The real damage done, I imagined, was the relations between the satyr clans along the River Hapyx and the rest of the kingdom. It would take a generation to forget.
It would be interesting to see how things were at court. How had Princess Dawn handled it all? Was there a new Adjutant of Affairs to replace the old traitor? What was Queen Boralia’s role in the new court?
All the while I had hidden myself at Plin Oèn. I had tried to keep myself out of trouble, out of the rut I had been in before. For the most part I was successful. But I ended up finding new ruts to get myself into.
For example, I had cut back significantly on my consumption of wine and other joyful beverages. That would have seemed a step forward to some. But now I was just bored every night, awfully, painfully bored. And I was not nearly the womanizer I had been; it’s difficult to meet new folks when you never see anyone at all. I was totally withdrawn from court life. Even when Maeral, not but a day’s ride away, invited me to a summer feast at his estate, I turned him down. It was ridiculous, it was insane, but I couldn’t help myself from making excuses.
And so, instead of going, I stayed in the keep, standing idly on the uppermost balustrade and wondering why I was so caught between boredom and reclusion.
I was bored because I was a recluse and I was a recluse because… because I don’t know.
I wasn’t sure why all of a sudden I never wanted to see anyone. I was awfully lonely out at Plin Oèn. And it was funny to think that before I had been such a figure at court. Herace, the Rising Star.
But then I was Herace the Shamed.
But then, I was Herace the Redeemed.
Not many folk ever go through so many appellations. Not many folk ever lose their status as Shamed, either. Once you’re Shamed, that’s usually it for you. Reduced to a scorned beggar, or worse, a corruptible outcast. I was just lucky enough to get a chance at redemption, and just capable enough to make that chance a success.
I touched my hand to my sleeve, where I had tucked away the letter.
The letter was the whole reason I was travelling alone, the whole reason I had left Plin Oèn for anything more than a stroll through the meadows and trees.
I reached in and pulled it out, feeling the curled parchment crinkle between my fingers. I had held onto it for a couple days before making my decision to honour its simple request.
Herace, it began,
The Princess Dawn requests your presence forthwith at the Etala Chamber. You are needed urgently.
Regards,
and then the royal crest.
I suppose I hadn’t really honoured its simple request. I didn’t treat the request with any urgency at all. I slept with it next to my bed for a night, then two nights. Then, the next day, I made my decision to go. I packed my things and figured I would leave early the next morning. So I did.
But at least I was going.
Perhaps it was just what I needed. See some familiar faces, make a social visit to the courtiers of the Etala Chamber. Maybe even see some old paramours.
I had no idea what could be so urgent, though. I refused to be unsettled by such alarming yet subtle language. Maybe she was just checking in on me, making sure I hadn’t drank myself to an early grave. I must say, after looting the satyr camp on the banks of the River Hapyx I had become rather degenerate in my consumption of mead. Nearly two full days of alcohol and scavenge, taking part in a warrior’s most ancient custom; stealing a defeated enemy’s goods. Well, second most ancient custom, second only to both killing and dying. There wasn’t even all that much to take from their camp, especially by the time I had got there; just the tents, discarded weapons, food. Some strange shamanistic items that ended up making an interesting addition to my fireplace mantle. Nothing of great worth. Not like the campaigns of Safon. Those were the days! The loot we acquired had been immensely gratifying. Such is the reality when one fights for and against competing city states, each warring for a piece of sea-trade. Much more to acquire than when one fights against rebellious tribes from a gorse-choked backwater.
I wondered what ever became of Rickitt Tyr’s staff. From what I understood it was a priceless relic that represented the unity of all satyrs, an artifact from long ago, long before confederation, when they took refuge in the Bitter Frost Mountains.
It would have made an excellent poker for my fireplace.
I reached the royal roadway and spent a moment reading the sign pointing toward my estate.
Plin Oèn, it read, using both Old Sylvan and Urvish script, carved into a big plank of wood. Moss grew in the crevices. I used a knife from my belt to scrape off the lichen, make it look a little less run-down.
My good deed done for the day, I continued on toward Naraya.
The capital, Naraya, held mixed emotions for me. There were lots of good memories attached, lots of courtly amusement, but also a considerable amount of bitterness. It was beneath its heavy stone base that I had been kept prisoner. Three months and eight days, languishing in its murky depths. Shamed and stripped of title…
I shook my head to rid myself of those dark thoughts.
King Aral had restored my title to me, given me my new appellation. All was forgiven.
Plus, he was dead now. So none of that even mattered.
I travelled well into the late afternoon, passing only but a few simple folk along the way. One group of faun peasants was herding a swarm of bleating goats and took up nearly the whole roadway. Seeing me, however, they made every effort to move their flock aside to allow my passage. I nodded courteously to them and they bowed their heads.
Being late afternoon, I was ready to stop at any road warden’s hut or inn I might come upon. As prepared as I was to sleep outside I wasn’t terribly enthused about that possibility.
Soon the sun was sinking low, well out of sight. I hadn’t passed a single place to rest for hours, and the roadway was deserted.
It was right around the time I was resolving myself to finding a suitable section of brush in which to sleep when a trilling note caught my ear.
I sat up straighter in the saddle and slowed my mount, patting his neck to silence him. I strained to hear against the growing chorus of crickets.
Then it came again, a far-off warbling, the melodious call of an instrument. In the thickening shroud of dusk I pushed on hopefully.
Before long I caught sight of a shimmering in the wood, a soft orange flicker lighting upon the trunks of trees. I was wary, of course, knowing that the fae at times ensnare travellers for their amusement. And there were, of course, things far worse than the fae who lure the unwary to dark corners of the wilderness for far more nefarious purposes.
The lone trill of that instrument grew into more distinct music; I heard cries of laughter, of revelry. I approached the distant glimmer, the warm sounds of festivity.
I came to an open section, a glen tucked into the surrounding wood, separated from the royal roadway by not much more than a thin veil of trees. I wasn’t sure how secretive this gathering was trying to be, and I hesitated a long moment there in the dark, listening to the voices and smatters of laughter and watching the flicker of firelight play gently on the leaves.
I didn’t want to sleep in my silly little bedroll out in the dewy night. I was positive that whoever these folk were, they would at least tell me how far away I was from the next inn.
Anyway, I was Herace! The life of every party, and far too courageous to be nervous about stumbling uninvited into some sort of midsummer night’s festival.
This was just what I needed.
With a jerk, I heeled my horse forward and into the glowing light.
3
Dawn
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat as my advisors droned on. I had a very bad habit of slouching, and the spacious design of my father’s throne wasn’t helping me break that habit.
It was a beautiful thing, this throne. A living work of art shaped of thickly knotted wood. Studs of amber
and streaks of silver adorned the seat, sparkling like stars.
I was beginning to get used to sitting there, raised a few steps above the court. The hard back and rough arms were familiar now. I don’t think I would ever get used to the responsibility attached to such a throne, however.
Every morning I woke up with a nagging headache, the kind that resides like a troublesome pest behind your eyes, impossible to locate but ever present. I would rub my temples until the skin was sore, trying whatever I could to alleviate the swelling sensation. It was a serious distraction, but I refused to consult a healer.
By noon it would usually be gone. But I knew it would return without fail on the morrow.
Not even morning trips outside for target practice seemed to calm my nerves these days. I used to find such solace in those mornings alone, taking steady aim with not a thought in the world save what lay before me.
I longed for those days to return. But with my father’s death, nothing was the same.
I feared that a distinct, precious phase of my life was over and a new, dreary one had just begun. It was as if I had died and been reborn and this new life was just a burden, a nightmare of stress and responsibility.
If only things could have happened another way! If only my father had survived, or if my mother could take the throne in his stead.
It was up to me now. All the weight of the kingdom fell upon my shoulders and I couldn’t help but groan inwardly every time I was reminded of it.
No more quiet bathing in my secret spring, no more moments in blissful solitude.
The worst part about all this extra responsibility? I was still Princess Dawn.
Not High Queen Dawn. Princess.
Apparently the coronation would have to wait a few months, according to my mother. All the responsibility, half the authority, and none of the title.
I readjusted my position in my seat, feeling the rough knots of the throne against my back. My advisors droned on, seemingly in an argument one with another. I stopped listening ages ago. It felt like it had been at least an hour of squabbling. All minor, petty things, like what funds should be allocated to what roadways. All we ever spoke about seemed to be the roadways. It was prime road building season, or so they always repeated like some holy mantra. Midsummer is peak season! We must move with urgency, build while we can!
Occasionally we would get onto more interesting topics, like rights of inheritance and delegation of power. And by ‘more interesting’, I simply mean ‘less brain-liquefyingly dull.’
I had seriously considered calling up more advisors, maybe even promoting a staff who would handle all the affairs of state in my stead. They could just seek me out if they needed my nod of approval on things more… pressing.
Things other than road building and fund allocation.
My mother and I had already made some significant reforms in regards to court administration. For example, there was no more Adjutant of Affairs. That was a dead tradition before it even had a chance to live. Rickitt Tyr ruined that for everyone.
We made certain, however, to keep satyrs in the administration. After the initial rebellion I had three forts founded on the Hapyx. It would be at least a decade before they were more than simple encampments, but it was a start. Now we were in talks with loyal clans to have them gain hereditary ownership of lands in the north. Any way to reduce their nomadic lifestyle, to give them a sense of ownership and belonging, to help them become a little more like us in the south.
There were many obstacles to overcome, and it would be a long journey. But at least the cornerstones of peace were laid.
And apparently road building was part of that plan. Better connect us, help commerce, and as Perethon, the Captain of the Royal Guard, discreetly reminded me, a faster route for soldiers in case of another armed uprising.
No wonder my father complained of headaches. No wonder I was getting them too.
To top it all off, I had personal problems to go along with all these matters of state.
Ortham.
Things went sideways almost immediately. Reality set in, and when it did, it set in hard.
There was simply no way to reconcile my feelings for him with my responsibility to the crown. I tried so hard, thought of every way to make it work, yet I could not find a solution. He was still a black mark in court, no matter that he had proven heroic in the end. No courtier could ever forget that it was him who started the whole ordeal, and in a roundabout way, it was therefore his fault King Aral was killed. It was a mess. And I was too occupied to sort it all out.
Now he was living in servant’s quarters outside the walls of the keep.
Plus, I was a princess. A faun.
He was a commoner. An ur-man.
I wished it were another way. If only I had the time. If only my unborn sibling could be king! If only my father had lived…
But the golden glow of yesterday was always just out of reach. All we ever have is today. There was no sense in crying over it, over anything…
“Princess…? Princess?”
I jerked awake from my idle daydreaming. A group of my advisors watched me expectantly from the court floor.
I cleared my throat and sat up straight.
“Sorry, could you repeat that?” I asked, trying to regain composure.
Some of them grimaced, sharing subtle looks of exasperation.
I don’t know what they expected. It was well known that I hated court life. And I hated tutors. And I hated, hated, hated being princess.
One of them spoke up, explaining the issue that had arisen in their quest for roads. Apparently there was a backlog of corvée labour in some petty princedom, as someone made an unnecessary call for additional workers.
Another trifling, tedious ordeal.
After his courteous explanation I dismissed them all. I would figure out what to do later.
If I got around to it.
Or maybe I would just appoint a royal roadbuilder… that would be a solution…
With the court all but cleared I stood up from the throne and stretched. All that slouching was making my back sore.
Day by day I swear I could feel my body sink deeper into the throne. I was becoming part of it. Soon I would never be able to leave; the living roots and branches would simply grow over me. I’d be stuck until the whole keep, until all of Naraya, sunk into the earth and turned to moss.
I absentmindedly made my way out of the Etala Chamber and up the stairs. If I was lucky maybe no one would catch me. If I was really lucky I’d have enough time to take a solitary walk through the gardens.
But first I needed to just lay down on my bed. Just for a moment.
As I made my way up the winding stone staircase I heard hoofsteps echoing from the adjoining hallway. I stopped and waited until the sound of their click-clack waned, ultimately fading out of earshot. Then I continued with a breath of relief.
I just needed a moment alone, a single moment alone. Just an escape from the responsibility, the ever-present weight of rulership.
By some miracle I made it to my chamber undisturbed and immediately wrested the crown from my antlers, tossing it aside like some cheap trinket. It landed on my bedsheets soundlessly and I collapsed next to it not a moment after. Staring up at the stone ceiling, devoid of any colour or shape, I staved off the urge to cry. A nearly overwhelming wave of unhappiness washed over me and soon my eyes were watery.
But I didn’t cry.
I stoically refused to choke out even a single sob.
When a tear finally did streak out of each eye, running cold and wet across my temples, my cheeks went flush with shame.
Princesses cry. Future queens do not.
What would my father think, seeing me here, retreated to my room only to weep?
I wiped my face with the back of my hand and breathed in deeply. A full breath, a cleansing breath. Steady and measured and unbroken.
“Dawn, Dawn, Dawn… is this you
?” I whispered to myself.
I had no answer.
Exhausted I closed my eyes, head jumbled with matters of state and my father and the way things could have been.
And roads.
Always, always roads.
A sound, quiet yet distinct, roused my sleep-shrouded mind.
I awoke slowly, opening my bleary eyes. Soft evening light poured forth from the window where gauzy drapes swayed.
At first I thought the sound was the beginning of a dream, one of my terrible visions. A steady, rhythmic tapping. But this sound never progressed; just drifted in the warm sundown air, muffled but undeniable.
I rubbed my face and sat up. I had slept away half the day.
Tap, tap, tap.
It wasn’t very loud, the sound. I looked around in search of the source.
Tap, tap, tap.
I checked my door; not a soul to be found on the other side.
“Strange…” I muttered, while simultaneously realizing I was beginning to talk to myself far too much and resolved to nip the habit in the bud.
Strange, I thought to myself.
I stood in the centre of my room and strained to hear.
Tap, tap, tap.
I turned around.
The window? But we were so far up. A bird?
I pushed the drapes aside and looked out to the treetops beyond. The sky was a brilliant panorama of colours, strokes of purple and pink against a gloaming sky. The moons solidified in the firmament, swollen and huge.
As I leaned against the windowsill something touched my hand. I jerked away suddenly and stifled a cry of surprise. I looked down.
There, on the ledge, was a faerie.
Not just one faerie. Two.
Their tiny forms, no taller than my hand was long, matched the soft hues of the encroaching dusk sky.
I was utterly taken aback; I wasn’t expecting any messages. And no official courier would ever come directly to my room; never right to my window! Could this be a missive from Glenn Mereillion?
Day of the Hunt (The Faun Quartet Book 2) Page 2