“Praise Hethens,” he said and the crowd echoed him, the words rising above Syndjya in a reverent tremor.
As the clamor faded, King Hedgard stood up and walked to the balustrade of the royal box. The crowd shivered with anticipation as the king stood immobile, surveying his people silently. For a few seconds he said nothing and a palpable restlessness took the people packing the square. And then an earnest smile broke over the king’s features and he boomed over the plaza and beyond:
“Happy Fall Passing Festival to all, and Hethens’s blessings into the new season!”
At these words, the crowd erupted in jubilant cheers and an effervescent wind blew across the plaza. Now was the time for festivities, spectacles and the beginning of a new season. More so than the past few evenings, for it bore a deeper meaning, the rest of the night would be filled with merriment, ale, laughter and the certainty that, thanks to Hethens, the morrow would be a brighter day.
The occupants of the royal box stirred as well and joyful discussions broke out. Shortly afterward, Master Baccus was helped up the stairs by one of the guards stationed around the box and joined the royal couple and the trusteds. The tension of the previous days seemed to have dissipated and laughter filled the box. Aria stood up as well, but she did not join in. She walked to where her father had stood and peered into the moving crowd. Through the fabric of her dress she held on to the pendant she meant to give Cassien. But how could she hope to see him in that sea of people? Was he even here? Her hand tightened over the stone.
“I really need to give it to him,” she told herself.
Her chest constricted some more and she hung onto that thought as if it were her lifeline in a stormy night at sea. She kept looking for him as the plaza slowly emptied. In the swaying light of the flambeaus set around the Great Temple square, smiling faces flashed by. Families, groups of friends, lovers and lone walkers slowly made their way out of the plaza, but Cassien was nowhere to be seen. A hint of sadness started tainting the muted folds of her world.
“Why would he come?” she thought and she felt foolish for having brought the pendant.
She was about to berate herself, when the temple runner hailed her.
“Good evening, princess,” he said softly.
Aria glanced to her right to find the old man leaning against the balustrade by her side.
“Master Baccus,” she said.
The temple runner looked onto the people in the plaza and a kind smile stretched his features.
“It was a nice ceremony, was it not?” he asked her.
“Yes, it was,” Aria said.
“I also enjoyed the parade, although these old bones do not let me enjoy myself as much as they used to.”
He tapped gently on his left arm with his fist.
“The festivals are still some of my favorite times, though,” he continued with a chuckle.
Aria did not know what to say so she remained silent. Small talk from Master Baccus was the last thing she wanted.
The temple runner tore his stare from the plaza and eyed her carefully.
“I can see you are troubled, princess,” he said after a moment. “Would you like to talk about it?”
“No,” Aria said bluntly.
Master Baccus returned his gaze to the thinning crowd before them. With two fingers he started tapping a clumsy melody on the balustrade. From the corner of her eyes Aria could see him hesitate to go on. He drummed lightly for a while and then finished with a couple of louder taps.
“Do you know what the single most unspoken facet of youth is?” he asked.
His question took Aria by surprise. A frown etched itself on her forehead as she tried to decide whether she ought to give it a serious thought or not. She decided she did not and answered with a shrug.
“Well, I will tell you,” Master Baccus carried on. “You see, youth knows little of itself. Mostly because it hasn’t had time to get acquainted with itself; quite literally that is.
“In all truthfulness, knowing ourselves is a never ending process, but in youth, one, by definition, does not have any significant amount of experience. As such its only points of reference are close to the null point of the breath, close to naught.”
The temple runner started drumming on the balustrade again.
“In many ways,” he continued, “youth is to life what the neutral point is to the first breath of a new born. From that neutral point, the first exhalation, not knowing that it will be followed by a breath, makes it the scariest thing; in essence the worst feeling one has ever experienced. Without the knowledge that it will ever end, that one has the strength and endurance to withstand it until the breath that is to follow, most will rightfully think they are doomed to an unbearable cage of suffering. And similarly, how wonderful is that first breath, pure, unadulterated bliss, and in the ignorance that it is to end, eternal blessedness as well.
“But later, amidst the cycles, from experience comes the knowledge that the breath is but a common part of what is, just as is exhalation. And experience is its own measure. One gets to know that everything passes, that one can endure the numerous states of the cycles.”
With another couple of taps on the balustrade, Master Baccus finished what felt to Aria like a lecture. He turned to her and searched her eyes for understanding. Aria thought she understood what the temple runner was saying, but she did not see why he was telling her this. She did not care either. All she wanted was to give Cassien the stone. She had a sense that it would bring her some closure, that that simple act would appease her torments and free her from the tightness in her chest.
Master Baccus covered her hand with his; a gentle touch, warm and caring. She looked at the old man’s hand. It was pale and sun-spotted.
“If only that could be Cassien’s,” she thought.
That thought surprised her. Tears threatened to force their way to her eyes and she looked away.
“Everything passes,” Master Baccus said softly and he squeezed her hand gently.
“Why is all this happening?” Aria supplicated. “It’s not fair.”
Despite her best efforts, tears welded up in her eyes. Her throat was painful and constricted. She wanted to say something but could not bring herself to.
“Aria,” Master Baccus said, his voice kind and warm. “It gets better, it always does. You are not in a position to see that right now, but trust me, it does.”
They stayed silent for a while after that. The plaza in front of them kept emptying and the conversations behind them went on, lively and loud. It all felt distant and unimportant to Aria. What was to follow anyway? More food and drinks? More empty chatter? More meaningless songs and tales? Then a crown she did not want? Duties? Obligations? The rest of her life. It all felt crushingly unfair to the point where she might not be able to breathe anymore. Then she saw him, Cassien, in the middle of the square, walking toward the royal box. In the dimness of the plaza she could not see his face, but she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was him. The way he carried himself, the way he moved; there was no mistaking him for someone else. The jubilation that washed over her was almost more than she could withstand. With the back of her hands she wiped at the tears rolling down her cheeks. Her Cassien was here, his mere presence a solution to her torments. He was the breath she had been dying to take. She had to go to him, she had to hold him. She started looking around for a way to leave the box. What reasons could she have to excuse herself? Her father would never let her go into the crowd alone. There was no sneaking away unnoticed, there were too many guards. A claustrophobic panic started tainting her thoughts.
Master Baccus sensed the sudden change in her and easily spotted the reason. With a smile, he presented his arm to her and asked her:
“Princess, would you accompany me on a stroll?”
Aria was taken aback by his request, but when he mischievously winked at her, her heart swelled with gratitude.
“That would be lovely,” she replied, taking his arm.
Cassien was getting close to the Royal Box and had doubtlessly spotted her by then. Aria discreetly waved in his direction and pointed at the closest street. Cassien nodded his understanding and headed that way.
Aria squeezed the temple runner’s arm.
“Thank you so much,” she whispered to him.
He squeezed her arm back and they turned around. The temple runner matter-of-factly announced that they were taking a walk. The king, the trusteds and the queen looked at the pair, surprised.
“A walk?” the king said. “We are expected at the Grand Hall within the hour, temple runner.”
“A short one, my king,” Master Baccus replied. “I am curious about a stall with goods from across the Empty Sea. I noticed it on our way to the Great Temple square. It is not far from here. Princess Aria has kindly agreed to accompany me. We will be back shortly.”
The king grunted but gave a smile.
“Fine,” he said. “But a few guards will accompany you and be quick about it.”
The king turned around and relayed his wishes to the guards on duty around the royal box. Aria helped the temple runner down the stairs. Then they passed the cordon of guards that surrounded the royal box and strolled left into the closest street with a handful of guards in tow. Aria briefly worried that the crowd would swarm her but most people had dressed up for the opening ceremony and she did not stand out excessively in her dress. Everybody was too busy looking at the many stalls lining the street or watching one troubadour or another to pay attention to them anyway.
They walked deliberately down the street, Master Baccus commenting on the goods displayed on the stalls they passed. They spotted Cassien a couple blocks later. He wore his usual leather boots and black pants and shirt and waited for them between two stalls. As they approached, he gave Aria a small smile and backed out of view behind the curtain formed by the drapes of the two adjacent stalls. Aria looked back at their escort. The guards had kept their distance and were looking left and right at the stalls themselves.
“Here it is!” Master Baccus exclaimed with a wide smile.
He directed Aria to the stalls behind which Cassien had disappeared.
“Be quick,” he whispered to her before letting go of her arm and engaging the merchant loudly so as to attract the attention of the guards and the other shoppers.
Aria slipped behind the drapes and found herself in a dark alley. Cassien was waiting for her beyond. In the light filtering through the fabric behind her she could see that he was smiling. A small tentative smile broke through the numbness that had enveloped her the past few days. She felt warm suddenly, feverish even.
“My prince!” she thought.
In a rush she went to him. They locked into each other’s arms; a tender yet fierce embrace that spoke louder than words could ever have. For a while he held her close and they did not speak. All Aria could think of was melting into him, becoming one with his smell, the feel of his neck on her face, the touch of his hands on her bare back. After a while they broke apart and locked eyes.
“I do not have much time,” Aria said with a small tremor in her voice. “There is so much I want to tell you. So much has happened. I, I…”
Aria could not find the words and tears started pooling at the corner of her eyes. He held her again; a stronger, in a way more primal, embrace. Cassien tried to say something but words seemed to elude him as well. She caressed his cheek. They had no time and were unable to speak, Aria could not decide if that was unfortunate or a blessing. They separated again and he simply held her hands.
“I’ve been thinking,” Cassien tried to say. “Well, after what happened last time… I…”
Aria could see on his face how difficult it was for him to tell her the things he meant to share, how the strange turn their relationship had taken was as difficult, awkward, and exhilarating for him as it was for her. And yet, he did not know of the fate that had befallen her; she the princess to be queen and he never to be hers.
“The pendant!” she suddenly remembered.
“I have something for you,” she told him.
She pulled the pendant from the folds of her dress and held it up before him.
“It’s an old pendant my granda brought back from a faraway land. I want you to have it.”
She hesitated and then added:
“My prince.”
Her words etched a fierce expression on his face, a mix of happiness, relief, pride, and raw determination. He took her hands and kissed them passionately.
“My princess,” he whispered to her.
They locked eyes again. A new fervor burnt brightly in them now. She raised the pendant as a furtive moonbeam bathed the allyway. Cassien bowed his head to her and she clasped the pendant around his neck. For an instant she hesitated to let herself answer the drums beating in her chest. Once more tears threatened to overwhelm her; so much she wanted, so much out of her grasp.
“My prince,” she said again and then she brought her lips to his.
Chapter Twenty Three
Syndjya, Capital City of Alymphia.
Year Hundred and Fifty of the New Age
Fall Passing Festival.
Ale and spirit burnt angry paths in Hob’s mind as he kicked and beat his mount toward the witch’s nest. Angry did not begin to describe the thoughts that coursed through him like red-hot coals. He would have his throne, Cythra be his witness. He would undo all that had risen against him. His rage would trample the thieves, the rats, who had connived against him. Hethens himself would not be spared his fury.
“Faster, you mule,” he raged, bringing down his fist onto his horse’s wither.
His own sister, Aria, who he had always been so good to, had betrayed him in the vilest of fashions. The thought tore a scream of frustration out of him and he kicked harder at the horse’s flanks.
“Faster, faster!” he shouted, slivers of spit flailing along the sides of his mouth.
“SHE… she betrayed me! She seduced father, that old fool, into giving her what’s mine, mine! The whore!”
His fists blanched around the reins. The leather strap twisted in his hands and he screamed again. The raw, brutal ululation strained his vocal cords to the point of pain and through the thick fog of his drunken madness Hob relished it. He whipped at the horse’s neck with the leather strap and his howling redoubled in intensity as the trees framing the narrow path he was on flashed by ever faster.
He had awoken a few hours prior, leaning against a foul smelling barrel in the bowel of Higrpit. His head pounded painfully and his mouth tasted of blood and the fetid vapors of liquor. His clothes were filthy of things untold and torn in several places. His hands, like his knees, elbows, and face were cut and stung something fierce. The sun was already high in the sky and its rays, too, were painful.
At first he had felt awful and disoriented, incapable of thinking straight. Things, bad things he felt, had happened the previous day. But he could not remember what. A monstrous hand flittingly formed in his mind, eliciting a flash of muddled emotions, but it was washed away by bile trying to work its way up his throat. There were people walking around him. They looked scornfully at him, but he could not care less. Something terrible had happened; he felt it beyond the nausea in his stomach.
He sat there for a while, his head a throbbing mess. Then it came back to him, the meeting with his father in the Lord’s Tower; the meeting that should have borne the fruits of his birth but which instead held the unveiling of the rotten treachery of his blood. The rage that took him at the recollection was almost unbearable. It pressed hard against his eyes and the pain of it only made him madder.
What had followed the meeting was a blur, an incoherent sequence of flashes seen from behind the screen of his anger. As his teeth clenched painfully in rage and a silent scream engulfed his chest, the solution to his problem came back to him like a venue of vultures diving toward a rotting carcass. The witch! She was the key. They had said so; they, blurry faces of rotten teeth and dul
l eyes, of irksome laughs and noxious breaths. The witch, the one thing that did not waver in his throbbing and confused mind; she was the key.
“She does things unholy,” they had said as filthy wooden tankards were being filled and emptied.
“She raise the dead, too”
“She been said to know the morrow,” a broken voice cried through a vaporous fog.
“If the coin be good, she can turn a man’s innards into snakes.”
Shouts came from somewhere behind them.
“Or turn his breath into salt!”
“Or his manhood into bleeding folds!”
A truculent belch had followed. There were more grizzled laughs. Tankards smashed against tankards. Ale splashed over a sticky counter.
“If the coin is good, that is!” another mouthful of ale said amidst the loud crashing of chairs.
The witch, written in crimson letters in his mind, screamed for him to come to her. She was his revenge. Revenge. The thought was exhilarating despite his aches.
“I will turn them into dust for their treachery!” Hob swore to himself.
Coin. That, he had aplenty.
“Up the wolf’s path, past the Ranguard’s mill, deep in the forest, that’s where the witch’s nest be. No mor’ than a four hour ride. If she means to see you, you will,” one of the blurry voices had said.
“A horse, I need a horse.”
Hob propped himself on the wall of straw and earth he was leaning against and ventured into the smelly streets. Higrpit was no place for the likes of him. But ale and anger had changed that. Revenge he would have. No matter what the cost, he would make them pay. Through a haze of fury and pain, he found a horse. Around a murky corner, a lone man, a merchant, maybe, given his attire, was saddling his mount. Hob walked up to him without hesitation. Without even a thought rising against it in his mind, he plunged multiple times his dagger into the man’s side. Then he savagely pulled him down to the ground, stepped onto his motionless body and mounted the horse. He would have his revenge by night fall. Aria would never be crowned in his stead.
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