Trinian

by Elizabeth Russell

  “I want to speak to Nian, son of Ankysis,” but the keeper folded himself up, and sat still and silent as a statue.

  The sounds of hollow hoofs startled them all as Melcant approached the keeper. “Will you be here when we return?” he whinnied hesitantly, falteringly.

  “No.”

  The horse’s head drooped low. “I had hoped…I had hoped you had come for me.”

  “So I have.”

  Melcant cantered backward in fright. “Now?” he whispered.

  The keeper tilted his head and seemed to consider. “Not now. Later. Finish your journey, but you will never exit the tunnel.”

  The horse bent to the ground and bowed as low as he could, his sides shaking in terror. “Thank you,” he said.

  Then the keeper vanished, and only the stony, sloping wall faced them. Melcant waited until the king and prince resumed their seats on his back, and then, silently and with measured tread this time, they resumed their journey.

  110

  Garrity Loses a Battle

  Power stood in the center of the massive hall, his land emptied by the last attack on Drian, his war leaders killed there by his enemy. He was alone in his black land, and he knew these would be no defense against the coming of the mortal king. But he smiled, for he still believed he had the upper hand in his corner. The king could not win.

  He stood over Garrity, soldier of Drian, son of a goddess, slayer of serpents, and Power put out his hand to end the life of the infant princess. He did it in the sight of the mighty man, and he who had stood his ground against terrible assaults, who had forged himself in his own standard of virtue, who had refused to be seduced before any temptations, caved before the god who craved mortality. To save the innocent princess, he gasped out of his bloodied mouth ‘yes.’ Yes, he would yield himself to the god and relinquish his birthright. The god might take what he desired, could learn to be a perfect blend of mortal and immortal, and with a triumphant smile, Power stooped, and he took it.

  Power felt the right course through his being – at last, he understood what it was to be human! He understood the frailty, the thrill, the sensual pleasure. He grasped the will, the soul, the heart; the passions, the resolve, the terror, the despair – ah, he knew it all! In his being, he held the perfect balance between divinity and humanity. He felt the power return to him that he had, for some time, been losing. For second upon second, he had relinquished bits of his divinity to attain aspects of humanity, but at last, he could wield any powers, any purposes, any physical feats he desired!

  Finally, his stupid brothers and sisters would see that he, not they, not the Golden King, not a puny mortal, was meant to rule the world. And he would drive the stupid gods from their heavenly palace, he would stalk across Minecerva, he would rule over the living, the dead, and the divine. He strode the chamber, running his hands through each other over and over again, impatient now for Drakans to deliver up its puny king; eager now for the final conflict.

  * * *

  Melcant paused. It was still dark all about them, with no sign of an exit.

  “Melcant?” whispered Trinian reverently. His mood had calmed since the beast’s encounter with the keeper. “Why do you stop?”

  “This is it,” said the horse. “One more step and you are out.”

  The king and prince slipped off his back. In the golden glow of the sword, the horse’s head was held high.

  “Shouldn’t you at least try to leave?” asked Afias. He felt that Melcant was such a noble creature – too noble to die like this, without a fight.

  Melcant understood, and his eyes smiled at them. “I am older than you think,” he whispered, trembling. “I am ready. When you see Laven again, tell her…that I never loved another mortal as I did the Horse Maiden. You will tell her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Now go. Save them, and rule Minecerva as you were meant to.”

  They touched their foreheads to his, and then stepped forward.

  In a moment, they were out. All at once, a gray mist surrounded them and mud squelched under their boots; above them a gray mass of towers blended into the clouds.

  “We are here,” said Trinian, gripping his sword and remembering, with dread, his last visit.

  “Do you know the way?”

  He had seen it all too often in his nightmares. “Yes.”

  As Trinian led his brother down twisting passages, through dripping, squelching tunnels, and down winding ramps, his panic increased. The closer he neared to Power, the better he remembered their last encounter. Since learning he was king, he had clung desperately to the belief that, in face-to-face combat, he could finally defeat the god. But what foundation had he for such belief? Only the fear he had felt emanating from the shade. Only the echo of obscure, confused prophecies. Only one.

  After a little while, Afias asked quietly, “Why did you want to speak to father?”

  “It was only by his help that I escaped Power before.” The king stopped still suddenly. “Afias, can I really kill him?”

  Afias sighed, standing like a statue in the murky chamber, frozen in place by uncertainty. He had not stopped Power, even when he was only a shade. How much more powerful could Trinian be than himself?

  “I thought you said the prophecy favored you.”

  “It does. It did. I do not know. ‘For shall you enter the brownish land, The death knell of your family will ring,’ and ‘There’s only one to fall so he’ll be killed, One you love, in land of cruel end of day. When one is thrice pierced of purest sight, Such sacrifice will lead to His god-might.’

  Afias was shivering, for this was the first time he had heard these words, and they chilled him to the bone. “What do they mean?” he whispered.

  Trinian kept speaking, as if he had not heard. “Mercy and Justice both said I would misunderstand it. I thought for a long while that it was my death of which the prophecy speaks. Afias, the future is well if it is my death, but what if…” The terror in his voice was tangible, and slid over both of them like a slimy thing, filling them with dark foreboding. “It could speak of you.”

  “If it does, then all is well,” said Afias hesitantly, for he did not believe it. “But I do not possess purest sight.”

  Trinian’s eyes were wells of battling terror, but he spoke nothing, certain now, and gasping for bravery. “I sent her away. So far away, and now for this to be the end of it.” Afias said nothing, his heart aching for his brother. At last Trinian spoke again, and now his voice was full of steely, fierce resolve. “Prophecies are warnings, that is all. I must not let them control me.”

  “When Adrea and I were attacked in South Drian,” said Afias after a moment, “I called on the gods to help me. Three of them drove him from the chamber.”

  “Three?” said Trinian, grasping hold of the idea. “Yes! We must call on the gods! But Gladier said gods fought on our side in Drian, but even they were not enough… Their powers must not be greater than Power himself. Afias, who is powerful enough to defeat Power?”

  Afias smiled gently, and sighed with a sudden peace. “The Golden King.”

  There was a sudden scent of pine in the chamber that invigorated Trinian, and he looked sharply at his brother, and nodded once. “One thing I know for certain: Power and I must meet. We must fight; this is the end of time, and now the conflict will be decided. It is my destiny, and so, I will face him. Call on the Golden King, brother, for perhaps it is His destiny that will prevail.”

  Resolved, dreading, and hopeful, they continued toward the hall, and finally, they came to the center chamber. The secretary was at his desk, as always, sorting papers and lit like a glowworm. Who read those papers? Why did he sort them? He sorted them like he breathed, absent-mindedly, and like it was very important. Trinian approached him with his sword point out. “Where are my wife and child?”

  The secretary looked up and smiled. It stretched across his face like a dark cavern opening on a white salt mine. “I’ve been waiting for you. You’re a lit
tle late.” He looked down at a water-clock at his elbow which held no water, and could reflect no sun, then handed Trinian a sheet of paper. “Sign this, please, and I will send you through.”

  On the paper was recorded the two prophecies of Mercy and Justice to Power. Trinian read it, and then dropped it like it was burning hot. “How dare you! What is this?”

  “Oh, it’ll be ruined now. I’ll have to make another.” He scrabbled busily on a new sheet of paper.

  Afias stooped down and read it without touching it:

  ‘“Beware the rightful heir of Drian’s throne,

  his coming brings the end you fear.

  Since rightful mortal heir is the inertia

  For reign of rightful King of Minecerva.’

  ‘And only one to challenge your great might

  there’s only one to end your usurpation.

  To defeat him sustains your lasting nation

  To overthrow maintains your mortal station.’”

  “I don’t want any of your tricks,” gasped Trinian at the grinning man, who reached out to hand him a new copy. “I am not here to prove myself, or take a bet. I am here to defeat the god who is killing my people. I am here to save my family.” He thrust the side of the blade just under the secretary’s throat, glaring into the white eyes in the pale, indifferent face, trying to convey the urgency of death through his deadly gaze. “Bring me to Power.”

  The secretary was not moved, but only shrugged, and pointed toward one of the back corners, for Power was in his living room.

  Trinian and Afias approached and saw the roaring fireplace with a handsome shadow leaning comfortably against it, watching them as a lord might watch some guests who had come to his home.

  “King Trinian,” the powerful voice rumbled, “welcome again to my palace. I see you found your way in. I am glad; it can be a bit bewildering. But the secret is very simple, you know – all the tunnels are the right ones. They all lead out, and they all lead here.

  “Wine?” he held out two glasses filled with glowing liquid that looked like fire. When they made no move to take them, he shrugged and put them on the mantle. “To each his own, I suppose.”

  “What is your game, Power?”

  “No game. Such a word implies that there must be a struggle and then a victor, but I have already won, you see. So I play no games.”

  “We both know you will not win until you take my life, and that will not be as easy as you think.”

  “I don’t know if you have met my sister, Passion. My dear, this is the king we were always fighting.”

  A beautiful, cold, magnificent woman, dressed in a glowing red gown, was standing in the doorway of the hall. She approached and took up one of the goblets.

  “Charmed,” she said dismissively, and then turned to Power. “I see you have managed, at last, to reign in that awful temper of yours. So glad, brother.”

  He smiled triumphantly, but it was a calm, collected smile. “Is that why you have come back then?” he asked. “Crawling back to me because you recognize, at last, that I am the greatest of all the gods?”

  “Maybe. That may be why the others are returning. But really, Power, I am just so very curious. So very, very curious now, at the stroke of the twelfth hour, to see what all your plans will come to.”

  Afias shifted uncomfortably, his adrenaline high and racing, his mind muddled, for he found standing before two gods at once. His knees shook. “Trinian, what do we do?”

  Power went suddenly erect, and his motion was so strong and forceful that Afias was bowled to the ground beneath it. The prince was on his knees, quaking and powerless, but Trinian stood unmoved.

  “You want your family? Here they are!” said Power magnanimously, pointing to a side chamber.

  Trinian turned to see the wild-eyed god Terror, smiling like a hyena, drag Adlena into the chamber, and Lillian was clutched in her arms. Behind them came the whirlwind of Destruction which deposited Garrity upon the black floor, and he was only a red smear against it.

  111

  Only a Man

  “We found these in your throne room!” the two brothers clamored to Power. “What are you doing with them?”

  Trinian stared at his friend, broken, bloodied, and lying as if dead. He wanted to look at his wife, but he was afraid of her, afraid of the prophecy, afraid of confirming his fears by catching the gleam of purest sight in her eyes.

  He looked up at last, and blushed. She was gazing at him as she had done, years ago, in the Sacred Wood. He was full and open, naked in her sight, and her eyes revealed him to himself.

  All at once, he saw himself without any pretense. Not as a king, or a husband, or a warrior, but as a man; only a man, lonely and uncertain. A man who had pushed away his friends, lost his companions, and tried to protect all others by isolating himself. A man who thought he commanded the earth, but the earth had a will of its own. A man who thought he could face off against the gods, but the gods were immortal.

  He was only one, and he remembered his moment on the battlefield; that moment when to be the one did not seem so grand and unique and special. It was a fate beyond him, a call he could not answer, a command he could not control. It was humbling, belittling, and beyond him.

  Power laughed, and Terror and Destruction cackled and roared with him. Passion giggled, and Resolve stepped forward out of the shadows, smiling coolly. “Oughtn’t you to explain, brother?” she asked.

  Power pulled himself up again, and Trinian braced against it, still standing. Adlena did not waver, and Garrity and Afias were already on the ground. “I am mortal now, can’t you see? I have secured that right from the broken demi-god there, and now, at last, you could stab me through the heart and I would die. Yes, little king, I am mortal, so why do I exult over you? You see, you can defeat me, or I can defeat you. It is a battle with fate that we play, but Fate won’t tell us anything. I railed against him, I railed against you, and I struggled to learn how my might could topple yours. I have tried to take from you by force, by cunning, by numbers. Should it not be easy? Should there be any contest? I am POWER – you are puny.

  “But then I remembered. The Golden King never did favor the strong, and Fate has always been his happy lackey. No,” continued Power calmly, “I am weak against you simply because I am strong. It is a paradox, and the Golden King thought he had me trapped by his clever paradoxes. He did not reckon on my figuring it out.” He leaned back against the ledge, and Passion glided forward. Her beauty blinded them all for a moment, and again, plunged into darkness of sight, Trinian swayed. As the brilliant light cleared, he saw her heading toward Adlena. Trinian tried to grip his sword blade tighter, willing his numb body to move, but he was immobilized by so many gods, their presence sucking him dry.

  “I have never been one for brute force,” Passion explained. Her words like honey dripping from the walls. “Cleverness has been my tool. Outthinking, outmaneuvering, out-beguiling my foes, and I do believe I have convinced Power to try my ways.”

  With his attention on Power and Passion, Trinian failed to notice Terror until he was upon him and had wrenched the great sword from Jacian out of Trinian’s hands. In a whirlwind, the god gave it to Passion.

  “What are you doing, my dear?” asked Power.

  “You have tried my ways, big brother, now I think I will try yours. I will kill queen and daughter. I will make this king suffer everything before you take his life. Oh brother, how gloriously we shall rule this world!”

  Now, in the final hour, Trinian’s head buzzed as if filled with a million insects; his body had no feeling, he was falling slowly through a miasma of pain. He had fought to protect his family and save his world, and now the prophecies were coming true. Only one to die of purest sight… she must die so he could conquer. Only one, Only one…

  “Trinian.” He had not heard her voice for so many months. She spoke his name quietly, as if it were just the two of them at home. It was gentle, understanding, and urgent. He looked up.

&nb
sp; Let them. Let them, and let me go. He heard her as clearly as if she had spoken aloud, her eyes telling him to let her die. Do not cling to me now – do not keep me now. Save our world.

  There was a darkness threatening to spread across Minecerva, to wrap its black shadow about it in a strangled embrace of death. And there was his wife, with a sword at her breast, foretelling the ending with her gaze and sacrificing her life. “When one is thrice pierced of purest sight, such sacrifice will lead to His god-might.”

  Bereft of his faculties, weak to his core, he did not make the decision. In total and final trust, he let Adlena make it for him. “Golden King!” he cried into the chamber, and his body filled with strength. “Gods of goodness – gods who have failed us in our petty trials – I forgive you. Come to me now; fight with me now – erase the evil that threatens our world!” and with a shove off the ground and a roar that ripped through his soul, he threw himself at Power.

  On impact, Trinian discovered just how fully mortal Power had become. He was a physical existence with which he could meet and grapple, no longer a shadow but a substance, and they locked in deadly combat. But Trinian knew, immediately and without doubt, that Power was far stronger than he. Though the man would fight to his dying breath, the battle would be brief, and over the mortal king of Drian the former high god’s victory would be decisive.

  And so it would have been, had Passion killed Adlena, but in the moment that Trinian threw himself upon Power, seeking to choke the life from his black and mortal body, Passion stabbed the queen to find, to her horror, that Adlena did not die.

  The queen screamed in agony as Passion stabbed her, but she did not fall to the ground. She lurched down, shaking in pain, yet still in possession of her every movement, and placed Lillian on the floor – safely out of the blade’s reach. And then, to the horror of all, for all now looked upon her, she stood up again. The sword was through her back, through her heart, and piercing cleanly out of her chest, and Passion drew it out with a horrible, twisted grimace. The goddess had never grimaced before, and it was so horrendous, so true to her real nature, that it stripped her of all her bloom and façade. The stabbed queen looked upon her and Passion’s true self shone through at the queen’s glance, and suddenly, before the Dryad, Passion was a wrinkled, shriveled thing.