Crimson

by Warren Fahy

  The old philosopher smiled as he barely recognized Trevin, who was now a young man. His brittle old eyes seemed concerned as they read the weird intensity in Trevin’s face and scanned the stressings around his eyes, looking away. “My lord, welcome home.”

  “Nowhere is home, Philosopher.”

  “It must be difficult.”

  “Yes!”

  “And, my lord, Selwyn is free?”

  “You are familiar with the practices of the Cirilen, Philosopher?” Trevin asked, sharply.

  “Yes, my lord, having learned them from Selwyn.”

  Trevin nodded, respectfully.

  Artimeer sensed his shame with curiosity. “And then there is the small question of milord’s numen, which shall be revealed at Coronation.” The sage searched Trevin’s black eyes.

  “What concerns you, Artimeer?” Trevin cocked his head. “Why should you worry about that?”

  “My lord, I do beg pardon.” Artimeer marked the quickness of Trevin’s defense, and he disarmed it with a light shrug. “It is simply a subject of popular conjecture. The numen of your grandfather was gold inside the Scepter’s stone, and his age was called golden. Your father’s numen was silver and Selwyn’s era was silvern. When the Scepter, with the Cronus Star clear and dormant, is passed to you, my lord, the people will be watching to see the sign of your reign. I agree it is a terribly common superstition. But it must be managed all the same. If you know in advance your numen it would merely help me prepare its interpretation for the people. It matters not what hue it might be, I assure you.”

  Trevin leveled his eyes at Artimeer. “This is impudent! You would judge my soul and base its value from such a sign, as one who would guess tomorrow’s weather or the ripeness of a fruit?” Trevin stood defiantly before the philosopher.

  “Milord—do you not know the color of your numen?” The philosopher smiled in genuine curiosity.

  Trevin folded his arms as he turned to look through the window at the horizon. “I do not care to! My wise teachers saw fit to never let me touch a stone of power. Alas, it cannot matter now.” Then he gave an angry look at Artimeer. “My heart must not have any hue.”

  Artimeer studied the young Cirilen. “My lord, is that possible? Even when we choose nothing we have chosen.”

  “Don’t plague me with philosophy!” Trevin frowned. “Speak plainly.”

  “Hatred and love, my lord,” Artimeer said, “are edges of a blade that cuts both ways. If a man loves his garden, he hates the snail. If he loves life, he hates the killer. And even if a man hates everything, including himself, it must be because he loves something he believes cannot exist.”

  “Ha! What, then, if he loves everything?”

  “That is most dangerous of all.”

  “How so?”

  “If a man loves everything, both good and evil, then he must hate the good. For evil is that which destroys the good.”

  “But what is good?”

  “Being is good. Without being there is nothing. No good or evil.”

  “So may a man do anything in order to be, then?”

  “If he preys on his fellows he endangers everything his own life depends on as a man. We are not animals, alone in the wilderness, my lord. We depend on others.”

  Trevin’s eyes seemed fixed on a far point. “Well, then, Artimeer, can a lover… be a killer?”

  Artimeer marked the odd question carefully. “All killers are lovers, lord. But are they lovers of death—or life?” The old sage shrugged. “To kill in the name of life is a terrible good; to kill in the name of death is pure evil. To know the difference is the moral burden of every man—and, hopefully, of every king.”

  “But how could a killer be lovely? Lovely beyond words, I mean? Surely assassins of wicked intent must reveal the mark of death in their very frame, in their contemptuous posture, in the misery of their countenance and seeming, and even from some distance therefore would be identifiable in some way?”

  “Ah, my lord, but there is also the kind of killers who kill in the name of life, and they may look radiant, and the bitterness in their eyes may glitter bright as hope. Though, indeed, the more common kind kills in the name of death, and they will everywhere disrespect the body of man and woman and generally seem foul. You are correct, though; that kind of killer cannot hide their evil nature in every respect. For those who do wicked things cannot affect the image of the good in every respect or they would actually become good themselves. And people may appear sickly even though their hearts shines with goodness just as some may look wholesome though their deeds are sick with malice.”

  Trevin nodded. “Your law seems true, but rich with implications. I must ponder it.”

  A slight smile showed against the grain of Artimeer’s long face. “My Liege, I believe your numen will be purest blue.” He smiled a brief smile of relief. “That you should wonder about good and evil bodes well.”

  “Leave me then.”

  The old philosopher bowed and left him to his thoughts.

  Chapter 4

  Love

  The reason one hates is because one loves, so the Philosopher teaches. And yet, what I love is to be my downfall. So must I hate what I love? And thereby fall in love with hate, instead? Hate comes easy, knowing Ameulis is my prison and my poison, my life and death sentence. So, let that become my encompassing armor.

  Trevin blew absently on the page of his journal as he put down his pheasant quill and surveyed the festivities below the Lightstone Tower. He decided, at last, to descend and enter the crowd, determined to defend his heart, indefinitely, from love.

  As Trevin reached the base of the stairs he avoided the throne room and turned toward the kitchen instead. He noticed a gray-haired woman down the curving corridor. She wore a green uniform and rubbed her strong hands on a white apron as she directed younger attendants on their way. Trevin recognized her: she was Ardolia, his personal cook when he was a child.

  When she knew that he had recognized her she sighed and rushed toward him, but he was cold to her kiss.

  “Milord, forgive me!” she said, pulling back. “I can’t help but remember the lad who loved my black biscuits and yellow gravy. But how you’ve grown. Such a handsome young king there never was. Forgive me, lord!”

  Fond memories of Ardolia and her food warmed his heart as he looked at her. “Indeed, I did love the food you made for me, Ardolia.”

  She smiled and melted in maternal joy. “But you look travel-worn. Let me cook breakfast for you, again!”

  “No.”

  She seemed jolted to tears then.

  “There is a girl in your kitchen,” he said, turning away. “Her name is Neuvia. Let her cook for me and bring me breakfast on the verandah.”

  “Very well, milord.” Ardolia trembled with heartache as he turned a stranger’s back to her and strode down the corridor.

  I don’t love you, Trevin thought, invincibly.

  On a stone chair by a stone table on the tower’s verandah, Trevin brooded, surveying the dark, white-capped sea. He had enlisted a few surprised men-at-arms, sending them around the bends to block this curve from visitors.

  As he waited he glanced up at the curving wall of the tower. He knew that when men beheld lightstone they could only see a prism of the colors surrounding it dancing on its surface. With time, however, a Cirilen’s eyes might unravel the weave of light and see through lightstone as if through glass.

  He suddenly smelled a sumptuous aroma of Ameulintian herbs that made his mouth water instantly as Neuvia appeared dressed in the green-and-white cotton dress of her royal guild.

  Her face was a radiant shade of white, with eyebrows rising like raven wings over her sky-blue eyes. The wind stroked a strand of her midnight hair from under her cap, which he noticed was subtly shot with threads of crimson. He suppressed the crushing power of her beauty by noticing details like the beads of sweat on her upper lip… She smiled. “I thought you would call.”

  “Aha?”

&nbs
p; She set a large golden platter on the table and then pulled back the rampant strand of hair sticking to her sweaty brow.

  Trevin was speechless at the vision and presence of her. Never had he imagined such a work of magic as Neuvia.

  She pointed down.

  Before him, he then noticed, was a gilt porcelain dish of fried sparrow eggs, Dimrok leeks, thick bacon, and little circles of enrid fried to a crisp in red butter. On a side dish were his favorite black biscuits with yellow gravy, steaming. Trevin smelled the familiar food and sighed, hypnotized by the welcoming memories the spices awakened. He checked his heart as a cruel thought chilled him: poison. He looked into Neuvia’s eyes, contemptuously. “I asked for an eagle’s egg.”

  She curtsied. “I am sorry, milord. I thought you might prefer fried sparrows’ eggs. They are fresh and especially delicious. The marmosets bring them to me each morning.” She smiled, revealing her snow-white teeth. “Cut them quick!” She used a spoon to cut the yolks.

  He was dazzled and frowned. “Wait! How did you guess I preferred fried sparrows’ eggs?”

  “A cook’s intuition. Nothing more.”

  “And you brought none for yourself?”

  She blushed. “I have eaten breakfast, my lord. If it is poison that you fear I will taste each course from your own plate, from your own spoon!” She laughed carelessly as she leaned back in the stone chair next to him. “Please know there is not one soul on this island who wouldn’t taste your food, for not a soul wishes you harm, my lord. You may be sure of that!”

  “Where did you come from, Neuvia?” he asked, looking down at his crouching hands.

  It was a strange question as he put it. She took the spoon from the platter and tasted the eggs. Then she offered him half a spoonful. “I am Ameulintian. I was born on Ameulis, of humble farmer stock. My mother is the master cook here and we have lived on the Dimrok since I was seven. Here—you may taste the eggs now, Lord.”

  Trevin sampled the eggs and was reminded of his hunger. “Delicious…”

  She bit a piece of bacon and offered it to him, smiling.

  He pointed at the other end.

  Surprised, she turned the strip of bacon around and gently bit off the other end, licking her lips and offering it to him.

  Trevin took the piece of bacon from her fingers and bit the same end she had bitten, looking at her enchanting eyes. “How old are you, Neuvia?” he asked, crisply.

  She tasted one of the black biscuits dipped in gravy. “You may eat these now, my lord. Seventeen. And you?”

  “The same.” He ate a whole black biscuit sopped in gravy and more eggs and then bit into a strip of bacon soaked in yolk.

  She sipped his black coffee and mint-leaf apple juice. “You may drink these now, lord.” She raised a raven wing over one eye.

  He sipped the coffee and wiped his lips on the soiled sleeve of his tunic. “Has anyone ever spoken to you about me, Neuvia?” he demanded, clearing his throat.

  “Yes.” She looked straight into his eyes with amused curiosity. “Of course! You are the next King of Ameulis.”

  “Well—what—I mean what is—are you part of—are you plotting anything against me, Neuvia?” he spluttered, and then watched her eyes close in amusement as his own eyes narrowed in anger and shame.

  “Plotting?”

  “Against me!”

  “What?”

  Trevin closed his eyes then and he looked up at the tower as his eyes finally pierced its fabric and he saw people milling about on the floors above. “Ah, Neuvia… you can see through lightstone if you look hard and long enough…” He sighed and looked down rubbing his brow.

  “Easier to see through than you, milord, I think.”

  It disarmed him. “I daresay!” But then he looked into her eyes with an angry rebuke, his suspicions roused. “Then tell me, sweet maiden, why did you lie in wait for me inside the forest? Tell me what kind of trap you were setting for my heart!” he demanded.

  She cried out at his accusation and wanted to strike him but she smiled then, murderously, instead. She rose to her feet. “I have duties in the kitchen.” She bowed her head, curtly. “And I shall be missed!”

  He rose to meet her. “Not today!” He caught her hand with a surprisingly gentle grip as she turned. “Please! Sit down, milady.”

  She obeyed, but only as a subject, confused and furious as she wiped a burning tear from her proud cheek, hating him suddenly.

  For a long moment they stared into each other’s eyes, like killers.

  “Do not torment me so!” he finally whispered, closing his eyes.

  “I do not wish to!” she whispered back, furious at the tears that streamed from her own eyes as they betrayed her. Her lips trembled, but she steeled them in defiance. Yet she left her hand in his even as she shook her head and pitied him, unexpectedly.

  “Who told you to wear what you’re wearing?” he demanded.

  “The cooks,” she answered.

  “And who showed you how to put your hair?”

  “My mother.”

  He squeezed her hand that meshed with his fingers. “Who taught you to hold my hand?”

  “I—!” She pulled her hand away.

  “Who made your eyes into my dreams?” he wondered, staring into them, and she looked away. “And who made your lips the answer to my own? Who carved your nose so fine and fierce and shaped your body so fair and lovely that it plagues my dreams and rules my soul? Who made you of such a splendid spirit that you turn your face away from me now in such perfect pride that I cannot help but love you, devote myself to you, and protect you forever?” He touched her jaw in reverence, as though admiring the genius of his assassin.

  She pushed him away, glaring into his eyes in fury and fear: “I do not know!”

  “Who taught you how to hate me?” He touched one of her tears in horror, as though he knew his doom then.

  “No one!” she yelled, and she leaped back from him, defiant now.

  “No, no, milady, you are too perfect a mirror of my desire to be innocent!” he shouted, squeezing her shoulders. “Only an assassin could create what I love so utterly and completely and deliver that thing to me now, here! Who sent you? Who?”

  She clawed his ribs through his leather tunic. “I have dreamed of you coming home to the Dimrok since I was a girl, Trevin Gheldron! You are the Cirilen with strange powers that I should fear. And yet I do not. And yet you fear me?” She glared at him in pity. “I am at a loss!”

  “This must be some magical crime,” Trevin shouted, looking wryly at the sky. “How could nature create so perfect a trap and bring her to me now when I am forbidden from true love that must contain my downfall?” He noticed a single strand of crimson hair amidst her ebony waves and laughed, tragically, at himself.

  She recoiled from him as a contempt ignited inside her. “Yesterday,” she said, “I thanked the Gairanor for sending my dream to Hala. And now I wonder why they sent my nightmare. Am I so important that the gods would plot my doom, too, so perfectly?”

  He looked into her eyes, whose courage filled him with shame. He closed his eyes like a battlement, yet still he smelled her. “Who told you to wear that perfume?”

  “I do not wear perfume.”

  He opened his eyes then, and they were blinded by the first true thing they had ever seen as their lips met in a kiss that was the first true thing they had ever said.

  They ran down the main path of Cintairn Gheldron, the world exploding with light through the stained glass windows of the forest’s canopy.

  “You see these elms?” he said, winded, as at last they walked arm-in-arm and he gestured with an outstretched hand at the grove of giants whose jade leaves glazed the sky. “Yes? They are twice the age of my father. I made a mission of climbing each kind when I was a child: elms, eucalyptus, oaks, jacaranda. I even built a treehouse in a perfect enrid tree, when I was four.”

  “I know your treehouse, Lord Trevin. It is by the brook. Yes?”

  “
Yes…”

  “I played in it when I was a little girl. I explored all of its rooms so that I could find out everything about the next king of Ameulis.” She laughed, mischievously.

  “Ah…”

  “What is it?”

  “Fate or foresight, Neuvia…” he muttered.

  She frowned. “I wish that you would not puzzle me with riddles. I dislike them.”

  “I dislike riddles, too,” he nodded. “And yet when I was a boy I placed a charm on my treehouse—a charm that was to render it invisible, except to the girl who was to be my Queen.”

  “Aha!” she said. “Well, I placed a charm on your treehouse, as well,” she said, brashly. “A love charm over Trevin, the handsome heir to the throne who left across the sea when I was seven. So who can say which one of our spells worked?”

  “Yours, I’d say.”

  “I burnt a flower for my charm,” she bragged.

  “I burnt a lizard.”

  She wrinkled her nose.

  “It was already dead.” He shrugged. “Actually, it was just its tail. Anyway, boys have different spells than girls. But do not doubt their potency!”

  “I do not,” she said.

  The forest burgeoned as bells and woodwinds crafted a winsome melody beneath the wind’s baton. Then Trevin spread his arms. “Does all the world compete for my heart today? I wish you to win that contest, Neuvia. Will you kiss me?”

  She curtsied like a proper servant girl and kissed him politely on the lips. Then she turned and sprang away, using no path, leading him through the ancient trees to the grotto where they first met.

  The vanilla wind stirred the branches rimming the glade as she kneaded his stiff shoulders at the edge of the pool where silver-and-orange-striped fish swirled. “Do not think doubtful things, my lord.”

  Trevin turned to her and she kissed his smooth chin gently and unclasped the cloak around his throat. Unbuckling his dagger first, she loosened the laces on his vest and then pulled it over his head. She soaked his clothes in the fresh water and laid them out in the sun before she turned toward Trevin and began unlacing his pants.