The WorldMight

by Cyril L. C. Bussiere

  “Tomorrow, the festival,” he thought sullenly.

  He usually enjoyed season’s passing festivals. The traveling troupes of troubadours, magicians, musicians, dancers, and the serving girls of the visiting lords normally thrilled him greatly. But this time, he felt less than enthused. Having to perform, yet again, for the court was mildly upsetting and being shunted out of the trusteds’ meeting, which in Hob’s mind equated being told by his king of a father that he was but a child, had a hand in his less-than-stellar mood. But besides those, something else nagged him that morning; something that the previous day had seeded and which blossomed overnight into a bothersome unease. He decidedly could not put his finger on what exactly that feeling was; neither could he figure out what had happened to make him feel that way. But it was there, like a subtle stench in the air that only hinted at the decaying corpse everyone knew was under the floorboards. To make things worse, he greatly disliked feeling upset about things he judged below himself, which most things were. And that too further darkened his mood.

  “It should not bother me so much,” he berated himself. “But does father think me a child? Because I’m not; when will he understand that? I’ve probably lain with more maids than the old man ever did! No matter. No matter. All of this is below me. I don’t care and I’ll show them how I don’t.”

  Hob was struggling to find the second sleeve hole of the shirt he wanted to wear. After a moment, he angrily threw it on the floor and started tapping two fingers to his forehead. The day had barely begun and he already had to resort to his sister’s tricks.

  “Cythra damns them all!” he thought bitterly in rhythm with his fingers hitting his forehead.

  He closed his eyes and exhaled loudly.

  “They were all so merry yesterday, while I was stuck smiling and entertaining the ugly niece of Earlong.”

  He jerked open the top drawer of his dresser, which angled out of its railing and rained garments to the floor..

  “HETHENS!” he exclaimed.

  He kicked at the pile of half-folded shirts and pants at his feet and slammed the drawer back into place. He paced nervously back and forth between the large window and his bed. After a while, he opened the thick curtains. Maybe some fresh air would do him good. Beyond the balcony and the castle’s curtains the sky was gray-blue and a soft line of light ran across the horizon. He stepped outside, leaned onto the stone railing and inhaled deeply the dewy morning air. Below him, in the southern courtyard, guards were going about their business quietly. The coolness of the morning settled him a little. He had been overly stressed lately and could not quite figure out why.

  “Maybe I’m hungry?” he wondered.

  The situation with the trusteds’ meeting had unsettled him greatly and as a result he had little appetite and barely ate, only grazing here and there while attending to one boring guest after another.

  “I have been hungry for a lot of things lately,” he reflected, thinking of sweet bread.

  That thought led to another. His mind jumped from one type of loaf to another which would satiate a different kind of hunger. That in turn brought forth Marylen, the laundry girl he had seen the previous day and whose name he learned from Higar; Marylen and her appetizing bosom. His mind lingered on her figure for a bit. That thought quickly morphed into her naked and inviting him to her.

  “Come to me, my king,” she called breathlessly in his head.

  He let that thought follow its course and tension rose in his groin. He pressed himself against the cool stone balustrade. He was grabbing her hair now and plunging his fingers inside her. She was moaning; maybe from pleasure, maybe he was rough and was hurting her. He moved his pelvis back and forth, rolling his groin over the hard surface. Jolts of pleasure shot up his spine. He forced his manhood against her face, her lips welcoming it. He gripped the banister with both hands and forced himself against it harder. A diffused pain spread to his groin, enhancing his pleasure. He was turning her around, forcing her head into hay and himself into her. The pleasure rolled to the rhythm of his hips and to the phantom feeling of her ass in his hand as he gripped at her fat. He closed his eyes, focusing on the tableaus his mind played for him. He pulled on her hair, forcing her to arch back toward him, and he thrust himself harder into her.

  “Hethens’s breath, my king, you feel so good!” she moaned loudly.

  He grabbed her neck and forced her head toward him. She looked back at him expectantly, pleasure twisting her features; or maybe it was fear and pain. The rolling became faster, the pressure more intense. She was smiling at him and tears were definitely streaking down her rosy cheeks. Climax was not far. He gripped the railing harder, as his fingers squeezed equally hard around her sun-kissed neck. She convulsed with pleasure, or lack of air. She opened her mouth sensually encouraging him as he foraged harder and harder into her.

  “My king!” she moaned over and over.

  Suddenly the scene flickered in Hob’s mind and her face changed into Aria’s. Confusion shattered his fantasy, his mind reeling against the image of his sister. He tried to wave it away and return to Marylen, his groins aching with the need of release, but Aria would not go away. For the shortest of seconds he weighed going along with that thought.

  “A woman is a woman,” some primal part of him argued.

  “And Aria is coming into her forms nicely,” it continued as an uneasy, renewed pleasure sped up his heart rate.

  But that forbidden thought immediately aroused loud, uncomfortable protests which sent waves of nausea to his stomach. He mentally swapped away at the disturbing picture of his sister, fumbling to rid his field of thought of the image his mind had inadvertently brought forth while a sickly feeling pulled him out of his daydreaming altogether. His erection was mostly gone now. He slammed his fists on the balustrade and swore silently. Nothing was going to go right today, he knew it. Back to the somber mood he had failed to escape and feeling awkward and more frustrated than a few minutes before, he stepped back into his quarters and angrily threw the curtains closed behind him.

  A few minutes later, he had just donned a finely-spun, black silk shirt that matched his soft leather pants when a knock came from his bedroom door. Uncertain, he stood by his wardrobe, one of his nicer, jewel-adorned jackets in hand. For a second he looked dubiously at the large, sculpted wood panels. Nobody came to his quarters that early in the morning, ever. Anger bubbled up in him again at the lack of respect to his rank this intrusion implied. He threw the jacket unceremoniously on his bed and stood squarely in front of the door. He crossed his arms over his chest and with a frown on his face called out loudly in as deep and manly a voice as he could:

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “It’s me, Hobgard,” his mother’s voice came from the other side. “May I come in?”

  “Mother?”

  Losing some of his angst in the surprise, he went to the door and pulled it open.

  “Morning,” his mother greeted him from the threshold.

  Queen Silifia wore a simple light blue dress that left her shoulders bare. A single blue stone that matched her dress hung tightly on her neck. Her hair was carefully done, lifted up behind her head and secured with a golden broach matching her necklace. Despite the efforts she had obviously put into readying herself, she looked tired.

  “Had too much fun at the festivities last night, didn’t you?” Hob thought spitefully.

  “May I come in?” his mother asked.

  “Of course,” Hob fumbled, stepping aside to let her in.

  She walked in, somehow ceremoniously, and stood in the middle of the room. She surveyed the space around her without a word. She did not have to say a thing for Hob to know she did not approve of the state of his quarters. Books and maps were strewn messily over his large desk to her left and sprawled onto the floor like some wild parchment flora. Clumps of clothes sprouted in random spots on the floor, chairs, dresser, and even on some of the weapons on the walls. Empty ale-mugs and gross-covered plates and cu
tlery could be spotted here and there as well. Surprisingly, the lecture Hob expected didn’t come. Instead the queen turned around and smiled to him. Her not reproving him made Hob feel uneasy. Not only was her presence in his quarters unusual to say the least, especially at this early hour, but she normally never missed an opportunity to point out what he could improve. His imperfections and flaws never seemed to escape her. And ‘You’ll be king one day, you must always strive for better’ was what he’d come to expect from her. He deeply disliked it and rather than encouraging him to achieve more, it only made him feel inadequate and lacking. The queen looked at him, her blue eyes shining an unusual light that Hob dismissed as due to the semi-penumbra of his room.

  “The festival is tomorrow,” she said.

  “It is and I will be ready,” Hob said. “I am planning on practicing some more today as well.”

  The queen angled her chin at him and, a beat late, replied:

  “Yes. That’s good. That’s good, Hob.”

  Hob looked at her more intently.

  “You are a great musician,” she continued. “I’ve heard very few play as well as you do. Did you know that?”

  “I, I did not,” Hob mumbled.

  “Well, it’s true.”

  She stepped toward him, a small smile at the corner of her mouth. She stopped in front of him and cupped one of her hand around his face. Her eyes were shining.

  “Too brightly,” Hob thought, his discomfort rising.

  “You’ve become an amazing young man.”

  The queen smiled at him and pointed vaguely at his desk with a finger.

  “You’ve come so far in your studies.”

  She glanced at some of the weapons on the wall to her left and her smile hesitantly grew wider.

  “And Sir Borrum has nothing but praise when it comes to you.”

  Anger flared in Hob again.

  “Praise? Father must have not heard of it, then,” he thought bitterly.

  The queen saw the flash of anger that contracted his features. She quickly added:

  “Your father thinks so much of you, Hob.”

  “My father could not care or think less of me,” Hob snapped. “Why else would he not include me in the trusteds’ meeting? He has no interest in me. I sometimes wonder if he simply doesn’t care enough about Alymphia to even spend the time required to educate her next king!”

  The words came out of their own volition, heavy with spite and bottled-up-frustration. They streaked through the space between him and the queen like a volley of bitter arrows. The queen’s features sagged instantly and the corner of her eyes turned moist. Hob immediately regretted his outburst. Shame radiated its mix of ice and fire in his chest, and he turned away from his mother and pretended to arrange scrolls around his desk. In truth he could not stand looking at her shedding tears he was responsible for.

  “It’s not his fault, Hob,” the queen ventured.

  Hob felt like a fool now, small of his petty feelings and smaller yet of his letting them out in such a disgraceful way.

  “Being king is demanding,” she continued. “One does not do what one wants. Good kings serve, Hob, as any good leader does. And that requires sacrifices.”

  He heard her take a step toward him.

  “Continued sacrifices,” she added.

  Hob’s shoulders slacked down. He knew all that. Yet, from as far as he could remember, he had never truly understood it.

  “Maybe I am not fit to be king,” his mind advanced timidly only to be immediately crushed by a wave of fiery pride and indignation.

  “No! I AM Prince Hobgard GrandJoy, rightful heir to the throne. I AM king by blood. This IS who I am; that and nothing else!”

  He turned around and, chest puffed out and head raised, he looked down at his mother who stood by his bedroom door a few feet away. This time he did not let the tightness around her mouth or the tears precariously hanging at the corner of her eyes affect him. He was king and was above affect.

  “It is of no matter to me, mother,” he said haughtily, barely having to force the coldness in his voice. “Father is the king, and does as he sees fit. It is not my place to second-guess my liege.”

  The queen looked at her son and that time Hob could not decipher her expression.

  “Very well, my prince,” she eventually said. “Your king wishes to see you in the council room at the seventh hour.”

  Without another word she opened the door ajar and was out of sight before it creaked closed behind her. Hob was left standing alone in the middle of his quarters, an odd mix of excitement and fear rumbling in his stomach.

  “The council room! He wants to see me in the Lord’s Tower!” he thought excitedly.

  This had to be about official business. This might be about the trusteds’ meeting, or maybe even with the trusteds.

  “Finally, I’m going to be formally introduced to the trusteds!”

  He had about an hour to get ready. Now more than ever he wanted to look like the king he was to be. He bounced to his dresser and pulled out more candles that he fumbled to light and place around his room. He pulled the three-layered curtain as wide open as possible to let in the nascent daylight that peaked shyly above the outer curtain. He rearranged the large full-body mirror and angled it so that it made the most use of the little light present in his quarters.

  “It’s got to be about the festival!” Hob realized. “I should review the protocols and read up on the history, there might be some special significance about this season’s festival! I can’t look unknowledgeable in front of the trusteds.”

  He rushed to his study table and unceremoniously swiped the mess of parchments, books, and writing tools clean off it with his arm. The whole lot was still bouncing happily on the floor while Hob had already lit more candles and was pulling an old volume from one of the shelves above his desk. He slammed it on the desktop, sat down and hurriedly turned the old pages to the chapter titled: Season’s Passing Festivals of Alymphia: A History of Rites and Significance. Under normal circumstances, that would be the last volume Hob would be interested in. He had always preferred the likes of Theory of War, Engineering Victory, or Weapons: Mind and Steel. But today was different. The hand of fate was coming for him.

  Hand

  A distant voice, cold, hard, and foul-smelling, flashed in the back of his mind and the outline of a palm hovered in space for a fraction of a second. It was gone before it formed an actual image, but it left a clear uneasy, cramped impression in Hob’s chest. He did not pay attention to it though and a few lines further down the old, yellow pages, the feeling had already dissipated.

  He read feverishly for half an hour or so, bent over the dusty book, turning the pages nervously as he tried to absorb as much of what he read as he could. Behind him, the sun continued its slow, endless pursuit of the night and by the time Hob returned to the tall mirror, the sun had almost completely cleared the castle’s wall, and shone bright into Hob’s quarters. Hob inspected himself in the mirror only to realize that he had ruined his black pants. A large white halo of dust covered his groin area. He worried for an instant that his mother had seen the suspicious smirch, but then, it had been dark in his room when she visited, and she had not said a thing about it. Although, he reflected, she had not said a lot of things that morning. He discarded the soiled clothe at the bottom of his bed and slipped into a bright red outfit he pulled out of his closet. He inspected his reflection in the mirror once more. The suit had matching black velvet bands running along the sleeves and pant legs, short silk ruffles at the cuffs and embroidery on both the front of the pants and the upper part of the shirt. He donned an equally bright and red straight jacket with large, gold buttons and gold, square epaulettes.

  “That’s the outfit of a king,” he thought satisfied.

  He next picked a gold medallion out of his desk drawer. It was a small gold piece tied to a thin leather cord. On the front a representation of the Rising of Hethens was finely engraved. It represented the go
d rising above lush bushes, arms wide open, with the sun forming a halo behind him. The medallion had been a present from his grandfather, King Rhegard, for his fifth birthday and represented the final act of Hob’s favorite chapter of the Book of Hethens; the one where, after falling to the treachery of Cythra, Hethens rises above his creation, renewed, and empowered by his failings. On the back of the medallion, words were finely carved in foreign letters.

  “It reads: ‘Rhect Ullum Barharm’,” his grandfather had told him with a knowing wink. “I have crossed raging seas, frigid ranges, and dangerous tropical lands, many dangers all in all, to bring you this amulet. In the dialect of the Bur’hund people those words mean: ‘Power within birth’ or ‘All is given at birth’, depending on which holy man you ask. Those are words of wisdom, Hob, words of power.”

  He had caressed Hob’s head gently and leaned toward him from his throne.

  “Words fit for a king,” he added in a low, conniving voice.

  As Hob tied the leather strip around his neck, letting the medal hang in the opening of his shirt, he recollected the words of his grandfather and a proud feeling swelled in his chest.

  “Words fit for a king, indeed,” he murmured to himself.

  Once he had put his finest leather boots on and had his official, gold-adorned sword belt hanging from his waist, there was no arguing that he indeed looked the part. The small clock on his desk told him that he only had fifteen minutes before he had to be in the council room.

  The council room was the only room in the Lord’s Tower, a wide, circular, standalone structure in the western courtyard. The Lord’s Tower consisted of a single long shaft and culminated in the council room at its top. The only way to enter that room was through a bridge that connected the Lord’s Tower to the keep’s third floor. The lower floors of the tower did not exist in that they were filled with stones, earth and sand. The tower had been an early addition to the castle under the Angry King. It had been designed to be an impregnable structure that one could retreat to as last resort. Folk’s tales told of a secret passage that led from the council room, down the Lord’s Tower through a secret shaft and to a tunnel that passed under Syndjya and led to a small cottage in the outskirts of the Dark Forest. An exciting idea for sure, but probably nothing more than a tale since Hob had never heard of such a thing from anyone within the castle. The first king of the New Reign, King Brhegard, turned the Lord’s Tower into the council room and had the Table of Breath installed there. Since then it had been the place where the trusteds assembled to discuss matters of state with the king. That very morning Hob’s presence was requested there. He had been waiting for that moment for so long that, as he made his way down the hallway leading to the main stairwell, he had to force the excitement swelling in his chest under control and will himself to walk slowly, in a fashion appropriate for a king.