by Olivia Myers
Grant me the strength to do my duty, Gwythn’s lips moved piously. Grant me the strength. Grant me the strength. Grant me the strength.
She did not see the king’s arrival. She did not see the gates of the carriage thrown open, or the members of the Watch draw out the Royal Carrying Chair, or even the first appearance of His Highness until the Watch had ascended the stage and set the Royal Carrying Chair in the center.
As though a strong wind had blown through the crowd, scattering voices like leaves, the crowd became silent. Gwythn opened her eyes, wet with tears, and looked upon her Redeemer.
The king sat, selected nobility interspersed with members of the Watch forming a half circle behind. Alwen—the king’s youngest—was among them. Gwythn had only seen him once before, but aside from the king he was easily the most distinguishable member of the family. His skin was white and as perfect as water; his body was lithe like a nymph’s, and his face—his beautiful eyes, the small, almost defiant curve of the lips Gwythn thought irresistible—was stunning. He was beautiful. The most beautiful boy Gwythn had ever seen. Yet it was not on him that her attention lingered. It was on the king.
If Alwen was stunning, the king was awe-inspiring. Larger than a horse and as sturdy as a cliff, he overflowed from his chair, from his armor, from the stage, giving the impression of thunder: a constant and uncontainable force of nature.
Nothing seemed to fit him. His bulky armor, like a shining sea, cramped his body. His legs, planted so firmly on the stage, looked as though at any moment they might crunch through the wood. Even his face—his magnificent, austere, godly face—did not seem to fit its own skin. The wrinkles around the mouth were so thick that hardly any expression could be read. The beard was thick and white and parted at the chin into two horns that hung down to his chest. And his eyes, though wrapped with wrinkles, squinting and weak, blazed like two scorching embers dashed into a bank of snow. He was like a man who did not belong to his own body, Gwythn thought with breathless wonder. Like a man who’s already begun to ascend into the heavens, yet who holds to his life with all the power of the world.
The king’s herald—a squat man with a feather in his cap—made a speech from the stage honoring the king’s long campaign and was greeted with tumultuous applause. A few ritual formalities followed, which Gwythn watched with rapt attention. Then, her father was called to unveil the statue.
“Daddy!” Gwythn squealed beneath her breath. She made sure to lock eyes with him as he passed the front of the stage. He saw her staring, and winked.
Everyone stood for the dedication of the statue, except King Blethen, who gave the salute. The count-off sounded, the crowd held its breath, and then Artyr, with two other men of the Watch, threw off the statue’s white drape.
There was an audible release of breath, followed by a gasp of collective appreciation. Then, wild applause. True to its subject, the statue was magnificent. It depicted the king during the famous Battle for Hwythnhyr, a human stronghold that had been overtaken by a vicious and well-organized army of dragon shifters early in the campaign. King Blethen was in the heat of action. His sword was held high; his foot stood on the throat of a dragon staring up in terror, and his face, radiant and indomitable, gazed up at the heavens with such vivacity and courage that not a heart remained in the crowd that was not stirred by patriotic reflection. Even the king, admiring the art from his chair, gave a smile so full of appreciation that there was no difficulty in reading it from behind his ample beard.
“Magnificent,” the herald cried. “A miracle! Blessed is the king!”
Yet even while he spoke, there was a rumble sounding through the crowd. People had begun to notice the large, stone banner wrapped around the king’s chest, and its inscription, carved in the language of the Old Heroes and in the common language. Rhythion’s work.
Gwythn, like most of the town, did not know how to read, but this was not a problem. Rhythion was called forth a few moments later by the herald, and asked to read the message to the assembly. He cleared his throat, fixed the crowd with a twitch of the lips more smirk than smile, and pronounced in a clear voice:
And the lands that I saw there had been scattered cruel,
Bequeathed of and split by the sundering tide;
Oh Fate, more a God than the king or the fool,
Who wrought me to kill, and will teach me to die.
“From the Fourth Book of the Cycle of Gythry,” Rhythion added. “May His Highness King Blethen continue to preserve our National Literature.”
The words were spoken clearly and seemingly with honor, but Gwythn instantly recognized Rhythion’s sarcasm. She knew that either through arrogance or stupidity, his words and his dumb quote about fate and the death of kings would get him into trouble. And it serves you right, you stupid beast.
Scant applause followed. Rhythion returned to his corner of the stage and did not seem to mind the cold reception. The king was squinting at the banner and from the twitch of his beard, saying something to himself. Then he curled a long finger and summoned the herald to his side. The king whispered something into his ear. The herald nodded gravely, turned, and addressed the audience.
“It is of His Highness’s opinion, King Blethen the Redeemer,” he said, “that this commemoration shall be regarded as a masterpiece, and all rites of respect and honor paid to it and its creator, Artyr Esquire—henceforth, Architect.”
Thunderous applause. Gwythn squealed, awed with joy. Architect! That was a royal position! Her father would practically be a lord.
“However,” the herald raised a hand to silence the crowd. “His Greatness cannot bestow the same munificence to the creator of these lyrics, copied so unjustly from a book so close to our national soul. The translator, Rhythion, Esquire, has acted with impudence. His fine will be issued from the Royal Consul, and a new lyric expressing the truth our national identity will replace what has been carelessly done. In the name of Our Savior, King Blethen the Redeemer, justice is done.”
If the applause was wild for Artyr’s promotion, it was no less so now that a public punishment had been issued. The people loved punishment even more than munificence. Gwythn applauded with the rest but she could not keep her eyes from falling on Rhythion’s.
He stood as one who, having been struck, stood tense in the confused aftermath awaiting further blows. Then his face twitched, his head darted to the side to regard the king, and a very small smile split the corner of his mouth.
“Justice is done,” Rhythion said, just loudly enough that the people on stage and Gwythn could hear. The words terrified her. They terrified her more than if he’d suddenly revealed a knife. In the words burned a fire of incredible hatred, of a magnitude that far eclipsed the slightly awkward frame of his body. But he said nothing more. He made a little bow, thanked his punisher, and wordlessly stepped into the crowd that had already forgotten about him in the excitement of the presence of royalty.
The pandemonium grew after the unveiling. Taverns threw open their doors and vendors dumped buckets of beer out to the clamoring crowd. The streets turned into a muddy paste, mixed with alcohol. In a short time there was nowhere in town to go that did not smell of spirits.
Gwythn went to meet her father, but he was speaking with the herald. Finally, he dismounted the stage and melted into the waiting arms of his daughter.
“Architect!” she buried herself in his waiting arms. “Honored by the king!”
“It is an impossible honor,” Artyr said gravely. So much publicity made him uncomfortable.
“It is a fitting honor,” Gwythn said.
“My dear,” he rubbed Gwythn’s back warmly. “My dear, the king has made a request.”
“The king! Oh, Daddy, did he speak to you? What did he say? What was it like?”
“I didn’t speak with the king, no, my dear,” he shook his head. “Only with his assembly. My dear, you promised me that you do indeed love Prince Alwen. It wasn’t just enthusiasm speaking for you? It is a true love?”
<
br /> “As true as the soul I feel within me. Has he said something? Will I meet him?”
“The assembly has welcomed the idea of a marriage between you,” Artyr said, and smiled. “Prince Alwen has given his consent.”
“Oh! Oh!” Gwythn’s heart beat like a chariot. She could not even talk through her excitement. Everything was happening so fast. Only last week she’d been hunting rabbits with Fafiny. Now—now she would be a princess. Why, she’d probably have servants to hunt rabbits for her. And servants to make her clothes, to cook her meals…
“It is a good match,” Artyr’s arms tightened around her. He stared at her and his eyes were intense and unblinking. “But child, you don’t know the Prince. You don’t know what kind of man he is. You will think before you agree? I would like you two to be acquainted before anything happens. Please, take a walk with him. Find out what kind of a man he is. Find out if you can really devote your life to loving him. If you still agree, nothing will make me happier than to give you my consent.”
He let her go. “The prince has left some time ago. He’s waiting for you at the eastern gate. I’ll keep Fafiny here safe for you.”
His arms loosened. Gwythn was trembling for joy. She hadn’t heard any of the words her father said to her. There was only one thought in her head, and it was of King Blethen. A princess to the Savior. Soon, she would be a princess.
A moment later and she was on her way to the eastern gate.
*
Prince Alwen had wandered a short distance from the gate, and was stooped, gathering a patch of thorny, purple wildflowers.
“You know,” he said when Gwythn arrived, “there was an old king who died of a poison made by this stuff. They call it Lockweed, ’cause it locks the throat and then you suffocate. The books say it was his brother who killed him so that he could marry the queen, but I don’t think that’s true. I think the queen did it.”
Prince Alwen went on picking, as though he wasn’t even aware that he’d spoken. Gwythn was a little confused, but she curtsied. “Your Grace.”
“Don’t call me that,” the prince said abruptly. “That’s what you say to the king.”
“But surely you have a title as well, Your…Majesty?”
“No, I don’t.” He stood, looked at his wildflowers, and then dropped them in a little heap. He turned and looked at Gwythn. It was the first time that he’d really regarded her and she was rapt with excitement. He was even more beautiful up close. Everything about his face was pillow-soft and luscious. It was almost a girl’s face. The thought made Gwythn giggle.
“You’re laughing about something,” the prince said. “Tell me.”
“It’s nothing, Your Majesty. Just something silly.”
“If it’s something that amuses you, then I insist you share it with me.”
“Only if Your Majesty would be pleased to take a walk with me, down to the lake,” she said. She was getting used to the prince’s moodiness and knew how to counter. It was a little like dealing with a child.
“I’m fine here,” he said. “There are flowers. You can help me collect.”
“The prince wouldn’t refuse his lady’s request of just a little walk,” Gwythn said. “Just to go somewhere where there isn’t a smell of wine.”
“It stinks, doesn’t it? If I’d my way, I’d put all of these boozing rascals in prison.”
“It’s a celebration, Your Majesty. It’s not every day they have the opportunity to see King Blethen the Redeemer.”
“I still think it’s disgusting,” he said. “You’re right. I don’t want to stay here after all. But are there creatures in the woods?” he said, and a trace of fear shadowed his face. “Of course I know that all the mountain wolves were killed long ago. But…but…” he trailed off.
“We’re as safe as could be, Your Majesty. I walk through here at least once a week.”
“Okay. Fine. But you will lead. I don’t know these parts.”
“As Your Majesty wishes,” Gwythn said, and took the prince’s hand. It was doughy, cold, and dry.
“‘Alwen,’” the prince corrected. “I don’t want to hear ‘Your Majesty’ out of your mouth again.”
They walked down the main street south, deserted now with all the festivities in town, and turned off into the woods after a mile. With spring now in full bloom, the woods gleamed a rainbow of flowers, of verdant greenery and of deep, marble waters. The prince, though he’d started the walk moodily and had made no move to get closer to Gwythn, was enraptured by the sight of the flowers and insisted that they stop so that he could gather more. She stooped and began collecting as well, although most of her attention was fixed on him. She’d never known any man whose habit was collecting wildflowers, but the prince was so concentrated in his work she doubted whether he saw her at all. What passion! she thought, only for another thought to replace it. This is rather strange.
Of course she knew the rumors that the men in the taverns and the women at their washing spoke about him. Everyone knew the rumors. There were so many and so various, and all of them containing no doubt a kernel of fact that it was hard to know just where the truth started and the lie ended.
There were men who said that the prince was really a girl who’d been disguised at birth so that she might inherit the throne. Others said that he was indeed a boy, but that around the court he dressed as a woman, although no one could say why. Others went even further and said that he himself believed he was a woman, and even preferred men to women, but Gwythn believed none of these. He was indeed a curious person, but that he would melt for her she had no doubt.
They remained some time in the glade, and then when they heard a rumble of thunder, wandered deeper into the woods where they would be sheltered in case of rain. “There’s an old barn I know not far from here, just in case it gets bad.”
“A barn,” the prince said. Gwythn half-expected him to stick out his tongue in disgust. But before she could say anything there was a second crack of thunder, and so loud that the forest seemed to quiver.
“Quick!” she said, and dashed down the path, dragging the prince with her.
They managed to find the barn before the third crack of thunder came—so loud it was like a cry from the Creator himself. Gwythn’s heart was pounding from the excitement of the run, but the prince was doubled over, gasping as though he’d just escaped from a burning house.
“Alwen,” Gwythn said. She felt her heart reaching out to him and she put a tender hand on his back. “My poor prince. We’re okay now. We’re safe now.”
He steadied himself, rose from his position, and faced her. His perfect, golden hair was plastered with sweat and his eyes were wide with excitement and fear. Even distressed, there was a harried beauty to him that made Gwythn’s heart go crazy. Without thinking, she bent towards him and found his lips.
“Wha—what,” the prince said, backing away. “What are you doing?”
Gwythn was struck dumb. What was she doing? Did she really think she would share an impromptu kiss with a member of royalty, here in an abandoned barn in the middle of the forest? And yet, he would be her husband one day. Shouldn’t husbands want to kiss their wives? For a terrible, awful moment, Gwythn thought that maybe, just maybe the rumor that the prince preferred men to women might be true. Oh Heavens…
Gwythn stammered. “Your Majesty,” she said. “I thought…I was just…”
Prince Alwen looked on her, furious, and she could find no words. Who knows for how long the horrible moment might have gone on? It was clear that the prince would get his answer, one way or another, and it was equally clear that Gwythn was so struck and so nervous that she was practically incapable of speaking.
Luckily at that moment, fate intervened to save her.
“Ssh!” the prince said suddenly. “Do you hear that?”
“Your Grace?” Gwythn asked. But even as she spoke she could hear it. It was a growl, low and threatening.
And then, everything happened in a flash. A huge, wo
lf-like beast leapt into the barn, teeth bared, coat shining like a sword, and made straight for the prince. Alwen, indignation and anger forgotten, didn’t even stand around to let out a cry. He ran out of the barn and away from Gwythn, up the hillside, plunging into the woods—the echo of a piercing scream trailing behind him.
“Oh, Faffy!” Gwythn cried. The eager hound stared up at her, eyes wide with hope and expectation. “You followed me! Do you not know what you’ve done? Oh, you stupid beast!”
She shoved the dog aside and flew from the barn, calling Alwen’s name. But it was no use. He was probably still running, losing himself in the trees. How stupid she’d been to suggest a walk! She continued her desperate search, following the river down to where it terminated in a small lake. Maybe, she thought, just maybe I’ll find him by the water.
Gwythn was breathless with delight when she heard not only sounds from the water. A figure moved between the trees.
“Alwen!” she cried for joy and rushed to the water. But it was not Alwen she found. There, halfway submerged in the water, completely naked except for a kind of shiny cloak covering his back, was Rhythion.
Gwythn looked away in embarrassment. This was the only possible way to make things worse. She’d lost and alienated the prince, and now she’d come across this naked, loathsome creature—with its strangely bent body and jagged, cracked muscles, and with that strange cloak thrown over the shoulders which every now and then, seemed to give a twitch, seemed to move.
What was that? Gwythn wondered, forgetting that she’d determined not to look. The more she focused, the more she determined that it was not a cloak but a kind of awful scar. But why did it move? She crept forward. And then she halted. She had been so focused on the figure in the water that she’d failed to see the water itself. A thick curtain of steam rose from where Rhythion bathed. It wasn’t possible the water could be so hot. This was no hot spring. But in fact, the water was boiling.
He would burn! He would die! She had to help him. Gwythn stifled a cry, but made no move. Rhythion certainly didn’t seem to be in agony. He looked quite calm, quite at peace as he waded in the water. Turning his gaze into Gwythn’s direction, he stopped.