by TL Rese
The scene around me began to move. I was standing still but the alley pulled past me as if on a conveyor belt. The vegetable stands glided by, the pedestrians sliding as they walked, faster and faster. The crowd turned swiftly into a blur, the stands into a colored smear; a dog’s bark whipped past my ear. Overhead, the lanterns streaked into a glowing line and the strip of night sky bleached white into a haze of stars.
I realized I wasn’t in the marketplace anymore. The brilliant line of overhead lanterns had disappeared; the crowds waned into the shadows of vacant streets, the scent of food fading into the cold aroma of an autumn night. The deserted streets brushed by and I saw the sky had opened into an expanse, no longer the narrow strip above the alley, but wide over the houses, its stars splashing into pale strokes.
The old castle grew closer. I was drawn up a lonely path, a mountain forest thickening around me. The roar of rushing water came louder. Briefly, I saw the waves of a river, the gleam of falling water. Then the castle walls burst fully into view. I heard my own cry as the stone walls struck me with their cold solidity. And I was inside the castle.
The walls of a Great Hall were lined with tapestries of angels. Banquet tables brimmed with dishes, the fragrance warm and inviting. Jugglers flipped through the air with swirling colored balls and bursts of flame. Crowds milled together in attires of vibrant silks. Before it all, a king sat on a throne beneath a canopy of white.
I was pulled through a banquet table and stopped next to the king. I could see him closely, his hair glossed to a shine under a crown of pearl white. Wrinkles furrowed his face, crumpling his skin like folds in a blanket. But his eyes were like sapphires, young and alive in an ancient face. He was looking hard at the man in front of him.
“And what of my nephew?” the king asked. His words were light, as Audrey’s had been, smoother than the language of the peasants in the marketplace, but dense in texture where Audrey’s words had been translucent.
“Alive and well, Sire,” said the messenger.
“But his campaigns are failing.”
“I’m afraid the East Isles will soon be lost.”
A man at the king’s side leaned to speak in his ear, “Majesty, we must take the isles. We cannot let Moreina gain control of them. The Moreinans are richer in exotics already; they will far outstrip us if they have the isles.”
The king said nothing but only ran a brooding finger through the curls of his beard. Finally, he grunted, “I understand. Send in another regiment.”
The messenger bowed. He turned sharply on his heel and left the hall. Afterwards, the advisor whispered, with a consoling voice, “I know, Sire, your concern for your nephew. You value him as a son. But our country is at stake, Majesty. We do not have the luxury to think with our hearts.”
“Ah, Vercinick, we are old men. As youths, we think with our hopes; as men, we think with our heads; and now that we are old, it is time to think with our hearts. Our lives are behind us. If it is not time to indulge in that luxury, then will you leave this life never having experienced it?”
“Sire, our duty is to our country, to the needs of Alhallra.”
“Always with the head, Vercinick,” the king said faintly, his blue eyes looking ahead but seeing a distant image that was worrisome on his mind. “We have known each other our whole lives. You are dearer to me than a brother. Few men can compare with your brilliance and no man is more deserving of my trust. But my wife is scarcely younger than I, and still we are barren. There is little hope for a direct heir, Vercinick. All of Alhallra knows that. I am the end of the line of Serafin. So who will take the throne if my nephew dies in war? Vercinick, you know he would make a fine ruler, for I’ve watched him grow as a boy.” The king leaned back into the cushions. “But I am a sentimental old fool.”
“There is that old fool in every one of us, Sire.”
The king said tiredly, waving a hand, “Let in the other messengers.”
Vercinick nodded over his shoulder. A boy returned the nod from across the room and pushed open the entrance.
A man slipped through, reading out an ambassador’s report of a distant blue land with seas that iced over in the winter. A burly page followed, delivering news of the unusually high rise of the Dabi River in Moreina; the river had watered the trees and infused the soil with a rich silt, and it is predicted that Moreina’s crops would be even more abundant this season. The king cursed softly.
After foreign affairs came messengers bearing news of the state. “Reports indicate that the Sallarah drought has been mild this year, Sire. Only three Sallahri deaths have been reported. Last week, the Sallahri rains came, announcing the end of the dry period. In gratitude, the Sallahri have made bountiful offerings to the Angels. Grains have been burnt in the Temple of Sal and livestock slaughtered upon Her altar. She enjoys the bounty of the land She has given them.”
The evening ended with a line of criminal reports. A murderer in chains was brought in to beg before the king. The knight escorting him wore a seven-pointed star on his mail, the lowest arm of the star stretching long down the center of the suit. The knight knelt, his sword before him with the tip to the ground, his hands a folded prayer around the hilt, pressing it to his bowed forehead. “My lord, it is I, Gallad, your humble servant. I present to you the offender Ballith, who has been apprehended for the infamous murder of the three Tellari girls. He has come to beg from you the forgiveness of the State, that his condemned soul might have a chance in the realm of Angels, for the victims’ parents have denied forgiveness.”
“Forgiveness granted,” the king said.
Gallad stood and led the murderer from the hall.
The night was late, the banquet nearly done. Servants filed in, clearing the tables. The jugglers had ceased to entertain; they sat on the center rug, strands of smoke curling lazily from the colored balls around them. A few guests collected in knots to view the procession of convicts. The candles burned low and the Great Hall was almost empty.
It was then that a familiar knight entered, escorting a darkly robed old beggar. “Majesty, I pray thee indulge me with your time.”
“Kallan, you may rise.”
“This thief has been caught stealing from your castle. I am here to return to the king his stones, to be laid in their proper place as part of His Majesty’s newest renovation.” Kallan bent to a knee and presented the three colored pearls on the palm of his gloved hand. “This thief has come to beg your forgiveness, so his soul may have a chance to dine with the Angels.”
“Forgiveness granted,” the king said. He paused, and there was a prolonged silence as he studied the old man’s starving frame. I sensed pity stirring in the king. Finally, he said, “Beggar, you have lived a long and hard life. You have taken from me not out of malice but necessity, and you have done me no harm, so I grant you forgiveness from your punishment. Old beggar, I can spare a little of my wealth to feed you, that you will no longer need to thieve the streets. Come, live as a guest in my castle until the end of your days. May the final few years of your life be as kind as all your previous years have been harsh. Knight Kallan, please, give him back the stones he’s found and escort him to a chamber.”
Kallan bowed, his arm across his chest. He took the old man by the arm and walked him out the doors. I moved from the king’s side, down from the podium, following the knight and the beggar – relieved that I’d found the old man at last.
Chapter 7