"Losing what—?"
"I can't say; it's not my place. And then there’s the circlet."
"What about the circlet?"
"We still don’t know anything about it, beyond the obvious. Gods know what the Lorens know, if anything. He never got Malek to talk about it, and his own mother was pretty tight-lipped. He has … some heavy suspicions as to its other abilities though—and they’re not very pleasant.”
"I know he hates the thing …” she responded. “I know I’d hate something stuck to my head. But the other abilities—well, you’re not going to tell me about that, are you?”
“I can’t I’m afraid. But I will tell you they have nothing to do with elemental magic. Andreas told me the other day that the Elders confirmed that to him yet again. Even they don't know what the circlets are. Which is strange, if you think about it. The Elders are ancient, and if they don’t know, the circlets might predate even them. That would make them two of the oldest artifacts in the world. And … Julia, they are not good ones."
“Why tell me these things, and leave me hanging—?”
“Because I do not know. I have my guesses as he does, but it’d be wholly unfair of me to say what they are, particularly since I’m not sure I believe it.”
“But you’re saying there’s some connection between his behaviour and—"
“He takes notes on the climate, doesn't he?"
"... Yeah."
"Do you know why?"
"He’s never told me."
"He says that our battles … and the storms … sync up, like it was planned. He's never shown me his charts, and I find it damn hard to get that through my head—but whenever the man looks up at the sky and says something is going to happen, he's right on the mark. Even tonight, if you think about it. Downpour half the night, and the lord gets jumped in the woods and nearly dies of blood loss. He says that the weather over Talystasia has gotten worse over the years ... like the weather in him. The rage. Like a gathering storm. Something's coming. And he doesn't want that something to come. Not over us, not over him."
“But it’s always raining,” she pointed out. “I mean, practically.”
“Maybe that’s why no one else has ever noticed. But Andreas is …”
“Fussy.”
“Right.”
"I wish ... I wish he'd tell me all this himself. He confides his pain in me—" she laughed sadly, brushing her hand against her bruised forehead. “But not his reasons.”
"It's his own burden to deal with in his own time. Perhaps he owes you something—certainly an explanation—but please be patient with him. Perhaps you owe him that …? For my part, I’ll talk to him. About … you know." He faded off, looking uncomfortable.
“Mistreating me?”
“Yes.”
She recognized then the sadness that coloured the general’s gaze. It was a sorrow that didn’t even touch most peoples’ eyes.
It was the look of a man who actually saw through his eyes, who truly took in the pain of others and didn’t run away from it. Master had that sadness too, but in them both it seemed a spark as well, a trace of life where life was so often absent.
And I’d rather be sad than empty.
"… He's been patient with me," she agreed at last, returning abstractedly to the conversation. "And ... when I haven't been with him."
"And to finish on that note ... I'd best be checking in on him, and you'd best be getting some rest—And it was nice to meet you, Julia ... I'm glad the lord has you." Rizaq smiled and inclined his head cordially.
She smiled back, returning his bow with astonishment. "It was nice to meet you as well, General Rizaq. I'm glad he has you too."
~~~
Exhaustion should have put her to sleep, but worry kept her from getting there, trapping her instead in a half-world of root-choked paths and horses’ manes and shadowy, forestal scents.
The sound of boots and the rattle of the door intruded on her dreamworld, and she opened one sore eye.
Lord Telyra was standing erect outside her cell, looking very pallid and tired, supporting himself with the bars. He carried a torch in one hand, the blaze seeming to accentuate his scars and sharpen the little lines of age that she didn't notice every day.
"Slave," he said tiredly.
Julia climbed to weary feet to stand across from him.
"Open the door. I can't talk like this."
She did, and he stepped inside, leaning against the wall. The room seemed too narrow for both of them.
"Not asleep?" he asked. “I mean, wouldn’t have thought I could wake you—"
"I couldn't," she said. "I was so worried. Shouldn’t you be in bed?”
He shrugged. “Neither of us are. Is there … is there something you want to tell me, slave?”
She frowned, suddenly uncomfortable. “No … I … What happened to you?"
"It was ... an odd thing, almost silly … Not the Lorens. Thank goodness for that. This cult; left me a fucking pamphlet. They were asking for an audience the other day, and I said no, and now they're out jumping me in the bloody woods ... Don't think they meant to take me down, just intimidate me—but they didn't know I was wounded. So there I was, bleeding to death. Over nothing. It’s a stupid world."
"What's a cult?"
"It's a religious organization."
"Oh. What'd they want?"
"They want religion, of course."
"Oh."
"Slave ... what binds you to me?"
Julia stared at him for a long time, reliving her fear for him in the forest—his skin as grey and cold as death, his body like a sack of bricks, his blood all over her hands.
Then she breathed in the fragrance of the forest again, the aroma of dirt and moss and sap trapped in her clothing—the scent fading fast, the memory faster. Her journal lay open on the floor to its newest sketch, twisting branches and fluttering leaves spilling across the page free and uncontrolled, an imperfect rendering of a forbidden world; just pictures in a book.
The cell bars framing the expectant, hard-faced man before her seemed a perfect rendering of hers.
Andreas leaned weakly against the wall, his pulse beating rapidly. He recalled almost nothing of the long, cold night he'd spent in the forest—but he remembered the mortal terror in her voice as she'd shrieked his name, the shaking of her fingers as she’d touched his cheek, the anxious face that had materialized out of his dreams, pulling him back from the brink and into the world.
Julia opened her mouth; Andreas caught his breath.
"... My collar," she said.
He stared back at her disbelievingly, the white hot sword of rejection scoring yet another groove across his soul.
"Why?" he wanted to scream. Or, "Don't lie to me—!"
But he didn’t. Instead he just stared numbly at her steely expression and the iron mistrust that burgeoned underneath, protecting that stupid, mindless, indestructible pride that was there in spite of his every effort, galling him and poisoning her.
How could she look him in the face and say he was nothing to her …? After what she’d done tonight, for his sake—?
... Unless she really wasn’t lying … and she'd saved him out of fear or obligation, and it was all the little moments of trust or the perfect evenings of clarity, when he’d beaten that exaggerated self-worth out of her and she had looked on him with grateful, unguarded relief in her eyes, craving his affection, her every gesture and air a gift from her soul to his—that had been the lie.
He landed her a stinging blow across her cheek and slammed the door behind him, choking down dry, heaving tears.
(“Will it come back—?"
"Will what?"
"The rage.”
“It always does.")
X: Ciphers
Rose stared up at the ceiling above her bed with worn out eyes, watching the deep blue shadows pull back into the corners of the room. She was thinking of her Aunt Leneah. She had no idea why. The circlet felt like a vise grip pinching into
the back of her skull. But she found herself slipping in and out of memories, poring over minute, unimportant details of the final years of Aunt Leneah’s life.
The prior night … had it truly only been the night before …?—she’d fallen asleep in the great hall, too miserable and tired to consider going back into hiding. She’d managed to slip the unwanted inheritance off her head just as sleep dragged her down its nightmare spiral descent of carnage and madness, plunging her into the dark. The faces of her enemies materialized from the black and the chaos. The wintry blue of Telyra’s eyes was like the deadly calm at the center of a hurricane as he swung his killing blade an inch above her head.
The lieutenant … each time she dreamt of him, she jerked awake to run. Each time she found herself alone in the dark and silence.
For slivers of time, her father’s face and Alix’s appeared to her. Clawing through the blood and void, she tried to reach them. They seemed so real, so warm and solid, but she had no arms to embrace them, no hands to touch their cheeks, no eyes to cry and release the heartbreak.
The circlet had rested there on the floor like a sleeping snake, its coiled body gleaming brightly each time sleep tossed her out of its fitful embrace and back into the coldness of the bloodied hall.
Tonight, back in her bedroom, it hadn’t even budged from her brow, despite her most desperate, shrieking efforts. Then again, tonight, she hadn’t slept.
The planned altercation with her uncle had happened at nearly midnight.
Striding out of the study with Costellic at her side, she’d felt nothing but manic determination. But the moment she’d rapped on Uncle Palin’s door, the doubts and insecurities had come pouring down like a flash flood. Stuttering, she’d stared at the floor, feeling foolish and childish even as she accused him. Her uncle’s unpleasant smile dripped more malice than jewels, and never left her thoughts the rest of the night. She couldn’t recall a single word she’d said to him in that stammering haze—only that smile. He’d met her accusations fearlessly, as if he knew something she didn’t—as if he couldn’t be touched.
Watching the lieutenant search his apartment, she’d hugged her arms apprehensively, wondering in spite of that malice if she’d made a terrible mistake. The treasonous officer was systematically disrespectful. He overturned antique furniture, tossed expensive vases to the ground, and hurled priceless, timeworn books across the suite, indifferent to the damage to their brittle binding. All the while, his eyes retained their resolute calm, metal-cold and inaccessible, his expression one of methodical precision—the same look she’d seen as he’d murdered his superior officer, and the same he’d thrown her across the great hall when he’d realized that she’d caught him in the act. By the time he’d finished, the room looked as if it’d been demolished by a cyclone.
Palin had given her chess sets in rosewood and ebony and illustrated faerytales to amuse her as a child. Her favourite gown had been a gift from him over the winter holidays, as had a cherished onyx necklace she’d worn since she was seven. Once after a romantic disaster at the age of thirteen, it had been his counsel that had pulled her out of her slump.
The last item Costellic pulled off the shelf was a slim leather-bound notebook, filled with her uncle’s slapdash handwriting—the same handwriting that had graced so many birthday and holiday cards. Flipping through it, he’d abandoned his meticulous destruction, returning to the door where she waited.
He had had to decode it for her. On her own she’d have gleaned nothing from the nonsensical notes on flora and fauna, the weather, or the migration patterns of birds, interspersed as they were with notes about court, except perhaps a suspicion that Uncle Palin had developed schizophrenia. But there had been no manipulation in the grim set of Costellic’s jaw or the practiced, easy way in which he dissected the ciphers. All of this—the indifferent search of the apartment, the decoding of the notebook, even identifying Palin Loren as a conspirator in the first place—was routine to him and nothing more. He was just doing his job.
The thought of how many other notebooks ... and meetings ... and stratagems there were, to put her in her place and keep her there—or supplant her (by the only means available)—kept her awake all night.
Never again could she turn to Alix for reassurance or Father for counsel, except in her dreams. Those dreams would torment her with their scarcity. Because she needed them desperately, she knew they would elude her, just as they had the night before, slipping away into the dark.
The only person who’d shown her an ounce of decency or respect since yesterday morning was still virtually a stranger. If the past day and night had taught her anything, it was that decency and respect could both be a lie.
TAP, TAP.
She lurched in her bed under the sweat-soaked sheets, her temples throbbing.
"... The page Jeffrey,” proclaimed the voice outside the door.
Raising herself up on her elbows she groaned, muscles buzzing with fatigue. Dawn already. Goddamn. Pulling the blankets up around her neck, she turned away from the door and slumped back down, trying to extricate herself from the racetrack of her thoughts while burying herself even deeper into the sheets. If she just ignored the voice outside the door, perhaps it would go away.
Then again … her heart thumped. That voice … it sounded suspiciously like the lieutenant!
"Milady,” began another speaker—not the lieutenant, “I bear you news of your Uncle Palin ... I apologize for the hour."
Bolting upright in her nightgown, she gazed wide-eyed through the mullioned windows.
... Shit.
That could not be good.
A hint of light, still tenuous and faint, dusted the open panes, causing their edges to glint like gilt gold. The night was just starting to lighten, streaks of grey and blue and gold outlining the distant folds in the clouds. The resplendent dome on the neighbouring turret sparkled with the prismatic spectrum of sunrise.
How could casting him out have been the intelligent move ...?
What was I thinking! Letting that insane man get me all riled up … Insane, reckless, dangerous.
Uncle Palin had turned out to be bad. Bad people didn’t go quietly. There would be consequences for tearing apart his rooms in the palace and dismissing him from court.
There was no point in delaying the inevitable. Clearing her throat, she summoned the page. Bleary-eyed, heart pounding, she hugged her knees to her chest and waited.
The messenger admitted himself seconds later, his eyes shifting awkwardly.
"... What's the news?" she asked. She tried to peer past him through the crack in the door to the hallway, attempting to ascertain whether the man at guard was indeed Costellic. It was downright terrifying to think that the person she’d spent the previous night hiding from in fear for her life had been standing on the other side of the door as she slept—or tried to.
The courier spoke, and her blood ran cold.
"Duke Palin Loren died in the night. My condolences, Milady."
She couldn’t speak, could hardly even breathe.
Please, why can’t this stop …!
Her life seemed intent on toppling out from under her, one support at a time crumbling into dust.
"... Died!" she gasped at last, sucking in tears. "How ...?"
"A heart attack, the doctors say. He was found this morning in his apartment in town."
"By whom?"
"... His page. He requested an early breakfast and never turned up."
“Early breakfast …! What time is it?”
"... Just past five, Milady.”
Breakfast! The page would have to have found his body at four in the morning for the news to have reached her by now—
She opened her mouth to point this out, and then abandoned the remark, Costellic’s steely eyes resurfacing in her mind.
Insane, reckless, dangerous.
… And capable. Very capable. But he couldn’t have, he wouldn’t …
Oh, but he could have, and he just mig
ht. It was exactly the way he would interpret the concept of initiative.
... Her uncle. Her father's brother. They had attended numerous court functions together and more plays, operas and pageants than she could remember. When Father hadn’t had time for her and Alix, Uncle Palin had.
"... Thank you, Jeffrey. You're ... dismissed—oh and Jeffrey—please have it announced that I'll be making a speech this afternoon in Harmony Square."
"Harmony Square, Milady ...?"
She smiled encouragingly, almost laughing at his expression. "Yes Jeffrey."
Outside, the golden light of the sun was beginning to wash the grime out of the sky and even some of the clouds. The window panes creaked softly with a cool draft. In the distance she could hear sparrows and doves chirruping and cooing as the world stirred.
Her pillow, intolerable only ten minutes before, looked heavenly.
It's horrible! she admonished herself. You should be angry—heartbroken, sad …at least sad. And poor Aunt Rosmera …
The door closed behind the retreating page. Slouching back into her mahogany bed, she considered the down and the soft enclosure of her blankets.
… But I’m not.
Finally ... sleep.
~~~
Corin leaned back against the wall—which was cold stone in this part of the palace—and yawned. He toyed with the hilt of his sword absently and stared at the opposite wall.
Beside him was propped the traditional palace guard's spear, worthless in such close quarters, unless someone came charging down the passageway across from him. It was to all intents and purposes a useless ornament … rather like the army these past two years.
It had been a long night and a slow morning. Dull, but sleep would be likewise, and only marginally more useful. He didn't trust anyone. Not with her. And not with himself. If he went to sleep, it was a coin toss as to whether he’d ever wake up.
… Yeah. He didn't know what the hell he was doing. But forty-eight hours ago, had things gone any differently, he would never have met her. And now that he had, he felt responsible. Protecting her was the closest thing to an achievable purpose he’d had in quite some time. After all, he didn’t need an army for that—just himself. And that made for a pleasant change.
Talystasia: A Faerytale Page 22