Talystasia: A Faerytale

by Haadiyah Cardinalis

  "Miss Loren! Your dress is—"

  "Yes, Rachel, I know," she answered, closing the door behind her lady-in-waiting. “Filthy. And apparently a treasonous fashion today.”

  "Does Miss Loren want me to pick her a new dress?" Rachel flung open the white-washed doors of the wardrobe. The grey light dimmed against her shadowy face as the clouds billowed, drizzle spraying the window and shrouding the view outside.

  "I ... yes," said Rose.

  "Which one? Red for victory ..."

  "No Rachel, I want to borrow your dress."

  Rachel looked down at her frock, plainly horrified.

  "And your shoes. I promise it's all right, Rachel. If I ask you to do it, it's all right, yes?"

  She visibly gulped, nodding quickly.

  "But what will I wear, Mistress?" she asked, her voice rising.

  With a forced smile, Rose nodded at the open wardrobe. "Anything you want.”

  Rachel hesitated, as if her ears had deceived her, then turned away and started stripping out of her uniform—a garment that guaranteed anonymity.

  Turning her back to give her privacy, Rose flung off her wig, letting her cloud of thin, natural ringlets fall into place, unwashed and almost black with grease, so seldom seen in court—not the rich, colourful curls of a noble's wig. With fingers numb with cold, she undid the clasps of her corset, her petticoats falling to the floor in a heap.

  "Here, Mistress.”

  A thin bundle of clothing was thrust into her arms. Rachel's knee-length article was easy to slip on over her head, little more than a coarse cotton shift. She felt practically naked in it, and in the gilded mirror, her eyes were unresponsive and lifeless, as cold and shadowy as coal. The stringy brown curls draped in thin, motionless strands around her pale face. Even the gold engraved mirror seemed dull and lackluster, as blanched as the clouds outside.

  Why am I doing something potentially dangerous …?

  Tossing her head, she ran her fingers through her curls, trying to force some lift into them. She tried to put on a brave smile, but her eyes stayed flat and dim, answering her silently:

  I’m never going to see my father again, except in a coffin.

  “Miss Loren …?”

  Tentatively, she pulled away from the mirror. "I am going out. I don’t want anyone to notice me—hardly anyone does anyway. Not to be unkind … but dressed like this, I may as well be invisible.”

  “What, now, Mistress …?”

  “Don’t tell anyone.”

  "Pardon me; where are you going?”

  … A high place—the highest in all Talystasia, which she knew to be safe because nobody ever went there. The very summit of the mountain was a knoll which peaked well above the shoulders that Talystasia was constructed on. There, the ancient central Wall that traversed the mountaintop from north to south, dividing the city, ran straight through that central crest—a high, treacherous formation of tremendous rocks, scree, and scraggly trees that surged even higher than the Wall itself.

  The summit of the tor surely commanded a flawless view of both sides of the city and the lay of the land below and beyond—even a shortcut across, if anyone were looking for one. Nobody ever did.

  "The tor,” she answered, her voice a tired, fragile shell around her withering spirit.

  “Anytime I go anywhere near that place, I swear a goose has walked over my grave … bad enough I can see it from my window.”

  “The sentries say that too.” She shrugged.

  “And you, Miss?”

  “Yes. It’s not right. But I try not to be superstitious.”

  “Even so, why would you want to go over there, Mistress …? And now …?”

  Because nobody ever does.

  It wasn’t just the orders she was sick of. It was the complex, well-oiled machinery of unspoken assumptions that governed life in Talystasia, and the unquestioning acceptance of others. She might be powerless against the dearth and the violence, as she was against the climate—but here was one mindless custom she could easily defy. Nobody ever went to the summit, or the wild growth of forest that bloomed like a fungus along the base of the Wall, not even the sentries, but she could.

  And there, at the very pinnacle, she could watch as her father and brother dismantled the only shaky peace she’d ever known for the sake of their sad, imaginary glory and their grownup games. For once, she wasn’t going to shut herself off from the world. They didn’t want her in the Senate, then fine—but she wasn’t going to hide. But neither was she going to stand around in court, garbed in the colour of blood, a useless, brainless advocate of mature madness.

  … Not like Rachel really cared. She only cared about keeping her in her place—like everybody else. So why explain?

  “Thank you so much for your help.”

  Outside the dressing room, she leaned against the wall, her stomach a seething knot of anxiety. The marble hall was empty, the seeping cold raising gooseflesh on her arms, brushing poisonously against her bare knees. Making for the east staircase, she reached down habitually for skirts that weren’t there.

  At the bottom of the third flight, she paused, peering around the corner. There were only servants, their excited chatter echoing off the walls.

  Adopting a casual walk, she ducked into a broom closest where she’d played hide-and-go-seek in the days before her exile from childhood. Grabbing a bucket and a mop, she stepped back out, her hand shaking on the handle.

  Avoiding the great hall, she detoured through the honeycomb maze of softly lit ivory and yellow passageways which serviced the east wing of the palace, and then out into the din of the east hall.

  The open, airy architecture of the atrium swelled like an unsettled, motley sea, mirroring the tossing branches of the trees outside the high glass windows, molten with rain. Tides of silk and velvet and prismatic currents of robes and gowns swept around huddled islands of the poor—servants and townspeople in their drab garments, out of place but desperate for information. Ducking past courtiers, preening like jewelled peacocks even as they whispered in fearful, hushed voices, she sped for the servant’s side door, narrowly avoiding careening into the voluminous mass of cerulean robes that marked out Uncle Palin.

  Then she was pressing through the drizzly, wind-thrashed afternoon, heading for the back gate of the palace. It was untended by the staff, who had condemned it to the tangling growth that sectioned the palace district off from the tremendous, forbidding bulk of the ancient Wall.

  Even when she was young, she had never lingered more than a minute or two here. The gloomy immensity of the Wall filled her with inexplicable dread, as did the sinister darkness between the trees. There was nothing wrong with the trees. And yet … they were wrong. There was a reason the servant quarters faced east and the upper class apartments west.

  But the grove, chilling as it was, was less so than the Wall itself. And so the trees and the dense, wild undergrowth remained untouched, an inadequate barrier, and life bustled by, navigating a wide berth. In much the same way that certain families concealed their secrets in plain view, cloaking them in the banality of day-to-day life, the ominous edifice was tolerated, even overlooked, avoided by habit and not by thought.

  It reared above the foliage like a monster from another time, majestic and alien, hundreds of feet high and hewn of dark, immovable stones laid before memory.

  V: Conscience

  Lady Ivy Telyra swept her gaze through the high vault of the entry hall as they walked together side by side from the dining room. She was simple but elegant today in a smoky blue gown which draped to the flagstones at her feet, her hair as luminous as a star. On her lips was a pensive smile like an unspoken thought.

  Then she voiced it, and he wished for all the world it would burn up in her throat.

  "One day all of this will pass to you, son."

  "I don't want it.”

  The circlet was a disgrace, like a tarnished halo. It was as proverbial to him as her face, an adulteration of her true corona—he
r beautiful, close-cropped platinum hair, framing her radiant jade-green eyes.

  "Andreas—you need to grow out of this.”

  Exasperation; it twisted her voice, abusing it like the circlet did her body.

  “You're nearly twenty years old. You need to grow up and man up. I've spent your entire life trying to prepare you for ... the rest of your life. I think I’ve done everything I can for you and—”

  "—and Mother, I don't want it!"

  A stiff silence fell on the hall.

  "What …?" he demanded in embarrassment. Servants, frozen in mid-task, stared at him from their places, eyes wide and unblinking—frightened mice, huddling in the corners from his wrath.

  "Get back to work!"

  "—You have no choice in this and neither do I. When you were small, I ignored these unsuitable, idle inclinations. But by now I had expected you to grow some perspective. You are the last of our blood and you were born for power. What would you make of yourself—a paltry bard? That’s the life of a commoner, and even if we did have a choice, I would not have my son—”

  He paced in front of the fireplace. "I don't care, about any of it! And I don’t even care if it hurts you.”

  “What would you make of yourself?”

  “I told you, I don’t care. Just not this.”

  She clutched her head with a weary sigh. The circlet coiled motionless, a gilded serpent poised to strike. Its bite would confine him to a life of splendid isolation, its curse a slow-acting venom that left no marks on the body, but devoured its victim from inside.

  It would be the death of his future. The man that could have been would perish, and some new man would walk away in his place, locked into his fate by the abomination she wore so proudly.

  "Does that give you a headache?" he said, “… Or do I?”

  Her eyes snapped open. "What kind of a question—"

  A clatter sounded behind them. They both turned at the noise, and a startled slave bent to pick up his tray. Ivy threw him a look, then turned back to Andreas, lowering her voice.

  “You know I don’t have a choice. You will inherit this crown; there’s nothing I can do about that. As far as our populace is concerned, the circlet is lordship. We don’t have a choice about that either.”

  Only if my heart stops beating, only then will I escape. My body or my soul. If I choose to live, I’ll lose all that I am.

  But suicide was unthinkable. He’d seen enough of death to know there was nothing waiting for him beyond those dark doors. Silence and the void—they emptied the eyes of every man.

  He had prayed for some miracle. He had pushed the inevitable to the back of his mind, losing himself in his private worlds. In his music and painting he had discovered a refuge, and even more so, in the bloody, magnificent brushstrokes of combat and the artful execution of lesser men. But always, he could hear the wind howling at the gates. With each passing year, the vanity of it all struck his heart like the iron toll of the midnight bell. He stood ever on the precipice, at the crest of an unfaltering, lethal wave.

  Not ever will I accept it. I will find a way to stop this. Or die.

  "What else …? What else do I get when I inherit this wonderful destiny? This castle—?"

  "Yes," she fumed, her voice choked with bottled rage. “And you should be grateful for it.”

  "What about them?" he demanded, pointing to the slaves polishing the flagstones.

  "Yes, them too," she spat. "They're part of the property."

  "What do I do with them?!"

  "They're slaves, Andreas. They work. You feed them, and they work. Where have you been your whole blessed life …?"

  "Like the tapestries—?"

  "You don't feed tapestries, son! What has gotten into you?"

  "What's gotten into you, mother? Are you expecting to die ...? Is that why—?” He hesitated. “We haven’t talked about this since I was nine!"

  He reached toward her, but she withdrew. "I always expect to die, boy,” she admonished quietly. “Could happen at any hour, at any minute. You get used to that. But—" she stalled his protests—“would you want to be like them ...?"

  Her eyes shifted not to the slaves, but to the wall just over their heads.

  She couldn’t even look at them.

  Denial. Was that supposed to be his answer?

  "You have a home, boy; wealth, respect, and a good title and name. You've a fine stable of horses, decent armour and a good staff, an even finer military, and a healthy crop to feed your people. What more do you want—?"

  "Not that. I just want to be me. The way I am now. Not with an extra appendage that I don't understand and can never remove. How do you not get what that seems like to me …? That thing is a disease. Are you so inured to it that you consider it as much a part of you as your skin, your hair, your eyes? Do you think you chose this life? You didn’t. Your life is a lie, as mine will be. A lie against all that I am.”

  Her eyes became remote. Gingerly, she lifted her fingers to brush the dully shining band, as if she’d forgotten it was there. "I didn't either ..." she sighed, the barbs gone from her voice. "... want it, I mean."

  "Why? Because you knew there was something wrong with it ...?"

  "No. There's nothing wrong with it … It's just itself, boy. Different is all. This crown is a privilege. In it is vested the power that has blessed our family with this fortune, the power to rule.” She waved her hand, encompassing the castle, the servants, the slaves. "Our people respect its authority, which is why they respect ours. Higher powers have given us a responsibility to care for our people. That is a sacred trust."

  "Why don’t your ‘higher powers’ want a united city-state ...?"

  "I ... don't know. Perhaps they do and we are meant to do it. It's something that I've thought about for a long time, but I don't really have an answer, and neither did my father or grandfather. All I know is that my earliest memories were of war. I wish I could take you over there sometime, to Talystasia West—I saw it in my youth, on a diplomatic visit. The palaces are marvellous, but built on something far worse than slavery: poverty. Even our slaves live in our castle, eat our food, and benefit from our protection. No man under our domain goes without his grain and a roof over his head. It may be modest, but it’s better than nothing. But their people ...You should see Malek's slums ... There are worse things than not being able to make your own choices, son."

  “Who made it? The circlet?”

  “I don’t know. It found us long ago.”

  "Does it do anything else besides stick to you like a leech ...?"

  "I don't think so. I think I'd know by now.” She smiled wistfully. “Oh, Andreas—I miss your grandfather.”

  "Then why didn't you want it?"

  "Because I didn’t want him to die."

  ~~~

  It had been less than a year later. The wave had struck.

  It was a long way off the precipice and into the dark.

  ~~~

  Andreas stared out through the embrasure at the dim red line in the distance. The rumble of ammunition and the metallic echo of arms and armour boomed portentously along the wall as soldiers rolled mangonel stones out of storage, sharpened steel, notched arrows to bows, and readied breastplates, gauntlets, helmets and greaves.

  "Malek’s mind is gone," he noted with morbid satisfaction, turning aside to Rizaq. Shouts of anticipation crackled through the air, ignited by his own thin, certain smile.

  … And so is mine. I despise what is about to happen with every fiber of my being. Why then this plague of joy in my heart? Is it only that I will kill the old man today, be rid of the scourge of my existence since boyhood? …. Another will take his place. One more in an endless line.

  It wasn’t that, no. His smile widened imperceptibly. The amassed companies in the distance waited for death the destroyer to release them from this living hell. Their surcoats and banners mirrored the blood inside, the carnage to come.

  "... Assuredly,” Rizaq agreed with composur
e. “I didn't know the old man could walk, much less fight ... and now he wants to have a war over a fistfight? How’s that work?"

  "I have some ideas," Andreas replied darkly.

  ("Your war involves ... more than human forces, Lord Telyra. And I'm not talking about Elder magic either, a dying power.”)

  … It was this horror on his head. Like his mother, he too had become inured to it, ashamed of his weakness.

  And shame had made him complacent.

  Why hadn’t he asked the dryad more? Foolish, to pass up such a chance—and who knew when it would come again. One didn’t simply request an audience with the Elders and get it. Hell, he didn’t even know how to ask or where to find them.

  Then again, she had come seeking answers from him. So perhaps it was not too great a loss.

  And besides … why torture himself with knowledge of the disease when there was no cure?

  "You do …?" Rizaq asked blankly. "'Cause he's dying he's got to take several hundred people down with him? Is that how it works? He's got most of his army out there. Please don't tell me you'd get me killed over some glorious tragedy one day ..."

  “You could die today, Rizaq,” he responded with all of his dead mother’s harsh pragmatism. "I should've bet against you—six months ago remember? I'd have won easily. But taking your money seems unfair, given that you’re on my payroll, and would you really have bet against this? Didn't we know in our hearts that Malek was going to break the truce?"

  “I’ve got a cramp in my sword arm. I suppose it’s about time.”

  Andreas laughed. "I've had a cramp in that arm since I wrote that bloody truce. And no matter how many times I slap that stupid girl I can't get it out."

  Rizaq grinned. “Ever heard of transference?”

  “Like I care.”

  The wind stirred in his friend’s hair and he shivered. "He's not giving you a choice, you know."

  "What's that now, General?"

  "I know what’s in your mind, Andreas. I see you question yourself. But this is a ruthless attack. His army would massacre our women and children and call it unfortunate in the name of his ridiculous conquest—"