor.¡±


    ¡°No. Teach me now.¡± An order. The weight of capriciousness, tinged in aristocracy, so evident, mingling, in this young prince.


    The sage laughed.


    The augur looked unimpressed, his expression a slight frown. The ancient, yet, maintained his inscrutable visage¡­ carved out of timeworn wood.


    How to reprimand this child¡­? who was as blue-blooded as one could be.


    ¡°It is good to be strong willed Prince Heos¡­ One should understand, nonetheless, even with a steely temperament, that certain things cannot be forced. Man, as stubborn as he may be, cannot lead the sun to rise or set.¡± The old augur imparted his wisdom to the prince.


    The Goei laughed at this hard-earned lesson, born from the name-singer¡¯s long life. None heard him, of course, except for the child.


    It was, then, the ancient¡¯s turn to speak.


    ¡°Child, if you wish for others to give you things, you must convince them that your favor is theirs. This is not achieved, first, without negotiation, and flexibility, the creation of a pleasant image. Especially if you desire to build a long, long, lasting relationship with whomever it may be. Would it not be best to acquiesce to this man, your teacher, first, as to be in his good graces?¡± Although these words of wisdom sounded, certainly, like those to come from an old sage, an avid ear, supernaturally so, would note something else¡­ as if they were spoken in jest¡­ or rather, with little more than feigned sincerity, like thrown bait, to see what effect they would have¡­ how they would perturb their recipient¡¯s mind.


    The prince, hearing these two morsels of sagely advice, showed¡­ irritation, perhaps provoked by their earthly lessons?


    He sharpened the hiemal blue of his sight, turning to the two fyrians. Not a word was spoken, yet, they understood, how he held transparent disdain for their lessons¡­


    Did he construe them, even, as that? As a thing wisdom was trying to impart? To mold him by?


    To his senses they were, possibly, just an untimely obstacle, two intruders to his desires.


    The all so common capriciousness of a child. Especially one as arbitrary, fickle¡­ spoiled?, as this blue-blooded spawn of royalty. The name-singer theorized


    ¡®A pity¡­¡¯ He lamented.


    Yet¡­ to him who would care to look deeper, it did not feel as the simple, fanciful whims of a child.


    Spirit¡­


    Was this what the ancient wished to find?


    A child is a lord, a tyrant, pure in act¡­


    Heos returned his pressuring eyes to the sage.


    ¡°Vaengrimur¡± spoke, sounds hidden by magic from the chamber¡¯s ears.


    ¡°It is soon time for you to learn. Do you believe I decided, on a whim, to present myself here, now? Go on. Is there not something you must do before you step into magic?¡±


    A smile, ever-present, congealed.


    Heos expression softened.


    He ran off. A guard, who had stood there, so loyal to his apparently trivial task ¡ªa door-sentry¡ª he had turned invisible, and unmoving, even with such a bizarre symposium, opened, for him, the gates, which he crossed, trotting, seeking something else.You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    ¡®And all other princes and princesses had turned out so well¡­ It had to be the half-verdanaiese child¡­? Let¡¯s hope he outgrows this¡­ wildness¡­¡¯ The name-singer mused.


    He caught sight of the ancient. Smiling. A content, pleased smile.


    ¡®The nostalgia of old age perhaps¡­? Ha! I shouldn¡¯t say much, as an ageing man myself.¡¯


    His head shook, a small, self-deprecating smile, accompanying its swing.


    ¡°Will you go now?¡± The Ancient asked.


    ¡°Yes, venerable Suidrys, I must leave. This was a victory for fyrians in our kingdom. A fyrian prince¡­¡± His smile turned clearer, hopeful. ¡°I must take my leave. Thank you, Goei Vider¡± He directed a respectful bow to the ¡°youth¡±.


    ¡°Fraternity amongst us is most important, Augur, think little of it.¡± The Goei responded.


    Another set of cheerful bows, then, greetings and goodbyes, solemn, to the king, who waved them away, uninterested. The augur was soon gone, the blue robes following behind.


    ¡°Goei Vider, would you accompany me for a conversation, as we tour the palace?¡±


    That strange smile still adorning him, the ¡°youth¡± responded.


    ¡°Of course, venerable Suidrys¡­ however, should we not ask the king?¡±


    The ancient showed an eloquent expression, making him understand, it would not be a problem.


    ¡°Your Majesty, I would ask for your grace, as to tour this beautiful palace with our verdanaiese guest.¡±


    Was the rhyme intentional? One wondered.


    Alphonse interrupted his conversation, halting, seconds away from telling something or other to Roderin.


    ¡°Go.¡±


    He returned, continuing his words.


    ¡°See?¡±


    The ancient rose with the Goei¡¯s help, and held, with his right, hooked, the ¡°youth¡¯s¡± arm, balancing himself on his gnarled cane with the other. The wren, on his shoulder, chirped, perched.


    *


    ¡°Let¡¯s sit here¡­¡± On a cracked stone. Placed ¡ªwho knows when¡ª, in this flowered field, surrounded by the sycamore tree line. The shade of a willow above. ¡°Is the spring not pleasant?¡±


    ¡°Certainly.¡± ¡°The ¡°youth¡± agreed.


    The ancient held both hands over his gnarled cane, holding himself even when sat.


    The wren, the wren¡­ chirping.


    ¡°What did you wish to discuss, venerable Suidrys?¡±


    Until then they had conversed merely in pleasantries and small talk.


    ¡°Please¡­ to be called venerable by a fellow as you¡­ it is improper.¡± His eyes, hidden, lost themselves in the sunlit field. A glimmering butterfly fluttered, as if weighed down by the light. ¡°What did you think of the prince¡¯s temperament?¡±


    ¡°Certainly a willful young man¡­ Outr¨¦. Blessed.¡±


    ¡°A fyrian.¡± His voice paused. ¡°Men cannot be convinced. They grow to believe that which burns in the same colour as their soul¡­ Apologetics are impotent, as is discourse, tradition¡­ even love¡­ that is why we lost our ancient Romanse¡­ The athalic conquest was not of bodies, but of spirits!¡± He punctuated himself with a ¡°Hmph!¡±. ¡°A born fyrian. Blessed, willful and cruel, desirous and curious, terrible, noble¡­ Is this why you have chosen him?¡±


    A smile, unperturbed.


    ¡°You seem to know much about a child who has not spoken a word to you? As for what you ask¡­ what a strange question¡­ whatever could you mean?¡± The wren jumped to the youth¡¯s outstretched finger. Its song more at home in the open air.


    ¡°With enough age and clarity, all men become transparent. Children, more so, as they are unimpeded and true.¡± A hand left his cane, its index pointing skywards. ¡°Do not treat me as more of a fool than I am.¡± A pale flame, floating, magical, above his finger¡¯s tip. ¡°I never had much talent for it. And chose, as a youthful coward, the secular, blinded too brightly by the magical.¡± The weak flame dissipated, his hand held its cane once more. ¡°I preferred my own cove of godliness¡­¡± Was it regret that illuminated his aged, rugged expression?


    ¡°Yes. This was one of the reasons for my choice. I waited, and watched¡­ I had to confirm.¡± The smile finally vanished, though the ¡°youth¡± remained. ¡°As for the others¡­ I won¡¯t tell.¡± A finger to his lips, and the smile, brought back.


    ¡°I thought so¡­¡± A smile, him, too, in chorus. ¡°A miracle¡­¡±


    ¡°Is this why you wished to speak?¡±


    ¡°Curiosity¡­ I did wonder why the gods blessed me with such age.¡± Gleeful, content¡­ ¡°Was it to see this moment, as grand recompense for my faith¡­ my love?¡±


    ¡°Who knows¡­¡±


    ¡°Perhaps I am just a blabbering old man¡­ though I must be little more than a child to you.¡±


    The ¡°youth¡± laughed.


    ¡°Age, age¡­ I wish to think I was frozen, crystallized at the moment of greatest beauty¡­ like everlasting spring.¡± A singing hum. ¡°If the case is so, as with many, who eternally seek that inspiration, that madness¡­ I would not be older than this youth you see me as¡­¡±


    A smiling sigh, from the ancient.


    ¡°You talk of things I do not understand.¡±


    ¡°Neither do I.¡±


    The wren¡¯s song, as it flew back to Suidrys¡¯ shoulder.


    ¡°I am curious¡­ what did you show the child¡­? as you have noticed, I see little, nothing¡­ an atrophied spirit must have such effects¡­¡±


    ¡°Oh, well, it was a¡­ vernal sight. I purified the chamber with some beautiful flowering¡­¡±


    A whisper. The ancient felt it shake¡­ behind himself, as the shape of his being, the space¡­ no, behind this space lay it, perturbed by this command, cracking, molding, blistering, changing shape.


    A single wild rose burst from the air, slowly falling into his hands, clasping his cane.


    ¡°Ha¡­¡±


    The sun, warmth¡­ What a brilliant day.


    ¡°Then, let¡¯s return. I must do my rites once I arrive. I¡¯ve grown tired¡­ It was a fruitful day. Age comes not alone.¡±


    ¡°Vaengrimur¡± sat up, first, helping the ancient stand. Once Suidrys had clasped his arm, and held his cane, tight, they returned, pleasantly gilded by the spring¡­ like a god¡¯s smile.


    Chirp.


    A bird''s chant¡­


    *


    Once again, he had evaded Annika.


    ¡°Will she not be mad at you, Heos, once you return?¡±


    ¡°I will take some time¡­ if she is angry, it will pass.¡±


    ¡°As in?¡± Mr. Swan felt a premonition¡­ Was Heos about to try something mad?


    He walked among the sycamores.


    ¡°I want to go into the forest. I want to see what is there¡­ behind the trees, the dark¡­¡±


    Before, he had believed it to be hallucinations, but, after years, and accepting magic, as he had, the forest Heos claimed to see became a reality in his mind, even if his swan eyes could not capture it¡­ show it to him.


    Yes, a bad feeling.


    ¡°I would advise against it lad¡­ I have never seen it, yes¡­ yet, call it a premonition¡­ you should not go.¡±


    ¡°But I¡¯m curious¡­¡±


    If he could sigh, he would.


    ¡°Why this sudden curiosity¡­ after five years?¡±


    ¡°Because of magic¡­ the forest is real, it is magic. I want to see it.¡±


    ¡°In that case, why not bring warmer clothes, food? well¡­ anything, really.¡±


    Heos stopped.


    ¡°You¡¯re right Mr. Swan.¡± The prince looked down, at his bare feet, sinking, slightly, in the spring earth.


    Thinking for a moment, he looked back. The forest of sycamores extending behind¡­


    ¡°But we¡¯re too far¡­ and I want to go now¡­¡± A pout, then, a resolute gaze.


    He continued forward.


    ¡°Lad¡­¡±


    ¡°It¡¯ll be okay Mr. Swan.¡±


    Mr. Swan wondered what that big fellow who always followed the prince thought of this¡­ he had been strangely still this day, as far as he had seen, and was not talking down the prince¡­ well, not talking down¡­ more like, staring down, the prince. It just rested, coiled, neck to neck with the child¡­ as if asleep.


    It would definitely not be okay.


    But what could he say. He worried for the prince, yet, it would be easier to¡­ do something difficult¡­ he lacked a simile. And even with the foreboding feeling, what could he do?


    ¡°Heos, if any danger arises, run back, nothing else, nothing more, please¡­ just run back. You can always return to the forest, but you can never return back to life¡­¡±


    The prince smiled.


    ¡°Okay Mr. Swan.¡±


    The sycamore forest ended.


    The lake, up ahead.


    Ms. Swan waited for them. Their cygnets nested on her back, covered by her wings.


    Heos trotted.


    The sun vanished, dressed in black by the dark, deep, canopy.


    Knotted roots and cotton grass.


    The obsidian mirror, spilled onto the earth.


    ¡°Hello Ms. Swan.¡±


    ¡°Hello Dear.¡±


    The child lowered the swan onto the waters, it glided, stretching back its legs, its feet. Human affairs were interesting, but he preferred his lake, the animal thought.


    ¡°My love¡­ Heos wants to go into the forest¡­ the one only he sees.¡±


    ¡°Good luck dear.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± Mr. Swan was at a loss, he whispered. ¡°Talk him out of it! It¡¯s dangerous!¡± Exclamations muffled by his hushed tone.


    ¡°My love¡­ it is dangerous, but, of course, eventually, he would want to explore this¡­ forest.¡± If swans had lips, one would see her smile. ¡°And something tells me¡­ something, I don¡¯t know what, that he will be fine.¡±


    Again¡­ if only he could sigh.


    ¡°Thank you, Ms. Swan.¡± Heos spoke.


    ¡°Lad, remember. Run.¡±


    An ¡°Mhm¡± and a nod, all he answered back.


    Undeterred, he watched the dark. A veil of forested night, with uncharted depth, hiding¡­ what? He wanted to know¡­ what, what?


    In that unlit expanse¡­ it waited for him.


    Excitement¡­ he trembled.


    The first step.


    A cotton grass flower swayed as he walked past.

 17 – Fool

    ¡°Lad, wait¡­¡±


    ¡°Hm?¡± The prince turned. His body still contorted, lightly twisted, to give way for the shape of his first step.


    ¡°I¡¯ll go with you.¡±


    A somewhat irrelevant idea. What could a swan do?


    The prince, nonetheless, mulled it over. A finger, like a needle of silver, resting on his alabaster chin.


    ¡°No.¡±


    He declared, smiling.


    ¡°Wuh¡­?¡± Was all the swan answered.


    ¡°I want to go on my own.¡±


    The forest¡¯s silence tainted their exchange. Mr. Swan thought¡­


    ¡°Well¡­ very well¡­¡± His voice distended, turning much lighter, nonchalant. ¡°Go on then.¡±


    And, waving, adorned with a ¡°Goodbye, Mr. and Ms. Swan.¡±, the child took his second step.


    His third, fourth¡­


    Without looking back.


    Soon the forest had clothed him in its dark.


    Yet, to the swan¡¯s eyes ¡ªwho still prayed the forest to be nothing more than child¡¯s fantasy¡ª, shook, for the prince, walking down the lake¡¯s coast, had disappeared.


    No fluttering, no repeated flickering until he vanished.


    The prince had simply been there¡­ and then¡­ not.


    As if he had fallen into the empty air.


    ¡°What?¡±


    Ms. Swan was smiling. One could tell she was smiling, even through her unmoving beak. Of course, given one could understand swans, first.


    ¡°I told you.¡±


    Mr. Swan still eyed the shore, unbelieving.


    *


    ¡°Hmm¡­¡±


    He tripped.


    Too absorbed. Drowning his sight into the dark heaven above.


    ¡°Ow¡­¡±


    Beside him, his eyes leveled to the earth, cottongrass swaying beside.


    Still lain against the pale hay-grass.


    ¡°Hey, Swan¡­ are you there¡­? Are you sleeping?¡±


    The phantasm did not answer.


    ¡®Strange.¡¯


    Rising¡­


    ¡®I tripped on that root¡­¡¯


    A jutting woody root, like a knot, bursting, climbing up, upon the earth.


    His foot was bruised now.


    Step¡­ step, step.


    ¡®It¡¯s cold¡­ no.¡¯


    It wasn¡¯t cold, nor warm. Tepid air, shimmering.


    He still did not understand how he was able to see.


    Humming a song while hopping. His excitement had steadied, his curiosity still raged on.


    ¡°Why is it nothing but forest?¡±


    He intended to ask Swan.


    Asleep, the creature rested, coiled.


    The trees had transformed. From their green-copper skin to pale ochre bark, like washed out gold, anemic and ancient.


    He had to climb. A wall of rising earth and twinning roots grew ahead. He could go around but¡­


    ¡®I want to climb.¡¯


    One step up.


    Two.


    Holding by his small, pale hands.


    Another.


    Earth settling below his fingernails.


    Dirt covering his milk-white gown.


    ¡®Hup¡­!¡¯


    There. He had climbed.


    ¡®Fun¡­¡¯


    Ahead¡­ the grassy-hay had disappeared, turned green, deep. An outgrown carpet of moss and verdant¡­ something.


    It felt much better against his feet.


    Even then.


    Darkness.


    Dark, dark, dark.


    As trees rose from oblivion and into view¡­ even as the moss-carpeted earth kept spilling from the forest¡¯s black maw¡­


    Dark.


    Beyond the canopy¡­ was the sun still there? Or had it sunk, tired, unseen, into the nothingness ahead?


    He was the only gold, swimming, lighting all he passed through. Ivory, porcelain, blue mist, sun-blushed platinum, flakes of jade.


    Perhaps because of this he heard¡­


    Like a kitten meowing¡­


    Turning, in a tree-hollow, peeking out: the small, angular head of a little owl; burning discs of pollen composing its colored irises.


    Tawny feathers barred white and grey.


    He recognized it, the little owl. Appearing among flocks in the collection of Romanse¡¯s Birds.


    ¡®Pretty¡­¡¯


    Stopping to watch it.


    How surprising. He believed himself to be the only other living thing ¡ªexcept for cotton grass and shrooms, trees, moss and grass¡ª in this forest.


    ¡°Hello.¡±


    ¡°Hello child.¡±


    Deep. Voice as a stone. A timeless sound, incongruent with the little owl¡¯s shape.


    Round, sharp¡­ somehow annoyed.


    ¡®Owls and swans¡­ No other waterfowls I¡¯ve seen, and no wrens. No sparrows either¡­¡¯


    ¡°Hello.¡± Heos repeated.


    Some silence.


    ¡°Hello child.¡±


    The owl¡¯s unchanging tone.


    ¡°Why can I understand you?¡±


    Its head tilted, impossibly, at an angle.


    ¡°You are a mage, yes?¡±


    ¡°No¡­¡± Scratching his head, he wondered. ¡°Maybe¡­?¡± A hum. ¡°I am magical¡­ But a mage¡­? What is a mage?¡±


    ¡°Whoever performs magic?¡±


    ¡°Uh¡­¡± What were these answers? ¡°And what is magic?¡±


    ¡°What a mage performs¡­?¡±


    Was this owl mocking him? Or was it just stupid?


    He was losing interest in talking with the bird.


    ¡°Why would you think me a mage for being able to understand you?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think you a mage, child. You are one. At least to my eyes. The world shimmers around you¡­¡± It preened, for a moment, with its talons. ¡°It is also a hunch¡­ owls get hunches like these, you see¡­¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°We are wise birds.¡±


    ¡°I can understand you¡­ I can¡¯t understand other birds.¡±


    ¡°Then you have either endeavored ¡ªthrough diligent study¡ª, to understand the voice of owls ¡ªwhich seems impossible, given you cluelessness¡ª, or¡­ most likely, possess a preternatural affinity towards us.¡± Its talon rose, to point at the child. ¡°Swans, as well, I presume, seeing that¡­¡± Its black pupils dilated, then contracted, shaking with their motion its pollen irises ¡°whatever it is that clings round you¡­¡±


    Heos stroked Swan¡¯s feathers, the phantasm still asleep.


    ¡°Do you mean Swan?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s my friend.¡±


    It stayed silent for some breaths.


    ¡°Whatever it may be to you¡­ that thing is not a swan.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    The owl spoke no further.


    Seeing the bird choose silence, Heos asked it an unrelated question. Perhaps it would cure his aimless wandering?


    ¡°How do I leave this forest?¡±


    ¡°Hm? By walking out of it?¡±


    ¡®¡­¡¯


    Silence¡­


    ¡°Mr. Owl, are you stupid?¡±


    ¡°Hmph!¡± It clanged its beak. ¡°Wisdom appears worthless to fools.¡± It preened, again. ¡°But what should I expect? Even if a mage¡­¡±


    Heos sharpened his sight, frowning.


    ¡°Then, could you tell me how to walk out of the forest?¡±


    A light song, though sharp, filled the air once again.


    Like a little, lost kitten meowing.


    ¡°I¡¯ll take pity on you, child. Follow me.¡±


    ¡°Okay¡­¡±


    The bird took flight, from tree to tree. Sometimes stepping, with its little talons ¡ªmost humorously¡ª across branches, leading Heos.


    ¡°Hey, Mr. Owl, why do you know of magic? Other birds I talked to are not familiar with it.¡±


    ¡°Us owls are divine beings. Magic is inexorably tied to divinity.¡± He asserted, haughty.


    ¡°Inecs¡ª Ineks¡ª In¡­ Inexorably.¡± Heos repeated. ¡°What¡¯s that?¡±


    ¡°Inevitable¡­¡± It stopped for a second, looking around, to orient itself. ¡°We also have sharp eyes. Even mages cannot escape from our sight¡­¡±Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    ¡°Hm¡­¡± Divinity¡­ ¡°Does that mean you know of gods¡­? god?¡±


    Jumping over a root.


    ¡°Hmph! Who can claim to know of the gods? All we see are their traces¡­ the lingering vapors of their breath as they walk past, before us, unfathomable.¡±


    ¡®What¡¯s un¡ª unf¡ªathomable?¡¯


    ¡°Really¡­?¡± He mused, for a second. ¡°Well, what about god? What is the differ¡ª"


    His eyes, burning.


    Cutting out the words, shielding his brow with a hand.


    A summer sun, blazing in the sky.


    Rending apart a few cotton cloud buds lazily floating above. Heating the azure sky, now lacking its black robes¡­ it had escaped the forest¡¯s mouth.


    ¡°Hey, Mr. Owl.¡±


    Looking around¡­


    He had left the forest, yet¡­


    ¡°Where¡­?¡±


    The little owl was nowhere present.


    The grand bleach-gold trees had disappeared, turned to angular facades and stone blocks.


    The cobble street beneath, rough, jagged, now replaced the moss.


    Behind him¡­


    A wall, trash thrown around. Splintered wood, stones, rags¡­ a wheel? Broken up barrels and something, foul smelling.


    The unpolluted heaven was cordoned off by the alley¡¯s closing roofs. The facades and their pointed ends looking to pierce the sky¡­ stunted, as they were, it was an impossible task.


    These twisted buildings felt almost organic. Not as if they were built by masons¡­ but sprang up, living, from the ground.


    Ahead, a street. The alley, long, like a diseased vein, thin and shriveled, led to an artery, weakened, sickly, filled with moving figures dressed in drab. Some in near rags¡­ dirtied and shorn.


    What was that¡­ horrible air?


    Like a physical thing, oily and heavy, sticking to the air, the stones¡­ not even the summer sun could burn it away.


    The child stood still, thinking.


    It was all alien, unthinkable.


    Unfathomable.


    Where was he? Where was this place? grey, foul, blistering.


    A rugged youth seemed to catch him in his sight, pointing his soot dressed hand toward him.


    The woman who held him ¡ªdressed in an oil-stained pastel dress, patched¡ª did not turn, and pulled him through, down the street and out of view.


    Something, a feeling, evident within him, whispered: this was no place to be.


    His curiosity, however, contradicted this teetering voice.


    These people, this place¡­ What was it that tempted him?


    A first word, one he rarely thought of, appeared in his mind. Its shape lingering behind his eyes.


    ¡®Ugly¡­¡¯


    How terribly, disgustingly ugly.


    This and his palace were absolute opposites, in all manners. Shape, air, colors, state, odor¡­


    How curious¡­


    Woken from the reverie, he strutted down the alley, the growing mass of sound and movement threatening to take him, submerge him into the river-flow of walking forms; misery evident in their limping, tired struts, glaring out of their sunken, ashen eyes.


    In a strange way, the sun, the new, unseen nature of this place drew him in.


    A couple of steps and he had arrived, a figure almost colliding with him, angrily growling as he dodged and walked past.


    Yet, when the figure ¡ªthe man, dressed in a sweat stained worker¡¯s shirt, and black, patched up, cotton pantaloons¡ª turned to look, he saw a profoundly strange sight. Like a porcelain doll, a little fairy made real, standing there, watching. Its sharp, blue, hazy look reading him over. A smile on its face, as it stood unperturbed, in a milky white gown ¡ªeven if marred in dirt and some¡­ hay? He could tell, this piece of fabric was of such quality¡­ thinking of its price would sink him into bitterness.


    That smile of genuine curiosity¡­ healthy, clean skin, and bright, pale, pale gold hairs¡­ like a fairy tale princess, standing out of place in a south side rough cobble street. Really¡­ strange looking.


    ¡®A¡­ condition? Or something¡­¡¯


    ¡°Hello.¡± Heos spoke.


    A boy¡­


    ¡°Kid¡­¡±


    ¡°Where is this?¡±


    Ignoring the question, he raised his eyes to peer into the alley extending behind the child. Light marking shadows up to an almost hidden wall.


    ¡°Kid¡­¡± His lips lightly parting, in confusion. ¡®This¡­ this is some rich kid¡¯ What was he doing here? ¡°Kid¡­ are you¡­ lost? Or?¡± Scratching his head. Had he gone crazy?


    ¡°Hello. I took a walk and ended here. Do you know where this is?¡±


    ¡®What¡¯s going on¡­?¡¯


    ¡°Where you with your mother¡­?¡±


    ¡°No, Mr. Owl was leading me but¡­¡± Heos closed his eyes, thinking. ¡°I guess I made it out and he didn¡¯t¡­¡±


    ¡®Mr. Owl?¡¯ Was that even a last name?


    ¡°Is that like your¡­¡± What was it? ¡°Butler, or a servant¡­?¡±


    The child tilted his head ¡ªmuch like the bird that had guided him¡ª, in confusion.


    ¡°No? He¡¯s an owl¡­ a little owl.¡± He cupped his hands, showing the man the animal¡¯s size.


    The passersby, usually uninterested in the hectic comings and goings around them, had started to notice the pair, talking. An out-of-place glimmer of pearly white.


    A woman, emptying a latrine out a wood-shuttered hole ¡ªa window, no glass, of course¡ª noticed the little snow-flake colored in pale gold.


    An old man, dressed in rags, slumped over beside a butcher¡¯s stand, also noticed the anomaly.


    A walking pair of delinquent youths stopped by. They glared at the child as he blissfully smiled.


    A water bearer, two tin buckets at his hands as he carefully stumbled, lost concentration for, from the corner of his eye, he noticed some unblemished porcelain¡­ no, a¡­ child?


    Slowly, the rue froze, bit by bit, as all began to notice Heos, standing, nonchalant.


    ¡®With these many people I doubt something would happen¡­ right now. This kid is gonna get mugged, or worse¡­¡¯


    Resentment added on¡­ he dreaded to think about it.


    Stepping in front of Heos, to block him from the street¡¯s eyes.


    ¡°Kid, come.¡± The man, hushed, ordered the child.


    ¡°Why?¡± Looking from behind the man, Heos raised his tone. ¡°Hello. Where is thi¡ª?¡±


    The prince was pulled, suddenly, hauled behind the figure. His snow-white hand clasped in a rugged, calloused fist.


    ¡®Are all rich children such idiots?¡¯


    ¡°Look, kid, I don¡¯ know what they teach ¡®all at home but blabbering in a south-street lookin¡¯ like you¡¯re worth a million ¨¦cu if they sell you out¡­¡±


    Walking, still, behind him, unmoved even when taken by force, Heos asked, curious.


    ¡°What is an ¨¦cu?¡±


    ¡°Kid, for real? Money, like you¡¯re worth a lot of money.¡±


    ¡°Oh¡­ like gold?¡±


    ¡°Yes, yes! you get it, like gold.¡±


    ¡°I am made of gold¡­ yes.¡±


    ¡°¡­What?¡±


    The looks they had gotten started to fall behind, even then, they gained new stares of confusion as he dragged the child, like a meek lamb.


    Walking faster, he wondered.


    ¡®What is this kid saying?¡¯ Pushing the thought to the back of his mind he mapped out their destination. ¡®No idea how he got here¡­ I¡¯ll just drop him off at l''oubli¨¦ and have the eidan call for a guard, or¡­¡¯


    He took a right, turning into a near empty street, at this time of day¡­ Calming down his pace, then swerved into a thin, unused alley, behind du Coupeur¡­ a notable mason¡¯s side street down the Fl¨®xeuve¡¯s side. Only dregs of unused stone filled this alley, that and whatever trash the masonries could cram out of sight.


    Now, going at a near still pace, he let go of Heos.


    ¡°Kid, now, for real. How¡¯d ya¡¯ get ¡®ere? What about your mother¡­? Or father, or¡­¡±


    ¡®Ow¡­ this ground is so rough.¡¯ The prince thought, distracted, as his feet were bruised by the jagged stone.


    ¡°Hey, Kid.¡± The man snapped his fingers, taking the strange boy¡¯s focus back to himself. ¡°What¡¯s your name, where¡¯d you live?¡±


    ¡°Oh¡­ Hello, I¡¯m Heos.¡±


    ¡®Heos, Heos¡­ That¡¯s a strange name¡­ Nobility?¡¯ A truly terrifying thought¡­ what would nobility be doing here? And¡­ why was that name vaguely familiar?


    ¡®No, probably some merchant¡¯s brat, but¡­¡¯


    ¡°Now, again, how¡¯d ya¡¯ end up ¡®ere?¡±


    ¡°I told you¡­? I was walking through the forest¡­ I asked Mr. Owl for how to leave and¡­ I walked.¡±


    ¡®No¡­ this kid really is slow. Is he a retard? Don¡¯t tell me some cruel bastard abandoned him here for being¡­?¡¯


    He felt pangs of pity, more so than before¡­ A random kid lost down the south side, clearly out of place ¡ªreally out of place¡­ And missing some up there. How could he stay still? Even if a rich rat¡¯s spawn.


    Figures, flashing by in his mind, a brutish memory¡­ a void in his heart.


    The image of a little girl, dressed in rags, freckled and missing teeth, but smiling, brightly¡­


    ¡®I¡¯m sucha¡¯ sucker¡­ a softy.¡¯ He berated himself. ¡®Not my business, but¡­ It¡¯s the right thing, anyway.¡¯


    ¡°Ok, ok.¡± he interrupted the tale, pinching his nose bridge. ¡°Your mother, your father?¡±


    ¡°They are fine. My father¡­ he was entertaining guests¡­ my mother¡­¡± He took to silence, not knowing what to say.


    A sigh.


    ¡°Look, kid, I¡¯m gonna take you to the l''oubli¨¦, you know where that is? The Paroisse de l''oubli¨¦ et du sans-nom, yes?¡±


    His bright, cobalt-mist eyes sharpened.


    ¡°No, what is that?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a paroisse, a parish. Halfway down the C?ur Pale, by the Fl¨®xeuve.¡±


    An unblemished finger to his lips.


    ¡°What is a paroisse? What pale heart? Are hearts pale¡­ A fl¡ªox ¡ªox¡­ Fl¨®xeuve¡­¡±


    Now, he really did look at the child like he was an absolute fool.


    Not knowing the C?ur Pale, or the Fl¨®xeuve¡­ yes, well, that could happen, especially if one was sheltered and not taught much about the southern city quartiers¡­ it wasn¡¯t out of the realm of logic¡­ after all, rich families would teach their kids¡­ horse riding, or, foreign languages¡­? things of this sort¡­ well, what did he know? Yet¡­ not being aware of what a parish was?


    From the richest to the poorest, all went to church, to l¡¯¨¦glise. This was a fact. Be it for appearances or favor, for superstition, comfort or in the name of true belief, it was as common as waking¡­ as routinary too.


    ¡®Unless¡­¡¯


    There was¡­


    Barring the idea that this was an abused, locked up child, with none an idea of the world¡­ which, he did not look it¡­ too healthy, too placid. He was familiar with it; a beaten, trodden on child¡­ this wasn¡¯t it.


    There was another, simpler ¡ªwell, not really simple, but more plausible, answer.


    ¡®A fyrian.¡¯


    However, fyrians were rare ¡ªin Romanse, that was. He could not say he had ever met one. Did they even exist?


    He exaggerated.


    Yet, among the third state, were there any fyrians? even a few?


    ¡®No¡­¡¯


    Did people really pray to the gods of the sun, thunder, love or what have you? It sounded like some childish fantasy¡­ Like how kids believed in elves and fairies.


    The only he knew of ¡ªand this was just because he was a little more educated than the average southsider¡ª were some scantily numbered ¡ªas in, five? maybe?¡ª, and very old families¡­ very, very, very old.


    Like, descending from some fuck-old tribe that had settled? the Caedes¡­ was that it? Before people had first used fire to cook their deer meat or, something¡­


    And, of course, all these families were¡­


    ¡®Nobility.¡¯


    Another sigh.


    What would a child of nobility be doing here?


    He gazed at him. Out of the pages of a picture book, the kid looked. You could tell he had not known a single day of worry¡­


    ¡°Hey, Kid¡­ do you really not know what a parish is?¡±


    ¡°No¡­?¡± Heos kicked a pebble back onto a broken up lump of grey-white stone, thrown by the wayside. It sting, lightly.


    ¡°So¡­ Heos, was it? Are you nobility?¡± He endeavored to make the question sound as nonchalant as possible, as if asking for the weather.


    ¡°Nobility¡­ Yes¡­ yes.¡± The prince, still distracted by the alien, never before seen sights, answered, unthinking.


    ¡®Lord¡­¡¯ Was he to believe this¡­ not-all-up-there child¡­? Things did line up, however, for him to truly be a blue blood.


    As much as people consoled themselves, and ragged on nobles as lumbering, fat, corrupt¡­ unworthy, leeches. He knew¡­ a noble had airs, one could tell. These people lived in a different world. It would be absurd to think that that did not mold them, shape them¡­ turned them distinct from others. As detestable as they were¡­


    No¡­ it wasn¡¯t right to think this child as detestable. A child is a child, rich or poor, commoner or nobility¡­ no one is at fault for the accident of their birth.


    ¡°Your last name?¡± He asked, holding a breath.


    If the child knew, which, he hoped he did ¡ªit was the most basic of information, one¡¯s own name¡ª even if he was a sheltered fyrian¡­


    For a noble, fyrian child to have been abandoned, or lost, here¡­ he feared some political game, wanton cruelty¡­ Perhaps he was tying needless knots in his mind?


    Heos, eyeing the open, shimmering sky, answered, unknowing of his next words¡¯ weight.


    ¡°Ah¡­ von der W?lfli-Loggia.¡±


    ¡®Oh, yes that¡¯s a¡­¡¯ The truth of the name dawned on him. ¡®The royal family¡¯s name.¡¯


    He stopped, frozen.


    Was a prank being played on him¡­? some cosmic, fateful prank? No¡­ Yes, this kid didn¡¯t know what he was saying; a lunatic? Or just mocking him?


    He laughed.


    ¡®To believe this kid¡­ am I crazy?¡¯ Chuckling¡­ his hand holding his brows. ¡®I just find some weird kid and think him nobility ¡®cause he¡¯s dressed pretty¡­?¡¯ Another, laugh, shallower. ¡®I¡¯m a fool¡­ calling this kid a retard when he¡¯s stringing me along¡­ Too soft. Hysterical.¡¯


    ¡°Cut it. Stop it with the games¡­¡± He turned to look, eye to eye, with the child. His tone and gaze irritated. ¡°What are you doing here¡­? did you steal those rags from some¡­ Verre ¨¤ Regarder shop or what?¡±


    ¡°Huh?¡± Heos answered back. Understanding the words, yet, not really capturing the meaning behind them.


    The man¡¯s mouth hung half-open, another accusation readied to question Heos. Yet, traveling down his nape, as a ghostly spider¡­ as tingling sparks of errant static trapped amongst the bones of his spine, something appeared, warning him.


    Like being whispered to by a lover¡­


    At the far end of the alley, where only cracked stone accompanied them, someone stood, rigid; a wooden puppet held up by glassy strings.


    ¡°Get behind me.¡±


    Why was he warned by his senses of this approaching form?


    Heos, already behind him, needed not obey.


    The man bent his knees, readying his posture. His hands clenching imperceptibly.


    ¡°Ha¡­?¡±


    In a blink¡­


    As fast as the darkness of a blink disperses against light¡­


    The figure was upon him.


    ¡°Fuck!¡±


    A step back, coupled with an instinctual right to the blur¡¯s neck.


    ¡°Kid, run!¡±


    As a dark tendril burst from the blur¡¯s shape. His left hand rose, immediately, to block, to protect his chin; he tucked it.


    Somehow, he dodged. Sadly, the instinctual right had hit little more than air


    ¡®What is this¡­!?¡¯


    Immediately, another black jab shot from the shadowy figure, this time from his own right. He caught a glimpse, however, of two thin, almost fleshless fingers, outstretched in what he had expected to be a close hand jab ¡ªa simple punch¡ª, thrusting toward his eyes.


    His footwork was terribly shaky. Having his soul almost extracted from his body by the fright did not help his stumbling feet.


    ¡®Fuck, Fuck!¡¯


    He had to¡­


    Quickly turning his head, one of the fingers landed between his right zygomatic and his temple, cracking like a wet twig.


    It hurt, still, almost burring into the soft flesh, bruising, splitting apart the skin covering his skull.


    Nonetheless, the other bony finger sunk into his right eye, painfully, bursting apart the light brown shards of his iris, then scraping out to the side of his nose bridge.


    It all rattled with unimaginable pain, sharp agony concentrated in his right socket.


    Still, he had to do something. His right now blinded, and his left looking to the side, sight of the figure had been lost.


    ¡®Yes¡­¡¯


    Given space by the sacrifice of his eye, his feet planted somewhat steadily on the ground.


    Using the inertia from the piercing jab¡¯s impact to his head, his right leg shot out, a kick with the aim to kill, right to the blur¡¯s abdomen.


    Something hit. He could not see.


    Steadying himself, his head turned back. His leg returned to the ground, recovering from the act.


    The figure, now clear, was pushed back by the kick ¡ªhe assumed¡ª, hand over his torso, its left middle-finger cracked back, forming an L at the knuckle.


    A gaunt¡­ teen. Pale faced and brown haired. With dark, blue eyes, almost black. Lost, unfocused, grasping something not there¡­ his factions angular, unflattering. Not sharp as a beautiful hawk, or something of the sort, but the tired, bony, thin faces of the ailing slum mis¨¦rables.


    Somehow, he had grown to a favorable height, even while surely starving. His long limbs looked spindly, and yet were possessed by some unknown vigor¡­


    ¡®This guy looks dosed¡­ no point in talking¡­ Fuck!¡¯ The pain¡­ like having his eye socket filled with molten iron.


    ¡®I have to get this guy on the ground¡­ I can win by grappling¡­¡¯


    ¡°Woah¡­¡± Heos muttered¡­


    ¡®Like that beautiful painting¡­¡¯ Staked to the vault of the palace.


    A war¡­


    ¡®If war is like this¡­¡¯


    Perhaps his father was right. After all, he did not mind it at all.


    Some hidden, dark, blood lit beauty held by this fight, waiting to spring out, shaded by the tone of a bruise.


    ¡°Kid what th¡ª¡±


    A moment, that was all.


    The blur pierced close into his range.


    A left hook, like a blinding spear, into his liver.


    Then, something, pushing back his chin with feverish force.


    ¡®A softie¡­ a sucker¡­ and this kid¡¯s getting killed anyway¡­¡¯


    Extraordinary resilience, to think, in somewhat unmuddled fragments, even while falling, beaten near to black unconsciousness.


    The side of his skull impacting against the stone.


    The pain from his bruised, sheared skin and wounded eye got taken, drip by drip, into the dark¡­ spilling, as did his thoughts, into the depths of¡­ where?


    Heos did not spare a look to his fallen protector.


    Rustle¡­


    A rustling, silvery, soft.


    The gaunt adolescent walked forth, toward the unmoving prince: his head tilted, his eyes bright.


    Step, step, step¡­


    Its body contorted, ready to leap into deadly action, to kill the child.


    Step¡­


    Suddenly¡­


    A moving brush stroke of pure, unpolluted white, tipped in persimmon lit gold, and trimmed black.


    Splat.


    The figure¡¯s head burst apart in a bright comet shower of red waves, bone and flesh.


    The drab-veiny tone of grey matter flying about.


    Some teeth, as yellowed pearls.


    A thud.


    The body falling, flat on its back.


    His gown dressed in a drizzle of blood.


    Swan¡¯s feathers remained unmarred, yet his pale skin had caught drops of blushing rain.


    And all Heos could think of was the head, rent, cracked open¡­


    Flowering.


    Like a ripe pomegranate split apart.


    A single word crossed his mind.


    ¡®Pretty¡­¡¯


    For the man, the scene faded black.


    His last drop of conscience wondered¡­


    ¡®¡­What¡­?¡¯


    What had he gotten himself into?


    Even the fresh blood¡¯s heat was soon taken back by the dark, as he slipped by¡­


    Words left unfinished as he sunk down.

 18 - Vision/Dream

    ¡°Swan?¡±


    The phantasm curved back, happily. Glad airs of satisfaction coloring the way its feathers fluttered.


    It roused, then, wings flying open, stretching.


    He seemed to have found new ground¡­ after being prisoned, it had somehow gained space, influence and effect over the world around it.


    Blasting apart the figure¡¯s head.


    Returning fully, it coiled back to its usual form. Like a white-feathered serpent hung round the prince.


    ¡°Was this why you slept?¡±


    Swan did not give a clear answer.


    It simply flowed, triumphant.


    Not because he had killed this strange, possessed man, as Heos managed to understand, but, rather as effect of its liberation.


    Then, it pointed forward with its beak.


    Not a single drop of blood shone ¡ªmottling its body as ruby tears¡ª on Swan¡¯s plumage.


    As if it had existed for a single moment ¡ªat the zenith of movement and impact¡ª, as a horned form shattering against the attacker¡¯s head. The instant after, it had fallen back into a veil of ghostly light.


    Heos, however, was speckled, as flecked with brilliant crimson wine¡­ which would soon turn to rust as it dried, scabbing coppered-brown.


    ¡°Forward¡­?¡± He scratched his chin. ¡°I wanted to look around more¡­ Is that the way back home?¡±


    Flowing ahead, separating himself from Heos, Swan¡¯s feathers gleamed, like crystals filled with white sunlight.


    Its black eyes filled with intention, aimed to make the prince understand¡­


    ¡°Are you trying to show me something?¡±


    A pool of blood grew, flowing unsteadily from the mangled attacker. His neck gurgling as the weakened heart lost all force and slowly sputtered out.


    Again, Swan flickered, like carved out of marble and dressed in snow, reflecting the summer sun off its shape, then, turning ghostly, translucent and pale.


    The air around crackling with the lightest iridescent.


    A lustrous film¡­ or as diamond dust, suspended in the air.


    ¡®Shimmering¡­¡¯


    A beacon amongst the darkened alley.


    Is this what the little owl had seen?


    ¡®Magic¡­¡¯


    ¡°Are you showing me magic, Swan?¡±


    The phantasm assented, graceful.


    Swan flew back, meaning to wave the simmering air in Heos¡¯ direction¡­ to cover him.


    ¡°I do not understand.¡±


    Besides him¡­


    Blood seeping onto his feet, the man rested, unconscious, swallowed by black depths of nothingness.


    Floating, Swan orbited Heos, extending his wings out, violently, to cover the prince with their white feathers, housing the lustrous air in their depths.


    Thinking¡­


    Then, after floating about a couple of times, it returned before him and inclined its beak.


    As if to say¡­


    ¡®Now you do it.¡¯


    Although pretty, he did not understand why Swan would wish him to¡­ make the air shimmer?


    ¡°You want me to copy you?¡±


    Yes.


    He could almost hear a voice, when, satisfied at being understood, Swan coursed back to him.


    ¡°But how¡­?¡±


    The ghostly bird flew forward, carried by inexistant wind, and, as soon as it had come as close as it could to Heos, it¡­ placed its feathered head against the prince.


    Heos was somewhat surprised.


    Separating from the child, Swan then pointed its beak, tapping directly at the center of a porcelain, snow-white forehead.


    ¡°With my head?¡±


    Once again it nodded.


    ¡®How¡­?¡¯


    He imagined the air glow gently, possessed by the colors Swan had shown, yet¡­


    Nothing.


    The alley remained as it had, darkened.


    Another tap, this time on his chest, aimed at his heart.


    ¡°My heart¡­?¡±


    How could one do something with their head and their heart?


    Would he even be able to feel his heart, let alone control it?


    Some renewed exasperation beset the phantasm. Although it had freed itself somewhat, spectral bindings still knotted his being.


    Then, realization floated up into the black surface of its eyes¡­


    Singing slashes. White slices lit up the alley, their silvery shadow leaving in its trail the lustrous air of magic. Cuts, again and again, on the cobblestone, the skin that made up this rough alley¡¯s road.


    Chipped stone flew away, turned to pebbles and dust, until, finally, the shining movement ended, leaving only angular markings, letters, on the stone floor.


    Is it not your heart¡¯s command?


    Shape the light!


    Shroud yourself with its brilliant arms!


    ¡°What¡­?¡± The prince was at a loss ¡°Swan, somehow you remind of Mr. Owl.¡±


    An inquisitive bent curved the phantasm¡¯s neck.


    ¡°No¡­ You were asleep, otherwise you two would have met¡­¡±


    Yet, confused, Heos remembered.


    His hand outstretched, failing to hinge its fingers upon the gilded emptiness, unable to mold it, to bend the light.


    ¡®With my head and my heart¡­¡¯ His palm placed on his gown, just above his beating heart. ¡®It is sad that dreams do not last¡­¡¯


    ¡®If life were a waking dream¡­¡¯


    If he could choose magic to be¡­ Could he also make life to be as wonderful as a dream?


    No¡­


    A dream.


    His hand met air, as it left his chest and pierced into the alley¡¯s dark expanse.


    Then, when his fingers clenched, they met a lustrous film¡­ like a shroud made of shimmering light.


    It folded into his fingers, as they grabbed its end.


    It felt like¡­ nothing? No¡­ as cobwebs of melted sugar.


    Pulling¡­


    Like the thin membrane of a dragonfly¡¯s wings, yet flowing as mercury weaved, made silk.


    Swan watched, pride in the way it angled its beak, settling coiled around the child.


    Heos did not forget the second step.


    With the veil, thin, imperceptible, he surrounded himself in its cocoon, as he remembered¡­


    The hands in the dream.


    His mother¡¯s embrace.


    Swan¡¯s wings¡­


    Soon, it disappeared.


    As if nothing had been wrapped around his self.


    However¡­ when the boy¡¯s sight fell to his now idle hands, he found them ghostly; possessed by some pale, suffused, dull glow.


    They looked exactly like Swan had when, from brilliant and pure white, he had gone back to his usual tone; a phantasm.


    Lightly, just lightly transparent.


    Perhaps it would be better to call them opaque?


    He presumed the rest of his body was the same, for, at least what he saw, had shed its tone in much the same manner.


    From his feet, legs, to his white gown, his arms and shoulders. Even the dirt and blood had accompanied the rest of his body in such a strange shift.


    ¡°Did I¡­?¡±


    Swan¡¯s rousing seemed to answer his question.


    ¡°Magic¡­¡±


    The iridescent air remained, clinging to him, beautifully, glimmering¡­


    ¡°Now¡­?¡±


    A smile adorned Heos.


    ¡®Magic¡­ A mage¡­¡¯


    Still, he did not understand the point of this¡­ magic? To make him opaque and pretty up the air?


    Well, there was a point to that¡­


    Swan pointed with its beak further into the alley. It¡¯s feathered neck stretching.


    ¡°Toward there.¡± Heos muttered.


    A pooling disc of blood now blocked his path, like a mantle of garnet silk upon which the headless body was lain.


    The play of colors in the alley was truly an object of beauty.


    The silver charged shadows, holding back the burning daylight, hazed by the glow; the ink-stained blood, a deep, silent, obscured red, possessed by the dark. And the lustrous air; a play of lights illuminating ¡ªin small, colored shards of translucent hoarfrost¡ª the gloomy alley. If he focused, he could see: specks of dust dancing, freely falling in the air, where spears of light managed to pierce the shade.


    Without a second thought Heos began to walk.


    Even when he stepped in the pooling blood.


    It did not faze him. A pleased smile still painted his lips.


    His passing left behind footprints, as seals dipped in red ink.


    Not once did he turn.


    The protector stirred, still trapped in a sea below unconsciousness.


    *


    ¡°What is this¡­?¡±


    People coming, to and fro.


    Had he not noticed it before, effect of his wonder at this new place he found himself trapped in?


    ¡®Noisy¡­¡¯


    The noise of haggling, of working, of stones being sculpted and cut. Of numerous feet pressing down the street¡¯s cobblestones.


    Forms as well, set in courses, down the river of this street; stopping, starting, following their course.


    Drab colors dressed in powdered stone ¡ªwhichever way one looked¡ª like sickly flour and sugar sprinkled atop their surface.


    He walked out of the alley, having turned¡­ right? left¡­? Some indeterminate amount of times, following the sound and light.


    Finally, having found a way, he marveled¡­ this rue¡¯s flow eclipsed the one he had seen before.


    The facades were now all rigid, although still jutted upwards, they gave off a less organic feeling than the previous street. The quality of masonry was, of course, much superior¡­ after all, it befitted the place.


    Rue du Coupeur.


    A prominent mason¡¯s street, located at the heart of the southside quartiers.


    Again, he walked mindlessly, or rather, too focused on the sights. A woman crossed and fell, stumbling against him, as he stumbled, as well.


    ¡°Ahh!¡± The falling figure shouted.


    ¡®Ow¡­¡¯ Heos lamented. It was not the first time today he had gotten hurt.


    Stone dust and dirt marked his gown.


    A man, freckled and haggard looking, sped his steps and helped the woman up.


    ¡°C¨¦cile!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m okay, I¡¯m okay¡­¡±


    Their arms linked as the woman rose.


    Some passersby had stopped to look, yet quickly lost interest and resumed their paths.


    ¡°Must have tripped¡­¡±


    She looked around, perhaps waiting to find a loose stone, a pothole or some other thing that would have caused her to trip.


    ¡®No¡­ it was like I bumped into someone¡­¡¯


    Confused, her sight darted around but found nothing.


    Sighing, she went on her way, walking past.


    The prince, sitting on the ground, watched, his eyes sparkling, a bright smile on his lips.


    ¡°Swan! They can¡¯t see me!¡±


    ¡®Magic¡­¡¯


    He called for a passing man, yet he continued unmoving.


    ¡°Can¡¯t hear me either.¡± Fingers holding his chin.


    ¡°This was what you wanted me to do Swan?¡±


    The phantasm, pleased, assented.


    He sat up, halfheartedly dusting his gown.


    ¡°Now¡­ I can look around, but¡­ how do we make it back home?¡±


    Swan¡¯s beak rose, pointing, its destination crossing the city, splitting it in half.


    The palace¡­


    ¡°Towards there¡­ ok.¡±


    Step, step, step¡­


    His mind lost focus when, by his side, a mason¡¯s shop lay open. A brawny, dark-bearded man ¡ªthin wisps of golden hair clinging to his scalp¡ª sat, hunched, a hammer and chisel at his hands, as he cut apart a block of pale stone.


    Even the noise and commotion of a busy street did not shake him. Angled, precise cuts tore apart the stone, his eyes, unblinking, even amidst the air, heavy with dust.


    Heos stopped, raptured by the sight.


    Why¡­?


    Even he did not know, or much less question why it was he found the sight so enthralling.


    Layer by layer, angle upon angle, and curve by curve, something emerged from deep within the stone block.


    Like its heart, one crushed under the weight of its own body. Now free, it bled through.


    The face of a lion. Ornate designs around it.


    ¡°A lion¡­¡±


    He had seen them in a picture book.


    How could one believe such a thing? A lion living in the depths of a stone¡­


    ¡°Swan, is that magic¡­?¡±Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    No¡­ he could almost hear, as the phantasm shook its head.


    He took to silence for a moment, as the chisel continued to free the lion-heart from the body of stone.


    ¡°I don¡¯t believe it¡­¡± His eyes transfixed, they did not even blink. ¡°That is magic, it must be¡­¡±


    Swan did not comment further.


    In a way, perhaps it was magic. Wasn¡¯t all art magical?


    ¡°Can you teach me it?¡±


    Another head shake.


    ¡°Hm¡­¡± His thoughts ran amok. ¡®Perhaps the old mage¡­¡¯


    He walked into the shop.


    Standing in front of the stone block, the lion jutting from its inside.


    His hand coursed across the stone, wiping away the dust.


    ¡®Cold¡­ it is not a living lion anyway¡­¡¯


    The mason, clearing his sweat with a rag, saw the dust fly away.


    ¡®Wind¡­?¡¯


    Although strange, he did not pay much mind to it.


    Soon Heos left. Specks of shaved stone still littered the masonry¡¯s air.


    *


    Having crossed the city¡¯s veins, he now found himself¡­ lost.


    He had been, all this time. Appearing out of nowhere into the south-side.


    Yet now, having come across who knows how many turns, his sense of space had been torn apart by this endless maze.


    That is what it was, a maze. Like the capillaries in human flesh, organic and turning, connecting alleys, rues, markets, plazas and people.


    It did not help that most of the southern quartiers were built illegally, sprung up from flooding arrivals to the city. Most streets unmarked, inexistant for all intents and purposes.


    He continued, nonetheless, following Swan¡¯s directions.


    Here, where he stepped, was¡­ dark.


    The sun still shone, yet, somehow, a heavy, possessive and invisible glum had found purchase in this place.


    The houses pinioned together like crooked teeth. The way, even narrower.


    He had to focus, so as not to make the walking, soot and muck covered mis¨¦rables fall, taking him with them.


    Some huddled up, seen through openings of stone ¡ªand sometime wood¡ª facades; windows, if one could even call them that. Figures wandered glassy eyed, seating themselves in the earthen roads, with thick uncut slabs bludgeoned into the earth making for patchy cobble.


    Others swept the entrances to their homes. Barefoot children ran around playing this and that.


    Surprisingly, even among this abject poverty, they found solace and happiness. Or perhaps it was just the bright simple-mindedness of children.


    Wet clothes hanging in the summer sun. The repugnant smell of human waste steaming against the heat.


    Trash strewn about.


    This place felt¡­ like the edge. As if outside it, humanity ended. It was true, if one were talking about the city, for, beyond the edges of these slums, one found forests and farmland, and villages dotting the countryside.


    Here, however, one did not find the pleasant, fresh, empty air of the forests, nor the brilliant, colorful and perfumed comfort of a city.


    Absolutely liminal and wretched.


    Even curiosity did not abate the prince¡¯s natural compulsion: to leave this place. He wished not even to see it anymore.


    And so, he ran, the earth and dust further caking his feet, as he swerved among the openings and people, following Swan¡¯s beak as a compass.


    He had almost fallen, slid and tumbled; all more than one time.


    After a marathon, he was out. He had not arrived at the palace, however. It was simply a less miserable piece of the quartier. Poorman¡¯s cafes and taverns rose up here and there. The cobbling returned, as did the more solid stone houses, two floored as well. The streets seemed to have breathed in air, as they expanded, now not pushed together by the weight of poverty.


    It was by no means paradise. But anything was better than the slums, of course.


    Now, one could see pensions and rented flats, as well as the old stone-block facades.


    Perhaps this place had been lightly perfumed ¡ªjust barely grazed¡ª by the aroma of the artistic, splendorous Hygeia, for it seemed, evanescent, to ail with that familiar decadence particular to artists, especially those who starved as poets.


    It was almost endearing.


    Although not so much for Heos, who looked at it with mere curiosity. Heaving somewhat, after his escape.


    His pace steadied as he coursed through the way.


    Burning coffee, tobacco and rain: a rather elegant smell for such a quartier.


    Although no rains had fallen on Hygeia in the last few days¡­


    Those who walked went by unperturbed, accustomed to the sights.


    There was nothing particularly remarkable about the streets; compared to the slums, at least.


    Heos, beset with scenes beyond his knowledge for the day, had a muted response. The graying, stony rues blended one with the other.


    Only the smell¡­


    Like a pale, dying, old imitation of his father¡­ when he lit cigarillos.


    It was warm, atop the sun.


    Even in its shadows the road conserved some heat. Bubbling out from the taverns and caffes.


    The scent was interrupted as he walked the cobbling.


    What was it¡­


    Infront, a darkened, dirty rag¡­


    No, it was too large to be a rag. A blanket.


    Wool, drowned in dust and soot.


    What he had assumed to be two black stones, half-covered under the mantle¡¯s edge, were... feet.


    Ashen hair, matted and ragged, flowed out from its top. Blackened, long nails holding up the sorry blanket.


    Bony, weakened, pale and wrinkled. One could barely tell from under the dirt.


    Heos stopped.


    It was not the rotten, human scent of the slums; or the dusty, gravel-like aroma of the masons.


    It was¡­ like it was not even there.


    As if, confined to the bubble of this figure, scent disappeared; ceased to exist.


    ¡®What¡­¡¯


    ¡°Swan¡­¡±


    It knew what words Heos would pronounce, answering preemptively with a shake of its head.


    No.


    It was not magic.


    However¡­ a flickering doubt did arise in his head. The slumped figure before them¡­


    It felt rather strange.


    The blanket lowered and, out from its depths, untouched by sunlight, two tired¡­ irises? were revealed.


    Soot laden eyebrows pushing down the tired eyes¡­ their color indeterminate.


    No¡­ pearly white, like milk and undyed silk.


    Almost unseen under the weight of age and wrinkles.


    ¡°His eyes¡­¡± Heos muttered.


    And, as if in chorus with his uttering, a feeble arm, thin and frail, slowly rose from the blanket¡¯s side.


    Like floating, an arrow, directed to his heart.


    Impassive, the blanketed figure did not utter a word.


    It¡¯s hand climbing the air to meet him.


    Heos stood, frozen, somehow hypnotized by the sight.


    Yet, as soon as the hand was to touch his chest¡­ he ran.


    Not out of fright¡­ no, not even at the surprise of thinking that someone could see him.


    No¡­


    It was as if his body ordered him.


    Run.


    The strange beggar remained, his hand raised, scraping the empty air.


    Empty white eyes directed beyond heaven.


    *


    Once again, winded.


    ¡°Why¡­¡±


    Swan did not have an answer.


    ¡°Are you sure it was not magic?¡±


    This time the phantasm did not assent nor deny.


    That man¡­


    As if he did not exist.


    Heos walked now, tranquil. And, although he wished to return ¡ªhis curiosity egging him on, almost screaming, for him to confront, once again, that strange beggar whom, perhaps, could see him¡­ could peer through the veil of his newfound magic, something¡­ something did not allow it. He could not return.


    Something.


    The rising hand, weightless, skeletal, graying and caked in soot.


    Pale, pale eyes. As lacquer fashioned out of the most leaden, graying sky.


    Odorless, soundless.


    Heos, of course, did not know of the man¡¯s blindness. Only Swan had realized, as his pearled eyes were revealed.


    To be blind, yet, to see¡­


    Magic. Swan pondered.


    Heos pushed back the thoughts, drowning it in that strange sense which commanded him to run. He continued forward.


    The image would not leave him, yet, he wished to keep moving, and then, to arrive. After all, there, once he made it back to the palace, magic awaited him. Someone to teach him.


    Following Swan¡¯s directions.


    As he walked, the rues turned brighter, properly taking in the summer air.


    Still, it was no palace. No grandiose monumental streets, nor the Asphodeli, which still inhabited his dreams.


    Yet, all turned lighter, less glum; the sun burning away the soot and grime.


    The scent of coffee¡­ cheaper, but not miserly as further back. And alcohol, spiced and aromatic


    The sounds of revelry.


    Behind them, however, the burning blue flames of melancholy.


    The voices masked in joy, possessed by sadness.


    The prince stood, a moment, interested in the strange mixing of tones, of sentiment, which emanated from behind the doors and front-glass.


    Figures wishing to dilute their sadness in jubilation, movement and celebration.


    Bohemians dressed rather shoddily, yet with airs of artistry.


    ¡°Oh, Garcin, how many are sick as you are!?¡±


    ¡°A cup, a cup in Garcin¡¯s memory!¡±


    ¡°Goodbye, muses. Goodbye!¡±


    They seemed to sing their eternal farewells to a friend.


    Heos did not comprehend.


    This strange, trembling joy, this trepidation bursting at the seams of their miserable smiles.


    ¡®¡­¡¯


    To him it was all unintelligible.


    Why, when happy, would one be soaking in such sadness? Why would one, when sad, mask their sadness in such a thin veil of joy?


    Why did they shake, anyway¡­?


    What had happened to them¡­? He did not know.


    It was as curious, as alien and incomprehensible as all that he had found on this excursion.


    One thing, he did understand. They all seemed in great pain.


    After their exclamations had died down somewhat, one of them ¡ªportly, with skin as baked clay¡ª went forward, to the other''s silence, as he read, sonorous, rhyming words with tears in his eyes.


    Once finished, he sat back down, the clamor building up once more.


    Remembering his destination, Heos left, his sight returning forwards.


    Still inhaling the perfume of coffee, as the roads turned brighter and brighter; color drowning them, until the scent fell behind.


    As he passed an alley, Swan turned his beak, signaling to the entrance of the small walkway.


    It was narrow, although tasteful, picturesque.


    Somewhat battered balconies above, as chalk-toned stone lined the floor. A single tree, one he could not identify, grew in the middle of this alleyway, breaking through the tattered ground. Its shade covered half of the passage. Wooden, rustic benches were placed round the tree¡¯s trunk, bathed in small, pinhole speckles of light.


    Birds could be heard singing, hidden by the leaves.


    ¡®Sparrows¡­?¡¯


    ¡°Here?¡±


    Swan assented.


    ¡°Ok¡­¡±


    A few steps into the alley¡­


    The tree grew nearer, until¡­


    It disappeared.


    The sensation underneath his bare feet changed, from one moment to the next.


    The rough, shorn stone had turned to grass.


    And, ahead of him, the alley¡¯s dilapidated end melted into a verdant horizon, flanked by mirrors of impollute blue. One, coursed placidly, a river. The other was the sky above.


    Now unencumbered by the jagged city line, the sun filled sky extended over the earth, immense, set on fire and buzzing.


    The sound of flowing water, accompanied by cooing¡­ like sharp trumpeting, weak, brief.


    His eyes adjusted, as the bright, white light that plagued him disappeared.


    An island.


    He found himself on an island, sprung up amidst the flow of a slow, languid river.


    A pristine forest lined the coast beyond¡­ or was it just a garden? For he saw figures, dressed beautifully, in light fabrics, laid pleasantly under black parasols or by the shade of sycamores, oaks¡­ lindens¡­ some willows.


    All reminded him, marginally, of his parents¡­ in disposition? No¡­ What was it¡­?


    They were fundamentally different to those he had seen. Trapped along the maze of winding grey, soot filled rues.


    Bright eyes, tranquil¡­ enjoying the summer.


    Behind him¡­ islets, smattered along the river¡¯s flow, some with people, others with¡­ structures he could not clearly see. Connected by bluish, hazy bridges, accented with marble and white stone. Curving and ornate.


    On one, the largest, high tiered building sprang up, cutting up the sky, all tinted in shades¡­ hundred shades of blue, as unending strokes of frozen paint.


    Or gems¡­ crystals of varying brightness, shredded clumps of sky, arranged into streets and facades.


    Like his father¡¯s eyes, spilled onto the earth and carved apart.


    That sound, again¡­ that sharp, horn-like cooing.


    He searched for it¡­


    Around him, by his feet.


    Swans¡­


    With feathers black, as if dyed with ink¡­ no, made of ink.


    The spilled obsidian mirror, the lake, at the forest¡¯s entrance¡­ as black as it. Verglas shaped into the swan¡¯s coats.


    Ending in beaks colored as coral¡­ or carmine¡­ a strange tone, without simple comparison. A slight white shadow of under feathers flared near its tail, under its wings.


    They sang. Theirs was the horned cooing that rang, occasionally, into the air, mixing with the coursing water.


    ¡®Black swans¡­¡¯


    They all gathered around the islet, where he stood; swimming by its shore or settled on its grass.


    ¡®I want to talk to them¡­¡¯


    ¡°Swan¡­ how do I¡­ become visible again.¡±


    The phantasm roused his feathers and spread his wings. The lustrous air shaking, tearing apart from his movement.


    ¡°Like that¡­?¡±


    Thinking for a moment, Heos wondered. He had no wings, nor feathers¡­ He would only half-way imitate Swan¡¯s movement¡­ Ridiculous.


    Perhaps violent movement would tear it?


    But then, why had it not burst when he ran, or fell?


    Did he need only move as if freeing himself, and decide ¡ªas he had decided before to cloak himself in light¡ª to shake off this magic?


    Perhaps¡­


    Heos waved his hand, as if stirring up water. Thinking, in his mind, of tearing off a veil placed atop oneself.


    Webs of crystal-like membranes were caught in his hands; melted sugar, leaking diamond dust, falling through his fingers and onto the grass as Heos cracked it apart¡­


    Until¡­ It burst.


    The opacity returned to his body; shedding its ghostly glow.


    Slowly then, the ¡ªbefore clueless¡ª swans noticed him.


    The closest one waddled toward him, its black webbed feet sinking in the greenery.


    ¡°Hello.¡± Heos preemptively spoke.


    ¡°Woah¡­¡± A juvenile voice answered back¡­ pleasing, even if immature. He wondered as to why all animals had such pleasant voices. Or was it just the ones he spoke to? ¡°What¡¯s with him¡­¡± The puzzled bird asked, referencing the figure around the prince. Then¡­ ¡°Wait¡­ where did you even come from?¡±


    It seemed rather tranquil, when encountering what was essentially an apparition, even if confused.


    ¡°I just appeared here¡­ I do not know.¡±


    ¡°Okay¡­¡± The swan tilted its head. ¡°And¡­¡± Its beak aimed at the phantasm.


    ¡°He is my friend.¡± The prince answered.


    The friend remained still, coiled, watching the black swan without making a sound.


    Another jolt of realization hit the coal-black bird, his feathers shaking in response.


    ¡°Ah¡­ why can I understand you¡­?¡± It sounded truly shaken now, finally.


    It was natural, Heos assumed swans did not often come across humans who could understand them¡­ yet, neither Mr. Owl, nor Ms. or Mr. swan seemed that shaken when they encountered him¡­


    Perhaps it was just this one bird?


    ¡°Magic.¡± Heos answered, a smile marking his lips.


    ¡°Uh¡­ yeah¡­? Or I¡¯m going mad.¡± The black swan muttered. ¡°Hey, guys¡­ come see this!¡± If others could also understand this human, then that meant he was not a lunatic¡­ or maybe they were all insane, collectively¡­ But he swallowed that thought for the moment.


    Suddenly, half the bevy turned their necks, arching them in Heos¡¯ direction.


    Surprised exclamations followed, as well as the pitter patter of webbed feet on grass.


    Soon, the swans had swarmed Heos.


    ¡°Ohh¡­!¡±¡¯s and ¡°Ahh¡­!¡±¡¯s filled the air as the birds marveled at the phantasm.


    Yet, when the prince spoke¡­


    ¡°Hello.¡±


    Silence overtook them.


    As long as it takes for a breath to pass.


    Then¡­


    ¡°What!¡±


    ¡°This human! Why can I understand him!¡±


    ¡°So, it¡¯s not just you!¡±


    ¡°What the¡­!¡±


    ¡°Am I hearing things?!¡±


    ¡°Human boy! Boy! How come we can understand you?¡±


    ¡°How¡­!?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m hearing things! Surely?¡±


    Heos smirked, clearly pleased¡­ entertained at the swans¡¯ confusion. It was fun exposing the unexpectant to magic ¡ªor what he had decided was magic¡ª, he found.


    ¡°Yes, I can understand you, you can understand. It¡¯s magic.¡± His grin grew wider.


    ¡°Whaaaaat?¡±


    ¡°Mayeec? What is that?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Magic, like¡­¡±


    ¡°Magic!¡±


    ¡°Hey, where¡¯d this kid come from?¡±


    Perhaps to outsiders this would sound like an army of ailing, mad trumpets ringing wild? How did his conversations, with swans and the like, sound to those who could not understand¡­?


    Curious.


    The sing-song voices washed over him.


    Unlike the serene, svelte tones of voice natural to mute swans, black swans¡¯ had an inexplicable sung depth to theirs¡­ equally as aristocratic, however.


    Swan fluttered and indicated¡­. to the water. To the placid, flowing waters of the river.


    ¡®There¡­¡¯


    He had gone about and about in a maze today.


    Soon it would be sunset, although it felt as midday still.


    Heos had no reason to doubt Swan so¡­


    He walked ahead, as always, unperturbed. The bevy parting where he walked.


    Staring at the currents¡­


    Much like the human currents of the city. The blood flow of living rues.


    The swans now watched, silent.


    A foot in¡­


    Yet¡­


    It felt rather strange. As if he were dipping his foot into the cobwebs, into the shaped lights which he had hid under.


    A second foot in¡­


    The feeling intensified.


    His steps were not slowed by the currents, nor encumbered by the water he would have had to displace.


    He walked freely.


    And, as he sunk into the river, the birds watching, as if enchanted, no water soaked him, nor weighed him down.


    Like he had fallen to the other side of a mirror, in the blink of an eye, crossing only a curtain of translucent mist.


    That last strand of his hair had passed, nothing remained, sunk into the waters.


    Silence¡­ then:


    The swans argued with each other, confused, questioning bends in their necks, some, still silent, still watching the river, stupefied.


    Beyond the waters, by the shores where the affluent reclined, enjoying their summer afternoons in the Rue Bleue¡¯s gardens, certain, particularly observant individuals pondered, wandered what it was that they saw¡­ hazy and muddled, far away and taken by the blue mirages of a summer day¡­ what had looked like a figure of white, herding the swans, as it promptly descended into the river, as if climbing down some stairs and into the earth.


    It was a mirage¡­ probably, a mirage¡­ what else could it be¡­?


    As to why the swans had all formed together, around¡­ something.


    Well, who knew? Animals were simple-minded and strange.


    It had merely been a curious sight. A trick of the light.


    Yes, that¡¯s what it was.


    The curiosities of a summer day.


    *


    An afternoon tea party was being held.


    Prairie chairs lined around an ornate mantle.


    Pastries in brilliant colors, lined up and down in ¨¦tag¨¨res.


    Gold rimmed porcelain, silver spoons and flowing summer dresses.


    Youngsters running after each other, playing, conversing or sitting down; their lips gorging on desserts or burning against the steaming tea.


    Two women made the centerpiece.


    Ornate hairstyles: looping, unending braids, held up by ornaments heavy in gems, all concordant in taste, color, season and fad. Necklaces and rings, shoes¡­ slippers, heels¡­ something of the sort, contorted by aestival fashion into beautiful, and completely unseen, forms.


    One of the women, Auburn hair lit into gold shimmers by the summer sun set, her dark blue eyes ahead, landing on a tree line of sycamores.


    She conversed about something or other, the topic even slipped her mind, as she more or less distanced the flow of conversation from her conscious thoughts.


    Her round face, possessed of motherly beauty, although still youthful, tensed into a laugh, or smile, or a serious sharpening of her brows as the conversation with the woman ahead proceeded.


    She was quite skilled at this¡­ force of habit, or education¡­ who knew.


    All the more strange when, for a moment, as she raised a tea cup to her lips, her expression froze, like mangled, hit by freezing winds.


    Her eyes widened slightly.


    The other woman ¡ªa shimmering knot of blond hair, arranged in another fashionable, although somewhat ridiculous hairstyle, shining on her head¡ª steeled her sharp, ice-blue eyes, collected and firm. Terrifying, even; as they seemed to peer through flesh and gaze upon the soul of those they looked upon.


    She noticed the auburn haired woman falter for a moment, and, confused, turned her pale white neck, to see what it was had stumped her.


    Her skin was alabaster, and her face preserved a youthful levity even after subsequent births. Only the color of rouge shone on her cheeks, as fields of roses in the snow, soon to be snuffed out by the biting cold.


    Her gaze also faltered, as silence took them.


    A scream¡­ a shriek, a shout.


    The children and youth had been startled still, all turning in unison.


    A teacup almost flung around.


    Both women were terrified, as a dirt and blood marred figure suddenly appeared out from the sycamore tree line.


    Fair as light, pale, in a tattered and soot covered gown, speckled of lifeblood dried on it, turned to the color of rotting rust.


    It was ghastly!


    Feet turned black from earth and who knows what else.


    Had some evil apparition come to take them away?


    Or was it some¡­ midget madman out to kill them?


    One of the women, the auburn haired, almost fell out of her chair from the shock, faint.


    Guards, in red, white, gold uniforms were immediately alerted, as they readied themselves for what it was had frightened the women so.


    A youth, sat beside the almost fainting woman, grabbed her, steadying her body.


    ¡°Mother!¡± He exclaimed, only slightly concerned.


    And, when he turned his sight, all concern evaporated.


    For what he saw was no enemy, nor terrifying sight, but his brother. Covered in raindrops of blood, dust, soot, earth and some more¡­


    Heos.


    Walking towards them, smiling, leaving the sycamore forest behind.


    The first-born prince couldn¡¯t help but laugh, laugh boisterously.


    A nascent tear rolling down his cheek, cleared away with his hand.


    He waved, welcoming his brother, releasing his grip on the fainting woman.


    ¡°Heos!¡±


    His little brother, like a hero back from war, had returned to the palace, his home. A triumphant glint in his eyes.


    ¡°Brother! Hello!¡±


    As he trotted up.


    Unconcerned.


    Glorious and golden even drowned in muck.

 19 - Names/Magic II

    Heos stepped atop the grass. Nonchalant, smiling. Wishing to meet halfway with the first-born prince, who had ¡ªafter ensuring his mother would not faint from shock¡ª left his seat, still afflicted by a hiccup-like laughter.


    He had been worried.


    His father had forbidden him from attending the symposium; perhaps wishing for his eldest not to influence his youngest¡¯s decision. Or not¡­ He would think it absurd for the king to not know Heos¡¯ temperament. His presence alone would not move this child, so why forbid him from making an appearance?


    To be truthful, his wish to attend was, more or less, self-serving; an act to assuage his own fears about his brother¡¯s position. To defend him if the discussion became a political battle, with Heos at its center, swept away by forces and interests beyond his own means.


    Even if he was not to attend, and so knowledge of the decision would be kept for him for as long as his father wished, or rather, for as long as it took for him to ask Heos, he could still argue in the child¡¯s favor to Alphonse; even if limited by hierarchy. The Gelbann Amoineau had influence, had power, even if symbolic, right?


    Yet, when he went to ask for Heos, none knew where he was. He assumed that the youngest had been idling about by the swan lake. However, arriving there, he had found nothing, except for swans, gliding indolently, of course.


    Then, Heos did not show at mid-day. Was he not hungry?


    Worried, he asked both his father and Lady Marenisse; both did not know, and unconcerned, did not worry to find out.


    If not for his father offhandedly commenting that ¡°the child¡± was certainly alright ¡ªwhich at first he had trouble believing¡ª and that he had stationed both royal guards and Hi¨¦ron around him, he would have gone out himself to find him.


    ¡°If he did not show for lunch then¡­ he must be doing something else? Do not bother looking for him.¡±


    Were the king¡¯s words.


    So, when he saw him, covered in dirt like he had been rolling around the forest floor for fun, his worry abated, and amused at seeing all those present at the afternoon tea shaken, he could not help but laugh.


    Heos had come out the forest like a haunt¡­


    Numerous pairs of blue, brown, green eyes watched, unnerved.


    Now that he appeared nearer, and nearer, he noticed¡­ scabbed blood, rust-copper brown, covering his gown and face.


    His laughter mellowed out.


    Until it stopped.


    Alarmed, he sped up, and finally meeting halfway with his brother, bent down and looked him up and down, carefully.


    ¡°Heos, are you hurt¡­?¡± He asked, still checking the prince for wounds.


    ¡°No? Brother¡­¡±


    Seeing no open wound, at least not external, his mind went to the next possible reason for this scabbing¡­


    ¡°Then, this blood¡­?¡±


    No¡­ Heos was not a cruel child¡­ strange, unwieldy, precocious, even somewhat bizarre¡­ but¡­ killing some woodland creature for¡­ for what reason?


    No, his own fanciful imagination, was all.


    He felt a pang of guilt, thinking his brother capable of such a thing, even when knowing the child¡¯s predilection for animals¡­ All because of what? Because of his strange behavior?


    A hidden sigh.


    It was a lot of blood. Splattering, as if something had burst apart. It blended in with the dust¡­ soot? Earth¡­ and whatever else covered him.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know¡­ I got lost in the forest.¡±


    A pleasant smile, transparent. That common visage on the child


    ¡°Wait¡­ the guards around you¡­?¡± ¡®The Hi¨¦ron?¡¯ He thought.


    ¡°Who?¡±


    ¡°Are there not guards looking after you?¡±


    ¡°No¡­¡±


    He felt anger rising.


    Had the guards left him to his own devices? No¡­ It was much more likely that the king had lied.


    A shadow settled above his expression.


    ¡°I see¡­¡± His voice rose, steady, sharper. ¡°Guard, Call for Her Majesty.¡±


    The royal guard bowed, then left trotting, to search for Marenisse.


    ¡°Heos, are you ok? Are you not hungry¡­? Or¡­?¡±


    He laughed, the youngest prince, without warning. A strange show of emotion, seldom seen in such an impassive temperament.


    ¡°I¡¯m very happy Brother¡­ Do you know when my lesson will start?¡±


    What was with this change of topic?


    ¡°Well¡­ soon Heos, but¡­ How did you get lost¡­ and¡­¡±


    The child tuned off his brother¡¯s concerned ramble, envisioning in his mind all the marvelous things that awaited him once he began to learn of magic.


    ¡®Flying¡­¡¯


    His brother kept harking back to his condition, how he had gotten lost¡­ once or twice mentioned the dried blood on him¡­


    It was all washed out by the brilliant shimmer of magic, waiting for him, inviting him¡­ the world changing and twisting.


    A sempiternal smile, his curved lips.


    From the far side of his sight he watched as a woman appeared, clad in a riding habit ¡ªriding coat and skirt¡ª , her copper hair tied taut, as she measuredly rode a white stallion¡­ no, some strange, pale-haired horse, as if made of waves of sunlit sand, toward him.


    Besides her a guard accompanied her strut.


    ¡°Mother!¡± An exclamation of joy. His hand rising to wave.


    The first-born prince, although unhappy with the amount of answers he had gotten, gave up on what had been, essentially, a monologue.


    He would question his father later¡­ Hounding Heos any further would be futile.


    A light shadow of anger still darkened his expression.


    *


    Specks of dust dancing in the air¡­


    This is what Heos entertained himself with.


    Sitting in a smaller study ¡ªas ¡°small¡± as a room in the palace could be.


    His feet dangled off the beautiful Alexandre IX style chair. A sinuous pattern of interlocking golden arches on top of a grey-blue background for its upholstery. Its body carved out of sandalwood.


    He was dressed as informally as any other day¡­ still in an airy white gown. He refused the trimmed coats, justacorps, jabots, culottes and so on¡­ all downsized for him, and exuberantly exquisite, and expensive. Not because he disliked them, rather, he preferred the loose comfort of gowns¡­ and, of course, went barefoot, another of his preferences¡­


    Anyhow, he waited. For today he began his lessons. Pestering his father had made the lesson on Mysteries the first.


    Two guards lined the door, while two others waited outside.


    He had been disappointed at learning he would not have his lesson the same day he returned from the ¡°excursion¡±; resulting in a ¡ªnever before seen¡ª tantrum; reminding those close to Heos that he was, all in all, still a child.


    He had to endure fewer days, however, as his father moved up the start date for his education.


    And so, now, he waited¡­


    And waited¡­


    The dust danced¡­ lit into being by sunlight. Like little snowflakes¡­


    ¡®Aaaaaaaaaaaaaah!¡¯


    ¡°Guard! Is he here yet?!¡±


    He exclaimed at the soldier, who responded, unfazed.


    ¡°No, Your Majesty.¡±


    Evidently, the teacher wasn¡¯t there yet¡­


    ¡°Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.¡±


    He groaned. Burying his head in his arms, which he rested on the sandalwood table.


    Those who knew the prince were quite optimistic, glad, even, as the strange, impassive, unsettling child, brilliant but taciturn, had begun showing signs of animation, and childishness, something he was, until then, apparently bereft of.


    Peeking his eyes over his arms, his eyes gazed forward, uninterested.


    Focused on the dancing dust.


    His feet swung, expectant¡­


    His sight lost focus, then regained it, settling on the chair ahead of him, resting at the other side of the table.


    Sandalwood as well, upholstered in much the same manner.


    The sun¡¯s shadow cutting it in half, as it did not manage to creep up on all its body.


    And, were the sun hit, if he focused, he could spot it.


    Almost imperceptible.


    Lost grains of color floating, refracting, blinking in and out of being, hung in the air.


    ¡®¡­¡¯


    Magic? Like the light veil he had used to hide himself?


    No, that was clear, shiny, unimpeded¡­ Impossible to miss.


    This was like little scars, almost invisible, on the light¡¯s surface¡­


    Something lightly scratching glass¡­


    His eyes narrowed.


    How suspicious¡­


    He sat up. The guards stood still.


    And walking up to the chair¡­ he felt the air tingle.


    Now in front, unabashed, he stuck out his hand and grabbed at the air.


    Only for his arm to be grabbed instead.


    An aged hand held him in place.


    It had suddenly appeared, alongside a body¡­


    The old sage, in his tempestuous blue robes, sitting on the sandalwood chair.


    The guards noticed nothing, as if pulled into a world of their own.


    ¡°You¡¯re late!¡± Heos complained.


    ¡°Hehe¡­ No¡­ I arrived at the promised time. You did not notice me is all.¡± The sage smirked, somewhat mockingly.


    The prince did not care much.


    ¡°Teach me! You promised!¡±


    ¡°I did? I cannot remember saying anything of the sort¡­¡± A feigned expression, as if trying to remember something imaginary.


    Heos did not respond, he simply glared.


    ¡°How about you tell me of your little expedition first, before anything¡­ I¡¯m curious.¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    The sage laughed.


    ¡®I have seen it all, however¡­¡¯ He still wondered about the prince¡¯s own thoughts on what had happened. ¡®No matter.¡¯ ¡°Well then¡­ Let us change the scenery. Yes¡­?¡±


    Eyeing the man suspiciously, the prince retorted.


    ¡°No¡­¡±


    ¡°Come, it will be an instant. Proper scenery is necessary for efficient learning.¡±


    ¡°An instant¡­?¡± His scrutinizing gaze persisted.


    ¡°Yes, an instant. It will be magic.¡± He intoned the last word with the skill of a charlatan.


    The word softened the prince¡¯s skepticism.


    ¡°Ok¡­¡±


    The sage smiled, and unheard, muttered something, his lips moving almost imperceptibly.


    The scene changed, just like a backdrop in theater.


    A pleasant meadow, a clearing. The sounds of summer, running water, birds.


    The prince, however, did not show surprise, he was accustomed to it.


    ¡°Boring¡­¡±


    Another laugh from the sage.


    ¡°Even if I taught you how to do it?¡±


    The comment roused the prince¡¯s attention.Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    The laughter echoed.


    ¡°The swan¡­ it is able to hide now, I gander?¡±


    The prince nodded.


    Swan flickered in and out of existence for a moment.


    ¡®Interesting¡­¡¯ Now that he watched up close¡­


    ¡°Teach me!¡±


    The old mage sighed.


    ¡°First, then, tell me ?What is magic?¡± His gaze turned serious¡­ or more aptly, one would say, ¡°his expression¡± as heavy eyebrows covered his eyes.


    ¡®Magic¡­¡¯ Immediately, he remembered his mother¡¯s words. What he had seen seemed to confirm her first assertion: Magic is the impossible. Talking swans and owls, turning invisible, moving, inexplicably, from one place to another¡­


    ¡°Magic is the impossible.¡± He answered, his eyes not leaving the sage.


    A smile, still, on the old mage.


    ¡°Wrong. That is an eminently f?rcynn answer.¡±


    Irritated, the prince asked.


    ¡°What? What is fe- fi- firkin?¡±


    ¡°F?rcynn, or simply cynn. Those unable to do magic.¡±


    Heos hummed, unimpressed.


    ¡°Since you merely parroted whatever superficial assertion your mother fed you, this is, evidently, a cynn¡¯s answer.¡± That mocking smile¡­


    ¡°So what?¡±


    ¡°Well, it is wrong. Cynn are rarely correct in their fantasies about magic. And, of course, answering as one is shameful¡­ in poor taste, really.¡±


    The prince said nothing. Just threw back a silent glare, quite eloquent.


    ¡°Now, think for yourself. What is magic?¡±


    ¡°I do not know.¡±


    ¡°Good, it is better to admit ignorance than to¡­ dream up meaningless answers. Unless pretending serves a purpose¡­ in learning, however, it is usually meaningless.¡± The sage sat, and with a comfortable exhalation, continued, signaling for the prince to sit as well. ¡°Magic is the manipulation of Ousia so as to produce phenomena.¡±


    Now sitting, the prince quickened to ask, yet, was silenced by the sage¡¯s words.


    ¡°What is Ousia¡­? Who knows!¡± His arms rose in the air. A smirk ever-present. ¡°This is a good moment to impart to you a principle of magic¡­ or more or less, of Magical Epistemology and Lingua Magica: Nomen vocat, alium vocat¡­ If called by one name, then it will surely be called by another. Words are of incomparable importance to magic; both in application and in study.¡± He scratched his temple, pausing for a moment. ¡°What may be called this or that in one tradition or tongue, may be called another way in some other strain of magic. Now, one would think it irrelevant, since a thing is, in itself? irrespective of what one calls it¡­ however, two problems arise.¡± His pace slowed, emphasizing the words. ¡°First, language, in magic, is not inert, and mages are, usually, not idiots, worthwhile magi at least. Second: because the subject of study in magical disciplines is necessarily metaphysical, the object, at origin, is usually impossible to properly encapsulate in language; language itself, also, does not begin, e nihil, and proceeds from linguistic evolution, which one must break apart and observe.¡±


    Ceasing his words for a moment, the sage looked at the prince, entranced, as he listened. He would have expected him to throw a tantrum and ask for ¡°Magic!¡±, thinking his rambling to be irrelevant, however¡­ This came as a pleasant surprise.


    Heos, who waited for the sage to continue, was left awestruck, as the words which he did not know, or understand, appeared, definition and all, in his mind ¡ªwork of magic, surely¡ª, as he wondered¡­ Except, of course, for that one word, Ousia¡­ as well as, before it, f?rcynn.


    Clearing his throat, the voice sprang up once more.


    ¡°Now, words, especially those used in magic, carry with themselves ineffable tradition¡­ knowledge of predecessors who committed their lives to the same pursuit, and so, in studying the names of things, one is likely to find necessary, fundamental, transcendental knowledge, hidden behind the veil of words¡­ The problem is, as I had stated, that magical tradition is not uniform¡­ no, far from it.¡± He shifted somewhat, sitting more comfortably now. ¡°Take the word in question, Ousia, for example. This term is at the core of magic, being that which mages manipulate with the aim of practicing their art. Ousia, the word ¡ªnot the object or ¡°thing¡± ¡ª, signifies a primary essence, an elemental essence, as in fundamental or initial; that which composes the object in itself without the accidental addition of characteristics ¡ªthis is an oversimplification, clearly, as I would never be done if I were to talk about this one thing in all its complexity¡­ Take another name for this ¡°thing¡±, as an example: Aweosung, a rather old fashioned term used in almost extinct loegrian traditions; its meaning is similar, being essence, and so on¡­ but, it includes within itself subsistence as well, so, one would think, that Ousia, or Aweosung, is a ¡°thing¡± of which things subsist from, a top of being their essence or being-in-themselves¡­¡±


    Raising an eyebrow, he asked.


    ¡°Follow?¡±


    Heos nodded.


    ¡°Now, hear this term: Gesceafts¨¢wel; it is compound, and of similar loegrian origin. Gesceaft is all that is created, all of creation, or a created being; s¨¢wel is the spirit, or soul: in short, The spirit or soul of creation, or, the spirit of things created; we know it not to be the soul for the second interpretation, since manipulating the soul directly is impossible, so, how could Ousia be the soul of things created, when it is the ¡°thing¡± mages manipulate? There are others, boreal terms: Hugrfold and S¨¢lfold; they seem to back up the Gesceafts¨¢wel interpretation, although diverge from it as well; specifically Hugrfold, another composite: Hugr being mind, or the agglomeration of thoughts which compose personality and being, and fold being the earth, as in what we stand on, but, also, the mortal realm, or the realm of being: The mind, or thoughts, of the earth, of creation; though one should not ignore the importance of ¡°earth¡± as the natural world, seeing the importance this plane, nature, held for boreal magical tradition ¡ªall traditions, really¡­¡± A brief pause. ¡°S¨¢lfold is similar, though latter chronologically, for it means the soul of earth, of creation, or nature, as the concept of ¡°soul¡± is not necessarily native to the boreal region.¡±


    He yawned.


    ¡°This handful of terms, just a handful, a smattering, leave one quite doubtful: is it the spirit of creation, of created things, the soul of the world? The mind of nature? The essence of being, and beings? Well¡­¡± The sage shrugged. ¡°Something we can glean is that it seems to be the innermost part of something¡­ the innermost essence; mind, soul or spirit. Beyond that¡­ one can learn through contact with it, through application of magic. However, this knowledge, and subsequent epiphanies, are usually unintelligible, rather difficult to transcribe to written word, and, very, very rare¡­ The best way to acquaint yourself with Ousia is to do magic.¡± He held his beard. ¡°Questions?¡±


    ¡°Hm¡­¡± Heos brought a finger to his lips. ¡°Yes¡­ what do you think Ou-ousia is¡­?¡±


    The sage hummed, still smiling. His expression seemed pleased, nostalgic¡­ glad.


    ¡°Totipotency. After all, mages actualize potential.¡±


    For some reason, the meaning of totipotency did not appear in his mind.


    ¡°What is To-Toto-Totipotency?¡±


    ¡°Endless possibility.¡± A chuckle.


    He clapped his hands.


    ¡°Now, as for mages. As I said, magic is the manipulation of Ousia so as to produce phenomena. A mage, then, a mag¨®s, a vitki, a dry, or as you prefer, is he who possesses the faculty of transforming, or manipulating Ousia into¡­ something, whatever. This could be lighting a small flame, as this:¡± On his outstretched left index, the sage showed a flickering red flame floating, resting on its tip, which had appeared out of thin air ¡°Transporting a person from one place to another, to¡­ other more exquisite, and refined, spells.¡± The flame disappeared, and the hand fell. ¡°However, those who have little talent¡­ although talent is not the word, really, and I detest it ¡ªIt is preferable to use weight, or Geist, as they indicate a destined predilection for one or more disciplines¡ª, are called hedge mages. Fools, idiots, cowards, defects, etc¡­ whose path in magic differs little from the average cynn street performer.¡± The sage noticed the prince¡¯s unsteadiness. ¡°Yes¡­? If you wish to ask a question, raise your hand. No need to wait for me to ramble on¡­¡±


    The prince¡¯s hand shot up.


    ¡°Hmm?¡±


    ¡°You said destined predilection¡­ does that mean that mages are destined for what they do?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Although the specifics of what destiny is, exactly, are disputed, it is, undoubtedly, a real force. Specifically, because it is tethered to the soul.¡± He went back to pulling, mysteriously, on his beard. ¡°Something many wondered was as to where the faculty for magic came from¡­ First, it was believed to be tied to blood and heritage, although this is false, as far as I understand it. It is not biological either, as the physiology of mages, at least those who do not actively modify their own, is unremarkably similar to that of cynn, or, at least, it seems that way.¡± A glint flickered in his sight, disappearing almost as instantly as it arrived. ¡°Is it a property of the mind? They wondered, and well, the mind, we found, is tied to the soul, if not a subsidiary compound of it. All we know is that, in absence for a physical explanation, the burden falls on the soul. The souls of mages are different from those of cynn. How? Well¡­ in such a way where I cannot explain it to you simply, and we would veer off course if I were to.¡± He waved it away. ¡°And, destiny, fate¡­ It can be manipulated and seen through magic, so we know it real¡­ I will say little more.¡± His voice grew deep, serious. He drew his upper body near to the prince, his head, specifically, and spoke, measuredly, and blunt. ¡°There are things one should not know. There are things one should not come to know¡­ there are things you should not know, yet.¡± He straightened his posture back. A smile once again curved among his snow beard. ¡°Anything else?¡±


    ¡°No¡­¡± The prince absentmindedly answered, still possessed by those words. ¡®you should not know, yet¡­ one should not know.¡¯ What was it¡­? What?! His curiosity burned, maddeningly¡­His eyes lost in the possibility¡­ Heos trembled, unknowingly¡­ He remained silent, after, nonetheless.


    ¡°The fact that you can understand certain animals, and have that swan following you about, is evidence of weight, of Geist, in familiars, for example¡­¡± He cleared his eyes. ¡°This opens up the way for two things I wish to thread upon today; Finalizing what I told you before, on the origin of the faculty for magic, and the Seven Arts.¡± He yawned, again. ¡°Let us finish what I was saying. If you are astute, you would have noticed an incongruency in my words, before¡­ or, better stated, an opportunity for specificity that I overlooked.¡± He stopped, and looked at the youth, intently. ¡°Do you know?¡±


    The prince closed his eyes, remembering, thinking about the deluge of information he had been hit by¡­ carefully, he thought.


    His eyes brightened, as if stumbling across an epiphany.


    ¡°No.¡± he answered, smiling, the expression falling in jest.


    ¡°Heh.¡± The sage looked amused. ¡°I called mages: those with the faculty for transforming Ousia; however, would it not be better to say, those born with the faculty for manipulating Ousia? After all, one is born ensouled, and so one is born with the faculty for magic.¡±


    ¡°Uh¡­ Maybe.¡± The prince doubted.


    ¡°Well, this is not the definition usually given since, although one is born ensouled, the actual first manifestation of magic is¡­¡± He tapped his fingers, thinking. ¡°conditional. The faculty for manipulating Ousia is, on average, accessed, or awoken, in adulthood, before, it is not present. This had made some claim that, that which is inscribed on the soul is not the faculty for magic? but the ability to access, or unlock, this faculty. Therefore, we could not call mages as those who are born with the faculty for magic, but, those who possess the faculty for magic¡­ Understand?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡± No doubt evident in Heos¡¯ voice.


    ¡°All in all, the definition, as with anything in magic, is diffuse. Yet, one clearly recognizes a mage in their element, after all, flying or disappearing, or foretelling the future, are evident signs of magic.¡±


    The prince¡¯s hand rose.


    ¡°When did you¡­ uh, awaken? unlock? magic?¡±


    ¡°Was I fifteen¡­? Sixteen? Around that age...¡± His gaze fell back on the prince, for more than a breath, scrutinizing, a thought clearly clouding his sight¡­ then, it returned to the forest behind.


    ¡°Geist is also bothersome to define, although the word quite literally means spirit, or ghost¡­ It is ever more confusing when one says: this mage has Geist in this thing or this other¡­ For even the categories of magical endeavors and disciplines are unstable, overlap, or are insufficient, too particular in their own traditions, misunderstood¡­ As so, Geist in one thing or the other is better explained by means of something else¡­ A type of magic we will cover later on.¡±


    The prince, somewhat deflated, did not protest. Although he did level another irked gaze at the sage.


    ¡°So as to alleviate this problem ¡ªthe categorization of magical disciplines¡ª, seven arts were instituted, or rather, declared ¡ªby whom?¡± He chuckled. ¡°Later¡ª which compose much of, if not all of classical magical tradition in their vague expanse.¡± His hand settled on his mustache, which he straightened, again and again, with his index and thumb. ¡°If you read ¡ªwhich you do not, of course¡ª, you would know that in cynn folklore mages are know for certain recurring feats of magic; being there, roughly, seven:¡± His hands rose at his front, fists closed, and, with the mention of every feat, he began to lift each finger, as if the weight of his words was what woke them upright. ¡°The manipulation of natural elements, the transformation of bodies and objects, the capacity to dictate prophecy or foretell the future, the capacity to produce strange effects with words ¡ªsung, written, rhymed or otherwise¡ª, the ability to brew wondrous concoctions and manipulate metals and herbs, the ability to command familiars and the ability to summon spirits, creatures or the dead. These are the seven arts of classical magical tradition.¡±


    His hands fell back onto his beard, as he hummed and took in the forest¡¯s sounds, close eyed and meditative.


    ¡°I will briefly explain each one, then, I will ask you a question.¡±


    Heos nodded.


    The sage¡¯s voice had become scholarly, and serious, much unlike his usual smirking disinterest.


    ¡°Very well¡­ Ars Metamorphotica, vulgarly called shape-changing or shapeshifting; It is referred to, alluded to, and studied quite shallowly by chaff magi ¡ªas in most magi¡ª because of its misrepresentation with historical feats of transition from anthropic forms to therian forms or vice versa. This is, of course, a problem with the attempt of integration of the different traditions of magic into a unified Art ¡ªan impossible goal, really. Alternate names do bring forth this problem quite clearly, as they are used interchangeably with Ars Metamorphotica, while being subsets of it. Take for example Hamrammr, the boreal term. It refers, quite notably, to human mages shapeshifting into animals, with very specific, and superior means I might add; while not to the general Art of shape transformation, like, for example¡­ something as regesceap would, somewhat: which, if taken literally, means ¡°reshape¡±.¡± He took a breath. ¡°So, while Ars Metamorphotica includes this commonly known form of shapeshifting, it houses within itself all metamorphotic disciplines ¡ªor attempts to, at least. Flesh-crafting, for example, as would it house individual spells, those which shape, or transform non-living matter. As well as include nonphysical transformation¡­¡±


    He adjusted the sleeves of his robe while resting for a moment.


    Heos made not a sound. His eyes misty, unnerving, waiting¡­


    ¡°Ars Elementalis. The complexity, and tragedy, in this art is related to a topic which I will monologue on¡­ later. For now, understand that this is the magical discipline par excellence of these times, for many reasons. This is what they ¡ªfrom hedge-mages to the greatest sages of this continent¡ª, all possess even a drop of knowledge on, and it is what fledgling mages are taught most initially. The manipulation of elements; fire, earth, wind, water¡­ more¡­ ?ryet, it is usually called. As for what it means¡­ This is one of the few titles there is no veritable knowledge on. Another, beautiful name, before used, was Byndynge¡­ I will not speak further on it for now.¡±


    A cough, then, the sage clearing his throat.


    ¡°Ars Divinatoria. Perhaps the oldest magic¡­ there are¡­ numerous names to this discipline, or rather, endless mediums through which the future is divined, or prophecy acquired, and near-endless branches. Although, of course ¡ªwith that certain poetic irony, so natural to magic¡ª, most of this Art is reserved to those with Geist in it: exceedingly rare.¡± A regretful sigh, out of place in the summer meadow. ¡°Each tradition has its name, for not only varying branches but for ¡°it¡± as a realm of magic as well. Seier is the one I am most familiar with¡­ the boreal tradition. Forewyrde: a beautiful composite, I also know. Cynn used it to mean a pact; wyrd meaning fate¡­ or well, other things; fore is, evidently, a before. Before fate.¡± An ephemeral smile grazed him. ¡°Wi?lung is a generally analogous title; for it means to divine¡­ There are also tragedies, which have affected this art¡­¡±


    Another breath long rest. A yellow butterfly posed itself on the sage¡¯s hand.


    ¡°Ars Incantatoria. Incantations¡­ understand this as enchantment, as well, written and spoken, sung, rhymed¡­ Most pervasive in all disciplines, a discipline of disciplines. An art of arts¡­¡± Melancholic pride in his hidden eyes. ¡°To bend Ousia to the shape of words¡­ You may hear incantators and enchanters referred to as Galdr; a terrible mistake. Galdr is the magic itself, boreal incantation precisely. Galdramaer, that is the name of the mage who practices this art. Northern continental tradition usually shares in a nearer origin of titles, marking a¡­ clear hereditary line of birth for Galdr. The loegrian tradition is called Galangealdor: Singing magic¡­ to sing magic, to sing incantations¡­ it is almost synonymous to magic itself. Singan, also¡­ To sing¡­¡±


    The last words had been muttered, almost hummed. While the sage, close eyed, seemed lost, his mind dancing in some vista too far, ancient and forlorn. Only his body remained, for a brief moment, in that summer meadow.


    ¡°Ars Smaragdina. Alchemy.¡± He was back to his scholarly voice. ¡°Fundamentally encroached on by Ars Metamorphotica. However, vast enough in its functioning and realm to be considered separate¡­ although the fundamental goal of alchemy is metamorphosis. It is very¡­ tome-bound magic, exceedingly complex, as well, even more than the mean for the Arts. A sort of composite of most disciplines, in very singular praxis. Very eccentric, but elucidating, and universal. As so it has little more than its name as an Art, and a common name: Alchemy, or Alchemia, if you wish. It devoured in its consolidation the discipline of potion-making.¡±


    A pale alabaster hand shot upward, impatient.


    ¡°What does it do?¡±


    ¡°What does it do¡­? It searches¡­ and makes brews¡­ Concern yourself with little more for now.¡±


    The prince, although unhappy, made do with only an irritated expression.


    ¡°Now¡­ Oh, yes! Ars Regendi. Familiars¡­ it is not as simple as it would seem¡­ You possess a Fylgja¡­ Hm¡­¡± Patting down his beard with his free hand, the sage wondered¡­ ¡°Hm¡­ ¡°He eyed the prince, carefully. ¡°Nevermind¡­ to call it a Fylgja, well¡­ The particulars of the ¡°follower¡± vary¡­ spiritual, or flesh and bone, symbolic or tamed¡­ And certain traditions focus on some or others¡­ Nonetheless, the term for this discipline in most tongues, you will find, is a simple term for servant, some retainer or outright familiar¡­ if the notion exists in the particular language¡­ Te?n, for one, is often a warrior, or retainer¡­ Fylgja has more obtuse connotations¡­ and, an ancient term, Gandoz, is perhaps analogous to a witch¡¯s servants¡­¡±


    Heos shot up his arm, half hopping while sitting.


    ¡°Swan is not my servant! He¡¯s my friend!¡±


    The old mage chuckled.


    ¡°You are right¡­¡± The butterfly had finally left the sage¡äs hand. ¡°This discipline includes, not only the lording-over of spirits and animals in its tradition, but of cynn as well. Thus, another name: Servitoricks.¡± Now, his arms rested on his lap, still as pillars of marble, drowned over by the ocean of his robe. ¡°Many mages cultivate families of servitors; rearing lineages of cynn servants for many a purpose¡­ and, in hope that from them worthy apprentices may spring up. Some even directly dominate their cynn as hapless slaves.¡±


    Summer lit silence¡­


    ¡°Questions?¡± One of the mage¡¯s eyebrows rose.


    ¡°No¡­?¡±


    ¡°Then, finally¡­ for Ars Invocatoria¡­ Invocation, summoning¡­ Gebannend in loegrian tradition¡­ To call, to summon¡­¡± His voice turned languid; pained, even¡­? If one were to focus on the color of its tone. ¡°It is a dead art. I will speak on it another time.¡±


    ¡°Huh?¡± Heos did not believe it. ¡°Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaat?!¡± He almost stood, gravity taking him back down to the medow¡¯s grass. ¡°Dead? What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°As I said, I will speak on it later. It is a dead art¡­¡± The sage did not show emotion, nor surprise at the prince¡¯s outburst¡­ only the depth of his tone revealed some¡­ unknown longing, so hidden it seemed transparent. ¡°The question¡­¡± His fingers tapped. ¡°I lied¡­ I will ask you two things¡­ Heh¡­¡±.


    ¡°Hmph!¡± The prince did not say much.


    ¡°First¡­ I wish for you to choose one of these Arts¡­ which would you wish to learn?¡±


    Heos¡¯ disinterested mask vanished, his mind turning, clattering, thinking of what he would wish to possess, to color the world with.


    ¡°And¡­ consider, deeply¡­¡± The sage grew motionless, as still as an unfeeling stone, leaden and serene. ¡°What is it that a mage wishes for? What is the purpose of magic?¡±


    Shaken by the questions, Heos put on a serious, discerning face¡­ yet his only thought was¡­


    ¡®Waaaah¡­ What a liar. Those are three things, aren¡¯t they?¡¯


    He swore he could hear the old mage laugh.

 20 – Choose/World

    ¡°All.¡±


    ¡°Huh?¡± The mage stopped patting his beard.


    ¡°I said all, I want to learn it all.¡±


    A fit of laughter from the old mage. He coughed, choking on his own cackles.


    ¡°Oh¡­ Haha¡­¡± Even if the sonorous laughs had ceased, his rising chest, his shaking diaphragm, his trembling hands, still betrayed amusement.


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°Oh Gods¡­ Ohoho¡­¡± He attempted to shake off the fit.


    The now annoyed prince threw a handful of grass he had plucked at the heaving sage.


    Not caring, the old mage composed himself, even when afflicted by persistent sniffles: the shadow of his laugh.


    ¡°Yes, Oh¡­¡± He sat straight. ¡°I was simply amused. Certainly, most mages are chaff, little more than sediment, barely any better than cynn, so, they aim for a single thing, a single discipline to empty their blood into¡­¡± He coughed. ¡°For economic means, some do¡­ imagine, magic for profit, Oh Gods¡­¡± A laugh, light, if disapproving. ¡°Even then, those with ambition do often attempt a sort of perennial approach, or play at being universalists¡­ yet, prince, do you know of how vast magic is? Allow me to answer in your stead: No.¡± He had calmed down. The scholarly tone surfaced once more. ¡°No, no, no. Magic is all, so to know all magic is to know it all. Even if ¡ªas it had, in the past, although rarely¡ª you were born with Geist in all of magic, in its expanse, this would still be little more than stupidity; I call it not a fool¡¯s errand, or a dream, since I am partial to such fantastical ends; So, I title it as it is: stupidity, or misguidedness. After all, the whole of knowledge would be irrelevant. To pursue all knowledge¡­ it is accessory, incidental, to an actual worthwhile pursuit¡­¡± He poked the prince¡¯s chest with his index. ¡°You, now, look at magic stary-eyed, yet, what you wish in the pursuit of magic, what is it? Is it to know it all? Really, such blas¨¦ aims?¡±


    The prince, peeved, wasted no time in firing back.


    ¡°So what?¡±


    The sage shook his head.


    ¡°No, do not lie, or rather, do not be lazy, and truly ask yourself. What is the aim of magic? What is it that mages wish for? To know it all? Bah! Some think they do, the imbeciles.¡±


    The prince held his chin.


    ¡°I do not care if you wish to know all seven Arts, I will teach you, if you please¡­ Do not start your wandering in magic headless, however.¡±


    ¡°I like magic.¡±


    ¡°Hm¡­ So?¡± An ashy eyebrow rose, questioning, intrigued.


    ¡°That is my answer. I like magic.¡±


    ¡°Far more honest¡­ Yet, it has no relation to that which I asked, does it?¡±


    ¡°Hmph!¡± The prince pouted, haughty. ¡°I don¡¯t care what other mages want!¡± His misty eyes open, he looked far out, into the sky¡¯s cupula, undisturbed. ¡°Magic, a purpose¡­? dumb.¡±


    ¡°You speak truer than you know¡­¡± The sage cackled, then, to a jest only he understood. ¡°Magic is as rain, little a purpose but what mages assign it to. It is fact and being more than tool.¡±


    ¡°Why ask then?¡± Heos wondered.


    ¡°To impart this lesson¡­¡± He grinned. ¡°What mages wish, and what magic is for are interlinked in so far as mages¡¯ desires construct the direction, the aim, of magic as a discipline. In reality, magic is as determined and aimed as the ability to flip your eyelids¡­¡±


    Heos nodded, digesting the words.


    ¡°And¡­¡± A subtle smile drew itself, staining his lips. ¡°All that I just said is a complete lie. Do not listen mindlessly. Idiot.¡± He flicked the prince¡¯s forehead, so fast the child could not realize the movement before the light pain appeared.


    ¡°Ow¡­! What?!¡± Covering his forehead, Heos growled. ¡°But, you¡¯re teaching me!¡±


    ¡°Yes, yet, does that mean you will allow me to drain your mind? replace it with whatever I say, will you?¡±


    Heos did not speak. Still annoyed.


    ¡°Now, do pay heed to this: Magic has a purpose, but it is, undoubtedly, beyond vulgar understanding. Magic is divine after all.¡± The sage cracked his knuckles. ¡°As for what mages wish¡­ Every man is as a color, so, who knows really¡­ However, I would not wish to teach you if your aim were vain, or worse, boring.¡±


    ¡°Huh?¡± The prince did not understand.


    ¡°There is the world of words, so beautiful, and beyond compare; The real world, regrettably, cares little for the world of words. Bleak, monotone, a noose.¡± The sage spoke, and with such a glad, and joyous tone, Heos could not but be taken aback. ¡°Yet magic, it allows for this mundane, grey, boundlessness, to be devoured, and changed, chipped away wound by wound, into the world of words.¡± He took a breath, then continued. ¡°Why do you think mages are enamored by magic? If magic were as natural to us as walking, there would be no cynn, and those who are born with the faculty for magic, would not think of it as wondrous¡­ a marvel, as they do.¡±


    Even if the meaning of each word was beamed into his mind, the prince, still, did not fully comprehend what it was that the sage spoke on and on about. And this ¡°bleakness¡±, whatever could it mean?


    ¡°Magic is foreign to humanity. So, we always speak of it in such a manner.¡± He anchored his eyes into the prince¡¯s irises, unflinching. ¡°Meditate upon this fact dutifully.¡±


    The sage pulled at his beard, observing the confused prince.


    ¡°Just as you choose, bravely, haughty, and capricious, for the world to be magic, many others, brave as you, warp this world, and choose for themselves its order, its form. They allow their innermost desires to spill out, and mangle, carve and transform this bleakness, color it as a field of flowers; these are the true mages; and since you are one, I have chosen to teach you.¡± He placed his aged hand on the prince¡¯s head, a warm smile to accompany it. Then, he laughed, glad. ¡°Do as you please¡­ Your answer is correct¡­ I am glad my apprentice likes magic.¡±


    Heos would lie if he denied that, somehow, the gesture of this bizarre stranger did not warm, in some unexplained form, his languid heart.


    Yet, all he spoke was unabashed, and true, while pushing away the hand.


    ¡°Yes, yes¡­ will you teach me now, then?¡±


    The sage broke in laughter. Tears disappearing into his snow beard.


    ¡°Oh, gods¡­¡± He cleared away his watery eyes.


    Now that he was to learn, the prince thought of all he had heard to this point, what magic there was for him to perform¡­ He found something which interested him, hidden away in the mage¡¯s words. ¡°If the¡­ seven Arts? Are most of the¡­ classical tradition of magic, what is¡­¡± Thinking, thinking¡­ ¡°There is more magic¡­ no?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡± Composed, once again, the old sage answered. ¡°There is far more magic.¡± Smugly, he continued. ¡°The mere classification of the seven Arts is flawed, or open ended, as some claim. The borders of these categories are undefined, porous¡­ As with anything in magic¡­ Even the Arts, as I had said, encroach on each other¡¯s domains; this classification, ¡°Seven Arts¡±, is, if anything, a title of convenience, and mostly pedagogical. It is useful, introductorily.¡±


    ¡°I want to learn that magic too.¡±


    ¡°You have, already.¡±


    ¡®What¡­?¡¯ The only magic he had ever performed, or rather, learnt, was his veil of light¡­ that strange phenomenon which allowed him to turn invisible. As for what else¡­ he supposed talking to animals was magic, however, he had not really learnt that. It, seemingly, was just a natural faculty of his, as he remembered Mr. Owl had mentioned¡­ what about suddenly transporting himself to one place or the other¡­? He believed this had been an effect of something beyond his own means, but, what if it was some unconscious¡­ spell he had used¡­? Or did Swan count?This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    The sage meditated, silent, as the prince mulled over the answer.


    ¡°It is that veil you used to hide yourself.¡±


    ¡®Really¡­?¡¯ He went over the seven Arts, thinking of where this spell would fall. Wouldn¡¯t it fit into something like Ars Metamorphotica? It transformed him¡­ Or was that what it did? Even if he had performed the spell, he was not aware of how it worked¡­ Was that crystalline something he had pulled Ousia¡­? As far as understanding, it was all obscured, quite poetically draped in darkness¡­ As he pondered, something came to the forefront of his mind¡­ how did the old mage know of this?


    ¡°The opaqueness generated by the spell is not the source of the obfuscation, but rather a visual cue of its activation, if you wish to call it that. The action of ¡°veiling¡± is what causes the invisibility. And, as far as the manipulation of Ousia, it is direct and non-transformative.¡±


    Seemingly having ignored the explanation, Heos asked, curious.


    ¡°You were following me when I got lost?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    The exchange was left at that¡­ The prince attempted to remember if at any point during his ¡°outing¡± had ever seen the characteristic shimmer that the sage gave off when hiding¡­


    ¡°What I mean by this is that you literally grabbed the Ousia, and veiled yourself in it, hiding within a pocket shaped as your own being, refracting sight off of it¡±


    His arm rose, and, grabbing ahold of his sleeve he positioned it flat on his crossed legs. He tapped Heos, who was still lost in his memories, attempting to find evidence of his presence.


    The prince¡¯s sight rose, to meet the sage.


    ¡°This is you.¡± He grabbed a pebble and placed it atop his flat sleeve. ¡°My sleeve is Ousia.¡± Then, pinching the fabric at the sleeve¡¯s center, he covered the pebble without completely folding the material. ¡°This is what you did, if one had to simplify it.¡± He tugged at his beard. ¡°As I see it, this spell has three steps.¡± His closed fist rose, and, in similar fashion to before, when explaining the Arts, a finger outstretched with each uttering. ¡°First, the manifestation of Ousia, or, we could call it the¡­ ¡°condensation¡±?¡± He seemed unsure of what to call it. ¡°Then, the ¡°shaping¡±? and then, the veiling¡­ as in, the act of directly covering yourself.¡± After some more thinking, he hummed, pleased, giddy even¡­ ¡°What do you wish to call this spell?¡±


    Heos, who had been juggling his entrancing interest in the explanation with his memory scouring, began to ask himself¡­


    ¡°Hm¡­¡± A finger to his lips. ¡°Swan¡¯s veil¡­ Swan showed me how to do it¡­¡± He smiled.


    ¡°What did you feel? what was let loose in your imagination as you performed the spell for the first time?¡±


    About to answer, Heos remembered the entire point of this conversation.


    ¡°Hey! Teach me!¡±


    ¡°I''m doing it¡­ this is important.¡±


    ¡°Also!¡± He leveled a finger at the sage. ¡°You said shape Ousia, so isn¡¯t this that me-metamorphosis thing?¡± He thought the old mage to be lying, as he had before.


    ¡°We could call all magic as part of Ars Metamorphotica, after all, magic lay in essence in the shaping, manipulation, or otherwise, of Ousia¡­ that would be, however, a rather generous interpretation; so, I do not espouse it. I prefer direct transformation of matter, and other things as Ars Metamorphotica, than anything else.¡± His head shook. ¡°Tell me, your feelings and so on during the spell.¡±


    Although not really convinced, the prince answered.


    ¡°Swan told me to do what my heart commanded¡­ He showed me how he filled the air with light¡­ like a rainbow. So, I thought about how I had tried to touch light before, but couldn¡¯t do anything, and about how I wished that life was like a dream¡­ That is what my heart told me.¡± He touched his chest, lightly patting his gown. ¡°So, I touched the air and¡­ there!¡± He gesticulated dramatically with his hands. ¡°It felt like melted sugar¡­¡± He wanted something sugary now¡­ ¡°I felt it wrap around me¡­ Swan said like arms, so I thought of arms I saw in a dream, flying¡­ and my mother, and swan¡¯s wings¡­¡±


    ¡®Very interesting¡­ to have seen it is something, yet¡­ as I suspected.¡¯ He nodded to himself. ¡°Now, do the spell.¡±


    Incredulously, Heos looked at the sage, a disappointed expression¡­


    ¡°You really like lying, don¡¯t you?¡±


    The old mage smiled.


    ¡°More than you know¡­ now, go.¡± He waved his hand. ¡°Do the spell.¡±


    Heos lifted his hand and pulled at the air. Then, holding its shimmering form, he circled it around him, until his form went opaque, ghostly and airy.


    Even with the prince doing the spell as fast and roughly as he did, to spite him, the old mage¡¯s eyes widened, for shorter a time than a breath, calming their shapes shortly after.


    ¡®Interesting¡­ very, very interesting¡­ Hehe¡­¡¯ He smirked. ¡°Very well, that was quite a display.¡±


    Heos, having stood up after shrouding himself, walked up to the sage, aiming to flick his forehead in revenge.


    The sage, however, stopped the prince¡¯s hand in its track and snorted, amused.


    ¡°Hehe¡­ My foolish disciple¡­¡±


    ¡°What?!¡± The prince could not believe it. ¡°Why can you see me?!¡±


    Smugly, he answered.


    ¡°As I said, this is important¡­¡± He sighed in jest. ¡°If only my disciple followed his master¡¯s words¡­¡± he clicked his tongue, pretending disappointment.


    Pulling his hand back, annoyed, Heos sat down, pouting.


    ¡°You see, your spell may hide you from cynn, yet, this Ousia you conjure is completely transparent for mages, it is because of how the spell was conjured, or birthed, I believe.¡± He gestured with his hands. ¡°Think of it as a spell that turns you frigid¡­ yes, serpents, who can detect heat will have trouble finding you¡­ humans, however, who cannot perceive heat visually until if flares in intensity, will have no trouble seeing you¡­ ¡±  He tapped his cheek. ¡°In short¡­ you hide within a pocket of conjured¡­ and shaped Ousia, and this turns you invisible to cynn, it also masks your voice, but not other physical interactions with space and matter¡­ To me, a mage, you just look opaque¡­ and orbited by shimmering flakes of something¡­ Ousia. Very perplexing.¡± He remarked.


    ¡°So, how do I become invisible to mages?¡±


    ¡°When performing the spell, you did not account for mages, as you did not know of their particularities, or the existence of Ousia. Imagination is paramount, as is desire¡­ did you not do as you pleased, and choose for the air to cover you¡­? Now choose for it to hide you away from even mages, who are prodigious in seeing through shaped Ousia. You imagined a veil, and a veil hides from vulgar eyes. You are royalty¡­ this will also influence interaction, as far as unconscious manifestations are concerned¡­ Or perhaps it has to do with¡­¡± He began mumbling.


    Uninterested, Heos shook, and dispelled the veil, then pulled again¡­ but¡­ how to hide from mages¡­? For some reason, which his master speculated upon, and did not seem to be fully able to articulate, mages saw right through him¡­ the serpent analogy did not help, even if he mulled it over. Then¡­


    ¡®Wait¡­¡¯


    He was a mage, was he not¡­? And something, which he had seen, had hidden from him, in a most perplexing way.


    It appeared in his mind.


    ¡°The forest¡­¡±


    He imagined a transparent veil of nothingness, crystalline. A thin membrane, thinner, thinner still¡­ so thin it hid between strands of lights¡­


    Amidst his thinking he let go of the air¡­ as the old mage watched him, curious.


    The veil was so light it stood still amidst the pure air, and went unfelt when crossed¡­ It separated its before, and its after¡­ two sights held apart by a breath¡­


    Yet¡­ It also hid from cynn. Did the guards see the forest, or feel the sun blot out?


    He held the air again, and pulled¡­ Now, it did not feel as cobwebs of melted sugar¡­ it felt as nothingness, yet it still rested in his hand.


    Soundless, it separated from¡­ somewhere, as if it had not existed.


    He shrouded himself¡­


    Black¡­


    ¡®Wha..¡¯


    ¡®Where¡­¡¯


    The last thing he felt.


    Blood, dripping¡­


    Dripping down his nose.


    *


    He awoke with a gasp.


    The meadow at his back, bright and aestival.


    Chanting birds and flowing water filling back his conscious mind¡­


    And impenetrable, untold darkness still clung to the back of his eyes.


    He heaved¡­ not daring to close them.


    The sun above cleared his sight, extinguishing the dark as his breaths stilled.


    Touching his nose¡­ half dried blood.


    A headache, feverish, radiating, like lukewarm water filling his skull.


    Feathers¡­ Swan fluttering about him¡­ black bird eyes relieved.


    He petted the phantasm, lightly, gently. His hands burrying in the pure-white field.


    ¡°Very interesting my disciple¡­¡± The sage still sat cross legged, now by his side, tugging at his beard.


    ¡°What¡­¡±


    ¡°I presume you took the hidden forest by this palace¡¯s swan lake as imagery for this spell you attempted. Thinking of the threshold between what is seen and unseen while you veiled yourself¡­ Well done¡­¡± He took on that scholarly tone, synonym of an impending lecture. ¡°A mistake, still, you thought not of¡­ What you ¡°veiled¡± was yourself, and only yourself, from the world¡­ in short, you attempted a half-way space ¡°veiled¡± from everything. This ¡°space¡± contains only Heos. You didn¡¯t actually veil anything, as what you did was literally construct a space ¡ªroughly, amateurishly, haphazardly¡ª which held only you. Others cannot look in, only, some, by crossing the threshold ¡ªalthough I suppose you imagined none, nor visualized this exception. And, you cannot look out, after all, once inside that forest you could not see the out until you yourself crossed the threshold. Yet, since the threshold is permanently hinged on you, and ahead of you by design ¡ªas would a veil on he who wears it¡ª you could never leave. The subtlety and sophistication needed for such a thing to be correctly constructed is extreme. What you did is far, far less demanding, and infinitely unstable ¡ªparticularly because the border was not constructed properly; it flickered dangerously, after all, you entered the forest through this veil, or threshold you perceived yet, never left it likewise¡­ you almost killed yourself, still. I had to dissolve the veil. You could have died a million different ways.¡±


    ¡°Hu¡­¡± Heos did not react, only stared at the sky.


    The sage laughed¡­ boisterously, proudly¡­


    ¡°Incredible!¡± He patted Heos congratulatorily. ¡°This should help you mend your mistakes, and, of course, instill in you an epiphany, that exhilaration ¡ªa lower one, mind you¡ª on how exactly Ousia is manipulated, and the effects of imagination.¡±


    Heos smiled, still dazed.


    He closed his eyes¡­


    That darkness had left.


    His smile widened¡­


    He wished to attempt it again. Imagine it better, choose for the world to be as he wished, spill out what he saw, brilliant, dreamlike, in his mind.


    That void, profound black¡­ even the memory did not deter him¡­ nor death.


    He giggled. Rising, cut by sharp breaths, whistling past blood-stained lips¡­


    The sage¡¯s joy turned sharp, as they formed a chorus. Their laughter like the singing of dazed birds, with scrambled minds¡­


    ¡°I want to go again¡­¡±


    ¡°Rest a second, or your eyes will pop.¡±


    ¡®Hehe¡­ A second? Really? That is far too long.¡¯


    The mist blue of his irises widened out¡­ looking to drown the sky.


    ¡°Hehehe¡­¡±


    He liked magic quite a lot.