The WorldMight
Cyril L.C. Bussiere
Copyright © 2014 by Cyril L.C. Bussiere
Smashwords First edition
Copyright © 2014 by Cyril L.C. Bussiere
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover illustration, photography, and concept by Cyril L.C. Bussiere.
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Last night
I dreamt of you.
In a cage without bars, you were a bird
With light for feathers and hot tea for a song.
You stood there breathing heavy ideas under your eyelids,
A thought, bright and green, stuck under your warm tongue.
Irresistibly, you spread your wings only to fold them back slowly to your side.
You opened pleading eyes, cocked your neck
And painfully shot languished desire at me.
Your cage was my head.
So I opened my mouth
And spoke you
Free.
Prologue
The young man was a prince.
His father was no king and his mother was no queen. But he was a prince nonetheless.
He had left home long ago, lost and confused, to find himself walking the world in search of a word that had never been said; a word that would free his love.
He now looked at the sky stretching above him, red-orange leaves cradling his field of vision. Lazy clouds up high, reluctant to move south, slowly led the way toward the place of worship he had been directed to.
“You’ll find him there,” the old man had said.
“If he ain’t dead yet,” he had added after a while.
His smile betrayed yellow crooked teeth once again, and as he rolled his cigarette between his fingers, he pointed with his chin to their right.
“Follow the wind, my friend. It’ll take you there.”
They had shared a cold night and a meager fire. The prince listened to the old man; stories of loss, joy, and hope. And as the night drew to a close, and the horizon slowly whitened into blue, the old man asked about the prince’s journey. So he told him what little he could remember of the country he left so long ago, fertile and green, of its royal family and the people it guided, of his love, taken from him, of his quest to find her and of the word he had been seeking for so long.
The dirt under the prince’s feet felt familiar. The soft breeze at his back gently pushed him forward and raised wisps of hair up and down as it blew. He had walked many a road such as that one and somehow it had become home, just as the solid weight of the pack on his shoulders, the tug and sway of the blade at his belt, and the comforting presence around his neck had.
Patches of bright green grass crunched moistly as he walked on and left fresh spots on his leather boots. Swirls of leaves raced him to the end of the road. They bounced against his loose cotton pants as they passed him. Every so often they lingered around his ankles, splotches of soft colors against the sun-washed fabric, before rushing onwards.
The cool whisper in his ears told him he was drawing near. His whole surroundings pointed in that direction, earth and heaven drawn together in one motion across the land, pushing him forward. The trees ruffled mysterious encouragements as they swayed back and forth, shedding their colors onto the road.
The prince walked on, following the leaves and the clouds toward what he hoped would be help, if not answers. The trees lining the road became sparser as he pushed on, revealing spreads of green fields interspersed with bouquets of shrubs beyond. Men in pointy hats appeared here and there, bent over the earth, tools in hand, while others rested in small groups in the coolness of trees.
A few clicks further, the road sloped down gently as the trees rounded away from the path on either side of him. By then the sun was drawing long shadows over him as it descended toward the earth. It would be night by the time he reached his destination.
The sun had just tipped over the horizon when the road ended into a shoulder-high wall of gray, mossy stones. The prince followed the wall to his right, his left hand lightly probing the asperities of the stones. The uneven ground shortly gave way to a pebbled path and out of the growing dimness of dusk appeared a shimmering light: a frail flame dancing around the bend of the wall some hundred yards away.
“I would be here, now,” the prince thought.
As light receded into night, the fatigue of the day seemed to suddenly dawn onto him. His pack grew heavy, digging into his shoulders and his blade started to weigh unnaturally at his belt. The soft stones under his feet felt treacherous as they slid unpredictably under his weight. He seemed to sink a bit deeper into the path with every step.
Within a few yards he had to prop himself steady against the wall. His breathing was slow and even, his hand firm against the cool wetness of the moss. And yet the chain around his neck, as light as he knew it to be, somehow pulled him to the earth. He closed his eyes against the effort as he slid down to the ground, his back to the wall.
The feeling had become familiar. The Night, he called it. Strength sipped out of him even though he could feel the unfaltering tension in his muscles and the unmovable resolve to reach his goal. Since he had left home, the Night had become a voracious, demanding thing that in a way feasted on him. It had a taste for something fundamental, beyond life itself. It seemed to hollow him out, empty him of his very substance without really affecting his physical being.
Now, sunk to the ground, he reposed his cheek on a patch of moss. His hands rested lightly on his knees as the Night satisfied its hunger on him. Eyes closed, focusing his mind against the vacuum that built up inside him, he slowed his breathing and brought his mind’s eye to the stone resting on his chest.
Once a gift from the one he loved, the one he sought, now a familiar anchor against the swirls of emptiness rising inside him.
It would pass, he knew. He relaxed his body as he learned long ago, for he knew anything else would be a waste of energy. And as hungry tongues slashed away at him, ripping chunks off from his unknowable core, he raised against them his own quiet waves in a slow and paced rhythm.
“Get away from me, my black dogs,” he repeated, on and on.
“Get away from me, my black dog,” slow and steady, turning waves after waves into a great, immovable barrier.
The prince sat there for a while; the peacefulness of his surrounding a contrast to the turmoil inward. The Night took what it needed. It would be done soon. And the wall the prince rose against it would fill him again. The stone at his neck would grow in his mind like a seed grows into the tree that bore the fruit from which the seed itself came. Its trunk would swell
, thick and sturdy. Its branches would reach every corner of his being, strong and flexible. Its numerous leaves would breathe vitality into him and make him whole again.
The weakness faded now. The Night had once more taken, and yet again he had willed himself unto himself. The world slowly reached out for him. The breeze running along the wall cocooned him gently, its embrace gradually coming back to him. The cool pebbles he sat on gently poked at him as if to remind him of their presence. The moss against the back of his head seeped its humid chilliness down his neck. The earthy smells of the world, the ruffle of the trees, and the distant sounds of birds waking to the night came back to him.
The prince finally opened his eyes and sighed heavily. He rolled his head from side to side, stretching his stiff neck. Another night he had won himself back.
He sometimes wondered if one night the wall he raised would not be enough, if the Night would eventually take him over, bring him out of existence. But his love would rise in his mind, fierce against such thoughts. She would swell in him like the sail of a great ship under a strong wind and fill him with purpose and certainty. The Night would not, could not, have him. He belonged to his love and his love only.
He pushed himself up and looked around. However long it had taken him to fend off the Night, a few yards away the flame still danced in the dark.
Answers awaited.
He adjusted the blade at his belt and headed toward it.
Chapter One
Syndjya, Capital City of Alymphia.
Year Hundred and Fifty of the New Age
Fall Passing Festival, Two days prior.
Aria woke up to the sound of a string forcefully plucked. She opened her eyes as it receded into soft vibrations.
“That would be Hob,” she thought.
A few seconds later more notes reached her; this time more gently pulled out of the instrument her brother was using. She laid in bed, soft, silky sheets and heavy blankets resting over her midsection in a tangle.
“The festival is coming up,” she reminded herself.
Morning light glowed behind the red fabric of the curtains, and it softly illuminated her bedroom. She propped herself up against her pillows, stretched her arms to the heavens, and yawned in a way she knew her mother would not approve of.
“But you are a princess, Aria!” she would say. “Ladies do not behave in such a way! You know that!”
Ah! Being ladylike, what a chore that was, always having to be proper and measured.
“Do not laugh too loud, do not walk too fast, do not talk too smart.”
Do not, do not, do not. And the dos were not any better.
“Always be presentable. Wear make-up. And for the love of Hethens, sit up straight.”
And the clothes, pretty as they were, always too warm during the summer, dresses too long, pants too flowy, and garments too tight across her waist, as if their sole purpose was to prevent her from moving. She sometimes wondered if parents were so fearful of their daughters running away that they purposefully dressed them with clothes that were either so tight they made it impossible for them to breathe right or so elaborate that it was virtually impossible to do much else while wearing them besides walking ceremoniously.
Aria stretched her back, twisting her torso to one side and then the other, and loudly popped a few vertebrae, another incredibly un-ladylike thing according to her mother. She rubbed her eyes to remove the heaviness from her eyelids and let the world come into focus in front of her.
A large light-green carpet made of fine silk spread out at the bottom of her bed. Its complex pattern of flowers and birds finely sewn in colorful wavy lines danced gleefully in the morning light. It had been a surprise present from her father for her tenth birthday. He had returned early from a trip to Lha-Shem, the large mountainous country across the Narrow Sea to the west, and had brought back many presents for his people. This had been the most precious, and it had been for her. Every time she looked at it or felt its softness under her feet, she was filled with some of the warmth she felt that evening as he walked unannounced through the doors of the great hall.
To the right of the carpet, an old dresser made of some precious wood stood by the window. A vase full of exotic flowers rested on top of it and filled the air with a subtle spring smell.
On the other side of the window, a matching vase stood on the corner of her make-up station, an antique gold and polished-silver table accoutered with a large mirror. Dozens of little vessels, containing powders of different colors and smells, were messily spread atop it.
A pile of cloth, abandoned on the floor the previous night, overflowed from the open closet facing her bed and spread onto the smooth tiles of her bedroom.
“I’ll have to hang that up before leaving,” Aria thought. “Or else Beveline will have to.”
Aria knew the old maid to be busy with the guests that had come in for the festival, and she hated the thought of her messiness burdening her any further.
To the left of her bed was her art desk, covered with papers and pieces of canvas. Brushes, feathers, and bottles of ink, clay and paint were neatly arranged at the far end of the desk. The wall above it was covered with drawings of the countryside surrounding the city and with finely rendered paintings of the sunset as seen from her balcony. In a drawer, hidden out of view under a large volume, were many rough charcoal sketches of her closest friend, Cassien, one of the weapon master’s apprentices.
Aria sat in bed for a while, enjoying the soft morning light reflecting off the brass ornaments of her bedroom’s imposing two-panel door. She let out another feline yawn and finally got out of bed. Breakfast would be ready and mother disliked her being late.
She walked to the dresser by her bed and started yanking drawers open and pulling undergarments out of them. She dropped most of them to the floor and ended up slipping into fuchsia leg warmers. She pulled aside the heavy curtains over her window and stepped into the walk-in closet on the far side of the room. She randomly selected a light-green, satin dress that she threw it on her bed before sitting down at her make-up station.
“Appearances, appearances. Is there nothing but appearances?” she sometime sang to herself as she got ready for one formal function or another.
“Well, that’s the price to pay when one is born a princess,” she thought now.
She had been taught the art of applying make-up, or face-painting as she called it, at a young age. It was, after all, a part of every princess’s curriculum. There really was only one rule in face-painting: well applied make-up was barely noticeable make-up. It had to blend so perfectly with one’s facial complexion and the attire one was to wear, that it enhanced without being noticed. Needless to say, it took way too much time in Aria’s opinion. But her mother always insisted on it, so she complied as best as she could, or rather as fast as she could.
Twenty minutes later, all made up and presentable, Aria stood in front of the rotating mirror by her bedroom door. She pressed a few wrinkles out of her dress. A curl of her brown hair was camping on her forehead and she stuck it behind her ear. She was about to consider herself done when her eyes fell on her naked neck.
“Should I wear a necklace?” she wondered.
She walked back to her make-up station and looked at her jewelry box. It was overflowing with all kinds of necklaces, pendants, bracelets, and brooches. Some were gold, other silver, and all were ornamented with precious stones.
She picked up her favorite pendant. It would have been considered by most the least elegant of her possessions, but it was a present from her grandfather, the late King Rhegard, and as such she cherished it. It was a simple, pale oval stone set in an unremarkable metal brace and came with an equally bland metal chain. Her granda, as she used to call him, had brought it back from one of his numerous trips abroad.
In the last decade of his reign, King Rhegard had relinquished more and more of his duties and powers to his son and had led expeditions to increasingly distant lands. From those numerous t
rips he brought back many exotic items. The paintings that adorned the Corridor of Beasts were some of them, and the pendant was one as well. Unfortunately, her mother found it vulgar and refused to let her wear it in public.
Aria sighed. She put the pendant back into her jewelry box and decided not to wear anything after all. She could hear that Hob was still playing his cittern in the garden. It hopefully meant that she was not late for breakfast again. She turned back to her mirror and after one last, quick inspection she pulled on the fox head-shaped handle and stepped out of her bedroom.
“Good morning, princess Aria,” Beveline’s voice greeted.
The old maid, dressed in her usual plain, blue-and-white dress, was bending at the waist a few steps down the stairs leading from Aria’s room to the first floor of the keep.
“Oh! Good morning, Beveline. Am I already late for breakfast?” Aria asked as she turned to face her.
Beveline’s face wrinkled up into a smile.
“Not yet, dear, but only because your father himself is late.”
“Oh, no, mom is going to be upset. I’d better hurry down then.”
“Yes, dear. And I have to go tidy up Lord Hevens’s and the other trusteds’ rooms before breakfast is over. Though I don’t think they actually spent the night in their beds.”
Aria started down the stairs. But as Beveline moved to let her pass, she suddenly remembered the mess she had left in her bedroom and froze mid-step.
She turned around, rushed back up to her room, and slammed the door behind her.
She reappeared a minute later, slightly flushed. Beveline was standing by the door, a question on her face.
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