Trinian

by Elizabeth Russell

He met the greatest of the gorgans,

  The leader of the sharp-toothed band.

  Their clash was fierce and overshadowed

  By the gods that gazed from heaven.

  And Afias, with a mighty sweep,

  Beheaded the beast,

  Immobilized its teeth

  And won for them the battle!”

  Applause filled the hall when he finished, but Afias frowned uncomfortably and Adrea had lost her appetite. She smiled understandingly at him, her eyes saying, “I know death is not like what he sings, but you must be grateful of the attention for their sakes. You know we do it for them.”

  So Afias gave a speech, thanking them for their tribute, and turning the praise onto the people’s resilience through this time of difficulty. He said he was proud of all their efforts and told them he had never expected to love a people as much as he loved the Southernians. At that, the cheering and foot stamping was so great Adrea covered her ears and thought the roof might cave in. After that, the band took out their instruments and the dancing began, and Afias smiled, for now he could do what he had wanted to do all night: he asked Lady Adrea to dance.

  She floated in his arms with perfect poise. She was always perfection. Yet the smile on her face as he spun her, with her eyes closed, belied rigidity. She was entirely relaxed. And so was he.

  88

  Perfection

  The room was relatively quiet. Most Southernians had gone to bed, but a few stragglers still lounged lazily in the room. No one ever uses chairs the right way at such an hour, and now many sat cross-legged on the tables amongst bottles and left-over hams, conversing above leftover rolls of bread and butter. A group of young people sprawled comfortably on the floor before the blazing hearth, chatting, falling in love, and enjoying their youth. An elderly couple was sound asleep in their seats against the wall, their hands clasped together on one of the arm-rests.

  Afias smiled as his glance took it all in. He himself was lounging on two chairs that had been pushed together, and a moment ago, Adrea had been sitting on the floor before him, leaning against the cold flagstones lining the wall to cool her forehead after dancing. Now, across the room, she conversed with the kitchen staff about the leftovers. At last, she made her way back to him.

  “Everything set?”

  She took a deep breath and did what he had just done: she looked appreciatively around the room. “I am proud of tonight.”

  “Rightly so. It was a wonderful success.”

  She turned to him like a child seeking approval. “You really liked it?”

  “It was the best night of my life.”

  She smiled, and her eyes filled with tears, for ever since her lonely journey into the wild, she wept at the slightest provocation. It was as if a lifetime of suppressed feelings were trying to make up for lost time.

  “What if everything falls apart again? What if we bow to Power and this is the last good night of our lives?”

  Afias frowned, looking at her with the pain of a bear who, after driving away the murderous hunters, seeks to heal its wounded mate. She was staring again at the room full of happy people, her lip trembling. Suddenly, he took her hand and pulled her toward the doors.

  “Come with me.”

  He led her through the towering halls of the palace, across the courtyard of flagstones, and into the flower garden along the eastern wall. Here, the perfume of roses and lilies filled the air, cultivated from the dead earth by a faithful gardener. The prince led her to the dry fountain which did not run because they could spare no water, and tilted her head up to the sky above.

  “Look.”

  With her head still uptilted, she gently lowered herself until she lay on the ground.

  “It is beautiful. But why am I looking?”

  He lay down beside her and stared at the constellations. At the warrior with his sword and head just peeking above the horizon. At the frog with his tongue extended just above their heads. At Wisdom with her dress as long as a bridal train, wrapping around the Fate star, which glistened above Drian. If they followed the Fate star, it would lead them home.

  “What if this is our last good night?” he asked her. “So what? Look at that sky. There is something so beautiful, so untouchable up there. We are part of something so much more than us, and if we cease, it goes on… It does not matter if everything here ends tomorrow – up there will go on.”

  “What matters if it goes on – if we are not here to see it?” Her voice was breathless. She was caught up in the mystery.

  “You know. You know it matters.”

  “But why.”

  He rested in the stillness of the heavens. Finally, he said, “I do not know. We matter, you know, or we would not be here at all. Maybe the stars look down at us and say that they do not matter, so long as we are here.”

  “And if we die tomorrow? You think they still matter?”

  After a moment, he said, “What is death? Surely, it is an adventure. What right do we have to fear it?”

  Suddenly, she sat up. “No!” she declared. “I do fear it! We are young and still have fight left. It does matter if we die – too many have died already.”

  “What if,” he said quietly, “your death saved the world?” he asked her. “That would be worth one more death. That would be worth my death.”

  He saw her, in the silver light of the stars which made her dress look white, scowl like she used to do when she disagreed with him.

  “Am I wrong?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said tearfully. “Very wrong. You must not die.”

  “Why?”

  She felt as if her heart were being torn from her chest, as if she stood upon newly hewed foundations which were cracking, as if everything new she had come to hope in was threatening to leave her. Thoughts of Trinian, long ago buried in her heart, rose up now and flooded her with betrayal and despair as she wondered if Nian men never felt. Whether they had any attachment to the women who gave them everything, all of themselves, for Trinian had sent his women away, and Afias now threatened to leave her. She had already broken her heart over one of them – but this would be… oh, it would be so very much worse! All at once, she rose and cried out. “Take me to my room please. I want to go to sleep.”

  89

  Who Is the Golden King?

  Horans’ long, lanky, naked legs flashed fierce across the bristly grasses of the South Drian wilds.

  He had originally traveled to Varlo with Prince Afias, thrilled at the chance to see more of the world, since he had only ever seen the expanse between Drian and the Rordan forts. Yet, after traversing it twice, he was bored again, on this his third return trip. There were no monuments, no traffic, no cities between the two capitols: only an endless, flat stretch of rocky grasslands, with half a day’s run of forest in the very middle. But a job was a job, and it was his to relay updates every three months between the two metropolises.

  He arrived at Varlo and made his way directly, with unflagging speed, to the conference room. Lady Adrea and Lord Afias sat together at the far end of the long table, their heads bent low over a document as the prince scribbled furiously. They were engrossed in conversation so completely that they heard nothing of his arrival.

  He pulled up short at a respectful distance, mindful of his own musty aroma, and saluted. “Returned with my report, your highness.”

  Afias looked up in surprise, then pushed aside the document and sat up eagerly, anxious for news of his brother. Horans was accustomed to delivering, impartially, news that only sometimes affected him personally, yet whenever he returned from Drian, he could not help the feeling of warmth that flooded through him when he stood before Prince Afias and Lady Adrea. They were his two favorite people in the whole world. He adored them from afar and hoped they would remain in South Drian to rule it together forever. If they did, he was going to move here.

  This was not an opinion held by himself alone. Everyone in South Drian desired it. Only the Lord and Lady themselves still hoped th
ey would return to Drian.

  Horans reported, in a monotone voice, Lord Astren’s message almost word for word. He laid out how Drian was rebuilding well to its former glory. “It is going so well, Lord Astren informs you, that King Trinian has felt free to maintain his travel east with General Phestite and the platoon of soldiers, seeking unnecessary allies for a conflict that, Astren assures you, will not come again. We have defeated the enemy, he states, and effectively dissuaded them from returning. We are a formidable force, once again, with which to be reckoned. A kingdom with a king, a world with an emperor. You, Prince Afias, and your brother, he said, will learn this in time.

  “You are to remain in South Drian until further notice. There is no approaching threat. He sends his love to you, Lady Adrea.”

  Horans fell silent, his message delivered.

  Both were silent and glanced at each other significantly, though Horans could not read their looks. Then the prince dismissed him. Adrea was silent until Horans left, then turned to Afias.

  “Does my father mean for us never to return to Drian?”

  “Perhaps not until a threat arises.”

  “But he seems to think there won’t be one….What do you think of it? Of his assessment? Clearly Trinian disagrees.”

  “Clearly.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, I don’t know,” he said impatiently. “I’m not in the mind of the enemy, and I’m not in Drian. How could I know?”

  “I think he’s wrong. Power isn’t going to give up. Death told you that.”

  The prince stirred in his chair, restless and resentful. So well, now, did Adrea know his every move, every mood, that she saw him rise in her mind’s eye before he did it in real fact. He paced the floor, wearing a well-worn groove in the flagstones. Watching him think, she was distracted from thinking herself, and she was curious, seeing the wheels whir inside his head.

  “Who is the Golden King?” he demanded suddenly.

  She frowned, the name tugging at the recesses of her buried memory. When spoken, the name released a fragrance into the air, like the scent of a forgotten happiness. She wrapped her fingers around her arms, chilled and lost like a child, floating like a seed separated from its source. “I think he’s someone wonderful,” she whispered.

  “Yes!” Afias’s voice vibrated, catching the tail end of her words and striking his enthusiasm into them. “Wonderful. But who is he? Adrea, when Death laid upon me the injunction never to betray the Golden King, it was as though I were possessed. My heart beat with purpose, my brain calmed, my body – my limbs strengthened just to hear his name!”

  Adrea found she was both smiling and tearing up, her mind calming, her heart beating, her limbs answering. When Power possessed her, she had touched Hell. The very depths of misery, the lowest dregs of existence, of which humanity dare not dream because the reality is too terrible – that was her living nightmare, for she had been made the lowest of low humanity. But the Golden King – he awakened the opposite end of the spectrum. Light and beauty, truth and love – his name carried the promise of eternal happiness, and she wanted to repay him just for the promise of it. “I want to serve him,” she said aloud, and the aloudness surprised her.

  “Do you?” Afias fell at her feet, kneeling on the ground, his beautiful, shining face alight with love as he gazed at her. “So do I. I do not know how, but I want to serve him. I want to love him. I do love him – already. Don’t you?”

  She laughed at him. He was more animated than she had ever seen. She nodded. “Yes, I do. I do love him. And I want to know him.”

  Afias stood again. “To think, we never knew about him. You can’t love someone if you don’t know them.”

  “But we do not know him, even now.”

  “Alright,” he sat down again, his brain searching for truth, “we do know some things. We know his name -”

  “The Golden King,” supplied Adrea, and they both smiled at its sweet sound.

  “We know that he is a god.”

  “A god?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe not. He seems more wonderful than that, somehow. Power is a god, after all.”

  “He is nothing like Power.”

  “Death made that clear. In fact, he is nothing like Death. Death was in awe of him – he feared him.”

  “So maybe he is an over-god?”

  “Maybe. That is a workable title, at least.”

  At that moment, they were interrupted by a servant summoning them to dinner.

  “Yes, yes,” said Adrea, then repented her abruptness, and answered formally, “Thank you, page, we are on our way.” But before they parted to wash up – for Adrea still insisted on some traditions – they promised to continue on this wonderful topic, for their hearts desired nothing else but to return to it.

  90

  Proposal

  When they met again in the dining room, Marty stood at the head of the table. Marty was an excellent, kindhearted cook, and a native of South Drian, who had come to love the Lord and Lady as much as anyone else in that country. She had already dismissed the kitchen maids, but stayed behind to tell them what she had prepared for supper. She always wanted to apologize for the simple fare, as if Afias and Adrea were not guiltily aware that she always gave them the choicest food in the country.

  After she ran through her familiar monologue, she stood awkwardly, seeming reluctant to leave the Dining Hall. “Begging your pardon, Prince Afias, Lady Adrea,” she said, when they asked if something was wrong, “Horans just come back and was in the kitchen getting his fill of a hot meal, and is it true – you’re staying here with us? Not going back to Drian, I mean?”

  “Horans ought not to be relaying our messages in the kitchen,” said Adrea.

  “Oh, he did not. That is, we plied him with questions, so he hinted that you wasn’t wanted back home. As that’s what we all hoped for, it’s what we wanted to confirm. Are you going back to Drian?”

  “Well, yes, I imagine so,” said Afias. “When our business here is finished.”

  “Oh, but it never will be, highness! I mean, our ruling family is gone, and who’s to lead us when you leave? Couldn’t you stay?”

  South Drian had always been an informal country. Requests were made simply, with openness, and even Adrea had grown accustomed to its open manners. So without a lecture about etiquette, the noble lady merely dismissed the cook with a kind, non-committal answer.

  “Do you want to stay?” asked Afias.

  “Is it up to us?” she asked pointedly.

  “No. But do you want it?”

  “Alone? Or with you, the way we are now?”

  He shrugged. “Either, I suppose.”

  She refused to answer right away, and ate her dinner with a relish, using the food as an excuse for silence. When her plate was empty, the quiet had stretched for too long, and Afias was uncomfortable, and he wondered if she was upset with him. They sat as two strangers at table, the meal driving them apart instead of binding them together, and when, at last, Afias could bear it no longer, he abruptly stood, his heavy chair grating against the stone floor, and walked out. Adrea remained seated, confounded and gaping after him. She wondered if she had made him so uncomfortable that he had to run away – but that was drastic. He was perennially polite, even when angry or upset, and never left without a civil farewell.

  She was greatly relieved when he returned, but then he astounded her by walking straight up to her side, so close that his legs brushed against her knees and his long outer vest rubbed her shoulder, so that her heart hurt by the combination of physical nearness and personal distance and she wanted to pull away. He pushed his long hair away from his forehead, opened a piece of folded paper, and began to read,

  “My dearest Adrea,

  Hear these words I write to you, futile as they are. In this past month, you have grown more dear to me than anyone else in the world. I cannot begin to say how much…” he read quickly, his voice breaking and stumbling. “I love you. If you want it, my e
ntire life is yours. By duty, I am bound to king and country; by love, to you. I know I have little to offer – only a poor excuse of a former farmer turned incompetent ruler, but with you beside me, I do not feel like a failure. When you believe in me, I am strong. If you loved me, my strength would be boundless. Will you, most beautiful of women, most faithful of companions, most dear of friends, be my wife?”

  He looked at her over the paper, supplying his own words to the written text. “I’m not very good at writing, as you can see. I would try to make you happy. Really. Because I would already be so happy, it would be easy. And I know we would fight, for we are both so stubborn. But I would be bored with someone who failed to challenge me, and I would rather fight with you than get along with anyone else, and –”

  “Are you finished?”

  He stopped, his rambling speech cut short so that his mouth still hung open, his cheeks flushed with the force of his fervor.

  “We do not fight anymore,” she said.

  “Well, we – we do sometimes,” he stuttered. “Like in the garden the night of the ball. Or just now, when I asked if you wanted to stay…”

  Her eyes laughed at him openly until he stopped rambling. He tried to smile in response, but he was too nervous, and could only stand awkwardly, shifting his feet back and forth and pushing his hair away from his forehead. Adrea could have sat and watched him for a long time, he was so adorable. But she had pity on him, and said, “Those weren’t fights, you wonderful creature. I was just hurt, because I loved you and you said nothing. And now I learn you have loved me for a whole month.”

  Afias’s whole face beamed. “Two, actually. I wrote this a month ago.”

  Now it was Adrea’s turn to be tongue-tied. He had loved her since she returned to Varlo, when she was still a terrible mess. “Why – why did you say nothing?”

  Afias took her hand, lifted her from the table, and led her into the adjoining parlor, adoring her with an unflinching look every step of the way. She had said she loved him, and he basked completely in it. He set her on the couch and sat beside her. “I did not think you were ready. Your soul was in such turmoil.”