Infirmity, she was certain, and hardly tolerance, was the only reason her father had ever accepted Telyra’s startling offer of a ceasefire. It was also why she had been so grateful for it. He would never fight again and live.
And he knew that as surely as she did.
"Your brother tells stories, Roselia." Father chuckled. "Twenty single-handedly ... no. That would take sorcery, not steel, and thankfully we live in the real world. But yes, he can kill many."
It hardly mattered; he only had to kill one to break her heart.
"They say ... that he likes it. That he lives for it. That he has the blood of his victims drained into a big vat, which he uses in place of wine at his feasts for weeks and weeks and weeks."
"I'm sure he doesn't do that, daughter. It'd go stale, don't you think? Did your brother tell you that—?”
“No,” she confessed sheepishly. “Rachel.”
He chuckled. "And what would Rachel know …? But yes—he is a bloody man, a sadist. Which is why I don't want you to have to live with him there on the other side of the Wall ... after I'm gone ... "
"Father! You aren't going anywhere. You're staying right here."
His face took on a severe cast, and he squeezed her shoulder almost violently, arthritis shaking in his fingers.
"Lord Telyra is ruthless. He is even brutal toward his own staff, who must endure his presence every day—why else do you think we have so many of his defectors at work in our halls?" He smiled, a twinkle in his eye. "That army of his fights like a nightmare, but it is because their lives are a nightmare, one they don't know how to escape. Those men are terrified of their master. He and his thugs would hurt their wives, their children, if they stood up to him. But we are not terrified, are we Roselia? He is only a man, you know. Men can die. I'm not going to get any better. But perhaps … I can be stronger. I have nothing to lose—but you. I have nothing left but my life to give—for you."
"Father ...” She wanted to tell him no, but her voice stuck in her throat, refusing to emerge from her mouth. He could be intractable, and at times like this, she was painfully aware that he was lord first and foremost … father second.
“He scares me,” was all she managed.
"Well, after tomorrow, he won't have to. There won't be any Lord Telyra. His people wear rags, child. Rags.”
She bit her tongue and resisted rolling her eyes. So do most of ours …
“Even the man himself scarcely dresses better than his lowest servants. He is not fit to rule anyone—least of all half of our people." He smiled dimly.
"But they aren't our people—they never have been," she protested.
"Not because they weren't meant to be. Long ago, our ancestors settled—" He paused, releasing her hand. Turning away, he coughed several times.
There was a wheezing hollowness to the coughs, as if they came from a gaping void.
In an uneven voice, he picked up his story again. "Our ancestors settled this country. They came from the sea—their ships separated by a terrible gale—but they came together, in the beginning.”
She’d heard the story a hundred times of course, and it never made any more sense than it did the first time. But if it comforted him to tell it again …
“And they discovered our mountain, but only after a long separation. That was before the land was cultivated and the fields were ploughed. Travel was difficult in those days—forest clogged everything. But the soil was rich, and the shoulders of the mountain presented a strategic position to build a city. The ancient Wall along the summit seemed … alas, convenient in light of the grievances which had developed between the two groups.”
“—And no one knows who built the Wall,” she recited. This time, she did roll her eyes.
He didn’t notice. “And no one knows who built the Wall. We formed separate governments—different politics, different cultures, on either side of it. At first, we thought it could work—our divided city-state. It was unorthodox, but it had its benefits. We shared a strategic position against outsiders, but kept our societies apart, with a common line of defence. We thought our separation would keep our differences from overcoming us. But … we were wrong. The outer walls of the city, we built, to fortify our position. Those too became convenient … when the infighting started and our weak alliance ended."
"Then why are there two circlets? Didn’t they find those too, near the Wall?”
"Only one is ... real ... mine,” he replied obdurately. “Telyra’s is not genuine. His is a shoddy replica, forged when it was discovered that we had found the real circlet, that it was our line chosen to reunite our sundered kin. It ties us to the land.
"… The Telyra circlet is nothing but a ruse to try and wrest the right to rule out of our hands,” he went on. “And keep our land divided—just as it has for centuries. Under our line, our people have prospered. Under the Telyras ... they have suffered. I don't want this world for you to live in. I want you to be able to walk freely across the entirety of our land ... no Wall ... I am so tired. When he’s dead, your brother can tear it down, brick by brick …"
"Then get some rest, Father! And no more of this talk of—"
"Settling things," he said, and his eyelids drooped. He slumped, and Rose reached toward him uncertainly.
"Do you trust me?" he asked, his eyes snapping open.
"… Of course," she answered, startling backward.
He looked down at his robes, his hands balled into shaky fists.
"Your brother will rule," he affirmed. "It’s already begun. The fiend gave me an excuse today. Not a good one—but it hardly matters now; it’s worthy enough and not the first. The truce was never exactly popular—on either side of the Wall."
"But why? Why do this now, after all this time …"
"Because I am dying!"
Rose felt her mouth set into a thin, helpless line, biting back her anger, gazing at him with round, shocked eyes.
"No—don't argue.” He raised his hand to quell her unvoiced protests. "I am eighty-six—and sick—as you say. I outlived my usefulness a long time ago. I’m not coming back from this.”
"He will kill you," she insisted. “Is that really how you want to die …?”
“I would rather die in battle than in bed ..." He let out a rasping chuckle, which dissolved into a choking fit of coughs. She reached out to touch his shoulder, but he cleared his throat again, and muttered "Stupid cough ...”
… Stupid decision! How can he throw away his life like this …? Does it mean less, because it’s ending? Wouldn’t he rather be here … with us, while there is still time?
"This death of disease—” he started, as if responding to the protests in her head, “—it’s a meaningless one. But in the fields … that is my intent. We will lead him out ... And while he is distracted, we will bring down his city from inside. He does not suspect … stupid fool, with his open border policy."
… Telyra was no fool. He’d proven that time and again in the long, grievous years before the truce.
So why had he insisted on the open borders all this time? Father’s men were there even now, awaiting his orders, ready to rupture the truce and rain blood down on his streets. Surely he knew that?
Sometimes she fancied her father’s nemesis had a heart, all evidence to the contrary. Supposing, just supposing, he had extended his offer and unsealed their borders because he really did want peace? Those hopes were about to be smashed, the grace of his trust broken. Of course, it was far more likely he too had people waiting, placed strategically throughout Talystasia West. Likely he only played at being a blunt force, and was quite cunning himself. He too was waiting for his moment.
"But I thought you just said those were truly our people. How can you raid your own people?"
On regional maps, a solitary dot represented the divided city. It was labelled simply: Talystasia.
Not Talystasia West. Not Talystasia East.
He glared at her, then shook his head wearily. "They are—and it is—bu
t right now they are under his spell, the spell of his terror. We can rebuild their homes and heal their soldiers."
… Except the ones you kill.
"And the men, women and children who do not fight," she alleged, anger besieging her voice. "I hate it when you raid. It's the same as when he raids here. People will die!"
"The same?" His voice mounted, hollow but determined. "Don't let me ever hear you talk like that again. You're a Loren. Are we not a good family?"
"Yes, Father ..."
"Is he not an evil man?"
"He is, but—"
"Then let me die so that your brother may kill him! I'm dying anyway. Don't you want your brother to rule?"
"Of course. But—"
"Then support me, daughter," he growled, "when I need it the most."
"Why are you so angry with me?" she stammered, her voice rising uncontrollably. "I don't want you to ... die.” The last word dropped like a defeated sigh.
"You are strong. I know you'll support your brother.”
He rose to his feet, his bony hand clenching uncomfortably on her shoulder, his eyes glazing over to match his ashen skin. She got up off the floor, raising him with her—and was horrified at how easy it was.
He set his mouth firmly, a vision of past strength and glory, a faded old war banner.
"We will win this war.”
A tremendous painting hung in the great hall—Lord Loren as he had been as a younger man: a strong, hard jaw and an aquiline nose not unlike her brother’s … clear, warm brown eyes, so different from those that watched her now, colourless and depleted. In the painting, he wore a wig like a lion’s mane with shining, blood-red curls to match his scarlet leather armour, an unblemished broadsword clutched in hand, a thin smile on his mouth.
Scarlet, the colour of their family crest, a martial colour.
In her youth, she’d found the picture intimidating. She’d seen paintings of Andreas Telyra, though she’d never seen the man himself (for which she was grateful). Her father’s nemesis had hair that was naturally red, red like blood, not rust—a true red. The people on the other side of the Wall didn’t wear wigs. Their clothing was plain, and Telyra didn’t even hold court. Her father’s ruby wig seemed an unsuitable mirror of their hated enemy.
"Father," she said.
The suspicion had troubled her for many years, and while she’d skirted around it many times, she had never dared to voice it. She was afraid to incur his wrath, and worse, his simple denial. But clearly she was running out of time. Perhaps he would listen. Just perhaps. It had to be worth a try.
"Father," she stated again, swallowing her misgivings, "Has it ever occurred to you that maybe the war can't be won? Like, literally can’t? I mean, there's two circlets, and the Wall is …” Not normal. “Surely there has to be two lords. Not one ... king. I mean, isn't that just how things work?"
"I told you ... only mine is real."
"His looks just the same, doesn't it? Identical? Like its sister?"
"Roselia ... why don't you listen to me? These foolish fancies are not befitting a woman of royal blood. At your age, you ought to be concentrating on matters of state—"
"I am—"
"—and not on these Elder tales!"
"What Elder tales, exactly?" she demanded, triumphant.
"That ... just that ... oh, Roselia, I'm tired."
"Tell me!" she insisted.
"Tell you what? That men invent crowns and scepters, more of them than are necessary? One ruler, Roselia—a good ruler. A just ruler. That is all that is needed for one city, even one with a wall running down the middle of it. A circlet on his head does not make Telyra just, or good. It does not make him a lord—or a king, as he desires to be. It makes him a brute with one golden bauble in his rotting, black tower. He clings to that one bright thing—and we will take it from him. And he will be left with what he is when it’s gone—nothing. Because he will be dead, and he’ll join the unclean ranks of his despicable ancestors in hell."
"You won't win this war. I have a bad feeling ... of terrible inevitability ... please ... don't go."
"No Roselia—no bad feelings." He smiled the smile from the portrait downstairs, a blood-red smile. "Tomorrow will be an end to all bad feelings." And he embraced her with all the strength a dying man could muster.
As she leaned into his robes and shut her eyes, she could scarcely feel his warmth.
III: My Home is My Castle
Andreas drew a shuddering breath as the city gates closed behind him. It was like being dropped to the bottom of a featureless well: coal black thunderheads shut out the moonlight, and the high oak gates and the towering stone walls were indistinguishable from the severe enclosure of the sky. His exhalation made a silver cloud, dissipating into the ink-black stillness. Every bone ached from the downpour, old scars complaining in sore silence. Seleda's horseshoes rang off the cobblestones, splashing mud against his trousers.
He’d grilled the gate guard on his way in. The man had only just awoken for the night shift and was completely ignorant of any disturbance, but it was still a good sign. It should have placated his fears, but the dread of the Elder’s predictions clung to him like the cold sweat of a fever.
Light shined out from a few thatched inns and taverns, defiant against the crush of the rain, but the greater crowd of windows lining the thoroughfare gaped darkly. They offered nothing to ease his anxieties, no warmth, no humanity. He stilled Seleda at intervals to listen, peering down abandoned alleyways. No scamper of running feet or cries or shouts broke the pattering rain—only his own quiet breaths. Everything was silent, sleeping, or hiding.
Didn't he even have any homeless...?
The only noise was the scurrying of a rat across the cobbles.
He didn't waste money, and there were no shortages.
So he supposed he didn't.
This silence …. he should appreciate it in any measure; it was a wanting substitute for solitude, but there was nothing else. Cling as he might to the bastion of his authority, nothing could stop the clutching tides of relentless, unresponsive humanity from eroding his soul like the constant floodwater from the sky.
The joyless journey through the soaking, cheerless labyrinth reached its terminus, culminating in the weathered grey stones of the Telyra castle, condensing out of the gloom like solidified fog. Dim figures paced atop the turrets and walls, a testament to order and command. Firelight danced from slit windows, casting apparitions across the haze. They danced around him, slipping in and out of substantiality, the ghosts of slaughtered adversaries stalking him across the yard.
Spurring to a canter, he raced across the drawbridge, bypassing the stables. The enormous doors to the entry hall were flung wide, gold light streaming from the candles in the iron chandeliers and the fire in the wide stonework hearth. The blaze sparkled on the rainwater coating the threshold stones like a gilding of Loren ostentation over his own austere estate, as much a chimera as their actual riches.
In the glow of the fire, he halted just shy of the narrow band of burgundy carpet running the length of the hall.
Dorthelda, Thomas and another footman he knew only by sight were waiting for him. The housekeeper gave him a hard look, pushing a strand of greying hair from even greyer eyes. She nodded firmly in greeting, as if pleased to see him, but her eyes were flinty as steel.
"What's the matter?" he asked, swinging down. Patting Seleda’s neck he added, "Need some food for Seleda. I didn't get the carpet wet."
"You did now," she snorted, nodding stiffly downwards.
Hastily, he stepped backward, leaving two muddy boot-prints on the runner.
He smiled with mock sheepishness. "Clean it up.”
Rolling her eyes, Dorthelda drifted off mumbling under her breath. Within seconds, as if by clockwork, two young maids detached from the shadows at the edges of the room and knelt on the floor at his feet, cleaning rags in hand.
"Is anything amiss?"
"No my Lord,” Thomas
answered as the head housekeeper returned, glaring down at her charges.
One of them, a girl with dishwater blonde hair, was unknown to him. There was something about her. Maybe it was her furtive motions, her bone-thin, destitute body, or perhaps it was just her nameless invisibility—but it galvanized his memory, and it seemed for a moment he was standing in another room, in another time, again in this same position of careless, apathetic power. Dragging his eyes off her neck, he shifted his own to the footmen.
"Really? Are you sure ...?”
"Why?" Thomas returned.
Andreas shrugged and turned to Dorthelda. What's her name?” he probed, indicating the new maid. “What a lovely neck,” he added appraisingly for the girl’s benefit. “But slow at what she does. And her appearance is sloppy. You should beat her.”
The girl looked up, revealing her eyes. They were as colourless and insubstantial as the veneer of dust on the mantelpiece. She looked away again, scrubbing at the mud even more fiercely.
Taken aback, he shook his head to clear it. It was only the ghost of a memory, but he was still caught in it, and for just a moment, he had expected something more.
"That's Traceira," said Dorthelda dryly. "Hired last week."
"Hired or bought?"
"Hired."
"Ah," he shrugged indifferently.
“No longer satisfied with what you’ve got?” Dorthelda asked, scarcely concealing her scorn.
Maybe I will be tonight.
“Maybe you should beat her,” she added, when he didn’t reply.
"See to it that she stops looking like filth," he snapped brusquely. "She has a wage; she can afford to look decent."
"Of course, my Lord," she called after his receding back.
Ascending the wide stone steps, he paused outside his study, considering the flickering glow under the door. A fire—a fire and rest.
When he opened it, cold, damp air gusted into the hallway. Inside, Julia was crouched underneath the window, her large, dark eyes wide. The draft that tore through the window as he pressed open the door nearly ripped her cleaning rag out of her hand.
Talystasia: A Faerytale Page 3