“Everything alright, dear?” she asked Aria.
“Yes, yes, I just forgot… some rouge,” Aria fibbed.
“Oh, alright then,” Beveline smiled.
She patted her on the arm.
“You should really hurry down, dear. Your mother is waiting.”
“Yes, on my way.”
Aria headed down the large rotating staircase as fast as she could, passing the imposing, familiar paintings of long-gone family members as she went.
Once on the first floor, she crossed the grand foyer. She nodded to the guards on duty by the keep’s entrance. Spears in hand, they stood rigidly on either side of the steel-reinforced doors and when she came into view, they greeted her with a resounding ‘Princess Aria’.
A fire still burnt in the imposing hearth facing the entrance. Above the mantle, her father’s colors hung high. Over two large blood-red and dusk-blue vertical strips, an ominous black heavy sword lay horizontal atop a round, silver shield and was a reminder of the evening her family won the throne many generations ago.
It had been as bloody a battle as any. Barely surviving on lands they did not own, overburdened by taxes they often could not pay and routinely abused in foul ways by pitiless lords, the people of Alymphia had swelled the ranks of her ancestor’s army.
He, a small lord from the eastern provinces, who had stood up to the agents of power, refusing to let them cruelly mistreat his people. Suicide, most had considered. The king would order his family killed; an example to others who might be tempted to challenge his authority.
But the time was ripe and word had spread. Farmers, merchants, and artisans of all kind rose to his side. Man, children, elderly and even women poured their frustration and anger behind him; an army of the people the like of which the land had never seen. They rose as many all over the country and two summers later fell as one onto the armies of the king.
The last battle took place at dusk in the Scarlet Valley. No one knew if the valley had been named in the aftermath of the battle, in memory of the scores of dead who bled on its floor that night, or if its name merely came from the flowers that every spring turned the valley into a crimson river. It had been the last war and for the past hundred and fifty years Aria’s family had ruled Alymphia in relative harmony with its people and its neighbors; its kings striving to be just and fair to all.
“A king’s duty, and most important task, is to listen,” her father often said. “To hear what is being said, what is truly being said. The words, but not just the words. Hear the feelings behind what is being said. Hear what truly moves those who talk to you. And remove yourself as much as possible, so as not to color what you hear with your own thoughts and wants. Only then will you truly understand your people, only then will you be a true leader.”
Old relics that they were, the sword and shield now rested safely in a vault under the main keep. Aria had seen them many a time, for at each season-passing festival, they headed the commencement and closure processions and to this day remained a reminder of the price of peace and prosperity.
Aria quickly walked through the doors leading to the common quarters, down a hallway decorated with colorful maps and blazons. She passed the large meeting room where her dad received foreign officials and peasants alike. Then she turned right into a smaller hallway covered with a long, red carpet and stopped, two doors later, in front of the official dining room. She silently wished her father not to be in yet.
Lately, she had been spending many of her evenings with Cassien, long after she was supposed to be in bed and waking up in time for breakfast had become somewhat difficult.
For a few seconds she stood in front of the door, smoothing out her dress and composing herself: shoulders back, chin up, hair behind the ear. She forced a pleasant smile onto her lips and walked into the room.
Her mother, Queen Silifia, sat at the end of the long, polished solke wood table, a rare tree from the Barum province where her family yielded from. Several additional segments had been added to accommodate the extra guests and the great table now filled the entirety of the dining room in its length.
“Good morning” Aria said, bowing slightly at the waist.
She spied a few unknown dignitaries sitting at the far end of the table. They stood up as one and greeted her with a resounding ‘Princess Aria’.
She slowly made her way to her mother’s side, giving room to the slew of staff bringing the last drinks and sweets to the already well adorned table. The temple runner, His Highness Baccus, sat facing her mother next to the empty seat at the head of the table. Aria let out an imperceptible sigh.
“Dad is not here yet,” she thought. “Lucky me.”
The two seats to her mother’s right were also unoccupied.
“Hob is probably still practicing; even better.”
As Aria approached, the queen interrupted her conversation with His Highness Baccus and turned to face her.
“Good morning, dear,” she said, an inkling of coldness in her voice.
Aria kissed her mother lightly on the cheek.
“Good morning, mom,” she replied.
She inclined her head down to the guest facing her mother.
“Your Highness.”
The old temple runner pushed himself out of his seat, gave her a warm smile, and bowed to her.
“Princess Aria, always a pleasure seeing you.”
He sank back into his chair and added with a wink, “Even this early in the morning.”
“The pleasure is mine, Your Highness,” Aria replied with a smile.
She noticed a wave of annoyance flash across her mother’s face at the temple runner’s remark.
The old man, now in his early seventies, had always been fond of her and usually sided with her unless she was trying to embark on one of her more dangerous endeavors, like the time she had wanted to go visit the Black Forest on the outskirts of town alone with Cassien; a forest well known for its numerous berries but also for its dangerous wolves.
Aria sat down to her mother’s right, leaving her brother’s empty seat between her mother and herself.
“How are you this fine morning?” Master Baccus inquired.
“I am fine, thank-”
“She is late,” her mother cut in.
There was a sharpness to her voice that Aria was not accustomed to.
“Sorry, mom, I was-”
“This is not appropriate of a princess,” the queen snapped. “You are your father’s daughter. Your actions reflect on him, reflect on your people.”
Taken aback, Aria stared at her mother. The queen’s blue eyes had none of the laughter that was habitually found in them. Her blonde hair was pulled up unusually tight in a bun held by a fox-shaped, golden brooch. Her face, thin and pale, was lined with… anger, or was it worry?
The temple runner quickly reached across the table and patted the queen’s arm gently.
“Now, now,” he said. “It’s alright, Silifia.”
His voice was deep, soft, and strong. His shiny, light-gray eyes peered out of his old, round face with a gentle reassurance. He squeezed the queen’s hand and she looked at him.
“It’s alright,” he repeated, his smile exuding a comfort and warmth honed by decades of honest caring for the people of the city.
As she looked at the temple runner, a swarm of emotions rushed over the queen’s face.
“It’s alright,” Master Baccus said again, his voice but a whisper now.
The queen closed her eyes. Anger, worry, and maybe sadness, Aria thought, pulled at her face.
The room seemed to have grown quieter. Only the muffled sound of the maids bringing dishes to the table and the muted discussions at the other end of the table could be heard.
The temple runner gave the queen a knowledgeable smile. He let go of her hand and leaned back into his chair. Aria peered at her mother’s profile, trying to read into the familiar lines of her face.
The queen sat silently, eyelids half-closed over thoughtf
ul eyes. Her interlaced fingers rested on her lap atop the silky blue fabric of her dress. Her head moved slightly from side to side as if she was desperately negating something. The muscles of her jaw slowly tensed and relaxed under her smooth, pale cheeks. She closed her eyes again and let out a long, controlled breath. A curtain of tranquility spread over her features and the moment was gone, the tension and worry evaporated.
The queen turned to Aria.
“Well, nevertheless, Aria, it would be greatly appreciated if you made an effort to be on time,” she said. “At least for important functions.”
She looked down the table, hooked an eyebrow, and smiled.
“You know, for appearances’ sake, dear.”
Aria was confused. Something weird had just happened. Her mother rarely swayed from her good temper. The last time she had seen her display that much negativity was… Aria could barely remember. She’d been so young. The hint of a memory came back to her, more a blur of emotions than anything else.
“Well, should we wait for your father or not?” the queen inquired. “He has been busy entertaining Lord Hevens and the other trusteds for most of the night.”
She leaned toward Aria and lowered her voice.
“They might have decided on a sleep over as far as I know. You might find them asleep in each other’s arms now.”
Aria could not suppress a laugh. THAT was more like her mom!
“Now, now,” the temple runner interjected. “What did you just say?”
He winked at Aria.
“The MOST respected and loved Queen Silifia GrandJoy of Alymphia would surely never start rumors of our great king asleep in a man’s arms, would she?”
The three of them burst out laughing.
“Oh, never would I dare,” the queen said mid-laugh. “Though, my dear husband might find Lord Hevens’s beard quite comfortable.”
Aria was trying her hardest to laugh in a lady-like manner but that was proving quite difficult. When the temple runner followed with a remark about the amount of time Lord Hevens spent in the care of his beloved beard, Aria could not repress a snort. That, in turn, invited a roar of laughter from all around the table.
They were still laughing when Hob entered the room. He was immediately greeted with a loud ‘Prince Hobgard’ from the dignitaries at the end of the table. He wore his official outfit; pants, shirt, and light vest made of brown silk, richly adorned with fine threads of precious metals. His shoulder-length light-brown hair was held in place by his royal circlet, a simple band of intertwined auburn-gold filaments ornamented with a large ruby at its center.
“Good morning,” he nodded as he approached.
“Good morning, Hob,” Aria said as he kissed her on the cheek.
“Your playing was delightful this morning,” she smiled to him.
“You heard that? Merely practice exercises,” he said dismissively.
He kissed the queen on the cheek as well.
“Good morning, Hobgard,” the queen said.
“Sorry for my tardiness. The festival is coming up and my practicing has been overly time-consuming.”
Hob bent politely at the waist and greeted the temple runner before sitting down between Aria and the queen.
“A pleasure to see you, Prince Hobgard,” the old man said cheerfully.
“It’s alright,” the queen said after a moment. “One has to practice to reach perfection. Losing oneself in the flow of repetition is a rather common thing.”
Aria frowned at that comment.
“So Hob can be late but I can’t!”
She was about to make her indignation heard, when one of the steward ceremoniously announced the arrival of the king.
Chapter Two
Syndjya, Capital City of Alymphia.
Year Hundred and Fifty of the New Age
Fall Passing Festival, Two days prior.
Cassien had just finished sharpening a battle sword. He wiped sweat from his brow and inspected his work. The edge of the blade was smooth and properly angled. He ran his thumb along its length and felt the steel sink lightly into his skin. Satisfied, he put the sword down and leaned against his work table.
The weapon barn was still empty. The only sounds that could be heard were the crackling and hissing of the forge Cassien had fed alive when he first came in and the soft moaning of the morning breeze through the aeration holes, high in the blackened ceiling.
With only one of the five forges with a fire going and four lonely torches lit, most of the barn was still draped in shadow. Soon, though, the morning’s first light would filter through the cracks in the barn’s wooden walls. Cassien loved the way it wrapped itself around the smoke rising from the hearth, revealing strange, twisted dances. He would sometimes lose himself into the flitting, rising shapes, private ballets of soft movements exposed unwittingly, moments of everyday beauty he had long since given up trying to share with others.
“It’s smoke, Cass!” Baley and Jem, the two other weaponsmith’s apprentices, said when he first pointed out the swirling shapes escaping the heat of the hearth.
“He is seeing things in the smoke now!” they had laughed.
“Yeah, Cass, spending too much time at that temple of yours, are ya?”
“Must be sitting for hours with the old temple runner.”
“I know! The incense’s giving you visions!”
“Ya, I’d be careful, there, Cass. It’s messing with your head!”
They had gone on and on and he had never brought it up again.
He sometimes had a hard time understanding how people could be so oblivious to what was in front of them. The smoke was only one of a multitude of things he found mesmerizing. He often caught himself stopping in the middle of crowded streets to listen to the chirping of birds filtered through the humming of the crowd. He would close his eyes and let the myriad of sounds wash over him. He would follow the many beats, waves, and resonances of things on things, of people to people, of animals; each sound in itself and each sound layered into every other sound. He would pursue each through its own labyrinth, each a lead and each a follower. And he would find that instant’s rhythm -for everything, every moment has a secret rhythm- and all the random sounds around him would coalesce into music.
But just like Baley and Jem did not see beauty in smoke, few people seemed to hear what he heard in the cacophony of market places. Worse even, none of them cared to try.
“None but Aria.”
That thought brought a smile to his lips.
Aria was the only one who followed him beyond what to everybody else was flat and boring. She could see the inherent beauty of the world in the most mundane of things and he cherished her for that.
Whenever she could escape her official duties, she snuck out of the castle and they would wander around town, her hidden behind common pants and him her sworn protector.
When she was by his side, everything was an adventure. Getting warm bread from Jonan’s or simply laying in a park at night became exciting endeavors.
When a couple of summers ago her father had requested that she attend more official functions, Cassien had feared that she might lose interest in the simple pleasures they shared. But he should have known better. Over the seasons, the pressures of her station had not changed Aria and getting involved in the Crown’s affairs had not either. He admired her deeply for that.
As he day-dreamed about Aria, wishing it was already evening so he could see her, Cassien cleaned up his work station. With a couple strokes of his leather apron he swept onto the floor the steel shavings that had accumulated on the tabletop. He then grabbed a large wooden ladle from its hook, dipped it into a water bucket and proceeded to pour large amounts of water onto the grinding stone he just used. Once the stone was soaked, he pulled a towel from a drawer and carefully dried it.
Nikos Borrun, the weapon master, liked to see the workspaces pristine when he first came in in the morning. Since Cassien enjoyed working before sun up, alone, in the quietness of d
awn, he had to clean his workspace twice a day; which he did not mind at all.
Nikos would be arriving soon, but Cassien still had the weapon barn to himself for a little while longer. Once the stone was completely dry and his workstation was clean, he grabbed the sword he just finished working on. He lifted it in his left hand, testing its weight and balance. He took a couple of steps along his work station and lunged, left arm forward, the blade an extension of his body. He paused for a heartbeat, stretched out in a position practiced thousands of times, then quickly retreated with a circular parry followed with a straight thrust. He took another couple of steps backward, accompanied by as many rapid feints, and finished with another effortless lunge. The sword felt solid in his hand. It was a good weapon. He inspected it one last time before carefully placing it alongside other finished blades on the sword hanger on the wall. Nowadays, his fencing skills rivaled his weapon-making skills. He had been Nikos’s apprentice since the age of ten and seven years later he had learned almost all the weapon master had to teach.
His first year at the barn had been difficult and he found the basics of metal mixing and melting rather boring. However, once Nikos handed him a hammer and taught him how to shape billets against massive anvils; drawing, folding, and welding the material back onto itself over and over again in order to create layers of steel, things changed dramatically and Cassien turned into an avid and willing student.
By the time he had mastered forming blades, two years had gone by and he was stronger than most boys his age and yielded fifteen-pound hammers as if they were wooden sticks.
Next, Nikos taught him the subtle art of normalizing, the tedious repetition of heating and cooling blades to remove stress from them and Cassien turned out to be surprisingly skilled at what most blacksmiths considered an exhausting exercise in patience.
When he turned fourteen, he was already learning how to sharpen and assemble swords, and he could already make a decent weapon.
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