Talystasia: A Faerytale

by Haadiyah Cardinalis

  She barely heard Costellic’s whisper at her side, as soft as her own breath: "It's okay this time.”

  "I'm sorry that my own father was responsible for this!" she shouted, tears streaming vehemently down her cheeks. "And his father before him. I’ve been so naive. This needs to end, and it needs to end now, and I'm not just going to talk about it. I'm going to do something, and it's going to start today. Our coffers are not empty."

  Raising her head sharply, she glared at the ring of glittering figures orbiting the crowd like cold, distant stars.

  "The aristocracy draws from them regularly. It’s time the rest of you did. I have closed off access to the city funds to all but my most trusted advisors.”

  Advisor, she amended mentally. She didn’t have a clue who else he’d appointed.

  Already I am disturbingly reliant on him.

  She was making the decisions, but he was the one handling all the administrative grunt-work. And that too shaped affairs, in a way that was every bit as significant. Already she was unsure whether this was her government or his. But she felt no conflict, no greediness or self-indulgence exuding from Corin Costellic. Only that slender, invisible thread of safety and quiet respect.

  She had had servants her entire life, but this was the first time she could ever remember feeling she had service. Maybe it wasn’t real … but maybe it was.

  “I will be returning three years of taxes to everyone. Within the month. I’ve done the math, and we can handle it—if we’re frugal with government expenses in the coming years.”

  The murmuring of the audience swelled on all sides, breaking into gasps of disbelief and shouts of joy.

  “There's a lot we need to repair ... ” She raised her voice. “If I didn't know better, I'd think the ruin in this ghetto was the outcome of war. But this is just ... a consequence of the Loren regime. This was about to become a consequence of me.”

  Discoveries. Another had surfaced earlier today. Her father had been paying off traders from the surrounding kingdoms to embargo Talystasia East. Despite that, Telyra had weathered the consequences admirably, rationing, negotiating, making sacrifices—going without himself. Her father, meanwhile, had continued pouring money down the drain.

  “Before we can even get started repairing these apartments, the poorest among you need to eat. I will need your help. Almost as much as I will need that of the aristocracy.” She took a deep breath: "I will be cancelling taxes for the next three years—"

  “Where’s the money going to come from?” a man bellowed.

  "There will also be a lottery at the start of each year,” she went on, ignoring him, “allowing the poorest families to move into the palace while they get back on their feet.”

  "Where will we live?" shrieked a woman.

  Rose squinted to the outskirts of the throng, sure she recognized the dissenter.

  "You will live in your downtown estate, Baroness ... you don't need two sets of marble rooms."

  Guffaws rang out from the center of the crowd. Someone whooped and applauded from one of the dark tenement windows overhead, buoying her up above her anxiety. Floating on the support—which still seemed to find its quiet center in the rigid, expressionless man at her side—she spoke more confidently:

  "There’s more. The cycle of poverty is not the only one that my family has entrenched us in. War has brought us no prosperity."

  Cries of disapproval rained down over the supportive whistles and shouts, and for a precarious moment, she felt sure her newfound confidence was about to topple, spilling her from her precarious perch to the hard ground below, but no. Not this time.

  "I'm not saying we won't go to war," she cut in, raising her voice. "I'm saying that we need time to rebuild first and consider where we stand. Lord Telyra has murdered those nearest and dearest to me." Her voice shook. "… by his own hand, from all accounts. I have every cause to loathe him, as much as any of you. I'd much prefer a world without him and a city united ... but Lord Telyra …”

  She broke off, gasping for air. The shadows were climbing the tenements on all sides like incorporeal vines ascending toward the swiftly darkening sky, and she felt like she was plummeting into the dark, the last tethers of the life she’d known snapping and releasing.

  … The admission would cost her dear. Once she made it … she knew she could never take it back.

  “… Lord Telyra did not cause us the grief we are suffering today. He proposed and carried out three successful, bloodless years of truce before my father broke that truce and brought the consequences down on us all—including himself. I love my father, but his lack of faith cost him his life, and it killed my brother.

  "If Telyra gives us a chance ... I think we should consider giving him one. The man won't live forever ... and when he dies, consider there will not likely be another to inherit his circlet or his throne. This city will default to us without bloodshed.

  "I'm sorry if this is an unpopular decision. But it is my decision. We're not ready for war right now. We need to rebuild our infrastructure and train up new soldiers, and I require training as well. Our general," she nodded to Costellic, who blushed a conspicuous shade of red, "can take care of us should Telyra choose to press his advantage—and yes, he will have one while we focus on internal affairs. In the meantime, we will rest and rebuild and hone our own advantage. If we do not, we will destroy ourselves without Telyra’s help. Thank you … that will be all.”

  Without waiting, she touched Costellic's arm lightly to signal him and stepped down from the crates on gelatin legs. Keeping his gesture subtle, he held out his elbow, but she didn’t take it. He gave a nod, and like clockwork, the sentries encircled them, ushering them through the shouting crowd and into the dark:

  “—Bravo about the taxes—"

  “—Is the time to strike, they retreated—"

  “—You fool, your father wouldn’t have surrendered—"

  “—Filthy fucking traitor—"

  This last pierced her heart with all the nastiness intended. But ducking her head, she choked on a sob which was half laughter, half tears. Not all the voices were cruel, and here and there she caught the sparkle of happy tears or a smile …

  ... And in the heavens above ... the pale scintilla of stars.

  The crushing weight that had been grinding her down for days fell aside like a curtain drawn from the sky, and she realized …

  It wasn’t just because change was finally possible on the outside. It was because it was possible on the inside too.

  ~~~

  The library was a roomy, circular space, packed from floor to ceiling with books. The scent of leather, wood, candle wax and dust was heavy on the air. The light from the chandeliers barely descended to touch the polished cedar panels inlaid on the floor.

  She shifted uneasily, waiting by the light of a solitary oil lamp. Across the room, the wide, curved window reflected her face in a shadowy, featureless blur, revealing nothing of the nighttime courtyard beyond. The knock she was awaiting came eventually and unexpectedly.

  "Thank you," she acknowledged when the door opened. Two guards entered the room, flanking a plump, pale, middle-aged woman in a brocade gown. Like Rose, she was garbed entirely in black, her usually colourful wig exchanged for a somber one in sable, her eyes ringed with exhaustion. The chandeliers above her head were like triple suns, but the vastness of the room swallowed up their light so that only the painted ceiling seemed bright and luminous, the shimmering grey and golden clouds on its surface the portal to an unreachable heaven.

  Rose nodded the guards out.

  "Auntie ..." she breathed, surging to her feet and crossing the hardwood floor.

  The duchess looked small and frail in the gloom of the library. But perhaps that was only a reflection of the insecurities she herself felt.

  Rosmera Loren clutched her back in a shaky embrace, the sharp floral scent of her perfume mixing with the salt of her tears. “First Malek and dear Alix, and …” She broke off, sobbing wetly
into her neck.

  Suddenly claustrophobic, Rose broke away from the warmth of her aunt’s body.

  “I’m so sorry,” she offered inadequately. “I know. It’s been one shock after the next—”

  "Let's sit down, dear ..." Rosmera stated, gesturing.

  Rose nodded tiredly and pulled out a chair at the little round table in the center of the room and then took a seat across from her. She tried to focus, but her gaze kept wandering back to the window, the night sky beyond, and the murky mists of childhood.

  Aunt Leneah. Why do I keep thinking of Aunt Leneah …

  She remembered very little of that time except a kind of dull, quiet despondency that suffused all—a terminal loneliness that had faded to the backdrop, but had never really gone away.

  Her aunt had died of a tumour, a sharp note of pain that had punctured that blanket of silence. There was something Aunt Leneah had said, even before her diagnosis:

  "I feel ... different somehow. Like part of me isn't myself anymore."

  “Roselia!”

  Jolted back into the present, she looked up questioningly.

  "I was wondering ... that is, I would like to make a request of you,” Aunt Rosmera beseeched, wiping her eyes and composing herself.

  Different somehow …

  “… What can I do?”

  "Would you mind investigating my husband's death ...?"

  Rose snapped her eyes back to her aunt’s and stared at her blankly for one, dreadful, too-long moment.

  "It is being investigated.”

  "Yes, but I was wondering if you would set up an investigative team."

  "Why?" she asked, but she already knew.

  “I do not trust that man Costellic.”

  To most of Talystasia West, Costellic was a war hero. But somehow, inexplicably, Rosmera rightly guessed otherwise.

  She should be united with her aunt in this, intent upon discovering the truth behind her uncle’s death.

  … But she wasn’t.

  Her uncle had been plotting against her, so what were the odds her aunt wasn’t?

  Costellic might not be her friend, but he was at least her ally. And her uncle may have been her enemy, but he still had been her uncle. It would take more than just this one day for her heart to accept what had happened. Could she forgive Costellic if she confirmed beyond any doubt that he had in fact been involved? Losing him now to her own grief and righteousness would be just too much. She was barely keeping it together as it was, and if she lost just one more person …

  "Auntie ..." she dissembled, vexed. "If it wasn't for Costellic ... we would all probably be dead right now. I was there. He defeated Telyra."

  "That's just it. That is all good and well, and it is sensible and right to reward him. But dear ... he controls the army, the palace guard, the city watch ... all of it! His rise to power has been far too swift. His background is nonexistent, and the way he behaves! … Like he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar! Why should anyone trust such a man …? Why should you?"

  "No ... I control the army ... the city watch, the palace guard, all of it. Costellic is my man. He works for me."

  "Does he ...? I hate to be indelicate, but I know you. You've resisted politics your whole life. He is taking advantage of your naivete—"

  "I can learn. I will learn!"

  "From whom? Costellic? He’ll tell you only what he wants you to hear."

  "I'm so sorry about Uncle, but to suspect Costellic’s investigation would be somehow tainted is to suggest—"

  "—All I'm saying to you is that this isn't a knight in shining armour, but a seasoned, ambitious manipulator … wherever he comes from. That much I’m sure of. He's acquired your loyalty without even trying. Boyish good looks and charm does not a guardian angel make! If you actually believe in this ... person, you are being unrealistic. You've read too many tales. Nobody is coming to rescue you.”

  She leapt to her feet. "You don't need to patronize me, Duchess!"

  “You shouldn’t trust anyone in politics, Roselia.”

  Rose frowned back, narrowing her eyes.

  If Costellic really had murdered her uncle, and she wasn’t doing anything about it …

  Palin was the traitor. Palin, not me. He was the one scheming against me. I’m the one with the circlet on my head. He owed me his allegiance.

  Then again … Costellic had already betrayed Delvorak, and by extension, her father. She couldn’t delude herself about that.

  I became a traitor to my father’s memory the moment I didn’t expose Costellic.

  And here she was, covering for him—again.

  Her head felt like it was going to come apart. And this circlet—this damn crown. It was so heavy.

  I can’t live like this. This is insane. How could Father!

  "You are doing better than yesterday ... there's still a good deal of tension about the war, but the working class is less likely to revolt. I really do wish you'd think more of your family though, Roselia. How could you do that to poor Candice? Ousting her from her rooms, and in public no less? You practically mocked her.”

  “What was I supposed to say, nothing? She challenged me.”

  “It was cruel. And the measures you've instituted today ... turning over the coffers to the poor and uneducated ... Don't you think that money could go to more use and do more good in the hands of those who know how to implement improvements to the city?"

  "What, like ... all the improvements of the past thirty years?—Are you talking about the people who made things the way they are?" She almost laughed, but she was too rattled and dizzy. If only one goddamned person would stop telling me what to do ...

  Costellic doesn’t. Or does he, and is he just so subtle I miss it—?

  "Are you advising me as my aunt ... or as my courtier? Is there a difference anymore, Duchess—?"

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "I'm calling you by your title of proper respect. As you should do with me." She surged to her feet. "Guards, we're done here! … I will of course do as you requested and order an independent investigation into the death of your husband. But it will be a fair investigation—and that means that the team will not be prejudiced by your unfounded suspicions. You are the one requesting a biased investigation.”

  Abruptly, she was struck by a thought.

  "Where were you last night?"

  Aunt Rosmera stared back, her eyes wide.

  Rose smiled pointedly.

  "… You weren't with him. You weren't in your suite here in the palace either. I hope you have an alibi worked out for the investigation which will not compromise your honour."

  Sweeping out of the library, she left the guards to show out her aunt. The moment she was out of sight and earshot, she took a deep breath and tore away, dashing down sleeping corridors and up narrow, suffocating stairwells, biting down tears.

  At last she burst out onto the roof. Cool night air flowed into her lungs, the stars blazing overhead with shocking brilliance, freed from the captivity of the clouds.

  Slumping into one of the embrasures, she slammed her fist into the stonework and buried her face in her hands. If only there were was one more stairwell she could climb … up to the stars and out of this world where no one seemed like a friend.

  … Except Costellic. He seemed like a friend.

  But he couldn't be. Not when he was an seasoned, ambitious manipulator. Rosmera might be one herself, but that didn’t make her wrong. Costellic wore a soldier’s uniform, but he spoke the language of politics. And that uniform, with its medals commending his false victory, was a lie in every way.

  Silvery light glimmered coldly in jewel-drenched domes, icing the rooftops and the streets far below. In the distance the Wall glinted softly, dusted with the light of the half-moon.

  Different somehow.

  … Skimming her fingers across the cold metal band encircling her head, she repeated the words, muttering them again and again under her breath like a mantra. Each
time they sounded more and more involuntary, like someone else was speaking through her mouth.

  “Different somehow … different. Different.”

  It wasn't just this unwanted role, this mad city, this stupid, vile thing stuck to her head. All of that would’ve been more than enough, but she couldn’t dismiss the irrational notion that there was something else, something she couldn’t see.

  … It glimmered at her out of the bright, cold clarity of the heavens, shined softly along the interminable bricks of the Wall. It was there in her missing memories, lost to the impenetrable blackness of deepest sleep. It lurked at the very bottom of that downward spiral of carnage and fear, lifting its head invisibly to stare at her through fleshless pupils containing infinite darkness …

  Heart leaping, she screamed. Wrestling the circlet free, she hurled it vehemently over the side of the tower and watched with a mixture of satisfaction and rage as it disappeared into the dark.

  Fall, damn you. Fall into Hell.

  … It would be back.

  Did Father do this ...? No. Father loved the damn thing. And he kept making that absurd declaration, that only his was 'real.' I wish I had the fake one.

  But there was no fake; Andreas Telyra’s circlet was as genuine as hers. In the very deepest part of her heart she was certain.

  … Only one human being in the entire universe could possibly know what she was feeling right now—and he was on the other side of the Wall.

  Telyra. His eyes had seemed as empty as death from across the great hall, but close to, had held something else. Confusion? Uncertainty? Loneliness …? It was strange to think of him as a real person, not just the childhood bogeyman, and yet …

  Did Telyra ever throw his circlet over the tower wall ...? Did he ever want to kill himself?

  … Probably not. Why delude herself with stupid hopes? And even if he did, what difference would it make to their situation?

  They were both entrenched in the machinelike rituals of this place, and the most sacred rite was war.

  Aunt Rosmera is right. I do read too many tales. Time to grow up. This is all wrong—everything I’m doing is wrong.