Prince Afias had become a regular visitor to the Healory, and the young apprentices viewed him as a benevolent patron. But the truth was that he found an escape with Gladier, who seemed to understand his brooding, melancholy nature and sympathize with it. Whenever palace life became intolerable, which it often did, Afias would retreat to his sanctuary, and Gladier’s words would shine a light on his confusion. It helped that the wizard was allowed full access to all court knowledge, for from his first and best teacher, the oldest and most venerable of men, Trinian decreed there would be no secrets, and so Afias could unburden his heart without reserve.
The prince found the wizard bent over the distillery, painstakingly extracting geranium into an oil, with focused, extended lenses resting on his nose, and a pot boiling behind him with a mighty will of its own.
“Prince Afias!” exclaimed Mignis, the youngest of the apprentices; too young even to grow a beard, he worshipped the prince. “Have you come to see our new equipment?”
Since Gladier was absorbed in his work, Afias went over to the boy. “What new equipment?”
“Our new instruments and knives.”
Mignis launched into a technical description of the apparatus, in far too minute of detail, and Afias tuned him out. He watched Gladier in the corner of his vision, and when the old man finally rose and left his still, he excused himself. Mignis, cut off in mid-sentence but still pleased to have gotten in a word with the prince, turned back to his work.
Gladier chuckled when Afias told him everything.
“Why do you laugh at me?” he cried.
“Calm down. I’m not laughing at you. I laugh because I understand poor Astren, and I feel sorry and frustrated at him. And I understand you. You are angry because you are young and idealistic; you want old men to be perfect and comprehending, and passionate like yourself, but I’m afraid I know better than that. Astren has been shaped by life and has passed the point where he will be malleable by changing events, so you cannot expect him to accept these new ideas.”
Afias’s temper still flamed and he spat his words like fireballs. “Why not? You do. You are malleable.”
Gladier glanced at him sternly from beneath his sharp gray eyebrows. “Hardly. I am a healer, a counselor, a patient waiter, and that is how I have been shaped. I am stuck in that mold. Much as I might wish, sometimes, that I could become something else, I am afraid I would be very poor at it. If you put me in charge of the army, for instance, I would lead it through counsel, healing, and patient stratagem. It may be effective or it may not, but I am not a military leader: I would only be able to do the best I could with what I had. That is all Astren is doing. He has been shaped by circumstances and I am not sure you can reshape him. However you can, through time, patience, and commitment, show him that you and Trinian are qualified to do what he cannot.”
“Fine. How can I do that?”
“Just do what you have been doing: support your brother, take the initiative against the evil spirit of Karaka, and remember to respect Astren even when you disagree with him, just as you do with Trinian.”
The young man pulled himself to his feet. “Speaking of Trinian, I left him alone, and I think he needs me.” But instead of leaving, he stepped across the room and looked out a round window into the darkening day. The red stone buildings were soaking up and storing the last of the sun’s heat. He stood watching until the sun disappeared behind the eastern wall.
“I had my whole life figured out. My entire life. I knew what I wanted, I was doing it, and I was exceptional at it. Do the gods have a plan? Or do they just like to make blissful mortals miserable? We are a game to them, I tell you. A rotten, unending, stupid little game!
“But I can’t do anything about it. Even if I could give up my title, I could not leave Trinian. You say you can’t change, but that is exactly what I have to do – I am supposed to flip my way of life on its head. I was a man who lived in the fields, worked side by side with his laborers, and managed only a small homestead – now I’m drowning in politics, dinner parties, intrigue, and war. You would think after five years I’d be used to it, but I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I am floundering, but I have to pretend that I understand everything.”
Gladier sighed. “I am sorry. If only you were old like me, maybe you would not have to.”
Swallowing his bitterness, Afias went back to the palace.
23
Spirit of Humanity
With all his obsession for war, for the god of Karaka, and for protecting the city, Trinian was a sadly neglectful husband. Adlena never saw him alone except for late at night when he climbed, exhausted, into bed beside her; and in that moment, even if he was passionate, she was left with deep emptiness. Since their marriage, he had grown more and more obsessed with being a good king and answering to every commitment, so that he made no time for her or Jacian, and sacrificed none of his commitments to prioritize their marriage. Now, at last, as he prepared to depart the city to do the thing he most loved, she fell into a deep gloom. She could not voice the reasons for her depression, for she did not know if he was right or wrong, so little did she understand of human relationships; but deep down, beneath the realm of conscious thought, she wondered if she would ever again know the patient, kind, thoughtful man of their courtship. She feared there, in the deep darkness, that this was the meaning of marriage: loneliness, toil, and unremitting support across a vast distance of souls, and she could not rise from this terror, so that it threatened to break her and leave her a lonely, unreachable wreck.
It was in this despondent state, the day before the army departed for Mestraff, that Cila happened upon her sister-in-law in the palace gardens. The queen sat upon one of the low stone partitions, her slender fingers digging deep into the furrowed agony of her face, and violent sobs wracking her frame.
“My dear, what has happened?” Cila ran to her and put her arms tenderly about her. Adlena wiped her eyes, tried to smile, and then laid her head on Cila’s shoulder. Sitting there together, surrounded by pink and yellow roses, clad in their informal gowns, and with hair loose and flowing about their faces, they formed such a lovely picture of two young girls that a stranger, wandering in and glancing upon them, might have taken them for maidens, innocent and virginal. But beneath those fresh, beautiful faces, there lay hid their heavy burdens, which at times could do nothing but rise up, overwhelm, and cast them down. Cila, with heavy heart, waited for her sister to unburden herself.
Finally, Adlena’s voice came forth low, calm, and tragic. “What is marriage supposed to be like? I have never known and now I think I must be doing it wrong, because it lacks any happiness.”
Cila rocked and soothed for a moment, tears springing to her eyes. “It is not going to be happy all the time, my darling,” she said at last.
“When will it stop being miserable?”
“Well, when was the last time you were happy?”
“I know not – it has been so long. I suppose…when Jacquee was born.” The queen broke forth in fresh tears at the realization that that was four years ago.
Cila was shocked, and breathed deeply to wrap her mind around it. Unhappiness in her marriage, at its worst, lasted three days, and she understood now that something was much worse here than she had supposed. “That is not right. Tell me more, Adlee,” calling her by her pet name, “we are going to resolve this, you and I together.”
Torn between tears and hope, Adlena shared everything: the agony of loneliness, the rebuffed attempts at conversation with her husband, the rearing of a small boy all by herself. Then she went further, finding to her surprise that there was a deeper root, a more agonizing trouble plaguing her heart: she told of the complete confusion she felt toward life. It was a terrifying, overwhelming bewilderment that left her lost and scared; she felt incapable and incompetent to enter into relationships or be around people. Her years of loneliness left her inept in social scenes, and she actively avoided appearing before her subjects. How was she supposed to
behave when she did not understand how everyone else did?
Cila found here a tangle of heartache, confusion, and desolating alienation, and it tore at her heart. It was inconceivable that the queen, the most idolized, adored, and beautiful creature in the kingdom, held such deep, hidden, encompassing darkness! And yet it was so. And her brother was unaware of it! Adlena’s own husband, who should have been her guide and comfort in this turmoil, only served to deepen the confusion and isolation within her.
Immediately, Cila assured her sister she was not alone. She assured her that she would always be there, ready to comfort, answer, and explain. “Come to me, please. Always come to me if you are confused, lonely, or sad: I want to help you. And do not fear ignorance. Adlee, we are all ignorant of something or another, and it is our unknowing that paves the road to experience. So do not fear the darkness – it merely serves to show us the light.” Adlena thanked her with calmer tears, and they held each other close for a long moment. “As for my brother,” said Cila, sitting up straight as if ready to lecture him then and there, “when he returns, we will see what can be done with him.”
24
Riding to War
Lady Adrea watched the soldiers of Drian, with their glittering bayoneted splendor, glistening sharpened swords, and swelling wetted passion, from the imperious height of the Korem tower. It was here she had once despaired for her people and desperately sought a way to save them, and now they were saving themselves, led forth from their vigorous, beautiful city by a man who matched it in strength and grace. How she loved him!
When Trinian had told her, after she found him alone in the throne room, of his plans to travel to Mestraff, she had shown her disgust at her father’s plans and joy at her king’s decisions, for such was her usual way now that Trinian was king. Everything he did, if it was action-driven, stirred her heart, and she supported his desires. How she admired him for spending his days with the army, training them and honing them into a force worthy of the once great majesty of Drian. How she had encouraged him to be respectful yet firm before her father, and had been disappointed whenever he put off actions at the advice of the Steward. When Trinian told her that he intended to leave Drian at the head of the army, push back the invading monsters in the east, and return victorious, she had not held back her words, but encouraged him to leave with all the persuasion in her power. “Your father does not approve,” he told her, but she only stilled her enflamed pacing and whirled on him with shining eyes, and cried out, “And who is king of Drian? Everyone else is bound to obey the steward – but not you. Oh no, for you have a higher calling, and must even lead him! Go forth, Trinian, and conquer!”
Now her heart swelled with pride and her eyes glittered with delight as she admired how he rode back and forth before the ranks, inspiring them with brave, fighting words. Oh, she would give anything to see them in battle! The color rose on her cheeks at the thought, and her white profile, sharp against the gray, windy sky beyond her, quivered softly with pleasure.
It was upon this image of the young, impassioned girl gazing over the bulwarks at the rippling crowd below, that three high goddesses gazed from the heavenly palace. Passion, Resolve, and Charity were musing on the fate of the mortal army of Drian.
“It is a huge task, and he will never succeed. But he is right to try,” decided the goddess Resolve.
“Who?” asked her sister Passion. “Power, or the little king down there?”
“Oh, that king is just doing what he has to. But Power is pushing the boundaries. You know, the Golden King said we had all the freedom we wanted just so long as we handed it back to him when he returned, but that is not freedom. Power understands that. True freedom has no consequences, and if he can claim this world for his own, then we can all be truly free.”
They were lounging on one of the many verandahs of Fate’s palace, seated on cushions on the railing-free balcony. As her sisters talked over her head, Charity lay on her stomach, gazing at the beauty of Minecerva: lush greens pastures, streaking blue rivers, purple mountain ranges, and bustling cities. But the blackish, brackish, darkling land of Karaka smudged and blotted one corner, and she scrunched her nose at it musingly.
“Is it worthwhile to have freedom in a boggy, cold, and black world?” she asked her sisters.
Passion giggled. She considered herself much more knowledgeable than her older sister and often patronized her sentiments. “You do not understand what we are saying, Chary dear. Not having freedom is far, far worse. You know that when the Golden King arrives, he will demand an account of our actions. Ugh,” she shuddered daintily, “how unpleasant that will be.”
Resolve never giggled, so before speaking, she only looked sharply at the other two, and then down at the world below. “Of course, ‘miss perfection’ has nothing to fear from the Golden King. She has played it safe and tame all these years, and he will probably pat her kindly on her shining yellow head and give her a little section to oversee. Why should she not be against Power when she has been such a faithful servant for Him?”
A sharp pain stabbed Charity in the heart and she stood up to relieve the old ache. She knew the lie of Resolve’s words, and she cradled her shoulders as if to ward off a chilling, unsettling wind. “Oh, poor Chary,” prattled Passion. “Perfect little princess, doesn’t like to be teased.”
“I am not perfect, you know,” she murmured.
“Not in my book, you are not,” affirmed Resolve. “Perfection is Power, who has dared to rise so high in ambition that he will one day rule the world. That is perfection, and the world he creates will be ours.”
“It will be our playground!” cried Passion.
“Our kingdom,” said Resolve.
“Our fresh start,” said Passion.
“Our road away from that overseeing, demanding, despotic King,” finished Resolve firmly.
“But you said he would never succeed,” broke in Charity.
Resolve straightened her shoulders with a new plan. “Not alone, he will not, that is true. Very well – I will help him. Passion?”
“Oh, I’ve been doing little things already,” she waived her arm dismissively. “I suppose I could get some people riled up and ready to fight for him, but that’s really so boring and involves making up so many lies. I think I’ll wait and see what happens.”
“Well, I will not. If I want it to happen, I must do it myself. Farewell, ladies,” and with a flutter of her gown, Resolve descended swiftly to the world below to instill resolute victory into Power’s monsters.
“What little things have you been doing?” Charity asked Passion.
“Oh! There is the oldest princess, you know, who is ruled by me. She drinks me up like I were a glass of fine wine; she revels with the young men, teasing them and taunting them, and making them into clay in her hands, and every morning she decks herself out in satins, silks, beads, and rouge so that I am quite contented. She is a regular diva.”
Charity thought of her own special pets, and the thought of them made her smile sweetly. “Princess Cila and Prince Asbult are very wonderful, you know. And the love the king has for his people is quite contagious.”
“Oh, and of course, Lady Adrea is a work in progress,” said Passion. “Her stores of desire are boundless, it seems, and I can stir them with a tip of my little finger. Watching her respond is sheer delight.”
“What does she respond to?”
“The king, naturally. She’s in love with him, though I’ve never gotten her to say so. War and fighting invigorate her, and – what’s most fun – incompetence boils her blood and can send her into such delightful fits of rage and fury.”
A regal step within the palace made them turn their heads as Fate stepped out on the balcony. “How goes the battle?”
“Has it started already? We didn’t know.” Passion peered down at Mestraff and saw Trinian’s soldiers crossing the Rordan in boats. A few leagues within the forest on the other side, Terror, Resolve, and Death winged through the air, organi
zing and fueling Power’s troops with their curses.
“Why does Power not come himself?” Charity asked Fate.
“I have noticed he avoids Rordan,” he answered. “Also, he has abided with the mortals so long that he has trouble flying about. It is wearisome for one of our kind to traverse their world, so heavy, coarse, and rigid as it is.”
“I think he has been blending,” shuddered Charity.
“Yes, like a touchable shadow,” agreed Passion. “It’s exhilarating to touch him, he feels so sensual now.”
The sides were still two leagues distant from one another, but the gods watched as they closed within a day. They settled in to observe the carnage.
25
Bottleneck at Ringwold
“Have you heard any more from Asbult?” Trinian asked the captain of Ringwold’s volunteer guard. They had met the captain and his men before reaching the city, for they were a hunting party who had been stranded in the woods, unaware of the danger to their homes until it closed about their town, blocking them out.
“Ringwold has been under siege for forty-two hours. The enemy surrounds it on all sides, and threatens to break through at any moment. We’ve had no word from anyone inside. We have done little damage to the enemy out here, such a small band as we are.”
“Well, captain, you will be invaluable to us,” Trinian assured him. “We intend to surround and demolish the enemy, but first we must rout it, and send them fleeing from the city gates.”
The man’s eyes grew wide with disbelief, and he gaped at the king. “You can’t know then how many there are! Those people in there are as good as dead, I tell you. Those beasts can’t be routed.”
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