by Jayden Woods
*
Fayr did not let Darius get away from her so easily. She summoned him for a walk the next day and waited anxiously for him to arrive. For a moment, she actually feared he wouldn’t come. It was ridiculous to think that a man who had traveled all this way to court her and now slept as a guest in her palace would not be at her beck and call. But this man differed from most men, and for that reason she let her imagination get the best of her. She imagined that after what had happened last night—after that one, miraculous tear—she might never see him again.
To her great relief, Darius answered her summons. For the most part, he acted as if nothing strange had happened. On the second walk and the many that followed, he was calm and collected, polite and well-mannered. He spoke of trivial matters and asked simple questions, such as the identity of a certain flower, or the origin of a section of architecture. A few times, his behavior became so punctilious that it annoyed her. But she continued to walk and talk with him, enjoying his company altogether, and hoping with every moment that she might catch a glimpse of that emotion she saw during their first walk together.
Sometimes she could not stop thinking Darius, even when she tried. His ability to permeate her thoughts interrupted her during some of her most important tasks. Even when she sat with the khan of Vikand himself or the King-wife of Yamair, Fayr wished that she sat across from Darius instead. She would not describe him as a simple man—in fact, the shroud of mystery around him intrigued her most of all—but at least he did not make her feel like a piece on a game-board being moved by rules she didn’t understand.
Chief Darius remained carefully aloof during most of their time together, but occasionally, he revealed just enough of the man who shed a tear to keep her intrigued. Perhaps the second-most significant occasion came from her mention of religion.
She was describing the statues of the Fountain Foyer when it happened. She mentioned several pagan gods, many of them familiar to Vikand culture. And then Darius grew very quiet.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. “I hope I said nothing to offend you.”
“Of course not.” And then he turned and looked at her. “What do you believe?” he asked.
“What do you mean?” Her heart jumped; her pulse sped. She felt as if she had his attention for the first time in days. She did not want to lose it.
“Do you believe in the pagan gods? Or a single god, like the people of Yamair? Or any god at all?”
She hesitated a long while before responding. “To be honest,” she said at last, “I’m not sure.”
“How can that be?” he said. “You’re a princess.”
She smiled sadly. “That’s exactly it. I think of religion as a way to control the common-folk. Does that sound terrible? As you may know, Dearen embraces all beliefs and religions. The people are kept happy by safra, and in a sense, safra is like our god. But other kingdoms don’t have safra, so the common-folk turn to the Earth Mechanic, or pagan entities. And the people in charge use said entities to control them.” She saw the stern look on his face and blushed with shame. “Whom do you worship?”
He did not answer, but instead ran his hand over the sculpture of a pig with two horns on its head. It was a ghastly piece of stone, and she knew not why he would want to caress it. But she enjoyed watching his hand, fluid with grace, rippling with muscles and veins, as he explored the creation. “You say safra is like your god,” he said. “That’s very interesting.”
His detachment annoyed her as ever. “Why does that interest you?”
“I wonder if a god helps you create safra?”
“My father said something like that, before he …” Fayr took a deep, shuddering breath. Why did she find it so difficult to hold her tongue around this man? “The creation of safra is not something I can discuss,” she said tersely. “But you did not answer my question. What do you believe in?”
“I did answer your question,” he said. That dark golden gaze of his captured her once more. “I do believe in the gods. But I also believe in humanity. I believe the two intersect, more than most would care to admit.”
For some reason, his confession scared her, and she dared not respond. A long silence followed, and they spoke little of gods or safra again.
In such a manner, several weeks passed in a blur for Fayr and her guests. Cold winds stirred the Haze, and the greens of the fields and trees shifted to reds or yellows, and Fayr knew that another full moon was coming. The moon after that would mark the winter solstice—the night on which she would marry—which meant that she only had a little more than a month left to commit to her decision. But before that, she would have to choose which suitors could renew their passes and stay in the palace for another month, and who would have to leave.
She delayed making a decision for as long as she could, but now only a few days remained before most of her guests’ passes expired. How would they react when she asked them to leave? In the past, two factors helped keep the country’s visitors obedient. The first was the prevailing belief that some magical, unnamed power would punish anyone who stayed in Dearen without welcome. Fayr did not even know if this was true or not. In the past, she dismissed it as the silliness of common-folk. Now she wondered if it had anything to do with the High Reeve’s list and the group of people sent down to the dungeons. The presence of safra in the air was the second factor to ensure obedience, or at least general placidity.
Yet the Haze in the air kept thinning, as did the presence of safra within it. Fayr noticed it more clearly than anyone else. She knew that it was only a matter of time—weeks or maybe days—before the Haze ran out altogether. She could not delay any longer. She had to make a decision.
On the night of the full moon, she held a large banquet in the Friva’s Hall of Feasts. This was one of her favorite places in all of the palace, though she rarely had occasion to use it. It had been built hundreds of years ago by her own ancestors, the Violenese. The method of its creation was almost as mysterious as safra itself. Columns of spiraling rock lined the left and right sides. Satin curtains draped between them, their fluctuating colors further saturated by parallel lines of blazing torches. The curtains could be opened in the spring or closed in the winter. For tonight’s feast, she interchanged them, so that some of the gaps opened out to the Hazy twilight while others remained shut to cast their colors inward.
Glassy sheets of rock comprised the floor of the hall. A circle in the middle remained clear for dancing, while candlelit tables of gold tapered outward. On one end of the hall steps led up to the royal dais, where the Prince and Princess dined with a few chosen guests. Opposite from that was a stage full of harps, violins, and bells.
Despite all the feasts’ qualities, Fayr still felt miserable as it began. She dined on the dais with people she loathed, even though she had invited them there. There was Leonard Khan and his two lousy sons. There was King-wife Eleanor with her Scholar and the deformed suitor, Prime Synergist Deragon. There were also a few other suitors Fayr invited to her table for the sake of variety: a rich knight from Dearen, another chief from Vikand, and a handsome Synergist from Yamair. Joining Fayr in her misery, Prince Kyne sat next to her, poking at his food with a dagger. But the seat directly across from the princess—the seat meant for the guest she most anticipated—remained mysteriously empty.
Her blood roared in her ears louder than the band’s music, the people’s laughter, and the cacophony of dishes chiming throughout the great hall. Her heart pounded and her appetite disappeared. She could focus on nothing but the empty chair across from her. Why wasn’t Darius here yet? How on earth could he possibly abandon her now? He had been the only part of this night she looked forward to. She wanted to dance with him, put him at a table with all her other suitors, and make them realize that they could not compete.
“... worship Friva, Princess?”
She looked up with surprise, not sure who had spoken. Eventually, her eyes settled on the khan’s pudgy son, Picard. He chewed happily on a pipo
melon, the purple juice trickling down his chin. He held it with his gloved and bolted hand, the sight of which made her shiver.
“I’m sorry, what was your question?”
“I asked you why this beautiful hall is named after Friva,” said Picard, slurping some more of the fruit. “As you may know, Friva is a goddess we worship in Vikand.”
“I thought you worshiped many gods.” The discussion of religion made her wary in mixed company, and worse, it made her think of Darius. He was perhaps the only person she didn’t mind discussing the matter with.
“That’s true,” said the archon through a mouthful of food. “But Friva is the goddess of victory and reward, and she tends to be our favorite. Do you worship her, also?”
“My, uh … my ancestors did. The Violenese once worshiped Friva and called her the goddess of joy. That is the only reason this hall carries that name.”
“Are you pagan, then?” This from King-wife Eleanor, who sat on the other end of the table. “There is only one God, and He is the Earth Mechanic.”
“I … I didn’t say I was anything.”
Everyone at the table stared at her with puzzled expressions. The pressure was almost too much for the princess to endure. She looked down, hoping to escape their probing eyes. As a result, she looked upon her own hair, falling uncharacteristically down her shoulders.
On this rare occasion, she had released her hair for all the world to see. It flowed in long purple locks down her shoulders and breasts, almost all the way to her hips. Only a few sea shells, placed carefully around her ears and forehead like a crown, broke up the voluminous waves. She had dressed her very best tonight. She wore a flowing gown of lavender silk covered with spiraling patterns of pearls. The dress fit so tightly to her body that it left none of of her shape to imagination: the snug fabric exposed every curve and dip of her flesh for all the world to admire. She had wanted Darius to see her wearing this dress, letting her hair down. Now, surrounded by all these cruel and annoying strangers, she felt horribly exposed. How foolish of her to dress this way tonight. She might as well have shown up naked!
“Well then,” said Picard, “perhaps we should talk about something else. How about that empty chair across from you, Princess. Do you expect another visitor tonight?”
“I … I …” She forced a swallow down her throat. “I suppose he isn’t coming.”
“And who is ‘he’?” pressed Picard. “I wonder if it’s that chief you mentioned earlier … what was his name? Chief Darius?”
Fayr forced a polite smile onto her face. “I did invite him here tonight, that is true.”
“How very odd!” said Picard. But there was a terrible smile on his face, and it made Fayr’s stomach turn. “Who on earth would refuse such an invitation? I hope something terrible didn’t happen to him.” He chuckled strangely.
Fayr grew dizzy at the thought. Was it possible? He seemed too graceful a man to fall prey to an accident, like falling from a horse or some great height. The expression on Picard’s face put even darker thoughts in her mind. Murder was unheard of in Dearen. But the Haze grew thinner every day, and Picard was not the only man who knew of her fondness for Chief Darius. She hadn’t really bothered to keep it secret. When she stopped to think about it, almost every man in this hall probably wanted Chief Darius dead.
The world spun around her.
Picard’s smile stretched wider to taunt her. “On that note, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you, Princess. I think I speak for most people at this table when I point out that our visitor passes expire tomorrow—the ones allowing us to remain in Dearen? How do we go about getting those renewed?”
Her heart beat rapidly. Sweat beaded on her forehead. She felt as if she was going to be sick. “Tomorrow,” she breathed, “I will give a list of names to the High Reeve of whose passes I wish to renew.”
“Oh. I see,” said Picard.
The rest of the table became very quiet.
The handsome Yamairan Synergist dared to break the silence. “And if our passes aren’t renewed?”
“Then … then ...” Fayr to struggled to breathe. “Then I thank you for your visit, and I wish you a good journey home.”
“And if you don’t leave,” piped a new voice, “you don’t want to find out what will happen to you.”
Everyone turned with surprise to the little boy who had spoken so suddenly and confidently.
“Kyne!” gasped Fayr.
Prince Kyne sat up a little straighter in his chair, a dirk clenched tightly in his little fist. He breathed harshly through pinched nostrils. “It’s true. None of you know how true it is as I do. You speak of the gods like you know them, but you don’t. The gods are real—very real—and they are watching every move you make. And if you defy them … krenzi u morde!”
“Kyne!” Fayr wanted to strike her brother across the face. For weeks and weeks she had endured his miserable silence, his irritating passivity, his complete apathy towards anything she wanted to accomplish. And now this?
“What did he just say?” said Picard.
“Krenzi u morde!” screamed Kyne, then he stood and ran off.
“Kyne!” This was too much for Fayr. It had been hard enough to entertain her guests without falling apart already. Then Darius disappeared, and she realized he may be in danger. And now, her own brother betrayed her. His refusal to tell her what he knew tortured her enough on its own. The fact he flaunted his superior knowledge to those she wished to impress took his betrayal to a whole new level.
She stood up, trembling, and spent all her effort trying to sound calm as she said, “Please forgive my brother. He has not been … feeling well. I will return to you shortly.”
She rushed towards the steps.
An iron grip around her arm yanked her to a stop. She lurched on the steps, her hair rushing over her face, a sea shell dropping to the floor with a clatter. Fingers clenched the flesh of her bicep fiercely enough to leave a bruise, drawing a wince from her throat. Struggling to keep her composure, she turned and looked at the man who held her.
Leonard Khan stared down at her, his crumb-filled beard only inches from her face, his beady eyes glistening like knives. “Leaving so soon, Princess?”
She wanted to thrash away, to scream with rage and frustration. But now, the entire hall was watching her. She stood on the steps where everyone could see. Even the music had stopped, the musicians taking an extended break between songs to watch this dramatic display.
“I … I ...” She became all too aware of how loudly sounds bounced off the glassy rocks of this chamber. “I will return shortly, I assure you. I merely wish to check on my brother. Now let go of me.”
His thick chest vibrated with a chuckle. His grip on her arm grew even tighter, if such a thing was possible. “Dance with me, Princess,” he said. “I insist.”
“Let me go.” Even as she blinked back tears of pain, a surge of anger lent strength to her voice. “If you let me go now I will dance with you soon as I return. If you do not, you can bet on your life that you’ll never touch me again.”
He moved back a little. His beard drooped with a frown. And then he let go.
Fayr ran down the steps and away.