Children of Swan: The Land of Taron, Vol 3: (A Space Fantasy Adventure)

by Coral Walker

  The Queen made a gesture to her lady-in-waiting, who rushed forward with a tray in her hands. A brand-new Arnartarna band with a golden Arnartarna flower lay resplendent on the tray. With her own hands, the Queen took the trouble to take off the old band, replace it with the new one, and press it in place while the lady-in-waiting sewed it on. When the fuss was all over, a momentary smile beamed on the Queen’s face and revived her fine features.

  “That’s better. I thought something like this might happen,” she said, stepping back to have a good look. Satisfied, she came forward again to take Cici’s hand in hers and led her back to the balcony, away from the others. “What happened to the Ertharan boy from the arena? Was he killed?” she whispered into her ear.

  Cici waved her head and looked away, blushing.

  “I knew it,” said the Queen with a sigh, “It’s hard to do it, isn’t it? We women are so soft-hearted that we cannot even bear to have a slave killed. I don’t blame you, my dear Cici. It’s not your fault.”

  The Queen shook her head stubbornly, and then her face darkened, and her eyes fogged. “Everyone is asking where Marcus has been. They are talking about these three children. All rubbish, groundless accusations and making no sense. They are poisonous, those rumours — I can see that it’s getting into Marcus’ mind, gnawing at him. And poor Marcus, who can’t remember a thing, has been wandering around like a lost soul.”

  “I am so much looking forward to this engagement, Cici. Then, at least, Marcus will be settled with you, and your poor mother Yola, who was like the dearest sister to me, can rest in peace.”

  Tears welled up in the Queen’s eyes. She dabbed them with a dainty lace handkerchief and turned to look at the garden. Suddenly her gaze focused on where Ornardo was chained. “Is that him? The Ertharan slave. What’s his name … J … ar … K? I hope he’s not jumping around calling Marcus his dad. How old do you think he is? Sixteen, seventeen? How could anyone imagine that Marcus has a son of that age?”

  She took out a small telescope from her purse and pressed it against her eye. The telescope was the same kind that Cici had. It must be one of the gifts father had given to her, thought Cici.

  “He is a handsome young man. I wouldn’t mind being his grandma,” she joked with a shade of irony, but then her voice turned bitter, “But that’ll never be. If the rumours are proved to be true, Marcus will lose everything, even his life. People are getting too cruel these days.”

  Outside the room, trumpets flourished three times.

  They looked at each other. While the Queen’s glance became elated and joyful, hers revealed nothing but dread. She saw the Queen’s slender arm bending towards her and clung on to it. Her head started reeling hopelessly, and, losing all sense of direction, she let herself be led out of the room like a lifeless doll.

  +++

  For a house on such a grand scale as this, it was necessary to have a sizeable and prominent balcony facing an open expanse of grassland. Now and then there were public events when the balcony served as an elevated stage. While commoners watched enthralled from the grass below, aristocrats and people of importance gathered on the magnificent balcony flourishing their fine garments and delivering their fine speeches. On particular occasions where a lavish banquet was expected, the vast grassland was always full of people. Folks from all over the place, their spirits charged by the fragrance of wine and the piquant smell of cooked meats, would dance merrily to the melodies played by musicians scattered here and there among the crowd.

  There were entrances onto the balcony from the east and west. A grand corridor connected each to a stately reception room. It was rare for an event to make use of both reception rooms, and as far as Cici could remember, the eastern part, both the entrance and the reception room had always been locked.

  It was in the eastern reception room that she was now standing, staring blankly at a full-length mirror of gold and silver. It was the same mirror her mother had stared at many years ago while she was waiting for her engagement ceremony to take place. Man from the west and woman from the east — that was how it must be. While Prince Marcus and her father waited in the western room, she and the Queen were in the eastern one.

  A fanfare flourished again, with a tune that was simultaneously cheerful and solemn.

  Time to get ready.

  The Queen turned to gaze at her. With deliberation, Cici lowered her head and refused to raise it. She heard a small chuckle and a quiet sigh as the Queen’s dainty hands stroked her hair, and then a cold, silky blue blindfold was placed over her eyes.

  It all went blankly blue. She swayed, and her blood ran cold.

  Not being able to see anything was a strange, helpless feeling. The straight corridor was much longer than she expected, and it seemed crooked and labyrinthine, much to her bewilderment. When the Queen whispered in her ear to take care of the steps descending to the balcony, she hesitated and shuffled her feet nervously.

  She was finally on the flat surface of the balcony, blindfolded, and shattered by the resounding cheers around her. Feeling like a trapped bird, she quivered from head to toe and relied on the grip of the Queen’s hands to keep her upright.

  As she took two steps forward, the Queen abruptly abandoned her. The wind blew against her, lifting up a corner of her dress and making her sway from side to side.

  When the grip returned to her arm, she sighed with relief.

  The balcony went quiet, as did the grassland below. There were quiet murmurings and greetings, from which she could sense that Prince Marcus, blindfolded as he must be, perhaps with her father’s hand holding onto his arm, was approaching.

  A couple of steps away, the minister made a throat-clearing cough before starting a grand speech with his unusually resonant voice. Dandoulaph Hool was his name, a double-chinned man. How full-throated and sonorous his voice was, and he had an imposing presence that perfectly matched it.

  Dandoulaph paused for a flourish of the trumpets and continued as soon as they went quiet. “This is a long-delayed engagement,” he boomed, “and this balcony we are standing on was renovated and prepared four years ago for the same occasion. However, the event was then tragically interrupted and indefinitely postponed. Today, we are continuing where we left off and gathering here to observe the engagement of Lady Cici Barloom and Prince Marcus Lanbrando. With joy in our hearts, let us together with the holy spirit of the Arnartarna flower, witness the hand of Prince Marcus crossing the heart of Lady Cici.”

  As soon as Minister Hool’s booming voice tailed off, the place went quiet. The grip on her arm was released, and again she was alone.

  She stood rigid as the tip of a finger touched her. It fell onto the Arnartarna band. With the owner of the finger blindfolded as she was, it hesitated here and there, zigzagging to find its way along the smooth yellow band to the Arnartarna flower. It succeeded, and as the finger started the circling movement around the flower, the Prince spoke in a low, murmuring tone. His warm breath brushed her hair.

  “By the Arnartarna band across your chest, my Dear Cici, and the golden Arnartarna flower on your heart, you are now bound to the young man you love, and you are bound to …”

  The words started to fade and slipped from her mind, as she sank softly to the ground.

  4

  Woods

  Cici blinked and stared. Pairs of eyes, with glittering eyelids and long eyelashes, blinked back at her. Half a dozen fans, held by animated women with frilly dresses and feathered hairpieces, were fanning her.

  There was a suffocating smell of perfume being stirred up by the fanning. Confused and feeling trapped and helpless, she looked around. Behind the flashing dresses and quivering feathers, she caught sight of the tall, dark-haired prince leaning against a post, his face sober and his arms crossed. As soon as their gazes met, an amused look took shape on his face.

  Promptly she rose up. The abruptness of her movement startled the attentive ladies, who recoiled with their hands in the air. The moment they stepped b
ack the Prince moved forward and offered her his hand.

  Glancing down at the hand that was extended before her, she hesitated. The limpid eyes of the Prince were gazing at her with a gleeful sparkle. She grasped the hand.

  People were everywhere, hearty and bold after a few mugs of mulled wine. Wherever they went she and Marcus were stopped, first to be greeted, then to be stared at, and, in the end, to be surrounded by a gathering crowd, laughing and cheering. At length they contrived to be alone, walking along the edge of the grassland next to a patch of quiet woodland.

  “Are you alright?” asked the Prince, breaking the silence.

  “I’m fine,” she said with a snap.

  He glanced at her curiously and smiled. “You sound like you’ve had a rough time.”

  “I’m fine.” She shook her head. “I didn’t sleep well last night.”

  “Too excited to sleep?”

  She said nothing.

  He studied her face and the pleasure in his eyes dimmed a little.

  “It’s rather strange,” he muttered, “we’re engaged and supposed to get married soon, but … in a way … we hardly know each other.”

  Then he chuckled. “In theory, we are no yet engaged. You fainted, exactly at the time I was taking the oath and circling the Arnartarna flower.”

  He stopped and turned. His eyes were now fixed on her. Cici, her cheeks growing purple and hot, watched with bated breath as his finger tapped on her chest, at the spot where her heart was beating ferociously underneath.

  “This is where I stopped,” he said. “I don’t think Lord Shusha, your father, was pleased about it. I could see his face was like thunder. And my mother, poor woman, would have collapsed too if Lord Shusha hadn’t got hold of her in time.”

  Two women fainting on the same spot — it wasn’t a pretty sight to contemplate, she thought glancing up at the Prince, feeling apologetic. His gaze, cast in her direction, was unfocused. She sensed a troublesome disquiet in his sudden, solemn and faraway look.

  “Have you heard the rumour?” His lips moved, and his voice sounded sombre. Without waiting for her answer he continued, “You must have, everybody has. They’re talking about it all the time — Prince Marcus went away with Princess Zelda, and they had three children.”

  He paused to take a deep breath and looked at her closely. “You believe all that, Cici, don’t you? That was why you fainted.”

  “No …” she blurted out, flushing.

  “No matter whether you believe it or not, I did disappear for a length of time, didn’t I? What happened to me? Why can’t I just remember it?” He groaned, and his face twisted. Without warning, he grasped both her arms and drew her nearer. “Cici, you are a good girl. You are doing this to make my mother happy. I thank you for that. Marrying a good girl and becoming a good king — that is the exact path set out for me and I was raised for that. Cici, I will make a good husband … but …”

  His eyes darkened and the hands holding her shook. “… part of my heart seems senseless, broken like there’s a hole in it. I don’t know why. One moment, I can remember how my life used to be — bright, happy, meaningful and complete — and I almost feel I can revive all that, but the next I feel dejected and hopeless. With the hole, with the misery of not knowing, Cici, I am a dying man. It sounds insane, but somehow I almost wish the rumours were true, then, at least, I could fill the hole.”

  He let go of her arms and sighed deeply, “How can I ever find out the truth?”

  Her heart ached with pity as she gazed at the Prince, who was tall and remarkably fine-looking, and who was to be her husband. She suppressed the sudden urge to touch his hand, to whisper into his ear and to soothe his pain.

  Fate was playing a cruel trick on them both.

  There was a time when, after the death of Ornardo, desperate, sad and alone, she had forced herself to accept the idea of marrying a prince. While Ornardo still haunted her every breath, she had deliberately fed herself the fantasy of a royal marriage, and had almost reconciled herself to the prospect … but then he had disappeared with that Rionean princess, so suddenly and so unexpectedly.

  “Princess Zelda,” she heard herself whispering like a ghost, “Perhaps you can find where she’s being kept.”

  He looked at her as if she were indeed a ghost.

  “I’d try Targura Dungeon if I were you,” the words slipped from her lips.

  They walked further along the path, and both kept a stubborn silence. When they reached the end of the path, Marcus stopped.

  “Is that Jack?” He was looking out of the wood, and with obvious relief he said, “I … I should go and have another round with him — I’ve always said I would.”

  Without waiting for her response, he hastily took his leave and strode towards the elevated platform with the dark flags flapping. Someone was unbinding Ornardo. Looking weary and dazed, he stared blankly at the red-skinned slave boy who was waving his fists in front of his face. Spectators were gathering, yelling and whooping, arms in the air and steaming mugs in their hands. They roared as Prince Marcus leaped onto the platform. The red-faced slave boy was led back to his post to leave the stage clear for the Prince and Ornardo.

  +++

  Into the thicket she ran, ignoring the irritating twigs and low branches obstructing her path and tearing the flounce off her dress. Out of nowhere, a tall, slender figure stepped into her path and startled her. In response, she looked up, her brows knitted in anger, her hands clenched into fists. But no sooner had her eyes fallen on the face of the towering man than she uttered a cry and threw herself into the man’s open arms.

  “Father, I can’t bear him suffering,” she sobbed.

  Lord Shusha’s hands clasped tightly around her, and she heard his soft voice, “How troubled you are, my poor girl. Are you concerned about Prince Marcus?”

  “Prince Marcus?” Alarmed, she wriggled out of his grip. “I’m not talking about Prince Marcus. It’s Ornardo I’m worried about.”

  Her voice was blunt and indignant. The wood rustled as the wind cut through it, and the sound of laughter and chatter came from the edge of the wood. She looked down and bit her lips till the cheerful noise had passed and the wood was again sombre.

  “I feel … I feel I can’t live without him,” she heard her own voice speaking, thin and shaky.

  Standing erect like one of the sturdy trees, her father said nothing. Disturbed all of a sudden by the silence, she raised her voice, “You don’t have to say anything, Father. I am not asking you. I am telling you — I don’t want to marry Prince Marcus. I want to be with Ornardo. He is the only one who has always cared about me. I lost him once, and I will not lose him again …”

  “What about your poor father, Cici?” Lord Shusha finally spoke, and the words that floated down sounded dry and miserable.

  Her heart ached for him, but she dismissed it and retained the accusing tone, “You have Prince Mapolos at your side, Father. You don’t need me. All you need is my blood to keep that crippled man alive.”

  “How ill-tempered you are, Cici!”

  “Of course I am. I hate him sucking my blood. He treats me like I’m a piece of meat. That was precisely the reason I agreed to marry Prince Marcus. I want to leave home, to become someone important, like the Queen, and then no one will dare to suck my blood.”

  She paused to take a breath and her voice trembled. “But now I’ve realised, since I have Ornardo back, I don’t have to marry a prince to stop all this. I can run away with Ornardo, to a faraway land where you and Prince Mapolos can never find us.”

  For a while, she mused on the cold, glassy eyes of her father and was perturbed by his reticence. Was it the lull before the storm?

  To her relief, he spoke, and his tone was soft. “The blood-sucking will soon come to an end, Cici. It will not continue for long, I promise.”

  She stared at him wide-eyed, not trusting her ears. It sounded too quick and easy, almost like a malicious joke. She looked up, searching her father’
s face for a clearer sign, and her eyes met his. They were no longer cold and dark, but warm and sincere.

  “You mean there will be no more blood sucking,” she queried, seeking again for assurance in her father’s face. “What about Prince Mapolos’ illness — the poisons accumulating inside him?”

  “He will be treated, Cici. He will be healthy just like you and me.”

  “How could that be possible? He … he is so …”

  “You will see, Cici, you will see.”

  The wind blew again, brushing her skin softly. Hesitantly she raised a hand to her neck where the scars were still raw and again felt the tremor of repugnance.

  Would it all come to an end?

  Father’s hands fell on her shoulders and pulled her closer. She let her head drop onto his broad warm chest and her tears started trickling down.

  “Do you think Ornardo loves you the way you love him, Cici?” Father’s voice, drifting into her ears, sounded low, casual and harmless.

  Yet the question alarmed her. “Of course he does,” she retorted, and raised her head.

  Father said no more but glanced down at her, and his eyes, though still soft, shone with a dark, penetrating glint.

  She felt a tight squeeze in her heart — or does he?

  “He … he …” she stuttered, frustrated that she should be wavering, “… he seems to have his mind on his family a lot. I guess I can’t blame him for that. After all, they died so horribly.”

  “How about a picnic?” her father said out of the blue.

  “A picnic?”

  “A picnic just like the last one you had with Ornardo. An exact repetition of a past event may bring back old emotions. Maybe his old love for you can be rekindled, and then he will again love you the same as you love him without being hindered by the ghosts of his family.”

  “Father …” exclaimed Cici, gasping, “… so you don’t mind Ornardo and me …”

  Her father’s thin lips pressed into a smile. “I’m your father, Cici. I want you to be happy.”