Trinian

by Elizabeth Russell

  Soldiers told even more graphic and frightening stories to new recruits about to be instructed by him: they would tell them of the time he led a band of three boys into the woods, and the boys were never heard from again. “He burned them in sacrifice,” they whispered. “He is a warlock.” “He drank their blood,” others said. “It is how he keeps his youth.” But those recruits did not believe the tales for long. At first, they stood in awe of his god-like figure, sculpted as if from bronze and gleaming like gold in the firelight of the training cavern. They feared his perfect record and bold strength, and made up their own tales about him – until he came and looked them in the eye.

  Then all preconceptions melted away. They forgot, in that moment, to see him as anything other than himself, pure and present. In his mild, large brown eyes, they saw their own souls reflected, and hung their heads in humility. When he spoke, they lifted up again in hope, for he spoke of his belief in them. And when he brought them to the training floor, they performed above and beyond even their own wildest dreams. He was to these men who knew him not a god, nor a hero, nor a criminal, but himself, and they were, for the first time in their lives, themselves.

  This was his strongest trait: his belief in each man’s potential for greatness, and his ability to drive him toward it. He chose all his new recruits by hand, rejecting those he knew did not seek goodness for its own sake, and it was those shallow men who wove the fantastical tales about him. They could not understand him, and saw his greatness only as a projection of their weak, selfish selves, and told tales of what they would have done with his power, blaming him for their own depravity.

  Today he whirled with his men in the training chamber, preparing them to meet the king and demonstrate their several skills and strengths in a nightly performance. But when he saw General Phestite, through the cluster of swords, stride into the chamber, dwarfing the tall stone doorway with his giant stature, Garrity called his men to a halt, tripping Sergeant Desmond in the process to remind him to watch his footing. They lined up before the General a second before any other group noticed his presence.

  “Soldiers of Drian,” echoed Phestite’s deep voice through the cavern, “for the first time in hundreds of years, the king has need of our service.”

  Every man’s heart swelled with excitement.

  “His sister, Princess Viol, has disappeared in the southern tip of Kelta. We must find her and bring her back.”

  The atmosphere, charged with eager excitement, changed immediately to shrinking fear. Phestite glanced around, his eyes stern and demanding as he noticed the change, and with cold resolve, he continued his speech, “I will select a contingent of scouts and warriors to accompany me. Colonel Karth, are your scouts prepared?”

  Colonel Karth stepped forward smartly, his arms straight along his sides, his back upright and firm, but his eyes cloudy with reluctance. “Commander General,” he addressed him by his most formal title. “Forgive me sir, but no soldiers return alive from that country. You will lead the men in suicide.”

  There was a swelling murmur of agreement in the room. Garrity heard one soldier mutter the name Strana, and his heart tightened. His face was red with fury against the insult toward his superior, against the cowardice of his fellow soldiers, and against a host of deeper scars in his heart which were now reawakened by their frightened words.

  He stepped forward.

  “General, send my men. We will serve the king proudly, rescue the princess, and return alive. I give you my word.” The twelve young men who stood behind him steady and undaunted by any of the fear swirling in the room, stepped forward behind their leader, bold and ready.

  Karth’s face flushed in angry shame, but he was silent as Phestite moved away from him and stood before Garrity. “Captain, your men know nothing of the wilds and have not been in battle. What makes you think they are ready?”

  He felt the collective energy behind him; he knew each of their skill and strength, and knew they were ready. He spoke so that no one else in the room could overhear his words except Phestite and his men. “You and I both know you were about to declare them fit for active duty in the next tests. Furthermore,” he paused here, but forged ahead despite his personal reticence, “I know the lands of southern Kelta like the back of my hand. I was raised there.”

  Phestite took another moment to gaze hard into his captain’s eyes, where he confirmed the man’s determination and honest words. Finally, he stepped back to his position in front of the entire room and announced that Captain Garrity’s contingent would ride out with him to rescue Princess Viol, and declared, in a voice of mingled pride and scorn, that they were dismissed.

  16

  The Green Dragon of Kelta

  Phestite led the men from Drian into the wild regions of Southern Kelta where they expected to find the hidden fortress of the witch. Within half a day, they reached the river Ran, flowing in a twisting, tumultuous rivulet from Rordan, and bisecting the wilderlands of Kelta from the farm land and verdant valleys of Drian. Phestite turned to Garrity behind him. “You say you know this land. Lead on.”

  Garrity nodded, and pushed forward into the wild prairies where the rolling land, that stretching as far as the eye could see, promised sure confusion to the inexperienced traveler. True to his word, he led them confidently onward, and they followed him as a flock of birds follows a sure leader at the head of their wide-spread arrow.

  Eventually, when one of the men indicated a short rock wall and claimed to have seen it before, asking hesitantly if they were going in circles, Garrity only examined it closely, and then led on with greater speed, declaring they were nearing their destination. Eventually they emerged from the prairie into a land of hills, trees, and deep river ravines. “Stay close,” he warned his men. “We must keep the element of surprise.” No one but Garrity could make out any distinguishing signs in the terrain, the trees appearing more or less the same as they had for the past several hours, but still it was clear their captain knew where he was. “Just beyond that ridge,” he pointed forward, “we will see Strana’s palace. We are approaching it from the rear where there is a secret entrance behind the hedges of the garden. She uses them for escape. She will not have it heavily guarded, and we can infiltrate our way in there.”

  Garrity’s familiarity with not only the terrain, but with the castle itself, astonished Phestite. Whatever the truth of his friend’s mysterious past, he had never thought it would include this place, and he looked at him with deep wonder, refusing to think that he could come from evil, but wondering how he could have retained purity if he had bided in this palace of pure evil. As Garrity ascended to the top of the hill and Phestite followed, laying himself down along the ridge beside the steady warrior, and seeing the burning gaze with which Garrity smote the palace before them, Phestite decided the great man must have been a captive here – for it was not a place he loved. From their position along the ridge, they could see the rear of the palace, gleaming black and shiny in the sunlight, and the guards scattered about the grounds. Towers like spikes speared the sky, and a garden of dark evergreens and white roses surrounded the rear of the black palace walls, where the witch’s guards stood unflinching on balconies, before bushes, and along pathways.

  There were maybe twenty of them, and Garrity had his men thread their bows and kill eight simultaneously, then eight more, and finally the last four. Each group of killings was out of eyeshot of the other groups, and silent as dropping a sack of flour, each one emitting a thump too dull to attract attention. Then the Drinians crept to the hedges and found, sure enough, a path in the stone work that led into the bowels of the dark palace. Garrity led them through these with that same uncanny knowledge with which he had led them across the indistinguishable wilderness. Phestite followed directly behind, and felt they traveled for a half hour at least before Garrity finally paused and turned back to him.

  “We are just outside her favorite room,” he whispered in the dim light that filtered through cracks in the wa
lls. “She would have brought the princess here.”

  “Are you certain?”

  The soldier’s eyes darkened, and his voice was like the sound of a dire gong stifled in its vibrating, “Yes.”

  Phestite gestured directions to the men behind, then nodded for Garrity to lead on. The soldier, beautiful of bearing and mysterious of origin, pushed an invisible panel inward, and the Drinians were blinded as they spilled into a tall chamber of white marble pillars, white soft rugs, and white strips of pearls dangling from the ceiling. The walls, furniture, and soldier’s clothing were all white, and the only color to relieve the starkness was the princess’s dark brown hair which looked black in contrast, where she sat curled up, defenseless, on a white sofa against the wall. She was shivering with fear, but looking up at her captor with a mesmerized expression, for over her stood a tall woman with the air of a queen and a circlet of silver on her piled-up, blonde curls.

  Garrity darted straight for the child, and Phestite and the other men ran along the walls, ringing the room and readying to face off against the guards – but there was no attack. All was silent and still. Phestite looked at the witch’s face to see that her eyes, wide with horror, were riveted on Garrity.

  Disturbing the air of quiet and horror as if he were unaware of it, Garrity’s strong voice vibrated through the quiet chamber, speaking urgently to the princess as he knelt gently before her. “Pay no heed to her lies. Banish her voice from your mind. Come Viol, come back to the world and forget her promises. They are all false.” Viol’s eyes were glazed and distant, but she slowly blinked and looked at the soldier before her, puzzled, confused, and startled by his gold and red armor which was warm in the frigid white room.

  He kept looking at the young girl, ignoring the burning gaze of the tall woman standing above him.

  “You are dead,” the witch gasped at last, her voice gritting between her teeth.

  Still, he looked at the princess, as he said calmly: “Is that what you thought? I wondered why you never came after me.”

  “Look at me!” she screamed, and for the first time, her soldiers in the room held their weapons at the ready. Garrity stood slowly and turned to face her. He was a tall man but she was a tall woman, and they stood eye to eye.

  “You are dead. What, have you come back to haunt me now?”

  “I have returned to retrieve one of your victims.”

  Her face had been as white as her room, but now it flamed in anger. “You know not of what you speak. I will give her everything.”

  “And yet she will gain nothing. I am taking her now; you can relinquish her willingly, or I will kill you.”

  She gasped as if he had punched her in the stomach. “You kill me?” There was terror in her eyes, but she held her head higher. “I am immortal – you cannot.”

  Still he spoke calmly, but Phestite felt an eager, raging tension quivering beneath his words. “I can and I will. Don not provoke me.”

  At first, it seemed that the queen was turning sick from fear or anger, but then she was far too green for that. Her whole face suffused to a scaly, brilliant emerald shade and she grew taller and thinner, filling the room with the body of a giant serpent.

  Viol screamed in terror, and the Drinians’ hearts thrilled with fear, as if startled into realizing the serpent was real. This was far from anything human. With a word of command, Garrity sent the princess fleeing toward Sergeant Desmond, who wrapped an arm around her and held her close, wielding his sword to ward off any threats. Though they were all terrified, the Drinian soldiers were too closely bound to Garrity to lose heart. So long as he understood this demon, they would stand their ground. There were ten of the witch’s white soldiers in the room, but thus far they had stood completely still. Now, as obeying a silent command, they rushed the Drinians, and Phestite was distracted from Garrity and the giant serpent. All the soldiers were consumed for a long moment in the frenzy of the conflict, and were unaware of the epic duel between snake and soldier.

  Their fight raged on for several minutes, the princess cowering in the corner, the witch bent upon Garrity with a singleness of purpose. Entirely gone from her mind were her designs upon the royal girl. Utterly consumed was she by the desire to take the soldier’s life, and in that resolve she trembled with fear, hatred, and mounting desperation. Both bore wounds from the other, but neither could strike a fatal blow.

  Over the din of grunts and steel, the serpent spoke. “You will pay dearly for what you have cost me. I have hated you from the beginning and now you are my bane! Even if you kill me, you will never be free of me!”

  Phestite had broken from the fight and lunged forward to help his friend, but the serpent, with one of her coils, offhandedly threw the mighty man against the wall as a child throws a rag doll, and he crumbled to the ground. Then she threw a coil against Garrity, but rather than throwing him aside, he caught it in his bare hands and threw it back at her, then leapt in the air and with his spear, pierced her left eye with a rousing cry. Together they clashed to the ground, shaking the very foundations of the floor with their clamor, and when they landed, she was dead. Garrity stood over her like an avenging angel, her blood and his mingling together.

  The few of her soldiers still alive immediately threw down their weapons in surrender, their enchantment ended, and the battle done.

  Sergeant Desmond now moved away from Viol to take the weapons of the enemy soldiers, and Phestite went to the princess. But her gaze was riveted on Garrity, looking at him with wonder, awe, and a shining glance of her young eyes. He met her look and approached her gravely.

  “Your highness,” he bowed, and she started as if in fear, so that Phestite raised his hand to the soldier.

  “She does not yet know,” he said warningly.

  Viol was shivering still. “That woman – the serpent woman – she called me a princess. What do I not know?”

  “We have come to take you home,” said Phestite, approaching her consolingly, but his deep voice and large, heavy girth were intimidating, and she involuntarily pulled back. “I am not going to hurt you,” he assured her.

  “I know,” she said, “but can he take me?” she asked pleadingly, her childish eyes turned with trusting love to Garrity, and her innocent heart honestly telling what she desired. Both men smiled at that, and Garrity stooped down and lifted her up in his strong arms. “Am I a princess?” she asked, feeling like one as she laid her head against his shoulder.

  “Your brother is a king,” said her new hero. “He will tell you.”

  17

  The Littlest Princess

  In the waning light of day, when the shafts through the diamond roof were red and orange in the chamber, Trinian held Viol tight to his heart. The moment Phestite and Garrity returned, he had dismissed all his attendants and Garrity had brought her straight to his arms.

  After a long moment, Viol let go and looked up at him, her brown eyes large and questioning. “They tell me you are a king. How?”

  There was a reverberating clang as the far doors parted, and Afias pounded against the flagstones until he had gathered her in his arms. His chest heaved against her gratefully, then he pushed her away and scrutinized her face. “You’re alright?”

  She smiled and smoothed his wrinkled forehead with her small cool hand. There were tears in her eyes. “I’m perfectly well, but I am very confused. Am I a princess?”

  Afias looked up at the king.

  “Yes,” said Trinian.

  “So you really are king?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did the witch want with me?”

  “I know not.” Trinian’s brow clouded. “What did she say?”

  Afias warned, “Trinian—”

  “No, it’s all right,” she said bravely. “I want to talk about it. I want to know the answers.”

  “Very well. But we will at least sit down.”

  “She wanted to be my mother, she said.” Viol sat on Afias’s lap at the long table. “To make us the same na
ture, somehow, I think.”

  Afias shook his head at Trinian. “What does that mean?”

  The new king, in his long stay in the dark wood, had learned many things from Gladier about the gods. He had learned that the natural gods were often jealous of mankind’s power, and as the god of Karaka had tried to do in his dark chamber to Trinian, so many natural gods had attempted to do to humans born into positions of prestige. And many had even succeeded in stripping weak men and women of their titles, so that now he shuddered and leaned forward in his tall throne. “She wanted to usurp your birthright. If you had consented, she would have had the right to rule her part of the world unmolested by any other claims, and possibly to rule Drian as well, should the rest of us die. She wanted to unmake you. But that is strong magic,” his eyes clouded, remembering how he had called upon his father in his moment of travail, “how did you resist it?”

  Her face fell. “I did not: I nearly gave her what she wanted. If the soldiers had not come…”

  “Sh.” Afias put his arms around her again and held her close. “It is all over now. You are safe with us and no evil will ever touch you.”

  IV

  RESOLVE

  “He was only too well aware that such resolutions might look very different when the moment came, but he felt an unwonted assurance that somehow or other he would be able to go through with it. It was necessary, and the necessary was always possible.”

  - C.S. Lewis, Out of the Silent Planet

  18

  Rumblings of War

  Five years passed away in the shining jewel city of Drian, wherein Trinian found that very little was expected of him: the Nian family had very little responsibility, acting more in the role of figureheads than leaders, while Astren and Adrea guided and controlled the city as they had ever done, and Afias wondered why he had been forced to desert his fields.