“Who are you?” the fox asked, taking Clementine by surprise.
“Do all animals speak here?” she responded.
“Answer me,” the fox said.
“I’m Clementine Aurelius and you are?”
“Why did you tackle me back into the river?” the fox asked.
“I didn’t mean to,” she said. “Men on horseback were chasing me and before I knew what was happening I was halfway in the river.”
“Men on horseback…What kind of men?” the fox asked.
“The normal kind, compared to the strange one with a headful of eyes that is,” she said, pointing up at the ridge. The fox glanced back quickly before resting its gaze on Clementine.
“What about these men do you remember?” the fox asked.
“They were led by a pale man in white,” she said.
The fox’s eyes reddened, quickly moistening and—to Clementine’s surprise—he grew smaller in size. To hide the tears that ran down his whiskers, he turned away from her and lowered his nose as if pretending to sniff around. Clementine watched as his tears hit the moss and burst into puffs of color.
At first, she felt pity for him, then slight embarrassment and finally shame for having watched him cry. In the end, empathy overwhelmed her; crying while hiding the tears was all but too familiar to her. She too had cried alone. “We all cry alone, no matter how many others are watching,” she thought before deciding to act.
“Are you all right?” she asked. The fox ignored her, pretending not to hear her. Startled by the silence between them, Clementine nervously bit her lips.
“Did something bad happen?” she asked.
The fox remained silent.
“You know,” she began “Marcus Aurelius said that we need to appreciate the bad things that have happen to us. There is reason in them happening and—
“That is ridiculous advice,” the fox snapped. “How do you appreciate sorrow, huh? What does this Marcus Aurelius know of loss?”
“I’m sure he knew a great deal,” Clementine said nervously. “He was an emperor. He ruled the known world in his time, saw a lot of agony and war, felt a lot of sorrow, a lot of loss. And things still that I know little about.”
“It’s curious,” the fox began. “You say these things with such an odd appreciation.”
Clementine looked down at her feet.
The fox pondered his thoughts for a moment before saying, “Those riders, they are after me as well. What ill intent they have toward me, I assure you, they have towards you too. You must leave here and go as far away as you can.”
“What about you?” Clementine asked.
The fox glanced at her with suspicion, all the while measuring up her decency, then in a leisurely tone, and against his better judgment, he spoke, “I must journey to find the Soundsmith beyond the border in Mundialis.”
“Mundialis!” Clementine said with excitement. “Where the Other lives.”
Her outburst surprised him.
“Which way is it?” she asked.
“No way that you should be heading,” the fox said.
“It’s curious to know that everyone I’ve met here holds an opinion on exactly what it is that I should or shouldn’t be doing. No one’s asked me if I mind them sticking their nose into my business. I’m not asking to go with you. I’m simply asking which way Mundialis is.”
The fox thought about it for a moment before pointing west with his nose. “It’s that way,” he said.
“Great,” she said. “Thank you.”
“Don’t. I feel I shouldn’t have said anything.”
Clementine ignored him, stood up and slowly walked away. The fox watched her for a moment before taking a step. Immense pain surged through him and he gave off a howl of agony.
“You won’t find this Soundsmith with an injured leg,” Clementine said walking up to some reeds. She broke off four of them and knelt beside the fox, who watched as the girl refastened the splint and using the reeds, constructed a little boot for him to keep his foot comfortable yet secure. “Without me, you’re not going to make it to the Soundsmith, and without you, I’m not going to make it to Mundialis, so—
“And where in Mundialis is it that you wish to go?” the fox asked.
“Wherever it is that the Other is,” she said.
“There, I cannot take you,” he said.
“I will get there by myself. I just need someone to show me the way. Someone to guide me, before I can guide myself,” she said.
The fox looked at his paw then at her before saying, “You’re a total stranger to me.”
“I am,” she said. “But all friends start out as strangers.”
“Who says that we’ll be friends?”
“Who says that we won’t?” she said.
“You do know that Mundialis is a dangerous place, filled with gray hearted men whose souls have long turned into coal and whose actions are solely based on greed? It is a place of lost dreams and lost hope, a place where everyone has an agenda, where no one will help us, where kindness, such as the one you’ve shown me, is a sign of weakness from a will-be-used target.”
“Then you need to watch out,” Clementine said, “because by pulling me out of that river, you too have showed kindness.”
Surprised by her retort, the fox said nothing but blinked silently.
“So do we have a deal, Mr. Fox?” she said. “Do we journey together as strangers, on two paths toward two destinations, all via one way: by aiding each other?”
“Mr. Fox?” he said.
“Is there another name that you’d like me to call you?”
The fox blinked, his face strained, as if trying to remember something from a very long time ago. He gave a disappointed, anguish filled sigh then looked at her and said, “No, Mr. Fox is fine.”
“We have a deal then?” she asked.
“You are brave, maybe even resilient,” he said, pausing, studying her eyes. “I’ve once heard that resilience is a characteristic of those few who’ve felt love, deep, piercing sort of love.”
They stared at each other silently, almost awkwardly, before the fox said, “Fine, we travel together.” Clementine smiled and hugged the fox. “Good,” she said. “I was going to follow you anyway.”
The fox smiled halfheartedly and grew slightly larger. Clementine broke off a few more reeds for backup and, after placing them in her bag, together they walked out of their hiding spot into the open.
Chapter Seven
Conversations between Shadows
No matter how much the canary spiraled between branches, zipped under bushes and zigzagged amid tree trunks, the riders kept up the chase. Thinking that it could lose them in the thickness of the canopy, the canary flew upwards. Piercing through the forest ceiling, it reached the safety of the sunlight. It landed on a branch and caught its breath, but its respite was short lived.
A great, feathered creature with red, owl like eyes and massive wings appeared as if out of nowhere. The black feathers covering its body shimmered in the sunlight. “A büho here?” the canary thought, before dodging the creature’s swipe. The monster gave a loud and piercing screech. Knowing that it had no chance against the beast, the canary returned into the forest where two riders honed in on its position. The game of hide-and-seek was back on.
Upon seeing the forest end abruptly at the edge of a cliff side, the canary gave off a happy chirp. At the knowledge that it was about to get away, relief flooded its body, until a swift swishing sound resonated behind it. It turned quickly, to see an arrow coming straight at its head.
The canary spit out a tune that materialized as a translucent blue shield. The arrow struck the shield, shattering as if it hit a brick wall. Splinters and feathers flew in all directions. The arrows kept on coming. One, two, three, four and the canary kept on singing. Each arrow struck with more power than the one preceding it, pushing back and tiring the tiny bird. It did not take the canary long to realize who the attacker was.
The
Pale Rider charged at the bird, continually firing arrows. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Until mere yards away, he pulled the final arrow; his eyes filled with flame. The red tear drop shimmered on its breast plate. Engulfed in shadow, the arrow caught fire. The bird spit out a tune just in time. The arrow struck the shield and the two exploded into a ball of fire and lightning, knocking the canary unconscious and sending it tumbling off the cliff side.
The Pale Rider and his two thugs rode up to the edge. A sparse forest sat below them.
“Go get it,” the Pale Rider demanded. The riders obeyed.
When the canary came to, it found itself laying in an abandoned hornets’ nest. “Thank the Windcallers,” it said as it stood up. It stretched its wings, checking for any damaged feathers. “All is well.”
“Gotcha,” a voice said and the canary found itself in the grip of a skinny man. “Lord Ecilám will be real glad that we caught you, you little critter.”
The other thug rode up to the skinny man and said, “You gave our horses quite an exercise there, little chicky.”
“I wonder, what the Lord wants with this tiny birdie,” the skinny man said. “Can’t he get himself a songbird from a flea market gypsy?”
As the riders studied the canary, the bird noticed a fist sized eye floating behind the men.
“The Seeing Man,” the canary said, frightened.
“Ah, it talks,” the skinny man said, unaware that the feathered rider with a cluster of eyes for a head stood behind them.
“Do you need help?” a hollow male voice echoed in the canary’s head.
“Please,” the canary said.
“Please what?” the skinny man said.
The Seeing Man’s feathered hands turned into massive talons. Its horse gently walked up to and between the two riders, who turned towards it. Before the reality of the situation set in on them, the Seeing Man pierced their chests—through armor and chain mail—and lifted them up while their horses, as if guided by an invisible hand, slowly walked off into the woods. The men struggled, their feet dangling in the air, their eyes filled with horror. The skinny man’s grip loosened and the canary wiggled free. After a few more moments, the riders hung silently off the Seeing Man’s talons.
“Thank you,” the canary said, landing on the abandoned hornet’s nest.
The Seeing Man tossed the riders’ limp bodies aside. Its talons reverted to feathered hands. As it steered its horse toward the canary, a large beak, like that of a raven or a crow, slid out from within the cluster of eyes.
“It’s been a pleasantly long time since I’ve seen you,” the canary said.
“I have no quarrel with you Xis Piece,” the Seeing Man said in a screechy, bird like voice. “There is no need for cynicism and boorishness.”
“What are you doing here?” the canary asked bluntly.
“I seek a man and a woman masquerading as a lizard and a dog. Have you seen them?”
“Even if I did, you know I wouldn’t tell you,” the canary said.
“That I do know,” the Seeing Man said. “I thought I’d ask anyway.”
“And for what nefarious purposes are you seeking them?”
“Together, they are in possession of a memory that I desire.”
“They don’t know this, do they?”
“No.”
“Meaning you’ll have to expunge it and—
“Kill them in the process, yes,” the Seeing Man cut in. “A necessary evil, I assure you.”
“I’m sure it’s quite unnecessary,” the canary said. “You can’t be the only one searching for them, where are the other two of you?”
“Far away,” the Seeing Man said. “They have far more important things to attend to: governors to coerce, bankers to control and knowledge to collect. I’ve been sent on this errand against my will.”
“What the Raven King wants, the Raven King gets,” the canary said.
“An old cliché, I’m afraid,” the Seeing Man said, steering his horse westwards. “It was nice seeing you again; however, I am short on time and—
“Before you go,” the canary began. “There was a girl with me: young, yellow shirt, green jacket—
“I saw her downriver, hiding in the reeds with a man who’s masquerading as a fox,” the Seeing Man said. “If I wasn’t in a hurry, I would have killed her.”
“Why?” the canary asked.
“This girl, your friend, carries the Arcenciel Chaplet in her book,” the Seeing Man said. “A grand treasure, as mighty as it is wondrous.”
“And you know this how?”
“Do you know who I am?” the Seeing Man said. “I see through all illusions, even the one that you wear, oh tiny frail bird.” The beak withdrew into the cluster of eyes. The Seeing Man bowed slightly and he and his horse disappeared off in the green.
The canary sped away in the opposite direction.
After several moments, Ecilám rode up to the spot where the Seeing Man and the canary had conversed. He studied the area for a moment, before dismounting his horse and walking up to the two still riders. From underneath his robe, he pulled out a white silken satchel and slid back its top flap. An infinite whirlpool of bright color swirled around inside.
He began with their feet. As he slid the satchel up toward their heads, their bodies disintegrated and became part of the swirling color. Distant pleas cried from within the satchel.
The Pale Rider closed the flap.
Sunlight shone through narrow, colorful stained glass windows to drape a dozen silk banners—etched with wildflowers and birds of prey—in a radiant rainbow. Below a massive diamond chandelier, which hung off a mosaic ceiling, stood dozens of handsome men and beautiful women garbed in the most expensive, desirable, colorful, exotic and original pieces of fashion. Atop each of their heads sat a headpiece of sorts. The men wore right leaning small hats decorated with jewels and feathers, while the women wore, woven into their pretty locks, tiny summer hats decorated with flowers, golden string and plumes of fountaingrass.
Among the ranks of these beautiful people, stood several mustached military men dressed in colorful uniforms decorated with many triangular jewels: martial medals and civilian honors. Atop their heads sat small triangular hats, an insignia of a stork wielding two swords featured prominently on the front. Their subordinates, the spear wielding royal guard, lined the two outer aisles of the massive hall. Front and center, upon the jewel encrusted Throne of Glimmer, flanked by two guardsmen, sat a clean shaven handsome middle-aged man clad in a majestic suit of purple and gold. An elaborate, spiral crown—atop which flickered an ember of flame suspended in midair—decorated the top of his head.
“What news of my stepson and his fiancée?” the man asked in a booming voice. “I ask: what madness occurred here in my absence? What devilry is behind the disappearance of Vivéret’s beloved Prince?”
From out of the crowd emerged a small military man, his mustache as large as his arm. He cleared his throat and began, “My lordship, King Consort Perow, as of now we know very little. It seems unknown assailants attacked their caravan headed to the village of Silent Willow. The Prince and his fiancée have gone missing.”
“Attacked?” the King Consort said and the crowd gasped.
“Yes, my lord,” the mustached man continued. “Unfortunately, the Prince’s guards are also nowhere to be found. We are hopeful that they are protecting the Prince. In all honesty, the only information we have, came from the abandoned caravan and the people who found it, a local cobbler and his family. The cobbler’s daughter says she saw foreign men riding about on horseback. We—
“If I may, General Aduilador, how do you know that it was an attack?” the King Consort asked. Vigorously, the crowd nodded in agreement.
“The coach was littered with arrows,” the General said dramatically.
“Someone wishes ill upon our peaceful land. This is concerning,” the King Consort said. “And what of the cobbler and his family?”
“They are here,” the Ge
neral said. Out of the crowd emerged a hefty man, his comely wife and two young children, all dressed in fine light greens, all wearing hats, although not as elaborate or beautiful as the court’s.
“Welcome,” the King Consort said. “I am thankful for your aid in the matter.”
“We will help in any way we can, my Lord,” the cobbler said.
“Please, show this kind man and his family to my chamber,” the King Consort said. “I wish to speak to them privately.”
As the cobbler and his family left, the hall went abuzz with whispers. Perow stroked his chin, stood up then said, “Vivéret…I cannot lose my stepson or his fiancée. Upon her deathbed, I promised my wife, the gentle Queen, that I would take care of the Prince, hold this throne until he grows in wisdom, until he is ready to wield the power—the responsibility—that comes with the crown. As it was to the Queen, so too it is to me: family is the most important treasure we can ever hope to own. Family brings power that not even a king can wield. The Prince and his fiancée mean the world to me.”
The court nodded in agreement, some women wept.
“A month is yet to pass since Queen Gavrella faded into the beyond,” continued Perow, “and already another tragedy seems abrew. The Prince is an inspiration to this land. We all know what a gentle and determined soul he is; what an inspiration his fiancée, Delicata, is upon him and the people of this land. Did they not journey to Silent Willow to help with the earthquake relief effort? We must find the future King! Set a reward of a man’s weight in gold for any news that leads to the finding of my beloved stepson. Send out riders in all directions. Send out blackbirds carrying this news to all cities, towns and villages. I will not sit here idly.”
The people nodded to one another, chattering of the King Consort’s deep love for his stepson, of his leadership and kind heart.
“Of course, my Lord,” the General said and with a salute, he disappeared into the crowd.
“And you, gentle people,” the King Consort began, “spread the word. Of the brave ones, I ask to journey out and search for the Prince. Of the rest, I humbly beg for prayer and optimism.”
The Auburn Prince Page 7