Trinian was overwhelmed, and paced to one side of the room, and then back again. “That’s a far leap, and we know nothing of its truth. How can we be certain? And how could it be done?”
“We will know,” said Gladier confidently, gathering up his notebooks. “We will know.”
“How?” demanded the king angrily. He was utterly sick of cryptic and partial responses. “Will you discover the secret?”
“I? Perhaps. And then again, perhaps not. It’s time I finally take action.” Then he left through the door, and was gone as suddenly as he had arrived.
Neither man moved for a long moment.
“Well, I see what you mean about putting you off with unsatisfactory answers,” said Trigent at last. “Brandy? I think I need something stronger after all that.”
“He thinks we can kill a high god?”
“Or something like it, I suppose.” Trigent handed Trinian a glass of amber brandy, then sat down and screwed up his face, reflecting. “I think you are right. You must build an army.”
“It is the goddesses,” said Trinian breathelessly. “A mortal army will only go so far – I must learn if I can kill Power.”
“You?”
“Why not? I am the king of the prophecies, I am the one the god fears, surely it is I who will kill him?”
“I thought Gladier was saying you would need the help of the other gods.”
“Who knows what Gladier is saying? I can only do what I can do, and I must learn if that means killing the god of Karaka. I must return to Korem.”
They shook hands warmly and clapped each other on the shoulders. “You know, I have to admit, I’ve been rather worried, in a selfish way, ever since you arrived,” said Trigent. “I thought you might order me to join you in court.”
Trinian smiled. He looked about the room, and out the window at the rolling green and golden fields. “This is where you belong. I need a link to my old life, and I am glad I have you here. Besides, if you are here, then I cannot send you away.” He grinned wryly.
They went to the horses, and Trinian mounted for his return journey.
Just before he rode off, Trigent said, “I would have come, you know.”
Trinian nodded. “I know.”
52
To Know Is to Act
What the Lord steward hated most of all was swift decision and hasty judgment.
“Ah, my king,” said the venerable patriarch when Trinian entered the throne room like a purposeful hurricane. “We wondered where you were this morning. We have been discussing where to house the poultry on the lower decks of the market. We hear tell that their cages were burned in the siege.”
The entire council was gathered around the long oak table, their graying beards combed regally over their chins and their hands folded formally in their laps.
“Where have the farmers been keeping them until now?” Trinian asked as a reflex as he walked to his throne, though he could not have cared less about geese and chickens.
Astren dismissed this question as irrelevant with a wave of his hand. “We do not know. We think the best place is probably beside the bath houses here,” he pointed to the map, “but we have not decided if it is not simply better to rebuild the original cages.”
“Gentlemen,” Trinian spoke sharply. “I have come to a decision.”
The gentlemen looked up apprehensively.
“To protect ourselves from a second siege,” he told them, and the old men shifted uncomfortably in their chairs, “we must build up our army. We are not enough to face a second attack. I am taking a retinue of soldiers into the east to find allies among the kingdoms there. Before you say anything,” their heads had all gone higher upon their necks as they prepared to answer him, “I am not asking for your opinions. I am going.” He walked down the dais and strode from the room without looking at any of them, but he stopped before he reached the doors and snapped back around. “And by the way, the farmers at the market have probably already solved this problem over which you spend hours deliberating, and if you send out a decree about it, you’ll only get in their way.” With that, he left them to themselves.
* * *
Gladier was glad when Trinian stormed into his Healory and told him of his plans.
“Yes, you must take action.”
“Then why did you not tell me so before?”
“Because I do not have all the answers. Neither am I your nursemaid, king; I do not wish to rule, unseen, behind your throne. Although if you do want my advice, take Phestite with you. He’s a good man and will protect you well.”
“No, Phestite needs to stay here to defend the kingdom.”
Gladier glanced at him sharply. “All right, then who will go with you?”
“I can command a retinue myself.”
“Yes, I know. But you’ll need advice more than manpower. You need someone you can speak with, who can advise you. I can’t go.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Why do you insist on going out yourself?”
Trinian whirled on him, pricked to the bone that Gladier should give his opinion now, when he had forced Trinian to make up his own mind. “You think I shouldn’t go? You think I should dig my head into the sand here, and decide where to put the farmer’s chickens?”
“Answer my question, please, without yelling at me.”
Trinian’s face was still flushed, and he spoke with the same vehemence, but in a calmer tone. “I have to go. Can you not see that? Do you not see they rely on me? I am this city’s one defense, and I am not enough. I have to find more men to guard her.” He shook with the effort to enunciate his thoughts and feelings. “I am a new king, and the other city states might not respect or believe in my authority if they meet only a messenger or envoy. I have to go myself to build the relations. I have to, don’t you see?”
Gladier nodded, folding his hands into his sleeves, and studying Trinian’s earnest eyes. “Yes. I see that, and I am pleased you do as well. Even with your presence,” he added quietly, “they may not listen.”
“Oh, they will listen.” With a wave of his hand that was uncomfortably reminiscent of Astren, Trinian dismissed that idea. He was calmer now, and growing more and more sure of himself. “When they meet me, and are confronted with all the history and power I represent, they will follow me. I know it.”
Trinian went to the window, gazing into the herb garden courtyard, and Gladier studied him from behind. The king’s hair was rich and golden, and his body strong, but there was a weight upon him that made him older than twenty-five. The wizard shook his head sadly, knowing the weight would only grow heavier with time, and wishing there was something he could do to teach the young man to bear it.
Gladier only sighed. “Take Phestite,” he repeated at last. “Listen to him – he will guide you well. Now, what about the kingdom?” he asked. “The council will rule in your absence?”
Trinian nodded, turning back. “The council will do what it can. The people will feel protected, and that is the best we can do for now. I only worry about how long I will be absent, and what will happen in the meantime.” He glanced up at his aged friend. “Will I find the goddesses?”
Gladier laid a gnarled, wrinkled hand on the king’s shoulder. “You know I can’t tell you that. My sight does not work that way.” He went to his work table and placed a jar of frog livers in its place on the shelves, and took down some powders which he blended in a tumbler of water. “But have hope, your majesty. I do.”
“In what? Myself, my kingship?”
“Yes, yes. There is always comfort in whether or not your position in life was ordained.” He handed the king a glass of the blended powders swirling in water. “I have always found it so. But you, Trinian, are only a man – even if you are a great one, meant for great things. Remember that there are powers above you.” The book of the gods lay open on the table, the image of Hope spread across the page, pulsating in gold, blue, and vibrant green. Gladier stroked the picture, following the line of h
er golden hair which coiled around a brilliant, abstract image of the future, blinding it with light. “You are not alone.”
Trinian drowned the drink, and much of the tension eased out of his shoulders. He thanked his friend, and made his way to the barracks.
* * *
Phestite was overseeing Garrity’s squadron when Trinian entered the round training room. The squad was divided into two groups, and were shooting arrows at a mark in successive order, competing to see which team finished first. They stood quickly to attention even before Phestite noticed the king. The general looked round in his slow, large way, and came to attention, his heavy frame overfilling the space. Unnoticed in a dark corner of the barracks, the soldier Kett approached to watch his beloved king with adoring eyes.
“My king, to what honor do we owe this visit?”
“Phestite, I’m sorry to interrupt your drills. Which side was winning?”
A young man with light scruff on his chin stepped forward and bowed. “My side, your majesty.”
Trinian recognized him. “You’re Garrity’s head man, are you not?”
“Yes, Sire, my name is Gorj.”
What desolation had filled Garrity when he was separated from his squadron had been true also for them. Without their leader, his men had thought of him and fought for him constantly, pushing themselves further in his absence than he would have allowed them had he been there, so full of love were they for him.
“Garrity is a fine warrior,” said Trinian. “And he spoke well to me of all of you.” He looked them over one last time, then said, “You are dismissed; I have a word to say to the General.” The men gathered their arrows and, with final bows, departed, and Trinian turned to Phestite. “I am journeying east to find allies to defend Drian.”
Phestite’s stoic, broad face did not show any emotion. He merely bowed and waited for Trinian to go on.
“We need to be prepared to defend this city from another attack. You agree that it must be our first priority?”
“I do,” he responded in his deep, thoughtful voice. “But I am afraid it is unlikely that anyone will band with you. Countries in Minecerva have grown accustomed to ruling themselves: I doubt they would take kindly to the return of the empire.”
“Surely,” said the king, “when they understand the might of the Power, they will change their minds. They will see reason.”
The General did not argue. “Who do you plan to take with you?”
“You. And I think Garrity’s squadron. They are good men.”
“They are. The best and most loyal men that you will find. And I will be honored to accompany you.”
“Good, I will need someone who can advise me. Tell the men we will leave at first light tomorrow.” And with that, he departed toward the door of the chamber.
Kett had all this time been standing in the shadows of the room and had overheard the conversation. Now, with the impetuousness of youth, he ran to the king and bowed.
“Sire, please,” he said. “I wonder if you would take me with you. Please say you will, sire; I cannot bear to be left behind. Don’t send me away from your side.”
Trinian’s first response was anger: the boy should not have been listening to his conversation with the general, and he ought to be harshly punished. But the anger did not burn further than a brief, passing burst. In his innermost heart, he was a desolate king, and the young man’s honest love was like a balm to an open wound.
“You should not have listened, Footman,” he lectured. Kett’s face fell and he looked down at the ground, before remembering his training and snapping his face back up again.
“Yes, sire,” he gasped.
“But your loyalty is commendable, and you have proven yourself a faithful soldier in the past.” The youth’s eyes brightened. “I will take you with – but not as a soldier. Kett, I want you to accompany me as my personal servant.”
The boy’s face was blank for a moment, unsure how to interpret this. But whether it was a demotion or promotion, he was allowed to travel with his beloved king, closely and intimately – and it was what he wanted. So his face burst into a radiant smile.
“Thank you sire.”
“Be ready to leave at first light tomorrow.”
“I will. Thank you sire.”
* * *
Trinian rode out from Drian at dawn the next morning. He gave a brief speech to the people, telling them he left them in good hands with the Lord Steward Astren, and that he would return soon with allies to protect the city. As he rode out, to cheers and well-wishers and pressing crowds, he caught sight of Trigent at the outer gate, and pulled up beside him.
“I know I complained before, but truly, is there anything you want from me?” asked his friend.
Trinian looked back at Astren standing in splendor before the entrance to Korem. “Yes. Keep an eye on matters of state. Whenever you are in town, have words with the steward. Tell him I want you to advise him on farming affairs, but really, try to spur him to action. These old men are slow.” He removed a ring from his finger. “I am bequeathing you secret power to over-rule him, which should only be used in case of great need.”
Trigent bowed and Trinian departed.
53
A Woman’s Depths of Despair
Though Afias had forgiven her and they both did their best to move on, Adrea was not the same after their encounter with Power. She pushed herself through her daily duties, convinced that to return to normality was the best way to put the matter safely in the past, but she underestimated the after-effects of her trauma. The devastation to Adrea’s soul was very real, and every day the misery burrowed deeper and the guilt nestled firmer inside her.
“Are you feeling alright?”
Afias had kept Adrea in the council room after lords Dargevalor and Kalaban departed. She had been silent throughout the meeting, and there were dark circles under her eyes. She started when he spoke, recovered, and nodded vigorously.
“Perfect. Yes. I’ll get right on that.”
“On what?”
She looked at him in surprise, as if only just registering that he had spoken. “What?”
“I said, are you feeling alright? You look like you’re not sleeping well.”
She sighed and rubbed her face. “I’m not. I’m sorry. I’ll try to get better at that.”
“No. Adrea, wait,” he paused suddenly, worried that perhaps she would not take kindly to his words, but he put the thought aside, and began again. “My lady, I’m worried about you, I’m not giving you orders. I ask because I am concerned.”
Maybe she was too tired to be guarded, maybe she was too overwhelmed by her own weakness, or maybe she was, at last, finally beginning to trust him, but she did not close off or seal up like a vault. She merely looked at him and shrugged, her shoulders lifting and falling in a slow, weary cadence. “I’ve been having nightmares, and now I cannot close my eyes. So I have not slept for two nights.”
“I’m sorry. But you have to sleep,” he added gently, “or at least lie down. You are not functional.”
She nodded. “Alright. You’re right.” She stood up. “I guess I will go now.” She got as far as the double doors out of the room, then just stopped and stood still.
“Adrea?”
She was trembling and hoped he did not notice. “I can’t do it. I can’t be alone.”
He went over and guided her to a couch in the room. “Here. Just lay down. I’ll be here.”
As docile as a little child, she lay down and closed her eyes. Afias pulled the curtains shut to block out the sunlight, but she asked him sleepily to leave them open; so he did, and went back to his writing table. Every morning after their meetings, Afias spent a half hour recording the events of the previous day, for he was keeping a ledger to give to Trinian when he returned to Drian. All was quiet for awhile. Only Afias’ pen scratched sound into the room, and once in awhile, he rustled the papers; Adrea’s breathing was deep and regular, signaling that she was sound asleep. But,
as it had been for the past few days, it was a false, exterior peace.
After twenty minutes, she began to moan aloud, and Afias looked up. She suddenly began crying out in her sleep and thrashing her arms and legs as if to ward off an enemy, and in the process, she fell off the bench; but she did not wake up.
“Adrea,” he said to wake her, but she did not hear. Jumping up, alarmed at the intensity of her fear and helplessness, he bent over her to shake her awake, but at his touch, she screamed in fright and, with a terrifying force, suddenly wrapped her arms around his neck, strangling him for dear life. He fell to his knees. He was the stronger of the two and could have broken free, but not without injuring her. So he struggled in vain for a moment, then reached behind and slapped her in the face, which at last awoke her. Coming out of the haze, she found herself standing above the prince, his face turning purple, and she pulled back with a cry of alarm.
“Oh, son of gods, what have I done?”
Afias coughed, trying to laugh ruefully, and only succeeding in giving a weird grimace as he rubbed his neck. “You were choking me.”
“I was choking the god. I saw it. And then I became the god, and I was choking myself, and then I woke up and I was me, choking you. Oh, gods of love and gods of hate, what has become of me?”
“Well, you’ve begun swearing quite a bit.”
“Don’t laugh.” She fell back onto the bench. “Don’t you hate me?”
He answered her soberly. “Of course not. That was not you, just your dream.”
“But I did nearly kill you. I did. Why do you not hate me?”
He stood up, supporting himself on the couch. “Adrea, I’m fine. Everything is alright.”
“But it’s not! It isn’t. It’ll never be again. Don’t you see? I tried to kill you, I betrayed my country…I gave myself to an evil spirit! Why don’t you hate me?”
He sighed. “Do you hate you?”
She hung her head, and said nothing.
“I have forgiven you,” he said at last. “You must forgive yourself.”
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