Bliss

by Daniel Lawley

  This existence of this life was truly magical. The caveat to magic, he knew, was that it came with intricate rules. Those he could follow easily and many more he knew of yet would always find impossible. This was one of the former, for if he did not fulfil the contract, collecting the innocent and achieving her ends upon the Netan land, then he would crumble to dust and bone. Accelerated against him the winds of time to blow apart what little of him remained. In the absence of choice he trod the path laid before him, a divinity in the way it wound, yet not one easily understood, to follow and obey. The hardest lesson and one he'd never excelled at. He'd always been a man who sought freedom and now he experienced it by degrees. But only in so far as what she granted him. A noose around his neck.

  The drawn carriage moved at pace through the winding roads of his majesty's estate. Despite its location in the centre of Qesa he'd been surprised by the necessity of transport. It had always looked so close, yet it remained half a day's sojourn from the main gates, longer still from the back entrance. Laid out as the roadways were to ensure the scenic route was pleasantly presented to all visitors. The city itself looked as if a distant speck on the horizon. He'd moved from cobbled city streets to dirt road upon picturesque field. If he'd not known better he would have claimed to be upon a different island entirely. Up front the Demascan pony whinnied gently. Used to the physical exertion the cart placed upon their strong, heavily shelled backs they seemed to be enjoying the pace. He was no fan of the creatures, their long winding necks reminded him of serpents as they crawled, bellies inches from the ground to their destination.

  The stamina of the creatures seemed unending. Soon they arrived, quicker than he expected. Silently the groom stepped from his place atop the ornate wooden carriage, each step downward echoing within. “Sir, we have arrived” he spoke, a polish to his voice Mitrick knew he possessed only through a lifetime of careful practice in elocution.

  “Thank you” he assured in the kindest manner he could muster, despite his mission he'd no desire to offend, not yet at least. From the seat before him he collected his new hat and coat, both cast of the finest black velvet he'd been able to afford. Placing the tricorn upon his head and swiping the coat over his shoulders and awaited the groom who would attend his departure with a slight yet firm hand down the steps to the ground below. In every way a rascal, in every presentation a gentleman. The guise worked wonders.

  The palace itself was a wonderment of technological building advancement and a testament to the ingenuity of ancient humanity upon these isles. He'd no doubt that the Crown Prince Johan had no inkling of just what it had taken in labouring and materials to craft his beautiful yet sprawling home, yet somebody once had taken pride in such an endeavour. Each of the finest details perfected to the last, he'd not seen such affluence in his life.

  It was impossible, he knew, from a look alone, to traverse the span of the palace in a single day. Its huge frame cast from the most beautiful of marble, this patch of Qesa caught the light of the twin suns perfectly. The illusion of glittering among the marble stones sat prominent in his vision. From a large archway atop a dais requiring a stairway to reach a servant arrived. Dressed in the finery of gentry among the nobility in the capital. Even the prince’s servants dressed in higher regard than most. He waltzed slowly down the marble steps, his bare feet covered by the decadent silken cloth he wore.

  “His majesty has been expecting your arrival, please if you'll allow, follow me.” He was required to remove his boots before entering the palace proper and place them under the careful custody of servants. He was loath to part with them. A black leather affair with ornate straps and buckles lending their efforts to both style and substance. It was more than he'd ever been afforded in the Order, more than he'd ever worn. Yet he was a new man now, he stroked the stubble-less chin of his handsome new face, a face people trusted. A face that many would falter before. Only he and the goddess knew what transpired between them. Upon the removal of his boots he found himself bade forth by the same servant who'd greeted him at the steps. “His majesty is in his reception today, you'll have to excuse, your visit upon him is quite unexpected and so you will be escorted at all times.” He spoke matter of factly, his expression as placid as a calm lake, yet Mitrick knew beneath the serenity was a mind scheming, watching his every move and contemplating the next.

  “Quite right” he answered pleasantly. False graces of his own would ensure his ends. It was not that the high prince was paranoid, simply that he should never have ascended the throne, as second in line. His brother had been dispatched by a treacherous cousin and Prince Johan himself nearly murdered in the process. Now he kept the continued company of a highly trained retinue of bodyguards at all times. The handsome new face and strong new body he wore would not be enough.

  He was led through a marvelous series of corridors, about the palace were many oddities and feat in engineering. He'd expected the marble to freeze his feet to the newly formed bone yet only warmth prevailed. At either side of them ran a small stream of water, leading to he knew not where, yet his expectation was it would be some grand finale. The palace he found to be well lit, yet no sconces nor torches abounded. Instead, from each ceiling hung a gemstone, not emanating light, but reflecting it all around, including upon the next stone. The source must be the twin suns so that the palace, at least the non-residential parts, would remain in perpetual light, as the world outside. Such ingenuity and yet the Order had forced him into such servitude. The inequality struck him as obscenely delicious. Much had changed, yet what remained intact was his shrewd mind and blackened heart. His task would be all the easier if he could exploit the high prince’s indifference toward position and his people. He was led to a small ancillary and seated while the pleasant yet duplicitous servant went ahead. Before long he returned.

  “His Highness Prince Johan of Neta will see you now… attend.” His voice had grown shrill with pomp. More false grace. Mitrick stood, playing the part he needed and followed him through an ornately carved doorway to a room far more humble than he'd expected. Beside a roaring fire were placed a wooden chair and table. Heavily overweight and perched upon them precariously sat Prince Johan of Neta. Mitrick bowed deeply, his brow almost scraping the polished floor. His shoulder length brown hair tumbled about himself. Machinations aside he need only play the part of scraping servant for as long as needed.

  “You may rise” spoke the prince. Upon further inspection Mitrick noted this man was one of the ugliest men he'd ever seen. From his fat, bald head protruded a boil as large as his nose. His deeply sunken piggy eyes stared intently at Mitrick, seeing but not seeing, puzzling as to why his routine had been so derailed by this gentle intruder. It was no wonder the man had never married, arrangement or no, without serious coercion none would willingly share the bed of the man sat before him. He also noted with deep concern the five guards at either side, divine mandate or no, there would be little of use he could manage against ten heavily armed soldiers with only his wits and sharp tongue. His mind returned momentarily to the nothingness Beocantes had showed him. He shuddered.

  “Your Highness” he addressed the prince. “It is with grave concern I report troubling news from the isles.” He spoke, honeyed tones to his words.

  “Oh?” The Prince spoke dismissively.

  “There is some discontent among the citizenry.”

  “Why should I care?” He asked ungraciously.

  “That question, I too have been asking myself.” He lied. “The citizenry are concerned by piracy and the effect it has upon their personal wealth.” The key to a good lie he knew was some grounding in truth, a great lie preyed upon the insecurities of the person being lied to. This man before him, his insecurities sat upon the throne he never sought to inherit, he had not been raised to rule. Raised to be a public figure, he'd no idea how to live well the life of duty thrust upon him.

  “Small time crooks and thieves dispatched upon the docks on hanging days, the gaols are full of pirates and you
sir show naivety if you suppose the crown is not privy to this fact.” Replied the prince harshly.

  “This is true your Highness, but if I may hazard further, the problem is enormous and left quite untouched by the effort of your forces. The populace is unhappy about the piracy indeed, but its secondary effect is stark. The money taken from taxable vendors directly affects trade and furthermore taxable income to the crown. One could say they are bleeding you dry.” At his words the prince took notice, his eyes darkening further as he thought.

  “What do you suggest?”

  “I come with a proposition, a military anti-piracy force patrolling the skies around all the isles. Once and for all putting paid to this miserable business.”

  “Oh, and what's in this for you?” He asked. Suspicion clear in his voice.

  “Allow me to lead, among others.”

  The prince thought for a moment, deliberating his options. “Guards, take him. Allow him the finest of rooms. He is a guest until we decide what is to become of his idea, he is to be treated to the finest of the court.”

  Mitrick bowed deeply.

  “Now be gone” Prince Johan commanded.

  Mitrick smiled as he left. He may be a prisoner at the palace but the prince was right where he needed him to be.

  ~ Destroyed Temple of The Three~

  ~ Fifteenth of the Smith, Song of Joy~

  From ashes and crimson fury she will ride

  The tides of destiny high about her

  The folly of desire cast aside

  Hope and despair at her feet

  - High Priestess Moryana, Five centuries before

  It is a fallacy oft repeated through history that the taste of victory is sweet within the mouths of those who dine upon it. Yet looking around the decimated temple grounds Armatrine only tasted bitterness. It was a poor meal. Like a stain upon her body she tasted it on her lips and felt it in her heart. Working its way into her blood with each steady beat it spread like a plague about her. Poisoning the soul and the mind.

  She surveyed the aftermath all around her, what had been a garden of peace and flourishing joy had so quickly become the grounds for slaughter. A stain of crimson upon holy grounds. She wondered how much of that had been her, in the heat of the skirmish, eager for the flavour of blood upon the sharpened edge of her blade. Its bite, so tender and swift, piercing flesh to part lifeforce and body. Something within had overcome her, in the desperation of the moment. She was aware of every stroke of the sword and dagger, every fibre of her body had become alive with the fight and the fury. Yet released from some place within had been a darkness, something she'd eagerly given control to. Now all that remained was trauma and loss, the boy too. She pressed the edge of the dagger firm against the supple skin of his throat, the lump underneath the surface which moved as he spoke, it would be so easy, she thought, to take his life. To simply cut him short as he'd done to her. He made no move to fight against her, showed no sign of recognition, no sign of fear. His existence was within her hands. The girl he'd murdered. Yet she remained steadfast in her resolve. Never allowing the blade to gorge upon his flesh. Denying the sating of her bloodlust. He remained still, the lightest of movements holding the potential to sever skin and sinew. He remained careful to show her no fear, her grace and mercy were both limited.

  All around her the wounded lay bleeding, or dying, or soiling themselves with the fear of the end and the release of bodily functions. One final undignified act upon a world of indifference adding to the stench. She supposed that she too, had voided herself in such a way when she had tumbled from that fateful rooftop to the waiting city street in Qesa, cobbled stone rising to meet her, swift as the turning wind upon the clouds. She'd give anything to forget. Some of the minor wounded began to heal themselves and others weakly with the limited resources to hand, with no access to the pools she noted the high priestess was already dividing out treatment as her experience dictated. Deciding in split seconds who would live and who would succumb to the wounds despite intervention, whom would be shown the mercy of a quick dispatch in place of the slow death of battle wounds, days spent laying languishing Would only be a prolonging of the inevitable. An uneasy sadness set about her, the Three would greet many at the gates to the afterlife upon this day.

  Then he spoke. Barely audible, a gasp from the desperate. She pressed the knife harder against his throat. Not enough to draw blood but enough to remind him of its presence as she witnessed all going on around her. At her knees she noticed a small pool of blood, it was not her own. By her estimate blood loss would not be enough to kill him but left untreated it would go septic, likely to kill him. Sternly and without a word she steeled her resolve, tears welling in the corners of her eyes.

  “I know you” he spoke again “from the capital, you were after the map.”

  She did not reply.

  “You stopped giving chase, I got away. The map led us here.” He informed her of what she already knew yet hearing the words from somebody else left her raw with a new emotion, guilt. Had she not fallen, stumbling to her end then the temple would never have been attacked, so many lives ended at the hand of her failure. The wells in the corners of her eyes began to overflow, silently she cried.

  The high priestess, upon finishing the stitching of a young acolyte moved toward Armatrine.

  “What have we here child?” She asked, a smile upon her face, although how she could smile at such a time Armatrine did not understand.

  “One of them,” she answered, “a prisoner.” She spoke clearly as the tears continued to fall.

  “The Order of the Pearl has never taken a prisoner before” answered the priestess. “Not by any conventional means.”

  “No, we just curse them until they acquiesce to our will” she snapped in the heat of the moment.

  “Well, that much is true, if it's in the interest of the greater Netan good, but we don't hold dagger to flesh to render those under our power hostage.”

  “Not until now, I was worried he might escape, he might have information we can use and…”

  “Enough…” silenced the priestess. Her light cowl flapped about her in the breeze. She almost looked to be one of the Three mused Armatrine, the twin suns burned brightly behind her, offset by the violet in the sky. “Enough of the justification, the boy may indeed have information, yet we must treat his wounds, stand your dagger down.” She spoke not unkindly, her tone communicating gratitude for Armatrine's continued vigilance. Frozen in trauma Armatrine made no move to shift the dagger, its weight lent comfort to her grip. The high priestess simply smiled.

  “This one is dangerous” she warned finally.

  “Thank you acolyte” she responded. Quietly she repeated a prayer before laying her hands above him. A glow began to emanate from within, illuminating her flesh and his alike. Once she was certain of the bond she opened her eyes smiling at the boy. “So what do they call you?” She asked the injured hostage.

  “Jak, Jak Laanson” he groaned.

  “Interesting,” she smiled at Armatrine, “tell me master Laanson how does one from the far reaches of a village like Laan end up here attacking the temple of the Three in Qesa?”

  “Press ganged as a boy, they took us from the village when they destroyed it. Bloody and fateful the night was clear. She arrived, the kite, sails full with the maelstrom and guns filled with fire. We bled and burned and lay crushed under rubble unable to fight back, the engines roared, Neta turned and the Three had forsaken us to the arms of destruction. I was but a boy, barely worth mentioning in the long drawn wisp of smoke that is eternity. My father was the village Alderman in Laan. A position of small power and affluence, yet more than us country folk could usually enjoy. It was a nothing town with no import. They razed it to the ground and sailed on into the night. Offering a choice to the parents of children such as I, we could be pressed into the crew or perish along with them in the night. Cast from the deck to the mercy of the clouds. Falling to abrupt demise among the darkness and the screeches
of fearsome roaring drakes.” He'd hardly stopped to take a breath as he recounted his past. The memories of a life of burgeoning piracy.

  The priestess only smiled. “I see, there is an irony in your tale young sir.”

  “Oh?” He questioned.

  “Enough” Armatrine interrupted. Her red curls escaping the hood of the new robes. “Why did you not simply leave at the earliest opportunity? You may not have sought the life you were given but you settled for it.” Her knuckles whitened as she increased the tension of her grip upon the dagger handle.

  “You’re right, but as children we crave what we know, what had I left to run back to? What had any of us? You may not agree with my choices but you have privilege flowing through the blood of your body. I have naught but chance and luck I learned along the way. No matter how lucky or not I have been, for you, doors will always open.”

  Armatrine let go of the dagger, stunned by the words of her killer. “Not so!” She screamed, anger etched upon her face.

  “Acolyte Dupree, enough!” Snapped the high priestess. “There are small wisdoms in his words. It is our duty to hear the thoughts of those we heal. Lest they perish and they go forgotten. It is written.”