by K. E. Walter
Bypassing the armory and slum districts via the main road, the couple had ventured northward outside of the city limits. Scattered around the massive capital’s walls were apple trees that hung low over the grass, as their fruit grew heavy. Jenos took Neach by the hand, and guided him toward the riverbank where the largest of the apple trees resided, in an effort to gain some shade, as well as soak in the picturesque landscape of the world just outside of Leirwold.
“Here,” she said, grabbing an apple from the tree, “I promise you’ll never taste a fruit so sweet anywhere else in the land,” her eyes cutting holes through him, peering into the distance.
Neach took the sumptuous red fruit from her hand and rotated it in wonder. There were apples in Spleuchan Sonse that grew as well, but none of this caliber. With a swift bite, he dislodged a fair portion of the apple, and chewed as the sweet juices ran down his throat.
They sat and talked, for what could have been a lifetime, intrigued by each other’s simplicity, with a total disregard for the complex nature of things tossed to the side like week old bread. Laughter and sigh conjoined at the oratory hip, their words danced through the air with the acumen of a young bird, newly lightened of his burdening lack of flight.
Some time had passed, and the sun was lowering itself to just above the mountains in the distance. Neach had scaled them only a few weeks prior, but much had changed since then. As he sat with Jenos, wrapped in his now strong embrace, he wondered if certain things were meant to be kept secret. The truth of his intentions would surely result in the collapse of his new found relationship with the King’s daughter, and the less she knew the better. A bitter twang arose within his stomach, as he digested the thought of betraying the girl he had fallen in love with.
“Do you ever wonder how exactly it is that we got here?” the princess asked in a quiet voice, as she looked out on the water from atop the shore.
“If I’m not mistaken, you lead me to this place,” Neach said with a chuckle. Humor was a medication to alleviate any wound, and he felt as if he had contracted a terminal disease.
She smiled, but less sheepishly than would have been expected. The King’s daughter was many things, but weak was not one of them. If the King failed to produce a male heir, she would be the rightful owner of the throne of Duncairn. All of her life, she had been prepared to seize command where her father left off, and it led to a brazen belief in herself and her identity.
“Unfortunately, I do not mean this riverside; I mean it on more of a grand scale. Was it the fates of the Gods which led us to one another, or simply the fool’s luck? Or is it possible that neither are at play and a day will come where what we now have is both irrelevant and unimportant,” the conversation had taken a more somber tone, but the princess spoke with a genuine curiosity. Neach could not fault her for her questions, as he had the same ones himself.
“Just as the unfettered crop does not grow on its own, I believe these things are a result of a multitude of arbitrary things, and some of pivotal importance,” Neach began to say.
“And now I’m supposed to believe the archer is a master farmer?” Jenos said. It was her turn to jest and she let out a loud laugh while looking up at Neach.
He smiled a smile he never knew was inside of him. A genuine feeling of bliss fermented within his bones when he was with the princess. She related to him in many ways, but unfortunately they were very different in one article in particular.
If the princess had known of his true profession in agriculture, it’s likely they would never had known of each other’s existence. The class system within Duncairn allowed for no mobility, and it was rare for anyone to make it to the capital from a place like Spleuchan Sonse.
Nevertheless, Neach amused her.
“It doesn’t take a fisherman to know that fish don’t drink beer,” he said with a chuckle. The old adage was actually something he had heard from Fenris when he was in Rosalia. Though crude, it expressed the sentiment that some things were known to all.
Jenos’ smile turned a shade of grey and the joy left her face.
“My father used to say that when I was younger,” it seemed Henrig had known Fenris as well.
“Your father is a great man,” Neach began, “he has done many great things for this Kingdom,” even as he spoke the words, they seemed to leave a foul taste in his mouth. To falsely promote an individual, only days before their imminent death, seemed a devilish deed.
“My father lost his way when my mother died,” the princess cooed, her voice trailing away, “and I’m afraid he never did see the path again,” her words echoed around the river basin and within Neach’s own mind. Something told Neach that the princess was not the fondest of her father.
“When I was five, he killed my uncle, because he dared to speak out against his ailing father,” tears began to well up in her eyes as she spoke, “The man is ruthless, and no good he has done has come without great cost.”
Neach held her tight within his arms, as she sobbed softly. Though she was young, the event must have been traumatic. Differing from the past days, a new picture was being painted of the King. In contrast to the vibrant colors of war and honor thrown on the canvas by his subjects, his daughter slung mud and tar against the white sheet. He remembered something Tyrin had told him the night before he had entered the castle: those closest to power are the ones most likely to feel its wrath.
Eventually, her tears subsided, and she turned around to face Neach.
“It’s getting late, we must return to the castle,” as she spoke she grabbed him by the waist and kissed him again. Like a flash of lightning, the kiss sparked feelings deep within Neach’s heart that he thought were the things of dreams.
The sun had sunk beneath the horizon provided by the mountains, and the angle of its light proved that the afternoon was growing late, as the princess held Neach’s hand within her own. They would return to the castle for a meal and more celebration, but the ultimate outcome of the celebrations would be mourning if the House had its way.
A woman stood on a corner singing as they walked, hand in hand, past the slum district.
Fire rose dancing and waterways dry, the summer brings heat and the winter asks why. In the bitter cold chill the fire cracks on, when the summer heat is burning, there’s no hiding from the sun.
XX
Dusk hung low over the city, and cast a dark shadow over top the tallest buildings. Its bold purple and reds painted a caricature of a summer day passed on the canvas provided by the sky. Legends had been told for generations that sunsets were the sky’s own battle against the demons of the horizon, and each night it ended with the same outcome, consumption. A sun consumed by Earth, light consumed by dark, day consumed by night. Satiation came with difficulty in the Kingdom, and things had only gotten worse since the King’s self-imposed eradication of all members of the House Goedwig. Entire villages were consumed by flames, as the King burned rebels alive in an attempt to make a statement to all who opposed.
As they entered the castle gates, a new flame burned high atop the watch tower.
Tall and defined, the pyre was crafted in the shape of a triangle attached to the top of a straight wooden beam. The triangle sought to represent the balance between the Gods, the Royals, and the Supernatural. A burning triangle was a method of warding off supernatural spirits and restoring equilibrium to a given area.
Jenos squeezed Neach’s hand tight as they strode across the moat and into the heart of the castle, where hundreds of people had gathered.
It seemed the celebration had already begun within the walls of the secondary ring. Men sang loudly and women watched on in shy respect, as the outpour of testosterone threatened to combust.
“What silly men,” she said, her eyes slanted in disgust, “They sing songs of joy when all they have ever known is mediocrity,” her posture was that of a queen, but she was still young in her age.
Jenos walked with intention and dignity, as was expected of the King’s daughter, but
her eyes showed the pain of a life lived with sorrow. She had watched her mother die and her father turn into someone she despised. Despite his best efforts, he had become the man Jenos dreaded. A man hell-bent on maintaining his power, and naïve to the damage he was incurring around the Kingdom.
“Mediocrity is the fruit of life, they say,” Neach retorted as they neared the crowd, “If every man strove to be King, there would be no law, only constant struggle,” as he spoke, he was unsure if he believed what he was saying. Deep down, he believed that all men sought power; the only difference was the scale at which they desired it.
“Sometimes fruit can be spoiled, Neach. I fear that time is soon,” she spoke softly as to keep his thoughts quiet from the onlookers.
“There is great unrest in the Kingdom,” the words hissed from her mouth, “Rebel factions find their bases everywhere from Balthusom to Fletwod, and my father sees no means of reparation beside unforgiving slaughter. We live in a fractured world, Neach. Unfortunately, the pieces have been so jostled that a complete repair seems impossible,” her words echoed with the weight of a large iron cask. For the third time in as many days, impending war was being mentioned.
“Perhaps we can fix it if we start with the edges first,” Neach replied.
“Even the greatest puzzles are capable of being constructed. What rebel groups are these that your father fears so?” he asked tentatively, remembering his role in the castle.
“I’ve heard whisperings of them. They descend from animals, and they act as brutish. No morality is forged in the heart of the wilderness, only the means of survival. It’s been said that each Kingdom of the Western Empires holds its own animals within its depths, I just pray that ours are easily tamed,” she concluded with a slight gasp that proved the extent of her exasperation.
Neach knew very well the animals she spoke of. He himself was one. Feral blood flowed through the veins of thousands of people, who he had yet to know, and he could only assume that a portion of them acted as the princess said.
Two criers entered the scene, in front of the pyre as horns blared and the toiling crowd grew silent.
“We present to you, Lord of Leirwold, King of the Island of Duncairn, Kingdom of Honor in the Western Empires,” the criers stepped aside as the sea of people parted their way to make room for Henrig.
He walked with conviction and smiled at his subjects as he passed them one by one. For a faint moment, there was eye contact between him and his daughter, but it passed in due time.
“Greetings, people of Leirwold, subjects of the Kingdom of Duncairn,” his voice boomed through the courtyard and the people looked on in awe as he spoke, “Tonight, we celebrate the birth of my dear father with the burning of the ceremonial wooden triangle. Its meaning is known to most, but its importance in these times of struggle is best reiterated. We face a great disturbance in our Kingdom, as summer feigns its warm benevolence upon us. Dissidents from all corners of our vast world threaten to remove power from the people and regents, and vow to lay untold waste to every village and city in the Western Empires. This triangle calls for the harmonious relationship of the regents, supernatural, and the Gods above. We hope they look favorably upon our Kingdom tonight, as we begin the celebration of my father, who fought for nothing else other than an equilibrium,” the King’s words were met by a raucous round of applause, and Jenos simply frowned.
He wore a gilded black robe, and his crown served as the diamond atop the illustrious banner that his outfit laid forth. Within the seams of the golden headpiece, rubies and sapphires dotted the yellow, and sparkled in the early evening sunlight. Behind him, the fire from the pyre crackled loudly, as the dampness of the wood was removed and turned into large puffs of black smoke.
His face looked distraught, but he dared not show his emotions to his subjects. To them, he was their source of perpetual hope. A talisman of optimism, King Henrig’s presence was larger than life, though he was dwarfed by the massive fire burning at his back.
“Now, we bow our heads in silence, in remembrance to not only my father, but every person who has ever given their service to the Kingdom in the hope that we could live lives of peace,” the King’s words resonated through the open space and the silence that had already hung over the square persisted.
Neach looked around at the hundreds of subjects whose heads were now bowed in fullness to the memory of Henrig’s father. The only person whose head was raised beside his own was Jenos. She stood, stoic, and on the verge of tears, before she bolted toward the inside of the castle. He let her go, but even as he watched her leave, his heart pained to see her in such a state. Long held disdain had boiled over, and was now threatening to scald the hands of Jenos and her father.
The silence passed and the King was faced with jubilation.
People sang and drank, eat and laughed, all the while, the King paced in front of the triangular pyre with a look of agony on his face.
“Your highness, this has been a most beautiful ceremony,” as he spoke the words, a bitter taste erupted in the back of his throat. He wondered how long he could continue to deceive the King before it would break him.
The King hardly looked up at Neach when he spoke.
“It is, my son, but some of the greatest beauties of the world have a very dark side. This triangle does not only represent peace, but it represents the pain and grief which has been exerted to achieve that peace in the past. I am confident we will one day return to this oasis, but for now, we journey through the desert with any drink to parch our thirst. I fear it will only get worse from here.”
With those words, the King turned and left.
Neach was left with a concerned look on his face. Something had changed about the King in the day passed, and he was not sure what exactly had occurred. For now, he needed not worry about the King and his toiling emotions. In the coming days, he was expected to end his life, and he would need to expend his effort on coming to terms with this grisly fate.
He walked back to the large crowd of celebrators and searched for the wine.
Lately he had been searching for the solutions to his problems in the bottom of a bottle. Unfortunately, the liquor seemed to drown him in a drunken stupor that he feared he would perpetuate for years to come. When he arrived at the drinks table, he found one hundred of flagons of wine completely filled.
A whiff of its top told him enough about the taste of the alcohol, but in truth, it did not matter. He would drink till he lost consciousness, and hope that he found his way to his quarters. Such was the way of the burgeoning alcoholic.
When he succumbed to the coaxing of the violet liquid, he wandered into a group of people who were dancing in tandems. Realizing the futility of motion, he slipped past them and headed toward the training ground which he knew would be empty at this hour of the night.
As he walked, the clouds parted and a near full moon shone down on the city. He swore he could make out features atop the surface of its milky face, but he attributed it to the wine.
Stumbling and without guile, Neach reached the training area, flagon in hand.
Whispers.
He heard whispers as he rounded the corner and pressed himself flat against the wall. Nearly chuckling at himself for being so quick to engage in his stealthy behavior, he paused when he heard a young woman’s voice break the crisp evening air.
“What you are suggesting is absurd,” Jenos said quietly, her recipient unidentified.
That identification would not take long, as the next voice crackled through the open space.
“Absurd is sometimes necessary, dear. The boy will live, for now, but if he gets too close, he will not be spared. My House believes they have succeeded in cunning their way into my castle walls, but, unfortunately for them, their ranks are not united in the same cause. I was told of their intention the night it was conceived,” the King’s tone sounded as if he were spitting acid on the ground with every word.