“I could not sleep.”
“Neither could I.” Trinian had come to the wood seeking solitude, but now he found himself wanting conversation. Her voice was alluring and captivating, and he tried to draw her out of her trite responses, and he felt like there was something important about her. “Will you talk to me? I think perhaps our meeting was arranged by Fate.”
Her back stiffened and her voice rang back abruptly bitter. “Never think that one such as you was destined to meet one like I.”
“I do not understand you.” Trinian’s eyes were wide at her sudden anger. “Can you not turn and speak to me?”
Instead of answering, she fled, and was gone as quickly and silently as any doe.
* * *
As the morning wore on, Trinian was haunted by the encounter; her short words, her rich voice, her fleeting presence as of a vision, strangely consumed him. So he returned to Gladier’s cottage, hanging his game of rabbits outside the shed and entering by the back door, knowing that Gladier, whose duty it was to know all that passed in the wood, would be able to tell him who she was.
It was the last thing he expected, however, that on opening the door, he would be confronted with the creature herself. There she stood beside the stove, more earthly now than she had appeared in the shadows of the night, in heated conversation with the wizard. Her back was to him.
“Trinian, you went out early this morning,” the old man greeted him.
Trinian gazed at the lady. “I could not sleep.”
When he spoke she stiffened. She gave a startled cry of pain. “Oh father, all is lost now!” Then she began to weep.
Trinian floundered for a moment, stumbling, trying to find something to say, then tried to back out of the cottage, but Gladier signaled for him to remain. “Go,” the old man said gently to the lady. “Wait outside, Adlena. I’ll send him to you in a moment.”
She fled through the front door, and Gladier waited till it closed behind her, before he turned to Trinian.
“You met in the wood?” he asked him.
“Yes.”
He nodded his old head, and his beard moved up and down like the tide going in and out. “You found her. Drove her straight to me. Fate had a hand in this.”
Trinian suddenly understood. “Is she…?”
Gladier stopped nodding, and peered intensely at Trinian, as if seeing straight to the depths of the soldier’s soul, as he often had a habit of doing. “Are you ready to be king?” he demanded.
Trinian stopped breathing a moment, fixated by that gaze, unsure of himself. “We do not know yet,” he said at last.
“And when we find out, are you ready?”
“Is that not for you to say?”
“I have certainly taught you much, and I could go on teaching you until you die, and you still would not know everything. Are. You. Ready?”
“Gladier, what if I’m not the king? Then what?”
“You’ll be a soldier. A simple soldier of Drian.”
For the first time, that future was not enough for Trinian. He wanted more. He wanted more not only for himself, but for his people, for they had stagnated long enough without a true leader. But he knew he was not ready, and he never would be, for how could one man be ready enough to lead an entire world?
“No, I am not.” And he hung his head.
Gladier nodded. “No. I am glad you see that. But if she is here, and if she confirms it, then that means the world is ready – and you will just have to learn as you go.”
He gestured to the door, and Trinian approached it warily, as if being pulled there against his will, with eagerness and trembling fear. It opened without a creak, and the next instant, he was standing on the doorstep.
Not once since meeting her had he seen her face, and it seemed he never would, for she was gazing fixedly, determinedly, toward the forest.
“It is against my will,” she said after a moment, “but Gladier has stressed that I should meet you. He has told me who you are. Until I see your face, however, I cannot confirm. I know not what Gladier told you,” she went on haltingly. “I am the miserable daughter of a miserable union. My mother’s people were the spirits of the trees, descendents of the natural god of the forest, and it is the law of her people that no mortal man may look upon them. But she was wild. She fled from her home land – her desire to see man overcoming all respect for her family.
“She did meet man and paid dearly for it. He was base and evil, so full of lust that he defiled her, coveting that which was forbidden him to touch. My mother’s people found them and slew him as he claimed her, but they forbade her ever to return to her native home. They doomed her to wander alone through the world. She was desolate until the day I was born, and became her only companion. We were everything to each other and I never wanted for any other company; though, I believe, she was often lonely. Loneliness I would only comprehend when she was gone. And that happened one day when I had barely become a woman.
“We were passing beside the stream of Codune, where men seldom venture, when an arrow pierced my mother’s heart. In the sight of her child it pierced her. In an agony of grief, overcome with despair, and conquered by fear, I fled from her empty form. I knew that soon a man would appear through the trees, and I remembered her dire warnings against them. Ever since that day, though I have lived alone and lonely, I have spurned and escaped man’s sight, never allowing him to see my face. But now,” she paused, and the extremity of her terror pierced him through the heart, “it seems I am doomed to look upon you – and you must look at me – so I can tell you your fate.”
She was silent a long while. He wanted to tell her not to turn; that it was not important; she could go back to her solitude. But that was not true, and he knew he needed to know.
And so Trinian, with anticipation racing up his spine, with a breath to prepare, watched her slowly turn and look at him. Her bright, deep, indigo eyes were ages of pain and wisdom; they knew truth and searched his soul. An eternity their eyes held; stars and planets whirled their course unheeded, souls bared, time existed not, messengers bowed and worshipped unknown, and somewhere, in the great existence beyond time, a Father smiled.
So she knew, and as she knew, she wondered, and as she wondered, she bowed. And with a reverent voice of velvet declared, “My Lord and My King.”
Thus in that moment he knew, and what was suppressed was released: a kingly grace settled upon his brow; prophecies were fulfilled and the will of the Heavens heeded. King Trinian heaved a sigh of the centuries as all the doubt, fear, and disbelief of generations lifted from his breast. He reached down, took her hand, and raised her up, and in turn, he looked upon her now.
“Thank you. You have revealed me to myself so that I may be revealed to the world.”
* * *
That afternoon he returned to Drian. Arriving in the mellow light of evening, Trinian sought out Lady Adrea. She was alone in the gardens, surrounded by ancient texts dug up from the library.
“The last prophecy, according to Gladier,” he told her breathlessly and without greeting, “has been fulfilled.”
She pulled him down onto the bench beside her and demanded everything, and he told his tale briefly, both their eyes shining all the while.
“Then it is time we told my father,” she said.
They went together to his study. And there, in simple state and the hominess of a living room fire, far from any place where matters of state took place, the steward of Drian met the pre-destined King.
“Gladier told me I must perform for you the ceremony I performed for him the day after Adrea – Lady Adrea – left us alone,” said Trinian. “It is an intimate affair, and only one descended of kings is said to be able to accomplish it.”
Astren nodded, disbelieving yet hopeful, for it was the purpose of his life to prepare and keep the throne for the future king; having no false ideas of keeping the throne for himself, so long as the young man was truly the prophesied heir; but he was a skeptic at heart, wh
o did not believe unless shown the proper proofs.
“Yes,” he said gravely. “You must touch the source of the divine, and yet stand. Such is the proof of each king throughout the ages, and such must be your action.”
“He already has,” said Adrea breathlessly, hot impatience rising in her heart, for she did not yet know of this ritual, and thought her father was displaying an unpardonable degree of reticence. “Did we not already tell you that he stood in the presence of the natural god and did not fall to his knees?”
Trinian smiled at her, touched by her show of loyalty, and shook his head gently. “That was only the natural god of Karaka,” he told her. “Gladier told me that perhaps a man of demi-god nature, or of exceptionally strong character, or else descended of the healers, could stand before such a one. But there are the sixteen high gods, he said, and over them all sits Fate.”
“Yes,” she leaned forward eagerly now. “You told me of these in your messages. What great power of which we have been ignorant!”
“There are some secret relics, passed down for generations, that have once touched the divine essences of some of these gods, and one who touches such a relic and does not fall, does not die, is the one chosen by them to rule over all Minecerva.”
Astren nodded. “Yes. It is the sacred duty of each steward to protect the Relic of Drian, which contains the presence of Hope, and still burns bright with the essence she infused into it at the beginning of our world. You would have learned of it, my dear,” he told Adrea, “on the day you succeeded me, for it would have been your responsibility to touch it then. You would have fallen to your knees, and then lain abed for a week, ill and weak. Such a thing you would have done to remind yourself that you are not the ruler of Drian, but its keeper, and that only he who could stand against it could truly and rightfully rule the kingdom.”
Adrea’s heart was stirring powerfully within her, her eyes shone, and her breath quickened, for here was yet another mystery she had never fathomed, and the talk of the gods moved her strangely. How she yearned to understand them better!
“You say you have already touched such a relic?” Astren asked of Trinian.
The young man held himself nobly erect. “Gladier possessed a Relic of his Wood, which contains the essence of Plenty. I have touched that, and not been ill. But now I must prove it to you as well, for after all your faithful service, you deserve to be shown.”
The steward led Trinian and his daughter to the throne room, where he opened a secret door in the king’s throne, and pulled out the Relic. It was a golden globe that shown like a small sun, so that it hurt the eyes to gaze upon it, and Astren held it with a towel, but then placed it naked into Trinian’s hands. The young man stood tall, noble, and strong, and the steward, who still vividly remembered its strong, devastating effect upon himself, fell to his knees and said reverently, “Your Majesty, the people have waited long for your coming. When they know you, they will follow you to the ends of the earth.” And Adrea, also, knelt beside her father.
Trinian carefully replaced the globe and reverently closed the secret door. “Please do not bow to me,” he said gently, “I am not used to it yet, and you have served Drian for too many years to be on the ground.” But he was not aware of how kingly and noble he appeared to them; how the light of the globe seemed to shine out of his visage and enfold them in its glow. Trinian continued humbly. “You will have to teach the art of rule to me, steward, for I would suffer greatly without your counsel.”
Astren nodded. “It will be my crowning honor as steward, your majesty.”
Adrea stood and whirled toward her father, “How soon can we hold the coronation? There is no reason for delay.”
But Trinian was frowning, and only vaguely heard her father admonishing her on all the preparation they had to do beforehand. Finally, he asked. “How long do you think you will need to get everything prepared?”
“Two months, I should think,” said the older man. “We want to prepare the banquet and your rooms. Prepare the council, of course…”
Trinian interrupted Astren, and the steward frowned, taken aback by the new king’s sad lack of etiquette, but Trinian, for once, was too pre-occupied to be the perfect soldier. “Very well, I have something to do in the meantime. A final errand at Gladier’s.”
“You have already waited too long,” cried Adrea. “What more is there to do? You have learned so much from Gladier, and besides, you said he will be coming here to live. With all of us to advise you, there is no reason to wait.”
Her father raised a hand to curb her tongue. He heaved a patient sigh. “You tell me you have bided long with Gladier, studying all that you need. There is nothing left now but to learn through experience. And our guidance will be with you. After all, if you follow my advice, not much will change when you take the throne.”
“I intend to take any advice you give me, steward, and together, we are sure to rule well. But I must have my way in this; it is a private matter, and I do not intend to be gone long,” Trinian explained. “In only two months I will return, and then I will be forever, and irrevocably, the king of Drian.”
Astren nodded in resignation. “In that case, my king, I will use this time to put affairs in order, and prepare your coronation.”
9
Spirit of the Wood
Trinian rode straight from Drian to the border wood, to the place where he had met the prophetess, not caring to stop at the cottage. Somehow, he knew he would find her in the same place. He felt like she must be waiting for him.
And so she was. Her black head was bowed as she sat on a fallen tree and her white fingers wove themselves in her lap when he cantered up.
He dismounted. “Do not run,” he whispered softly so as not to frighten her, although she must have been hearing the hoofs for some time.
She did not answer, but turned to look at him, and her vivid eyes pierced him so that his knees went weak.
“I knew I would find you here,” was all he could think to say.
“Why did you come back?” she looked angry. He saw her hands shaking.
“Be not afraid.”
“I am not afraid of you. Not like that.” Then he understood why her hands shook and he smiled. Her heart was in line with his; he knew that the blood pounded in her when she looked at him, as his coursed warmly through his veins at the sight of her. He could love her – for the rest of his life, he could love her; if only she would love him. Confidently, he stepped forward.
He glanced lightly into her eyes with his sparkling green ones and she blushed. She was not used to laughter, and it confused her.
“Can you smile?” He sat on the grass before her.
“Yes,” but she was still serious.
“I don’t believe you.”
This time she flushed in surprised anger and pulled up her face to show him, but it was a mirthless grin. Trinian looked at her in astonishment a moment and burst into a laugh.
Then she understood that he was teasing her. Though she was still embarrassed, she gave a genuine smile, her eyes lighting up.
“There you go. Now I believe you. Come back with me.”
He said it all in one breath so she did not realize at first the import of his words. When she did, she gasped and looked at him, expecting to see he was teasing her again. But his eyes were shining, not dancing, and there was a resolve in the set of his jaw. His hope was contagious, but she shrunk from it. “It is not possible,” she quivered.
“That is fear speaking,” said Trinian calmly, refusing to be put off. “It is not true.”
“How can you look at me like that, so confident? It is not possible, I tell you. I am not meant for happiness. Not with another person.”
He frowned as if she had wounded him; when he spoke, he was angry. “And what makes you so different from anyone else? You may be half divine but you are also mortal. Every man or woman is miserable during life; that’s the way life is. But we can find some happiness anyway.”
He h
ad talked himself out of his anger, and now he looked out into the trees, seeing something that was not there. “When I am too miserable, I call to mind something glorious. Like the day my mother first saw me in uniform; I remember the light of pride and love in her eyes in that moment. Or when I received my first commission… My favorite,” he paused and smiled. “I have never told anyone. My favorite memory is from my boyhood. Can I tell you?”
She nodded.
“I was fifteen and my brother twelve; we had gone camping alone for the first time and as we came home, a thunderstorm broke out above us and we had to run for shelter. We stood under a tree and the one right across from us was suddenly struck and charred black. As scared as I was, I was brave for his sake, telling him we would be alright. To my astonishment, he did not cry, but pulled me out from beneath the branches into the midst of the lightning strikes. It was as if we stood in the middle of a glowing, pillared cathedral.
“‘Come brother,’ he cried. ‘We must face the feral force of nature!’ With the water driving in sheets against our faces and the wind whipping our clothes against us, he held out his hand to me, and there in the temple of rain with its pillars of lightening and organ of thunder, we declared that we would be forever brave, righteous, and true to one another. I had ceased to be his older brother. That day, we were equals before the world.” Trinian fell silent, scenting pine and spruce again, his heart pounding. “This moment has the same weight. No – more, because my whole future hangs breathless upon it. I want you to come back with me, to share the journey with me. There will be misery and unhappiness, I know that. Wholeheartedly, even happily, I grant it. But it will be transformed; I will suffer with you, for you, because of you, and my heart will soar. Please,” he stood and held out his hand to her, “face it with me.”
She took his hand, her eyes upon his bright, questioning face. He was at once vulnerable and confident, and her frightened, shrinking heart came out of her breast like a blossom opening to the morning sunshine.
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