Talystasia: A Faerytale

by Haadiyah Cardinalis

  He pointed to the underbrush, where the intolerable thing emerged, gleaming faintly in the twilight. It cut a path upstream, bouncing lightly on the rocks, singing with each contact, coming to rest at his feet, upright on its curving side in brazen contempt for gravity. It was a simple, golden band about the width of his index finger, dull where rain had oxidized it with irregular patterns of rust. Picking it up, he replaced it unenthusiastically on his head.

  “I was told the story,” she said, “of the time you tried to destroy it in the lake. That … hurt as well, like an infection. But still, we did not guess the connection. Your circlet, like that blood, is poison to us. Maybe the same poison …”

  "It demands to be on my head at all times. If I try to abandon it … sometimes it springs back to me; other times, it just sort of ... rolls back, and follows me if I walk away. It didn't take long for me to figure out that there was no getting rid of the damn thing. Though every now and again I still throw it over the city wall.” He smiled pensively. “It always makes its way back by morning. It’s just too depressing to try. So I gave up. I won’t torture myself with a dream of hope. I will live and die with this monstrous thing on my head and the obligations it brings—which trust me, are no less hideous.”

  The dryad gave a mortified little laugh. "How do you sleep?" she asked incredulously. “Doesn’t it get in your way?”

  He snorted. “It’s always in my way. I stow it under my pillow, once I’m far enough gone. It's not like I'll be going anywhere. It knows. Good thing I’m not a sleepwalker."

  "If it was, as you mentioned—a ‘mere status symbol’—it wouldn't be a problem that you and Lord Loren each possess one. You—or your parents, or grandparents before you … or any of your ancestors …”

  “… Might have abandoned these damnable things and united the two broken halves of our city and land under a single ruler. That's right—but as you see, they couldn't take them off.” He paused, struggling for words to explain why there was no way out.

  “They aren't symbols of power—they're objects of power—try defying something you can’t understand and can’t control … and can’t get rid of. We don't own them. They own us. I can’t stop wearing this thing so long as I’m alive. As far as I can tell, that’s all it does—cling. Choose, and cling. But believe me, that’s enough. Our ancestral war … well, human nature’s done the rest.”

  She nodded mutely, apparently waiting for him to say more.

  Did she care? Or was she merely curious? Did it even matter? It was someone to talk to, someone who wasn’t looking to cast blame and call for destruction. Nor was she looking to him for strength and guidance; what a relief.

  “But still, why cling to us like parasites all the time unless they’re doing more than simply clinging? There’s got to be more to it than that. Most of their wearers have taken them to be some kind of mystical substantiation of their sole right to rule and avenge their forebears—but that’s it. They don’t care why. They’ve passed that myth down to their bloodthirsty progeny—where it’s gathered momentum with each passing generation. It’s a recipe for never-ending atrocity—and here’s me, born right into the middle of it.”

  "We do not want them to lord over our forest, Lord Telyra. And however difficult your circumstances, we still find it hard to believe you can find no solution to your dilemma. We know that our people mean little to you—that you keep us alive more out of obligation to history than out of any love of our present being.”

  “You’re wrong,” he cut in sharply, “about that.”

  “Am I?”

  “I read once that the appearance of an Elder changes depending on who is looking at her. That a man who loves nature will see a vision of love—that another who despises nature will see something that disgusts him.”

  “That is true. To your eyes I appear different than I would to another.”

  “You look a bit like someone I know. A woman.”

  “And what is that to you …?” she chided. “Something to subjugate.”

  Anger burned in him from the soles of his feet, and he wanted more than ever to lunge at her, the heat in his body burning against the cold night air.

  You’re wrong.

  She smiled a little, and shrugged knowingly. “Never mind that …”

  “—I am the last man in the universe to suffer any voluntary obligation to history. That, I trust, you can believe, whatever else you insist about me. This city is my prison, and history is its mortar. This truce is all I’ve been able to do to stem the violence. I can’t stop the flood, I can only hold it back as long as I can.”

  “Your truce with Lord Loren isn’t going to save any of us. We are at a fulcrum.”

  “What fulcrum?”

  “There is old magic in us, Lord Telyra—the only magic left in this world. It used to be the dominant force, but its time has passed. It was strong enough that its truths were strong in turn—but they are crumbling into the dust of the new world, as are we. That ... object you carry isn't magic. When I tell you that the force that influences the situation of your city—and yourself—through those circlets—has not interfered with us in this place in any observable way in all the centuries of your families' conflict—I am not exaggerating. This change will affect us all, human and Elder alike.”

  “Where did the blood come from?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “No!” he shouted. “I’ve been trying to get you to tell me this entire time …!”

  “A skirmish outside Talystasia's southern wall.”

  "Skirmish? We are in truce. You must mean a fight. An honest fight between men—"

  "… I am sorry, but I don’t know the details of your politics. The dead man is a soldier. Does that help?”

  He stared at her, outrage welling inside him.

  Not this, not today …

  “The blood should just be blood,” she went on, “but now it is more, now there is Evil in it. I know you see only blood against the rocks, but when one of our own gets sick from a supernatural incursion, that is a serious matter.”

  “You said this place … this forest …”

  “Correct. These sicknesses have struck before, but never here. They’re rare … but increasing in frequency. We’ve never known the cause, but long suspected a supernatural agency at work. We never thought to connect it to the circlets until now.”

  She stepped toward him, her tone pleading, her eyes strong and intense. “Lord Loren persists in his denial. That’s why we’re begging you to do something. There is Evil in your circlets and Evil in your conflict. A force beyond you.”

  “What do you expect me to do? You just said it’s beyond me!”

  “… I don’t know,” she admitted. “We just thought you should know that your enemy,” she glanced at his brow for emphasis, “is becoming ours.”

  He sighed, dropping his hand. Always at an impasse.

  Nothing further was going to be achieved here. She knew it. He knew it. They stared at each other, struggling silently and in vain with a shared helplessness. He turned to go, and paused.

  "There are other things. That I've noticed. Other changes. The weather has been picking up lately."

  She tilted her head curiously.

  "Are there ... wind Elders?" he asked, trying to make a connection to her world.

  "Not here. In the north where the winds are stronger. And along the shores."

  "I don't know a lot about you," he admitted. "I've only met with your emissaries ... a dozen times, if that, in all these long years. Anyway—the weather. I can't be sure, but I think there's a correlation between the storms and our engagements."

  "How can that be?" she asked, bewildered.

  "I don't know. I certainly don't plan my attacks to coincide; there’s no strategic value in it. And I can't imagine that Loren does either. But whenever there’s an engagement, it seems a hellish storm breaks out. I tense every time the wind picks up now." A shudder passed through him. "Like ... now. The rains
are heavier and the winds are more bitter than they have been since we signed our accord."

  "Have you ordered a study?"

  "I'm doing it myself. I have been for years. I've hardly mentioned it to anyone. Nobody wants a mad lord on top of a heartless, violent one. Human beings you see ...” he broke off, and laughed bitterly. “Everyone knows the circlets are unnatural, everyone at the very least has heard the rumours about them … but nobody wants to believe that this war has any motive power behind it other than ... ours. No one wants to think he's being controlled by something he doesn't understand. Believing that your house has been mystically ordained to rule, and that you have been chosen to lead others, that you have been granted control, is one thing. That’s palatable. But believing that something else is ruling through you, and that your war is its war, that you’re being played and you’re trapped … that’s terrible. There are few things more powerful than self-deception. I—wasn't always like this. Violent tendencies perhaps ... but not ..."

  "... I imagine that would wound your people’s pride greatly. And destroy whatever faith they have in you,” she added sympathetically.

  Maybe she did care, this emissary of a dying race, this exotic beauty housing a primeval and formidable spirit …

  But he knew he’d never find out, because after this meeting, she’d do what the Elders always did—fade away, leaving him to face the world and its trials exposed, human, and alone.

  "I ... perhaps so. I don't know,” he answered finally. “Certainly whatever faith I have in myself. I long ago had to accept that I was no longer the man I thought I was. But nothing will ever destroy their faith in me. I often wish it would. Then I’d be free from their vengeance and their weakness."

  "And what are you now, if you are not the man you thought you were?"

  He had to think for a while before answering.

  "I'm still a man."

  II: Rose

  LET NO EVIL ENTER HERE read the inscription above the fountain in the palace gardens.

  Roselia Loren was hovering between two massive gardenia plants, clutching a leather-bound book and staring absently at the humble fountain bubbling from the whitewashed, wisteria-choked wall. She enjoyed the way the damp, charged air accentuated the sweet perfume of the flowers. The fountain trickled into a shallow collecting basin carved in the shape of a fish encircling a flat rock, its tune a serene accompaniment to her humming.

  A throat cleared behind her.

  "Miss Loren, pardon me.”

  When she turned, her stiff brocade skirts were scarcely ruffled by the practiced restraint of her movement. The wig of vibrant curls piled atop her head stirred slightly, the plum coloured tresses tickling her neck.

  Raddik stood waiting at the archway to the gardens. Bowing her head slightly, she smiled, still humming her song.

  "How are you this evening Miss Loren?"

  Breaking her melody, she answered, "I am well, Raddik, and you?"

  "I am also, Miss Loren."

  A breeze in the leaves of the ambrosia tree set the branches to quivering in agitation. The last fruits of summer spoiled on the ground at her feet, their white faces blemished with rot and crawling with fruit flies, their sticky sweet odour weaving unsettling threads into the tapestry of garden scents. Even as the late afternoon storm light dimmed branches and leaves, softening the grain of the walls, the engraved letters held their sharp relief.

  “I used to spend a lot of time here when I was young,” she commented vaguely.

  “You still spend a lot of time here, Miss Loren.”

  That was true. And yet …

  A twig snapped overhead, a dove breaking away from the tree to become lost in the sky. Flecks of moisture painted her cheeks.

  There was an urge to clutch the leather volume in her hands like it was the precious relic of a bygone era, and somewhere unseen in the nebulous distance, a marauding dragon was circling ever closer.

  She sighed. "Only it looks like it will rain.” The sigh deepened. “Oh, that’s right. It’s always raining,” she amended sardonically.

  Raddick frowned. “Yes, but it would hardly do for Miss Loren to get her fine skirts wet."

  The ballooning mass of violet and maroon silk, patterned with thorny roses and twisting vines, was already muddy at the hem.

  Shaking her head, she lifted one corner of her mouth in silent amusement.

  "You sound like my father. You know, I used to come here when I was a little girl to get away from all that.”

  "… And you still do.”

  “Only it hasn’t worked in quite some time.”

  “Indeed. Lord Loren sent me to summon you. Thus the suggestion about your attire … immediately,” he put in stiffly when she didn’t move.

  "... Oh.” Outstretching her hand, she watched a raindrop disperse into her skin. "Okay then. Thank you Raddik."

  "Of course, ma’am.” Giving a sharp little bow, he disappeared inside.

  Crinkling her nose despondently, she followed after, leaving behind the fresh air and the early evening glow.

  The palace was drafty. It was uncharacteristically dark for this hour, which only had the effect of amplifying the gloom. Shadows inhabited the corners, and someone had forgotten to light the torches, lending the corridors an air of chilly neglect. The cold gathered around her feet, whispering sundown secrets.

  The last corridor was illumined by a single rectangle of grey light stretching across the smooth stone floor, cast by the window at the hallway’s distant end beside the marble stair. Hitching up her skirts, she scampered into the darkness, the stairs tapering as they spiralled into the heart of the palace. They terminated at a small landing. Deep engravings in the ebony doors shifted restlessly to the flickering light of a solitary torch.

  … There was no guard.

  Now that was irregular. Should she go back downstairs and call for help—?

  Probably sent on an errand. She rapped swiftly on the wood.

  "Enter," the voice coughed harshly from inside, muffled by the heavy doors.

  Lord Malek Loren's sickroom was as extravagant as any in the palace. His wide, oval bed had been sculpted seamlessly out of the same cream-coloured marble as the floor, a lavish nest brimming with ivory sheets and silk cushions. A prominent thud shook her bones as the doors closed behind her.

  The rest of the room shared the same organic design as the bed, which rested on a built-in dais with flowing, rounded edges. The floor where she stood had smooth corners, curving upward to form the windowless walls, which arched gently into a flattened ceiling, low and oppressive. Near the center of the room, three concentric circles of elegant moulding gave way to a splendid chandelier. A hundred votive candles burned there, suspended like fire drops in a delicate crystal web.

  She lurched in surprise. Lord Loren was sitting upright, his feet planted on the marble floor of the dais. He looked incredibly pale today, his skin even whiter than his parchment beard.

  "Stay right there Father!" Striding across the floor, she scrambled up the steps to the landing at his bedside.

  "It's ... okay," he grunted. "I mean to be doing this." He squinted his eyes shut, heaving for breath like he was drawing air through layers of thick wool blankets. The rasping sound cut straight to her heart, and she had to struggle not to weep.

  When he opened his eyes again, they were bloodshot and hazy. They swivelled wildly, not focusing on any one thing. His circlet was slipping down over his brow like he was shrinking beneath it.

  "Father, can you see?" she exclaimed, waving a hand in front of his face frantically.

  Slowly, his eyes shifted back and forth before focusing on her face. But his gaze seemed disconnected, his eyes roving independently of his mind.

  "Yes, daughter, I can see," he assured her.

  "Why are you getting up? You know what the doctors said. And where is your guard …? You should know better than to—"

  “Daughter, you are going to lecture me on responsibility?” He choked on a wh
eezing laugh. “… That’s a joke,” he muttered derisively.

  She opened her mouth to protest, injured by his lack of faith, but his winded coughs were too painful.

  … He doesn’t mean that …

  Reaching out an unsteady hand, he squeezed her shoulder. "That was a joke, Roselia,” he reassured her warmly.

  The knot came out of her chest, her shoulders relaxing.

  “Your brother will take care of everything. Because tomorrow ... I am going to war."

  For a protracted moment, she stared. Her shoulders, taut once more, felt like a steel beam had been shoved through them. She had never liked this room. It was smothering, stale and uncomfortable, and there were times it seemed like her mind was playing tricks on her. The odour from the candles was overpowering.

  He did not just say ‘war.’ Not with Lord Telyra.

  … Who else?

  "I am so old, Roselia ..."

  "And very ill. Why would you want to break your truce with that dreadful man …? I am just grateful that he hasn’t pressed his advantage …"

  “Why should he? It isn’t to Telyra’s advantage to see your brother on the throne! Alix is young; he will be strong. He would never tolerate that monster’s existence like I have—but he won’t have to. Together, tomorrow, we will press our advantage.”

  “What do you mean?” she demanded, her voice hard.

  You can’t be serious …

  Some of the old iron surfaced in his voice. "Lord Telyra ... may be a monster, but he is not invincible. A truce can't last indefinitely with a man like that on the other end. Eventually his bloodlust will overcome him.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Don’t be naïve. I can't leave a tyrant like that in the world ... there’s no neutrality against evil, and I’ve still a few tricks up this old sleeve. I can only hope he’s grown weak, that the years of peace have made him soft."

  "He's half your age, Father, and far more fit,” she pleaded. “They say he can kill twenty men single-handed. Don't do this thing. You need to get better—then you can fight him."