by A J Burns
Mauro had his wish granted; nobody noticed him, except from a rare panoramic glance around the room. Folks would smile, and when he talked, they would nod, though he doubted they had heard him.
“I can’t believe how cold it’s gotten,” said Mauro, trying to initiate a conversation with his Royal Guardsmen.
“True,” said Lodero. “It has been cold.”
“It’s not this cold in Orynen,” said Simon.
The dialog among them was always this boring, rarely moving past simple pleasantries.
The chatter and clinging of metal made it difficult to hear. Almost everybody’s attention was on Eryek who focused on Wynore; she, following the trend, matched sight with him. She had carmine hair, dyed probably, that hung straight below her shoulders.
Mauro could now hear the conversation, and it was about Remolin. “Next time you see him,” said Eryek to Evoru, “you have my permission.”
“I don’t know how you do it, Your Majesty,” Wynore said. “He would’ve drained me of my youth years ago.”
“I’ve given that boy the world, and he laughs in my face….” Eryek slurred something incomprehensible. “Leaves me here wondering if it’s me who went wrong. He’s running around with Mesallian gangs, doing their bidding and—”
“You’ve done all that you can.” Wynore had a glimmer in her eye when she looked at Eryek. “Even with a good shepherd, a sheep is still a sheep.”
Mauro, who had a habit of holding doors open for would-be robbers, said, “It is a son’s duty to obey his father.”
Eryek either ignored the sentiment or misinterpreted him altogether. “And what do you know about gangs, Orynaur?” he said. “Eh, Mauro, being conceived through gang rape doesn’t make you gang related.”
Everybody within hearing range was now laughing. The chatter and small-talk had been replaced by snickers and guffaws and the occasionally-suppressed chuckle.
Even Evoru was laughing, though he had the decency to blush when Mauro looked his way.
“For all we know, his father’s some Hytaurian rake,” Eryek said, almost on the verge of shouting.
“That’s inappropriate,” said Wynore, but when she said it, her eyes were looking lively at Eryek; and Mauro knew she only pitied him.
“I’m not saying something we don’t already know.”
Gregh was about to speak when Evoru interrupted him. “That’s enough,” he said, but it was without conviction.
“Speak to my chief like that one more time and I’ll slit your throat,” Simon said.
“There’s no need for that.” Mauro threw his handkerchief on the table, pushing back his chair and preparing to stand.
“He’s going to cry!” shouted Eryek.
“Simon—Lodero—Korio, finish your meal,” said Mauro. “There’s no need to follow.”
Mauro paced from the dais, jogged by the other tables, and ran through the corridor, entering the antechamber and then plopping himself on a cushion. He bawled into his sleeve, his lower lip quivering and his face reddening with anger.
A clock was behind him, the pendulum swinging and gears clicking, providing the snare that accented his quavers.
His mother and his father had lain in their bed, appreciating a night no different than the last; the first revolution was in its final year. His parents, in an attempt to remain neutral, had brought the wrath of the Hytaurs upon them. His father had neither seen nor heard the intrusion of men. They parted the curtains, and swords descended into him. Splotches of blood stained the linen, thinning as they reached out from the center and interweaving until they resembled cobwebs. What happened next was generally left unspoken.
Mauro was born nine months later. His mother served as regent until his fourteenth birthday: the date of his coronation. He had never wanted to become a chief. He was trained in the arts and philosophies of dead men; and although he pretended to be unconcerned with chiefly duties, it was the intimidation of such responsibilities that made him shy from them.
“Nothing more pitiful than a crying man,” Gregh said, having entered the antechamber. “Though…. I’ll give you a pass. I was probably somewhat of a sissy at your age as well.”
“Yes, well you weren’t the head of your family.” Mauro tried to hide the redness of his face, but it was to no avail.
“No…. I was a foot soldier. We could swap sob stories all night, boy, but I’m not much into the martyr complex.”
“Sorry,” he said reluctantly. He unfastened his mandilion, and it fell to the floor. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”
Gregh stood there with an awkward expression on his face. “So…. I passed by your chamber last night. Was that you playing?”
“I’ve been practicing since I got to Grofven….” Mauro had spent the previous night practicing his skill with a violin. “What were you doing up at that time?”
“You should keep at it. Reminded me of The Rite of Autumn.”
They sat, silent, now comfortable with the lack of conversation. Mauro was bitter towards himself; such an emotion, he knew, stemmed from his own after-wit: thoughts about what he should have said. “You should lead the rebellion,” he said extempore. “Our men need a strong leader.”
“And they will get one soon enough.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean it is evident such restlessness won’t go unnoticed—nothing more and nothing less.”
“He and Eryek seem to have quite a bond.”
“‘He’? He has a bond with Elynaur’s power…. Oh, Mauro….” Gregh stretched the skin around his eyes, moving his hands past his ears, glancing at the clock and yawning. “Evoru is nothing more than a beacon for the peasants to flock to. For every battle we wage against our enemies, we must wage five against ourselves. The parmos and verlot are cautious in replacing one tyrant with another…. Come … with me.”
Mauro watched him uneasily as they walked through the corridor. The palace was enormous, built with twisting halls and a multitude of turrets, having four floors and three chambers for reception. Oil paintings, murals of lords and ladies mostly, decorated the walls.
He hoped to be among them someday: to be seen as a god among men, to have statues built in his likeness and hymns song in his honor. What could be grander than remembrance for all of history, he didn’t know and couldn’t fathom. A man lived but once, and Mauro felt destined to outlive his body.
The Orynaurians believed that a person experienced four deaths: when their body ceased to function; when everybody who had known them had also died; when their name was spoken for the last time; when their life, whether through lineage or accomplishment, ceased to have an effect on the world. The first two were inevitable; it was the third and fourth deaths that he feared the most.
They passed another archway, turned a corner, and Gregh pushed open the door. He knelt before a chest and pulled out a violin. “Only five in the world,” he said. “Got it for my eleventh name-day.”
From its appearance alone, Mauro knew the timbre was rich and vibrant. “Is that all you brought me here to see?”
He stared at Mauro; then, having put away the violin, he said, “No. I wanted company on my way back. And now I must be going to sleep. Have a good night.” He closed the door without a word of farewell from Mauro.
Utterly confused, Mauro left and began to meander around the palace, occasionally glancing at the night sky and thinking of Orynen. Men would murder their families to be in his position, to be the chief of a prestigious province; he would trade places with one of them in an instant. He wanted to be famous, without a doubt in his mind, but he wanted a simple life as well, maybe as a painter or as a musician. He convinced himself that such a dilemma was irrelevant; he was the chief of Orynen, and nothing (except his death) would change that.
He took a torch and lit every extinguished one he came across. It became a game to him: a very boring game, but a game nonetheless.
Kron turned down the hallway. “You having fun?” he asked, a grin o
n his face as he said it.
“I don’t feel like committing myself to sleep just yet.”
“I can relate to that.” Kron flashed the stationary in his hand. “I write most of my letters around this time.”
“Who are you writing to this time?” Mauro had picked up the torch about five bends ago. Not having a place to put it, he just stood there holding it.
“Emowyn. She’s to marry this month.”
“I remember,” he mumbled. “My regards to your family.” He felt genuinely happy for Emowyn; she seemed to have a real bond with the Sworfaurian prince.
“You know she’s a slut, don’t you?” Kron asked.
Mauro had trouble finding words. “Your sister…?”
“Oh, wow.” Kron chortled. “That really did come out of nowhere, didn’t it? I was talking about Wynore.”
The comment felt like a smack to his face. “Why are you telling me this? What did she ever do to you?”
“I’m just warning you. Don’t fall for whatever it is you see in her. You’re a good kid. There’s no sense wasting that for a girl like her.”
Mauro stared at him. “Maybe you’re right.” He didn’t mean that statement and was somewhat offended by what Kron had said, but he wasn’t in the mood for confrontation. “But hey, love is blind, is it not?
“Love is blind,” Kron agreed. “But lust isn’t.” He gestured at the window, and they both walked over to it. “You know,” he continued, “I knew this one girl—kinda goofy looking, really. I had a thing for her and we parted ways. I convinced myself that ‘goofy’ was my type. I was most attracted to women who looked like her. Then I met another woman. She was pretty, with a slight case of buckteeth so that her lips never seemed to fully touch. Guess what? Now I have a thing for buckteeth. I don’t quite know how to segue this together, but the point is: Don’t ever idolize a woman.”
“I guess I see your point.” Mauro was trying to be polite. “It’s not that big a deal—Wynore, I mean.”
“Yeah, probably not my best rant.” Kron yawned. “Well, I’m on my way to my chamber. Have a good night.”
“You as well.” Mauro stutter-stepped before following Kron down the hall. “I’m actually needing to go the same way.”
“What for?”
Mauro held up the torch.
“Ah.” Kron yawned again. “Is it just me or is that the most awkward thing in the world—when you have this long conversation with someone, say your goodbyes, and then end up walking in the same direction for a couple of minutes in dead silence?”
“You nailed it on the head,” Mauro said laughing.
They finished their walk in silence.
Korio was waiting for Mauro outside his bedchamber. “How are you feeling, Your Majesty?”
“I’m well,” said Mauro. “Just in need of some rest is all.”
“They’re a bunch of cunts they are, the fucking Elynaurians.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope that bore an unmarked seal. “Some Vyktaurian servant came looking for you. Said it was important.”
7
Eryek Elynaur
Elynaurian Chief
Eryek pushed away the girl and stumbled off the bed. Having dressed, he picked up the nearest bottle and chugged the contents. He met her the night before, had forgotten her name within minutes, was reminded of her name, and forgot it again within seconds.
He contemplated waking her; but at that moment, he either forgot how to shout or remembered how to behave. He stepped to the window and parted the dark-green curtains. The clouds were gray and the shrubbery brown. The graveyard gleamed with every color of the rainbow: red blossoms, blue gems, and cetera; but the streets and edifices around it were gray and dismal. The manses appeared to be painted with the same brush, designed by the same mind, and occupied by persons of the same interests.
Somebody knocked on the door.
“Hold on,” said Eryek. “Hold on, damn it!” His definition of “having dressed” was “not being completed naked”; usually pants or underwear would suffice (and sometimes socks), but he deigned to put on his shirt for whoever this guest might be.
“Who is it?” The girl stirred beneath the comforter. “Tell him to go away.”
“You shut up.” Eryek clasped his belt-buckle and opened the door. A gush of cold, crisp air smacked his face. “Who are you?”
“My name’s Brenton, Your Majesty, and—”
He had put on a shirt for no good reason. “What do you want?” He grabbed his forehead and squinted. The knocking hadn’t helped his migraine, and he thought this man rude for visiting before midday.
“I wish to come in.” Brenton placed a foot inside the door, showing no signs of accepting an alternative.
Eryek resisted the urge to bash his leg with the door. “For what?” he asked.
“To discuss strategy.”
“About what?”
Brenton shook his head and pushed the door out his way. “That is why I must come in.”
Eryek had already forgotten about the girl until he saw her sprawled across the mattress. “Get out,” he said. “Can’t you see I have company?”
“I can stay,” said the girl, nodding in agreement with herself. “Hey, Brenton.”
“Hello, Wynore.”
Eryek wanted to call her a whore, but he settled for saying: “No, lassie, you can’t. I don’t know you—”
“You knew me last night,” said the girl.
“I don’t even remember last night.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“Get out!” Eryek threw his bottle at the wall, nearly hitting her; and he convinced himself the miss wasn’t accidental.
Although not actually ashamed of the woman’s presence, he felt like he should be, or, in absence of that, should pretend to be; his clan and province were the practitioners of polyamory (a word which here implied one man and multiple women because their male egos were too delicate for any other variety), but sleeping with somebody from outside the household was still forbidden.
“Oh, what a big man you are!” She held the sheet above her chest and wrapped the bottom around her back.
“Turn around, you pervert,” he said to Brenton, who already had his eyes averted.
“Ignore him, sweetie.”
“Why aren’t you out yet?”
“I’m going.” She smiled as she passed Brenton. Then she exited, slammed the door, and gave a muffled shriek.
Eryek moved to the window; with his back towards Brenton, he said, “Get on with it.” He focused on Brenton’s reflection in the glass.
“I thank you for your time. Mind if I,” said Brenton, pulling over a stool and sitting, “take a seat?” He straightened his sleeves. “To the point. Evoru has been devising a stratagem, and he needs you to overlook it.” His nose made a dull whistling sound every time he inhaled.
“He needs me, or does he think I’m the only one who will say ‘yes’?” he asked spitefully.
“I didn’t intend to—”
“My men belong on the battlefield, not the back of some ruse.”
“This isn’t a battle of egos,” Brenton said.
Eryek closed the curtains. He wanted whatever remained inside the bottle he had thrown, but he felt too embarrassed to pick it up. “It’s a battle of might.”
“Yes, but first and foremost it’s—”
“And mine is the most powerful.”
“—a battle of strategy.”
“I’m not part of that?” He decided he could take the embarrassment and hence walked to the wall. The bottle was empty.
“I don’t understand the question…. I’ve talked with Ritek, and he thinks it a wonderful ruse. I haven’t yet begun to explain—”
“I’m the one in charge here, lest you forget.” Eryek had fifteen children, of which most were still alive; of those living, Ritek was the oldest.
“I have all the hierarchies memorized, Elynaur,” said Brenton abruptly, “and I’m not apt to forget.”
“You should spend less time with your nose in a book.” He turned around and tossed the bottle away (this time into the trash bin). “You could use some muscle on those frail bones.”
“Yes, well, I would be perfect if not for those flaws of mine,” said Brenton. “I prefer to hold up the world with my brain.”
“Try blocking a blow with your brain.”
Brenton smirked. “I heard about the day you tried that.”
Eryek had taken a blow to the head during The Battle of Green Cliffs. Tefvon Vyktaur had been determined to lance the Hytaurian chief, and he strung Eryek along with him. In their haste, they surrounded themselves with enemies. Eryek took the first blow trying to protect his patron; the second blow came as he crawled on the ground.
“You…?” said Eryek.
“Epson’s son.”
“Now that you mention it…, I see the resemblance. We called him coat-rack—”
“Endearing.” Brenton had no expression on his dull, wrinkly face.
“—used to jest that you could hang a closet off that chin of his.” Eryek removed the bottle from the trash and placed it on the mantle. “So, tell me about this plan.”
“You’ll send two companies, flying Soten flags, to meet up at the river with Arqua’s encampment. We’ve captured twenty suits of armor. That’s ten men for each deck. The remaining men will wait crouched in the cabin. When the boats are moored, the men on deck will fire upon the enemy. Those in the cabin will rush out and set blaze to the docks. We’ll burn them out—the entire forest…. These men are being sent to their deaths.”
“I understand.”
“You’ll have one brigade stationed to ambush, overlooking the glen, and when their main force routs, you’ll be there to hold them back. Your main army will be positioned northwest of the enemy.”
Eryek nodded slightly. “Kill or rout?”
“There will be no captives. We’ll send them back to Soten in an urn.”