The WorldMight

by Cyril L. C. Bussiere

  At first through the seemingly insignificant, childish remarks that everyone around them dismissed as nonsense but that the children they were seemed to understand almost too well, as if at such a young age already they spoke a similar language that translated the hidden veils of their world to one another.

  And as they grew together, her, the princess, and him, the struggling orphan, through the rhythmic passage of Baccus’s lessons and their periodic meetings, their eagerness to share their expanding world with one another only grew.

  Then, Aria’s tenth birth celebration came and soon after they started spending time together outside of those scripted moments.

  Their friendship blossomed and bloomed with the unbridled vitality of youth. And with curiosity as their only chaperone, every passing year saw them grow closer in joyful creativity and unrestrained imagination.

  Later still, when Aria became an expected presence at the royal court and Cassien started dedicating himself fully to his training in the arts of sitting and weaponry, they found joy and excitement in each other’s new experiences. And, although their meetings became less and less frequent, as they sacrificed more and more of their time to their daily duties, the moments they shared remained the highlight of their lives and made up with intensity and closeness what they sacrificed in length and frequency.

  Finally, in the past few months, since the previous Summer’s Passing Festival, things between them had started changing again; their relationship had taken a more intense, rugged dimension that had introduced a space between them, a space that was not there before, a space where they somehow collided, the other becoming more other, more object in all its differences, an object to be wanted and to be had, possessed even, in an unfamiliar and unsettling way.

  Cassien walked out of the kitchen and into the courtyard behind the Great Temple. There he found Brother Leim and Herm’ni. They were busy at the well and looked funny working the well pulley while dressed in their ceremonial robes of gold-laced red velvet. Their ample sleeves were rolled up to their elbows and flopped about with every rotation of the handle. They did not notice him at first and, lost in thoughts of Aria, Cassien silently stood in the shadow of the kitchen’s wall. Aria and he had spent countless hours around that well; chasing each other endlessly, laughing the days away and later sitting with the coolness of its stones at their back while they made up stories for one another. He closed his eyes onto his visions of her. Only his longing for her remained. It was a stark, pulsating, blood-red light against the dark backside of his eyelids. There was no fighting it, he realized.

  “So be it,” he decided.

  He would embrace it all, his desires, hopes, fears and dreads. Aria, the Shadow, what he wanted and whatever would be.

  Braced in his new-found acceptance, he opened his eyes and called out to the Brothers.

  “Herm’ni! Leim! I’ve got the ceremonial knife for Baccus.”

  He startled them as they were pulling the large bucket full of water over the edge of the well. In their surprise they almost dropped the bucket back down the shaft but they managed to secure it onto the well wall.

  “Cassien!” Brother Leim exclaimed, “Didn’t see you there!”

  “You have the knife, that’s great!” Brother Herm’ni added, a large smile on his face. “We’re almost done with the preparations for the opening ceremony.”

  “You all did an amazing job,” Brother Leim said wiping at the sweat on his forehead with the sleeve of his robe.

  “Thanks,” Cassien said absentmindedly.

  He unfastened the knife from his belt and handed it to Brother Leim. Brother Herm’ni started saying something but Cassien nodded to them.

  “I’ll be off now,” he said.

  Without another word, he turned around and left the courtyard. He headed toward the Chamber of Breath, at the back of the complex, where he knew he would not be disturbed. He passed the many carvings of Hethens and Cythra on the walls of the hallways without paying attention to the figures eyeing him as he went. The sitting chamber was cool, almost cold, and dark as well with only a single row of small candles lit on a low table by the door. He sat on the ground as was his habit, his back against the far wall. He closed his eyes and slowed his breathing as he had done countless times before. In the flat spaces of his consciousness his thoughts and emotions surged forward with a renewed intensity; Aria, his princess, in all the complexity of what she elicited in him and the Shadow, with its legions of fears and uncertainties. Instead of passively letting them slide over him like rain drops on a well-polished blade and striving to effortlessly let them go as he had trained himself to do, Cassien hung on to them with the ferocious intensity of his feelings. In the dark recesses of his mind he surrendered himself to them as one concedes to a temptation kept at bay for far too long or welcomes death after a long and painful struggle. He yielded to Aria and the Shadow. They would take him where they wanted, and there he would dwell.

  “So be it,” he thought one last time before fully relinquishing his own restraints.

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Syndjya, Capital City of Alymphia.

  Year Hundred and Fifty of the New Age

  Fall Passing Festival.

  “Aria GrandJoy, daughter of King Hedgard and Queen Silifia, princess of Alymphia and… heiress to the throne.”

  It still did not sound right.

  Aria stood in front of her stand-up mirror and was adjusting her royal silver-and-gold circlet over her elaborately braided hair. At her mother’s request she had donned her red royal gown, a long, bouffant dress with a sweetheart neckline and richly decorated sleeves. She also wore a large ruby pendant she had told to wear the previous day.

  “For a special season’s passing festival,” the queen had said.

  Aria looked at her circlet in the mirror. One day it would be a crown she would find herself setting on her head. She tried to picture it again -her with the crown on- but again the image would not form in her head. Somehow she thought it would look ridiculous. Though, she could not help thinking that if Cassien had a crown too, then they would be a perfect match. That would be far from ridiculous. That would be… that was the only thing she wanted, the two of them crowned; or neither of them. Either was fine, really. Either would let them be together. But she was to have a crown and Cassien never would. The thought stuck like a nauseating echo in her mind and she did not seem able to stop it from circling in her head. Round and round it went.

  “He never will. He never will.”

  With every repetition her heart grew heavier and tighter in her chest. With every repetition she felt like shedding more tears. But late the night before her tears had run dry and the sadness and desperation that shook her so hard the previous day had morphed into a blank, distant sensation she had a hard time relating to. It all felt surreal, as if it was an impossibility her mind had made up. She rotated the royal circlet to center it perfectly on her head. She looked at her own eyes in the mirror. Despite the generous amount of make-up she had applied they were still red and puffy.

  “My Cassien will never be mine,” she thought without really knowing what it truly meant.

  She felt like she should be sad, but the feeling would not come. She knew it was there, under the surface, but it was far, too far for her to reach it. Her chest tightened some more and she wondered if there was a limit to how tight it could get. It did not hurt, not really, although she knew it did, more than anything else she had felt before, but it was as if even the pain was someone else’s. She was to see him tonight. The thought elicited little. Maybe some regrets. She could not tell for sure. Even her thoughts felt distant.

  She inspected herself in the mirror, the dress she wore was extravagant, queenly she guessed, but it left her indifferent. She twisted at the waist to see its back over her shoulder. It looked fine. It was alright. Now she would have to partake in the celebrations.

  Winter would be here in three days’ time. Today was the last day of fall and fall-pas
sing was to be celebrated all across Alymphia, and most spectacularly in Syndjya. The celebrations had already been rattling the city late in the night the past few days. But it was today that the official events would start, that the parade would bless the streets of Syndjya and that offerings would be made by the hundreds of thousands to Hethens for winter to be mild and short, for the snowy season to bring good fortune and reinvigorate bodies and souls after the pleasantness of fall. It was a time of merriment and cohesion, where all of Alymphia came together to praise Hethens and His Blessings.

  “May He Breathe Upon Us a Soft Winter!” the songs would go.

  “May the Snow be Frosty and His Will Keep Us Warm,” the children would sing in the streets.

  Aria would be thrust in the midst of all that merriment. She would have to smile and partake when all she felt like doing was crawl into bed and lose herself to sleep.

  She sat on her bed and sighed heavily. It all felt so remote; her parents, the festival, even Cassien to some extent did not arouse the feelings she expected. She scratched at one of the many pearls on the front of her dress. She felt empty.

  “Cassien will be there,” she thought.

  There was sadness behind that thought, but it was stuck right below where she could feel it.

  “I should give him something,” she suddenly thought. “That would be nice.”

  She stood up and surveyed her room.

  “Something meaningful, because I’ll never see him again.”

  She slowly walked to her art table and sifted through the many sketches and paintings that lay on it. Many were of Cassien, the ones she had drawn and painted in secret, but they all looked plain to her. She turned around. The large curtains rippled at her windows. She looked at her bedside table but there was nothing interesting there. She was standing on the silk rug she loved so much, but today it failed to elicit any joy in her. On her make-up table was her jewelry box. It overflowed with pretty trinkets. She looked at it for a second, she felt blank and drained. She was about to look away when a dull stone, not quite marble-white, not quite translucent, caught her eye.

  “The stone from Granda…”

  It felt right. It was precious because of who had given it to her and where it had come from, not because of its coin value.

  “A special stone for a special princess,” her grandfather had said when gave her the stone many years ago. “It’s from a far, faraway land,” he had winked.

  “Cassien will like it,” Aria thought.

  She grabbed the pendant from the box and gave it a shake to release it from the tangle of chains in which it was caught. She wrapped it in one of her silk handkerchiefs and lodged it in a fold of her dress.

  “He’ll like it,” she repeated to herself.

  Then she sat back down on her bed and waited. She did not mind waiting. There was nothing left to be excited about, nothing to look forward to; nothing to be sad about either for that matter. She did not want anything anymore, besides maybe sleep, but that was not a want per se, more of an inclination, really.

  She sat on her bed for a long time, thinking blank thoughts that felt completely unimportant until Beveline came to let her know that her presence was requested in the southern inner courtyard. Aria followed the old maid down the majestic staircase and out through the main entrance of the keep.

  The courtyard was effervescent with activity and Aria felt as if she had walked into a land filled with ghosts, into a world she did not belong to and which was of no consequence to her. Beveline led her through the courtyard without a word and Aria followed mindlessly. The chariot she was directed to was profusely decorated with colorful foliage, flowers and fine-silk drapes in the colors of the GrandJoy house. The horses attached to the royal carriage were magnificent animals, large at the shoulders with rolling muscles under dark brown fur that glistened in the morning sun. Their manes were braided in the style of old, interspersed with ribbons of blue and red, as were their tails. The chariot itself was rather large, more of a platform on wheels than an actual carriage. As was tradition, Queen Silifia was by her daughter’s side. Hob should have been there too, but someone mentioned that her brother was sick and would not participate in the opening celebrations. In the chariot in front of Aria’s were her father, Master Baccus, and one of the brothers from the temple. Behind them were the chariots of the trusteds, each decorated in the colors of its respective province. Aria waited in silence while the world frenzied around her. People talked to her, she nodded to some, shook her head at others and they moved on. At some point the king sounded the departure and the line of carriages moved forward. They left the castle and soon were joined by a multitude of floats and troops that had been waiting outside the castle’s walls. As they headed into the city proper, dozens of soldier formations fell in line behind them. They marched to the beat of drums so large they were carried by oxen and beaten with thick, wooden hammers. Each armed division of Alymphia was represented in one fashion or another. Amongst those would be Nikos, the weapon master, who would be leading his own troops in a show of military rigidity and unit synchronicity. Behind the collection of units came a multitude of chariots, each with a particular theme, all colorful and joyful. And behind those still, followed the troubadours, the minstrels, the magicians and the dancers, the fools and the musicians; all in all, the myriad of entertaining folks that made the season passing festivals the most anticipated events in Alymphia.

  They entered the city to the roar of the crowd assembled along the streets and as was tradition the weapons of old were presented to the people of Alymphia. The broad sword and the black shield which had won the kingdom its freedom from the yoke of the Angry King were greeted with much enthusiasm by the tumultuous crowds. The king held the black broad sword high above his head while the cloaked brother held the black shield in the stead of the temple runner who had grown too old and weak to do so. Along the path of the parade, the crowd erupted in loud cheers at the sight of the king’s chariot and then redoubled in jubilation when one of the floats or one of the showcases that appealed to a particular to a section of the crowd came into view.

  Aria stood by her mother and watched the crowd go by slowly.

  “Your people,” murmured a small voice in her head.

  As was tradition, she waved to the multitude congregated alongside the streets. The citizenry was rowdy and the streets were bright in colors and sights. Many hailed her as her chariot rolled by.

  “Hethens’s Breath upon you, Princess Aria,” one would scream.

  “Prosperity and grace, Princess Aria,” others shouted.

  But none of it moved her. Was she Aria, truly? Was she the princess they spoke of? Did it matter if she was or not? To her the world was muffled and remote, as if she were a distant observer.

  Her face smiled, her hands waved, but she felt nothing. Her mother spoke once in a while above the loud bustle of the crowd. Aria nodded, but she did not really listen. And of what reached her, not much made sense; something about Hob being gone, not really sick, that no elite was with him because of something her father did, that she worried about him. But none of it mattered to Aria. Her face smiled, her hands waved, and the world kept rolling toward her.

  After the long parade, the never-ending midday feasts and the afternoon spectacles, as night slowly fell over the city, it was time for the Fall Passing Festival opening ceremony. The royal cortege along with the whole of Syndjya headed toward the Great Temple and crowds filled the square and packed the adjacent streets to the brim. From the altar set up on the stairs of the Great Temple Master Baccus recited the ancient words of fall passing from the pages of a large, leather-bound Book of Hethens. As he spoke, heralds posted on high-chairs relayed his words to those out of earshot and his voice rose and fell over the silent crowd and rippled in dozens of variations along the twisting streets of Syndjya.

  Once he was done reading, Master Baccus stretched his hands to the skies, the sleeves of his ceremonial robes falling to his elbows and revealing
thin, aged arms. One with the crowd, he intoned the Prayer of Winter:

  “As the Breath wavers out of all,

  As nature slows in preparation of the cold

  So we ask of you, Hethens,

  To guide the void in all

  So it may pause and rest,

  And pregnant of its emptiness,

  Bear the fruits of the morrow.”

  “Hethens’s Breath upon all,” the temple runner concluded.

  “Hethens’s Breath upon all,” the crowd responded.

  From the royal box, Aria mindlessly mouthed the words as well. She sat to her father’s right, where her brother, had he been present, normally would have. Queen Silifia was to the king’s left and behind them were the trusteds. Master Baccus’s voice had quickly turned into background noise to Aria and sitting hands on her lap resting over the stone she hid in the folds of her dress, she spent the ceremony wondering if Cassien was near. Somehow, giving him the stone felt important.

  The temple runner went on addressing the crowd. He talked about the oncoming winter, and described it as a gift from Hethens, a chance to reflect inward, to reset life into a new direction. He talked about spring, the blossoming of life, the extension of winter’s introspections and reflections into vital movement. He talked about summer, the blessed enjoyment of those actions, and about fall, the transition period from the exultations of summer to another period of reflection.

  “And so it is of our lives,” he admonished the crowd, his hands resting on the altar. “We must look inward during those periods of silence, our winters, and later bring forth into vital movement the fruits of our reflections. For change is the essence of life, and mindful actions are boons from Hethens.”

  He raised his hands one more time toward the night sky, the torches burning on either side of him sending long shadows over the crowd.