Trinian

by Elizabeth Russell

  “We will have the coronation ceremony in four days,” continued Astren. “And tonight, we will present you to the people.” His grave voice went on, laying out plans, ceremonies, feasts, and procedures. Adrea listened attentively even as she oversaw the servants who were giving out refreshments. Lavendier squirmed in her seat, impatient to speak up and ask multitudes of questions, and had Astren broken his speech for more than a short breath, she surely would have. Afias, meanwhile, sat through it all like a funeral, his mind not on the proceedings, but wandering in paths of dismay along the future, and regretful fondness for the past.

  After the meeting, when Astren had prepared them for everything, and assured them that Viol had been sent for, Prince Afias, defying his usual ponderous air, practically bolted from the chamber through the main doors, as if he would stifle if he stayed within a moment longer. Adrea frowned after him, considering marching out and demanding that he return, demanding that he show support to his brother and king; she was on the verge of doing so, when Trinian claimed her attention.

  “We have left everything behind, and brought nothing with us,” he told her. “You said rooms, clothing, and everything we might need, were already here?”

  “Of course. I will have servants bring you to them immediately. And after you are settled, we will run through the coronation ceremony. The practice is for our benefit as much as yours, since we have never gone through it either.”

  His eyes twinkled at her in excitement, but his face was somber. She knew that despite his eagerness, he was concerned about being a good king. But she had no doubts. He was perfect, and his humility and doubt only heightened the perfection.

  “Do not worry,” she said. “You will be magnificent.” Then she included Adlena in her gaze, who stood uncertainly, gorgeously, radiantly, to the side. “You both will.”

  The servants now entered to lead them to their new rooms, and Trinian looked over the group. “Where is Afias?”

  “I will find him,” she said, and the royal family left through the side door toward the royal apartments. Adrea had aired them out in the past couple weeks for the first time in many, many years, and she was very pleased with the results.

  As she watched the family disappear, she did her best not to let herself fall into a slump, telling herself that no matter her disappointment, she could always serve Trinian and work closely with him. That, at least, was not denied her, though she had lost the relationship for which she had yearned. With a heavy sigh, she released her built up hair and let it fall around her shoulders, as if to conceal her already hidden heart, and with it closely hugging her disappointed form, she whirled on her heel to find the lost prince.

  At the top of the courtyard’s turret wall, she found him leaning against the brick, looking out over the kingdom and letting the wind blow his soft, brown locks.

  “Your brother was looking for you.”

  He startled and turned quickly. “My lady,” he bowed, trying to collect himself, “I did not hear you come up.”

  Her dark eyes flashed at him. Perhaps she should have accepted him without question and honored his new title – after all, he was a prince, and she was now only a lady. But Adrea judged men on character, not title. And from what she could see, this man was selfish, lazy, and fearful, and she despised him for it. She dismissed him in a cursory glance, then shrugged and walked to the wall, where she had stood less than a year ago, despairing over the fate of her people.

  “What do you think of all this?” she said it as a challenge, surprising herself, for she had not meant to speak.

  Afias tried to answer politely, but the meeting in the chamber was still only a muddle in his mind. “It’s confusing. I never understood politics.”

  She gave a derisive laugh, and Afias looked at her in astonishment, surprised that someone so highbred could be so rude.

  “I suppose you never had much reason to pursue them. After all, you were only a farmer.”

  He agreed evenly with a slow nod, angering her further. “And I expected to be a farmer until the day I died.”

  “Your brother always had higher ambitions. I admire him for that.”

  He turned to her and studied her face. She looked him rigidly in the eye and accepted the glance, but she refused to let him see beyond her outer shell. Finally, he sighed.

  “He never expected to be king.”

  “Life is not always what we expect,” she shot back.

  “He was just a common soldier.”

  She whirled upon him and her eyes flashed. “He was never common, and when he learned the truth, he accepted it and rose to the challenge. As should you. This is your life now and you should get used to it. And go to your brother; he is king now, and when he requests your presence, you go to him.” She whirled toward the stairs, her long black hair slapping the stone wall, and started to walk away.

  “Wait.”

  She paused, and looked back at him as if he were a troublesome child who had pulled her hair to get her attention.

  “About my sister. When will she return to Drian?”

  There was a softness in his eye when he said ‘my sister,’ and she suddenly, against her will and with a lurch of her heart, saw his devastation. He had been uprooted, torn from everything he loved, thrown into a world he could not understand, and her heart prodded her to pity him. In that moment, she came closer to doing so than she ever had for anyone… but Adrea hated pity. He should get used to it, she decided. He had no choice over his fate.

  “In three days – before the coronation.” Then she disappeared down the parapet.

  14

  The White Witch of the Black Palace

  The outskirts of northern Drian – ancient crumbling ruins and bare prairies with the high winds moaning among the stones and whistling through the grasses – surrounded ten-year-old Viol as she traveled in the company of two Drinian soldiers. They had come to her aunt’s house, who lived in the southern region of Kelta, to bring her home, but had told her nothing other than that Trinian had sent them. She thought this very wonderful of her brother, to send soldiers to bring her home, but she did not think anything else of it. Of course he would send soldiers to protect her, of course he would want her home, and of course she was eager to go. That he was king, or she a princess, would have been a thought utterly ludicrous, had it entered her head.

  Two soldiers, however, were not sufficient protection. To deal with ordinary brigands, they would have been a sufficient deterrent, but in these desolate lands there were ten enemy soldiers, sent by a witch, who lay in ambush behind a decaying ruin, watching the travelers approach. Bedecked with red face paint, with black paint about the eyes, and dressed in all white, they were emptied of all individuality, and a strange pulse, not their own, beat an enchanted rhythm in their veins.

  When the three Drinians, all unsuspecting, drew near enough to the trap, the red and white men leapt out of hiding and fell upon them. Shrieking in terror, Viol watched her guards mount a fierce defense, covering her ears at the clash and roar of battle. She screamed when one of them, Darid, fell to the ground with a hole through his heart. Theon, the other, yelled for her to run, and she tried, but he too was slain and she was seized violently by one of the enemy soldiers. In her overwhelming fear, she fell into a dead faint.

  * * *

  The witch had decided to play the merciful queen and comfort the poor, frightened girl on her arrival. When the soldiers carried the princess in, they laid her upon the witch’s soft, padded couch, where servants dressed the girl in fine white silk and satin, and laid out trays of rich food that scented the chamber.

  Viol’s eyes fluttered open at last and her captor’s lovely face bent over her with motherly compassion, holding a glass of wine to her lips. Her features were strong and delicate, with a small, regal nose, bright eyes, and a high forehead possessed of arching, finely-chiseled brows.

  “Drink, my dear. It will refresh you,” she said softly, and the sound was of a soft wind whispering throug
h grasses.

  Viol blinked confusedly and glanced all around the chamber, disoriented by the brightness of the white walls and cream-colored cushions. She sipped the pale liquid and glanced at the beautiful woman.

  “Who are you? Where am I?”

  “I am Strana, my darling, and you are in my home. Rest, relax. There will be time for talking.”

  Bit by bit, she fed the girl delicacies from her hand until Viol’s mind was clouded and her body comfortable. She no longer remembered the traumatic death of her guardians. When the witch was satisfied with the state of her prisoner, she began to ask her questions, probing into her life and personality, gleaning serviceable information for her magical arts. She learned from the confused girl that Viol had been away from her family for two years, her parents were both dead, and her education poor. Not that she had lacked instruction, but that the general knowledge of Drian was, as Gladier had discovered, deplorable.

  “How old are you, my dear?”

  Viol drowsily answered she was ten.

  “Are you an only child?”

  “I am the youngest of five living children. My mother had three infants after me who all died.”

  Strana’s sultry figure slithered beside her, folding the child into the heat of her perfumed air.

  “Do you like me, darling?”

  “Oh, yes. Very much.”

  “You like this place better than your home, I think.”

  “It is very nice.”

  Her red lips curled delicately. “It is indeed. Would you like to stay here and be my little girl? I could make you a beautiful queen.”

  “What about my family?”

  “And what about them? They have got along well enough without you all these years. Come, you are much more important to me. Say you will stay. Say you will be my daughter. I think you miss having a mother.”

  Fed on drugs and seated where she could hardly feel anything firm or real, the princess floated on a buoyant raft of confusion. Strana extended her mind into the princess’s, following her train of thought while the girl tried to remember her family. She thought of Afias her brother, whom she loved the most, but his memory slipped from her like water through a sieve. And she was not even sad. She thought of each person she had ever loved – Trinian, her protective older brother; Cila, her sweet sister; Astren, her warm-hearted brother-in-law – and with each rise of affection, there was an equal smear of them from her mind. She forgot them, for the witch’s magic worked on the emotions of love. Strana smirked, triumphant in her approaching victory. But just before Viol relinquished the inner battle, just before she forgot everything about who she was and who she loved, she remembered Lavendier. Her selfish, hateful sister who loved no one. Viol felt nothing but pain, loneliness, and annoyance when she thought of this sister – no lovely tingles of affection. And the witch started with surprise – the stupid girl loved her! It was a love removed from emotion, and the witch had no control over it. She felt the girl retain a tiny part of her inner self. It lay so deep that even Viol herself did not sense it, but it was a final, unassailable wall between her heart and the wicked woman’s invasive magic. Strana tried again, desperately, for she needed the girl to come to her willingly, and she could not afford to lose this battle.

  “Do you not miss having a mother?” she hissed, bending low over the girl’s face, and for the first time, Viol felt a twinge of foreboding.

  15

  Garrity, Soldier of Drian

  His heart racing in torment, Trinian paced the antechamber of his quarters, in a far different state on this, the eve of his coronation, than he could have predicted. The room, a section of his own private quarters, was a spacious apartment, with curtains instead of walls and luxurious cushions for reclining. It was a place with many rooms, that would allow for he and Adlena to grow their family as the years progressed, and it might have left him feeling airy and free, had it not symbolized his new state of imprisonment.

  “You will govern from the throne of the center chamber,” had spoken Steward Astren, the night before. “You will no longer depart the city to find answers, healing, or other kings. Like the rulers who came before you, all the world will travel vast distances to but seek your good favor, and you shall govern the people beneath you with a level, far-seeing eye, as you sit upon the throne as upon a mountain, and survey the world beneath you like a map.” Trinian had nodded acquiescently, for at the time, it had seemed a fair injunction and the wisest way; but now, only twenty-four hours later, his first trial had come, and the steward’s words were like a noose that was slowly squeezing him to death.

  The coronation ceremony had taken place in the afternoon, an event of fireworks and feasts, dancing, singing, and cheering from thousands of citizens of Drian, outside his chambers it was still progressing, and he would never again be a private man.

  He could not have known how soon this fate would stifle him, how soon it would fill him with fear, and test his resolve to think of the nation over his family.

  Heavy, even footsteps approached the corridor from outside, and with impatience, Trinian stood still to receive the large man who entered, filled the room with his large presence, and bowed low upon his knee.

  “General Phestite, I thank you for coming.”

  The Head General rose and reared tall above the king. He was a giant of a man, stern of demeanor and solidly built. “Yes, your majesty,” he rumbled with a voice the depth of which matched his girth. “I faithfully present my blade to you. Command me, and I and my men will obey.” They were not strangers to each other, for only a few months before, Phesite had been Trinian’s superior; but now, a humble soldier commanded the commander of the Royal Army.

  Trinian did not dwell on that now, but spoke forth immediately about the weight on his heart. “I am indebted to you for your sword, and already, I have need of it. My youngest sister Viol – Princess Viol,” he corrected himself, “should have returned yesterday before the coronation ceremony, accompanied by two soldiers. When she did not arrive, I sent a scout to learn of them.”

  “Yes, your majesty. I know of the two soldiers and the scout.”

  Trinian nodded, for Phestite had always been a hands-on man with the army, and he remembered that now with gratitude.

  “The scout returned to me not a half hour ago to say he found the soldiers, dead, not five leagues distant from the southern tip of Kelta. There was no sign of my sister.”

  As he spoke the words, his tormented, half-formed thoughts rose again in his mind and overwhelmed him. If Viol was in danger, had he not only the right but the duty to forget all else and rush to her rescue? What sort of king…what sort of brother…? But he stopped himself, and continued with his instructions, clenching his fists to hold himself still. “I cannot be seen to leave the country just as soon as I am crowned. I am entrusting her safety to you, and to all the men you choose to be her champions.”

  Phestite stood as firm and solid as a brick wall, and nodded slowly. “I agree that it is wise that you remain here, since it may well be that this is a trap for you.”

  Trinian had not thought of that and in the surprise of the moment, his gaze betrayed his vulnerability, and he stepped back in surprise. “So soon? But no one could know so soon.”

  “Man, no,” agreed the general. “No man could know. But the natural gods know many things about the mortal world, and are often jealous of us.”

  Phestite’s face was impassive, for he would not reveal that he saw the king’s weakness. Trinian now recovered himself and looked on the man with respect. Meeting eye to eye, he saw that the burly, gruff-looking commander understood his internal struggle, and had given his advice as a quiet assurance that Trinian was right to rule from his throne and not from his battle-horse. Trinian accepted the comfort, and inclined his head ever so slightly to acknowledge it.

  “There are stories of a wicked natural goddess near Kelta,” Trinian mused. “She is the natural goddess of the land where the men were killed, and I suppose she ma
y already have tidings of my coronation. Do you think this was her doing?”

  “I cannot know, my king. But if it was not her, yet still she would know of all that passed in her dominion, and perhaps we could force her to disclose her knowledge to us, in exchange for receiving the favor of the new king.”

  His heart lightened ever so slightly, and Trinian nodded. “I entrust Princess Viol to you, General. Bring her back to me.”

  “On my honor, your Majesty.” Phestite bowed and departed.

  * * *

  In the winding barracks of Drian’s army, stretching like burrows through the valleys and hills east of the palace, the training arena clamored and echoed like war itself, the clang and slash of blades in combat, the piercing cries and deep bellows of men young and old, the sweat and new-cut leather smells that flooded the chamber with a rousing call to action. In the center of the swirl and tangle of male sinew and steel whirled Garrity, the training master and captain of the outer guard.

  Garrity had come to Drian ten years before, rising from the dunes of no-man’s land and offering himself as a soldier for hire. Silent about where he had come from, he proved through many encounters with outlaws and vandals his loyalty to Drian and her people, and he had settled in the capital city, making it his home.

  Stories and myths surrounding his person had turned this man into a thing of legend in Drian. And indeed, his might and personal beauty leant themselves to painting him as a hero. No one knew where he came from or whom he loved; some said he was a prince, born out of wedlock and prophesied to kill his father if he ever met him, so that he was now running from his tragic fate. Some said he had fallen for a distant princess who had scorned him and he had killed her in a fit of rage, now atoning for his sin through the mighty deeds of his life. Some said he was a natural god who had been driven from his lands and now was only a mere mortal, pining for his lost might. These and other fantastic tales the villagers whispered of him when he passed by the outer gates on his nightly patrols.